and the flawed and heat-faulted air were playing tricks on the ear.
Suddenly the volume of sound climbed swiftly, becoming a humming growl
that shook in the. heat.
Gareth swung the glasses to the east; it seemed to emanate from the
whole curve of the eastern horizon, like the animal growl of the
surf.
For an instant the glare and swirling mirage opened enough for him to
see a huge darkly distorted shape, a grotesque lumbering monster on
four stilt-like legs, seeming as tall as a double-storey building.
Then the mirage closed down again swiftly, leaving Gareth blinking with
doubt and alarm at what he had seen. But now the growl of sound beat
steadily in the air.
Jake,' he called urgently, and was answered by a snort and a changed
volume of snore. Gareth broke off a branch from the layer of
camouflage and tossed it at the reclining figure. It caught Jake in
the back of the neck and he came angrily awake, one fist bunched and
ready to punch.
'What the hell-'he snarled.
'Come up here, 'called Gareth.
'I can't see a damned thing,' muttered Jake, standing high on the
turret and peering eastwards through his glasses. The sound was now a
deep drumming growl, but the wall of glare and mirage was close and
impenetrable.
'There!' shouted Gareth.
'Oh my God!' cried Jake.
The huge shape leaped out at them suddenly. Very close, very black and
tall, blown up by distortion and mirage to gargantuan proportions. Its
shape changed constantly, so at one moment it looked like a four-masted
ship under a full suit of black sails then it altered swiftly into a
towering black tadpole shape that wriggled and swam through the soupy
air.
'What the hell is it? 'Gareth demanded.
'I don't know, but it's making a noise like a squadron of Italian tanks
and it's coming straight at us.'
The Captain who commanded the Italian tank squadron was an angry,
disgruntled and horribly disillusioned man a man burdened by a soul
corroding grudge.
Like so many officers of the cavalry tradition, the anne blanche of the
army, he was a romantic, obsessed by the image of himself as a dashing,
reckless warrior. The dress uniform of his regiment still included
skin-tight breeches with a scarlet silk stripe down the outside of the
leg, soft black riding boots and silver spurs, a tightly fitting bum
freezer jacket encrusted with thick gold lace and heavy epaulets, a
short cloak worn carelessly over one shoulder and a tall black shako.
This was the picture he cherished of himself all Man and swagger.
Here he was in some devil-conceived, god-cursed desert, where day after
day he and his beloved fighting machines were sent out to find wild
animals and drive them in on a set point, where a mad megalomaniac
waited to shoot them down.
