personal bag or of firing at any animal which was swinging across their
front towards the Count. The first offender in this respect had found
himself reduced from Captain to Lieutenant, and no longer invited to
the hunt, and the second was already back in Massawa writing out
requisition forms in the quartermaster's division.
Gino handed the Count from the Rolls, and helped him down the steps
into the sunken shelter. Giuseppe saluted and climbed back into the
Rolls, swung away and bumped back up the ridge and over the skyline.
The Count settled himself comfortably in the canvas chair. With a
sigh, he unbuttoned the front of his jacket, and accepted the damp face
cloth that Gino handed him.
While the Count wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with the cool
cloth, Gino opened a bottle of Lacrima Cristi from the ice bucket and
placed a tall frosted crystal glass of the wine on the folding table at
the Count's elbow. Next, he loaded the
Marmlicher with shiny new brass cartridges from a freshly opened
packet.
The Count tossed the cloth aside and leaned forward in his chair to
peer through the loophole in front of him, out across the shimmering
plain where the small dark desert scrub danced in the heat.
'I have a feeling we shall have extraordinary sport today, Gino.'
I hope so indeed, my Count, said the little sergeant and stood to
attention behind his chair with the loaded Mannlicher held at the ready
across his chest.
ome on, darling,' croaked Jake, sweat dripping from his chin on to his
shirt front as he stooped over the crank handle and spun it for the
hundredth time.
'Don't let us down now, sweetheart.' Gareth scrambled up on to the
sponson of Priscilla and took a long despairing glance back over the
turret. He felt something freeze in his belly, and his breath
caught.
The elephant was a hundred paces away, coming directly down on top of
them at a loose shambling walk, the great black ears flapping sullenly
and the little piggy eyes alight with malevolence.
Right behind it, fanned out on each side, pressing closely on the great
beast's heels, came the full squadron of Italian tanks. The sun
glittered on the smoothly rounded frontal armour, and caught the bright
festival flutter of their cavalry pennants. From each hatch protruded
the black-helmeted head of the tank commander. Through the
binoculars
Gareth could make out the individual features of each commander, they
were that close.
Within minutes they would be overrun, and there was no chance that they
could escape detection. The elephant was leading the Italians directly
to the ravine, and their scanty camouflage of scrub branches would not
stand scrutiny at less than a hundred yards.
They could not even protect themselves, the Vickers machine gun was
pointed away from the approaching enemy, and the limited traverse of
the ball mounting was not sufficient to bring it to bear. Gareth was
