The Secret War

18

Dolomenchi of the Death Squadron

The explosion occurred with such frightful suddenness that for a second they did not grasp what was happening. The ground they lay on shuddered under the impact, a shower of dried mud rattled down from the unseen walls and roof of the hut, the hot dark air quivered, and the crash nearly burst their ear drums. There came another before the echoing reverberations of the first, thrown back from the cliff face, had subsided.

'Bombs!' yelled Lovelace, staggering to his feet. 'Quick we must get out of this!'

He kicked aside the wicket covering the entrance to the hut, and with the others hard on his heels, dashed into the open. Any guards who might have been keeping watch a moment earlier had disappeared. In the blinding sunlight a ghastly spectacle lay before them.

A third of the village had been blown to fragments. Men, women and children shrieked and screamed a; they fled in all directions; here and there brown figures lay in terribly distorted attitudes, some deadly still in pools of glistening blood, others contorted into fantastic shapes by an agony of pain.

Valerie glimpsed one headless body and another with both legs blown away as Lovelace, gripping her by the arm, raced her across the tough grass out into the open,

Another bomb burst behind them. It was not big stuff, Lovelace knew, otherwise there would have been only great craters where the village stood, but extremely deadly, nevertheless. The attacker was using light bombs with instantaneous fuses specially designed for spreading their metal laterally and causing casualties to

troops rather than wrecking buildings. Tiny pieces of jagged steel, capable of inflicting frightful wounds, sang past them as they ran.

Three hundred yards from the wreck of the village he pulled up for a second. Christopher was close behind. They halted, gasping for breath after their desperate race.

An intensely bright light that was almost unbearable to look upon suddenly appeared on the edge of the remaining huts. Instantly the whole lot burst into flames like a stand of matches upon which the end of a lighted cigarette has been dropped.

A pitiful whimper in the tall grass near by caused Valerie to switch round just as Lovelace was urging her on again. It came from a naked child, about three years old who had been scampering away in front of them. A large piece of the last explosive bomb had taken off his right foot, severing it at the ankle, so that it now hung from the leg by only a shred of skin.

She ran to him and snatched him up, regardless of the blood which poured over her soiled skirt. The others seized her by the arms and forced her on while the child struggled wildly in her fierce grip; more terrified to find itself clutched to the breast of a white woman than at the pain of its shattered limb.

The bombing had ceased and they eased their pace after they had covered another hundred yards. Valerie sank down exhausted with her quivering burden. As she fell she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

`The brutes!' she sobbed. `The fiends! how could they? Oh, my lamb, my lamb, what have they done to you?'

Christopher bent over her. The old fanatic gleam had come back into his dark eyes. `This is war,' he muttered. `War! The curse of humanity. The horror we're out to stop. Can you ever doubt again that the Millers of God are right? Oh, how I wish I'd killed that devil Zirrif when I had the chance.'

'He's coming down.' Lovelace was staring upward into the fierce blue sky where a single Italian war plane circled gracefully above their heads. 'Look! he's coming down.'

The village was now only a smouldering pile of ruins; the surviving Danakils had disappeared as though by magic. As they watched the plane circled lower, seeking an even stretch of the coarse grass on which to land. It came to earth a few hundred yards away.

A man got out of it and walked over to a hummock on which he halted to scan the surrounding country.

Christopher waved, the man waved back, and they started to run towards him, Valerie still clutching the child whose moans had grown more feeble now.

As they approached they saw that the man was lithe and dark and handsome. He wore a pair of beautifully cut breeches, field boots that shone with the reflection of the sun, an open necked sleeveless shirt, and an air helmet. He was smoking a cigarette with quiet enjoyment.

A rifle cracked and the bullet sent up a little spurt of dust just to his left; another zipped a rock in the rear. Some of the Danakils who had managed to retain their weapons had now regained their courage. He lifted the hand that held his cigarette; a machine gun on the plane began to sweep a rocky patch where the survivors of the massacre had taken refuge, and the feeble attempt at retaliation was silenced.

The dark man smiled as the dishevelled fugitives came panting up to him; bringing his heels together, he gave the Fascist salute as he introduced himself. 'Lieutenant Count Giulio Dolomenchi.'

Still sobbing, Valerie held out the child towards him. 'Look!' she gasped. 'Look what you've done! How could you?'

He made a little gesture of distress and spoke in Italian. 'Signorina, we are at war. Think, too, of what these barbarous people would have done to you had

I not seen the wreckage of your plane. I risked the lives of my men and myself to land here in the chance that I might be in time to save white airmen from mutilation.'

She knew enough Italian to catch the drift of what he said, and felt that his argument was unanswerable. Her pity for the child fought with her gratitude at the thought of the inexpressible horrors from which Lieutenant Count Dolomenchi had rescued them.

Lovelace was already stammering their thanks and the Lieutenant glanced at him quickly. `You are English are you not? but you can tell me about yourselves later. Into the plane, please, now. They will be shooting at us again and we shall get sunstroke if we remain here much longer. Signorina, that child is dead, I fear, so you had better leave it.'

It was true. The little Danakil had ceased to moan and struggle. Its life blood had drained from it and the small body now lay limp in Valerie's arms. She laid it down in the grass and, after a last sorrowful glance, turned towards the war plane.

The crew of Italian airmen helped them up into the narrow cabin. Lieutenant Count Dolomenchi mounted to the pilot's seat; the machine taxied forward, bumped a little, and they were in the air again. The desert was still and lifeless below them as they climbed. Where the village had been there was now only a pile of blackened ash with a few wisps of smoke curling up from it.

Christopher was staring down at the ruin they were leaving behind them. `How quickly it burnt once it caught fire,' he muttered to Lovelace.

One of the airmen overheard him and said in English: `I used explosives first just to scare them out but once we saw you running from the village I dropped one of our new incendiary bombs to finish it.'

`I thought as much,' Lovelace nodded. `From the frightful glare it must have been a pretty big chap.'

`No, no, quite small.' The Italian smiled. `They weigh only one kilo, about two English pounds, but they are thermite and develop a heat of 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Anyone within ten yards of one when it bursts would be scorched to death instantly. They would bore a hole through the steel decks of your most heavily armoured battleships, and come straight out through the bottoms too, as easily as a rifle bullet would go through an orange.'

Lovelace would have liked to have heard more of this new weapon, but the Italian excused himself with the plea that he and his comrades must continue the reconnaissance upon which they were engaged.

The war plane was now well above the level of the towering cliff, and turned north by west in the direction of Dessye. As further ranges of cliffs appeared, they climbed higher and higher while the observers took innumerable photographs of the wild gorges, and hardly discernible goat tracks, beneath them.

The three passengers had fallen silent. They were now feeling the reaction from the excitement of their escape and the minor misfortunes resulting from their grim ordeal. All of them were badly bruised from the blows they had received, and had numerous small cuts from knives and spears upon their backs and thighs.

Many of the fleas which had attacked them in the hut were still upon them, and although they had not been exposed to the sun for any length of time, its rays were so strong that they had been badly scorched about their necks and shoulders.

As the reconnaissance progressed they lapsed into a semi stupor. Their bodies ached, itched and burned intolerably, yet they were too dead beat to do anything but crouch on the narrow seats they had been given and pray that the flight would soon be over.

Once the English speaking Italian roused them and, pointing downwards with a grin, said, `Look, we are over Dessye.'

Lovelace peered down. From the air the place appeared much as Diredawa had that morning except, that it was somewhat larger and set in a valley among mountains instead of in a plain. There were the wine round native tuculs; the same cluster of whitish tin roofed buildings and churches in its centre; the same lack of plan in its straggling outlay. In the rarefied mountain air, however, this land map stood out with startling clearness, and he could see swarms of ant like creatures moving about their business below. To one side of the town several hundred white tents and marquees had been erected; regular lines of little oblong things near them could only be rows of stationary tanks and lorries. The rumour that the Italians had taken. Dessye was true, then.

As they flew on they passed over an artillery park and veering northward saw a long, long, snake like stream of slowly moving transport emerging from the entrance of a mountain pass. Evidently the invaders were forming a new base at the Emperor's old headquarters before pushing on again. They still had a hundred and fifty miles to go, though, Lovelace reckoned, before they could enter Addis. Their recent progress had been remarkable, but they were very far from having won a yet.

He closed his eyes and dropped back in his seat: too tired and ill to watch the scene beneath them any longer. Valerie and Christopher were huddled up in an uneasy doze opposite to him. None of them noticed when the plane changed its direction again, after having made three quarters of a great circle from Assab, over Diredawa and Dessye, to head back towards the Red Seq.. They did not open their eyes again until it landed at a large, military aerodrome.

Lovelace climbed stiffly out and, seeing the rows of hangars with the white houses of quite a considerable town beyond in the distance, asked where they were.

'Assab, our port in Southern Eritrea;' said Count Dolomenchi. `It is a devilish place, but while the war lasts one must put up with such discomforts.’

'Assab,' repeated Lovelace dully. `Then we're only just over the border from French Somaliland. Jibuti, from where we started this morning, can't be much more than a hundred miles along the coast from here. We could get there overnight if there's a steamer sailing, and make a fresh start for Addis Ababa tomorrow.'

Dolomenchi shook his handsome head. `Observe the condition of the Signorina and the young man who supports her. Yourself, too, you look almost all in.'

It was true. Lovelace glanced behind him and saw that Christopher was now holding Valerie up, although he could hardly stand himself.

`Come.' The Count took Valerie's other arm. `In one of the Air Force cars I shall take you all to the hospital. Bed is the place for you at the moment.'

The hospital to which he took them was a brand new building on the edge of the town. It was airy, clean and equipped in the most up to date manner. Its personnel was entirely military, but Lieutenant Count Dolomenchi seemed to know them all.

The doctors greeted him with Fascist salutes and a hearty welcome; the Italian nurses smiled and lingered as long as they were able in his vicinity. His request for beds which, as they were for foreign civilians might well have been rejected had it come from a lesser personality, was instantly granted. Was he not Dolomenchi of the Death Squadron, one of the heroes of the Italian Expeditionary Force, the gay and gallant airman who had been twice decorated for his feats of valour at the taking of Adigrat and the storming of Mount Aradam?

Valerie was taken to the nurses' ward and the others to a ward for officers. Willing hands assisted them to remove their tattered clothing. Their bruised and blistered bodies were washed, bandaged, and poulticed with witch hazel.

Christopher, utterly played out, submitted to the ministrations of the orderlies in silence. His whole body was racked with pain, the skin of his neck, shoulders, arms and back was stretched so taut it looked as though it might burst, and it burned intolerably.

When he had been put in the next empty bed to Lovelace he rallied a little, and said: `First thing tomorrow we'll have to see about buying another plane.'

The Italian doctor overheard him and smiled. 'I think it will be some time before you need bother about that.'

'But we can't stop here,' Christopher protested. 'It's of vital importance that we should reach Addis Ababa at the earliest possible moment.'

The doctor shrugged. `That is unfortunate, as it is quite impossible for you to resume your journey in your present state. Give me your arm, please.

`We must,' insisted Christopher feverishly. 'We must! So much depends on our arriving there in time. How long did you mean to keep us here?'

'You have had a ghastly grilling, and some of your wounds may be septic, but, if no complications set in, I'll have you up and about again in a fortnight or three weeks.' The doctor plunged the hypodermic needle into Christopher's arm and sent him, still muttering, off to sleep.