had saved them, it had saved the thirty thousand survivors of the
battle from being overtaken by the same fate as had befallen the ten
thousand casualties they had left on the mountain.
High above the cloud, the Italian bombers circled hungrily; Lij
Mikhael could hear them clearly, although the thick blanket of cloud
muted the sound of the powerful triple engines. They waited for a
break in the cloud, to come swooping down upon the retreat. What a
target they would enjoy if that happened! The Dessie road was choked
for a dozen miles with the slow unwieldy column of the retreat, the
ragged files of trudging figures, bowed in the rain, their heads
covered with their shammas, their bare feet sliding and slipping in the
mud. Hungry, cold and dispirited, they toiled onwards, carrying
weapons that grew heavier with every painful step still they kept on.
The rain had hampered the Italian pursuit. Their big troop-carriers
were bogged down helplessly in the treacherous mud, and each engorged
mountain stream, each ravine raged with the muddy brown rain waters.
They had to be bridged by the Italian engineers before the transports
could be manhandled across, and the pursuit continued.
The Italian General Badoglio had been denied a crushing victory and
thirty thousand Ethiopian troops had escaped him at Aradam.
It was Lij Mikhael's special charge, placed upon him -personally by the
King of Kings, Baile Selassie, to bring out those thirty thousand men.
To extricate them from Badogho's talons, and regroup them with the
southern army under the Emperor's personal command upon the shores of
Lake Tona. Another thirty-six hours and the task would be
accomplished.
He sat on the rear seat of the mud-spattered Ford sedan, huddled into
the thick coarse folds of his greatcoat, and although it was worn and
lulling in the sedan interior, and although he was exhausted to the
point at which his hands and feet felt completely numb and his eyes as
though they were filled with sand, yet no thought of sleep entered his
mind. There was too much to plan, too many eventualities to meet, too
many details to ponder and he was afraid. A terrible black fear
pervaded his whole being.
The ease with which the Italian victory had been won at Araoam filled
him with fear for the future. It seemed as though nothing could stand
against the force of Italian arms against the big guns, and the bombs
and the nitrogen Mustard. He feared that another terrible defeat
awaited them on the shores of Lake Tona.
He feared also for the safety of the thirty thousand in his charge. He
knew that the Danakil column of the Italian expeditionary force had
fought its way into the Sardi Gorge and must by now have almost reached
the town of Sardi itself. He knew that Ras Golam's small force had
been heavily defeated on the plains and had suffered doleful losses in
the subsequent defence of the gorge. He feared that they might be
swept aside at any moment now and that the Italian column would come
roaring like a lion across his rear cutting off his retreat to Dessie.
He must have time, a little more time, a mere thirty-six hours more.
Then again, he feared the Gallas. At the beginning of the Italian
offensive they had taken no part in the fighting but had merely
disappeared into the mountains, betraying completely the trust that
the
Harari leaders had placed in them. Now, however, that the Italians had
won their first resounding victories, the Gallas had become active,
gathering like vultures for the scraps that the lions left. His own
retreat from Aradam had been harassed by his erstwhile allies. They
hung on his flanks, hiding in the scrub Laid scree slopes along the
Dessie road, awaiting each opportunity to fall upon a weak unprotected
spot in the unwieldy slow-moving column. It was classical shifta
tactics, the age old art of ambush, of hit and run, a few throats slit
and a dozen rifles stolen but it slowed the retreat slowed it
drastically while close behind them followed the Italian horde, and
across their rear lay the mouth of the Sardi Gorge.
Lij Mikhael roused himself and leaned forward in the seat to peer ahead
through the windscreen. The wipers flogged sullenly from side to side,
keeping two fans of clean glass in the mud-splattered screen, and
Lij Mikhael made out the railway crossing ahead of them where it
bisected the muddy rutted road.
He grunted with so tis faction and the driver pushed the Ford through
the slowly moving mass of miserable humanity which clogged the road. It
opened only reluctantly as the sedan butted its way through with the
horn blaring angrily, and closed again behind it as it passed.
They reached the railway level crossing and Lij Mikhael ordered the
driver to pull off the road beside a group of his officers. He slipped
out bareheaded and immediately the rain de wed on his bushy dark hair.
The group of officers surrounded him, each eager to tell his own story,
to recite the list of his own requirements, his own misgivings each
with news of fresh disaster, new threats to their very existence.
