rear of the turret. The crates of arms and ammunition we will
distribute between the four of them and rope them down here across the
sponsons, - I have welded cleats here to take the ropes."
"The crates will be a dead giveaway," objected Gareth.
"They are all marked-"
"We'll plane off the marking and re-label them as medical supplies,
"Jake told him, then took Vicky's arm. "I've chosen this one for you.
She's the most docile and friendly of the four."
"Do they have characters of their own?" Vicky teased him, and laughed
at the seriousness of his reply.
"They are just like women. My iron ladies," he slapped the nearest
machine. "This one is an absolute darling except that her rear
suspension is slightly out of alignment, so she waggles her bottom a
bit at speed. It's nothing serious, however, but it's why her name
is
Miss Wobbly. She's yours.
You'll grow to love her. "Jake walked on and kicked the tyre of the
next car. "This one is the bitch of the party. She tried to break my
wrist the very first time I ever cranked her. She is known as
Priscilla the Pig. I'm the only one who can handle her. She doesn't
love me, but she respects me." He moved on. "Greg has chosen this one
and called her Tenastelin which means "God is with us" - I hope he is
right, but I doubt it. Greg is a bit funny about that sort of thing.
He tells me he was going to be a priest once." He winked at the
youngster. "Gareth, this one is yours she has a brand new carburettor.
I think it is only fair you should enjoy her, since you are the one who
risked all to obtain it."
"Oh?" Vicky's eyes lit with interest, the news-hound in her aroused.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story," Jake grinned, "but it involved a long and
dangerous ride on a camel. "Gareth choked on a lungful of cheroot
smoke and coughed, but
Jake went on remorselessly, "She shall therefore be known in future
as
Henrietta the Hump the Hump for short."
"How very cute," said Vicky.
After midnight the four vehicles moved in column through the dark and
sleeping streets of the old town. The steel shutters were closed down
over the headlights so that only a narrow strip of light was thrown
forwards and downwards. The engines were idling as they moved at
walking speed under the trees whose spread branches hung over the road
and hid the stars.
The cars were heavily loaded. the burden that each of them carried
were drums and crate st coils of rope and netting,
trenching tools and camping equipment.
Gareth Swales led the column, freshly shaven and dressed in grey
flannel Oxford bags and a white jersey with the I Zingari cricket
colours adorning the neck and cuffs. He was mildly concerned that the
proprietor of the Royal Hotel might become aware of his imminent
departure, for there was a bill for three weeks" board outstanding and
a formidable pile of unpaid chit ties signed with the Swales flourish
for champagne supplied. Gareth would definitely feel happier out at
sea.
Gregorius Maryam followed him closely. His hereditary title was
Gerazinach, "Commander of the Left Wing', and his warrior blood coursed
through his veins mingling with the deeply religious Old Testament
teachings of the Coptic Christian Church, so that his eyes shone with
an almost mystic fanaticism and his heart soared with a young man's
fierce patriotism, for he was still young enough and inexperienced
enough to look on the dirty bloody business of war as something
glamorous and manly.
Behind him came Vicky Camberwell, driving Miss Wobbly with competence
and precision. Jake was delighted with her ability to judge the engine
beat, and to mesh the ancient gears with a light touch on clutch and
stick. She too was excited by the prospect of adventure,
and new experience. That afternoon she had filed her preliminary
report
, despatching five thousand words by the new airmail service that would
deposit them on her editor's desk in New York within ten days.
She had explained the background, the clear intent of Benito Mussolini
to annex the sovereign territories of Ethiopia, the world's
indifference, the arms embargo. "Do not delude yourselves" she had
written, "into the belief that I am crying wolf. The wolf of Rome is
already hunting.
What is about to happen in the mountains of northern Africa will shame
the civilized world." And then she had gone on to expose the intention
of the great nations to prevent her reaching the embattled empire and
reporting its plight. She had ended the despatch, "Your correspondent
has rejected this restriction placed upon her movements and her
integrity. Tonight
I have joined a group of intrepid men who are risking their lives to
defy the embargo, and to carry through the closed territories a
quantity of arms and supplies desperately needed by the beleaguered
nation. By the time you read this, we shall have failed and have died
upon the desert coast of Africa, which the natives fearfully call the
"Great Burn" or we shall have succeeded. We shall have landed by night
from a small coasting vessel and trekked through hundreds of miles of
