into the hull, ringing and pinging against the steel sides, while the
sudden acrid stink of burned cordite made Jake's eyes sting and flood
with tears.
Through blurred eyes he watched the electric white tracer arc out
across the open ground, and fall about the leading tank. Even at that
range, Jake made out the tiny spurting fountains of dust and dirt
kicked up by the hose of bullets.
'Good lad,' grunted Jake; it was accurate shooting from the bouncing,
bounding car at extreme range. Of course, it could do no damage to the
thick steel armour of the CV.3, but it would certainly startle and
anger the crew, goad them into retaliation.
As he thought it, Jake saw the turret of the tank traverse around as
the commander called the target. The stubby barrel of the Spandau
foreshortened rapidly, and then disappeared. Jake was looking directly
down the muzzle.
He counted slowly to three, it would take that long for the gunner to
get on to him, then he yelled, 'Disengaging!' and flung Priscilla hard
over, so that she came up on two wheels, ungainly and awkward as she
swung away from the enemy line. From the corner of his eye Jake saw
the glow of the muzzle flash, and almost instantly afterwards heard the
crack of passing shot.
'Son of a gun that was close!' he muttered, and reached up to throw
the hatch and visor open. There was no point in closing down,
these Spandaus could penetrate any point of the car's hull as though it
were made of paper, and Jake would need a good and unlimited view
during the next desperate minutes.
Running parallel to the Italian line, he looked across and saw that all
four tanks were firing now, and they were bunching, each tank turning
towards him as he raced across their front, losing their rigid pattern
of advance in their eagerness to keep Priscilla under fire.
'Come along,' muttered Jake. 'Three balls for a dollar,
gentlemen, every throw a coconut!' It was too close to the truth to be
funny, but he grinned nevertheless. 'Jake Barton's famous coconut
shy.' A shell burst close alongside, showering sand and gravel into
the open hatch. They were ranging in on him now, it was time to
confuse the range again.
He spat sand from his mouth and yelled, 'Engaging!' Priscilla spun
handily towards the Italian line, and went bounding in towards them
with that prim rocking action, her ugly old silhouette grim and
uncompromising as the visage of a Victorian matron.
They were close, horribly frighteningly close, so that Jake could hear
the Vickers bullets hammering against the black carapace of the leading
tank. Gregorius had picked out the formation leader by his command
pennant, and was concentrating all his fire upon him.
'Good thinking,' grunted Jake. 'Get the bastard's blood up.' As he
spoke, there was a thunderous clank close beside his head, as though a
giant had swung a hammer against the steel hull, and the car reeled to
the blow.
'We've taken a hit,' Jake thought desperately, and his ears buzzed from
the impact and there was the hot acrid stench of burned paint and hot
