The Burning Sky

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The aircraft mechanics, a mixed bag of Frenchmen, Germans and Ethiopians, had travelled down from de Billancourt’s airfield as soon as they were alerted to the need for repairs, bringing with them on a flatbed truck a complete set of spares, a generator and arc lights by which they could work, as well as a drum of fuel.

The Potez, which was not as badly damaged as first appeared, was serviceable again before dawn, the holes in the canvas covered, several broken struts, a wheel and damaged instruments replaced, the whole covered in a camouflaged sheet before the prospect of a dawn raid by Italian fighters.

Even if that did not materialise, they had to wait till mid-morning to take off on a less-than-perfect strip: it required a party of warriors to clear away a number of rocks. Initially, once airborne, de Billancourt turned south, wishing to test out the repairs before heading for enemy airspace.

There would be standing patrols of Italian fighters up and flying, but, even as numerous as they were, they had a lot of sky to cover along a potential front line stretching hundreds of miles, while a good proportion of their strength had to be diverted to the Somali border, the scene of another hard-fought battle in which the peasant army was pushing back the Italians who had invaded.

Aeroplanes are noisy: you can hear them coming from a long way off and the higher they are, the easier it is to both hear and spot them. The ground-skimming tactic that de Billancourt employed once he did turn north was to avoid a too-rapid alert of an Italian defence line that would have been stood to at first light and kept there in anticipation of another assault, while his relative speed was another safeguard.

At low altitude the aircraft would come upon the Blackshirt infantry unsighted and at speed, cutting down their ability to react. So low were they that Jardine reckoned a pair of scissors would be handy — he could have cut some enemy hair, and it was possible the undercart took off some steel helmets. But it did protect them from ground fire, which was wild and inaccurate. From above and in open country, de Billancourt was relying on his camouflage and the hope that any Italian fighters were at distance enough to make him invisible against the broken ground below.

Ras Kassa wanted to know if the Italians were moving forces to face him on the Ethiopian left wing, which led Jardine to suspect, though he had not been told, that things were not progressing as hoped in the main assault further east, and no doubt the counterpart commander of the right wing was asking the same question.

Without metalled roads in very rough country, the Italians would only move in daylight over that which their engineers had provided — a dusty bulldozed track that would not survive the rains when they came — with the added safety of their air superiority to protect them. Even then they could not do so quickly; any build-up should be evident, which would obviate the need to remain over enemy air space for a long period.

The column was not immediately visible but the dust they were sending up was plain for miles, rising on the warm air currents, especially as the Potez was still flying frighteningly low, skimming through slight depressions to stay hidden and near to touching the scrub-covered ground in more open areas. Jardine spent as much time looking at the mounds he was sure de Billancourt was going to plough into as he did searching the sky for enemy fighters, thinking the risk from the former was probably greater than from the latter: the fixed undercarriage was often so close to the earth he feared it might be ripped off by an unseen boulder or tree.

For all his concerns, it was the only safe way to fly and had to be accepted: altitude increased danger, and it takes more than sharp eyes from above to spot a camouflaged aircraft against a same-coloured backdrop over up to a mile — it takes luck. Also, if de Billancourt was an arrogant bastard and a daredevil sod, he was also a damned-good pilot, so Jardine concentrated on keeping his breakfast coffee in his gut as the Potez jinked, rose, swooped and occasionally dropped at a rate that left his stomach under his chin.

The Frenchman was making for the billowing dust, even though that would likewise be visible to, and might attract the attention of, Italian pilots, working on the assumption of there being so few Ethiopian planes they were a rare problem on the front lines and non-existent behind them. So, unless a radio message had been sent from the point of crossing to say that one had entered this particular rear area, it was not something the enemy would expect or look out for with too much zeal.

After a last check of the sky, Jardine got himself into position to use his Vickers; he had no need to be told what was required: having been on the receiving end of aerial gunfire he knew what the pilot would do. Through the dust de Billancourt could now see a line of ten trucks making their way along a rough roadway created by their engineers to get supplies up to the front-line forces. Unprotected on the assumption such a thing was seen as unnecessary, they paid the price as he banked to fly up their line.

Jardine had no need to depress his weapons, the angle of the plane did that for him, and he began his primary burst just before they came level with the lead vehicle, aiming for the driver, then raking the canvas covering in the hope it was carrying infantry. There was no return fire at all; all the drivers did was swing their steering wheels in an attempt to lessen the impact — pretty futile given that Jardine only had to lift or drop his muzzles to compensate.

To the rear of the last truck the Potez swooped up, then made a tight turn so de Billancourt could run down the line of trucks, still close enough to form one because, on both sides of the engineers’ roadway, the ground was so broken that to seek to pull off was to invite disaster. The Frenchman was now strafing through his propeller, and as they flew by, Jardine could see that some drivers were abandoning their trucks and running for cover, while others were seeking to accelerate out of trouble.

One was ablaze, while another had left the road, either through terror or wounding, and tipped onto its side. Obviously, whatever they were carrying, it was not troops, given no bodies were either emerging or being flung clear, and while it had to be a pleasure to do what he was about, de Billancourt was also conscious of the need to preserve ammunition for his own defence.

He did one more non-firing run, getting not even a rifle bullet in response, before banking away, heading for some low hills in the distance, this while Jardine observed the remaining trucks re-forming and continuing on their way at as much speed as they could muster; if there was anyone hurt, they were not hanging about to find out.

Facing forward again and curious, Jardine tapped the Frenchman and indicated downwards with his hand, the response a drop in the aircraft speed as de Billancourt acknowledged the message; he was flying a plane that could land anywhere and very likely he, too, was wondering the same as his temporary observer-gunner: what were those trucks carrying if not troops?

It wasn’t ammunition, since no explosions were coming from the burning truck now sending a plume of black smoke skywards. What was it? If they landed, some information might be gleaned from the contents.

It was necessary to stay behind those low hills and jink about for a while to let the remaining trucks get clear, but after a short while they re-emerged to see the plume of smoke still rising, now to a point that made watching the sky paramount: if they could see it miles away, an Italian fighter scouting at higher altitude could see it as well, so there was a degree of caution in the approach. Finally thinking it safe, de Billancourt lined up on the roadway and brought the bouncing Potez in to land past the blazing truck, so that Jardine could provide cover in case they were shot at.

There was one inert body on the road but no sign of movement. The plane was taken far enough away to provide room for an emergency take-off, before the Frenchman spun it round and, with a feathering propeller, bumped along the less-than-even surface, taking them closer to the wrecked truck before turning back again to face the way he had come. Jardine was ready to jump out, his pistol in one hand, but he took a last searching look skywards before he executed it: if he was out of the plane and an enemy appeared, any pilot — and quite rightly — would take off, even if he could not get back aboard in time.

His feet had only just hit the ground when two very sad-eyed and dust-covered Italian soldiers emerged from behind the rolled-over truck, with their hands in the air. Searching and failing to see any weapons, he heard them both babbling away in what he took to be a plea to surrender.

A wave of his Colt had them on their knees, while behind him, even with an idling aircraft engine, he could hear de Billancourt laughing, albeit the Frenchman had his pistol out and aimed at the two men who were now looking skywards but praying.

Ignoring them, Jardine pushed past to the turned-over truck, to examine the boxes which had been thrown out, one of which had broken open, scattering its contents. There were no rifles or pistols, which he had half-expected, nor was it food.

The item Jardine picked up was something he had not seen for a long time; still the mere sight of it made him shudder and that made him climb into the truck. There he saw that all the containers were like the one he had found split open.

Back out again, he picked one of the items up; he took it back to the two kneeling Italians, a pair of badly uniformed unshaven louts who could only be drivers, and conscripted ones at that, both with that look in their eye that told him they were sure they were going to die.

He held up the gas mask and used the few Italian words he hoped would make sense, all from a trio of operas, wishing Vince was here now, because to get this wrong was not a good idea. Pointing hard at the mask, he barked his question.

‘Maschera! Tutti camion maschera?’

The eager nods chilled him instead of pleasing him.

‘Cappa impermeable,’ one of the drivers shouted in a desperate tone, he too pointing after the trucks, before gesturing something covering his body.

Gas masks and capes! He tried to calculate the number of these things that truck convoy must have been carrying and what it meant. Walking over to de Billancourt he showed the gas mask to him and the effect on the Frenchman was equally profound. He was also sharp enough to state an obvious act, which had not occurred to Jardine.

‘Gather up as many as you can, mon ami. We can fill the cockpits around us.’

That got the two drivers working, carrying gas masks under the threat of Jardine’s pistol and dropping the entire contents of the broken container into the cockpits. They had to leave room to fly and fight, but Jardine’s last act was to search one Italian and find some matches. He then unscrewed the turned-over lorry’s fuel tank cover and let some petrol spill out onto another mask till it was soaked. This was then stuffed into the pipe and lit, before running for the plane, its engine note already at a higher pitch.

The two drivers were running away as they took off and, with the flames taking rapid hold, the lorry went up with a whoosh as the wheels lifted and de Billancourt took them once more into the air.

‘This does not mean they even have brought such a thing to Ethiopia, Captain Jardine,’ Ras Kassa insisted, holding up one of the masks. ‘Or if they have it, they would be so insensitive to world opinion as to use it.’

‘Sir, the first thing you must make sure of when using mustard gas as a weapon is that your own troops are protected, and I would remind you that the Italians used it against the rebellious tribesmen in Libya. As for world opinion, that is something they have been happy to ignore up till now. It’s over a month since the League of Nations condemned the invasion of your country and what has changed? Nothing.’

‘The emperor will not make peace, will not see his country torn apart to salve the conscience of France and Britain.’

‘It shames me that they should even suggest it.’

Ras Kassa was referring to a sell-out plan cooked up by the two democracies, or rather the British foreign minister, Samuel Hoare and the French premier, Pierre Laval, to give the most fertile bits of Abyssinia to the Italians, with the sop of a corridor to the Red Sea for the Ethiopians. Leaked to the press, it had been roundly denounced by the public, while the two governments had bowed to the resultant pressure, forcing the politicians who had proposed it to resign.

‘Sir, it is not my intention to argue with you, that is not my place, but I suggest you have not seen the effect of this weapon …’

‘And you have?’

‘The effect, yes, on the men who faced it on the Western Front, but I have never experienced it myself.’

Ras Kassa held up the mask Jardine had shown him, one of the number he and the Frenchman had brought back, enough to protect his command but not his warriors. Others had gone to the casualty station doctor, the two Americans, Vince, and naturally one each for the men who had come across them, this at the insistence of the Ethiopian leader.

‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had brought us these and protective capes rather than guns.’

‘Can they be got anyway, perhaps by an appeal to the democracies? Surely they will not embargo those.’

‘In the quantity and time required, even for just the fighting men? I think not, and I fear, if you are right, my people are going to suffer a great deal. The only way to stop that is a complete victory over the Italian forces and, as I think you have already come to suspect, that is not happening as we hoped.’

‘I wondered if you were deluding yourself.’

‘No, Captain Jardine, but sadly, it is necessary to delude the nation and keep up the hopes of my people. The Italian corps we hoped to trap have evaded encirclement and are now part of a continuous defensive line of some strength.’

‘You won’t break through?’

‘Only if there is a miracle, and much as I love and respect my God, that I cannot see happening. However, we must try, and the invasion of Somaliland is progressing well.’

‘The cost, sir?’

‘How will this come, if it comes?’ the ras asked, holding up the mask again, unwilling to respond to Jardine’s question.

‘Ground canisters on the right wind were the normal method of delivery, but I believe the Italians used artillery shells in their North African provinces.’

Jardine was sure he could see the ras trying to calculate the potential effect; artillery argued it would be local and it was a gas that dispersed reasonably quickly, which might mean the effect would be contained. Conscious that he was inclined to think the man callous in his view of human life, he also had to remind himself that he was not responsible for the alternatives.

Reports of what the Italians had done in their Libyan provinces did not provide a happy prospect for Ethiopia: mass deportations, murderous concentration camps in which thousands of rebellious tribesmen and their families had perished, as well as summary executions. When it came to mass killing, the Fascist generals had what Vince would call ‘form’, and there was no reason to suppose they would not employ the same methods here.

Yet there was no way the front-line troops could be kept safe from the effects of mustard gas burning; rarely fatal, it was, however, totally incapacitating on exposed eyes and skin, while it was almost as if, in the shamma, the Ethiopian peasant army had come up with a garment providing less protection than even an army uniform, and that was useless.

‘Ask Mr Alverson to come and see me, Captain Jardine. This, whatever the other leaders say, is a story that must be got out to the world and quickly, without embellishment.’

What had not been calculated for was the use of science to improve delivery, and it was the troops pushing back the Italians in Somalia who were the first to suffer from a cloud of mustard gas dropped on them from the air, a much more effective way to deploy the instrument of terror than had previously been known. From advancing with gusto, the troops of the eastern front were first stopped, then thrown into headlong retreat, unable to face what they said was the terrible rain that burnt and killed.

For weeks the Italians had been preparing a second offensive on the main northern front — Badoglio had been reinforced with more regular troops. It was also obvious by the increased air activity and the relentless bombing of Addis Ababa — as well as the road to the front — to interdict both men and supplies, and it was a fair assumption that having used gas once, they would do so again.

How much the spear- and bow-carrying warriors knew of what was coming Cal Jardine did not know; what he was aware of did not bring peace of mind. There was to be no withdrawal by the imperial armies to the high mountains, but at least they had given up useless assaults and were now waiting to be attacked. What reconnaissance could be undertaken showed the steady build-up of armoured units at the front, and the lines of attack could be in little doubt.

Finally, under pressure from his field commanders, Haile Selassie had ordered his troops pulled back from where the blows would fall, and allowed them to disperse to save lives. Yet it was only half a cake to Cal Jardine, given he also hoped the emperor would allow them a flexible ability to respond in the counter-attacks he was already envisaging.

As they had dispersed, so had Corrie Littleton: she was now in a new field hospital well back from the front, nearer Gondar, while Alverson was toing and froing to there, now he had his Rolls back. Cal Jardine and Vince Castellano stayed with Ras Kassa’s forward HQ, now leading a very tightly controlled group of a dozen young warriors in raiding, striking the Italian lines in different places and gathering intelligence.

They had, of course, to bow to the wishes of the ras: the job of their natives was to instil fear into their enemies by slitting the throats of the Italians, men who never left their front lines to raid themselves, while their British leaders sought prisoners who could be brought back for interrogation; to stop them being subsequently tortured and killed they were being passed back to Addis, ostensibly as presents for the emperor.

‘They might still pull it off, Tyler,’ Jardine insisted, when they got together for a meal — on a night of a full moon and a clear starlit sky, raiding was out of the question. ‘Scattered troops make them hard to find and bomb, and he has taken steps to keep secret where they are going to be concentrated.’

‘I’m no soldier, but as soon as Fatso’s boys attack they will have to concentrate, and in the open, yes?’

Jardine nodded. ‘That’s when they will get to see what Badoglio intends.’

‘You know, I don’t like the odds, guv.’ Vince insisted, having made no secret of his view that, even owning a mask, and now with an impermeable cape as well, he did not fancy mustard gas.

‘If he looks like he’s winning he’ll hold off, I think.’ There was no need to add what would come were the Italian assault to be held up.

‘Nightcap before I hit the sack?’ Alverson suggested, proffering yet more whisky. ‘I’m going back up to Gondar in the morning. I’m running out of film and my slaver has been asked to bring some in.’

‘I’m for that,’ Vince said, nodding to the bottle, ‘it’ll help me get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Don’t kid me, Vince,’ Jardine joked. ‘You love being up all night.’

‘Depends what I’m up, guv.’

There was no proper night’s sleep: the Italian artillery barrage started before dawn and it was ferocious, churning up the ground in front of their positions, sending earth and rocks skywards but killing few men — their enemies were no longer there. Virtually all that had been left out front, to fool the air reconnaissance the Italians relied on, were shammas supported by triangular sticks, backed up by a piquet; as a barrage it was mostly wasted.

By the time the sun came up Cal Jardine and Vince had been out observing for an hour, finally able to use field glasses to assess what was coming, though given the rate and density of shell there could be little doubt. They also knew exactly when the enemy were going to move, as the barrage lifted and crept forward. Ras Kassa Meghoum had been up as long as them, and they could see the vehicles he had kept back getting ready to pull out.

‘Time to go, guys,’ Alverson said from behind them. ‘Your carriage again awaits.’

The plan was sound: to once more let the Italians advance into a vacuum. By the time the Ethiopians engaged, the enemy would have begun to suffer the common gremlins of war — tanks no longer operable and broken into packets, troops in distended formation instead of tight brigades — merely because such discipline in an advance was difficult regardless of which nation was undertaking it, and the Italians had already shown they were not the best. Also, the concentration of the artillery when on the move could not be anything like what they were sending over now.

‘You two got a death wish?’

‘He has,’ Vince replied, nodding at Jardine.

‘Not bad gunnery,’ was the reply from Jardine, as they watched the churning of the ground move forward at a steady pace. ‘Mind, they’ve had a long time to get the ranges.’

‘I take it you want to be the last one here, Cal.’

Cars, including the Dodge of Ras Kassa, were behind them now; the warriors with whom they had so recently worked and the old man’s bodyguard were going too, and at a fast pace. ‘No. I was just living in the past for a bit.’

‘Present suits me better, old buddy.’

‘Me too, Tyler.’

They left as the creeping barrage inched up to the now abandoned site of the Ethiopian HQ, not looking back; whatever was going to happen in this war was going to be decided in the next few weeks, or maybe even days.