mind, murmured Gino respectfully.
The Count's new military philosophy was received with unbounded
enthusiasm by his officers, when he explained it to them that evening
in the mess tent, over the liqueurs and cigars. The idea of leading
from the rear seemed not only to be practical and sensible, but
downright inspired. This enthusiasm lasted only until they learned
that the new philosophy applied not to the entire officer cadre of
the
Third Battalion, but to the Colonel only. The rest of them were to be
given every opportunity to make the supreme sacrifice for God, country
and Benito Mussolini. At this stage the new philosophy lost much
popular support.
In the end, only three persons stood to benefit from the rearrangement
the Count, Gino and Major Luigi Castelani.
The Major was so overjoyed to learn that he now had what amounted to
unfettered command of the battalion that for the first time in many
years he took a bottle of grappa to his tent that evening, and sat
shaking his head and chuckling fruitily into his glass.
The following morning's burning, blinding headache that only grappa can
produce, combined with his new freedom, made the Major's grip on the
battalion all the more ferocious. The new spirit spread like a fire in
dry grass. Men cleaned their rifles, burnished their buttons and
closed them to the neck, stubbed out their cigarettes and trembled a
little while Castelani rampaged through the camp at
Chaldi, dealing out duties, ferreting out the malingerers and
stiffening spines with the swishing cane in his right hand.
The honour guard that fell in that afternoon to welcome the first
aircraft to the newly constructed airfield were so beautifully turned
out with polished leather and glittering metal, and their drill was so
smartly performed, that even Count Aldo Belli noticed it, and commended
them warmly.
The aircraft was a three-engined Caproni bomber. It came lumbering in
from the northern skies, circled the long runway of raw earth, and then
touched down and raised a long rolling storm of dust with the wash of
its propellers.
The first personage to emerge from the doorway in the belly of the
silver fuselage was the political agent from Asmara, Signor Antolino,
looking more rumpled and seedy than ever in his creased, ill-fitting
tropical linen suit. He raised his straw panama. in reply to the
Count's flamboyant Fascist salute, and they embraced briefly, the man
stood low on the social and political scale before the Count turned to
the pilot.
'I wish to ride in your machine.' The Count had lost interest in his
tanks, in fact he found himself actively hating them and their
Captain. In sober mood he had refrained from executing that officer,
or even packing him off back to Asmara. He had contented himself with
a full page of scathing comment in the man's service report, knowing
that this would destroy his career. A complete and satisfying
vengeance, but the Count was finished with tanks. Now he had an
aircraft. So much more exciting and romantic.
