unrelenting boredom, they had waited.
The scouts had reported the first forward movement of the Italian force
at ten o'clock that morning, and immediately the Ras's forces had moved
forward into their carefully prepared positions.
Gareth Swales had spent days selecting the best possible ground in
which to meet the first Italian thrust, and each contingent of the
wild
Ethiopian cavalry had been carefully drilled and properly cautioned as
to the sequence of ambush and the necessity of maintaining strict
discipline.
The chosen field was situated between the horns of the mountains,
in the mouth of the funnel formed by the debouchment of the Sardi
Gorge. It was obvious that this was the only approach route open to
the Italians, and it was nearly twelve miles wide.
The attackers must be led in close to the southern horn of the funnel,
where the Vickers machine guns had been sited on the rocky slopes, and
where a minor water course had chiselled its way down to the plain. The
water course was dry now, and it meandered out into the plain for five
miles before vanishing, but it was deep and wide enough to conceal the
large contingents of Harari and Galla horsemen.
This mass of cavalry had been waiting all day, squatting beside their
mounts in the sugar-white sand of the river bed.
The two separate factions had been diplomatically separated. The
Harari were placed at the head of the trap, nearest the rocky slope of
the mountain with the Vickers gunners hidden on their flank in strong
posts amongst the rocks.
The Galla, under the scar-faced Gerazmach in the blue sham ma were
grouped farther out on the open plain at a point where the dry water
course turned sharply and angled out towards the grassland.
Here in the bend, the banks were still steep enough to conceal fifteen
hundred mounted men. These, with almost three thousand of the
Ras's own cavalry, formed a formidable offensive army especially if
thrown in unexpectedly against and unbalanced enemy. The mood of the
Ethiopians, ever sanguinary, was aggravated by the many hours of
enforced inactivity, crouching without cover from the blinding sun on a
white sand bed which reflected its rays like a mirror. The horses were
already distressed by the heat and lack of water while the men were
murderous.
Gareth Swales had contrived a net, using the natural wide curve of the
water course, into which he hoped to lure the Italian column. Two
miles farther out in the plain, beyond where he now stood on the turret
of the Hump, a fold of ground concealed the small band of mounted men
who were to provide the bait. They had been waiting there since the
scouts had first reported the Italian movement early that morning.
Like everybody else they must by this time be restless, bored and
thoroughly uncomfortable. Gareth wondered that this huge amorphous
body of undisciplined, independent, spirited hills men had so long
maintained cohesion. He would not have been surprised if by this stage
half of them had lost interest and had set off homewards.
The only person who was occupied and seemed happy enough was Jake
Barton, and Gareth lowered his binoculars and regarded what he could
see of him with irritation. The front upper half of that gentleman was
completely hidden within the engine compartment of Priscilla the Pig,
and only his legs and backside protruded. The muffled strains of
"Tiger Rag" whistled endlessly added to Gareth's irritation.
"How are you coming along there?" he called, merely to stop the music,
and Jake's tousled head emerged, one cheek smeared with black oil.
think I've found it," he said cheerfully. "A lump of muck in the
carb," and he wiped his hands on the lump of cotton waste that
Gregorius handed him. "What are the Eyeties up to?"
"I think we've got a small problem, old son," Gareth murmured softly,
turning once more to resume his vigil, and his expression for once was
serious and concerned. "I must admit that I banked on the old Latin
dash and swagger to bring them charging down here without a backward
glance."
Jake came across from his car and clambered up beside J Gareth. The
two armoured cars were parked at the extreme end of the curved water
course, just before it lost its identity and vanished into the
limitless sea of grass and rolling sandy hills. Here the banks of the
river were only just enough to cover the hulls of the two cars, but
they left the turrets partially exposed. A light cover of cut Thorn
branches made them inconspicuous, while allowing them to act as
observation posts for the crews.
Gareth handed Jake his binoculars. "I think we've got ourselves a
really wily one here. This Italian commander isn't rushing. He's
coming on nice and slow, taking his time," Gareth shook his head
worriedly, "I don', like it at all."
"He's stopped again," Jake said,
watching the distant dust cloud that marked the position of the
advancing column.
The dust cloud shrivelled, and subsided.
"Oh my God!" groaned Gareth, and snatched the binoculars. "The
bastard is up to something, I'm sure of it. This is the seventh time
