Cry Wolf

new guns are safely on their way back to the Sardi Gorge, I shall ride

out myself to fetch her body," said the Prince with a simple dignity.

"But until then my duty must come first."

"One car," pleaded Gregorius. "For Sara's sake."

"No, I ca

"Well, I can," snapped Vicky and her tousled golden head disappeared

into the driver's hatch, the engine roared and Miss Wobbly shot forward

scattering men and animals before her, and swung in a tight sliding

right-hand turn towards the course of the wadi.

Unarmed and alone, Vicky Camberwell was going out to face the machine

guns and the mortars, and only one man amongst them acted swiftly

enough.

Jake shouldered the Prince aside and sprinted across the circle of the

car's turn, coming alongside a moment before it plunged into the narrow

ravine. He got a grip on one of the welded brackets abaft the engine

cowling, and although his shoulder joint was almost wrenched from its

socket, he swung himself up and fell belly down across the sponson.

Clinging grimly on to the leaping, jouncing vehicle, he dragged himself

forward until he could peer down the driver's hatch.

"Are you crazy?" he bellowed, and Vicky looked up and gave him a

fleeting but angelic grin.

"Yes. How about you?"A heavier impact came up through the chassis of

the car and momentarily drove Jake's breath from him so he could not

answer. Instead, he clawed his way up the side of the turret, almost

losing four fingers as the loose hatch cover slammed closed at another

leap of the car.

Using all his strength, Jake lifted it again, and secured the retaining

catch before he scrambled down into the cab.

He was only just in time, for at that moment Vicky drove the car at

full throttle out into the valley.

The sun was clear of the horizon now, smearing long dark shadows across

the golden sands. Dust and smoke from the mortar barrage still drifted

in a stately brown cloud over the ridge, and the bodies of the dead

were thrown at random across the bare plain. The women's dresses made

bright splashes of colour against the monochrome of the desert.

Jake swept a swift glance around the ridge that commanded the plain,

and saw that many of the Italian troopers had left their trenches. They

wandered in small groups around the edges of the slaughter ground, and

their movements were awed and timid green troops still not hardened to

the reality of open wounds and twisted corpses.

They froze in attitudes of surprise as the car burst out of the wadi,

and flew on usty wings towards the nearest waterhole. It took many

seconds for them to move, and then they turned and pelted for their

earthworks, tiny figures in dark uniforms with legs and arms pumping in

frantic haste.

"Turn broadside," yelled Jake. "Show them the crosses!" and Vicky

reacted swiftly, swinging the car into a tight lefthander that had her

up on two wheels, sliding broadside in the sand, displaying to the

Italians the huge scarlet crosses on the hull.

"Let me have your shirt," Jake yelled again. It was the only white

cloth they had with them. "I need a flag of truce!"

"It's all I have on," Vicky shrieked back. "I'm bare underneath."

"You want to be modest and dead?" howled Jake. "They'll start

shooting any moment now." And she steered with one hand as she

unbuttoned her shirt front and leaned forward in the seat to yank the

tails out of her skirt. She shrugged out of it and reached up into the

turret to hand him the bundled shirt. Each time they hit another bump,

Vicky's breasts bounced like rubber balls, a sight that distracted Jake

for a hundredth part of a second before chivalry and duty recalled him

and he stood high in the turret, arms stretched above his head,

streaming the white shirt like a flag, balancing with a sailor's legs

against the wild antics of the car.

To the hundreds of men who lined the parapet of the Italian trenches

Jake displayed two emotive symbols, the red cross and the white flag,

symbols so powerful that even men in the white-hot must of the blood

lust hesitated with their fingers still curled about the triggers of

the machine guns.

"It's working," shrieked Vicky, and swung the car on to its original

heading, almost throwing Jake from his precarious roost in the turret.

He dropped the shirt and clutched wildly at the coamings of the turret,

the shirt floating away like a white egret on the wing.

"There she is," Vicky cried again. The carcass of the white stallion

lay dead ahead, as she braked hard and then pulled the car to a

standstill beside it, interposing the armoured body of the car between

the pile of bodies and the watching Italians on the ridge.

Jake dropped down into the cab and crawled back to open the rear double

doors of the car, knocking open the locking handles as he called over

his shoulder.

"Keep your hatch battened and don't, for chrissakes, show your head."

"I'll help you," Vicky stated boldly.

"The hell you will," snapped Jake, tearing his eyes off her magnificent

chest. "You'll stay where you are and keep the engine ru

doors flew open and Jake tumbled headfirst out on to the sandy earth.

Spitting grit from his mouth, he crawled swiftly to the carcass of the

white horse. Close up, the hide was shaggy and flea-bitten, dappled

with faint patches of chestnut. On this pale background the bullet

holes were like dark red mouths where already the metallic blue flies

clustered delightedly.

The stallion lay heavily across Sara's lower body, pi

down to the earth.

The naked boy child had been hit by one of the hooves as the horse

fell. The side of the tiny bald skull had been crushed, a deep

indentation above the temple into which a baseball would have fitted

neatly. There was no chance that he still lived and Jake transferred

his attention to the girl.

"Sara," he called, and she lifted herself on her elbows, looking back

at him from huge terrified dark eyes. Her face was smeared with dust,

the skin shaved from one cheek where she had slid against the ground,

exposing the pale pink meat from which lymph leaked in clear liquid

beads.

"Are you hit? "Jake reached her.

"I don't know," she whispered huskily, and he saw that the satin of her

breeches was soaked with dark blood. He placed both feet against the

carcass of the horse and tried to roll it off her legs, but the dead

weight of the animal was enormous. He would have to stand, taking his

chances with the guns.

Jake came to his feet and felt the cold fingers of fear brush lightly

along his spine as he turned his back to the nearest Italian trenches

and stooped to the horse.

Crouching with his weight balanced evenly on the balls of both feet, he

took the tail and the lower hind leg of the animal; lifting and turning

with all his strength, he began to roll the carcass off Sara's legs and

pelvis. She cried out in pain, such a sharp high-pitched shriek that

he had to stop.

She was praying incoherently in Amharic, weeping slow fat tears of

agony that cut tu

Jake panted, "Once more I'm sorry," and he braced himself. At that