The Burning Sky

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The northern exit of the Dembeguina Pass was, as Jardine suspected, sealed off by artillery and well-sited machine guns, and to these were added regular infantry counter-attacks. Yet even backed by bombers and strafing fighters, so great was the pressure from the peasant army, and so reckless were they for their own safety all along the front, that the pressure began to infect the enemy high command, while what the world was to call the Ethiopian Christmas Offensive left little doubt regarding what they were seeking to achieve: nothing less than the destruction of the entire Italian position in the Horn of Africa.

The right- and left-wing armies, as planned, were fighting to get between the two Italian corps that had so recently invested Mek’ele and Aksum, the aim to cut them off, leaving them to be crushed by the Ethiopian centre while the two wings began an assault to the north, into Eritrea, which, if successful, might win them more than a second Adowa, with incalculable consequences in Rome.

Marshal Badoglio was forced to order a tactical withdrawal centred on Aksum, to shorten both his lines and his communications, aware that back in his homeland voices were being raised against the whole enterprise in Abyssinia, not least that of the man he had replaced. Such criticism was impacting on the reputation of Benito Mussolini himself, which brought forth a threat to remove Badoglio as well.

The cable he sent to save his skin was carefully worded to appeal to Il Duce’s vanity, while subtly underlining the truth: if the invasion of Abyssinia faltered or even failed, ultimate responsibility rested with the politicians as well as the army commanders, and the price for both would be high.

He had to be careful, the dictator was not a leader he had originally endorsed in 1922. Indeed, for his doubts he had spent a number of years being sidelined for his lack of zealous support for the new dispensation, and it had taken subtle manoeuvring from his many Masonic and army friends to get back into the fold; in short, he was not entirely trusted.

It was necessary to employ flattery, of course, to speak of the glory of Italy, a once-broken country raised by Mussolini to stand as equal to any in Europe. He acknowledged him as the successor to the great dictators of ancient times — Cincinnatus, Sulla and, of course, Julius Caesar — pointing out that such heroic figures had not flinched from extreme measures to subdue their enemies. Yet, sadly, the present-day sons of Italy were paying a high price — a slight massaging to heighten the casualty figures aided him here — for the adherence to sensibilities that had only come to other colonial powers after they had secured their conquests.

He had at his disposal not only the means to arrest Emperor Haile Selassie’s attempts to halt the march of history, but to throw him back and utterly destroy him, as well as his armies. He also reminded his political master that any finer feelings were required to be suppressed, for they were misplaced, given he had before him enemies who could lay no claim to being civilised. Was it not the mission of the Italian people, as it had been of the other European powers, to bring the vital gift of their culture to Ethiopia and its savage tribes?

Benito Mussolini would know of what he spoke, and being the great man he was, his loyal supporter Pietro Badoglio was sure he would not recoil from what was required, would not allow the hollow and hypocritical opprobrium of the feeble democracies, of socialists, of noble, savage-loving hypocrites, or even the combined voice of the League of Nations to deflect him.

The affirmative reply came back in days and Badoglio immediately sent to Asmara for the equipment necessary to protect his own troops from the decisive weapon, then called in his air force and artillery commanders to discuss how the knockout blow he envisaged could be delivered — one that would save the Italian campaign and his position.

Cal Jardine wanted to train the Ethiopians to do a bit of trench raiding, working on the same principle now as had been applied during the Great War: if you wanted to know the state of enemy morale and perhaps, if you were lucky, their immediate intentions, you infiltrated their lines and took prisoners, a point he had made to Ras Kassa, who came close to scoffing at the notion. He seemed content that, should his own warriors undertake such tasks, the slitting of Italian throats was satisfactory, reasoning that the average Italian soldier was as ignorant as any of his own men.

He was beginning to be contemptuous of his enemies; like most of his fellow leaders, and not excepting the emperor himself, the success of their offensive had gone to his head: all they could see was victory while Cal Jardine could observe none of the telltale signs of imminent collapse. There were no great captures of either bodies of troops or masses of equipment, which meant the enemy before them was not beaten but holding its own.

True, the Italians had been forced to give ground, but the opinion that they had not yet lost the battle was far from welcome: native flexibility would triumph over European efficiency and they held to that opinion; if anything it was reinforced, when, with the Ethiopian Christmas Offensive effectively halted, the enemy forces sought to renew their advance south. The fighting became punch and counterpunch, like two inflexible boxers, with only local gains on both sides, quickly reversed.

Try as they did, the Italians could not break through the masses of fanatical warriors; indeed, out from their trenches and sandbagged lines they were losing a higher proportion of their men and equipment compared to when they were purely on the defensive, adding to their woes, which was amazing given the differing levels of not just equipment but command capability both sides possessed.

The Ethiopians operated from rough-and-ready headquarters and the comparison with what Jardine had seen when captured was unavoidable: runners were used instead of field telephones and radio antennae, there were few vehicles and no smart guards, headquarters company or Pioneer Corps, just a mass of warriors squatting around in no sort of discernible order.

Nor did they have field kitchens; later they, and the survivors of a counter-attack now in progress, would be cooking over charcoal that had been carried to this place, not by a wheeled transport arm, but by donkeys or on human shoulders and heads — men, and in some cases women, who responded to an instruction to move this way or that by a series of shouted commands, acting more like a herd than an army.

He and Tyler Alverson were watching the latest foray when he mentioned the raiding problem to the American. The position they occupied, close to the Ethiopian commanders, was on a high elevation, while in front was spread the flat, rocky plateau on which the battle, a diversionary effort against a Fascist Blackshirt Division, was being blunted.

The main activity was taking place further east, the idea of this assault being to draw off artillery and air support from that more telling Italian thrust, which required that lives be sacrificed for that limited objective in a fashion reminiscent of the old Western Front; that it was not succeeding was evident by the deep droning sound of approaching aircraft.

‘Seems to me they’re reading their own news stories,’ Alverson replied. ‘You should see the shit they are sending out through their official information channels. They’re claiming a Blackshirt division was completely destroyed by a female battalion. According to their news bureau dozens of Italian planes have been brought down, this or that place taken by assault, when, in fact, the Italians pulled out and let them have it.’

‘While the truth is not getting out?’

‘Not by anything approaching an independent voice.’

‘What about the correspondents stuck in Addis?’

‘They have taken up knitting as a protest at being kept away from the front.’ Alverson laughed at the shocked response, then added, with a sarcastic drawl, ‘But they have not, I am told, given up drinking.’

‘You’re at the front.’

‘I am blessed, Cal,’ Alverson acknowledged, nodding towards the clutch of Ethiopian commanders. ‘But getting the truth out is not easy and I am walking a tightrope. Our friends over yonder think the way to sway world opinion in their favour is to out-lie the Italians. Any hints that the truth might serve them better is not well received, and my main aim is to protect my access.’

‘So you’re peddling the lies?’

‘Not all of them, there are ways to report that let the folks reading the exaggerations see something between the lines.’

‘It must be costing a fortune to get your stuff to the Sudan.’

‘Thank the Lord it’s not my dough. But what about you? Still don’t think our friends can win?’

‘Tyler, they are doing a damn sight better than I ever dreamt was possible, but I still think they would do more damage if they let the enemy come to them. They see the loss of ground as some kind of disgrace, the failure of a sacred trust. A good field commander gives ground in order to entice his enemy on to the position on which he wants to fight, he chooses the battleground that suits his forces and tactical abilities.’

‘Which is what they did at the outset.’

‘Precisely! Look what happens when the Italians are out from their prepared positions and into open country. That’s where native numbers really count, and the more mountainous it gets the better. What they are doing now is sacrifice to no purpose, and proportionately, our friends, as you call them, are losing more men. There’s a point where an attack or even contesting the battle area ceases to have any merit, and they are weeks past that.’

It had been a long time since they had discussed the proposition Peter Lanchester had originally outlined to Cal Jardine: that trapping Mussolini in an unwinnable war might bring him and the idea of Fascism triumphant down and alter the face of European politics, heading inexorably for another murderous war.

‘I’m not too impressed with Mussolini’s boys.’

‘Their high command is useless and so are a lot of the field commanders, but some of the line officers are as good as any in the world. Just don’t blame the boots. Most of them don’t want to be here, if you leave out the Blackshirts, all fired up with their specious ideology. But the ordinary soldiers, give or take some regulars, would rather be at home eating polenta.’

‘You sound sorry for them.’

‘If you’re going to have to fight as a bit of cannon fodder, Tyler, then let it be at least for something you care about.’

The sound of aircraft overhead made them look skywards, not least because there was no response from the anti-aircraft batteries which protected Ras Kassa’s base camp; they were silent and that meant the planes were friendly. There was precious little to worry about in any case — a brace of the quick-firing, spider-like 20 mm Oerlikons, coupled with bigger, longer-range 75 mm Schneiders — but it was enough, it seemed, to deter the Italian fliers. The Ethiopians saw this as cowardice; to Jardine it made sense: why risk your skin when there was an abundance of unprotected targets well away from the guns?

The flight of four Potez 25s which passed low overhead, was, Cal Jardine suspected, a high proportion of what was left of the Ethiopian air force. There had only been six of that model to start with. Facing a superior enemy it was thus rarely exposed, but now they had come into action at a time when they had the potential to inflict some real harm, which indicated forward intelligence, an asset which had been sadly lacking thus far in a tentative campaign.

A flight of a dozen Italian Savoia-Marchetti 73 trimotors, the ones heard droning earlier, had just begun their bombing run, which of necessity lowered their speed, aiming to hit the attacking Ethiopian infantry, so a biplane fighter which normally could not match the bombers might, by nipping into action when they were already engaged, even up the odds.

Would the SM73s abort their run, given their lateral-firing machine guns could not be used when bombing? The Ethiopian planes were making just enough altitude to get above and behind them — sensible, because that also took out of play the forward-firing defences. The greatest problem was a four-aircraft fighter screen overhead, and this meant, in terms of odds, what the biplanes were about was exceedingly risky; in terms of time, it was a severely limited opportunity.

Whoever commanded the Italians was not going to be deterred: he kept them on their original flight path and the first stick of bombs began to emerge from the bays. Within less than a minute from sighting the biplanes, the leading pair of Potez 25s engaged the front SM73, the other pair going after number two in the bombing line, the crunch of ground explosions mixing with the rattle of the Vickers, much muted by being aerial.

‘Fighter screen coming in,’ Alverson said, his field glasses raised high into the sunlit sky.

‘This could be a massacre,’ Jardine grunted.

The Fiat CR30s were dropping fast, the commander of the Italian bombers relying on them to allow him to release his stick; clearly he was prepared to risk damage to deliver. For the attacking biplanes, hitting something vital on a much larger plane made of plywood was a chancy affair, though from the ground it was possible to see bits of wood flying off the fuselages of the two bombers being attacked. But it could not last: with the Italian fighters coming in fast, the Ethiopian pilots broke off and ran, the Fiats on their tail and closing, with the rear-firing machine gunners seeking to keep them at bay.

‘Got it!’ Jardine cried, for to him the air attack made little sense. The Potez 25s were too lightly armed and slow to have any real hope of downing a bomber. ‘They want to suck them into a pursuit.’

It had to have been planned in advance, for the anti-aircraft guns were manned and ready, with their barrels pointed forty-five degrees north. The Fiats, closing, had opened up on four aircraft losing the little height they had to get maximum speed heading for the safety of their own lines.

As soon as they were out of the target area, the quick-firing Oerlikons opened up on the lead Italian fighters, firing at a rate of 450 rounds per minute. Three of the pursuit planes immediately spun away and began a fast climb, but one fighter pilot obviously had only a kill as an object, for he flew through the ground fire, which now included machine guns and rifles, intent on destroying one enemy.

He had picked out his target and he stuck to its tail, guns blazing, now no longer the popping sound of distant aerial bullets, but the harsh crack of projectiles so close, people were ducking their heads. The bullets ripped through the doped canvas of the slower biplane, but the pursuing fighter was taking hits too, one of which must have been on the pilot, for the nose of the Fiat suddenly dropped, bringing it down to skim overhead and plough into the ground well to the rear of the Ethiopian positions, exploding in a great ball of orange fire and black smoke, which produced massed cheering for the whole encampment.

‘Our boy is in trouble, I think,’ Alverson said.

He was pointing to the biplane which had been the object of the Fiat’s foolhardy pursuit, now turning to make a forced landing on the flattest piece of ground it could find, which was near the casualty clearing station where Corrie Littleton laboured. Jardine was already moving towards the spot, with the American shouting he would catch up: hard running was not his style.

The loose and curly blond hair told him who the pilot was before Jardine got really close, while the inert body on the ground was enough to indicate who had suffered in the attack: the observer-gunner was either seriously wounded or dead, while Henri de Billancourt, on his knees, was covered in blood, he having dragged the man out.

Jardine was angered by the sight, even as he knew, deep down, he had no right to be: in combat you took risks and sometimes people got killed. Pointing the finger was generally useless unless someone had been outright stupid. Had the whole thing been de Billancourt’s idea? Unfairly, he was thinking it was typical of the man, yet on balance it had been successful: a modern Italian fighter had been destroyed and its pilot killed, which was an exceedingly rare outcome in this war.

They had got a stretcher to the observer-gunner, while someone was doing first aid, and by the time Jardine could see he was an Ethiopian they were lifting him on to it, with the seemingly unaffected Frenchman taking a handle. Jardine grabbed another and they made as much speed as they could to the medical tents, crossing paths with Alverson and his ubiquitous camera, always slung round his neck, snapping away at what was really, if you excepted the flying overalls, a commonplace picture.

Corrie Littleton was at her usual task; the present attack had been blunted by the usual methods of mass artillery, backed up by machine guns firing on fixed arcs, while the bombing and strafing aircraft were now free to roam at will once more, inflicting death and destruction on men falling back. The casualties were being brought in on makeshift stretchers, while out on the battlefield there would be many dead and wounded, remaining there until darkness fell. As soon as she saw the Frenchman she rushed over, no doubt, Jardine suspected, to see if the blood on his overalls was his, to be greeted with a smile.

‘I think this fellow,’ Jardine growled, nodding to the man on the stretcher, ‘needs your attention.’

The American girl was quick then; a few weeks spent dealing with the effects of war had taught her much in a short space of time. Her examination was precise, professional almost, and she addressed Henri de Billancourt, not Jardine, her head shaking as she did so.

‘With these wounds I doubt he can be saved, and there are people here who will benefit more from attention than he. The doctor can only deal with those cases that warrant his time. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s pretty harsh, Corrie,’ Alverson said, as the stretcher was laid on the ground.

The reply was weary and resigned. ‘It stops being that, Tyler, after the first few hundred cases.’

‘I must look to my aircraft,’ said de Billancourt, before turning to walk away.

The fact that he was not as indifferent as he at first appeared was evident in the stiffness of his gait, which had in it an attitude that Cal Jardine recognised from the times he had seen men of his own killed in situations where to show your feelings was not permitted; that made him castigate himself for being a bit of a bastard.

The casualty clearing station was within walking distance of where Alverson, Jardine and Vince had a tent, one to which the American girl came to take what little release she allowed herself. Vince Castellano being an expert scrounger, they ate well, he having the depth of Alverson’s pocket as an aid, as well as what was left in Jardine’s money belt.

Whatever things this peasant army lacked, an active black market in little luxuries was not one of them, while those who supplied their needs also provided the route by which Alverson got out his despatches — both those approved by the censors and his own less cheerleading account — back to Gondar for transmission on to the Sudan, his Rolls-Royce now acting as a temporary ambulance.

A rather morose and uncommunicative Henri de Billancourt was there when she arrived — his plane was damaged and he was waiting for people to arrive from his base and fix it, and it was a testimony to the pressure she was putting herself under that, this time, she barely acknowledged the Frenchman, instead more interested in the bottle Alverson was holding out. It was also an indication of how low de Billancourt was feeling that he did not seem to care.

‘Whisky, Tyler, for the love of God.’

‘Makes life tolerable, honey.’

Corrie Littleton had ceased to be rangy and was now thin, while her face had that drawn look which comes from continuous exhaustion brought on by relentless toil. If Jardine admired her spirit, and he did, he was not inclined to show it much: they still sparred like two fighting cocks, much to Alverson’s continued amusement and Vince’s rising irritation. She had taken to occasionally calling him ‘Doc Savage’ after some ridiculous American comic book hero.

‘I am told, Mademoiselle Corrine,’ de Billancourt said, when he finally roused himself, no doubt aided by alcohol, ‘you will go out tonight with stretcher parties to look for anyone still alive?’

‘I have to.’

‘Very dangerous, I think, and very brave.’

‘She doesn’t have to,’ Jardine said, ‘she chooses to.’

‘Maybe I misnamed you: Doc Savage wouldn’t hesitate to keep me company, especially him being a medical man.’

‘Give that a rest, will you?’

‘You should black up if you’re going out, miss,’ Vince said. ‘There’s not likely to be a lot of light tonight, what with the cloud cover that’s come over, but they will be putting up star shells.’

‘It’s bad for my complexion, Vince.’

‘A bullet’s worse.’

‘What the hell do you care, Jardine?’

‘Odd as it seems, idiot, I do, but don’t think it’s because you’re a female, not that it’s certain.’

‘Anybody suggested you go to charm school, buster?’

‘God help me if you ever went to one.’

‘Ah!’ de Billancourt sighed, with a wry and irritating smile, ‘it is sad when friends fall out, is it not?’

‘At least I have you for a friend, Henri.’

‘Maybe we should get out of here, Vince,’ Jardine sighed. ‘There are some Italians whose company I prefer.’

‘Those shitty bastards!’ she responded angrily, before realising what she had said. ‘Sorry, Vince.’

‘No offence taken, miss, but I’m a bit like the guv here. I wish you would put a sock in it.’

Her reaction was a startled ‘Oh!’ — clearly, being put down by Vince mattered.

Seeing Jardine grinning, Vince added, ‘An’ that goes for you too, guv. It would be much better if you just admitted you fancied her and stopped all the bollocks.’

In the embarrassed silence that followed, the Frenchman, who had now drunk a fair amount of whisky, became more animated, his dancing eyes searching the surrounding faces: Alverson’s grin, Vince’s irritation and the crabbed looks being exchanged between Jardine and the girl. A sort of dawning seemed to appear in his expression, for Vince’s words did not need to be clearly understood in an atmosphere so crackling with obvious tension. Finally he spoke, looking directly at Cal Jardine.

‘When my aircraft is repaired, which it will be by tomorrow, Ras Kassa has asked me to do a reconnaissance sweep again.’

‘So?’

‘Mon ami, I do not have an observer and I need someone trained to fire my Vickers.’

Then de Billancourt came out with a full smile, for the first time that night, and aimed it right at Corrie Littleton, while Jardine heard himself saying, ‘You found one.’

Everyone knew what had just happened: a gauntlet had just been thrown down and Tyler Alverson was not the only one to speak. ‘Game on, boys.’ Vince Castellano was the other. ‘They’ll be bloody well jousting next.’

‘Have I missed something?’ Corrie Littleton asked.