Amedeo: The True Story of an Italian’s War in Abyssinia. Sebastian O’Kelly
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the governorship of Gojjam, a rich and semi-autonomous province separated from the rest of the country by the Blue Nile. From here he had marched north, over four hundred kilometres, with 25,000 men. In early December, he had been bombed from the air for the first time and his force had been halved, with the Gojjam levies heading for home. He had made good his losses with the forces of Dejaz Ayeluw Birru of Gondar, a princeling – he was a ‘commander of the threshold’ – who seemed to be hedging his bets in the fighting with the Italians, although not risking open treachery.
By fast night marches through the mountain massif of Semien, Ras Imru arrived unspotted by Italian air reconnaissance at the river Takazze, which divided western Tigre, held by the Italians, and the Ethiopian province of Beghemeder. Again under darkness, his men crossed the river, overwhelming the Italian guard posts. Army command in Axum sent forward to recoinnoitre a gruppo bande of 250 Eritrean infantry, supported by a squadron of ten two-man Fiat Ansaldo tanks. These were commanded by Captain Ettore Crippa, who had been the motorised cavalry instructor during Amedeo’s time at Pinerolo. At the pass of Dembeguina, the tanks encountered Ras Imru’s vanguard, which fled when the Italians opened up with their machine-guns. Taking advantage of their flight, Crippa’s unit then drew to a halt in a clearing amid acacia trees and attempted to refuel. Unaccountably separated from their infantry support, it was a further misfortune that the reserve supplies were stored on the roofs of the vehicles.
All of a sudden, the Italians were ambushed by hundreds of screaming warriors, who charged forward firing their rifles and hacking down the crewmen with swords and spears. Within seconds the clearing was a scene of carnage. Running warriors hurled burning brushwood onto the miniature tanks, which burst into flames. According to colourful accounts, Balambaras Uvene Tashemma, a ‘commander of a fort’, displaying the cool head and cunning that Amedeo would later appreciate, sneaked up behind a machine and began hammering on the turret. The stupefied crew opened the hatch, and with sweeping sword Tashemma beheaded them both.
Some kilometres away, the Eritreans were also surrounded and outnumbered by Ras Imru’s advance guard. Cunningly, they drove out their baggage train of mules in the hope that the Ethiopians would be distracted by loot. But when this ruse failed they broke out of their encirclement, charging with the bayonet. Having lost a fifth of their force, the Eritreans were chased back to Ende Selassie, which was hastily abandoned. Ras Imru had come within eighteen kilometres of Axum.
Two days after the disaster a dishevelled, bloody figure appeared at the Spahys’ camp. He was Sergeant Bruno of the tank squadron, and the only survivor of Crippa’s unit to make it back to Italian lines. The ambush had been so sudden that the crewmen had been unable to do anything, he said. And he cursed the Fiat Ansaldo tanks, which were supposed to be one of the Italian army’s few modern weapons. During the rare periods when they did not cast off their tracks, they deafened their occupants and the twin machine guns had only a 15-degree traverse. In the confusion of the Ethiopian attack, the sergeant fled to safety down a crevice. He had wandered the countryside before stumbling across the Spahys, followed by a family of baboons.
Two weeks passed before the Italians could return to the scene of the massacre. Ajmone Cat ordered Amedeo to have his squadron bury the dead at Dembeguina and look for other survivors. There were none. In the clearing were the burned-out hulks of the tanks, and the rest of the debris of the massacre. The vehicles were neatly parked side by side, caught completely by surprise by Ras Imru’s warriors. The hatches had been flung wide open and beside the hulks were the stripped corpses of the crews, which had been partially eaten by hyenas. Amedeo only recognised Crippa’s by the strands of his grey hair. A jovial, heavy man, the captain had been so proud of his machines at Pinerolo, telling the young cavalry officers that the age of the horse in war was over. Perhaps, but not quite yet, Amedeo reflected, as he watched his Spahys bury Crippa’s body. He rode away from the clearing grateful that he had gone to war on Sandor’s back, rather than in a metal box.
The speed and success of the Ethiopian advance appalled the Italian command. Ras Imru was in a position to outflank Maravigna’s 2nd Corps and attack the Italian supply lines that stretched back deep into Eritrea. To stop him, General Appiotti’s division of 12,000 Black Shirts was ordered forward from Axum; the Spahys di Libya sent ahead to provide reconaissance.
Cautiously, the Spahys pushed deeper into enemy territory towards Ende Selassie, along narrow rocky gorges which were ideal for ambush. They were wary, too, of having to rely on Black Shirts for support. Of varying quality, they could be among the most excitable units in the army, but at least Appiotti’s division seemed to be made up of middle-aged veterans of the Great War, and all the officers, including the general himself, were seconded from the regular army. Like most of his friends, Amedeo had little regard for the pretensions of the full-time Milizia officers. Many had transferred from the army to the Black Shirt legions because their careers had stalled, and their evocative ancient Roman ranks – console, centurione, capo manipolo – were regarded with irreverence. In spite of the official favour of the Duce, the extravagant black uniforms, the bloodcurdling songs and the dramatic oaths declared over unsheathed daggers, among the public at large there was no social comparison between a Milizia officer and one in an elite regiment of the regular army.
Towards Ende Selassie the landscape became more dramatic.
As the morning mist cleared, the serried levels of the mountain ambas slowly emerged. Often several kilometres wide, the plateaux were perfectly flat, until the level ground suddenly fell away in steep, precipitous ravines. Before dusk each evening, the Spahys rode up narrow goat tracks to set up camp on the ambas, which were safest from surprise attack.
The officers celebrated Christmas Eve 1935 with the last of their bottles of chianti. At first light the next morning, they were awoken by excited pickets and the sound of shots. Large numbers of Ethiopians were emerging from the gorge below onto the amba of Selaclaca. Several hundred were advancing at a run, spreading out into the cover of the woods and rocks. There was every sign that there were many more to follow.
Amedeo ordered his men to saddle up as fast as possible, seeing to Sandor himself. Captain Fausto Pittarelli and his squadron moved off first to scatter the Ethiopians as they climbed up from the ravine below. But nearly 350 of them were working their way around through the woods to the far side of the Spahys. If they succeeded, the horsemen would be caught in crossfire. Ajmone Cat recognised the danger, and ordered Amedeo to stop them immediately, while he himself held back with two hundred men until the scale and direction of the enemy attack became clear.
With his shumbashi behind him, Amedeo galloped towards the skirmishers in the woods, hearing the reassuring shouts of 140 Spahys behind him: Uled! Uled! Uled! On boys! On! On! But this time, the Ethiopians did not break and run. The fighting became a chaotic free-for-all, the horsemen lashing out at scurrying figures, bludgeoning them with their rifles and slashing with their swords. Amedeo had been taught that a horse was a cavalryman’s main weapon and that few men on foot would keep a steady aim if you galloped straight towards them. Sandor pounded forward, scattering all the men in his path, while Amedeo fired into the mêlée with his revolver. He wheeled around sharply and charged again, spreading terror and confusion. But a chilling feeling ran down his spine. The impetus of the initial charge had gone, milling figures surrounded the horsemen and casualties were rising.
Amedeo cursed to see the number of riderless horses galloping in and out of the trees, adding to the mayhem, when suddenly an enemy warrior grabbed his waist and began pulling him out of the saddle. His revolver, hanging uselessly from the cord, its six shots fired, was somewhere underneath his attacker. With his left hand Amedeo stretched down to reach for the black sword. He eased it partially out of the scabbard, but could not pull it clear with his attacker pinioning his right arm. If he fell, Amedeo knew that he would be dead, his body castrated by his victor according to Ethiopian custom. He pulled Sandor out of a panic-stricken, spinning circle, and spurred him into a canter, the three of them plunging awkwardly forward as Amedeo hammered the hilt of his sword on to the Ethiopian’s head.
At last, the attacker’s hold broke and he fell sprawling. Amedeo pulled the sword clear, shifted his weight in the stirrups to straighten the saddle, and then galloped back through the throng. He made sharp whipping cuts at a couple of scurrying figures,