Cry Wolf

on to the bare hands that held the ancient firearms at the ready.

It burned into the exposed skin, blistering and eating into the living

flesh like some terrible canker; it burned the eyes in their sockets,

turning them into cherry-red, glistening orbs from which the yellow

mucus poured thickly. The pain it inflicted combined both the seating

of concentrated acid and the fierce heat of live coals.

In the dawn, while thousands of Ras Muguletu's men whimpered and cried

out in their consuming agony, and their comrades, bemused and

bewildered, tried unavailingly to render aid, in that dreadful

moment,

the first wave of Italian infantry came up over the lip of the

mountain, and they were into the Ethiopian trenches before the

defenders realized what had happened. The Italian bayonets blurred

redly in the first rays of the morning sun.

The cloud lay upon the highlands, blotting out the peaks, and the rain

fell in a constant deluge. It had rained without ceasing for the two

days and three nights since the disaster of Aruba Aradarn. The rain

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 begi

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.

They had no comfort for him, and Lij Mikhael listened with a great

weight growing in his chest.

At last he gestured for silence. "Is the telephone line to Sardi still

open? "he asked.

"The Gallas have not yet cut it. It does not follow the railway line

but crosses the spur of Ambo Sacal. They must have overlooked it."

"Have me co

there. I must know exactly what is happening in the gorge."

He left the group of officers beside the railway tracks and walked a

short way along the Sardi spur.

Down there, a few short miles away, the close members of his family his

father, his brothers, his daughter were risking their lives to buy him

the time he needed. He wondered what price they had already paid, and

suddenly, a mental picture of his daughter sprang into his mind Sara,

young and lithe and laughing. Firmly he thrust the thought aside and

he turned to look back at the endless file of bedraggled figures that

shuffled along the Dessie road. They were in no condition to defend

themselves, they were helpless as cattle "Until they could be

regrouped, fed and re-armed in spirit.

No, if the Italians came now it would be the end.