Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (читать хорошую книгу полностью txt) 📗

clanking clatter, and the shrill squeak of turning steel tracks. Each

second it grew nearer, and now they could hear the soft growl of the

engines.

"That has got to be the most unholy sound in the world," said

Jake.

"Tanks," said Gareth. "Bloody tanks."

"They won't get here before dark," Jake guessed. And they won't risk a

night attack."

No Gareth agreed. "They'll come at dawn."

"Tanks and Capronis instead of ham and eggs?" Gareth shrugged wearily.

"That's about the size of it, old son." Colonel Count Aldo Belli was

not at all certain of the wisdom of his actions, and he thought that

Gino was justified in looking up at him with those reproachful

spaniel's eyes. They should have been still comfortably ensconced

behind the formidable de fences of Chaldi Wells.

However, a number of powerful influences had combined to drive him

forward once again.

Not the least powerful of these were the daily radio messages from

General Badogho's headquarters, urging him to intersect the Dessie

road, "before the fish slips through our net'. These messages were

daily more harsh and threatening in character, and were immediately

passed on with the Count's own embellishments to Major Luigi Castelani

who had command of the column struggling up the gorge.

Now at last Castelani had radioed back to the Count the welcome news

that he stood at the very head of the gorge, and the next push would

carry him into the town of Sardi itself. The Count had decided,

after long and deep meditation, that to ride into the enemy stronghold

at the moment of its capture would so enhance his reputation as to be

worth the small danger involved. Major Castelani had assured him that

the enemy was broken and whipped, had suffered enormous casualties and

was no longer a coherent fighting force. Those odds were acceptable to

the Count.

The final circumstance that persuaded him to leave the camp,

abandon the new military philosophy, and move cautiously up the Sardi

Gorge was the arrival of the armoured column from Asmara. These

machines were to replace those that the savage enemy had so

perfidiously trapped and burned. Despite all the Count's pleading and

blustering, it had taken a week for them to be diverted from Massawa,

brought up to Asmara by train, and then for them to complete the long

slow crossing of the Danakil.

Now, however, they had arrived and the Count had immediately

requisitioned one of the six tanks as his personal command vehicle.

Once he was within the thick armoured hull, he had experienced a new

flood of confidence and courage.

"Onwards to Sardi, to write in blood upon the glorious pages of

history!" were the words that occurred to him, and Gino's face had

creased up into that spaniel's expression.

Now in the lowering shades of evening, grinding up the rocky pathway

while walls of sheer rock rose on either hand, seeming to meet the

sullen purple strip of sky high above, the Count was having serious

doubts about the whole wild venture.

He peered out from the turret of his command tank, his eyes huge and

dark and melting with apprehension, a black polished steel helmet

pulled down firmly over his ears, and one hand gripping the ivory butt

of the Beretta so fiercely that his knuckles shone white as bone

china.

At his feet, Gino crouched miserably, keeping well down within the

steel hull.

At that moment a machine gun opened fire ahead of them, and the sound

echoed and re-echoed against the sheer walls of the gorge.

"Stop! Stop this instant! shouted the Count at his driver.

The gunfire sounded very close ahead. "We will make this battalion

headquarters. Right here," announced the Count, and Gino perked up a

little and nodded his total agreement.

"Send for Major Castelani and Major Vita. They are to report to me

here immediately." Jake awoke to the pressure of somebody's hand on

his shoulder, and the light of a storm lantern in his eyes.

The effort of sitting up required all his determination and he let the

damp blanket fall and screwed up his eyes against the light. The cold

had stiffened every muscle in his body, and his head felt light and

woolly with fatigue. He could not believe it was morning already.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Jake," and then he saw Gregorius's dark intense face beyond

the lamp.

"Take that bloody thing out of my eyes." Beside him, Gareth Swales sat

up suddenly. Both of them had been sleeping fully dressed upon the

same ragged strip of canvas in the muddy bottom of the dugout.

"What's going on?" mumbled Gareth, also stupid with fatigue.

Gregorius swung the lantern aside and the light fell on the slim figure

beside him. Sara was shivering with cold and her light clothing was

&-soddden and muddy. Thorn and branches had scored bloody lines across

her legs and arms, and ripped the fabric of her breeches.

She dropped on her knees beside Jake, and he saw that her eyes were

haunted with terror and horror, her lips trembled uncontrollably,

and the slim hand she laid on Jake's arm was cold as a dead man's, but

it fluttered urgently.

"Miss Camberwell. They have taken her!" she blurted wildly, and her

voice choked up.

"You should stay on here," Jake muttered, as they hurried up the slope

to where Priscilla the Pig was parked half a mile back from the line of

trenches.

"There will be a dawn attack, they'll need you."

"I'm coming on the ride, Jake," Gareth answered quietly, but firmly.

"You can't expect me to sit here while Vicky-" he broke off. "Got to

keep a fatherly eye on you, old son," he went on in the old bantering

tone.

"The Ras and his lads will have to take their own chances for a

while."

As he spoke, they reached the hulking shape of the armoured car, parked

in the broken ground below the head of the gorge. Jake began to drag

the canvas cover off the vehicle, and Gareth drew Gregorius aside.

"One way or another, we should be back before dawn. If we aren't,

you know what to do. God knows, you've had enough practice these last

few days." Gregorius nodded silently.

"Hold as long as you can. Then back to the head of the gorge for the

last act. Right? It's only until noon tomorrow.

We can hold them that long, tanks or no bloody tanks, can't we?"

"Yes, Gareth, we can hold them."

"Just one other thing, Greg. I love your grandfather like a brother

but keep that old bastard under control, will you.

Even if you have to tie him down. "Gareth slapped the boy's shoulder,

changed the captured Italian rifle into his good hand and hurried back

to the car, just as Jake boosted Sara up the side of the hull and then

ran to the crank handle.

Priscilla the Pig ground up the last few hundred yards of steep ground

to the head of the gorge, and they passed gangs of Harari working by

torchlight. They had been at it in shifts since the previous evening

when Jake and Gareth had heard the Italian tanks coming up the gorge.

Although all his concern was with Vicky, yet Gareth noted almost

mechanically that the work gang had performed their task well. The

anti-tank walls were higher than a man's head and built from the

heaviest, most massive boulders that could be carried down from the