Dennis Wheatley - The Secret War

In the next bed to him Christopher fretted badly, they must get on, he insisted whenever the nurses' backs were turned. Paxito Zirrif was already in Addis Ababa, and the first of May was the date fixed for the singing of the concession. They had been shot down in the Danakil country on April the 18th. It was now the, 2nd . . . the 23rd . . . the 24th. Unless they left at once there would be no time to plan any attempt against Zarrif which would have a reasonable chance of success. money was no object. They must charter or buy another plane; buy one for preference, in order that their movements might be free from the surveillance of a hired pilot.

Fortunately, they had their passports on them when they crashed in the desert, so, although they had lost their luggage, they had no difficulty in proving their identity, and Christopher was able to cable New York for a credit to be opened in his name at the Banco Italiano in Assab.

On the eighth day after their arrival they were both allowed to get up and went into the town together, where they purchased immediate necessities, but, with all his money, it proved impossible for Christopher to hire or buy another plane. There were hundreds of machines, yet every one of them was either the property of the Italian Air Force or required for some special purpose by the Government. They telegraphed to Jibuti and found that no planes were available there either; but in neutral French Somaliland Christopher was able to make dollars talk. He got in touch with the United States Consul and asked him to purchase an airworthy plane, regardless of its price. The Consul got busy and reported a four seater, equipped with a variable pitch propeller for sale at a sum that would have bought a Schneider Cup winner. Christopher bought it and arranged for it to be piloted over next day so that they might fly it to Addis Ababa, starting in the cool early hours of the following morning, but he had reckoned without their hosts.

Each day the debonair Lieutenant Count Dolomenchi had called at the hospital to inquire after them, leaving gifts of tropical flowers and fruit. He had also called upon Valerie and obtained permission to sit at her bedside each evening after his day's flying was done. When he had realised that she was Valerie Lorne, the famous American airwoman, his courtesies had turned to unbounded admiration. To have rescued her became a double honour, and he insisted that she should dine in his mess on her tenth night in Assab, as the doctor agreed that she should be well enough by then.

She protested that it was impossible, that she had no clothes and that her hair was in a hopeless mess, but he had brushed her objections aside with a gay laugh.

`The matter of your hair is easily settled. It takes all sorts to make an army, you know bricklayers, farmers, sorters, clerks, and even criminals there is a professional burglar in my own unit, an amusing fellow. I hall easily find you a hairdresser as for clothes you shall see!' and he departed impulsively to beat up the own.

When Christopher and Lovelace appeared to make known their plans, they found invitations for this gala waiting them too, and the latter insisted that it was quite out of the question to cut the party.

Christopher was furious at this fresh delay, but he agreed that the extra twenty four hours of enforced convalescence would make them all the fitter for their journey, and on the ninth day, when their new plane arrived, Dolomenchi was able to have it thoroughly Overhauled for them in his squadron's workshop.

Early next evening a surprisingly attractive selection of dresses arrived for Valerie, brought by a local dressmaker who made the necessary alterations to one of them on the spot.

An hour later a hairdresser, in the uniform of a corporal, presented himself and informed her that, as he had spent two years with Duraye in London, she might have every confidence in him.

Their generous host also provided the two men with fresh drill suits and sent a car to bring them all out to the air force mess at eight o'clock.

In her brief career as an airwoman Valerie had been the heroine of many ovations but never one like this. The Italian officers were all practical airmen who had a professional understanding of her records. Moreover it was months since many of them had even seen an attractive white girl of their own class. The band struck up as she entered but it was drowned in cheers and the cheers continued until she thought that they would never stop.

She was the only woman present. A distinguished General who had been asked to meet her sat on her left and the Commandant of the aerodrome on her right. All down the long tables there were rows of tanned boyish faces smiling an enthusiastic appreciation of her presence.

After dinner the health of the King of Italy was drunk, those of Il Duce, Signor Mussolini, the President of the United States, and King Edward VIII of England : then that of Valerie, as an inspiration to the airmen of all nations and their most honoured guest.

The glasses rang; the young men pounded on the tables and shouted plaudits as they drank the toast.

She stood up to reply and ended by saying that her only wish was to see them, with honour, safely home again in their beautiful Italy which all who had ever seen it must surely love.

When she sat down the General had to lend her his big handkerchief; for the thought was unbearable to her that many of these splendid boys might leave their bones in the burning deserts of North East Africa.

As they left the dinner table for the big ante room, Valerie was surrounded by a swarm of young men; all anxious for a few words with her. Those who could not get near because of the crush fastened on Christopher, who, as her fiancé, took on some of her reflected glory, while Lovelace was carried away into a corner by

the General.

For a little they talked of conditions in the interior of Abyssinia as Lovelace had given it out that he and his friends were on their way to join a Red Cross unit; a fiction which pleased the Italians as the more neutral whites there were behind the enemy lines the more chance their own wounded and prisoners had of

receiving decent treatment.

`Have you been stationed here long, sir?' Lovelace inquired in Italian.

`No,' the other replied quickly. `I am recently transferred from the southern front where I was serving under General Graziani.'

`You found it interesting, of course? Any soldier would.'

The Italian stroked his grey moustache and his brown eyes twinkled. `Naturally. I was stationed in Italian Somaliland for a number of years before the war, too, so I know the country and the people.'

`Did you find that the Somalis compare well with other native troops?'

`Yes, splendidly. The “Lions of Juba,” as they call themselves or Doubats as we term them, are magnificent fellows. Incurably lazy people but they're great fighters. A Doubat will walk fifty miles in a day and swim a couple of rivers infested with crocodiles if you offer him a chance of cutting an enemy's throat. They're handsome chaps and their women are really beautiful. Black, of course, but without any trace of the thick lips and the flattened nose of the negro. They'd shoot anyone who attempted to interfere with their women without a second thought and their wives follow them up to within a mile or two of the battle line. The Abyssinians are their hereditary enemies, so we've had more Somali volunteers offering to fight with us than we've known what to do with.'

Lovelace sipped the drink that stood beside him. `As almost the entire population of the Ogaden province are Somalis I suppose they'd prefer to see it under Italian rule than continue to be fleeced by the Negus's tax gatherers.'

`Naturally. Their own people further south, over the frontier, know we treat them fairly. They're Mohammedans, too, and they detest the Abyssinians' pseudo Christianity. For years past the people of the Ogaden have only been kept in subjection by a reign of terror which is maintained by the Negus's Amhara soldiery.'