CHAPTER 57

ALL AFTERNOON AND EVENING, in the torrential rain, the tanks, trucks, and armored cars rolled forward. Some three thousand vehicles were strung out along the only road to the city of the King of Kings. Finally, on the afternoon of May 5, 1936, seven months and two days after the start of the war, the “March of the Iron Will” reached its destination.

General Pietro Badoglio, at the head of his victorious columns, made a spectacular entrance into the capital. The pouring rain did nothing to dampen spirits. With him rode the Italian journalists. Bruno looked out at the Ethiopian people lining the roadway. Some were waving white flags, some held up their arms in the Fascist salute.

Behind him were the Eritrean Askaris: tall, handsome, and fast running, wearing their red fezzes and waving curved swords. Yet, Bruno knew that for nationalistic reasons, they would not be the first to enter the city. That glory was reserved for the white Italian troops: tired, dirty and hungry, but undaunted by this test of endurance under the tropical sun.

At 5:45 that afternoon, while several Italian R.O.-37 pursuit planes flew in an aerobatic display, the red, white and green tricolor flag was raised above the Italian Embassy. There were three cheers for the King and three for Caesar. Ethiopia was finally Italian.

Bruno sat down on the nearby stump of a Eucalyptus tree and began scribbling in his notebook. He didn’t want to miss this historic moment. He watched attentively as Badoglio turned to Air Marshal Magliocco, whose face was wet with rain or tears. Suddenly, the two older soldiers embraced, kissing each other Italian style on both cheeks.

“We’ve done it! We’ve won!”

The Emperor did not see his beloved city burning. In the absence of authority, pillaging, rioting, and violence ruled for three and a half days after his departure. Even ex-soldiers joined in the destruction to vent their frustration over a war that could never have been won. Most of the foreigners, fearing the carnage, had taken refuge at the British compound that was well protected by Indian Sikh troops.

Warren Rutherford and Standish Forsythe stayed put for those three days. The U.S. Legation, unlike most of the others, was not sieged. Daniele had warned his countrymen that he would stand for no such defacement.

They had not gone to see the Italian forces enter the city, but a few days later, Standish Forsythe was surprised by a visitor. Daniele showed him in. “Zeri.”

“Forsythe. I’m glad to see you again.”

“I heard it was a spectacular occasion. Sorry we didn’t put it on our agenda.”

“You weren’t missed. Badoglio was looking for divine guidance,” he smiled, taking the seat in front of Standish.

“You’re well, I see.”

“Oh yes. And ready to start home.”

“You’re leaving then?”

“With Badoglio. He has asked to be relieved. He wants to enjoy his fame in his beloved motherland. I can’t blame him, although it will be hard on the Ethiopians. I brought you something you might like to see. More propaganda.” Zeri lit his cigar. “You know, Forsythe, I really can’t tell you how much I love propaganda. It’s so floral. Beautiful adjectives. The Fascist ones that are fashionable today. It may change tomorrow, mind you, but today! The soldiers are always brave, the speeches of their leaders are vibrant and Italy, of course, is great and powerful and noble. Adjective diplomacy.”

“You have to follow those directives?”

“Oh, no. You can do whatever you want. The piece just won’t get published.” Bruno seemed as if he were about to laugh, but he caught himself. “Sorry. It’s not funny.”

Standish looked at him carefully. It’s not as funny as he’s making out, he thought, perhaps that’s the weight of the war. “Just as long as you don’t get too much of it,” Standish added.

“Oh, you can never get too much of it. That’s why it’s propaganda. This one, however, has been more of a sporting event than a page of military history.” Zeri smiled as he fished something out of his pocket. “Here, you should see this.”

“What is it?”

“Mussolini’s latest orders to Badoglio. His formula for restoring law and order to the ravished capital.”

“Can I read it?”

“Of course. That’s why I brought it.”

“When Addis Ababa is occupied,” Il Duce had written, “Your Excellency will give orders that all those in the city, or its surroundings, who are caught with arms in hand will be summarily shot. All of the so-called Young Ethiopians, cruel and pretentious barbarians, and the moral authors of the sacking of the city be shot summarily.”

Standish paused thinking of Yohannes and glad that he was out of the city. He and most of the other Young Ethiopians were already at Bulga with the Freedom Fighters.

“Anyone who participated in violence, sacking, or fires, be shot; all those who within twenty-four hours have not given up their arms and munitions, be summarily shot. I await word which will confirm that these orders will be, as always, carried out.”

Standish looked at Bruno as he put down the paper. “This is not going to bring them garlands of roses.”

“No. It’s not meant to. One wonders how he kept silent so long,” Zeri smiled. “Can you imagine what pre-verbal Mussolini must have been like?”

“Pre-verbal? I don’t understand.”

“He never talked for the first three years of his life.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“He has certainly made up for it.”

“And Miss Larson?” Zeri asked, as he puffed on his cigar.

“She’s gone back.”

“I’m glad she’s out of here. Has she gone home?”

“She is going to Geneva. We got a telegram from Rome. That’s all I know.”

“If you see her, please give her my best.”

“I will, and thank you for saving her life.”

“Saving her life? Please, not so dramatic. That sounds like more propaganda. Helped her in a minute of need.”

“As you want. Modesty does not become you, Zeri.”

“Oh really? Well, until the next time. Take care of yourself, Forsythe.”