so that the big enamelled, white cross with its centre star of emerald
green and sparkling diamantine, dangled down the front of the Count's
tunic. The order of Irish St. Maurice and St. Lazarus (military
division) of the third class.
Keeping well out of his clutches, the General pecked each of the
Count's flushed cheeks and then took a hasty step backwards to join in
the applause while the Count stood there puffed with pride, feeling
that his heart might burst.
You will have that support now,' the General assured him, scowling
heavily to hear how his predecessor had grudged the Count sufficient
force to win his objectives. 'I pledge it to you.' They were seated
now, just the three of them General Badoglio, his political agent and
the Count in the smaller private study adjoining the large formal
office. Night had fallen outside the shuttered windows and the single
lamp was hooded to throw light down on the map spread on the table
top,
and leave the faces of the three men in shadow.
Cognac glowed in the leaded crystal glasses and the big ship's decanter
on its silver tray, and the blue smoke from the cigars spiralled up
slow and heavy as treacle in the lamplight.
'will need armour,' said the Count without hesitation.
The thought of thick steel plate had always attracted him strongly.
'will give you a squadron of the light CV.3s,' said the General,
and made a note on the pad at his elbow.
'And I will need air support.'
'Can your engineers build a landing-strip for you at the Wells?' The
General touched the map to illustrate the question.
'The land is flat and open. It will present no difficulty,' said the
Count eagerly. Planes and tanks and guns, he was being given them all.
He was a real commander at last.
'Radio to me when the strip is ready for use. I will send in a flight
of Capronis. In the meantime, I will have the transport section convoy
in the fuel and armaments I shall consult the staff at airforce, but I
think the 100-kilo bombs will be most effective. High explosive, and
fragmentation.'
'Yes, yes,' agreed the Count eagerly.
'And nitrogen mustard will you have use for the gas?'
'Yes, oh yes, indeed, said the Count. It was not in his nature to
refuse bounty, he would take anything he was offered.
'Good.' The General made another note, laid aside his pencil, and then
looked up at the Count. He glowered so ferociously that the Count was
startled and he felt the first nervous stir in his belly again. He
found the General terrifying, like living on the slopes of a
temperamental Vesuvius.
'The iron fist, Belli,' he said, and the Count realized with relief
that the scowl was directed not at him, but at the enemy.
Immediately the Count assumed an expression every bit as bellicose and
menacing. He curled his lip and he spoke, just below a snarl.
'Put the blade at the enemy's throat, and drive it home.'
