the Count.
The final circumstance that persuaded him to leave the camp,
abandon the new military philosophy, and move cautiously up the Sardi
Gorge was the arrival of the armoured column from Asmara. These
machines were to replace those that the savage enemy had so
perfidiously trapped and burned. Despite all the Count's pleading and
blustering, it had taken a week for them to be diverted from Massawa,
brought up to Asmara by train, and then for them to complete the long
slow crossing of the Danakil.
Now, however, they had arrived and the Count had immediately
requisitioned one of the six tanks as his personal command vehicle.
Once he was within the thick armoured hull, he had experienced a new
flood of confidence and courage.
'Onwards to Sardi, to write in blood upon the glorious pages of
history!' were the words that occurred to him, and Gino's face had
creased up into that spaniel's expression.
Now in the lowering shades of evening, grinding up the rocky pathway
while walls of sheer rock rose on either hand, seeming to meet the
sullen purple strip of sky high above, the Count was having serious
doubts about the whole wild venture.
He peered out from the turret of his command tank, his eyes huge and
dark and melting with apprehension, a black polished steel helmet
pulled down firmly over his ears, and one hand gripping the ivory butt
of the Beretta so fiercely that his knuckles shone white as bone
china.
At his feet, Gino crouched miserably, keeping well down within the
steel hull.
At that moment a machine gun opened fire ahead of them, and the sound
echoed and re-echoed against the sheer walls of the gorge.
'Stop! Stop this instant! shouted the Count at his driver.
The gunfire sounded very close ahead. 'We will make this battalion
headquarters. Right here,' announced the Count, and Gino perked up a
little and nodded his total agreement.
'Send for Major Castelani and Major Vita. They are to report to me
here immediately.' Jake awoke to the pressure of somebody's hand on
his shoulder, and the light of a storm lantern in his eyes.
The effort of sitting up required all his determination and he let the
damp blanket fall and screwed up his eyes against the light. The cold
had stiffened every muscle in his body, and his head felt light and
woolly with fatigue. He could not believe it was morning already.
'Who is it?'
'It's me, Jake,' and then he saw Gregorius's dark intense face beyond
the lamp.
'Take that bloody thing out of my eyes.' Beside him, Gareth Swales sat
up suddenly. Both of them had been sleeping fully dressed upon the
same ragged strip of canvas in the muddy bottom of the dugout.
'What's going on?' mumbled Gareth, also stupid with fatigue.
Gregorius swung the lantern aside and the light fell on the slim figure
beside him. Sara was shivering with cold and her light clothing was
