driven game. There were comfortable camp chairs for those long waits
between drives, a small but well-stocked bar, ice in insulated
buckets,
a separate screened latrine in fact all the comforts to make the day's
sport more enjoyable.
The Count's blind was in the centre of the line. It was the largest
and most luxuriously appointed, situated so that the great majority of
driven game would bunch upon this point. His junior officers had
earlier learned the folly of exceeding the Colonel's"
personal bag or of firing at any animal which was swinging across their
front towards the Count. The first offender in this respect had found
himself reduced from Captain to Lieutenant, and no longer invited to
the hunt, and the second was already back in Massawa writing out
requisition forms in the quartermaster's division.
Gino handed the Count from the Rolls, and helped him down the steps
into the sunken shelter. Giuseppe saluted and climbed back into the
Rolls, swung away and bumped back up the ridge and over the skyline.
The Count settled himself comfortably in the canvas chair. With a
sigh, he unbuttoned the front of his jacket, and accepted the damp face
cloth that Gino handed him.
While the Count wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with the cool
cloth, Gino opened a bottle of Lacrima Cristi from the ice bucket and
placed a tall frosted crystal glass of the wine on the folding table at
the Count's elbow. Next, he loaded the
Marmlicher with shiny new brass cartridges from a freshly opened
packet.
The Count tossed the cloth aside and leaned forward in his chair to
peer through the loophole in front of him, out across the shimmering
plain where the small dark desert scrub danced in the heat.
"I have a feeling we shall have extraordinary sport today, Gino."
I hope so indeed, my Count, said the little sergeant and stood to
attention behind his chair with the loaded Mannlicher held at the ready
across his chest.
ome on, darling," croaked Jake, sweat dripping from his chin on to his
shirt front as he stooped over the crank handle and spun it for the
hundredth time.
"Don't let us down now, sweetheart." Gareth scrambled up on to the
sponson of Priscilla and took a long despairing glance back over the
turret. He felt something freeze in his belly, and his breath
caught.
The elephant was a hundred paces away, coming directly down on top of
them at a loose shambling walk, the great black ears flapping sullenly
and the little piggy eyes alight with malevolence.
Right behind it, fanned out on each side, pressing closely on the great
beast's heels, came the full squadron of Italian tanks. The sun
glittered on the smoothly rounded frontal armour, and caught the bright
festival flutter of their cavalry pennants. From each hatch protruded
the black-helmeted head of the tank commander. Through the
binoculars
Gareth could make out the individual features of each commander, they
were that close.
Within minutes they would be overrun, and there was no chance that they
could escape detection. The elephant was leading the Italians directly
to the ravine, and their scanty camouflage of scrub branches would not
stand scrutiny at less than a hundred yards.
They could not even protect themselves, the Vickers machine gun was
pointed away from the approaching enemy, and the limited traverse of
the ball mounting was not sufficient to bring it to bear. Gareth was
engulfed suddenly by a black and burning rage for the stubborn piece of
machinery beneath his feet. He took a vicious heartfelt kick at the
steel turret.
"You treacherous bitch, he snarled, and at that moment the engine fired
and, without preliminary gulping and popping, roared angrily.
Jake bounded up the side of the hull, droplets of sweat flying from his
sodden hair, red-faced as he gasped at Gareth.
"You've got the gentle touch."
"With all women there is the psychological moment, old son, "Gareth
explained, grinning with relief as he scrambled into the turret and
Jake dropped behind the controls.
Jake gunned the motor, and Priscilla threw off her covering, of cut
thorn branches. Her wheels spun in the loose sand of the ravine,
blowing up a cloud of red dust, and she tore up the steep bank and
lunged out into the open directly under the startled outstretched trunk
of the elephant.
The old bull had by this stage suffered provocation sufficient to take
him to the edge of a blind, black rage. It needed only this new
buzzing frightfulness to launch him over the edge. The leisurely pace
that he had set up until now left his mountainous strength and
endurance untouched, and now he trumpeted, a ringing ear-splitting
challenge that rolled across the vast silences of the desert like the
trumpet of doom. His ears curled back against his skull and with his
trunk coiled against his chest, he crashed forward into a terrible
ground-shaking charge.
His speed over the broken ground was greater than that of
Priscilla the Pig, and he bore down upon her like a cliff of grey
granite huge, menacing and indestructible.
The Captain of tanks had been shepherding the old elephant along
