Jack Ludlow: The Burning Sky

It took five days to get to Addis, so slow was the road, crowded with refugees — no cheerful warriors now, but people who bore their burdens as a weight heavier than they truly were. Their patient woke up before they parked for the first night to sleep, that only possible when they had stilled her cries of pain with the morphine sulphate, which dulled all her senses. Unable to properly diagnose, apart from the obvious, what Corrie Littleton was suffering from, all three knew that treatment was essential; they could only hope they would get to a proper hospital in time.

Dirty, unshaven, hungry from lack of food and thirsty, with Corrie Littleton going in and out of consciousness, Addis Ababa, when they finally got there, was nothing like it had been before, a thriving African city. It having been severely bombed, and being the place where the wounded warriors made for, they naturally found the hospital full to bursting — the corridors were six deep in wounded and the doctors struggling to cope.

Getting their attention was near to impossible and the notion of her being treated wishful thinking: the place was overwhelmed, medicines were scarce and the wounds of others much more serious. The only thing they established, and it was the badgering American who did it while Jardine argued unsuccessfully with the medical reception, was the presence of a facility at the Imperial Palace.

‘We have a bit of juice, Cal, we have to use it,’ Alverson insisted.

‘He’s right, guv, this much they owe us,’ said Vince, to back the American up.

‘Which means it’s down to me to ask?’

‘Yup. Of all of us, Ras Kassa owes you the most.’

‘We don’t even know if he’s still alive.’

‘Then,’ Alverson said, ‘it’s time to find out.’

The roads to the Imperial Palace were blocked off and they had to manoeuvre the car through a throng of supplicants just to get to the line of green-uniformed troops holding them at bay. Later, Tyler Alverson was of the opinion that it was the car that got them through, that Rolls-Royce flying eagle, because, as he put it, ‘We looked like shit!’ Whatever, the troops made an opening and they entered — once they were away from the keening of those seeking help — an oasis of calm.

The pink-tinged stone-built palace stood in verdant, well-watered gardens; although not of the stature of the European buildings it was modelled on, in a city like Addis it was by far the most imposing dwelling: only the churches outdid it in size. The odd thing was, the place was intact — untouched by the war that had now been raging for five months, in a city that had been repeatedly bombed.

‘I’d ’ave made sure this was the first place I went for,’ Vince said as they left the empty boulevard and drove through the twin wrought iron gates.

It was Alverson who answered. ‘I reckon the Italians are thinking ahead. Why destroy the most comfortable billet in town when you want to lay your weary head there? When Badoglio gets here, you can bet your ass this will be his new home.’

They pulled up in front of the portico to be greeted by an officer Jardine recognised: it was the same French-speaking captain he had met at Gondar when seeking to get to Aksum to find Ma Littleton. Obviously about to ask the purpose of their presence, he was alerted by a groan from Corrie Littleton who, waking yet again, began to writhe from deep pain. With nothing approaching haste the officer walked across the gravel on crunching boots to inspect her, his face showing no emotion.

‘She requires treatment, and immediately,’ Jardine said.

‘The hospital is-’

‘I know where it is and I know it’s full,’ Jardine interrupted, looking around as if to underline the difference between this place and the stinking, crowded charnel house they had just left. ‘You have medical facilities here.’

‘For the private use of the imperial family and the officials of the government.’

Cal Jardine had been unaware of that fact; Alverson, for all his skill in questioning, had not elicited the information, yet it could not be said to come as a surprise. He had learnt very early on how callous the Ethiopian high-born were about the lower orders and nothing he had seen since altered that view. If there had ever been any doubt, the way they threw them into battle ill-equipped and tactically ignorant would have proved the point.

He had a vision then of the pint-sized emperor as he had driven past them on the Addis to Gondar road, and he wondered whether his lack of response to his broken, retreating followers was really despair at the defeat. Could it be indifference, could it be all he saw was people who were obliged to lay down their lives for his crown and his continuing hold on power? It was a proposition that did nothing for his temper, and his voice was cracked with fury as he responded.

‘The imperial family might be better served looking after some of their subjects than themselves. Then maybe they would win a war instead of losing one.’

The man’s nostrils flared angrily: he saw an insult to his sovereign and he was not mistaken. Fearing his temper was going to underline an already decided-upon refusal, Jardine suddenly recalled he still carried the pass he had received from Ras Kassa. Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled it out.

‘You recognise this, Captain, I am sure.’

‘It is no longer valid,’ he replied, as Corrie Littleton groaned again.

Opening it, Cal Jardine made a show of examining it. ‘I cannot see how — there is no end date. Are you saying the ras no longer has any sway?’ Hesitation allowed him to press home his point. ‘I assume the man who signed this still holds the offices he held when it was written? Or are you saying your country no longer has a government?’

In employing the tone of voice he was using, Cal Jardine was working on instinct, and also on how the man had reacted previously in the face of this pass: this was a staff johnny before him and, in his experience, they were of the type who cared more for their position and prospects than anything else.

If service in the British army had taught him anything it was that the slippery types, the grovellers, unquestioning of even the most absurd orders, were the ones who got to the top. This captain was of that type and would hesitate to question someone of the stature of Ras Kassa Meghoum for the very simple fear that it might block his future advancement. The fact that his army was beaten, that in essence it would soon cease to exist, and his country was falling apart around him would probably not come into consideration.

‘The pass does not apply here, this is the Imperial Palace.’

It was like playing poker again and there was something in the eyes that made Jardine go straight for an outright bluff. ‘Please ask Ras Kassa Meghoum to come and tell me that personally.’ The man blinked, and encouraged, Jardine added, ‘And be assured, I have the means to make him aware of any impediment to his wishes.’

Stood still for several seconds, no doubt weighing the effect of all the alternatives on his own future, the captain suddenly snapped, ‘Wait here.’ Cal went back to the Rolls, and a patient now moaning continuously, while he went inside.

‘How do you know he was here?’ Alverson asked.

‘Wild guess, brother,’ he replied, leaning over Corrie Littleton. Her face was drained of blood, and even if he was not a medic he could see her condition was deteriorating. He brushed a hand across her brow to move aside her unruly hair. ‘And if it doesn’t work, I don’t know what we’ll do.’

‘Captain Jardine, Mr Alverson.’ The deep voice identified the speaker, and just as he turned to respond he caught sight of Vince’s face, furious at not being acknowledged. Knowing his friend was capable of saying something offensive, he being no respecter of authority, he spoke quickly. ‘And Mr Castellano, Ras .’