"You are loaded with high explosive?" the Major asked quietly, and the
gun-layer gulped nervously and nodded.
"Remember, the first shot is the only one you can aim with care.
Make it count."
"Sir." The man's voice was unsteady, and Castelani felt a stab of
anger and contempt. They were all un blooded boys, unsteady and
nervous. He had been forced to push them to their places and put the
trails of the guns in their hands.
He turned abruptly, and strode to the next battery.
"Steady now, lads. Hold your fire until it counts." They turned
strained, pale faces to him; one of the layers looked as though he
would burst into tears at any moment.
"The only thing you have to be afraid of is me! growled
Castelani. "Let one of you open fire before I give the order and
you'll-" A cry interrupted him, as one of the loaders stood up and
pointed out on to the field.
"Take that man's name," snapped Castelani, and turned with dignity,
making a show of polishing the lens of his binoculars on his sleeve
before raising them to his eyes.
Colonel Count Aldo Belli was leading his men back so enthusiastically
that he had outstripped them by half a mile, and every moment was
widening the gap. He was driving directly at the centre of the
artillery batteries, and he was standing tall in the back seat of the
Rolls, with both arms waving and gesticulating as though he was being
attacked by a swarm of bees.
Even as Castelani watched, from out of the brown curtains of dust
beyond the Rolls burst a machine that he recognized instantly, despite
its new camouflage paint and the unfamiliar weapon in the turret. It
did not need the gay pennant that flew above it to identify his
enemy.
"Very well, lads," he said quietly. "Here they come. High explosive,
and wait for the order. Not a moment before." The speeding armoured
car fired, a long tearing ripping burst. Much too long,
Castelani thought with grim satisfaction. That gun would be
overheating, and they could expect a jam. An experienced gunner laid
down short, spaced bursts of fire the enemy were green also,
Castelani decided.
"Steady, lads, "he snapped, watching his men stir restlessly at the
sound of gunfire and exchange nervous glances.
The car fired again, and he saw the fall of shot around the Rolls,
kicking up swift jumping spurts of dust and earth another long ripping
hail of fire. That ended abruptly and was not repeated.
"Ha!" snorted Castelani, with satisfaction. "She has jammed." His
wavering gunners would not have to receive fire. It was good. It
would steel them, give them confidence to shoot, without being shot
at.
"Steady now. All steady. Not long to wait. Nice and steady now." His
voice lost its jagged, emery-paper tone and became soothing and
crooning like a mother at the cradle.
"Wait for it, lads. Easy now." The Ras did not understand what had
happened, why the gun remained silent, despite all the strength of both
his hands on pistol grip and triggers. The long canvas belt of
ammunition still drooped from the bins and fed into the breech of the
Vickers but it no longer moved.
The Ras swore at the gun, such an oath that, had he hurled it at
another man, would have led immediately to a duel to the death, but the
gun remained silent.
Armed with his two-handed battle sword, the Ras climbed half out of the
turret and brandished it about his head.
It is doubtful if he would have realized what three batteries of modern
100 men field guns would have looked like from the business end,
or, if he had recognized them, whether they would have daunted his
determined pursuit of the fleeing Rolls. As it was, his reason and
vision were clouded with the red mists of battle rage. He did not see
the waiting guns.
Below him, Gareth Swales leaned forward in the driver's seat peering
shortsightedly through the visor, which narrowed his field of vision
and partially obscured it as though he was looking through the
perforated bottom of a kitchen colander. His eyes were swimming from
the cordite smoke, the engine fumes and the dust-motes so that he
blinked rapidly as he concentrated all his efforts in following the
speeding ethereal shape of the Rolls. He did not see the waiting
guns.
"Shoot, damn you," he shouted. "We are going to lose him." But above
him the Vickers was silent, and from his seat low down in the hull, the
slight fold of ground so carefully chosen by Major
Castelani half-hid the batteries.
He raced towards them, drawn on inexorably by the fleeting shape of the
Rolls dancing elusively ahead of him.
Good." Castelani allowed himself a bleak little smile as he watched
the enemy vehicle come on steadily.
Already it was within comfortable range for an experienced gunner, but
he knew it must be half as close again before his own crews could make
any certainty of their practice.
The Rolls, however, was a mere two hundred metres in front of the guns,
and coming on at a speed that could not have been less than sixty miles
an hour. Three terrified and chalky faces were turned towards him in
dreadful appeal and three voices were raised in loud cries for succour.
