Massawa to the Wells. There was a bit of traffic,
transports mostly with motorized escort, but we couldn't stay too long
as the Ras, God bless his friendly little soul, wanted to continue his
target practice on them. We had a job stopping him. So I pulled back
and we came in towards the Wells from the west again. "Jake paused to
sip at the mug of coffee, and Gareth turned to Vicky as she squatted,
rosy-faced, over the cooking fire. my dear?" he said. It was "How's
breakfast coming along, not the words nor the endearment, but rather
the proprietorial tone, that made Jake glance sharply at Vicky. The
tone Gareth had used was that which a man uses to his own woman. For a
second, Vicky held Jake's glance, and then she turned busily back to
her cooking, and Jake dropped his eyes thoughtfully at the steaming mug
in his hands.
"How close did you get?" Gareth asked easily. He had noticed the
silent exchange between Vicky and Jake and he was relaxed and
contented, lolling back in the camp chair and rolling a cheroot between
his fingers.
"I left the cars in the broken ground, and went in on foot.
Didn't want to take the Ras too close. I was able to watch the
Eyetie position for a couple of hours. They have dug in well, and I
saw gun positions with a good field of fire placed along the ridge.
They are in a hell of a defensive position and it would be crazy to
attack them there. We will have to wait for them to come to us." Vicky
brought the food to them, and as she leaned across Gareth he touched
her bare upper arm in a casual caress.
She drew back quickly and went to fetch the pan of eggs.
Jake had noticed the gesture, yet his voice was even and unruffled as
he went on, "I wanted to circle out and to figure the chances of
attacking their positions from the rear, but that was when the old Ras
got bored and gave us a demonstration of hell-driving. My God, I'm
hungry." Jake filled his mouth with food, and then asked in a muffled
voice, "How did you get on, Gary?"
"There is good defensive ground in the gorge. I have the construction
gangs digging positions in the slopes. We should be able to give a
good account, if the Eyeties try to force their way through."
"Well, we have got scouts watching them.
Gregorius picked a hundred of his best men for the job. We will know
as soon as they begin to move from the Wells, but I would like to know
how much time we have before they move.
Every day will give us more time to prepare, to decide on our tactics,
and train the Harari teach them how to fight with modern weapons.-"
Vicky came back to the camp table and sat down.
"You haven't got time," she said. "No time at all."
"What does that mean? "Jake looked up.
"The Italians crossed the Mareb yesterday at noon. They crossed in
force, and they have begun bombing the towns and the roads. It's war
now. It's begun." Jake whistled softly.
"Hey ho! Here we go!" he said, and then turned to Gareth. "You'd
best be the one who tells the Ras. You are the only one who can
control him."
"I'm touched by your faith," murmured Gareth mildly.
"I have a pretty good idea what the Ras's reaction will be.
He'll want to rush straight out there and start throwing punches.
He's likely to get his whole tribe wiped out. You've got to calm him
down."
"How do you suggest I do that? give him a shot of morphine or hit him
over the head?"
"Get him into a gin-rummy game," suggested Jake maliciously. He
scooped the last of the egg into his mouth and stood up from the table
still chewing. "Good chow, Vicky but I reckon I'd better have a look
at the damage the Ras did to Tenastelin. See if we can get her running
again for the Eyeties to shoot at." For two hours,
Jake worked alone on Tenastelin, rigging the block and tackle from one
of the main branches of the big acacia tree and loosening the bolts to
lift out the entire gearbox. Twenty yards away, Vicky sat at the table
in front of her tent, and hammered out her next despatch on the little
portable typewriter. Both of them were very much aware of each other
as they worked, but their behaviour was elaborately unconcerned and
they each made a show of concentrating all their attention on their
separate tasks.
At last, Jake strained on the tackle and the dismembered gearbox lifted
jerkily off its seating and swayed, dripping grease from the acacia
branch. Jake stood back and wiped his hands on a lump of cotton waste
soaked in gasoline.
"Coffee break," he said, and went to the fire. He poured two mugs full
of black coffee and took them to where Vicky sat.
"How are you doing?" he asked, glancing at the page in her typewriter.
"Pulitzer stuff, is it?" Vicky laughed, as she accepted the mug of
coffee. "Prizes never go to the best man."
"Or to those who really want them," agreed Jake, sitting down opposite
her, and she felt a flare of annoyance that he had turned the
conversation so neatly.
"Damn you, Jake Barton. I don't have to answer to you or to anybody,"
she said softly.
"Right," he said. "Quite right. You're a big girl now but just
remember that you're playing with the big boys. And some of them play
