only just found out," she explained, and he crushed her fiercely to his
chest.
"Oh, that's lovely," cried Sara from the turret above them.
"That's beautiful." She clapped her hands delightedly.
"Until later," whispered Jake. "Now get out of here!" and he turned
her away and pushed her towards the car. He turned himself and ran
lightly back into the dunes, with his heart singing.
"Oh, Miss Camberwell, I am so pleased for you." Sara reached down to
help Vicky up on to the hull. "I knew it was going to be Mr. Barton.
I picked him for you long ago, but I wanted you to find out for
yourself."
"Sara, my dear. Please don't say any more." Vicky hugged her briefly
before dropping into the driver's hatch. "Or the whole thing will turn
upside down again." Ras Golam was so tired and drained that he could
move only at a creaking walk up the dune, even though
Gareth tried to prod him into a trot. He plodded on up the dune
dragging the sword behind him.
Suddenly there was a sound in the sky above them, as though the heavens
had been split by all the winds of hell.
A rising, rattling shriek that passed and then erupted in a towering
column of sand and yellow swirling fumes against the side of the dune
ahead of them, fifty paces below the car that was silhouetted upon the
crest.
"Guns,"said Gareth unnecessarily. "Time to go, Grandpa," and he would
have prodded the Ras again, but there was no need. The sound of
gunfire had rejuvenated the Ras instantly; he leaped high in the air,
uttering that dreadful screech of a challenge and hunting frantically
for his teeth in the folds of his sham ma
"Oh no, you don't." Grimly, Gareth forestalled the next wild suicidal
charge by grabbing the Ras and dragging him protestingly towards the
car. The Ras had tasted blood now, and he wanted to go in on foot with
the sword the way a real warrior fights and he was frantically
searching the open horizons for the enemy, as Gareth towed him away
backwards.
The next shell burst beyond the crest, out of sight in the trough.
"The first one under, and the second over," muttered Gareth,
struggling to control the Ras's wild lunges. "Where does the next one
go?" They had almost reached the car when it came in, arcing across
the wide lioncoloured plain, through the low grey cloud, howling and
rattling the heavens; it plunged down at an acute angle, going in
through the thin plating behind the turret of the car, and it burst
against the steel floor of the cab.
The car burst like a paper bag. The entire turret was lifted from its
seating and went high in the air in a flash of crimson flame and sooty
smoke.
Gareth dragged the Ras down on to the sand and held him there while
scraps of flying steel and other debris splattered around them.
It lasted only seconds and the Ras tried to rise again, but Gareth held
him down while the shattered hull of the car brewed up into a fiery
explosion of burning gasoline and the Vickers ammunition in the bins
began popping and flying like fireworks.
It lasted a long time, and when at last the crackle of ammunition died
away, Gareth lifted his head cautiously; immediately another belt
caught and rattled away with white tracer flying and spluttering,
forcing them flat again.
"Come on, Rassey," sighed Gareth at last. "Let's see if we can beg a
ride home." At that moment, the ugly, well beloved shape of
Priscilla the Pig roared abruptly over the crest of the dune and slewed
to a halt above them.
"God," Jake shouted from the driver's hatch. "I thought you were in it
when she blew. I came to pick up the pieces." Dragging the Ras,
Gareth climbed up the side of the tall hull.
"This is becoming a habit," Gareth grunted. "That's two I owe you.
"I'll send you an account," Jake promised, and then ducked
instinctively as the next shell came shrieking in to burst so close
that dust and smoke blew into their faces.
"I get this strange feeling we should move on now," suggested
Gareth mildly. "That is, if you have no other plans." Jake sent the
car plunging steeply down the face of the dune, turning hard as he hit
the firmer earth of the plain and setting a running course for where
the mouth of the gorge was hidden by the smoky writhing curtains of
cloud and rain.
Vicky Camberwell saw them coming and swung Miss Wobbly and gunned her
on to a parallel course. Wheel to wheel, the two elderly machines
bounded across the flat land, and the rain began to crackle against the
steel hulls in minute white bursts that blurred their outlines as the
next Italian shell burst fifty feet ahead of them,
forcing them to swerve to avoid the fuming crater.
"Can you see where the battery is?" yelled Jake, and Gareth answered
him, clinging to one of the welded brackets above the hatch,
rain streaming down his face and soaking the front of his white
shirt.
"They are in the ground that the Gallas deserted, they've probably
taken over the trenches I dug with such loving care."
"Could we have a go at them? "Jake suggested.
"No we can't, old son. I sited those positions myself.
They're tight. You just keep going for the gorge. Our only hope is to
