his Howitzers. Under their protective muzzles, he was mildly confident
that he could extricate the column from any predicament into which the
Count's newfound courage and vaunting visions of glory might lead them
mildly, but not entirely, confident.
Beside each stationary truck the driver and crew were sprawling on the
sandy earth, bareheaded, tunics unbuttoned and cigarettes lit.
Castelani threw back his head, inflated his lungs and let out a bellow
that seemed to echo against the clear high desert sky.
"Fall in!" and the sprawling figures scrambled into frenzied activity,
grabbing weapons and adjusting uniforms as they formed ragged ranks
beside each truck.
"My children," said Aldo Belli, as he began to pace down the line.
"My brave boys," and he looked at them, not really seeing the
mis-buttoned tunics, the stubble on their chins, nor the hastily
pinched-out cigarettes behind the ears. His vision was misted with
sentiment, his imagination dressed them in burnished breastplates and
horsetail plumes.
"You are thirsty for blood?" the Colonel asked, and threw back his
head and laughed a reckless carefree laugh. "I will give you buckets
of it," he said. "Today you will drink your fill. The men within
earshot shuffled their feet and glanced uneasily at each other. There
was a definite preference for Chianti amongst them.
The Count stopped before a thin rifleman, still in his teens, with a
dark shaggy mop of hair hanging out from under his helmet.
"Bambino," said the Count, and the youth hung his head and grinned in
sickly embarrassment. "We will make a warrior out of you today,"
and he embraced the boy, then held him off at arm's length and studied
his face. "Italy gives of her finest, none are too young or too noble
to be spared sacrifice on the altar of war." The boy's ingratiating
grin changed swiftly to real alarm. -Sing, bambino, sing!" cried the
Count, and himself opened "La
Giovinezza" in his soaring baritone while the youth quavered
uncertainly below him. The Count marched on, singing, and reached the
head of the column as the song ended. He nodded to Castelani, too
breathless to speak, and the Major let out another bull bellow.
"Mount up!" The formations of black-shirted troopers broke up into
confused activity as they hurried to the cumbersome trucks and climbed
aboard.
The Rolls-Royce stood in pride of place at the head of the column,
Giuseppe sitting ready at the wheel with Gino beside him, his camera at
the ready.
The engine was purring, the wide back seat packed with the Count's
personal gear sports rifle, shotgun, travelling rugs, picnic hamper,
straw wine carrier, binoculars, and ceremonial cloak.
The Count mounted with dignity and settled himself on the padded
leather. He looked at Castelani.
"Remember, Major, the essence of my strategy is speed and surprise. The
lightning blow, swift and merciless, delivered by the steel hand at the
enemy's heart." Sitting beside the driver in the rear truck of the
column, eating the dust of the forty-nine trucks ahead,
and already beginning to sweat freely in the oven heat of the steel
cab, Major Castelani inspected his watch.
"Mother of God," he growled. "It's past eleven o'clock.
We will have to move fast if we At that moment, the driver swore and
braked heavily, and before the truck had come to a halt, Castelani had
leapt out on to the running board and climbed high on to the roof of
the cab.
"What is it?"he shouted to the driver ahead.
"I do not know, Major," the man shouted back.
Ahead of them the entire column had come to a halt, and Castelani
braced himself for the sound of firing certain that they had run into
an ambush. There was confused shouting of question and comment from
the drivers and crews of the stranded convoy, as they climbed down and
peered ahead.
Castelani focused his binoculars, and at that moment the sound of
gunfire carried clearly across the desert spaces, and the swift order
to deploy his field guns was on Castelani's lips as he found the
Rolls-Royce in the lens of his binoculars.
The big automobile was out on the left flank, racing through the
scrubby grass, and in the back seat the count was braced with a shotgun
levelled over the driver's head.
Even as Castelani watched, a flock of plump brown francolin burst from
the grass ahead of the speeding Rolls, rising steeply on quick wide
wings. Long blue streamers of gunsmoke flew from the muzzles of the
shotgun, and two of the birds exploded in puffs of soft brown feathers,
while the survivors of the flock scattered away, and the
Rolls came to a halt in a skidding cloud of dust.
Castelani watched Gino, the little Sergeant, jump from the Rolls and
run to pick up the dead birds and carry them to the Count.
Torco Dio!" thundered the Major, as he watched the Count pose for the
camera, still standing in the rear of the Rolls, holding the dangling
feathered brown bodies and smiling proudly into the lens.
There was a rising feeling of despondency and alarm in the Ras's army.
Since the middle of the morning, through a day of scalding heat and
