"Yes," he nodded vehemently. "He is the only field commander who has
displayed any initiative, who has made any attempt to come to grips
with the enemy." He paused to lift his reading glasses to his eyes and
glance again at the reports he held in his other hand. "He has fought
one decisive action, inflicting almost thirty thousand casualties
without loss himself. That in itself is an achievement that seems to
have gone without suitable recognition. The man should have had a
decoration, the order of St. Maurice and St. Lazarus at the least.
Good men must be singled out and rewarded. Look at this this is
typical!
When he was aware that the enemy had armoured resources, he was soldier
enough to lure that armour into a baited trap, to lead it skilfully and
with cool courage on to his entrenched artillery. It was a bold and
resourceful stroke for an infantry commander to make and it deserved to
succeed. If only his artillery commander had been a man of equally
steely nerves, he would have succeeded in luring the entire enemy
armoured column to its total destruction. It was no fault of his that
the artillery lost their nerve and opened fire prematurely." The
General paused to focus his reading glasses on the large glossy
photographic print which depicted Colonel Count Aldo Belli standing
like a successful big game hunter on the carcass of the Hump. The
shattered hull was pierced by shot and in the background lay half a
dozen corpses in tattered shammas. These had been collected from the
battlefield and tastefully arranged by Gino to give the photograph
authenticity. Against his better judgement and his strong instincts of
survival, Count Aldo Belli had returned to make these photographic
records only after Major Castelani had assured him that the enemy had
deserted the field. The Count had not wasted too much time about it,
but had his photographs taken, urging Gino to haste, and when it had
been done he had returned swiftly to his fortified position above the
Wells of Chaldi and had not moved from there since. However, the
photographs were an impressive addendum to his official report of the
action.
Now Badoglic, growled like an angry old lion. "Despite the
incompetence of his junior officers, and there my heart aches for
him,
this man has wiped out half the enemy armour as well as half the
opposing army." He hit the report fiercely with his reading glasses.
"The man's a fire eater no question about it. I know one when I see
one. A fire-eater. This kind of example must be encouraged good work
must be rewarded. Send for him. Radio him to come in to headquarters
immediately." As far as Count Aldo Belli was concerned, the campaign
had come upon a not unpleasant hiatus.
The camp at the Wells of Chaldi had been transformed by his engineers
from an outpost of hell into a rather pleasant refuge, with functional
amenities, such as ice making machines and a water-borne sewerage
system. The de fences were now of sufficient strength to give him a
feeling of security. The engineering as always was of the highest
quality with extensive covered earthworks, and Castelani had laid out
carefully over-lapping fields of fire, and barbed-wire de fences in
depth.
The hunting in the area was excellent by any standards, with game drawn
to the water in the Wells from miles around. The sand-grouse in the
evenings filled the heavens with the whistle of their wings, and
wheeled in great dark flocks across the setting sun, affording
magnificent sport.
The bag was measured in grain bags of dead birds.
In the midst of this pleasantly relaxed atmosphere, the new commanding
officer's summons exploded like a 100 kilo aerial bomb.
General Badoglio's reputation had preceded him. He was a notorious
martinet, a man who could not be sidetracked from single-minded purpose
by excuse or fabrication. He was insensitive to political influence or
power considerations so much so that it was rumoured that he would have
crushed the very Fascist movement itself with force if the issue had
been put into his hands back in 1922. He had an almost psychic power
to detect subterfuge, and to place a finger squarely on malingerers or
lack-guts.
They said his justice was swift and merciless.
The shock to the Count's system was considerable. He had been singled
out from thousands of brother officers to face this ogre's wrath for he
could not convince himself that the small deviations from reality, the
small artistic licences contained in his long,
illustrated reports to De Bono had not been instantly discovered. He
felt like a guilty schoolboy summoned to dire retribution behind the
closed doors of the headmaster's study. The shock hit him squarely in
the bowels, always his weak spot, bringing on a fresh onslaught of the
malady first caused by the waters of Chaldi Wells, from which he had
believed himself completely cured.
It was twelve hours before he could summon the strength to be helped by
his concerned underlings into the RollsRoyce and to lie wan and palely
resigned upon the soft leather seat.
