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Title: Six months on the Italian front
Author: Price, Julius Mendes
Language: English
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
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SIX MONTHS ON THE ITALIAN FRONT
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
FROM THE ARCTIC OCEAN TO THE YELLOW SEA
THE LAND OF GOLD
FROM EUSTON TO KLONDIKE
DAME FASHION
MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN PARIS
MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON
[Illustration: _The Author in San Martino del Carso._
_From a snapshot by Robert Vaucher._
_Correspondent of the Paris L’Illustration._]
SIX MONTHS ON
THE ITALIAN FRONT
_From the Stelvio to the Adriatic_
1915-1916
By
Julius M. Price
_War-Artist Correspondent of the
“Illustrated London News”_
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE
1917
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE WESTMINSTER PRESS
411A HARROW ROAD
LONDON W
TO THE ITALIAN MILITARY AUTHORITIES
in recognition of the courtesy and many kindnesses
extended to me during my six months’ work with the
glorious Army of Italy.
NOTE
I am indebted to the Directors of the _Illustrated London News_ for
their kind permission to reproduce in this book the sketches and
drawings I made for them whilst on the Italian Front, a great many of
which have already been published.
PREFACE
As the reader will discover for himself, I have no pretensions
to pose as a Military Expert. This book is the result of a few
hasty impressions gathered over a period which, with all its minor
inconveniences and little daily worries, I look back upon as among
the happiest and best filled of a somewhat varied career. I have
not yielded to the temptation to be interesting at the expense of
veracity; to that fact the indulgent reader will, I trust, attribute
many of the dull pages. If in the latter half of the book I have laid
particular stress on the operations leading up to and culminating in
the capture of Gorizia, I hope I may be forgiven, as I had the good
luck to be the only foreign correspondent on the spot at these scenes
of History-making. In my dedication I have paid a humble tribute
to the many kindnesses I received at the hands of the Military
Authorities, from His Excellency General Cadorna downwards. I can
only repeat it here.
JULIUS M. PRICE.
21, Golden Square,
London, W.
_January, 1917._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: PAGE
Marching orders—I leave for Rome—Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne
in war time—My campaigning kit—The war-correspondent’s list—Quaint
item—Travelling “light”—A box of choice Havanas—Boulogne to
Paris; well-intentioned ladies and their “Woodbines”—The one and
only cigarette—Paris to Turin—Curious order on train—Method and
prescience—Few soldiers on route—Arrival in Rome—A cheap room—No
sign of excitement in streets—23rd May—Excitability of the Italian
no longer noticeable—Rome unruffled—The declaration of war—On the
Corso Umberto that evening—The Café Aragno—National stoicism—The
DAY—Business as usual—The general mobilisation—A triumph of
organization—At the War Office 3
CHAPTER II:
My credentials—The War Zone—Italy’s preparedness—The Press
Censorship—General Elia’s advice—Disappointment—A pipe in the
Pincio—An inspiration—I leave for Venice—Venice in war time—The
lonely pigeons of the Place St. Marc—The Doge’s Palace—The
bronze horses—Interior of St. Marc, strange spectacle—First act
of war between Italy and Austria—Aeroplane bombs Venice—French
Aviators—Treasures of Venice—Everyday life in Venice during
daytime—After nightfall—On the _qui vive_—Extraordinary
precautions—Dangers of the streets—Spy fever—_Permis de séjour_—The
angry crowd—Defences against air attacks—Venice not a _place
forte_—Nearest point of the Front—The British Vice-Consul, Mr.
Beak—A good Samaritan—The letter of credentials—The Commandant of
Venice—More advice—New Rescript of the Generalissimo—Reference
to Correspondents—Decide attempt go to Udine—The language
difficulty—The waiter at the Hotel Danielli—His offer to
accompany me—Make arrangements at once—Introduced to Peppino
Garibaldi—Amusing incident 15
CHAPTER III:
From Venice to Udine—Reservists rejoining—Interesting crowd—Delays
en route—Endless procession of military trains—Drawn blinds—The
Red Cross train—Arrived Udine—Scene on platform—In search of an
hotel—A little incident—The well-dressed civilian—The obliging
guide—My suspicions—Awkward questions—The best hotel in Udine—A
little “Trattoria” close by—A cheap room—First impressions of
Udine—At the Police Office—The _permis de séjour_—The _Carabinieri_
and the local police—The fascination of the big guns—The
“Military Commandant of Udine”—A difficult proposition—The luck
of the undelivered letter—My guide has to leave me—I change my
quarters—The Hotel “Tower of London”—Alone in Udine—An awkward
predicament—A friend in need—Still more luck—Dr. Berthod—I am
offered a studio—I accept—The delight of having this studio in
Udine 25
CHAPTER IV:
The wonderful system on which everything was worked—Udine
“the Front”—The commencement of hostilities—The 24th May—The
first day of operations auspicious for Italy—Redemption of the
province of Friuli—New Italian Front—Cormons—The inhabitants
of Italian origin—A good practical joke—The _moral_ of the
troops—Unpretentious attempts at wit—High spirits of the
men—The road from Udine to Cormons—Wonderful sight—Italian
flags everywhere—A mystery where they came from—Wild triumphant
advance of the Italian troops—Women kiss the ground—But a
_lever de rideau_—Italians cross the Isonzo—Austrians on Monte
Nero—Monte Nero—The capture of Monte Nero—Incredible daring of the
_Alpini_—The story of the great achievement—Number of prisoners
taken—The prisoners brought to Udine—Their temporary prison—The
tropical heat—An ugly incident—Austrian attempt to re-take
Monte Nero—Success follows success—Capture of Monfalcone and
Gradisca; Sagrado and Monte Corrada—Commencement of the attack on
Gorizia—Subjects for my sketch book—Touches of human nature—High
Mass in the mountains—The _tentes d’abri_—Cheerfulness of men in
spite of all hardships 37
CHAPTER V:
Udine the Headquarters of the Army—The King—His
indefatigability—His undaunted courage—A telling incident—The
King with the troops—Love and sympathy between Victor Emanuele
and the men—Brotherhood of the whole Army—A pleasant incident—Men
salute officers at all times—Laxity shown in London—Cohesion
between rank and file—The Italians of to-day—The single idea
of all—Udine crowded with soldiers—The military missions of
the allied nations—Big trade being done—Orderly and sedate
crowd—Restaurants—The food—The market-place—The Cinemas—Proximity
of the fighting—The Café “Dorta”—Pretty and smartly-dressed
women—An unexpected spectacle—The Military Governor—The streets
at night—Precautions against “Taubes”—The signal gun—Curiosity of
inhabitants—No excitement—Udine a sort of haven—I remain there
six weeks—A meeting with the British Military Attaché, Colonel
Lamb—My stay in Udine brought to an abrupt ending—The police
officer in mufti—Am arrested—Unpleasant experience—An _agent de
la Sureté_—At the police station—The commissaire—Result of my
examination—Novara—Magic effect of the undelivered letter again—I
write to General Cafarelli—My friends at the “Agrario”—General
Cafarelli—His decision—The third class police ticket for the
railway—Packed off to Florence—The end of the adventure 49
CHAPTER VI:
Florence in war time—War correspondents to visit the Front—I
receive a letter from Mr. Capel Cure of the Embassy—Return to
Rome—Signor Barzilai, Head of Foreign Press Bureau—I am officially
“accepted”—Correspondents to muster at Brescia—Rome to Brescia
via Milan—The gathering of the correspondents—Names of those
present—Papers represented—The correspondent’s armlet—Speech of
welcome by General Porro—Plan of journey announced—Introduced
to officers of Censorship—To leave war zone a conclusion of
tour of Front—“Shepherding” the correspondents—Censorships
established at various places—Correspondents’ motor
cars—Clubbing together—Car-parties—My companions—Imposing
array of correspondents’ cars—National flags—Cordiality
amongst all correspondents and Censors—Good-fellowship shown by
Italians—Banquet to celebrate the occasion 63
CHAPTER VII:
Brescia—Rough sketch of arrangements—A printed itinerary
of tour—Military passes—Rendezvous on certain dates—The
“off-days”—Much latitude allowed—We make a start—Matutinal
hour—First experience of freedom of action—Like schoolboys let
loose—In the valley of Guidicaria—First impression of trenches
on mountains—A gigantic furrow—Encampments of thousands of
soldiers—Like the great wall of China—Preconceived notions of
warfare upset—Trenches on summits of mountains—A vast military
colony—Pride of officers and men in their work—Men on “special”
work—“Grousing” unknown in Italian Army—Territorials—Middle aged
men—“Full of beans”—Territorials in first line trenches—Modern
warfare for three-year olds only—Hardy old mountaineers—Heart
strain—The road along Lake Garda—Military preparations
everywhere—War on the Lake—The flotilla of gun-boats—The Perils
of the Lake—A trip on the “Mincio” gun-boat—I make a sketch
of Riva—A miniature Gibraltar—Desenzano—Nocturnal activity of
mosquitoes—Return to Brescia—Something wrong with the car—Jules
Rateau of the _Echo de Paris_—Arrange excursion to Stelvio Pass—A
wonderful motor trip—The Valley of Valtellino—The corkscrew
road—Bormio—The Staff Colonel receives us—Permits our visiting
positions—Village not evacuated—Hotel open—Officers’ _table
d’hôte_—We create a mild surprise—Spend the night at hotel 71
CHAPTER VIII:
On the summit of the Forcola—We start off in “military” time—Our
guide—Hard climbing—Realize we are no longer youthful—Under
fire—Necessary precautions—Our goal in sight—An awful bit of
track—Vertigo—A terrifying predicament—In the Forcola position—A
gigantic ant-heap—Unique position of the Forcola—A glorious
panorama—The Austrian Tyrol—The three frontiers—Shown round
position—Self-contained arsenal—Lunch in the mess-room—Interesting
chat—The “observation post”—The goniometre—Return to
Bormio—Decide to pass another night there—An invitation from the
sergeants—Amusing incident 85
CHAPTER IX:
From Brescia to Verona—Absence of military movement in rural
districts—Verona—No time for sightseeing—The axis of the
Trentino—Roveretto, the focus of operations—Fort Pozzachio—A
“dummy fortress”—Wasted labour—Interesting incident—Excursion to
Ala—Lunch to the correspondents—Ingenious ferry-boat on River
Adige—The Valley of the Adige—Wonderful panorama—“No sketching
allowed”—Curious finish of incident—Austrian positions—Desperate
fighting—From Verona to Vicenza—The positions of Fiera di
Primiero—Capture of Monte Marmolada—The Dolomites—Their weird
fascination—A striking incident—The attempted suicide—The Col di
Lana—Up the mountains on mules—Sturdy _Alpini_ Method of getting
guns and supplies to these great heights—The observation post and
telephone cabin on summit—The Colonel of Artillery—What it would
have cost to capture the Col di Lana then—The Colonel has an
idea—The idea put into execution—The development of the idea—Effect
on the Col di Lana—An object lesson—The Colonel gets into hot
water—The return down the mountain—Caprili—Under fire—We make for
shelter—The village muck-heap—Unpleasant position—A fine example of
coolness—The wounded mule—An impromptu dressing 97
CHAPTER X:
Belluno—Venadoro in the heart of the Dolomites—A fine hotel—Tame
excursions—Visit to Cortina d’Ampezzo—Austrian attempts to
recapture it—305mm. guns on the Schluderbach—Long range
bombardment—Austrian women and children in the town—Italians
capture Monte Cristallo—Aeroplanes and observation balloons
impossible here—Tofana in hands of Italians—Serenity
of garrison—Cortina d’Ampezzo—General invites us to a
_déjeuner_—Living at Venadoro—Delightful _camaraderie_—Evenings
in the big saloon—From Belluno to Gemona—Description of Front
in this Sector—Our excursion to Pal Grande—The road—On mules up
the mountain—A warning—Rough track—Peasant women carrying barbed
wire up to the trenches—Pay of the women—Much competition for
“vacancies”—The climb from Pal Piccolo to Pal Grande—A wonderful
old man—“Some” climb—The entrenched position on Pal Grande—Spice
of danger—Violent artillery duel—The noise of the passing
shells—Magnificent view—Timau—The Freikoffel—Its capture by the
_Alpini_—Wounded lowered by ropes—Capture of Pal Grande—Presence of
mind of a doctor—A telling incident—Extraordinary enthusiasm of the
troops—Food convoys—The soldier’s _menu_—Daily rations—_Rancio_;
the _plat du jour_—Officers’ mess arrangements—An _al fresco_
lunch on Pal Grande—The “mess-room”—“Pot Luck”—A wonderful meal—A
stroll round the position—An improvised bowling alley—Use is
second nature—In the trenches—A veteran warrior—The pet of the
position—Gemona—The list of lodgings—My landlady—Good restaurants
in Gemona—The _Alpini_ quartered there—The military tatoo in the
evenings—Reception by the Mayor—A delightful week 115
CHAPTER XI:
Gemona to Udine—Final stage of official journey—Regrets—Arrival
at Udine—List of recommended lodgings—My room—My landlady
an Austrian woman—I pay my respects to General Cafarelli—My
friend Dr. Berthod—My old studio at the Agrario—The Isonzo
Front—Many rumours—Off on our biggest trip; 245 kilometres
in the car—Roads excellent and well-looked after—A great
change—Cormons quite an Italian town—Same with other towns in
conquered territory—Observatory on Monte Quarin—A splendid
bird’s-eye view—The plain of Friuli—Podgora—The Carso—The hum of
aeroplanes—The Isonzo Sector—The immense difficulties—Received
by the General—A pleasant _goûter_—Lieutenant Nathan, Ex-Mayor
of Rome—The Subida lines of trenches—Explanation of Italian
successes everywhere—Caporetto via Tolmino—A desolate region—Road
along the Isonzo—The mighty limestone cliffs of Monte Nero—The
great exploit of its capture recalled—One mountain road very
much like another—Nothing to sketch—Perfect organization—The fog
of dust—Caporetto—Not allowed to motor beyond—Important strategic
operations—Monte Rombon—Difficulty to locate Austrian guns—A
glimpse of Plezzo—The situation here—Excursion to Gradisca via
Palmanova, a semi-French town—Romans—Curious rearrangement of
cars—Only two allowed proceed to Gradisca under fire—The Italian
batteries at work—The deserted streets—The “observatory” room—The
iron screens—View of Monte San Michele being bombarded—Stroll
through the town—A big shell—Excursion to Cervignano, Aquileia and
Grado—Peaceful country-side—Grado the Austrian Ostend—Fish-lunch
at a café—The town continually bombarded by aircraft—Arrival
of Beaumont, the French airman—Conclusion of official tour of
Front—No permission given for correspondents to remain—Success of
tour—Comments on organization, etc. 131
CHAPTER XII:
Conclusion of Correspondents’ tour of Front—I return to
London—Awaiting events—Brief official _communiqués_—Half Austrian
Army held up on Italian Front—Harrying tactics—Trench warfare
during the winter—Recuperative powers of the Austrians—Gorizia a
veritable Verdun—Italian occupation of Austrian territory—Many
thousand square miles conquered—A bolt from the blue—Serious
development—Awakening Austrian activity—400,000 troops in the
Trentino—Front from Lake Garda to Val Sugana ablaze—Totally
unforseen onslaught—Towns and villages captured—Genius of
Cadorna—Menace of invasion ended—I go and see Charles Ingram with
reference going back to Italy—His journalistic acumen—My marching
orders—Telegram from Rome—My journey back to Italy—Confidence
everywhere—Milan in darkness—Improvement on the railway to
Udine—Udine much changed—Stolid business air—Changes at the
Censorship—Press Bureau and club for correspondents—The Censorship
staff—Few accredited correspondents—Remarkable absence of Entente
correspondents—Badges and passes—Complete freedom of action given
me—I start for Vicenza en route for Arsiero—Scenes on road—From
daylight into darkness—Hun methods of frightfulness—Arsiero—Its
unfavourable position—Extent of the Austrian advance—Rush of the
Italians—Austrians not yet beaten—Town damaged by the fire and
bombardment—Villa of a great writer—Rossi’s paper-mills—The town
itself—The battlefield—Débris of war—A dangerous souvenir for my
studio 149
CHAPTER XIII:
The fighting on the Asiago plateau—Brilliant counter-offensive
of General Cadorna—I go to Asiago—Wonderful organization of
Italian Army—Making new roads—Thousands of labourers—The
military causeway—Supply columns in full operation—Wonderful
scenes—Approaching the scene of action—The forest of Gallio—The big
bivouac—Whole brigades lying hidden—The forest screen—Picturesque
encampments—The “bell” tent as compared with the _tente
d’abri_—Our car stopped by the _Carabinieri_—“Nostri Canoni”—We
leave the car—The plain of Asiago—The little town of Asiago
in distance—The Austrian and Italian batteries and Italian
trenches—Hurrying across—The daily toll of the guns—Asiago in
ruins—Street fighting—Importance attaching to this point—An ominous
lull—Regiment waiting to proceed trenches—Sad spectacle—The
quarters of the divisional commandant—His “office”—Staff clerks
at work—Telephone bells ringing—The commandant’s regret at
our coming—Big artillery attack to commence—A quarter of an
hour to spare—A peep at the Austrian trenches—A little, ruined
home—All movements of troops to trenches by night—Artillery
action about to commence—Not allowed go trenches—Adventure on
way back—Attempt cross no man’s land at the double—My little
“souvenir” of Asiago—Bursting shells—Ordered to take cover—The
wounded soldiers and the kitten—Anything but a pleasant spot—The
two _Carabinieri_—Cool courage—In the “funk-hole”—An inferno—My
own impressions—Effect on soldiers and our chauffeur—The wounded
sergeant—We prepare to make a start back—Irritating delay—A
shrapnel—My companion is wounded—Transformation along road—Curious
incident 163
CHAPTER XIV:
Slow but certain progress on the Trentino front—An open
secret—The mining of the Castalleto summit—Carried out by
_Alpini_—Recapture of Monte Cimone: also by _Alpini_—Heroic
exploits—Udine one’s _pied à terre_—An ideal “News centre”—The
Isonzo Front—The old days of the war correspondent as compared
with the present conditions—Well to be prepared—Returning to Udine
for lunch—Attracting attention—Unjustifiable—Things quiet at the
Front—Unusual heat of the summer—Changeable weather at Udine—Early
days of August—Increasing activity in the Isonzo Sector—Significant
fact—_Communiqué_ of August 4th—The _communiqué_ of the following
day—General attack by Italians all along this Front—Arrange start
for scene of action—My car companions 6th August—Magnificent
progress everywhere—Afternoon news—Capture of Monte Sabottina
announced—We make for Vipulzano—On the road—Stirring scenes—“New”
regiments—“Are we down-hearted”—The penchant for Englishmen—A
_cortège_ of prisoners—Like a huge crowd of beggars—Half-starved
and terror-stricken strapping young fellows 183
CHAPTER XV:
The commencement of the battle for Gorizia—We approach scene of
action—Sheltered road—Curious “Chinese” effect—Headquarters of
the 6th Corps d’Armée—Cottage of British Red Cross—Our cordial
reception by General Capello—A glorious _coup d’oeil_—Wonderful
spectacle—The Socialist Minister Leonida Bissolati—More good news
received—The scene before us—Explanation of word “Monte”—Continuous
line of bursting shells—Country in a state of irruption—No
indication of life anywhere—Not a sign of troops—My motor
goggles—Curious incidents—“Progress everywhere”—Colonel Clericetti
announces good news—Capture of Gorizia bridge-head—Excited
group of correspondents and officers—Arrange start at once with
two _confrères_ for fighting Front—Our plan—The thunder of the
guns—The rearguard of advancing army—Our pace slackened—Miles
and miles of troops—Wonderful spectacle of war—Mossa—Go on to
Valisella—Machine guns and rifle fire—Ghastly radiance—General
Marazzi’s Headquarters—Not allowed proceed further—Decide
make for Vipulzano—Arrive Arrive close on 10 o’clock—Bit late
to pay visit—General invites us to dinner—Large party of
officers—Memorable dinner—Atmosphere of exultation—News Austrians
retreating everywhere—Thousands more prisoners—Dawn of day of
victory—I propose a toast—On the terrace after dinner—Battle
in full progress—Awe-inspiring spectacle—Little lights, like
Will-o’-the-Wisps—Amazing explanation—Methodical precision of it
all—Austrian fire decreasing gradually—Time to think of getting
back to Udine and bed 195
CHAPTER XVI:
The capture of Gorizia—Up betimes—My lucky star in the ascendant—I
am put in a car with Barzini—Prepared for the good news of the
capture—Though not so soon—A slice of good fortune—Our chauffeur—We
get off without undue delay—The news of the crossing of the
Isonzo—Enemy in full retreat—We reach Lucinico—The barricade—View
of Gorizia—The Austrian trenches—“No man’s land”—Battlefield
_débris_—Austrian dead—An unearthly region—Austrian General’s
Headquarters—Extraordinary place—Spoils of Victory—Gruesome
spectacle—Human packages—General Marazzi—Podgora—Grafenberg—Dead
everywhere—The destroyed bridges—Terrifying Explosions—Lieutenant
Ugo Oyetti—A remarkable feat—The heroes of Podgora—“Ecco
Barzini”—A curtain of shell fire—Marvellous escape of a
gun-team—In the faubourgs of Gorizia—“Kroner” millionaires—The
Via Leoni—The dead officer—The Corso Francesco Guiseppe—The
“Grosses” café—Animated scene—A café in name only—Empty cellar
and larder—Water supply cut off—A curious incident—Fifteen months
a voluntary prisoner—A walk in Gorizia—Wilful bombardment—The
inhabitants—The “danger Zone”—Exciting incident—Under fire—The
abandoned dog—The Italian flags—The arrival of troops—An army
of gentlemen—Strange incidents—The young Italian girl—No
looting—At the Town Hall—The good-looking Austrian woman—A
hint—The _Carabinieri_—“Suspects”—Our return journey to Udine—My
trophies—The sunken pathway—Back at Lucinico—The most impressive
spectacle of the day 219
CHAPTER XVII:
After Gorizia—Method and thoroughness of General Cadorna—Amusing
story—Result of the three days fighting—Employment for first
time of cavalry and cyclists—Udine reverts to its usual
calm—Arrival of visitors—Lord Northcliffe and others—Whitney
Warren—Changes along the fighting Front—Monte San Michele—A
misleading statement—“Big Events” pending—A visit to Gorizia—My
companions—Great change visible on road—Battlefield cleared
away—Gorizia—Deserted streets—Rules and regulations for the
inhabitants—The two cafés open—Rumours of counter-attack—The
General’s Headquarters—Somewhat scant courtesy—A stroll round—We
decide spend night in Gorizia—The deserted Hotel—We take possession
of rooms—A jolly supper party—A glorious summer night—One long
hellish tatoo—The Austrian counter-attack—A night of discomfort—The
noise from the trenches—The cause of my “restlessness”—The
“comfortable” beds—Gorizia in the early morning—Indifference
to the bombardment—Back to Udine via Savogna, Sdraussina and
Sagrado—Panorama of military activity—Monte San Michele—Looking for
a needle in a bundle of hay—The cemeteries—The pontoon bridge—The
Austrian trenches—The cavalry division—Renewed shelling of
Gorizia 237
CHAPTER XVIII:
Big operations on the Carso—General optimism—No risks
taken—Great changes brought about by the victory—A trip to the
new lines—Gradisca and Sagrado—A walk round Gradisca—Monte
San Michele—Sagrado—Disappearance of Austrian aeroplanes and
observation balloons—Position of Italian “drachen” as compared
with French—On the road to Doberdo—_Moral_ of troops—Like at
a picnic—A regiment on its way to the trenches—The Italian a
“thinker”—Noticeable absence of smoking—My first impression of the
Carso—Nature in its most savage mood—The Brighton downs covered
with rocks—Incessant thunder of guns—Doberdo hottest corner of
the Carso—No troops—Stroll through ruins of street—Ready to make
a bolt—A fine view—The Austrian trenches—Shallow furrows—Awful
condition of trenches—Grim and barbarous devices—Austrian
infamies—Iron-topped bludgeons, poisoned cigarettes, etc.—Under
fire—A dash for a dug-out—The imperturbable _Carabinieri_—Like
a thunderbolt—A little incident—Brilliant wit—The limit of
patience—The Italian batteries open fire—No liberties to
be taken—On the way back—Effect of the heavy firing—Motor
ambulances—Magnified effect of shell fire on Carso—Rock
splinters—Terrible wounds 255
CHAPTER XIX:
Difficulties Italians have still to contend with on way to
Trieste—Italian superior in fighting quality—Dash and reckless
courage—Success reckoned by yards—Total number of prisoners
taken—A huge seine net—The “call of the wild”—A visit to San
Martino del Carso—My companion—Our route—The attraction of the
road—Early morning motoring—On our own—The unconventional quarters
of the divisional general—The Rubbia-Savogna railway station—The
signalman’s cabin—An interesting chat with the General—At our
own risk—The big camp on Monte San Michele—The desolate waste
of the Carso—An incident—Nothing to sketch—“Ecco San Martino
del Carso”—Shapeless dust-covered rubble—The Austrian trenches
amongst the ruins—Under fire—Back to Udine—A pleasant little
episode—Déjeuner to Colonel Barbarich at Grado—A “day’s outing”—The
little “Human” touch—The “funk-hole” in the dining room—A trip in
a submarine chaser—Things quiet in Udine—A period of comparative
inactivity 269
CHAPTER XX:
Declaration of war between Italy and Germany—Effect of declaration
at Udine—Interesting incident—General Cadorna consents to give
me a sitting for a sketch—The curious conditions—Methodic and
business-like—Punctuality and precision—A reminder of old
days—I am received by the Generalissimo—His simple, unaffected
manner—Unconventional chat—“That will please them in England”—My
Gorizia sketch book—The General a capital model—“Hard as nails”—The
sketch finished—Rumour busy again—A visit to Monfalcone—One of
the General’s Aides-de-camp—Start at unearthly hour—Distance to
Monfalcone—Arctic conditions—“In time for lunch”—Town life and
war—Austrian hour for opening fire—Monfalcone—Deserted aspect—The
damage by bombardment—The guns silent for the moment—The ghost of a
town—“That’s only one of our own guns”—A walk to the shipbuilding
yards—The communication trench—The bank of the canal—The pontoon
bridge—The immense red structure—The deserted shipbuilding
establishment—Fantastic forms—Vessels in course of construction—A
strange blight—The hull of the 20,000 ton liner—The gloomy
interior—The view of the Carso and Trieste through a port-hole—Of
soul-stirring interest—Hill No. 144—The “daily strafe”—“Just in
time”—Back to Udine “in time for lunch”—Return to the Carso—Attack
on the Austrian positions at Veliki Hribach—New Difficulties—Dense
woods—Impenetrable cover—Formidable lines of trenches
captured—Fighting for position at Nova Vas—Dramatic ending—Weather
breaking up—Operations on a big scale perforce suspended—Return
London await events 281
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
The Author in San Martino del Carso _Frontispiece_
During the entire day the onward march continued 11
Rugged and threatening, visible for miles around, is the
frowning pinnacle of bare rock known as Monte Nero 26
It meant practically scaling a cliff of rock 38
A rude altar of rough boxes was set up 50
The King appeared indefatigable and was out and about in
all weathers 62
Along the big military highway constructed by Napoleon 74
As he whirled past in the big car 88
The whole region was positively alive with warlike energy 100
A very useful-looking Nordenfeldt quick-firer mounted on
the fore-deck 112
Before us stretched the broad valley of the Adige 124
On one of the worst portions we passed a gang of peasant
women carrying barbed wire up to the trenches 136
One would have liked to spend an indefinite time in these
scenes of warlike activity 148
But nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians 160
And came up with reinforcements hurrying forward 172
The least severely wounded occupants jumped out of the
wagon 186
And day by day one heard of minor successes in Trentino 198
The object of this being to hide movements of troops and
convoys 210
Two infantry regiments, the 11th and 12th, forded and swam
across the river 222
The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and we
were practically carried up the gully with them 234
I was fortunate enough to get some interesting sketches of
the cavalry crossing the river under fire 246
The only difficulty the officers experienced was in getting
them to advance with caution 258
They came racing across the stretch of “No Man’s Land” 270
A grey-haired officer of medium height, whom I immediately
recognized as the Generalissimo, was reading an
official document 283
To advance through the jungle called for all the cool,
disciplined courage of the Italian soldier 291
CHAPTER I
Marching orders—I leave for Rome—Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne
in war time—My campaigning kit—The war-correspondent’s list—Quaint
item—Travelling “light”—A box of choice Havanas—Boulogne to
Paris; well-intentioned ladies and their “Woodbines”—The one and
only cigarette—Paris to Turin—Curious order on train—Method and
prescience—Few soldiers on route—Arrival in Rome—A cheap room—No
sign of excitement in streets—23rd May—Excitability of the Italian
no longer noticeable—Rome unruffled—The declaration of war—On the
Corso Umberto that evening—The Café Aragno—National stoicism—THE
DAY—Business as usual—The general mobilisation—A triumph of
organization—At the War Office.
CHAPTER I
“Gerrard 2575?”
“Hello—Hello!”
“That you, Julius Price? Charles Ingram speaking—When are you
starting for Italy?”
I had only received my marching orders from the office the previous
day, so the thought came to my mind “Early next week,” but I hadn’t
the pluck to give expression to it. Instead, I compromised lamely
with “As soon as possible.”
“Rubbish!” snapped the voice, “Get off at once.”
I had known my Charles Ingram—best of chiefs—most loyal of
friends—too long to attempt to argue. I had started on too many
journeys for _The Illustrated London News_ not to realize that a
War-Artist must have no collars to buy—no friends to bid farewell
to—so there was only one stereotyped answer possible—“All right, I’ll
leave to-morrow morning.”
“Well, goodbye and good luck to you.”
8.30 the following morning therefore saw me at Charing Cross, duly
passported and baggaged, bound for Rome.
Although Italy had not yet officially declared her intention of
joining in with the Allies, it was well known that it was but a
matter of a few days before she would do so. The War fever all over
Italy was at its height, and there seemed no possibility of anything
occurring to influence adversely the decision of the King. The sands
of time were rapidly running out, while Count Berchtold, the Austrian
Chancellor, was deliberately—for the Allies, fortunately—playing with
the destiny of his nation.
The centre of interest at the moment was obviously the Capital, so
I was anxious to reach it in time to witness the historic scenes of
the near future. Rumour had it that so eager was the nation to get
to grips with its hereditary foe that a revolution would ensue were
the King to hesitate as to his course of action, while it had been
an open secret for some weeks that a general mobilisation of the
Army and Navy had been in active progress since the commencement of
the period of tension. Italy, therefore, was the _point de mire_ of
the entire world on the 20th of May, 1915, when I left London, and I
could congratulate myself that, thanks to the journalistic _flair_
of Charles Ingram, I should be on the spot in time for anything that
might happen.
At that date one was still able to reach Paris via Folkestone and
Boulogne—England was only just awakening to the fact she was at
war—the popular short sea-passage route had not yet been taken
over by the military authorities, and although the examination of
passports and passengers was severe, there was nothing like the
difficulty and delay one now experiences in getting across the
Channel. The scheduled time from London to Paris was a mere matter of
twelve hours, which, of course, was not excessively long under the
circumstances, while as compared with the time the journey occupies
to-day via Southampton and Havre, it was rapidity itself.
It had been a bit of a rush to get through all I had to do in the
twenty-four hours I had at my disposal before leaving London.
Consuls will not be hurried even for War-Correspondents, and one’s
passport nowadays is far and away the most important article of one’s
belongings. There are, moreover, always a hundred and one things that
must be done before starting on an expedition of indefinite duration.
I know of nothing more irritating when “on the road” than suddenly
to discover you have forgotten to bring with you some insignificant
but invaluable object which can be easily procured in London but
which is unobtainable abroad.
In common with most Correspondents, I have always made it a habit to
have my kit kept more or less packed ready for emergency, but not
to the extent of one of the brotherhood, who, in order to obviate
the danger of finding something missing from his trunks while on the
war-path, had lists of the various items pasted in the lid of each
trunk which he would carefully verify before starting. An excellent
idea, and even amusing in places, as on the occasion when his old
soldier-servant had described one of the important items in the list,
“False tooth (Supernumerary).”
That the selection of every detail of one’s baggage when travelling
“light” is an all important matter is incontrovertible, but personal
experience and individual fancy can be the only guide to what one
is likely really to want on a hazardous journey. For myself, I have
contrived to sort things down to an irreducible minimum, which will
go in a car or the luggage rack of a railway carriage. This, together
with a small attaché case for my books, papers and spare pipes,
constitutes my entire baggage, of which I never lose sight.
Two pals came to see me off, and one, a connoisseur in these matters,
brought me a box of his choicest Havanas to smoke _en route_, and
delighted though I was at his kind thought, I felt I was going to
have trouble with this unexpected addition to my luggage. And it
started when I found that my bags were so full up that I could find
no immediate home for a box of 100 big cigars, much as I could
appreciate them. I could not help feeling that had my friend given me
a leg of mutton to carry to Rome it would have been a less awkward
parting gift.
The trouble I had with those cigars makes me smile even now when I
think of it—they seemed to get everywhere—rather than carry the box,
I endeavoured to distribute them in various pockets—with the result
that I was simply overwhelmed with Corona Coronas, and although
I smoked hard all the way it seemed to make no impression on the
supply, and the thought of what might happen at the Italian frontier
became a positive obsession.
I had already spent six months on the French front, so was pretty
familiar with the warlike scenes that presented themselves on the
other side of the Channel, but to most of my fellow travellers they
were quite new.
Several well-intentioned ladies in the train from Boulogne to Paris
had provided themselves with big supplies of “Woodbines,” and all the
way to Etaples, whenever we passed soldiers along the line, they were
busy throwing the small packets of cigarettes out of the windows to
English and French indiscriminately.
It was Voltaire, I believe, who asserted that England has sixty
religious sects but only one sauce. I fancy that the French “Poilu”
would now substitute “cigarette” for “sauce,” but whether they prefer
the “one and only” to their more robust “Caporals” is a matter of
doubt. For my own part, I was too busy that day getting through with
my Coronas to trouble much about either.
I should have liked to have spent a few hours in dear old Paris, but
the exigency of the situation in Italy did not permit me to entertain
the idea for a moment. I just had sufficient time to drive to the
Gare de Lyon, dine at a restaurant near the Station, and catch the
Rome express.
The train was not crowded, and the journey till we reached Turin was
quite featureless with the exception, as far as I could judge, that
everyone was discussing the situation in Italy.
At the frontier station of Modane, where the examination of luggage
was quite perfunctory, some important news had just come through. The
Parliament, on reassembling, had given to the Salandra Cabinet by
an overwhelming majority a vote of confidence, which amounted to a
declaration of war against Austria.
At Turin, where we arrived in the afternoon, the station was buzzing
with rumours that war had already been declared—this, as it turned
out, was not the case, but it showed how acute was the crisis and the
excited state of popular opinion.
This was borne strongly upon me by a curious order given to the
passengers on the train leaving Turin. In broad daylight all blinds
had to be drawn down and kept down till we had passed a certain
station further on. The reason for this did not transpire, but it was
rigorously enforced.
It was a typical Italian summer afternoon, so the discomfort thus
entailed in the stuffy carriages may be better imagined than
described; but it brought home to you the seriousness of the
situation and the fact that whatever the outcome the Government
was taking no chances. What was happening in the district through
which we were passing was none of our business, and they let us know
it—thus.
This was actually the first indication of the nearness of war, and
also an illuminating insight of the “method” and prescience of the
war department. What struck you everywhere was the small number of
soldiers one saw, and you could but conclude that if movement of
troops were taking place they were perhaps being carried out in the
zone where the blinds had to be drawn, though Turin was so far from
any prospective front that this seemed an excessive precaution.
Rome, if not exactly deserted, was much emptier than usual for the
time of year; but as it was 84° in the shade that may have had
something to do with it.
At the Grand Hotel, where I proposed staying, all the upper floors
were closed.
The white waistcoated manager showed me a fine room on the second
floor, and on my enquiring the price, asked me, as I thought with
diffidence, whether I thought six lires a day was too much. As I knew
the charge in normal times would not have been less than three times
that amount, I told him I did not—and took it.
A stroll through the principal streets in the cool of the evening,
when one might have expected some indication of popular feeling,
revealed absolutely no sign of anything abnormal. It was outwardly
the Rome of peace times, not as you would have expected to find it
on the eve of war; yet the Press was full of the gravity of the
impending crisis, and in the Capital, as on the journey towards it,
one was struck by the remarkable absence of soldiers everywhere.
The following day, Sunday, the 23rd of May, it was evident from the
tenor of the morning papers that the _ultima ratio_ was in sight,
and that it was now only a question of hours, or even minutes, when
the momentous decision of the King would be announced. There was a
significant calm everywhere that one could not fail to notice, though
nobody appeared to have any doubt as to what was pending.
Strangely enough all the old characteristics of the Latin race seem
to be dying out—the excitability, the hotheadedness, the volubility
of the Italian of the days of yore are no longer _en evidence_.
The men of Italy of to-day are of a different fibre, and though
the old-time mettle remains, it is shown differently. There is a
growing tendency amongst all classes towards the imperturbability and
placidity one associates with Northern races. Events are accepted
more dispassionately, and there is far less of the garrulity and
dramatic gesture of twenty years ago.
As was generally anticipated, the fateful decision was made known
towards evening, and the papers appeared announcing the declaration
of war, and that Baron von Macchio, the Austrian Ambassador, had been
handed his passports at 3.30.
Even then, when one would have expected the pent up feelings of the
people to display themselves in some form of demonstration, there was
no commotion whatever.
Along the Corso Umberto the gaily-dressed crowds strolled as
leisurely as ever, and the laughter and merriment were the same as
on any ordinary Sunday evening. There were perhaps more people about
than usual, but this was probably because it was a delightfully cool
evening after an exceptionally hot day.
The Café Aragno, which is the hub of the political, journalistic and
social life of the Capital, was, of course, packed, as it always is
on Sundays. Groups of people were standing about in the roadway and
on the pavement reading and discussing the news. “Extra Special”
Editions of the evening papers, with fresh details of the situation,
seemed to be coming out every few minutes, and the paper boys did a
big trade.
If, however, I had not seen it for myself I should never have
believed that such composure in such exceptional circumstances could
be possible. I could not help contrasting in my mind this quite
remarkable absence of excitability in Rome with what I had seen
in Paris on the first day of the mobilisation. When the streets
resounded to the cheers of the Reservists and everywhere was wild
excitement.
It may have been that the event had been so long anticipated in Italy
that when the actual moment arrived its effect was discounted; but
nevertheless stoicism of this remarkable character certainly struck
one as being quite an unexpected trait of the national temperament.
I was, I must admit, the more surprised and disappointed, as my
instructions from my Editor were to get to Rome as quickly as
possible and make sketches of the scenes that would doubtless be
witnessed in the streets as soon as war was declared, but there was
no more to sketch in Rome on that Sunday evening than one would see
any day in London, and there were certainly far fewer soldiers about.
In fact, it is probably no exaggeration to state that it was with a
sigh of relief that the Italians learned that hostilities were about
to commence against Austria.
“The Day” that had been looked forward to for forty-nine years, since
peace was forced upon Italy by Prussia and Austria in 1860 after the
Battle of Sadowa, had at last come, and found the nation united in
its determination to endure anything and stand any sacrifice in its
resolve to conquer its hereditary foe once and for all.
The absence of outward sign of feeling amongst the populace was as
much marked in the days following the declaration of hostilities. The
object of the war was well understood, and therefore popular with
all classes—in the Capital at any rate, and there was in consequence
no flurry or appearance of undue restlessness anywhere—business went
on as usual, and except for the shouting of the newsboys, one could
scarcely have known that war had commenced.
[Illustration: During the entire day the onward march continued (_see
page 37_)
_To face page 11_]
All this was, of course, due to the fact that the general
mobilisation had been gradually and quietly taking place for some
time previously. There were therefore none of the heartrending scenes
such as one witnessed in the streets and round the railway stations
in Paris after the first flush of excitement had worn off, for most
of the Reservists were well on the way to the Frontier by the time
war was declared.
It was a veritable triumph of organisation, and reflected the
greatest credit on all concerned.
I had occasion to go to the War Office several times, and found
an air of solid business on all sides that was very impressive.
Everything appeared to be going on as though by clockwork—a wonderful
testimony to the efficiency of the different departments. There was
not the slightest indication that anything had been left to chance or
to luck in “muddling through somehow.”
Of course it is incontrovertible that those in charge of the
destinies of the nation had had ample time to get ready and to profit
by the lessons of the war elsewhere, but this does not alter the fact
that it was only the wonderful state of preparedness in Italy that
enabled her to take the initiative directly war was declared. It
certainly revealed an intuitive power of grasping the exigencies of
the situation on the part of the Chiefs of the War department that to
my mind presaged victory from the outset.
CHAPTER II
My credentials—The War Zone—Italy’s preparedness—The Press
Censorship—General Elia’s advice—Disappointment—A pipe in the
Pincio—An inspiration—I leave for Venice—Venice in war time—The
lonely pigeons of the Place St. Marc—The Doge’s Palace—The
bronze horses—Interior of St. Marc, strange spectacle—First act
of war between Italy and Austria—Aeroplane bombs Venice—French
aviators—Treasures of Venice—Everyday life in Venice during
daytime—After nightfall—On the _qui vive_—Extraordinary
precautions—Dangers of the streets—Spy fever—_Permis de séjour_—The
angry crowd—Defences against air attacks—Venice not a _place
forte_—Nearest point of the Front—The British Vice-Consul, Mr.
Beak—A good Samaritan—The letter of credentials—The Commandant of
Venice—More advice—New Rescript of the Generalissimo—Reference to
Correspondents—Decide attempt go to Udine—The language difficulty—The
waiter at the Hotel Danielli—His offer to accompany me—Make
arrangements at once—Introduced to Peppino Garibaldi—Amusing
incident.
CHAPTER II
I arrived in Rome armed with sufficient credentials and
recommendations, apparently, to frank me through every barrier to
the Front, but I was not long discovering that in spite of the
courtesy with which I was received by the officials to whom I had
introductions, it was hopeless to expect any relaxation, for the time
being, of the stringent decree with regard to the War Correspondents
that had been issued by the Generalissimo.
A “War Zone” was declared at once, and the most rigorous precautions
taken to insure its being guarded against intrusion. Within its
confines were several important cities, as for instance, Brescia,
Venice, Verona, Vicenza, Belluno, Bologna, Padua and Udine and the
entire area was considered as in a state of war, and immediately
placed under what was practically martial law. No railway tickets
were obtainable unless one had a permit to travel on the line.
It is of interest to mention all these conditions ruling at the very
beginning of the war as affording an object lesson in the “method”
and foresight which were displayed in every move of General Cadorna
even to the smallest details.
Italy took a long while making up her mind to throw in her lot with
the Allies, but there was no losing time once she made a start,
as was soon proved, and her preparedness was evidenced in every
direction.
A censorship of the most drastic character was established at once,
and it looked at one time as if correspondents were going to have a
bad time of it, and see even less, if possible, than in the other
areas of the war.
“Go and make a journey through Italy; there is lots to see that
will interest you as an artist, and come back in about three months
from now; then perhaps some arrangements will have been made with
reference to correspondents going to the Front.” This was all I
could get from General Elia, the genial Under-Secretary of State for
War, who speaks English fluently—when at last, through the kindly
intervention of the British Embassy I managed to see him and begged
to be permitted to accompany the troops.
This could scarcely be construed as encouraging, and as I came away
from the interview I must admit I felt the reverse of elated. I had
already spent a week trying to get permission to go to the Front, and
I certainly had not the slightest intention of playing the “tourist”
for the next few months, nor of idling away my time in Rome if I
could help it. But what was to be done?
I could hardly speak a word of Italian, so knew I was handicapped
terribly for getting about alone. I strolled up to the solitude of
the Pincio, and lighting my pipe, sat down under the trees to think
it out. I forgot to mention that the decree placing Venice and other
towns within the War Zone was not to come into force for another
twenty-four hours.
Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I knew Venice well, why not go
there; at any rate I should be quite near the Front, and with luck
I might manage to make my way there. Anyhow it could not fail to be
more interesting so close to the scene of operations than in Rome.
I made up my mind to start that day if possible, and, going to
Cooks’ office near the hotel, found that I was in luck’s way—there
was a train that afternoon, and there was not the least difficulty
in getting a ticket, but this was the last opportunity of doing so
without a permit, I was told.
The next day therefore saw me in Venice and amidst familiar scenes.
But it was a very altered place from the Venice of peace time. It
looked very dreary and lifeless. The week that had elapsed since the
commencement of hostilities had brought about a great change.
There were no visitors left—only one hotel was open, Danielli’s—the
Grand having been taken over by the Red Cross Society; the canals,
those delightful arteries of Venetian life, appeared almost deserted,
although the steam launches were running as usual; the pigeons had
the place St. Marc practically to themselves, workmen were busy
removing the glorious windows from the Doge’s Palace and bricking up
the supporting arches.
The chapel at the base of the Campanile was shrouded in thick
brickwork; the famous bronze horses on the portico of St. Marc had
been taken down at once; the interior of the church itself presented
a curious spectacle, as it had several feet of sand on the floor, and
was hidden by a big bastion of sandbags.
It is perhaps of interest to mention that the first act of war
between Austria and Italy took place at Venice. At 3.30 on the
morning of the 24th May the inhabitants were aroused by the loud boom
of a signal gun—this was immediately followed by the screech of all
the steam whistles in the City and on the boats.
In a very few minutes the batteries of the Aerial-Guard Station and
machine guns and rifles were firing as rapidly as they could at the
intruders—several Taubes flying at a great height—without effect,
unfortunately, as they managed to drop several bombs and get away
unscathed. Two of the bombs fell in the courtyard of the Colonna di
Castelpo, one in the Tana near the Rio della Tana, another in the San
Lucia, and a fourth in the Rio del Carmini.
It was said that an enormous parachute, to which was suspended
incandescent matter to light up the ground, was released from one
of the aeroplanes, but this was not corroborated; it is certain
though that the bomb that fell in San Lucia was incendiary and spread
lighted petroleum, without effect happily. Austria, therefore, lost
no time in beginning her war of vandalism.
Every precaution possible was being adopted while I was there, to
protect the city against any further aeroplane attacks, and there was
a contingent of French aviators—amongst whom was Beaumont—staying at
the hotel, who were constantly patrolling over the city.
Unfortunately, in a place like Venice, which is such a veritable
conglomeration of artistic treasures, it is obviously very difficult
to protect all, and with a thoroughly ruthless and barbaric enemy
like Austria it is to be feared that a lot of irreparable damage will
be done before the end of the war.
Life in Venice during the daytime was practically normal—sunshine
engenders confidence; it was after nightfall that you realised the
high state of tension in which everyone was living; it could scarcely
be described as terror, but a “nervy,” “jumpy” condition, which
was very uncanny. Everyone seemed to be on the _qui vive_, though
curiously enough the fear of the Venetians, as far as I could judge,
was not so much for themselves as for the safety of their beloved
city.
The most extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure its being
shrouded in impenetrable obscurity at night—a ray of light shewing
through a window meant instant arrest for the occupant of the room.
Even smoking out of doors at night was strictly forbidden. The
doorways of restaurants, cafés, and shops were heavily draped with
double curtains, and after eight o’clock the electric light was
turned off and only candles allowed.
It would be difficult to describe the weird effect of Venice in total
darkness on a moonless night.
It is said that more people have lost their lives by falling into the
canals than through aeroplane bombs, and I can quite believe it, for
it was positively dangerous to go a yard unless one was absolutely
certain of one’s whereabouts.
Added to this was the risk of being mistaken for a spy. One had to
get a _permis de séjour_ from the Police, but even with this in your
pocket one was never really safe, for they had “spy fever” very badly
indeed when I was there, and even old and well-known inhabitants were
not immune from suspicion at times.
I heard of several cases of hair-breadth escapes from the clutches of
the angry crowd which would gather on the slightest suggestion. To be
heard speaking with a foreign accent was often sufficient to attract
unpleasant attention, so you were inclined to be chary of venturing
far from the Place St. Marc at any time, however much your papers
might be _en règle_.
Apart from the defensive work that was being undertaken to protect
Venice from Austrian air attacks, there was nothing of interest in
the way of military or naval activity to be seen. Destroyers and
torpedo boats occasionally came into the lagoon, but seldom remained
long.
The position of Venice makes it a sort of cul de sac, and of
no importance whatever from the point of view of land and sea
operations, and it is quite at the mercy of Austrian aeroplanes or
seaplanes operating from Pola or Trieste.
The sole object the Austrians can have in attacking it therefore is
to cause wanton damage to its historic buildings and art treasures,
for it is not a _place forte_ in any sense of the word; and if there
is one thing more than another calculated to stiffen the backs of
the Italians against their enemy and to make them the more determined
to do all in their power to crush Austria for ever, it is this
cold-blooded onslaught on their national artistic heirlooms, for
which there is no military justification whatever.
At that time the nearest point of the Front was some 40 miles from
Venice, in Friuli, and after a few days marking time, I decided that
this was where I must make for if I wanted to see anything of what
was going on in this early stage of the war.
The courteous and genial British Vice-Consul, Mr. Beak, who had just
taken over the post, proved a veritable good Samaritan, and did his
best to help me.
I have not mentioned, I think, that when in Rome I had been given an
important letter of credentials by the British Embassy recommending
me for any facilities the Italian military authorities might be
prepared to grant me, and the letter now proved invaluable. Mr. Beak
got a translation made of it, to which he affixed the consular stamp,
and, armed with this, I paid a visit to the Commandant of Venice, at
the Arsenal.
He received me with the utmost cordiality, but when I suggested his
giving me permission to go to the Front he informed me that he had
no power to do this; that my best plan would be to go direct to
Headquarters at Udine, where doubtless I would get what I wanted on
the strength of my letter from the Embassy. I said nothing, but with
the recollection of what General Elia had told me in Rome, I had my
doubts. Anyhow, it gave me the idea of going to Udine and trying my
luck; if the worst came to the worst, I could but be sent back, and
in the meantime I should have seen something of the Front.
The following day a new rescript of the Generalissimo appeared in the
papers to the effect that until further orders no correspondents
were allowed in the War Zone. This was awkward for me, as, of course,
I was already in it, but I made up my mind to run the further risk of
getting up to the actual Front if it were possible. But how, without
speaking Italian, for, of course, the “interpreter” element had
disappeared from Venice since there were no longer any tourists to
interpret for.
My ever faithful pipe as usual helped me to solve the difficulty
(what I owe to Lady Nicotine for ideas evolved under her sway I can
never be sufficiently grateful for).
There was a very intelligent young waiter at the hotel who spoke
English fluently, and it occurred to me that he would make a useful
guide if he would go with me. He not only jumped at the idea, but
actually offered to come for a few days for nothing if he could get
permission from the manager, and if I paid his expenses, so anxious
was he to see something of the military operations.
There was no difficulty in getting the consent of the manager as the
hotel was practically empty; and then my friend, the Vice-Consul,
again good-naturedly came to my assistance by giving me a letter to
the Military Commandant of Udine, in which he stated fully my object
in coming to the front, and the fact that I was carrying a special
letter of credentials from the Embassy.
These two important documents, together with my passport, were, I
felt, sufficient to frank me some distance unless unforseen trouble
arose; so I made arrangements to start at once; and in order not to
be hampered with baggage, as I did not know where my venture would
take me, decided to leave my bulky luggage behind at the hotel, only
taking with me what I could carry on my back in my “ruksak.”
Before I left I was introduced to a very nice fellow who had just
arrived in Venice, and a somewhat amusing incident occurred. I did
not catch his name at first, and, as he spoke English so fluently and
looked so much like an Englishman, I was somehow under the impression
that he was a correspondent of a London paper. He appeared mystified
when, after a few casual remarks, I asked him how long he had been in
Italy.
“How long?” he exclaimed. “Why, I live here.” “But you are not an
Italian?” “Well, you see my grandfather was,” he replied with a
touch of humour which I was only able to appreciate, when I heard
later that my “English journalist” was Peppino Garibaldi, a nephew
of the great patriot. He had just come from the Front, where he had
been to see the King to offer his services in raising a regiment of
volunteers similar to the one he had recently commanded on the French
front in the Argonne. His offer, it appeared, was not accepted, but
afterwards I learned he was given a commission in the Army, and he
has since so distinguished himself in action that he has risen to the
rank of Colonel. I believe his brothers have also done equally well
in the Army, thus proving that they are all real “chips of the old
block.”
CHAPTER III
From Venice to Udine—Reservists rejoining—Interesting crowd—Delays
en route—Endless procession of military trains—Drawn blinds—The Red
Cross train—Arrival Udine—Scene on platform—In search of an hotel—A
little incident—The well-dressed civilian—The obliging guide—My
suspicions—Awkward questions—The best hotel in Udine—A little
“Trattoria” close by—A cheap room—First impressions of Udine—At the
Police Office—The _permis de séjour_—The _Carabinieri_ and the local
police—The fascination of the big guns—The “Military Commandant of
Udine”—A difficult proposition—The luck of the undelivered letter—My
guide has to leave me—I change my quarters—The Hotel “Tower of
London”—Alone in Udine—An awkward predicament—A friend in need—Still
more luck—Dr. Berthod—I am offered a studio—I accept—The delight of
having this studio in Udine.
CHAPTER III
The train service between Venice and Udine was apparently running as
usual, and there was no difficulty in getting tickets in spite of
the drastic regulations with regard to passengers. Possibly it was
assumed that anyone already inside the War Zone had permission to be
there, so no further questions were asked.
My guide, of course, got the tickets, so I had no trouble in that
matter; perhaps if I had gone to the booking office myself with my
limited vocabulary of Italian it would have been different. As it
was, it all seemed ridiculously simple, and there appeared to be no
difficulty whatever.
In Venice they are so accustomed to Englishmen, and artists are such
“common objects of the seashore,” that I attracted no particular
notice, in spite of my rucksack and my Norfolk jacket, breeches and
leggings.
The train left Venice at 8 o’clock in the morning, and was crowded
with officers in uniform and reservists in civilian attire, going
to join their regiments. Every class of Italian life was to be seen
amongst them—from the peasant with his humble belongings in a paper
parcel to the smart young man from Venice with his up-to-date suit
case and other luggage.
All were in the highest possible spirits, and it gave me more the
impression of a holiday outing of some big manufacturing company than
a troop-train as it virtually was.
I now began to realize how handicapped I was in not speaking Italian;
it would have been so interesting to have been able to chat with
these enthusiastic young fellows.
It was supposed to take three hours to get to Udine, but we were two
hours and a half longer, as we were continually being held up for
trains with troops, artillery and every description of _materiel_ to
pass. It was an endless procession, and the soldiers in them seemed
as happy as sand-boys, and cheered lustily as they passed us.
The blinds of our windows and doors had to be kept drawn down the
whole way, and no one except the officers was allowed to get out of
the train at the stations under any pretext. Still there was not much
that we did not see; the blinds did not fit so tight as all that.
At one place we passed a long Red Cross train full of badly-wounded
men just in from the Front. This was the first time there had been
any evidence of the fighting that was taking place on ahead. It was
almost a startling sight, and came in sharp contrast to the cheering
crowds of healthy boys in the troop trains that had gone by a few
minutes previously.
There was a big crowd of officers and soldiers on the platform at
Udine, which was the terminus of the line, and one realised at
once that it was an important military centre. Outside was a large
assemblage of vehicles, motor waggons, and ambulance cars, and
altogether there was a scene of military activity that presented a
sharp contrast to sleepy Venice.
[Illustration: Rugged and threatening, visible for miles around is
the frowning pinnacle of bare rock known as Monte Nero (_see page 40_)
_To face page 26_]
The station is some little distance from the town, so we set off in
search of a small hotel we had been recommended to where we could get
quiet lodgings for a day or two as I did not want to put up anywhere
where we should attract undue attention. I had thought it would be
advisable to drop the “War Correspondent” for the time being and to
call myself simply a wandering artist in search of Military subjects,
and my intelligent young guide quite entered into my idea—it was
only a harmless little fib after all.
A few hundred yards from the station a little incident occurred
which, curiously enough, turned out to be the commencement of the run
of luck which, with one exception, of which I shall tell later, I had
during the whole of my stay in Udine. It came about in this wise.
A good-looking, well-dressed man in civilian attire caught us up as
we were walking along, and, noticing that we seemed uncertain which
way to take, asked pleasantly if we were looking for any particular
street. My companion unhesitatingly told him we had just arrived in
Udine, and were looking for lodgings.
The stranger, noticing I could not speak Italian, addressed me in
a very good French, and obligingly offered to accompany us part of
the way. I could not well refuse, but I recollect how the thought
instantly flashed through my mind that he was perhaps a police
official in mufti or a detective, and my suspicions seemed to be
confirmed by a question he put to me bluntly.
“Are you journalists?” he enquired suddenly.
My first impulse was to ask what business it was of his what we
were, when it flashed through my mind that it was better not to
resent his query, which might after all mean no harm. So I replied
that I was a travelling artist in search of military subjects, and
that my companion was my interpreter. “But why do you ask if we are
journalists?” I continued.
“Because journalists are forbidden to come to Udine, and only
yesterday the famous Barzini himself was arrested and sent back to
Milan for coming here without permission. Of course there may be no
objection to you as an artist if all your papers are in order.”
I assured him they were, but nevertheless I did not feel very
reassured after what he had told me; it seemed a sort of hint
that unless I was very sure of my position I had better not think
of taking lodgings at Udine, otherwise I was asking for trouble.
However, I had weighed all this in my mind beforehand, and was well
aware of the risk I was taking.
It makes me smile even now when I recall how curtly I answered him,
and how every remark he made only increased my early doubts as to
his bona-fides, for he turned out to be as good and genuine a fellow
as I ever met, and had it not been for this chance meeting, my early
impressions of Udine would have been very different to what they
were, apart from the result it had on my work whilst there, but of
all this more anon.
The modest hotel we had been recommended to put up at was merely
modest in comparison with Danielli’s at Venice, for it was the Hotel
d’Italie, one of the best and most frequented in Udine, and the very
last place I should have chosen for seclusion. As it turned out,
they had not a room vacant, so we had perforce to seek accommodation
elsewhere.
Meanwhile the obliging stranger had left us to our own devices, much
to my relief, as I was not over keen on his knowing where we put up.
There happened to be a little “trattoria” close by, and we went in
to get something to eat. It was late for lunch, so we had it to
ourselves, and the proprietor, seeing we were strangers, came and had
a chat with us.
It turned out that he had a room to let for 1.50 per night with two
beds in it; it was large and very clean, so, to avoid walking about
trying to find something better, I told him that I would take it. But
it was more easily said than done.
“You must go to the Questura (the police) and get their permission
to stay in Udine before I can let you have it,” he told us. This was
a bit awkward, but there was no help for it but to go at once and get
the ordeal over, so we made our way at once to the police station.
We had to pass through a main street, and I realised at once that
Udine, although the “Front” and the Headquarters of the Army, was
only a small Italian garrison town, with perhaps more soldiers about
than there would have been in normal times.
Considering how close it was at that moment to the actual opening
operations of the war, it was distinctly disappointing from my point
of view, considering I was looking for military subjects. In this
respect it was even less interesting than many of the French towns
such as, for instance, Epinal or Langres, I had been in during the
early days shortly after the commencement of hostilities.
This was my first impression of Udine—I had reason to modify it
considerably in a very short time, in fact during the first day I was
there. The echo of the big guns convinced me that although life in
Udine was outwardly normal, the war was very near indeed.
At the Questura, to my surprise, the Commissaire made but little
difficulty in giving me a _permis de séjour_, on seeing my passport
and my last _permis_ from Venice, and on my guide explaining that I
might be remaining some little time, he readily made it out for one
month.
As I came away I could not help wondering why it should have been so
easy for me to obtain this permission to remain in Udine when Barzini
had been arrested and sent away a couple of days previously.
I had yet to learn that in the War Zone the civil authorities and
the local police take a very back seat, and that the _permis de
séjour_ I had just been given would prove of no value whatever if the
Carabinieri—_i.e._, the military police—took exception to my being in
Udine. Fortunately I did not learn this until some days later, and in
the meantime, confident in the possession of my police permit, I had
no hesitation in walking about the town freely.
The sound of the big guns, however, which one heard unceasingly, soon
began to exercise the curious fascination over me that they always
have, and I was not long making up my mind that I must lose no time
in Udine.
It was a delightfully quaint old town, with cafés and restaurants,
and altogether a pleasant place to spend a few days in, but this was
not what I had come for. So I immediately set about making enquiries
for the quarters of the “Military Commandant of Udine” in order to
present my letter from the Consul, and ask for permission to go out
to the scene of operations.
It seemed on the face of it a perfectly simple matter to find out
where he was staying, but we spent several hours going from place to
place without success.
The long official envelope with “On His Majesty’s Service” on it
proved an open sesame everywhere, and I was received with marked
courtesy by all the staff officers I showed it to, and the envelope
itself seemed to inspire respect, but not one of them could (or
as I thought “would”) give me the information of the Commandant’s
whereabouts. It struck me as being very strange all this mystery as
it appeared.
Well, after having spent two hours going from one staff building to
another, we had to give it up as a bad job—it was evidently a very
difficult proposition to present a letter to the “Military Commandant
of Udine”—and the envelope was beginning to show signs of wear after
being handled so much, so there was nothing for it but to have the
letter always handy and chance coming across him sometime—in the
meantime, if any questions were asked me as to the reason of my being
in Udine I felt I had always the excuse of this document which I was
waiting to hand personally to the “Military Commandant.”
As it turned out I owed all my luck in remaining in Udine as long as
I did to this undelivered letter in its official envelope. Whenever I
was asked any awkward questions as to why I was there, out it would
come, and the mere sight of it seemed to afford me protection. It
was a veritable talisman. How its spell was eventually broken I will
narrate in due course.
To get out to the scene of operations without a permit appeared
hopeless, for the moment; one realised it would take some time to
work it, so the only thing to do was to chance it and to remain on in
the hope of something turning up—that Udine was the place to stay in
if one could was evident. I therefore decided not to budge till they
turned me out, and I never had cause to regret my decision.
My guide had only been given a few days holiday, so when he saw that
there was no immediate chance of getting out to see anything of the
fighting he told me he thought he had better return to Venice.
This, of course, meant my remaining on alone—a somewhat dreary
prospect, since I knew no one, and, as I said, could scarcely make
myself understood, but there was no help for it.
Before he left I managed, with his assistance, to find a better room
in a small hotel in the main street (curiously enough the hotel was
named “The Tower of London”), and arranged to have my luggage sent
from Venice.
It would be difficult to describe my feelings when I found myself
alone outside the station after my guide had gone. I felt literally
stranded, but my lucky star was in the ascendant, and in a few
minutes a little incident occurred that made me feel that I might get
used to Udine after all.
There is a tramcar running from the station to the town, so I got
on it as a sort of first attempt at finding my way about without
assistance, but when the conductor apparently asked me where I wanted
to go I was at once non-plussed, and could only gesticulate my
ignorance and offer him a lire to take the fare out of.
I might have been in an awkward predicament and have attracted more
attention than I desired, when a big stout man, who was also standing
on the platform of the car, turned to me and in excellent English
asked me where I was going and if he could be of any assistance since
he saw I was an Englishman and could not speak Italian.
Needless to add, that this led to a conversation, and I learned that
he had lived for many years at Cairo, hence his speaking English
so well. He was a very genial fellow, and a genuine admirer of the
English nation and our methods in Egypt.
Before we parted it was arranged that I should meet him the following
day at the principal café in the town, and that he would introduce me
to a young fellow, a friend of his, who also spoke English fluently,
and who would doubtless be glad to show me around. So within five
minutes of the departure of my guide I had fallen on my feet.
My luck even then was not out: just as I got off the tram I ran into
the affable stranger who had walked with us from the station on the
day of our arrival. He seemed so genuinely pleased to meet me again
that my suspicions of him vanished at once, and I unhesitatingly
accepted his offer of an “Americano” at the café close by; the fact
of my being alone seemed to interest him immensely, and he expressed
astonishment at my risking remaining in Udine without understanding
Italian.
In the course of conversation I learned he was Dr. Berthod, the
President of an Agrarian Society, with a big warehouse and office in
Udine. He asked me where I proposed to do my work, and when I said in
my bedroom at the hotel, he told me that in his building there was
a large room with a north light which he, speaking on behalf of his
members, would be pleased if I would make use of as a studio whilst I
was in Udine.
This was so unexpected that I was quite taken aback—such friendliness
from a stranger quite overwhelmed me.
He would take no refusal, and insisted on my going with him to see if
it would suit me.
It turned out to be a capital room, and I told him it would answer
my purpose admirably, so he got some of his workmen to clear it out
for me at once, in readiness for me to commence work, and promised to
find me an easel and everything I required.
He refused to discuss the idea of my paying anything for it, saying
they were only too pleased to help an Englishman, and that they would
be delighted if I would consider it as my studio as long as I was in
Udine. This was eighteen months ago, and the room is still reserved
for me.
Without this studio, as I soon realised, life up at the Front for any
length of time would have been terribly fatiguing and monotonous. It
is difficult to convey an idea of the delight it was, having a quiet
place to come back to work in after rushing about in a car for hours
and probably having been under fire all the time.
To get away for a while from the turmoil of war when you were in the
midst of it was a relief, like going from blazing sunshine into the
cool interior of a cathedral.
CHAPTER IV
The wonderful system on which everything was worked—Udine “the
Front”—The commencement of hostilities—The 24th May—The first day
of operations auspicious for Italy—Redemption of the province
of Friuli—New Italian Front—Cormons—The inhabitants of Italian
origin—A good practical joke—The _moral_ of the troops—Unpretentious
attempts at wit—High spirits of the men—The road from Udine
to Cormons—Wonderful sight—Italian flags everywhere—A mystery
where they came from—Wild triumphant advance of the Italian
troops—Women kiss the ground—But a _lever de rideau_—Italians
cross the Isonzo—Austrians on Monte Nero—Monte Nero—The capture
of Monte Nero—Incredible daring of the _Alpini_—The story of
the great achievement—Number of prisoners taken—The prisoners
brought to Udine—Their temporary prison—The tropical heat—An ugly
incident—Austrian attempt to re-take Monte Nero—Success follows
success—Capture of Monfalcone and Gradisca; Sagrado and Monte
Corrada—Commencement of the attack on Gorizia—Subjects for my sketch
book—Touches of human nature—High mass in the mountains—The _tentes
d’abri_—Cheerfulness of men in spite of all hardships.
CHAPTER IV
Everything seemed to go as though by routine in the early operations,
and from the moment war was declared and the Italian army made its
“Tiger spring” for the Passes on the night of May 23rd-24th it was
manifest that General Cadorna had well-matured plans, and, that they
were being carried out without a hitch anywhere.
During the six weeks I managed to stay in Udine I had ample
opportunity of observing the wonderful system on which everything was
worked, and how carefully pre-arranged were the movements of troops
and material. Certainly no army—not even excepting the German—ever
started a war under better conditions.
Udine in the early weeks of the war was right up at “the Front,”
so to speak, and therefore an extremely important centre. It was
practically from here that the commencement of hostilities was made.
At four o’clock in the morning of the 24th of May the Italian army
crossed the Indrio, a tributary of the Isonzo, overcame a feeble
resistance and entered Austrian territory.
During the entire day the onward march continued. After a preparatory
attack in Monte Quirino, the important town of Cormons surrendered
and a few hours later Caporetto, Cervignano, Terzo, Medea, the
ancient city of Aquileia and Grado, the “Austrian Ostend,” in the
Adriatic. The first day of operations, therefore, dawned auspiciously
for Italy.
Some fears were expressed at the time that the hasty withdrawal of
the Austrians was a ruse, and that the Italians might find themselves
in a fix later on, but, as was soon proved, this was not the case,
and nearly the whole of the province of Friuli, that the Austrians
had held since 1866, had been redeemed with no opposition worthy of
the name, and the Italian front extended from Tolmino to the sea.
I was in Cormons shortly after the entry of the troops, and it was
difficult to realise that the Italians had not always been there.
The inhabitants of Italian origin helped to remove as many traces as
possible of the Austrian occupancy—the hated names disappeared as if
by magic from shop fronts and street corners; in fact, in a very few
hours it was an Italian town again, and the good folk of Cormons had
cast off their hated thraldom.
In the centre of the town is a statue of the Emperor Maximilian (it
looks exactly like Beckmesser in the “Meistersingers” singing his
_pricelied_), and on the day of the entry of the Italian soldiers
some wag conceived the happy idea of placing a sack over the head
and an Italian flag in one of the hands, an indignity that must have
caused the Austrian inhabitants to gnash their teeth with impotent
rage, but there were touches of humour discernable everywhere which
conveyed to you more perhaps than anything else an idea of the
_moral_ of the troops.
Notices roughly scrawled on walls in the villages which one
passed—“This way for Trieste,” “Nearest road to Monfalcone,”
“Straight on and the second to the right for Gorizia,” and so
forth—unpretentious little attempts at wit which have remade
their appearance again and again in every war probably from time
immemorial. All this, added to the wonderful patriotic ardour and
enthusiasm one saw on all sides, was very impressive.
[Illustration: It meant practically scaling a cliff of rock (_see
page 41_)
_To face page 38_]
It is certain that no troops ever went to battle in higher spirits
than these splendid fellows. One heard them marching along singing
and laughing as though they had not a care in the world.
The road all the way from Udine to Cormons was a wonderful sight, and
looked like a defile of troops on some national fête day rather than
the opening of hostilities.
I saw the French armies on their way to the Front at the beginning
of the war, flower-bedecked and bubbling over with enthusiasm, but
somehow that was different to this advance of the Italians. The world
war had not then commenced; its horrors were as yet unknown—here
there was no question as to what was going to happen if Italy did not
“make good,” so the confidence and empressment was the more stirring
to my mind.
Italian flags seemed to blossom forth everywhere. It was quite
remarkable the numbers of them one saw. Where they all came from was
a mystery, as it was well known that the Austrians never tolerated
them anywhere in the province. It was suggested that the three
different colours of material were purchased separately and in
different places so as not to arouse suspicion, and held in readiness
to be sewn together to form the flags when the time at last arrived.
The successful operations of the first day of the war were
immediately followed up by a vigorous offensive, and the Italian
troops practically swept everything before them during the next few
days in their wild triumphant advance, all of which, in the language
of the Ring, proved the value of being ready and getting in the first
blow.
Everywhere the soldiers were received with open arms by the peasantry
of the redeemed province, and many touching scenes were witnessed in
the villages through which they passed, villages that had long given
up hope of ever being under the Italian tricolour again. In one place
the women said they would always kiss the ground the Italians were
marching over.
Of course, however, all this was but a _lever de rideau_, and the
merest prelude to what was going to take place in the near future
when the opposing armies got to grips. The Austrians did not intend
to submit to a walk over by any means, as was discovered when, a
few days later, the Italians crossed the Isonzo and endeavoured to
establish themselves on the slopes of Monte Nero preparatory to
capturing the mountain itself, but the Austrians were found to be
formidably entrenched, supported by heavy artillery and a great
number of machine guns.
The chief operations for the next few weeks, therefore, were confined
to the mountainous region on the left bank of the Isonzo, about six
miles west of Tolmino.
Here, towering nearly 7,000 feet high, rugged and threatening,
visible for miles around, is the frowning pinnacle of bare rock known
as Monte Nero, for the possession of which so many gallant lives were
to be sacrificed. That it was of the utmost importance it should
without undue delay be captured was patent from the very start. From
its northern slope the Austrian artillery commanded the entire zone
of operations in the vicinity right and left.
It is almost impossible to describe the terrible nature of the
enterprise the Italians found themselves up against, but which had to
be carried out at all costs. One must have seen Monte Nero to form a
conception of the courage that was requisite to accomplish it, yet it
was eventually achieved, and under conditions which will ever redound
to the glory of the Italian army.
The whole story of the capture of Monte Nero is a veritable epic of
heroism and endurance. It started with a series of stubborn conflicts
for the possession of the spurs leading to the summit; these were
gradually taken, and then came the crucial moment when only the
actual summit remained in the possession of the Austrians. This had
been transformed into a veritable fortress, and its eventual capture
was probably one of the most thrilling episodes in the history of war.
The Austrians were so strongly entrenched and fortified that they had
every reason to consider themselves in complete security from any
attack except by long range artillery fire, and the front of their
positions was further protected by nature, the side of the mountain
being almost perpendicular for some distance from the top.
Many an experienced climber would hesitate to negotiate so
precipitous an ascent in daylight. The Alpini, with almost incredible
daring, undertook it on a moonless night.
It meant practically scaling a cliff of rock in pitch darkness,
encumbered with rifle and munition; however, amongst the men, all
of whom were hardy mountaineers, there was no hesitancy. In order
to lessen the danger of making any noise which might arouse the
suspicions of the Austrian sentries, they removed their boots and
bound rags round their feet to prevent them being cut on the rocks.
Up they climbed in the Cimmerian gloom of midnight like so many
panthers stalking their prey; now and again a rock, dislodged by
accident, would disturb the stillness of the night as it rattled
down into the valley below, and instantly the column would halt and
remain motionless expecting the next moment the mountain side would
be illumined by the enemy’s flares and their presence discovered, but
their quarry slumbered in blissful ignorance of their approaching
doom, and the sentinels, fortunately, heard nothing.
Half-an-hour before dawn the various detachments reached the
summit and found themselves within a few yards of the front line of
entrenchments. These were instantly rushed and captured at the point
of the bayonet within a few minutes, most of their defenders being
killed before they were awake.
The second line shared the same fate after a short and stubborn
fight, for once aroused the Austrians fought like cornered rats and
with the courage of despair, but they had no chance against the
athletic Alpinist, many of whom had not even troubled to put on their
boots after the long climb.
By the time the summits of the mountains were illumined by the rays
of the rising sun the whole of the heights and slopes of Monte Nero
were in the hands of the Italians—750 unwounded prisoners, a large
quantity of rifles and ammunition and several machine guns.
The prisoners were brought to Udine, and made a sorry spectacle
as they marched through the streets. It was the first time the
inhabitants had seen Austrian captives, and they produced a strange
impression, as what had been seen of the war so far had been only the
troops passing on their way to the front line.
Most of the men were Hungarians between 17 and 25 years of age;
many were slightly wounded, their uniforms were in tatters, and the
majority had no boots, but wooden shoes fastened to the foot and
ankle by leather straps.
They were confined temporarily in an old building on the Piazza
Garibaldi and I managed to get in and make a sketch and have a chat
with one of them. He told me that most of them had come from the
Serbian front and had had a very rough time. Looking round the motley
crowd in the picturesque courtyard, I could quite believe him, but
the men seemed quite reconciled to their fate and taking it very
philosophically.
There was a group playing cards in one corner, and lying about in
the shade were others chatting and smoking long German pipes, or
sleeping peacefully. The heat that day was terrific, and certainly
the prisoners in their scanty attire had a better time of it than
their guards in full uniform.
Mentioning the tropical heat recalls to my mind a very curious
incident which occurred when the prisoners were being brought into
camp, and which gave a vivid idea of the awful conditions in the
Austrian positions the suddenness of the Italian attack had brought
about.
Some soldiers were bringing up big canteens full of water to be
served out in due course, when suddenly there was a veritable
stampede amongst the prisoners, and before it could be stopped there
was a wild fight to get at the water. So overwhelming was the rush
that the carriers were literally swept aside.
The struggle only lasted a few moments, as it was, of course, only
a question of who was biggest and strongest; then those who had got
at the receptacles flung themselves on the ground and literally
buried their faces in the water, lapping it up greedily like so many
animals, whilst their weaker comrades tried madly to drag them away
to get at it also. It was a sickening spectacle, and proved how,
under certain conditions, some human beings revert instantly to their
primordial nature.
The capture of Monte Nero by the Italians appeared to put the
Austrians on their mettle, and they made every endeavour to re-take
it.
Battalion after battalion was thrown against the position, whole
regiments were destroyed in the vain attempt to dislodge the
_Alpini_, and as a last resource the Austrians brought up their
own mountain troops, the famous “Kaiser Jagers,” but with no more
success.
Thus the first few weeks of war fully bore out the expectations of
those who were convinced that the skill of General Cadorna and the
spirit of the Italian army would be more than a match for any efforts
of the Austrians, and justified the confidence which was felt on all
sides.
Events moved rapidly during those early weeks of the war, and success
followed success without intermission.
Monfalcone, the seaport on the Adriatic, with its important
shipbuilding yards, Gradisca and Sagrado were added to the list of
Austrian towns captured by the Italians in June, together with the
important position of Monte Corrada. All of which represented a
distinct advance into enemy territory in the direction of Trieste.
It was not, however, a “walk over,” and the Italians had to pay
dearly in places for their successes. The fighting for the middle
Isonzo continued fiercely, and there were severe losses round Plava
before the place was taken. The Austrians, however, lost still more
heavily.
The attack on Gorizia, which was to last so many months, may be said
to have commenced about the middle of June, when the Italians were
able to start bombarding the fortifications of Santa Maria, San
Pietro, San Marco, and Santa Lucia, besides the Austrian positions
dominating the town, especially Mount San Gabriele.
Of course all this meant long range artillery duels day after
day, which presented but little spectacular interest, though it
was obvious that there was method in all this vast expenditure of
ammunition, purposeless as it may have appeared to the layman; to me
as an artist, however, there were plenty of subjects for sketches,
and without having to search for them through field glasses. Not far
afield there were always interesting incidents—little touches of
human nature in the camps and on the road that fortunately for me
had so far escaped the attention of the ubiquitous photographer.
On one occasion, for instance, I saw Mass being celebrated in a
small encampment in the mountains; for it must be remembered that
the innate piety and religious spirit of the Italian Army have been
evident in every step of our Ally’s campaign against Austria.
On a road in the wild district near Pontebba a rude altar of rough
boxes was set up—the altar cloth was a soldier’s blanket—the priest’s
assistants were soldiers.
It was a common soldier who rang the bell at the Elevation of the
Host, and the kneeling troops told of the devout spirit in which they
had entered not only into the Divine Service but also into the war.
A battery was passing along the road at that moment, and the
artillerymen bared their heads and piously made the sign of the
Cross, whilst a sentry before a row of grey tents fell on his knees.
Even in the haste of a rapid transport of guns, reverence was not
forgotten, although it was not possible for the convoy to stop. The
kneeling troops were _Alpini_, who were encamped in this mountainous
district and had already figured gallantly in action.
The operations on the frontier in the vicinity of Pontebba were
especially interesting from an artistic point of view. The scenery
here is magnificent, and much of the fighting took place along the
big military highway constructed by Napoleon to connect Milan with
Vienna.
It was always a pleasure to be amongst the troops, and it was an
endless source of astonishment to me to see how they had in so short
a time settled down to the irksome daily routine of warfare as it
exists at the rear of the fighting line.
The glorious summer weather doubtless contributed in no small
degree to the high spirits of the soldiers, for camp life in the
Italian army is very different to that of the English—it is far more
picturesque, but of comfort there is very little, it appeared to me.
The quaint _tentes d’abri_ afford very slight shelter either against
the intense glare and heat of the Italian sunshine, or the cold and
rain in bad weather, yet the men appeared to be thoroughly happy and
contented under any conditions.
It may be said that it is all a question of habit or rather custom;
but there is no doubt that the English Tommy expects to be, and is,
pampered in the way of quarters and catering to an extent that would
astonish the Italian soldier if he could see it; as a matter of fact,
it was frequently a revelation to me what these men had to put up
with at times, and their invariable cheerfulness in spite of all
hardships and discomfort.
CHAPTER V
Udine the Headquarters of the Army—The King—His indefatigability—His
undaunted courage—A telling incident—The King with the troops—Love
and sympathy between Victor Emanuele and the men—Brotherhood of
the whole Army—A pleasant incident—Men salute officers at all
times—Laxity shown in London—Cohesion between rank and file—The
Italians of to-day—The single idea of all—Udine crowded with
soldiers—The military missions of the allied nations—Big trade
being done—Orderly and sedate crowd—Restaurants—The food—The
market-place—The Cinemas—Proximity of the fighting—The Café
“Dorta”—Pretty and smartly-dressed women—An unexpected spectacle—The
Military Governor—The streets at night—Precautions against
“Taubes”—The signal gun—Curiosity of inhabitants—No excitement—Udine
a sort of haven—I remain there six weeks—A meeting with the British
Military Attaché, Colonel Lamb—My stay in Udine brought to an
abrupt ending—The police officer in mufti—Am arrested—Unpleasant
experience—An _agent de la Sureté_—At the police station—The
commissaire—Result of my examination—Novara—Magic effect of the
undelivered letter again—I write to General Cafarelli—My friends
at the “Agrario”—General Cafarelli—His decision—The third class
police ticket for the railway—Packed off to Florence—The end of the
adventure.
CHAPTER V
Udine, as I have pointed out, was practically “the Front” in the
early weeks of the war. It was also the Headquarters of the army, and
every building of importance in the town had been requisitioned for
Staff purposes.
It was said that the King and the Generalissimo were living there;
but this, of course, was only surmise, although one was constantly
seeing them motoring through the streets.
In fact, after a time one got to recognise instantly the Royal Fiat,
however grimy and bespattered with mud it might be, for the King
appeared indefatigable and was out and about in all weathers, and was
said to have visited all the sectors of the Front and to be never
satisfied unless he saw for himself all that was going on amongst the
troops.
His undaunted courage is proverbial in Italy, and no danger, however
great, deters him going anywhere if he sets his mind on it, as his
personal staff knows only too well. In this connection I recollect a
story that was told which will illustrate this.
On one occasion His Majesty expressed his intention of joining the
advance guard on a height just occupied and which was being heavily
fired on by the enemy. An officer of _Alpini_ respectfully pointed
out the danger and difficulty of attempting it. The King laughingly
replied that where the _Alpini_ could go an old Chamois-hunter like
himself could also go, and insisted on climbing to the position.
The presence of the King always stimulated immensely the enthusiasm
of the troops, and this was particularly noticeable when he
accompanied the first brigade which crossed the Isonzo on a bridge
thrown by the Engineers.
It is this desire to be not only with but amongst his soldiers and
sharing their perils that has helped so much to establish the sort of
fraternal love and sympathy that exists between Victor Emanuele and
me men, which one cannot fail to notice whenever the word goes round
“Here comes the King.”
It was quite touching to hear on all sides the expressions of
affection of the big rough soldiers for the wiry little man, covered
with dust, who saluted one and all so genially as he whirled past in
the big car.
It is this feeling of brotherhood of which the King sets the example
that animates the whole army—one could not fail to be struck by
it—officers, non-commissioned officers and men are all on the most
friendly terms together and there is probably no more democratic army
in the world to-day than the Italian.
In this connection I recall a pleasing incident I witnessed one day
on a mountain track; an officer riding a mule at the head of a small
detachment of soldiers, who were plodding along stolidly in the
intense heat, was reading his newspaper aloud for the benefit of them
all. Curiously enough this _camaraderie_ leads to no impairment of
discipline—rather the contrary perhaps, as for instance, one sees men
go out of their way, so to speak, to salute officers at all times,
not as a matter of duty only, but to show their respect for their
rank.
I was more particularly reminded of this on my return to London,
where the laxity shewn by the rank and file towards officers in the
matter of saluting in the streets is particularly noticeable.
[Illustration: A rude altar of rough boxes was set up (_see page 45_)
_To face page 50_]
The effectual result of this cohesion between the rank and file in
the Italian Army is proved by the zeal which animates all, and which
helps to lighten the most irksome duties.
During the six weeks I spent in and around Udine practically alone
I had ample opportunity for studying the character of the Italian
officer and ordinary soldier under true war conditions, and the more
I saw of them the more I liked them and admired their fine qualities.
These virile, self-possessed specimens of the Italy of to-day
present a remarkable contrast to those one recollects of the older
generation, for in the matter of physique the Italian army now in the
field can compare favourably in every respect with any other army in
the world.
From the highest officer to the most humble private, one and all are
animated with but a single idea—that of thrashing the Austrians and
restoring to Italy the territory which is hers by right. But there is
no frothy bombast about them; in the town, as in the trenches, though
the conversation always reverted to “la guerra,” it was to discuss it
in the sober, self-contained manner of the strong man who knows his
own strength and therefore does not deem it necessary to insist on it.
As might have been expected, Udine, owing to its proximity to the
enemy’s lines, was crowded with soldiers, and during the evening,
when officers and men were off duty, it was almost difficult to walk
along the main streets.
The three great allied nations were represented in the throng
also, as “military missions” soon arrived in the town, and it was
very pleasing to see Russian, French and English officers in their
respective uniforms, fraternising everywhere with the Italians. Since
then Japan, Belgium, and Serbia have also sent representatives,
so there is now quite a foreign military colony as it were, with
officers and permanent staffs.
The shops, cafés and restaurants were evidently doing a big trade,
but it was always a very orderly and sedate crowd of young fellows
one saw everywhere, and displayed far less ebullition of animal
spirits than one would see in a French garrison town.
Although fighting was taking place within an hour’s motor run,
nothing in the usual life of Udine was changed. There were several
good restaurants, which were crowded for lunch and dinner, the
delightful old twelfth century market-place that is one of the
artistic treasures of the town, presented every day the customary
scene of peaceful animation and brilliant colour one always
associates with Italy, and which has such charm for the painter;
it was “business as usual,” although you could generally hear the
thunder of the guns quite distinctly.
Nor was amusement lacking of an evening, as there were two large
Cinemas open, and at one a sort of music-hall entertainment as well;
both these places were so well attended by the civilians, as well as
the military element, that it was always difficult to get anything
but bare standing room.
Here again the proximity of the fighting would often be vividly
brought home to you when the booming of the guns was audible in an
interval of the performance.
Of course the ordinary soldiers were only allowed out of barracks
up to a certain hour—I forget for the moment what that was—so the
streets looked comparatively deserted when they had gone.
The principal cafés were, however, well patronised up till closing
time, and “Dorta’s,” in particular, was always very crowded with
officers and civilians.
It was quite remarkable the number of pretty and smartly dressed
women one saw about of a day—of course many of these were the wives
or daughters of residents, but there were others also. On a fine
Sunday morning, the Church parade on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele and
along the Via Mercato Vecchio was quite one of the sights of Udine,
for it was usually a galaxy of beauty and fashion.
To anyone like myself, newly arrived in the town, and expecting to
find himself in the midst of warlike scenes considering how close one
was to the operations, this unexpected spectacle came as a positive
shock.
After a week or so, however, this impression of incongruity wore off,
and you ended by feeling that after all these dainty apparitions in
the streets or the restaurants were not so unpleasant to look on,
and that they served to accentuate the grimness of the dust-covered
warriors around them.
With the general advance of the Army, the majority of the troops was
gradually shifted nearer the new Front, but the whole district was,
and still is, under the command of a military governor, who wields
the power of a dictator so far as the civilian element is concerned.
The streets were practically pitch dark on moonless nights, only the
merest pretence of a glimmer of electric light in blue bulbs being
allowed here and there, though the Stygian gloom was constantly
being illumined by the powerful headlights of military cars passing
through—a curious anomaly which appeared to me quite inexplicable.
Of course these precautions were taken owing, as I have said, to the
proximity of Udine to the enemy’s lines and the fact in consequence
that neighbourly visits from “Taubes” were frequently received,
though fortunately they seldom succeeded in doing any damage or
causing loss of life.
On several occasions, though they provided us with spectacular
displays overhead, as there were always a number of our _Capronis_
in the aerodrome close by in readiness to go up and tackle these
intruders as soon as they were sighted, and there are few things more
exciting to witness than an aerial fight.
A signal station was established on one of the highest buildings, and
on the approach of a Taube a gun was fired to give the inhabitants
timely warning, though the usual effect of this warning at first was
to bring crowds into the streets to catch a glimpse of what was going
on aloft rather than induce the people to make for safety. After a
few of these alarms the novelty wore off, and though it cannot be
said that scarcely any notice was taken of them, there was certainly
no undue excitement when the signal gun was heard.
As will be gathered, therefore, the war, beyond transforming Udine
from a picturesque, sleepy, little provincial town into a bustling
and important military centre, had not effected so much change in it
materially as might have been expected, so it was a sort of haven to
return to after one had been in the zone of actual operations for a
time.
I had now been up at the Front for six weeks, and was beginning
almost to consider myself as settled permanently at Headquarters.
How I managed to stay so long undisturbed I could not understand,
considering the stringency of the police regulations.
It may have been that the authorities winked complacently at my
presence during all these weeks in consequence of my being an artist
as distinct from a journalist, for by this time I made no attempt at
secrecy since no one took any notice of me apparently, and I went
about everywhere as freely as if I had an official permit from the
General himself.
I recollect one day meeting Colonel Lamb, the British Military
Attaché, in the street. He had just arrived from Rome. He expressed
his surprise at seeing me in Udine, and asked how long I had been
there; when I told him he laughingly said: “You’ll end by being sent
to prison and perhaps shot one day.”
I replied in the same vein that I had been expecting it to happen
every day for weeks past, so should not be surprised when it did.
Well, whatever the reason, I had no unpleasant attention shown me
until the last few days of my stay, and then it was suddenly brought
home to me that I had overstayed my welcome.
It was really the last thing I was expecting to happen, as I had got
on quite friendly terms with the Commandant of the Carabinieri, and
only a few days previously the Commissaire of Police had given me his
official sanction to remain in Udine. The order for what now took
place must therefore have emanated from someone in higher authority
than either of these gentlemen, so there was absolutely no appeal
from it, as will be seen. It came about in this wise.
I was leaving the restaurant where I usually lunched when a tall,
well-dressed civilian came up to me, and, as far as I could make
out, since I hardly understood a word of Italian, asked me if I were
Mr. Price, and if I were that person would I do him the inestimable
favour to walk with him as far as the Questura, as they had something
of importance they desired to communicate to me at once.
I guessed at once that he was a police officer in mufti, and that it
was not for anything particularly agreeable to me that he stopped me
thus. Thinking that perhaps he did not know that my papers were quite
in order, I pulled out my police pass and shewed it to him; but this
was not what he meant.
With the old time garrulity of the Italian, and unctiously wringing
his hands as though he was in mental distress, he made me understand
that it was very distasteful to him to have to interrupt my walk, but
it was merely for a few moments, when I should be free to resume it,
and he would again offer me his sincere apologies for venturing to
accost me, but it was of sufficient importance for him to urge me to
go with him now, as I was expected and being waited for. This is what
I gathered from the few words I understood of all this verbosity.
Just at this moment, as luck would have it, someone I knew came
along. He spoke a little French, so I asked him to tell me what it
all meant. It was as I had guessed: this was an _Agent de la Sureté_,
and I had to go with him to the police station at once for reasons
which would be explained when I got there.
Of course there was no arguing the matter; I realised that it was
all mock politeness I had been treated with, and that if I made any
objection I should be spoken to very differently. At the station I
was asked to produce “all my papers and my passport”; these were
taken into an adjoining room. In a few minutes they were returned
to me, and I was informed that I would hear further in the matter.
Whereupon I was allowed to go, much mystified as to what was going to
happen next.
The following morning a note was left at my Hotel to the effect that
at 10 o’clock I was called upon to present myself again with “all my
papers and my passport” at the police station, accompanied by someone
to interpret for me. A young fellow who spoke French fairly well
consented to accompany me.
I was taken before the Commissaire, the one who had given me the
_permis de séjour_, and two other officials, who began to ply me with
questions as to how I came to be in Udine, what I came for, and how
long I had been there, together with a lot of other questions which
were very irritating since the Commissaire knew all about me already,
as he had his own signature before him on my papers.
There was a short conversation between the Commissaire and the
officials, who looked towards me meanwhile in a friendly manner as I
thought. I was soon to be undeceived though. They then turned to my
interpreter and announced the upshot of these mysterious happenings.
“Well, what’s the result of all these proceedings?” I asked him.
“You are to be sent to Novara,” he replied unconcernedly.
“Be sent to Novara,” I repeated in amazement. “Where’s Novara?”
“Oh, a long way from here, near the Swiss frontier—beyond Turin.” He
then went on to say as coolly as though it could be but of little
interest to me.
“They say you must leave Udine by the first train.”
It suddenly flashed through my memory that I had heard of Novara
as the town where Austrians and Germans were interned. I was so
stupified for a moment that I did not know what to say. Then I told
him as calmly as I could to ask the Commissaire what was the good of
having a passport and such papers as I had if I was to be treated the
same as an alien enemy. I could understand being requested to leave
Udine, but not being ignominiously sent away. The Commissaire merely
shrugged his shoulders and replied those were his orders.
Suddenly I remembered the letter for the Military Commandant of Udine
I had still in my pocket, fortunately. I pulled it out and asked to
be at least permitted to deliver it before I was sent away.
Its effect was, as it always had been, magical. The Commissaire
looked at the address attentively, motioned me politely to be
seated, then picking up my passport, took it with the letter into an
adjoining room. He was gone some few minutes.
When he returned he told my interpreter to inform me that if I would
write out at once a full explanation of my object in coming to the
Front and my reasons for desiring to remain, the letter should be
given to General Cafarelli, who would decide what I had to do. I was
warned, however, that there must be no delay, the statement must be
delivered in a few hours. My papers were returned to me, and I was
then allowed to leave the office.
My good friends at the “Agrario” came to my help and got the letter
drawn up in Italian and duly forwarded. The following day I had again
to present myself at the Questura, and I was at once taken to the
General’s offices in the adjoining building.
General Cafarelli, the Governor of Udine, was a very tall, thin,
elderly man, with a grey beard, strikingly like the popular pictures
of Don Quixote. He held my _dossier_ in his hand, and had evidently
just read it. He received me in the most frigid and unsympathetic
manner, and I felt instantly that if it depended on him I was done
with Udine and the Front.
Without waiting for anything I might have to say, he said abruptly
in French: “You must leave Udine at once; you are not permitted to
remain.”
I produced the famous letter, and asked if he could tell me when I
could deliver it as it might perhaps affect his decision.
To my surprise he just glanced at the superscription, then without
hesitating, opened it and read it through.
“This does not alter your case. You leave to-day,” he snapped out.
“But not for Novara I hope, mon General,” I ventured to remark.
“Well, I will make you that concession, but you must go either to
Turin or Florence or Rome by the first train,” and then he added
significantly: “I hope you will make no difficulty about it.” There
was no mistaking his meaning.
“Of course I will not,” I replied; “my only regret is that I should
have given you any trouble at all, and I trust you will understand
that my motive in coming here was perfectly innocent.”
This appeared to mollify him considerably.
“Well, it is understood then that you leave to-day; the police will
provide you with a ticket for whichever of the places I have named
you decide to go to.” Then, to my surprise, he held out his hand as I
turned to leave the room, and said in almost a friendly manner:
“The question of permitting correspondents to visit the Front is
being considered, and perhaps in another month or so you will be
allowed to return.”
“Then I will say _au revoir_, not _adieu_, mon General,” I said, with
an attempt at cheerfulness I did not feel as we shook hands.
Well, to cut a long story short, I was packed off to Florence that
evening with a third class police ticket, and with instructions to
report myself immediately on my arrival there to the Commissaire of
Police.
Railway journeys are not pleasant in Italy in midsummer—and in third
class especially—but I had no option as I was not permitted to go in
another class by paying the difference in the fare.
It was therefore a hot and tiring journey, but not quite so bad as
I expected. True, the carriage was crowded all the way, but I found
the peasant folk who were my travelling companions kindly unobtrusive
people, and had I been able to converse with them should probably
have found them very interesting; as it was, when they discovered I
was an Englishman they insisted on giving me a corner seat—a little
touch of good feeling which was as pleasing as it was unexpected.
At Florence the formalities I had to go through were soon over. My
arrival was evidently expected. I was given a _permis de séjour_,
with a little note certifying I had duly reported myself, and then I
was free once more.
CHAPTER VI
Florence in war time—War correspondents to visit the Front—I
receive a letter from Mr. Capel Cure of the Embassy—Return to
Rome—Signor Barzilai, Head of Foreign Press Bureau—I am officially
“accepted”—Correspondents to muster at Brescia—Rome to Brescia
via Milan—The gathering of the correspondents—Names of those
present—Papers represented—The correspondent’s armlet—Speech of
welcome by General Porro—Plan of journey announced—Introduced
to officers of Censorship—To leave war zone at conclusion of
tour of Front—“Shepherding” the correspondents—Censorships
established at various places—Correspondents’ motor cars—Clubbing
together—Car-parties—My companions—Imposing array of correspondents’
cars—National flags—Cordiality amongst all correspondents and
Censors—Good-fellowship shown by Italians—Banquet to celebrate the
occasion.
[Illustration: The King appeared indefatigable and was out and about
in all weathers (_see page 49_)
_To face page 62_]
CHAPTER VI
I stayed in the City of Dante for nearly a month, and was fully
engaged the whole time working up the sketches I had brought with me
from the Front. It was fortunate, as I soon discovered that I had
plenty to occupy me, for there was nothing whatever to be seen in
Florence that conveyed any suggestion of war.
As a matter of fact, the war did not appear to affect the Florentines
at all; everything was going on in the city exactly the same as when
I was there some few years before, and if you did not read the papers
of a day you might have almost forgotten it. I was glad therefore to
be able to keep in touch with it through the medium of my work, as I
had no desire to live the life of an art student or dilettante here,
delightful as it is under normal conditions.
Towards the end of July it became known that there was a chance in
the near future of a restricted number of Italian and foreign war
correspondents being officially recognized and permitted to visit the
Front, and I received a friendly letter from Mr. Capel Cure, at the
British Embassy, advising me to return forthwith to Rome if I wished
to be included in the English group. I left Florence, therefore, by
the first train for the capital.
For the next few days I haunted 11 bis via Pompeo Magno, the
residence of Signor Barzilai, the genial President of the Italian
Press Association, and the rooms of Signor Baldassarre, the Head of
the Foreign Press Bureau, at the Ministero del Interno, till at last,
to my great relief, I was notified that I was on the official list of
correspondents.
I had been on tenterhooks all the time for fear my escapade at Udine
would militate against my being accepted.
It was then announced that the chosen few were to muster at Brescia
to meet the officers appointed to act as censors and to chaperon them
during a tour of the Front, which was to occupy six or seven weeks,
and which would cover at least 3,000 kilometres.
From Rome to Brescia is quite a long journey, via Milan, where one
has to pass a night.
There was quite a big gathering at the reception of correspondents
in the quaint little Town Hall where we assembled, as, in spite of
the weeding-out process which had taken place in Rome, no fewer than
forty-one papers were represented—twenty-six Italian, six French,
seven English, and two Swiss.
As was to be expected, Italian journalism was widely represented.
It had no less than twenty-six correspondents, and every town of
importance in Italy appeared to have sent someone.
I cannot recall the names of all the talented fellows who had been
despatched from every corner of the Peninsula to record the doings on
the Italian Front.
First and foremost, of course, was Luigi Barzini, without whom the
assemblage would have been quite incomplete, as he is probably the
most popular of press writers in the world to-day. In Italy, in fact,
he is a sort of institution, and it is certainly no exaggeration
to state that he is as well-known by sight as the King or General
Cadorna.
Then there were Benedetti, Baccio Bacci, Fraccaroli, Gino Piva,
Giovanni Miceli, and Aldo Molinari, the black and white artist and
photographer, to cite only a few names in the brilliant attroupement
of Italian journalistic talent.
The French Press had six representatives: the _Temps_, Jean Carrère,
one of the best known and most popular of foreign correspondents,
who speaks Italian like his mother tongue; the _Petit Parisien_,
Serge Basset; the _Echo de Paris_, Jules Rateau; the _Journal_,
Georges Prade; the _Illustration_, Robert Vaucher; and the _Petit
Marseillais_, Bauderesque. As genial and typically French a crew as
one could meet anywhere.
The English Press was also well to the fore. _The Times_, as the most
powerful of British journals on the continent, was appropriately
represented by a giant in stature, W. Kidston McClure, as amiable and
erudite a gentleman as ever stood six feet eight inches upright in
his socks, and who, by reason of his great height, raised _The Times_
a head and shoulders above the rest of us.
W. T. Massey was the _Daily Telegraph_, a good and solid
representative of the older type of modern journalism; J. M. N.
Jeffries the _Daily Mail_ young man, a slender stripling with brains,
and bubbling over with a sort of languid interest in his work, but
who, in his immaculate grey flannels and irreproachable ties, somehow
gave the impression of just going on or coming off the river rather
than starting on a warlike expedition; Martin Donohoe, the _Daily
Chronicle_, the very antithesis of Jeffries, burly and energetic, and
in every way a typical representative of Radical journalism, which
was further represented by Ernest Smith of the _Daily News_.
Gino Calza Bedolo, one of the youngest and most talented of rising
Italian journalists was “lent” to the _Morning Post_ for this
occasion by his paper, the _Giornale d’Italia_, and a very able and
spirited representative did he prove, as the readers of the _Morning
Post_ must have found.
And lastly, the _Illustrated London News_, by your humble servant,
sole representative of English pictorial journalism with the Italian
Army in the Field.
There were no Americans, as with the somewhat curious exception of
the two Swiss, only the allied nations were admitted. I may add that
everyone had to wear a white band round his coat sleeve bearing the
name of the paper he represented.
We were received by General Porro, Sub-Chief of the Italian General
Staff, on behalf of the Generalissimo, and he made a cordial speech
of welcome, in which he introduced us to the officers of the
censorship and detailed the arrangements that had been made to enable
the correspondents to see as much as possible of the operations.
Everything for our big journey had been planned out with true Italian
thoroughness, even to providing every one of us with a set of large
and reliable maps, whilst on the head of giving permission to see all
we desired there was no cause for complaint, as we were to be allowed
to go everywhere along the Front; the only reason for disappointment
being in the information that immediately after the tour was finished
we should be obliged to leave the war zone until further orders.
It was therefore to be a modified version of the modern method of
shepherding the war-correspondents as initiated by the Japanese in
the Russo-Japanese War; however, the latitude given as to freedom of
action was very generous.
Censorships were established at important centres such as Brescia,
Verona, Vicenza, Belluno, and Udine, and visits to the various
positions along the Front within fairly easy distance of these places
were allowed.
The Correspondents were expected to have their own motor cars, and,
of course, pay all expenses, but the Government supplied horses or
mules for the mountaineering work whenever necessary. It had been
made known in Rome that we should have to provide our own transport,
so there had been a general clubbing together with a view to
sharing cars and thus dividing up the expenses which were bound to
be heavy. Little coteries were thus formed, and, as might have been
anticipated, the three nationalities were segregated.
When I had got to Rome I found the car-parties were already formed,
and there was no room for me amongst the English, but I was lucky
enough to be introduced to two very nice young fellows, Italians,
Gino Calza Bedolo, of the _Giornale d’Italia_, and Aldo Molinari, of
the _Illustrazion Italiana_, who gladly let me take a share in their
car, as they both spoke French and were very keen on going everywhere
and seeing all there was to see. I felt I had really fallen on my
feet and was going to have an interesting time, and so it turned out,
as will be seen.
The array of correspondents’ cars was quite imposing, and as most of
them were packed full up with baggage and decorated with the national
flag of the occupants the effect may be imagined. It was certainly
a memorable occasion for Brescia, and a crowd assembled outside the
Town Hall to watch the strange scene.
The utmost cordiality sprang up immediately, not only amongst the
Correspondents but with the Censors also, who were all officers
selected for their thorough knowledge of French and English, and as,
of course, it was also necessary that they spoke these languages
fluently, this in itself helped not a little to establish at once a
friendly relationship between us all.
The good fellowship shown by the Italian journalists towards their
French and English confrères was quite remarkable from the very
start. On the evening of the day of the reception at Brescia they
invited us to a banquet to celebrate the occasion, and gave us a
delightful _accueil_ and a splendid dinner. Belcredi, Vice-President
of the Italian Association of Journalists, was in the chair, and made
a great speech, in which he expressed the pleasure of himself and his
confrères at meeting us at Brescia, and emphasizing the sincerity of
the friendship between Italy and the Allies.
Jean Carrère, of the _Temps_, and McClure, of _The Times_,
responded eloquently in Italian on behalf of the French and English
correspondents, after which all formality ceased and the utmost
_camaraderie_ ensued, although we had only known each other a few
hours it was also already like a gathering of old friends. It was an
evening to be remembered and of the happiest augury, as will be seen.
CHAPTER VII
Brescia—Rough sketch of arrangements—A printed itinerary of
tour—Military passes—Rendezvous on certain dates—The “off-days”—Much
latitude allowed—We make a start—Matutinal hour—First experience
of freedom of action—Like schoolboys let loose—In the valley of
Guidicaria—First impression of trenches on mountains—A gigantic
furrow—Encampments of thousands of soldiers—Like the great wall of
China—Preconceived notions of warfare upset—Trenches on summits
of mountains—A vast military colony—Pride of officers and men in
their work—Men on “special” work—“Grousing” unknown in Italian
Army—Territorials—Middle-aged men—“Full of beans”—Territorials in
first line trenches—Modern warfare for three-year-olds only—Hardy
old mountaineers—Heart strain—The road along Lake Garda—Military
preparations everywhere—War on the Lake—The flotilla of gun-boats—The
Perils of the Lake—A trip on the “Mincio” gun-boat—I make a sketch
of Riva—A miniature Gibraltar—Desenzano—Nocturnal activity of
mosquitoes—Return to Brescia—Something wrong with the car—Jules
Rateau of the _Echo de Paris_—Arrange excursion to Stelvio Pass—A
wonderful motor trip—The Valley of Valtellino—The corkscrew
road—Bormio—The Staff Colonel receives us—Permits our visiting
positions—Village not evacuated—Hotel open—Officers’ _table
d’hôte_—We create a mild surprise—Spend the night at hotel.
CHAPTER VII
One was not long realizing that it would have been impossible to have
obtained a real conception of the terrific character of the mountain
warfare and the indefatigable work of the soldiers if one had not
been enabled to see it for oneself at close quarters.
A better starting point than Brescia for an extended tour of the
whole of the Front would have been difficult to find, as it commands
comparatively easy access to the principal positions in this sector.
With a reliable car and no “speed limit” the radius you could cover
in a day was remarkable as we soon discovered.
It may possibly be of interest at this juncture to give a rough
sketch of the “arrangements” that we found had been made for us
by the Headquarters Staff. A printed itinerary was given to each
correspondent, from which he could gather at a glance the programme,
subject only to occasional modifications as events might warrant, for
every day of the tour.
The first impression, of course, was that we were to be on a sort of
“personally conducted tour,” and no little disappointment ensued, but
it was soon found that, although you had to adhere to it in its main
points, there was really not any irksome restriction, as will be seen.
The scheme briefly was that the whole party should assemble at
certain dates in the towns where Press Censorship Headquarters
were established, and then officers were detailed to accompany the
different parties to the positions along the Front nearest to these
centres in order to explain the nature of the operations going on,
and to give any other information required.
_Salvo condotti_, _i.e._, military passes, were issued to everyone;
these passes were for use on the road and in the positions, and had
to be renewed at each censorship, otherwise they were valueless.
Although therefore it was obligatory to present yourself at all these
_points de repère_ at certain dates, you could choose your own road
to get to them and halt where you pleased _en route_.
The “off-days,” when you were not officially visiting the positions,
were to give you the opportunity of writing your articles and
submitting them to the Censor, as obviously nothing could be posted
without the official _visé_, though, of course, this did not prevent
you from getting off as soon as you were through with him and had
received your fresh permit and making for the next stopping place.
The latitude the arrangement gave to each car was demonstrated at
once. We were booked to remain in Brescia for eight days, during
which period there were to be no “official” excursions anywhere. Our
passes were handed us, and we were free to go where we pleased so
long as we turned up on time at Verona, the next stopping place.
The reason for this pleasing relaxation at the very commencement of
the tour did not transpire; perhaps it was an oversight when the
programme was drawn up; anyhow, my companions suggested our taking
advantage of it and getting away from Brescia as soon as possible and
making for the nearest positions. So we started off the next morning
at the matutinal hour of 5 o’clock.
We had somehow thought our idea was quite original, but we found that
several of our _confrères_ had gone off even earlier than us, but in
another direction; we therefore had the road we had chosen all to
ourselves.
As there was no particular reason for us to return that day, we
decided to put up somewhere for the night, and took our handbags with
us. The zone of operations we were going to is a popular region for
tourists in peace time, so there was no fear of not finding lodgings
somewhere.
It was a glorious summer morning, and as we sped along in the
invigorating air through sleepy, picturesque villages and wide tracts
of tranquil country, covered with vines and maize-fields, towards the
distant mountains, it was difficult to realize that we were not on a
holiday jaunt but on our way to scenes of war.
To me especially the feeling of entire freedom of action was
particularly delightful after the anxious weeks I had spent in Udine
and on the Isonzo front, when the mere sight of a carabinieri would
make me tremble in my boots for fear I was going to be arrested. Now,
with my _salvo condotto_ safe in my pocket and my correspondent’s
“brassard” on my coat sleeve, I could look carabinieri and all such
despots in the face without misgivings of unpleasant happenings.
There must have been some subtle tonic effect in the atmosphere
that morning, for my companions were equally elated, and we were
positively like three schoolboys let loose: even the chauffeur was
infected by our boisterous spirits, and for the first few miles he
pushed the car along at its top speed with reckless impetuosity.
The firing line we were making for was in the sector comprised
between the Stelvio Pass and the Lake of Garda. In the valley of
Guidicaria we reached the trenches, and had our first impression of
the magnitude of the operations the Italians are undertaking.
What had been accomplished here during the three months since the war
started was _en évidence_ before our eyes. I was fully prepared from
what I had seen on the Udine front for something equally astonishing
in this sector, but I must confess the scenes before me, now that
we were in touch with the troops, filled me with amazement. The
achievements on the middle Isonzo were great, but here they were
little short of the miraculous.
It was almost unbelievable that what we saw was only the work of
three short months. Trenches and gun emplacements confronted you on
all sides.
A sort of gigantic furrow wound through the valley and climbed the
mountain like some prehistoric serpent, till lost to view away up on
the summits more than two thousand metres above; and round about this
fantastic thing were numberless little quaint grey shapes dotted here
and there on the rocks, and often in positions so steep of access
that you wondered how they got up there at all, and for what purpose.
These were the encampments of the thousands of Italian soldiers who
have accomplished all this marvel of mountain warfare, and in the
teeth of the Austrians and of nature as it were as well, and have
carried the line of entrenchments across wooded hills, meadows,
torrents and snow-clad slopes.
It is safe to assert that, with the exception perhaps of the great
wall of China, never before in the history of warfare have operations
of such magnitude been undertaken. In many places the trenches had
to be actually blasted out of the rock, and were reinforced with
concrete or anything that military science or nature could offer to
render them still more invulnerable.
As we advanced further into this impressive zone of military activity
you realized that all your preconceived notions of mountain warfare
were upset.
[Illustration: Along the big military highway constructed by Napoleon
(_see page 45_)
_To face page 74_]
Instead of the fighting taking place in the valleys and passes as
one would have expected, the positions and even the trenches were
frequently on the very summits of what one would have taken to be
almost inaccessible peaks and crags, and in some places actually
above the snow-line.
The whole region was positively alive with warlike energy, and what
was only a few months previously a desolate and uninhabited area, had
been transformed into a vast military colony, so to speak.
I was much struck with the pride of both officers and men in their
work, and the evident pleasure it gave them to shew us everything,
though, of course, our _salvo condotti_ acted as open sesame
everywhere. Visitors, still less pressmen, are not always welcome,
especially when they turn up unexpectedly as we did.
Not the least astonishing feature of all these operations to my mind
was the fact that men of branches of the service one does not usually
associate with “special” work were working at it as though to the
manner born.
The Bersaglieri, for instance, who are men from the plains, were
doing sappers’ jobs amongst the rocks, or stationed high up on the
mountains where you would have only expected to find _Alpini_; but
they were all, I was told, gradually getting accustomed to their
unaccustomed work, and often developing undreamed of capabilities,
while their cheerfulness under the circumstances was always
astounding, even to their own officers.
“Grousing” appears to be an unknown quantity in the Italian Army. I
had a little chat with a sergeant of a Territorial regiment. He spoke
French fluently, and told me he had lived several years in Paris. He
was now in charge of a small detachment in a particularly exposed
spot.
To my surprise I learned that the greater part of his regiment
was composed of men well on in years, as one understands soldier
life, most of them being close on forty, and that in his particular
detachment he had several who were nearer fifty, though they did
not look it. Yet they were as cheery and “full of beans” as the
youngsters, he told me.
The reason for putting men of “territorial” age in first line
trenches I could not manage to ascertain, for however good physically
they may be for their age, one would have thought that their place
was in the rear and that younger men would always have been found in
the van.
It is indisputable that modern warfare is not for “veterans,” but,
as our friend, Rudyard Kipling, would put it, for “three-year olds
only,” for only youth can stand for any length of time the terrific
physical and moral strain it entails.
I learned that there are a few hardy old mountaineers fighting
shoulder to shoulder with the youngsters up on the peaks; but these,
of course, are exceptions such as one will find anywhere, for the
capability of endurance is no longer the same as it was when on the
right side of thirty, and the strain on the heart at these altitudes
especially is enormously increased. But to revert to our excursion.
Our road for some distance skirted the shore of Lake Garda, which is
intersected by the Austrian frontier at its northern end, where the
important fortified town of Riva is situated.
Here again the extraordinary preparedness of Italy was demonstrated.
There were military works everywhere—barricades of barbed wire and
trenches right down to the edge of the water—with men behind them
watching and in readiness for any emergency.
The war had even been carried on to the Lake itself, in the form of
a flotilla of serviceable gun-boats which had made its appearance,
almost miraculously, so it is said, within a few hours of the opening
of hostilities, and practically bottling up the Austrians in their
end of the lake.
This “fleet” was continually out patrolling—night and day and in all
weather. What this means will be realized by anyone who knows Lake
Garda, for there is probably no expanse of water in the world where
navigation is more exposed to sudden peril than here. It bears the
evil reputation of being the most treacherous of Italy’s inland seas.
Owing to its peculiar configuration and _entourage_ of mountains,
tempests arise so unexpectedly that unless a vessel is handled by an
experienced skipper it has but little chance to reach its port safely
if it is caught in one of these Lake Garda hurricanes.
A gale from the North-East will raise waves equal to anything the
open sea can produce. Italy’s inland Navy is therefore exposed to
other perils than the guns of the Austrian batteries.
I was lucky enough to get a trip on the gun-boat “Mincio,” and saw
much of great interest on board. Everything was carried out on
strictly naval lines, so much in fact that one might have imagined
oneself out at sea, this illusion being heightened by the strong
wind blowing at the time and the unpleasantly lumpy seas which kept
breaking over us.
The officers and crews of these boats are all picked men from the
Royal Navy, and I was told that they have taken to their novel duties
with the greatest enthusiasm. The “Mincio” which was of about 150
tons, carried a very useful-looking Nordenfeldt quick-firer, mounted
on the fore-deck, and also a big searchlight apparatus.
There are other boats of the same class, and the little “fleet” had
already given good account of itself, whilst curiously enough, so
far it had escaped entirely scot free from mishap, in spite of the
endeavours of the Austrian gunners.
We steamed up the Lake till we were as near as prudence would permit
to the fortifications which protects Riva, for me to make a sketch of
it, but we did not remain stationary long as may be imagined.
Seen from the Lake, the fortress of Monte Brioni reminds one
singularly of the Rock of Gibraltar in miniature, and it is said to
be so honeycombed with gun embrasures as to be equally impregnable,
and it is known that this impregnability is further guaranteed by
mining the Lake in its vicinity.
I rejoined my companions in the car at a harbour some distance down
the Lake, and we then made for Desenzano, where we thought we would
spend the night as it was already late. It is a quaint little town
on the lake shore, and we had no difficulty in getting rooms. To our
surprise a very good hotel was open, as every place at first sight
appeared to be shut up since there were no tourists to cater for.
There was no sign of military activity here, as it is many miles
from the Front, but whatever was wanting in this respect was made
up for by the nocturnal activity of the mosquitoes. I don’t think I
ever experienced anything to equal their ferocity anywhere. I have
since been told that Desenzano is notorious, if only by reason of
its annual plague of these pests of the night, and that they are a
particular tribe indigeneous to the place.
We returned to Brescia the following day. Our excursion had been
very pleasant and instructive in every respect, but what we had seen
only whetted one’s appetite for more. Life here in this provincial
town seemed very tame when you remembered what was going on so
comparatively short a distance away.
I should, therefore, have liked to get off again at once into the
mountains, but it was not so easy, and for a reason that admitted of
no argument. Something had gone wrong with the car, so our chauffeur
told us, and it could not be put right for a few days. This was only
what all motorists have continually to put up with, so there was
nothing for it but to grin and bear it.
At this juncture one of my French _confrères_, Jules Rateau, of the
_Echo de Paris_, a very jovial fellow, with whom I had become very
friendly, and to whom I had confided my troubles, invited me to go
for a trip with him in his car, his own companion having had to go to
Milan for a few days. I gladly accepted, and we arranged to attempt
to get as far as the positions on the Stelvio Pass. This meant again
staying away a night, as we learned it was far too arduous a journey
to be done in a single day.
Our intention was to make Bormio our first stage, sleep there and
push on to the Stelvio the following day.
It would be impossible to conceive a more wonderful motor trip. For
scenery it is probably unsurpassed in the world. I have never seen
anything to equal it. Our route part of the way went along that most
romantic of lakes Idro. The road, which is magnificent, follows all
the sinuosities of the shore on the very edge of the water, winding
in and out, and in many places passing through tunnels in the
cliff-like rocks.
You somehow had the feeling that one ought not to be on a warlike
expedition in such glorious surroundings, for the grandeur of it all
overwhelmed you.
Further on we passed through the valley of Valtellino, famous for its
grape vines, and for several miles we were driving past the curious
terrace-like vineyards in the mountain side, looking so peaceful in
the glorious sunshine. Then, as we gradually ascended, the scenery
changed, and we were in amongst gaunt, forbidding mountains, towering
above the road on either side.
All trace of cultivation disappeared by degrees; nature here no
longer smiled, grim pine forests made black patches against the
rugged slopes; there were traces of early snow on the high peaks, and
the air was becoming chilly. The contrast with the tender beauty of
the lower part of the valley was impressive in the extreme.
We were now approaching the area of military operations, and
occasionally we heard in the far distance the dull boom of guns. The
ascent became steeper, and at length the road left the valley and
began to climb up through the mountains by a series of corkscrew
turns that are so familiar in mountainous districts, but here the
acclivity was so steep that the turns were correspondingly numerous,
and it was a veritable nightmare of a road.
Our car, a Daimler of an old model, with a big, heavy tonneau, soon
began to feel the test and commenced to grunt and hesitate in a
manner that was not at all pleasant, considering that we were on the
edge of a precipice and there was no parapet.
The way the chauffeur had to literally coax the panting engine at
each turn makes me shudder even now to think of—every time I fully
expected it would fail to negotiate it, and we should go backwards
and be over the edge before he could put the break on, so little
space was there to spare. The only thing to do was to sit tight and
trust to luck. However, we reached the top safely, and at length
arrived at Bormio.
We had been advised that the first thing to do was to ascertain the
whereabouts of the commanding officer of the division and get his
permission to visit the positions, as it lay entirely within his
discretion. Our _Salvo Condotti_ being subject to such restrictions
as might be deemed necessary at any place.
There was no difficulty in discovering the Headquarter Staff
building; it was a short distance from the town, in a big, new hotel
and hydropathic establishment, with fine park-like grounds. In peace
time it must have been a delightful place to stay in.
The General was away, but we were received by a Staff Colonel, who
spoke French. On seeing our papers he made no objection to giving us
permits to visit any position in this sector, and even went so far
as to suggest that we should go the following day up to the fort on
the Forcola close to the Stelvio Pass, and that an _Alpino_ could
accompany us as guide. It was probable that we should be under fire
a good part of the way, he added, but what we should see would be
sufficiently interesting to compensate for the risk.
We gladly accepted his suggestion, so it was arranged we should start
early the next day as we had a stiff climb before us. We then went
back to the village.
It was getting towards nightfall, and the narrow main street recalled
vaguely Chamonix. It was crowded with Alpine soldiers, and in the
dusk they conveyed some impression of mountaineering tourists, the
illusion being heightened by the clank of their hobnailed boots on
the cobbles and the alpenstoks they all carried.
The village had not been evacuated as most of them are near the
Front, so there were women and children about. The principal hotel
was open, and we got two good rooms for the night, and what was more
to the point, for we were both famished after our long drive, one
of the best dinners I have had anywhere in Italy, the big cities
included. It was a _table d’hôte_ for the officers, but we were
informed there was “probably no objection” to our dining at it.
Our appearance in the dining room created no little surprise, as we
were the only civilians present, our Press badges especially exciting
much comment, as this was the first time that correspondents had been
here.
Following the lead of my colleague, I bowed first to the Colonel,
who was at the head of the table, then to the rest of the officers
present, and we sat down at a small table by ourselves, amidst the
somewhat embarrassing attention we were attracting. This soon wore
off, however, as Italian officers are gentlemen not Huns, and it was
evidently realised that we had permission to come to Bormio or we
should not have ventured to be there.
CHAPTER VIII
On the summit of the Forcola—We start off in “military” time—Our
guide—Hard climbing—Realize we are no longer youthful—Under
fire—Necessary precautions—Our goal in sight—An awful bit of
track—Vertigo—A terrifying predicament—In the Forcola position—A
gigantic ant-heap—Unique position of the Forcola—A glorious
panorama—The Austrian Tyrol—The three frontiers—Shown round
position—Self-contained arsenal—Lunch in the mess-room—Interesting
chat—The “observation post”—The goniometre—Return to Bormio—Decide
to pass another night there—An invitation from the sergeants—Amusing
incident.
CHAPTER VIII
The summit of the Forcola is only nine kilometres as the crow flies
from Bormio, but we were told that it meant covering at least three
times that distance to reach our destination, and the hard climb
would make it appear much more.
We therefore got off in military time in the morning, and went a bit
of the way in the car till we came to a sort of wayside châlet, quite
Swiss in appearance, where a detachment of _Alpini_ was stationed.
On presenting our letter from the Colonel at Headquarters, the
Officer in command ordered one of his men to accompany us, so leaving
the car here to await our return, we started off without delay. Our
guide, a brawny and typical young Italian mountaineer, leading the
way at a pace that soon compelled us to ask him to slow down a bit.
We had been advised, as we were unaccustomed to climbing, not to
“rush” it at first, as we had at least two hours of strenuous
plodding to reach the fort, and it was a very hot day, which would
make us feel the strain the more.
To our athletic _cicerone_ this was evidently but an ordinary walk
in the day’s work; in fact, so light did he make of it that he
obligingly insisted on carrying our overcoats and other paraphernalia
in spite of his being encumbered with his rifle, ammunition belt and
heavy cape.
We were not long in discovering that the stiffness of the climb
we were undertaking had not been exaggerated, and also that we
were neither of us as young as we had been. This latter point in
particular I recollect was irritatingly brought home to me at one
time when we were really making splendid progress as we thought.
Some _Alpini_, in full marching order, caught us up and passed us
as easily as if we had been standing still. However, it was no
good being discouraged because we were no longer youthful, and we
continued to make our way slowly but surely up the winding rocky
track.
We had got about half way, and so far there had been nothing in
the nature of an incident, and no indication whatever that we were
actually right up at the Front and within range of the Austrian
batteries, for a dead silence had reigned in the mountains all the
morning.
Suddenly, as we were crossing a comparatively level bit of
boulder-strewn ground, the report of a big gun resounded in the
still air, and in a few seconds we heard a wailing sort of shriek
approaching, and an instant after the loud crash of a shell bursting
a short distance away.
We stopped and looked at each other, uncertain what to do as there
was no cover anywhere near. Our guide settled it for us without a
moment’s hesitation.
“The Austrians have seen us, that’s why they have commenced firing in
this direction; they probably think we may be part of a detachment of
troops going up to the fort—we must hurry on, and with intervals of a
couple of hundred yards or so between us.”
There was no time to lose, for whilst he was speaking another shell
burst nearer than the previous one.
So off we went again with the _Alpino_ leading the way. Rateau was
in the centre, and I brought up the rear. Two hundred yards are not
much on the level, but on a steep mountain track the distances are
difficult to estimate, so the soldier was quite out of sight at times
from where I was.
The firing still continued in a desultory manner, shells dropping
aimlessly here and there, with no particular object so far as one
could judge, but probably with the idea of hampering any movements of
troops on the mountain. Meanwhile there was no response whatever from
the Italian batteries. They were letting the Austrians waste their
ammunition since they were so minded.
Our goal at last came into view high above on the summit of a
cyclopean wall of rock and seemingly an inaccessible point to reach.
It looked an awful place to climb up to and only to be tackled by
mountaineers, yet somewhere on that precipitous height there was
surely a means of ascent indistinguishable from below; and so it
proved.
The track now became more and more steep and zig-zag, till at length
the windings terminated, and there appeared a long straight stretch,
going without a break along the face of the bluff, up to the summit
at an angle of at least 60 degrees. Even now when I recall it, it
makes me shudder.
It was certainly not more than a couple of feet in width, and
overhung an abyss hundreds of feet deep. The mere aspect of it almost
gave me vertigo.
Hesitation, however, was out of the question after coming so far;
moreover, I was now quite alone, as my companions had already reached
our destination; I had to go on.
Within a few yards of the top I happened unconsciously to look down.
The effect produced by the sight of the yawning gulf beneath me was
terrifying: a giddiness came over me, my knees began to tremble, and
had I not managed to turn and clutch frantically at a projecting
piece of rock I should have lost my balance and fallen over.
I shut my eyes and held on for a few minutes, not daring to stir;
then, with a strong effort of will, I pulled myself together
sufficiently to edge along with my face to the rock and grasp hold
of some barbed wire outside the opening leading into the fort; then,
of course, I was safe.
Almost needless to add that when I got inside I did not relate my
perilous experience. You are not supposed to be subject to vertigo
when you tackle mountain climbing; it might prove awkward for your
comrades.
A wonderful spectacle confronted me as I looked round. The Forcola
is nearly 10,000 feet high, and here, right on the summit, was a
veritable citadel in course of construction, with armoured trenches,
sandbag emplacements for big guns, barbed-wire entanglements; in
fact, everything that modern military science can contrive to insure
impregnability.
The whole place was teeming with activity, and looked like a gigantic
ant-heap; on all sides soldiers were to be seen at work, and it
was evident that those in charge of this important position were
determined to leave nothing to luck. The little that nature had left
unprotected was being made good by the untiring efforts and genius of
the Italians, and the Austrian chances of ever capturing the place
are practically _nil_. Its curious configuration largely contributes
to its impregnability and power of resistance if ever besieged.
Behind its line of armoured trenches is a deep hollow, which could
shelter an army corps if necessary; and here, under complete cover,
are well-built, barrack-like buildings, in which the troops can be
comfortably quartered during the long winter months when the fort is
buried under yards of snow and practically isolated from the outer
world.
[Illustration: As he whirled past in the big car (_see page 50_)
_To face page 88_]
The position on the Forcola is probably unique in the world, as it is
situated exactly at a point where three frontiers meet: the Italian,
Austrian and Swiss. From its sandbag ramparts on the front facing
the Austrians one has the most sublime vista of mountain scenery it
would be possible to conceive. It is impossible in mere words to
attempt to convey anything but the faintest impression of it, yet it
would be a sin of omission not to endeavour to.
As I gazed in front of me, the marvellous beauty of the scene held me
in rapt suspense, and for a few moments the war passed from my mind.
The Austrian Tyrol was before me, a panorama of wondrous mountain
peaks stretching away into the mist of the far distance, and towering
above the highest was the mighty Ortler, crowned with eternal snow,
and positively awe-inspiring in its stately grandeur.
My reverie was abruptly disturbed by the boom of a big gun. I was
back again amongst realities, yet how puny did the biggest efforts
of mankind at war appear in comparison with all this splendour of
nature. Had it not been for the echoes produced by these giant peaks
the report of even the heavy artillery would probably have scarcely
been heard.
The Swiss and Austrian frontiers meet on the summit of a
Brobdingnagian cliff of rock of strange formation, which towers
above the Forcola. Through field glasses the frontier guards and the
blockhouses are plainly discernable.
This overhanging proximity of the enemy strikes me as constituting
a constant menace to the Italian position, as every movement within
its _enceinte_ is visible from the height above. The fact also of
the Austrian and Swiss frontier guards being so close to each other
as to be able to fraternise must inevitably conduce to espionage.
Doubtless, however, all this has been well considered by the
Italians, and they are not likely to be caught napping.
Rateau and I had a very cordial reception, and the officer in
command of the position took a visible pride in showing us round
it and explaining everything, whilst I made a lot of interesting
sketches. The ability and rapidity with which it had been constructed
and fortified were worthy of the very highest praise. Such a fortress
brought into being in so short a time and at such an altitude was in
itself such a marvel of military capacity that one was lost in wonder
at it all. Evidently no obstacle presented by nature deterred its
accomplishment.
In the emplacements were guns of a calibre one certainly never
expected to see except in the valley, and you were lost in conjecture
how the feat of getting them up here was achieved.
Everything was approaching completion, and by the time the snow set
in and the position would be practically cut off from the lower world
it would be a big, self-contained arsenal with all that was necessary
for carrying on its share of the general scheme of operations on the
Frontier without extraneous assistance should the rigours of the
Alpine winter render it unapproachable.
In the warfare in the mountains, positions develop more or less
into isolated communities, as the men seldom have an opportunity of
going down to the busy world below, besides which the summer is so
brief at these altitudes. Even on the date we were at the Forcola,
the twentieth of August, there were already unmistakable signs of
the approach of winter; the air was decidedly frosty—there had been
a fall of snow a few hours previously, and most of the peaks were
powdered with silvery white.
We gladly accepted the invitation to have some lunch in the
mess-room, for the keen air had given both of us healthy appetites,
and while we were doing justice to a well-cooked steak with fried
potatoes and a flask of very excellent _Valtellino_. I had a chat
with some of the younger officers, and learned to my surprise that
they had not stirred from the place since they had come up nearly
three months before, and they had no hope of getting leave for a long
time to come as things were developing and the winter coming along.
A visit from two civilians like ourselves, who could give them some
news of the outside world, was therefore a veritable red-letter day
for them.
Yet, in spite of the monotony of their existence, these cheery
fellows did not complain. There was always plenty to occupy their
minds, they said, and prevent them from brooding over old times. To
defend the Forcola at all hazards was now their sole pre-occupation;
and after all, they added, with an attempt at mirth, they might
easily have been stationed in a still more isolated spot and with
fewer companions. Such admirable equanimity was only what I expected
to find now that I knew the Italian soldier, so it did not surprise
me at all.
After lunch, as the Austrian batteries seemed to be getting busier,
we strolled up to the “observation post,” a sort of tunnel in
which was a telephone installation and an instrument known as a
“goniometre,” a powerful telescope in miniature, combined with a
novel kind of range-finder, through which the slightest movement of
the enemy can be instantly detected and telephoned to the officers in
command of the different gun emplacements. The machine is always in
readiness, as it is so fixed that once it is focussed it requires no
re-adjustment.
There was a small, irregular hole at the end of the tunnel that
faced the enemy’s line, and through this the goniometre pointed. Two
soldiers were on duty, one to keep his eye on the opposite mountain,
the other to manipulate the telephone. It evidently required some
practice to use the telescope, as I had a good look through it and
could scarcely make out anything.
When we visited the post the Italian batteries were not yet replying
to what I was informed were only the usual daily greetings of the
Austrians, but their response would doubtless be sent in due course,
judging from the conversation of the operator with the telephone.
Everything we saw was so absorbingly interesting that we should have
liked to remain on the Forcola many hours more, but time was getting
on by now, and we had to think of getting back.
As may be imagined, after my experience coming up I was particularly
dreading this moment to arrive. I thought it best, however, to say
nothing and trust to luck in getting down without another attack of
vertigo. When we said goodbye to our genial hosts, several soldiers
were about to descend also, so we were to have company.
“Three minutes interval between each man and go as fast as possible,”
called out an officer, and off went everyone at a given signal.
Rateau was just before me and, as it turned out, I was last.
I felt like the prisoners in the Conciergerie during the reign of
terror must have felt as they waited their turn to go out to the
fatal tumbril. Through the opening in the sandbags only a bit of the
narrow pathway was visible, as it turned sharply to the right and
went down the face of the cliff beyond. It was like looking out on
limitless space.
“Well, goodbye and a pleasant journey,” said the officer to me when
my turn came.
Out I went, putting my hand over my left eye to avoid looking into
the void, and I managed to run like this all the way down.
It was getting late when we got back to Bormio, so we decided to
remain another night, and were glad we did, as an amusing incident
occurred during the evening.
Whilst we were finishing dinner at the hotel, we received a note
inviting us afterwards to smoke a cigar and take a glass of wine with
the sergeants of the regiment quartered in the town. Of course we
accepted and duly turned up.
The reception—for such it was—took place in a large private room of
the hotel we were staying in, and we were greeted with the utmost
cordiality.
There was a big display of a certain very famous brand of champagne
on a side table, and the corks soon began to fly merrily; toasts
were given as usual, and everything was pleasant. During a pause a
sergeant next to me, who spoke French fluently, asked me how I liked
the wine.
In jocular vein I replied that it was excellent, but it was a pity
it is German, as it is well known that the owner of the vineyards
near Rheims is at present interned in France. To my surprise he took
my words seriously; there was an icy moment as he communicated my
remarks to his comrades, and then, as though with one accord, there
was a crash of broken glass, and we had to finish up the evening for
patriotic reasons on _Asti Spumante_.
CHAPTER IX
From Brescia to Verona—Absence of military movement in rural
districts—Verona—No time for sightseeing—The axis of the
Trentino—Roveretto, the focus of operations—Fort Pozzachio—A “dummy
fortress”—Wasted labour—Interesting incident—Excursion to Ala—Lunch
to the correspondents—Ingenious ferry-boat on River Adige—The Valley
of the Adige—Wonderful panorama—“No sketching allowed”—Curious
finish of incident—Austrian positions—Desperate fighting—From
Verona to Vicenza—The positions of Fiera di Primiero—Capture of
Monte Marmolada—The Dolomites—Their weird fascination—A striking
incident—The attempted suicide—The Col di Lana—Up the mountains
on mules—Sturdy _Alpini_—Method of getting guns and supplies to
these great heights—The observation post and telephone cabin on
summit—The Colonel of Artillery—What it would have cost to capture
the Col di Lana then—The Colonel has an idea—The idea put into
execution—The development of the idea—Effect on the Col di Lana—An
object lesson—The Colonel gets into hot water—The return down
the mountains—Caprili—Under fire—We make for shelter—The village
muck-heap—Unpleasant position—A fine example of coolness—The wounded
mule—An impromptu dressing.
CHAPTER IX
It has been said that “who holds the Trentino holds not merely the
line of the Alps and the Passes, but the mouths of the Passes and the
villages which debouch into the Lombard Plain.”
The significance of this statement was being continually brought home
to me here on this northern frontier of Italy, and you could not
shut your eyes to the fact that the very safety of the whole country
depended on the army making good its “tiger spring” in the first
hours of the war.
It was not so much the necessity for an aggressive movement, but for
what one might term a successful defensive—offensive, and it cannot
be gainsaid—and even the Austrians themselves would admit it, that in
this respect the Italians scored everywhere along the line.
General Cadorna’s remarkable power of intuition was evidenced
by every movement of the army from the outset, but nowhere more
noticeably than in the Trentino sector at this early stage of the
war, when the slightest miscalculation on his part would most
assuredly have spelt irretrievable disaster for Italy.
We were to have abundant proof of what his organizing genius,
combined with the patriotic ardour of the troops, had been able to
accomplish in the short space of three months.
After eight days spent in and around Brescia we motored to Verona,
the next stage as arranged on our programme. Our road was across
country, and therefore some considerable distance from the Front,
so beyond being a delightful trip through glorious scenery, there
was nothing very special about it; touring motorists having done it
hundreds of times.
There was a noteworthy absence of any signs of military movements in
the rural districts, and the peasants were apparently going about
their usual peaceful avocations as unconcernedly as though the war
were in another country instead of being a comparatively short
distance away. In this respect, however, one felt that the motor
journeys we were scheduled to make from centre to centre would prove
exceedingly interesting, as they would afford us an insight of the
conditions prevailing in the rear of the Front, not an unimportant
factor in forming one’s impressions.
In Verona, had one been holiday making, many hours might have been
profitably spent in “doing” the place. As it was, my time was fully
occupied from the hour we arrived till the moment we left, and it
was, I am grieved to have to confess it, only by accident that I was
able to snatch the time to see anything of the artistic treasures of
the famous old city.
As a matter of fact, you scarcely had a moment to yourself if you
wanted to get any work done, as we only remained three days in Verona.
The reason for thus curtailing our stay did not transpire. In this
sector of the Front the most important operations in the Trentino
were taking place, and the Austrians were straining every nerve
in order to stay the victorious progress of the Italians, but the
lightning rapidity of their advance had proved irresistible, and had
forced a retirement to their second line. To dislodge them from this
was the tack the Italians had before them when we were in Verona.
The axis of the Trentino is obviously Trent, and in due course of
time it will doubtless fall into the hands of the Italians, but the
date of that event is on the knees of the gods.
Meanwhile the focus of the operations in August 1915, was the
fortified position of Roveretto, which has been described as the
“strategic heart” of the Trentino, and which guards the Austrian
portion of the valley of the Adige. Enclosed within several rings
of entrenchments and an outer chain of modern forts of the most
formidable character, it presented a redoubtable barrier to the
advance of the Italians into the Trentino in this direction.
But the lightning-like strategy of Cadorna upset all the plans of the
Austrian generals and, formidable though these defences were, they
were gradually being mastered.
Fort Pozzachio, which might have proved the most serious obstacle of
all, and have involved a long siege before it was captured, turned
out to be little more than a dummy fortress in so far as defensive
possibilities were concerned, and had to be abandoned at the
commencement of the war. This step being decided on by the Austrians
in consequence, as they stated in their _communiqué_, of its not
being in readiness to offer any prolonged resistance if besieged.
It transpired later that, although years had been spent working on it
and vast sums of money expended, it was so far from being completed
when war was declared that its heavy armament had not yet arrived.
It had been intended to make of it a stronghold which would be
practically impregnable.
Even now, it is a veritable modern Ehrenbreitstein, but with this
difference: it is not built on a rock but excavated out of the summit
of a lofty craig, which is quite inaccessible from the Italian side.
Although only about four miles from Roveretto, its surrender did not
help the Italians over much, in so far as the operations in that zone
were immediately concerned, but its loss must have been a severe blow
to Austrian pride.
It was said that it had been the intention of the Austrians to blow
it up rather than let the Italians reap the advantage of all the
labour that they had wasted on it, and in this connection there was a
story going round at the time that seemed circumstantial enough to be
worth recounting.
On the day of the occupation of the fortress an engineer officer,
strolling about examining the construction of the place, happened to
catch his foot in what he took to be a loose telephone wire, which
had apparently been accidentally pulled in from outside.
In disengaging it his attention was attracted by a peculiar object
attached to the wire, when to his surprise he found that it was
an electrical contrivance connected with a live fuse leading to a
positive mine of dynamite in one of the lower galleries.
A small splinter of rock had somehow got mixed up with the detonator,
and thus, as though by a miracle, the fortress and the Italian troops
in it had been saved from destruction. Almost needless to add, the
wire led from the nearest Austrian position.
We only made one excursion from Verona, but it was of extreme
interest in view of what was taking place at the time in this sector
of the Front. It was to Ala, a small Austrian town in the valley of
the Adige, which had been captured a few weeks previously.
There had been some sharp fighting in the streets, as many of the
houses bore witness to, but its chief interest to us lay in the fact
that it was in redeemed territory, and actually within the portals of
Austrian Trentino. Like, however, most of the liberated towns I had
visited, Ala was more Italian than Austrian.
[Illustration: The whole region was positively alive with warlike
energy (_see page 75_)
_To face page 100_]
The Mayor offered a lunch to the correspondents, and the usual
patriotic toasts followed. Afterwards we motored to the nearest
position, which was only a short distance from the town. Crossing the
river Adige on our way by an ingenious ferry-boat, constructed by
the engineers, the Austrians having destroyed the only bridge in the
vicinity. The “ferry” consisted of two big barges clamped together,
then boarded over and steered by an immense paddle projecting from
the after part. It was worked on the fixed-rope and sliding-pulley
principle, the swift current supplying the motive power.
We had all been looking forward to getting a good conception of the
operations, which just then were of vital importance, but we were to
be disappointed; we were only to be permitted a long range view.
On reaching a small hamlet on the bank of the river a few hundred
yards further on we were informed we could not proceed beyond this
point. We had, therefore, to be content with what we could see from
the roadway, which overlooked the river.
The _coup d’oeil_ was magnificent, though not so impressive as what
we had seen previously. Before us stretched the broad valley of the
Adige; its swiftly running stream divided up here by numerous gravel
islets. On the opposite bank was the railway line to Trent and the
town of Seravalle; whilst facing it on our side was Chizzola.
Away in the distance bathed in the effulgence of the glorious summer
afternoon, were the Stivo and other high hills, on which are the
forts guarding Roveretto, hidden from our view by a bend in the river.
Now and again one saw a tiny piff of white smoke, and heard the
muffled boom of artillery, but this was the only indication that any
operations were in progress. It was all so vast and so swamped as it
were by the immensity of the landscape that it was difficult to grasp
what was taking place.
A few hundred yards further down the road where we were standing
was the picturesque village of Pilcante, almost hidden in luxuriant
foliage.
In the immediate foreground and standing out in discordant detail
was a barbed-wire entanglement barricading the road, and guarded by
a detachment of infantry; whilst immediately below the parapet which
skirted the pathway, a cottage and a small garden on a spot of ground
jutting into the river had been transformed into a sort of miniature
“position” with an armoured trench, disguised by small trees stuck in
the walls.
It occurred to me that all this would make an interesting sketch; as
a matter of fact, it was the only subject that had appealed to me
that day, so I got out my book, and had just finished it when I felt
a touch on my shoulder and someone whispered in my ear:
“Be careful, sketching is not allowed here.” I looked round—it was
one of the officers accompanying us.
“Not allowed?” I queried; “surely there must be some mistake.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “special instructions were issued by the
General that no sketches or photographs were to be made here.”
As this was the first time I had heard of any restrictions since we
had started on the tour, my surprise may be imagined, and the more
especially as nothing apparently could have been more innocent than
the subject I had chosen.
“Well, I’m sorry, but what you tell me comes too late as I have
already made a sketch,” said I, showing it to him. “What shall I do?”
The officer, a very good fellow, laughed and shrugged his shoulders:
“Put your book back in your pocket and don’t let anyone see it; there
are several staff officers about.”
The finish of the incident was equally curious. I worked up a double
page drawing from the sketch in question, and, of course, submitted
it to the censors. It aroused a good deal of comment, but it was
eventually “passed” on condition that I altered the title and took
out all the names of the towns, mountains, etc.; only the vaguest
suggestion as to where I had made it being permitted.
In spite of the fact that the Austrians had the geographical
advantage of position almost everywhere, and that their frontier was
comparatively so close to many important Italian cities, the intrepid
advance of the Italian troops upset all the calculations of the
Austrian generals, and, instead of advancing into Italian territory,
they found themselves forced to act on the defensive some distance
to the rear of their first line positions, and well inside their own
frontier. But it was no easy task for the Italians, and tested their
valour and endurance to the utmost.
The fighting in the ravines and on the sides of the mountains was of
the most desperate character, for in this warfare at close quarters
it is man to man, and individual courage tells more than it does down
on the plains.
Here, in the fastnesses of nature, every clump of trees or isolated
rocks are potential ambuscades. So it requires the utmost caution,
combined with almost reckless daring, to advance at any time.
The Austrians, though well provided with heavy artillery, were quite
unable to hold on to their positions. It was brute force pitted
against skill and enthusiastic courage, and brute force was worsted
as it generally is under such conditions.
Our two next “stages,” Vicenza and Belluno, brought us into the very
heart of the fighting on the line of the Italian advance in the
Eastern Trentino towards Bolzano and the region round Monte Cristallo.
We halted a couple of days at Vicenza to enable us to visit the
positions of Fiera di Primero. The Italian lines here were some
distance inside Austrian territory, so we had a good opportunity of
judging for ourselves the difficulties that had to be overcome to
have advanced so far, as well as the preparations that had been made
by the Austrians for their proposed invasion of Italy.
Cunningly concealed trenches, barbed-wire entanglements and gun
emplacements commanded every approach, whilst protecting the advance
of troops. It seemed incredible that such well planned works should
have been abandoned.
But here as elsewhere the lightning strategy of Cadorna left the
Austrian commanders no option. Monte Marmolada, 11,000 ft. high, and
other mountains on which the Austrians had placed heavy artillery,
were captured by degrees. The strategic value of these positions was
incontestable.
Unless one has seen the Dolomites it is impossible to form any
conception of what these successes mean or the terrible difficulties
that had to be surmounted to gain them.
Neither Dante nor Doré in their wildest and most fantastic
compositions ever conceived anything more awe-inspiring than warfare
amidst these towering peaks.
At all times they exercise a kind of weird fascination which is
positively uncanny; add the thunder of modern artillery and the
effect is supernatural. You try hard to realize what it means
fighting amongst these jagged pinnacles and on the edges of the awful
precipices.
Death, however, has little terror for the men, judging from the
look on the faces of the mortally wounded one saw from time to time
brought down from the trenches.
A little incident related to me by Calza Bedolo brings home the
spirit of Italy’s soldiers.
He had shortly before come upon a stretcher-party carrying down from
the mountains a very dangerously wounded man. Upon enquiry as to
how the wound had been caused he was informed that it was a case of
attempted suicide.
What had led up to this desperate act? It appeared that for some
trivial breach of discipline the man had been deprived of the
privilege of a place in the front trenches and sent to a position in
the rear!
The most important of all the strategic points at that time was the
Col di Lana, which dominates the Falzarego and Livinallongo passes,
close to Cortina d’Ampezzo. Here the Austrians were putting up a
defence which was taxing the strength and resources of the Italians,
to their utmost, but it was gradually being overcome.
Every mountain which commanded the position was being mounted with
guns of the heaviest calibre, and big events were said to be looming
in the near future.
As a matter of fact, it was only six months later that the Italians
succeeded in capturing the Col di Lana, so strongly were the
Austrians entrenched on it. A young engineer conceived the idea of
mining it, and so successful was he that the entire summit of the
mountain, with the Austrian positions, was literally blown away.
One of the most interesting of the excursions the English group of
correspondents made was to the top of a mountain facing it. As it
would have been a very trying climb for amateur mountaineers like
ourselves, mules were considerately supplied by the General of the
division. So we accomplished the ascent in easy fashion, for it was
certain that very few of us would have tackled it on foot.
The sturdy _Alpini_ who accompanied us treated the excursion as a
good sort of joke apparently, and plodded steadily alongside us in
the test of spirits, laughing now and again at our vain efforts to
keep our steeds from walking on the extreme edge of the precipices.
This ride gave us a splendid opportunity of seeing how the Italians
have surmounted the difficulty of getting heavy artillery to the very
summits of mountains, where no human foot had trodden before the war
broke out. Rough and terribly steep in places though the road was,
still it was a real roadway and not a mere track as one might have
expected to find considering how rapidly it had been made. Men were
still at work consolidating it at the turns on scientific principles,
and in a few weeks, with the continual traffic passing up and down
it, it would present all the appearance of an old established road.
It is the method of getting the guns and supplies up these great
heights in the first instance that “starts” the road as it were.
Nothing could be simpler or more efficacious.
It consists in actually cutting the track for the guns just in
advance of them as they are gradually pushed and hauled forward. The
position and angle of the track being settled before starting by the
engineers.
This, of course, takes time at first, especially when the acclivity
is very steep, but it has the advantage of breaking the way for
whatever follows. The rough track is then gradually improved upon by
the succeeding gun teams, and so a well constructed zig-zag military
roadway gradually comes into being.
We left the mules a short distance from the summit and had to climb
the rest of the way. Instead of an artillery position as we expected
to find, it was an observation post, with a telephone cabin built in
a gap in the rocks, and a hut for half a dozen soldiers on duty.
The little station was quite hidden from the Austrians, although only
a couple of thousand yards distant. It was a most important spot, as
from here the fire of all the batteries round about was controlled.
We were received by the Colonel commanding this sector of the
artillery, a grizzled warrior, wearing a knitted woollen sleeping cap
pulled well down over his ears, which gave him a somewhat quaint and
unmilitary appearance.
The “observation post” was merely a small hole through the rocks, and
so awkward to get at that only two people could look through it at
the same time. Immediately facing you across a shallow valley was a
barren hill of no great elevation (of course it must be remembered
we were here several thousand feet up). There was no sign of life or
vegetation, and it looked so singularly bare and uninteresting that
unless you had been told to look at it your attention would never
have been attracted to it.
Yet this was the much talked of Col di Lana. Seen, however, through
field glasses its aspect altered considerably, and you could not fail
to notice what appeared to be row upon row of battered stone walls,
and also that the ridge was very much broken up, shewing patches
everywhere of red sand.
The “stone walls,” the Colonel told us, were what remained of
the Austrian trenches and the patches of sand were caused by the
incessant bombardment by the Italians. At that moment there was not
the slightest sign of military activity anywhere, no sound of a gun
disturbed the still air.
It seemed incredible that we were gazing on the most redoubtable
position on the whole Front, and one that for weeks had barred the
Italian advance in this direction.
Someone remarked that it did not look so very formidable after all,
and asked the Colonel if it would really mean a very big effort to
capture it.
“To take that innocent looking summit now,” he replied gravely,
“would necessitate attacking it with a couple of hundred thousand men
and being prepared to lose half of them. We shall get it by other
means, but it will take some time; meanwhile every yard of it is
covered by my batteries.”
We continued to gaze on the silent landscape with increasing
interest, when suddenly, as though an idea had occurred to him, the
Colonel said that if we did not mind waiting twenty minutes or so
he would show us what his gunners could do. Of course we asked for
nothing better. So he went up to the telephone cabin and was there a
little while; he then came back and told us to follow him.
He led the way down a ravine enclosed by lofty cliffs close by. At
the foot of it were large boulders, some with sandbags spread on
them. This was his sharpshooter’s lair, he informed us, but for the
moment they were not there.
We were then told to hide ourselves as much as possible behind the
rocks and watch what was going to happen on the Col di Lana, which
was in full view from here.
“We are right under fire here, but you are fairly safe if you keep
well under cover,” he added, as a sort of final recommendation when
he saw us all placed.
The stillness of death reigned for the next ten minutes perhaps. We
kept our eyes glued on the fateful hill opposite, not exactly knowing
what was going to happen, when all of a sudden there was the crash of
a big gun and we heard the shriek of a shell as it passed overhead;
then, with scarcely an interval this was followed up by such a
succession of firing that it sounded like a thunderstorm let loose.
The effect on the Col di Lana was startling: it was as though a
series of volcanoes had started activity, all along the summit and
just below it fantastic columns of smoke and dust rose high into the
air. As the Colonel had truly said, every yard of the hill was under
the fire of his batteries.
It was an object lesson in precision of aim, and one almost felt
sorry for the men who were thus, without the slightest warning,
deluged with high explosives. Meanwhile the Austrian batteries did
not fire a shot in reply.
The bombardment lasted exactly ten minutes, and ceased as abruptly as
it had started.
“Wonderful,” we all exclaimed when we were reassembled at the
station. The Colonel looked delighted with the way his instructions
had been carried out.
At that moment we heard the telephone bell ringing violently; he
excused himself and hurried to the box, and was there some minutes.
When he returned the look of elation on his face had disappeared.
“That was the General ringing up,” he explained. “He heard the firing
and wanted to know what had happened suddenly. He is in an awful rage
at my giving you this entertainment.”
Of course we were all very sorry that he should have got into trouble
on our account, but he seemed to make light of it, and evidently
had no fear of unpleasant consequences. We then left the place and
retraced our footsteps.
There was no mule-riding going down the mountain unless you wanted to
break your neck. It was far too steep, therefore we had to walk the
whole way, a very long and tiring job.
In the valley below was the village of Caprile, where we had arranged
to meet our cars. A mountain stream ran past the village, and there
was a broad, open space of ground facing the houses, in which was a
large encampment with long sheds and hundreds of horses and mules
picketted.
As we were walking across to the inn, where we were going to lunch,
we heard the dull boom of a gun in the distance, and in a few seconds
the approaching wail of a projectile, followed by the report of the
explosion a short distance away, and we saw the shell had burst on
the hillside a few feet from the Red Cross Hospital.
We had been remarking how quietly the Austrians had taken our
artillery attack. This was evidently the commencement of their reply.
The report had scarcely died away than there was a general scurrying
of everyone for shelter; mules and horses were rapidly released and
hurriedly led away. Then another report was heard in the distance.
This time there was no doubt we were in for a regular bombardment.
So with one accord we all made for a low parapet skirting the river,
which would afford some cover, and without stopping to look what was
behind it, leaped over like two-year-olds just as another shell burst
in the open close by.
I don’t think I am ever likely to forget where we found ourselves:
below the parapet was the village muck-heap, and we were in the very
midst of it. Unsavoury though the recollection is, it makes me smile
when I recall it and the look on the faces of everyone who had taken
refuge there.
If there was any luck as to position I perhaps, with two others, had
the best of it, for we were only in manure and rotten straw, though
we were in it up to our waists.
So soon as the report of the guns reached us we all listened intently
till we heard the approaching shell, then crouched down as low as
possible in the filth, and waited till the explosion was over. I
remember I found myself thinking at these moments that it could not
have been worse out in the open.
After some minutes in this unpleasant predicament there was a lull in
the firing, so a dash was made for the village, and in company with
a crowd of soldiers we took refuge behind a house.
Whilst there we witnessed a fine example of coolness. A
white-moustached old Colonel, a splendid looking fellow, kept pacing
up and down out in the open regardless of the bursting shells, in
order to make sure all his men were keeping under cover, and worked
himself quite into a rage because some of them would persist in
exposing themselves.
The bombardment only lasted about an hour, and then gradually died
out. As far as I could ascertain, no one was killed, and no great
damage done, but several animals were wounded; one, a mule, was badly
injured in the side, and the way the ambulance men gave it a sort of
temporary dressing was quite curious, and showed much resource on
their part. They fastened up the gaping wound with ordinary safety
pins, using nearly a dozen for the purpose, whilst soldiers held on
the animal’s tail and fore leg to prevent its taking objection to the
treatment.
[Illustration: A very useful-looking Nordenfeldt quick-firer mounted
on the fore-deck (_see page 77_)
_To face page 112_]
CHAPTER X
Belluno—Venadoro in the heart of the Dolomites—A fine hotel—Tame
excursions—Visit to Cortina d’Ampezzo—Austrian attempts to
recapture it—305mm. guns on the Schluderbach—Long range
bombardment—Austrian women and children in the town—Italians capture
Monte Cristallo—Aeroplanes and observation balloons impossible
here—Tofana in hands of Italians—Serenity of garrison—Cortina
d’Ampezzo—General invites us to a _déjeuner_—Living at
Venadoro—Delightful _camaraderie_—Evenings in the big saloon—From
Belluno to Gemona—Description of Front in this Sector—Our excursion
to Pal Grande—The road—On mules up the mountain—A warning—Rough
track—Peasant women carrying barbed wire up to the trenches—Pay
of the women—Much competition for “vacancies”—The climb from Pal
Piccolo to Pal Grande—A wonderful old man—“Some” climb—The entrenched
position on Pal Grande—Spice of danger—Violent artillery duel—The
noise of the passing shells—Magnificent view—Timau—The Freikoffel—Its
capture by the _Alpini_—Wounded lowered by ropes—Capture of Pal
Grande—Presence of mind of a doctor—A telling incident—Extraordinary
enthusiasm of the troops—Food convoys—The soldier’s _menu_—Daily
rations—_Rancio_; the _plat du jour_—Officers mess arrangements—An
_al fresco_ lunch on Pal Grande—The “mess-room”—“Pot Luck”—A
wonderful meal—A stroll round the position—An improvised bowling
alley—Use is second nature—In the trenches—A veteran warrior—The
pet of the position—Gemona—The list of lodgings—My landlady—Good
restaurants in Gemona—The _Alpini_ quartered there—The military tatoo
in the evenings—Reception by the Mayor—A delightful week.
CHAPTER X
The military authorities had arranged for the correspondents and the
staff of the censorship to be quartered in the big modern hydropathic
establishment and hotel in the heart of the Dolomites, known as
Venadoro, some eight kilometres from Belluno, and we remained there
ten days, making frequent visits to the Front of this sector and into
Austrian territory.
Although these excursions were extremely interesting many of them
were very tame, and there were days when we did not hear a gun fired.
This though of course disappointing, was quite comprehensible.
Important operations were being carried out everywhere, but these did
not of necessity entail daily conflict.
We happened to visit Cortina d’Ampezzo, for instance, at a moment
when its aspect was so peaceful that the war seemed to have given it
the go-by; yet the guns were only silent by accident, as it were,
for the Italian offensive was being pursued without intermission,
and only a short distance from here fighting was taking place night
and day. It was, therefore, somewhat difficult to realize from its
tranquility the enormous importance attaching to this picturesque
little Alpine township.
Its loss had been a terrible blow to Austrian pride, and several
efforts had been made to recapture it, but as these had failed they
had endeavoured to destroy it and thus prevent the Italians from
profiting by its possession.
With this object in view, so typical of Hun methods, they had
succeeded in placing several 305mm. guns on the heights along the
Schluderbach valley, from which they could bombard Cortina d’Ampezzo
at long range, and had already done so on one or two occasions, but,
fortunately, without causing any loss of life or doing much damage.
The hellishness of this procedure will be more fully grasped when it
is remembered that the majority of the inhabitants were only women
and children, and mostly Austrians at that.
The continued successes of the Italians, and the rapidity of
their advance was, however, gradually but irresistibly pressing
the Austrians back, and it was expected that within a very short
while Cortina d’Ampezzo would be freed from the menace of the big
projectiles.
With dogged courage and endurance which could not be surpassed by any
troops in the world, the Italians stormed Monte Cristallo, 10,600
feet high, thus capturing a position which commands the valley of
Schluderbach, and forcing the enemy to retreat towards Colfreddo and
Croda Rosso (Hohe Gaisl), some ten kilometres to the north, where new
defensive works were being hastily improvised.
In this mountain warfare where it is impossible to make use of
aeroplanes and observation balloons owing to the configuration of
the country, it is obvious that the initial operations are mainly
directed towards gaining positions which can be utilized for the
purposes of watching the movements of the enemy and directing
artillery fire.
In this respect the Italians have scored all along the line, for the
superior skill of their artillerymen is incontestable, apart from
which the quality of their ammunition appears to be far ahead of
anything the Austrians have been using.
At the time of our visit all the heights encircling the Cortina
Valley were already in the hands of the Italians, including Tofana,
10,700 feet high, which dominates the Eastern end of the Falzarego
Pass, and is in a way a factor in the operations against the Col di
Lana on the other side. So that the chances of the Austrians ever
recapturing Cortina d’Ampezzo are absolutely nil.
That the serenity of its garrison is in no way disturbed by an
occasional visit from a long range shell was pleasingly evidenced by
the General inviting us all to a _déjeuner_ at one of the big hotels
which was still open. It could not have been better served or more
copious in peace time.
Our comparatively long stay at Venadoro was not without its
compensations, in spite of the fact that there was little to be seen
on the neighbouring Front.
We were all living together in a well-appointed hotel, so it afforded
an opportunity of getting to know and appreciate each other in a way
that never occurred in the other places we stopped at, where everyone
was on his own, so to speak, and when you scarcely met, except by
chance for a few moments at the Censorship.
Here, at Venadoro, Italian, French and English fraternised in a
delightful spirit of healthy _camaraderie_ and although we all shut
ourselves up in our rooms during the daytime when we were not on an
excursion, in order to get on with our work undisturbed, we all met
for lunch, and the evenings after dinner saw us united in the big
saloon, where with music, billiards, and bridge the time passed very
cheerily.
Knowing the wonderful organization of the Italian Headquarters Staff,
I was sometimes tempted to wonder whether the assembly of the Allied
correspondents at Venadoro was not something more than a mere casual
arrangement for the convenience of the Censorship.
Whatever was missing in the shape of military spectacle on the
Belluno Front was amply made up for by what we were able to see at
the next stage of our journey, the little town of Gemona. From
here we made what was undoubtedly the most interesting of all our
excursions.
The Front on this sector is in the Upper But mountain group on the
Frontier, which comprises Monte Timau, Montecroce, the Freikoffel,
Pal Grande and Pal Piccolo—every one of them a position of
first-class importance, and the scene of desperate fighting and deeds
of valour probably unsurpassed in the annals of mountain warfare.
Our road lay through Venzone, Tolmezzo and Paluzza, and there was
sufficient military movement all the way to prove we were in a zone
of active military operations, even if the booming of the guns in the
distance had not borne this out.
A little beyond Paluzza, just outside the village of Muse, we found
mules waiting for us, and we commenced a long, steep ascent which was
to land us at the foot of Pal Piccolo, beyond which point the climb
had to be made on foot. We were quite a small party, mostly English I
may add.
About half way up we arrived at a hut where we were met by the
Colonel of the Artillery, who courteously explained the nature and
scope of the operations, concluding by warning us that we were going
up at our own risk, as the whole of this particular sector was
constantly under fire.
It had been but the merest pretence at a road so far, but beyond
there it became but little better than a rough goat track, and
terribly trying for our animals.
On one of the worst portions we passed a gang of peasant women
carrying barbed wire up to the trenches. I knew that everybody in the
war zone is doing his or her bit, but I must confess I was somewhat
surprised to see women engaged on so arduous a task as this, which
calls for unusual muscle and nerve, apart from an exceptionally
hardy physique. This will be realised when one learns that each of
these apparently insignificant coils of barbed wire weighs close on
fifty pounds dead weight.
When we passed this convoy, although it was high up in the mountains,
and the women must have been tramping for some hours, they were all
as cheerful as possible, and appeared to regard their job as a sort
of pleasure jaunt. Considering also that the big guns were thundering
close by and shells bursting in somewhat close proximity, it was a
good example of use being second nature.
Girls as well as women are employed. They are paid two lires a day
and their food is provided. It is a condition that they must come
from the villages round about the sector in which they are employed,
and there is, I learn, always keen competition for any “vacancies.”
Many of the girls I saw were distinctly good-looking, and the bright
tones of their picturesque costumes made a cheerful and unexpected
note of colour against the dull grey of the wild mountain pass.
At the foot of Pal Piccolo our party divided. It looked like a
terrific climb up to the summit of Pal Grande, and most of the men
thought “it wasn’t good enough,” and decided to explore the lesser
peak only. Five of us, including myself, went on: Jeffries, Bedolo,
Molinari, another Italian whose name I forget for the moment, and, of
course one or two officers.
I am sorry I cannot recall the name of the other Italian
correspondent, as he was a perfect wonder. Although quite an old
man—he was close on seventy if he was a day—he was certainly the
coolest and most unconcerned of the party.
The stiff climb did not appear to trouble him in the least, nor
did the bursting shells. He simply strolled up ahead of us all as
though he was taking a constitutional, with his hands in his pockets,
disdaining the assistance of an alpenstock. Dressed in an ordinary
tweed suit, and wearing a straw hat, his appearance was singularly
out of keeping with the surroundings. His nonchalance was positively
irritating, and he reached the top without turning a hair.
It was indeed “some” climb, though fortunately for me there were
no hair-raising bits to bring on mountain vertigo. It meant simply
plodding up and up amongst loose boulders at an angle of 75 degrees.
But if there were no perilous edges of precipices to negotiate, it
was none the less nerve-racking, as we were under shell fire more or
less the whole way, and many of the projectiles, which were of heavy
calibre, burst in unpleasant proximity to the track we were mounting.
The last bit up into the trenches had to be done at the double,
and crouching down, as we were here in full view of the Austrian
lines, and snipers were constantly at work. Once inside the sand-bag
ramparts we were in comparative security.
The entrenched position on Pal Grande was undoubtedly the most
interesting and impressive of all we had visited so far, and amply
repaid one for the tiring climb to get to it. Perhaps the contrast it
presented to the somewhat tame excursions we had previously made had
something to do with this impression, but it is certain that here we
were in the very midst of the “real thing,” and were sharing the same
perils as the officers and soldiers around us.
It was the spice of ever-present danger that gave, as it were, an
extra zest to being there, and made one the more appreciate all one
saw. The Austrian artillery was firing continuously over us, and
there was an incessant fusillade from their trenches, which were not
more than a couple of hundred yards away—so close in fact that you
could have plainly seen the men in them had they shewn themselves.
The difference between this entrenched position in the mountains and
others we had been into was very great; in fact, it struck me as
being unlike anything I had seen elsewhere.
Here the enemy’s trenches were below us, and we were midway between
the Austrian and Italian batteries, so that in the violent artillery
duel which was going on all the time we were on Pal Grande the
projectiles were passing overhead continuously, with a noise
reminding one of a big railway junction with an endless succession of
express trains going by.
Of course all the shells did not pass over us, but exploded round
about on the mountain side, too near in several instances to be
pleasant, especially when their objective appeared to be the
direction in which we had come up.
At times, in fact, one began to wonder if it would not be too “hot”
for us to get back that day, and that a big attack was developing.
Fortunately, the Austrian gunners did not know how close to the
Italian position they were dropping their shells, as they were only
firing blindly in our direction.
The view one got from here was magnificent. Towering above us on our
right, as we faced the Frontier, was Timau, nearly 10,000 feet high;
in the near distance, and just behind it, across the Frontier was
Avostaunis, only slightly less in height.
Almost facing us to the left were the precipitous slopes of the
Freikoffel, which the Alpini had captured at the point of the
bayonet, and under the fire of the Austrian guns a short time
previously.
How mortal man could be found to scale these giddy heights at all,
leave alone under such awful conditions, baffles me. There are
no tracks at all to ascend by it, so it is a mystery how it was
accomplished.
The Austrians abandoned all their positions here so precipitately
that they left their wounded behind, who, together with those of the
Italians, had to be actually lowered by ropes from the summit, there
being no other means of bringing them down to the ambulances.
Pal Grande had been the scene of several sanguinary fights before its
final capture by the Italians not long before our visit to it; at one
moment, in fact, the Austrians looked like re-taking it, so desperate
and reckless was the counter-attack. It is said that had it not
been for the presence of mind and initiative of one of the military
doctors it was practically lost.
He was attending the wounded in a temporary ambulance station at
the back of the firing line when he realised the danger of the
situation. Men and officers were falling all along the line, and it
was imperative that their places should be immediately occupied if
the position was to be held. On the spur of the moment it occurred to
him to call on the least wounded of the men he was looking after to
try and help.
Explaining to them how critical was the situation, and also what was
likely to happen to them if the Austrians recaptured the place, he
stirred up such excitement and ardour that, regardless for the moment
of the pain they were suffering from their wounds, those that were
able sprang to their feet and returned to the trenches where, seizing
the rifles of their fallen comrades, they managed to continue to
defend the position till reinforcements arrived.
If there was one thing more than another that struck me whilst
amongst the troops in the mountains, it was the extraordinary
enthusiasm displayed everywhere, even here in this bleak and exposed
position; the _moral_ of the men was incomparable, and they seemed
to be blessed with an inexhaustible stock of good humour and the
power of taking things cheerfully. It was indeed impossible to mix
with them and not feel the influence of their youthful eagerness and
their confidence in ultimate victory.
Napoleon’s well known aphorism that an army fights on its belly is
well borne out in the Italian Army; and even on these lofty peaks the
soldier, whatever he may have to endure in the shape of inevitable
hardship, never suffers from want of food and well-cooked meals.
The food convoys make their journeys with unfailing regularity, for
there must be no hitch in the commissariat arrangements—and it is
safe to assert that there is not a single soldier, no matter how
isolated he may be, who does not receive every day his regulation
allowance of 400 grammes of meat (about half a pound), a kilo and a
half of bread, macaroni or polenta, coffee, tobacco, and half a litre
of wine.
Of course the menu is not very varied, but neither is the national
Italian cuisine at any time. _Rancio_, a soup-like stew, made of meat
and macaroni or some similar _pasta_, with a sufficiency of good,
wholesome bread and a drink of red wine, should be sufficient to
satisfy the appetite of any soldier.
I made a meal of _rancio_ on many occasions after a long and cold
motor run, and always found it so appetising and comforting that I
wished I could have got it every day. This stew is the usual _plat du
jour_ of the Italian soldier as is the _stchi_ in the Russian Army,
and is always served out steaming hot.
In advanced trenches, outposts or similar exposed positions, where
culinary operations are, of course, impossible, the _rancio_ is taken
to the men after dark in special receptacles for keeping it hot,
known as _Cassette di Cottura_, which are constructed on the Thermos
principle. The men would indeed begin to think things were going
badly if the “food party” could not succeed in reaching them.
So far as the officers are concerned, these mess arrangements, when
up in the fighting line, of course, depend largely on circumstances,
though these do not seem to be always governed by the difficulty of
access to the position or its remoteness from the base.
I had a pleasant proof of this at Pal Grande. The officers hospitably
insisted on our taking “pot luck” with them, as they were just going
to have lunch, and it turned out one of the best _al fresco_ repasts
I have ever sat down to.
The “mess-room” was a well-protected dug-out which had been fitted up
in somewhat similar fashion to a settler’s hut in the Far West; it
was quite snug, in fact, and we were a merry party crowded round the
table that occupied nearly the whole of the interior, in spite of the
continuous booming of the guns and the screech of the shells overhead.
I had quite expected to get the roughest of meals in the
circumstances; imagine, therefore, my surprise when we started with
a fine macaroni soup; this was followed by beef steaks and fried
potatoes; then came a jam omelette, and we finished up with cheese
and fruit, the whole being washed down with excellent Verona wine.
Black coffee was then brought in, and one of our hosts produced a
bottle of cognac and a box of cigars.
You could not have wished for a more delightful meal: it made
one feel that even life in an entrenchment 8,000 feet up has its
compensations at times.
Of course it would not do to infer that in all positions the officers
were able to indulge in so sumptuous a “pot luck” repast, but I
gathered that whenever it is possible a mess is formed, a cook found
from amongst the men, and meals served comfortably.
[Illustration: Before us stretched the broad valley of the Adige
(_see page 101_)
_To face page 124_]
In outlying positions, where frequently everything is, so to speak,
stagnant for weeks at a time, this messing arrangement goes a long
way towards relieving the inevitable monotony and weariness of trench
life and the strain on the nerves caused by the constant vigil.
After lunch we went out for a stroll round the position, passing on
our way an improvised bowling alley, where a crowd of soldiers off
duty were interestedly watching a match in progress. Had it not been
for the sand-bag breastworks around us and the incessant noise of
the guns, it would have been hard to realise that we were in one of
the most exposed positions on this Front, and were actually under
fire the whole time. That one can get accustomed to anything was
exemplified here, as the officers and men were quite unperturbed by
what was to them merely a daily contingency.
There was no heavy artillery on the Pal Grande when we were there;
only a few machine guns, as the place was for the moment but an
entrenched outpost, which had to be constantly on the alert against a
surprise attack from the enemy’s lines below.
I had a walk along the trenches where the men were firing through
the loopholes as unconcernedly as though at a shooting competition
instead of having human beings for their target.
The Austrians were scarcely a hundred yards away in places, so it did
not require to be an expert marksman to hit anything at that range;
but it was not often that anything shewed itself above the parapets,
either on the Austrian or the Italian side; still the men kept up a
constant fusillade, for what reason I could not ascertain, except
that perhaps it was to prove that no liberties were possible.
Whilst in the trenches I was introduced to two important characters
of the position. One, a white-haired old veteran well over sixty
years of age, who was serving as a volunteer. A fearless, wiry
old chap I was told, and who could hold his own even now with any
individual Austrian if ever he had the opportunity.
The other character was the pet of the position, a jolly little fox
terrier that had, I was told, gone through all the fighting, and
had now the run of the place and was looked upon as a mascot by the
officers and men; in fact, there would be much perturbation if any
harm came to it; curiously enough this was the only occasion that I
saw a dog in the trenches.
Gemona was a quaint little town, or rather big village, and
the inhabitants were delighted to see us, and proved it by not
overcharging in the least.
When we arrived and reported at the Censorship, which was established
in the Town Hall, we were given a list of houses where lodgings could
be obtained, with the prices affixed. This was a capital idea, and
worked out admirably; it saved a lot of time running about hunting
for rooms, and as only those lodgings recommended by the Mayor were
in the lists there was no risk of unpleasant surprises.
I got fixed up at a very nice house, and the landlady, a delightful
old person, did her utmost to make me comfortable, as I used my room
for a studio also. Considering she only charged one lire and a half a
day it could not be considered excessive.
For our coffee in the morning we usually used to meet at a café; for
lunch and dinner there was no lack of choice, as curiously enough for
so small a place, there were several really good restaurants.
There was a regiment of _Alpini_ quartered there, a splendid body
of men, giving one the impression of picked athletes all, and of
an evening their band always gave a military tatoo, wet or fine,
marching through the main streets with torches and finishing on the
Place with a short concert. A very inspiriting procedure, which
considerably helped to liven us all up, and the more especially as
this was the only place on the Front where we had heard military
music.
The night before we left, the Mayor gave us a reception and _vin
d’honneur_, which further helped to emphasise the good feeling which
existed between us all. We had spent a delightful week in Gemona.
CHAPTER XI
Gemona to Udine—Final stage of official journey—Regrets—Arrival at
Udine—List of recommended lodgings—My room—My landlady an Austrian
woman—I pay my respects to General Cafarelli—My friend Dr. Berthod—My
old studio at the Agrario—The Isonzo Front—Many rumours—Off on
our biggest trip; 245 kilometres in the car—Roads excellent and
well-looked after—A great change—Cormons quite an Italian town—Same
with other towns in conquered territory—Observatory on Monte Quarin—A
splendid bird’s-eye view—The plain of Friuli—Podgora—The Carso—The
hum of aeroplanes—The Isonzo Sector—The immense difficulties—Received
by the General—A pleasant _goûter_—Lieutenant Nathan, Ex-Mayor of
Rome—The Subida lines of trenches—Explanation of Italian successes
everywhere—Caporetto via Tolmino—A desolate region—Road along the
Isonzo—The mighty limestone cliffs of Monte Nero—The great exploit of
its capture recalled—One mountain road very much like another—Nothing
to sketch—Perfect organization—The fog of dust—Caporetto—Not
allowed to motor beyond—Important strategic operations—Monte
Rombon—Difficult to locate Austrian guns—A glimpse of Plezzo—The
situation here—Excursion to Gradisca via Palmanova, a semi-French
town—Romans—Curious rearrangement of cars—Only two allowed
proceed to Gradisca under fire—The Italian batteries at work—The
deserted streets—The “observatory” room—The iron screens—View
of Monte San Michele being bombarded—Stroll through the town—A
big shell—Excursion to Cervignano, Aquileia and Grado—Peaceful
country-side—Grado the Austrian Ostend—Fish-lunch at a café—The town
continually bombarded by aircraft—Arrival of Beaumont, the French
airman—Conclusion of official tour of Front—No permission given for
correspondents to remain—Success of tour—Comments on organization,
etc.
CHAPTER XI
We were now nearing the final stage of our official journey along
the Front, as there only remained the Isonzo Sector to complete the
scheduled tour.
Although I was looking forward to revisiting Udine and seeing my
friends there again, there was the feeling that the end of our
sojourn amongst these cheery Italian soldiers was approaching, and
the recollection of the decree that we were all to leave the war zone
directly the tour was finished loomed up in one’s mind as a sort of
bugbear.
One would have liked to spend an indefinite time in these scenes of
warlike activity; there was so much to see, and we had really had so
little time to see it in, and now, as we were getting into the “hang”
of it all we had to think of leaving.
It was very irritating, and marred a good deal of the pleasant
impression one had received during the tour. However, there was no
help for it. We knew when we started that we were only invited on
this understanding, so there was an end of it.
Udine is quite close to Gemona, so it only took a short time to
motor there. On our arrival we found that following the example
of the Mayor of Gemona, the Censorship had arranged for a list of
recommended lodgings to be prepared for us.
I had at first intended returning to my old quarters at the Torra di
Londra, but decided that it was perhaps better not, so took a room in
the same house as my car companions.
Strange to relate, this room was in a flat rented by a young and
good-looking Austrian woman, a dressmaker, who was married to an
Italian. She was, to a certain extent, under police surveillance, I
was told, but had not been interfered with otherwise. It struck me
as a curious state of affairs, considering how strict were the police
regulations with regard to foreigners, though there may have been
some special motive in allowing an alien of her nationality to remain
here unmolested.
Almost the first thing I did when I was settled was to go and pay my
respects to General Cafarelli, the Military Governor of Udine, who,
as may be remembered, had had me arrested and sent away to Florence
some ten weeks previously. I sent in my card, and he received me very
graciously for a man of his stern demeanour. He congratulated me on
my altered circumstances, and we had almost a friendly chat anent the
incident.
My friend, Dr. Berthod at the “Agrario,” told me my studio was still
at my disposal; other people I met seemed pleased to see me back, so
I felt quite at home again in a very short time.
A very full programme had been arranged for the correspondents during
their stay here; the Isonzo Front being very much to the fore at
the moment, in the direction of Gorizia especially, and all sorts
of rumours were in the air with regard to coming events in the near
future.
If, as it is said, coming events cast their shadows before, how
long those shadows must have been if one only had known, and how
despondent everyone would have been if it could have been realised
then how many months would have to elapse before the coming events so
freely prophesied would materialise.
Although I already knew a good deal about the Friuli Sector, there
had been so much progress since I had been away from Udine that most
of what we were going to see would be new to me. Moreover, it was a
very different proposition being permitted to visit it to going about
furtively and under constant fear of arrest.
The Isonzo Front now extended over a very large area, and was a long
way inside Austrian territory. Roughly speaking, from Tirnova, in the
valley of the Isonzo, a few miles above Caporetto, to Monfalcone on
the Adriatic.
We were only to remain a week in Udine, so in order to obtain even
the most cursory impression, in the short time at our disposal, of
what was taking place in this wide zone of operations, entailed some
long motor journeys. This was evidently the plan of the authorities,
as they allowed us to lose no time in making a start.
At 6 o’clock in the morning following on our arrival we were off on
what turned out to be the biggest trip we had made hitherto, and when
we got back in the evening we had covered no less than 245 kilometres
in the car, and without a hitch or contretemps.
It spoke volumes for the excellent manner in which the roads in the
war zone are looked after. Heavy as military traffic was, seemingly
endless, everywhere one saw gangs of men at work making repairs,
where the surface had got broken up.
The three months that had elapsed since I was first on this Front,
had effected a great change, but nowhere was it more marked than
on the road to and beyond Cormons. The redeemed territory had now
so completely settled down that it was hard to realise one was
on Austrian territory, or rather, what had been so short a time
previously.
Cormons had become quite an Italian town, and a very busy one at
that. And the same could be said of Cervignano, Civiedale, Brazzano,
Terzo, and every village where the Italians had passed. An extremely
valuable slice of whilom Italian territory had passed back to its old
allegiance and with but little fighting. And no damage had been done
to either the maize crop or the vines.
Our programme for the day’s run was very comprehensive, and provided
the car did not break down, we were certain to see much of absorbing
interest.
Just beyond Cormons, on the summit of Mount Quarin, a wooded
hill which dominates the town, and where an observatory had been
established, you get a splendid bird’s-eye view of the whole of this
important section of the Front.
Spread out at our feet, as it were, was the vast fertile plain of
Friuli, every yard of which appeared to be under cultivation. The
straight outlines of the fields were fringed by trees and presented a
curious doll’s house and chequered appearance from this elevation.
On the far side of this plain, about four and a half miles distant
from where we stood, were the hills enclosing the valley of the
lower Isonzo, a curious succession of undulating ridges rising in
places to a considerable height. There was a good deal of smoke and
mist hanging about, and standing out in sharp relief against it was
the peculiar hog-back contour of the blood-soaked ridge of Podgora
bristling with the charred and shattered stumps of trees.
Even as we gazed, the distant boom of artillery reached our ears,
and we saw shells bursting constantly along the summit and we knew
that the attack which was costing so many gallant lives, was being
vigorously pursued.
To the right of Podgora lay the Carso, and in the hollow between
was Gorizia, the goal towards which all thoughts in Italy were then
turned. Three eminences loomed up in the mist beyond: Monte Kuk,
Monte Sabotino, and Monte Santo, the last-named being destined to
play important rôles in the future. In the far distance, and only
faintly distinguishable, towered the Mountains of Ternova.
The hum of aeroplanes was heard on all sides, and cleverly concealed
anti-aircraft guns started firing viciously from time to time, more,
however, with the object of keeping the enemy planes up as high as
possible, then hitting them, as they seemed to run little or no risk,
judging from the serene manner they hovered around.
The conditions along the Isonzo Sector are practically the antithesis
of those prevailing in the mountainous regions of the Cadorre,
Trentino, and Carnia. Here the low foothills and plains present
opportunities for operations which remind one of those being carried
out in Flanders and Northern France; armoured trenches, of course,
playing the principal part everywhere.
Every attempt, therefore, by General Cadorna at a forward move in
this direction had to be backed up, as it were, by defensive as well
as offensive precautions, with the result that the entire Front
of this region presents a series of lines of entrenchments and
barbed-wire entanglements that are designed to afford an immediate
protection should the advance fail, and a retirement prove necessary.
Prescience is evidently an innate characteristic of the Italian
Generals of to-day, and I was continually noting it along the Front,
but nowhere was it more impressed on me than in this particular
area. Between Cormons and Brazzano, at a place called Subida, is a
veritable masterpiece of military engineering work.
It consists of a vast series of elaborately constructed covered-in
armoured trenches with protective wire entanglements, and would
shelter several army corps at a pinch, though fortunately there has
not been the slightest fear of their being requisitioned, and all the
time and expense expended on them will, it is to be hoped, have been
precautionary measures.
In years to come these miles of covered-in trenches will doubtless
prove of intense interest to the military student, and though they
may not present the picturesque aspect of a Vauban fortification,
they are certainly none the less impressive.
It is certain they will long remain as evidence of the determination
and method with which Italy took her part in the great war.
All this, though only a side issue, serves further to convince you
that in carrying out her part of the operations, she has undertaken
everything in a thoroughly well-considered and skilful manner that
cannot fail to have a very cogent bearing on the ultimate issue of
the Allied policy of co-ordinated strategy.
Before continuing on our journey we were received most hospitably by
the Divisional General.
In the garden of a fine old house, which he was using as his
headquarters, an _al fresco_, stand-up _goûter_ awaited us.
Tables had been placed under the trees on the lawn, and there were
piles of dainty sandwiches, cakes and fruit, together with wines
and tea, and coffee, cigars and cigarettes, all very acceptable
considering how early we had started out.
Amongst the group of officers with the General was Lieutenant Nathan,
the wonderfully popular ex-Mayor of Rome. I had heard so much of him
that I seized the opportunity of introducing myself, and found him a
very cheery and sympathetic personality, speaking English as fluently
as a Cockney—so well, in fact, that it seemed strange to see him in
the uniform of an Italian officer.
[Illustration: On one of the worst portions we passed a gang of
peasant women carrying barbed wire up to the trenches (_see page 118_)
_To face page 136_]
From Cormons we proceeded to Caporetto via Tolmino, and thence
through the valley of the Isonzo, a desolate mountainous region,
which had been the scene of desperate fighting in the early weeks of
the war. Now it was relatively calm, and only once and again was the
silence of nature disturbed by the reverberation of a big gun in
the distance.
The long-prepared defensive positions of the Austrians, of which
one has heard so much, availed them naught against the strategy of
Cadorna and the daring of his troops. One by one they were captured,
and by attacking them from the very side where attack was least
expected.
The principal explanation of the victorious advance of the Italians
was undoubtedly that it was made from a direction where it was
not looked for and which, therefore, quite upset the plans of the
Austrian General.
Only the most reliable and enthusiastic of soldiers could have been
asked for so determined an effort and such sacrifices as the advance
in this region was bound to entail under any conditions, but without
wavering it was undertaken and eagerly at that.
It was perhaps to a certain extent but a repetition of the tactics in
the mountain warfare all along the Front, but it was so glorious that
no excuse is necessary for again dilating upon it.
Through a pathless wilderness of shrub or bare precipitous rocks the
men made their way forward unhesitatingly, cutting a roadway as they
advanced, dragging the heavy artillery with them and consolidating
each yard behind them with barbed-wire entanglement and trench work
in case the apparent weakness of the Austrian was but a ruse.
But there was no ruse, and nothing arrested the delirious rush of the
Italians at the commencement of hostilities along the left bank of
the Isonzo.
It was like an avalanche in its irresistibility, and the Austrians
were completely non-plussed by such unusual military evolutions,
with the result that three of their most important positions on the
Front—Monte Nero, Tolmino and Plava—were already in the hands of the
Italians before it was realised how important was the movement in
this direction.
The heroic feat of the capture of Monte Nero by the _Alpini_ in the
month of June I have already described. In spite of every endeavour
to re-take it, the Austrians had not made a yard of progress since
then, except in a retrograde direction.
The Italians had immediately fortified every position they had
gained, and the chances of the enemy ever recapturing them were
practically _nil_.
Our road passed by the scene of many heroic exploits. As we motored
through the frowning ravine along a winding road which skirted the
swiftly-flowing Isonzo, between Tolmino and Caporetto the mighty
limestone cliffs of Monte Nero gradually came into view, its towering
bulk illumined by the rays of the afternoon sun.
Unconsciously one’s thoughts reverted to the events of the early days
of the war, and you endeavoured to picture to yourself what had taken
place hereabouts, the onward rush of the Italian troops, undeterred
by the most terrible obstacles nature opposed to them, fording or
swimming the treacherous river by night and scaling the heights on
the opposite bank, and all this in the face of the Austrian fire.
You had an involuntary shudder as you gazed up at these gaunt rocks,
where now an almost death-like silence reigned. You felt it must
require the fanatic courage of a Dervish and to be cast in different
mould to every-day mortals to have accomplished such exploits.
The road we were following was particularly interesting, inasmuch
as it was in the immediate rear of the fighting line the whole way,
and we were therefore, right in the midst of every description of
military traffic and movement all the time.
It was quite remarkable considering this how little there was in the
shape of incident to record, or for the matter of that, to sketch
either. Everything appeared to be so perfectly organized that it
worked like a big well-oiled machine. It reminded me not a little of
a road in China with its endless stream of human beings.
One mountain road is very much like another, and to me on the
look-out for subjects for my sketch book, there was a very great
sameness everywhere, except the dust, which was worse than I have
seen it anywhere, even in South Africa. It could have given points
to the densest London fog and won easily. The big military motor
_Camions_, raised such clouds of it that progress at times was almost
impossible.
You could scarcely see a yard ahead, and where you knew that the
roadway ended abruptly on one side, it was not altogether pleasant to
reflect that your safety depended solely on the skill or luck of your
chauffeur—a speck of grit in his eye, a momentary lapse of “nerve,”
and you might find yourself in “Kingdom Come.” In fact, it always
struck me that the risk you ran from shell-fire was infinitesimal as
compared with that of motoring on these mountain roads.
We were only permitted to go a little way beyond Caporetto, the
General having given instructions that he did not desire any motor
traffic further along the road as it might interfere with his
“arrangements.”
As we were quite exposed to the Austrian batteries this appeared
reasonable enough, so, accompanied by a very amiable and learned
Staff Officer as guide we ascended a hill close by from which we were
able to gain some idea of what was going on.
Facing us were being carried out the most important strategic
operations on the whole of the Italian Front.
We were looking up the valley of the Isonzo River, here somewhat
narrowed; the stream, from the height where we were standing,
looking like a dark blue ribbon laid across white gravel.
Precipitous mountains rose abruptly from either side of the valley,
and towering above all was Monte Rombon, 10,000 feet high, at the
very summit of which the Austrians had their most strongly fortified
position in the Front.
This position was the key of the Austrian defences in the sector, and
to capture it the Italians, at the time of our visit, were putting
out every effort.
It was already completely invested, and the Italians were bombarding
it with heavy artillery, placed on Mount Svinjak opposite.
We could see the shells bursting high up on the precipitous slopes of
the mountain. The report of the guns echoed and re-echoed grandly,
but the tiny puffs of smoke looked ridiculously insignificant in
comparison to the volume of sound.
The difficulty for the Italian artillery was, we learned, to locate
the emplacement of the Austrian guns, as they were hidden in caves
and all manner of unwonted places on the mountain side. Still, they
were gradually being discovered and silenced, and at any moment the
_Alpini_ might be called upon to try and repeat their previous deeds
of valour by scaling the mountain and capturing the position _à
l’arme blanche_. Meanwhile the artillery duel between Rombon and
Svinjak proceeded without intermission.
At the foot of the mountains, in the valley on the right bank of
the Isonzo, at its junction with the Koritnica, one could just
distinguish the first house of the town of Plezzo and its fortress.
Through one’s glasses you saw that little but ruins now remained of
what had been one of the most picturesque and prosperous towns in the
Carniola.
Plezzo was now but a sort of “no man’s land,” and though practically
in the possession of the Italians, was for the moment uninhabitable,
being directly under the fire of the guns of Monte Rombon. The
Austrians, with their customary “kultured” amenity were continually
bombarding it in order to prevent the Italians from installing
themselves there, with the result that the town was slowly but surely
being wiped out of existence.
As a matter of fact, at that time it would have been impossible for
the Italians to have attempted, except at very heavy and needless
sacrifices of life, any thing but a “Moral” occupation of Plezzo, as
although the Austrians had evacuated the town they were very strongly
fortified and entrenched on several of the surrounding eminences.
The whole situation here at the moment, however, was, so far as one
could gather, dependent on the success of operations being carried
out in the direction of Tolmino. So that it could be safely left to
work itself out here, and there appeared to be no doubt whatever from
what we learned that everything was developing as satisfactorily as
possible. We then returned to Udine via Savogna and Cividale.
Another excursion we made to Gradisca was also particularly
interesting, and very exciting as well.
Gradisca, at that time, had only recently been abandoned by the
Austrians, and a somewhat similar state of affairs existed there as
in Plezzo. That is, it was continually under fire from the Austrian
batteries on the Carso, and many houses had already been destroyed.
There was, however, this difference, that there were soldiers in
the town, not many, perhaps, but sufficient for it to be considered
“occupied.”
It is only a short run of about 30 kilometres from Udine. En route we
drove through Palmanova, a delightful old semi-French town, dating
from the time of Napoleon I, and which reminded me a little of
Vitry-le-Francois. Its star-shaped setting of old ramparts with moat
and drawbridge and archways entrance, with big doors, presented a
strange contrast to the up-to-date military traffic passing through.
A little beyond Palmanova, at a village named Romans, we were
informed that all the cars could not be allowed to go to Gradisca,
which was some three kilometres further on, as the road was under
fire, and a procession of half-a-dozen vehicles would attract still
more attention from the Austrian batteries.
It was proposed, therefore, that we should all squeeze into two of
the biggest cars and make a dash along the road, with an interval of
twenty minutes between us. It was an uncomfortably tight fit, as may
be imagined, and we were packed like sardines. The car I was in, a
very high-powered one, surely did those three kilometres in record
time. I never motored at such a speed before.
As we neared Gradisca the shells began bursting with unpleasant
frequency in the fields, quite close to the road, and I feel sure
that everyone experienced a sense of relief when we reached the
shelter presented by the first house.
The town, which was not very much damaged, was typically Austrian,
and in the bright sunshine looked a very pretty and quaint little
place. There was a nice park with fine old trees, and in the centre
was a bandstand, so it was evidently a pleasant place in pre-war
time, but now it was absolutely deserted, and the streets presented a
very forlorn and ghostly appearance, which was heightened by the fact
of all the shutters of the houses being closed and grass growing in
the roadways everywhere.
There were Italian batteries on the hills just outside, and they were
firing continuously and with a regularity which almost savoured of
clockwork. The Austrians were only replying in a desultory manner.
The report of the guns, and the shriek of the projectiles passing
overhead, echoed through the empty streets with weird effect. It is
difficult to describe the uncanny feeling all this produced on one:
it was as though you were walking in a dream, but the reality of
it all was soon brought home to you when a shell burst amongst the
houses.
An officer conducted us into the centre of the town, through an
archway and up to the first floor of an old building. Here a large
room, with three windows, was used as a sort of observatory-post, as
it directly faced the Austrian lines about fifteen hundred yards away
on M. St. Michael.
The sashes of the windows had been removed, and big panels of sheet
iron, painted black, were propped up in front of the openings, so
that one could get a sideways glimpse outside without exposing one’s
self to view.
The room was bare of furniture, with the exception of some armchairs,
placed where one could sit comfortably and observe at one’s ease what
was going on. There would have been almost a touch of the theatrical
in it all had it not been for the occasional ping of bullets striking
the iron screens.
One got a remarkable view of this much talked about corner of the
Carso, for the possession of which the Italians were staking so much.
We saw the shells bursting with mechanical precision, and in endless
succession, along the summit, which was being gradually pounded to
bits.
Through your binoculars you searched in vain for some sign of life
or man’s handiwork on the desolate ridge, and it was difficult to
realize the importance attached to it. Yet it was certain that the
enemy was concealed there, and in great strength otherwise this
incessant and methodical bombardment would not have been deemed
necessary.
We had a bit of a stroll round on our way back to the car, and
found that, considering the town was midway between the Italian and
Austrian batteries, remarkably little damage had been done. What
struck me as particularly interesting was that many of the heavy
calibre Austrian shells had failed to explode.
There was a huge one I was shown that had wrecked a small house
simply by its weight alone. It was lying on the ground amongst a heap
of débris, quite unimpaired except for a few small scratches. If it
had exploded it would probably have destroyed half the side of the
street. One had heard so many rumours of the deterioration in the
quality of the Austrian projectiles that you wondered whether this
was a proof of it.
The visit to Gradisca practically concluded our tour of the fighting
Fronts. We made another excursion to Cervignano Aquileia and Grado,
but this was practically outside the range of military operations,
so it was more in the nature of a pleasure trip than anything else.
Still it helped to convey a good idea of what had already been
accomplished in the conquered area.
Cervignano, a rather large and important town, was full of troops,
but I learned that these were only “resting” there after a long spell
of the trenches.
It looked a very pleasant place to “rest” in, and, judging from the
cheery looks of the men, they thoroughly appreciated the change,
though it was not always peace and quietude even here, as Austrian
aircraft had a nasty habit of paying unexpected visits every now and
then, I was told. Several women and children had already been killed
by aeroplane bombs and a few houses damaged.
Aquileia, the ancient capital of Venetia, was only interesting from
an archæological point of view, as it presented no military features.
A learned officer showed us over the museum and the fine church,
with its Roman pavement, and both were, doubtless, interesting and
instructive from a student point of view, _mais ce n’était pas la
guerre_. I loathe sightseeing, but I suppose it would have been
sacrilege if we had missed seeing them since we were there.
From Aquilei we had a pleasant motor run through a peaceful
countryside to Belvedere, a tiny “port” at the head of the Adriatic,
where we embarked on a Government launch for Grado, which is situated
on an island a couple of miles away.
There was not a sign of warfare here. It was a little seaside town,
which reminded somewhat of Blankenbergh, but the place was well worth
seeing, as it has been called the Austrian Ostend, and the Casino was
its principal attraction during the season.
Of course all the hotels and the bathing establishments were closed,
but we were able to get an excellent fish luncheon at a café facing
the quay.
The town was continually being subjected to bombardment by Austrian
seaplanes operating from Trieste, some twenty miles distant.
Many people, chiefly women and children, had been killed and a number
of houses destroyed. Energetic measures were being adopted for the
defence of the town, and whilst we were there a seaplane, with
Beaumont, the famous French airman as passenger, arrived from Venice.
Our excursion to Grado concluded the official tour of the Front, and
much to the regret of us all, we had to make our preparations for
leaving the war zone; three days were given us to complete any work
we might have in hand and get it passed by the Censor.
It is almost needless to add that every effort was made by us to
obtain permission to remain for a time, if only in Udine, but in
vain—for reasons best known to those in authority, no further
publicity was desired for the moment.
With the conclusion, therefore, of the correspondents’ tour along the
Front, the veil of secrecy was once more drawn over the operations,
and was not to be lifted again except for the issue of the brief
“Official” _communiqués_ till such time as it might be decided to
allow representatives of the Press to return to the war zone.
That the tour had been a great success was incontrovertible. The
good fellowship shown to the foreign correspondents everywhere was
quite one of its most memorable features, and one was continually
experiencing it in some form or other.
Although perhaps, in consequence of the operations being in a state
of preparation only, we had not seen so much of active warfare as
we should have wished; what we had seen had opened our eyes to the
resource and courage of the Italian officers and soldiers and the
marvellous organization of the Army.
The progress that was being made in every part of the Front was,
in my opinion, convincing proof that Italy’s share in the Allied
operations is likely to be a very important factor in every phase of
the conflict, and subsequent events have strengthened my conviction.
CHAPTER XII
Conclusion of Correspondents’ tour of Front—I return to
London—Awaiting events—Brief official _communiqués_—Half Austrian
Army held up on Italian Front—Harrying tactics—Trench warfare during
the winter—Recuperative powers of the Austrians—Gorizia a veritable
Verdun—Italian occupation of Austrian territory—Many thousand square
miles conquered—A bolt from the blue—Serious development—Awakening
Austrian activity—400,000 troops in the Trentino—Front from Lake
Garda to Val Sugana ablaze—Totally unforseen onslaught—Towns and
villages captured—Genius of Cadorna—Menace of invasion ended—I
go and see Charles Ingram with reference going back to Italy—His
journalistic acumen—My marching orders—Telegram from Rome—My journey
back to Italy—Confidence everywhere—Milan in darkness—Improvement on
the railway to Udine—Udine much changed—Stolid business air—Changes
at the Censorship—Press Bureau and club for correspondents—The
Censorship staff—Few accredited correspondents—Remarkable absence of
Entente correspondents—Badges and passes—Complete freedom of action
given me—I start for Vicenza en route for Arsiero—Scenes on road—From
daylight into darkness—Hun methods of frightfulness—Arsiero—Its
unfavourable position—Extent of the Austrian advance—Rush of the
Italians—Austrians not yet beaten—Town damaged by the fire and
bombardment—Villa of a great writer—Rossi’s paper-mills—The town
itself—The battlefield—Débris of war—A dangerous souvenir for my
studio.
[Illustration: One would have liked to spend an indefinite time at
these scenes of warlike activity (_see page 131_)
_To face page 148_]
CHAPTER XII
There were rumours that within a very short time the correspondents
would be permitted to return to the Front, but it was very uncertain
when this would be, so I decided, since we all had to leave the war
zone, to return for the time being to London where I could find
better employment in my studio, than playing the tourist in Italy.
For several months, however, no permission was given, and during this
time, owing to the fact that there were no correspondents with the
Army, little or nothing was known of what was taking place; the brief
official _communiqués_ conveying but the most meagre details.
That the Italians were marking time meanwhile was, however, in the
last degree improbable, of that I felt convinced; General Cadorna
is not made of that fibre. When he is apparently doing nothing of
importance it is certain he is preparing some _coup_ and waiting a
favourable opportunity to develop it.
In the meantime practically half the Austrian Army and the pick of
the troops at that was being held up on the Italian Front, and not
in a state of immobility by any means; one was able to judge if one
read between the lines of the _Communiqués_ that day by day almost,
and all through the winter, harrying tactics were being successfully
carried on all along the Front. So much so, in fact, that the
Austrian Generals must have often found themselves in a quandary for
satisfactory matter for their daily reports.
The winter passed with ding-dong trench warfare, when the rate of
progress could at times be only reckoned by yards in a week. Still,
it was progress, and every yard was bringing the Italians nearer to
their immediate objective, Gorizia.
Meanwhile the extraordinary and quite unexpected recuperative power
of the Austrians was becoming more and more _en evidence_ as was
also the fact, unfortunately demonstrated by the heavy losses of the
Italians, that they were putting up a desperate fight.
Gorizia had proved a veritable Verdun. Every hill and bluff being
found to be fortified and honeycombed with deep entrenchments, which
would have entailed enormous sacrifice of life to capture at this
stage of the operations.
It looked, therefore, like taking months to accomplish what the
Italians had fondly hoped would be but an affair of weeks, though
considering the unforseen difficulties that had to be overcome, it
redounded to the credit of General Cadorna and his lieutenants that
so much could be recorded as actually compassed.
The occupation of two thousand square miles of Austrian territory
with a population of over 300,000, was an achievement which in itself
was sufficient answer to those captious stay-at-home arm-chair
critics who were continually asking “What is Italy doing?”
Then suddenly—as a bolt from the blue—something totally unexpected
happened, and developed into a crisis of so serious a nature that it
called for the exercise of all the genius and resource of Cadorna,
combined with the devotion of his troops, to master, and which might
conceivably have altered the whole outlook of the war had it not been
successfully handled.
On the 15th May the Italian _communiqué_, to the surprise of most
of us, who followed with interest the fighting on this front,
announced that on the previous day the Austrians had started a heavy
bombardment on the positions on the Trentino Front near Roveretto
which the Italians were expecting to capture at any moment.
This piece of news, after months of comparative quiescence, was
sufficiently startling to attract immediate attention to the Italian
Front, and the London papers actually began to mention Italy again.
The _communiqués_ of the following days stated that the activity of
the Austrian batteries continued, but gave no suggestion of anything
untoward happening, so it was generally thought that the first
intimation was perhaps somewhat exaggerated, and that there was
“nothing much in it.”
But this sudden awakening of activity was, as it turned out, the
first rumbling of the approaching storm, and, instead of dying out,
as had previous artillery demonstrations, it gradually increased in
intensity, until May 23rd, the anniversary of the declaration of war,
when the burst came.
It was then discovered that the Austrians had concentrated no less
than 400,000 troops in the Trentino sector at a point where they were
protected by a series of powerful forts. This particular sector had
all along been recognized as the weakest point on the Italian Front,
but as there had been no indication of an offensive impending in this
direction no steps had been taken to meet it.
In a few hours the 50 mile front from the Lake Garda to Val Sugana
was ablaze, and the Italians were defending themselves for all they
were worth against a heavy and determined Austrian thrust that tried
their endurance to the utmost limit.
So totally unforseen was the onslaught that although the Italian
wings on the Brenta and the Adige held firm, the centre was
practically crumpled up by sheer weight of numbers, and the
Austrians advanced victoriously into Italian territory. The towns of
Arsiero, and Asiago, and many villages were captured, and it looked
for a short time as if the plains of Venetia lay at the mercy of the
invaders.
The genius and resource of General Cadorna saved the situation.
Brigades of infantry were hurried up to the threatened area in motor
lorries and other vehicles, together with guns and huge quantities
of ammunition. In incredibly short time an army of nearly 100,000
men were on the spot. The Italian line was consolidated and a
counter-offensive begun.
Within four days the Italians had recovered the whole of the lost
positions, including Arsiero and Asiago, and the menace of invasion
was ended.
For some time previously I had been in daily expectation of receiving
my marching orders to go back to Italy, and at the height of the
crisis I went down to see Charles Ingram and again pressed him to let
me start forthwith. He didn’t exactly say no, but was inclined to
temporize.
Later I gathered that with true journalistic acumen he had in his
mind that the British public were not exactly hungering after
pictorial representation of Italian reverses. There was no hesitation
on his part as soon as the first indication of the successful “push”
arrived. My marching orders then were as peremptory as on previous
occasions. I forgot to mention that I had received a telegram from
the Ministero del Interno in Rome telling me I was permitted to
return to Headquarters when I wished; so I had no anxiety on that
score.
I got back to the Italian Front, therefore, in time to witness the
expiring effort of the Austrian thrust.
On my journey across Italy I found everywhere a refreshing calm and
confidence and not the slightest indication of any nervousness.
Milan had had one or two visits from _Taubes_, so was in darkness
at night, otherwise there was no reminder of the war; the life and
gaiety of the city was the same as ever, and it was apparently
bubbling over with prosperity.
There was a noticeable improvement in the railway service to Udine.
Instead of a rough and ready journey there were now a sleeping car
and restaurant attached to the train, so one travelled in comfort.
Udine appeared to me much changed. There were far fewer soldiers to
be seen in the streets, owing probably to the fact that the fighting
lines were now so much farther away, and the old time bustling
military activity was no longer noticeable. An air of stolid business
seemed to have taken its place. Many of the big public buildings that
had been temporarily utilized for staff purposes, and which used
to overflow with martial activity were now closed; more convenient
quarters having been found elsewhere.
To anyone, therefore, arriving in Udine now for the first time the
little town must have appeared quite commonplace, apart from its
historical and architectural features.
But the greatest change was at the Censorship. It had been improved
beyond all recognition, and it was evident that the Government
no longer regarded the representatives of the fourth estate as
interlopers, but as honoured guests.
A fine, roomy old palace had been rented and transformed into a
Press Bureau and club for the war-correspondents. The Censorship
staff, consisting of three officers—Colonel Barbarich, Lt.-Colonel
Clericetti, and Captain Weillschott, three courteous and genial
gentlemen—did their utmost to make the lot of the correspondents as
pleasant as possible. They were good friends rather than mentors,
and you could not help having the greatest regard and esteem for
them.
In addition to the spacious and comfortable club-room, where writing
paper and other requisites were provided, and soldiers were on duty
as club servants, the Government had gone one better than any club I
know of, for, with true Italian hospitality, black coffee after lunch
or dinner, afternoon tea with cakes, and “soft” drinks in the evening
were provided free of charge.
Before lunch or during the afternoon one was pretty sure to meet
here everyone who was in Udine in connection with journalism, or who
was visiting the Front; as Udine was still the starting point for
expeditions to the lines, and it was only here that the military
passes were issued.
The Censorship, therefore, had grown into a permanent and
well-organized institution, but it had dwindled to insignificant
proportions so far as the number of accredited correspondents was
concerned, as compared with what it had been the previous year.
I was much surprised to find when I returned to Udine that there were
not more than ten Italian pressmen there, and that I was the only
foreign representative. As a matter of fact, during the whole of the
three months I was at the Front this year I practically had the whole
field to myself.
Considering the magnitude of the operations which culminated in
the fall of Gorizia, it is scarcely to be wondered at that this
remarkable absence of Entente correspondents excited much comment at
Headquarters.
The Italian correspondents wore an enamel badge to indicate their
profession, and military passes, “Salvo Condotti,” were issued to
everyone. These passes were for fourteen days only, in the case of
the foreign correspondents, who were not allowed to go anywhere
unless accompanied by an officer deputed by the Censor.
I was shown particular courtesy and latitude, and all irksome
restrictions waived in this respect, probably on account of my
being an artist, as distinct from a journalist. I had moreover no
difficulty whatever in remaining up at the Front as long as I chose,
and on leaving was informed I was at liberty to return whenever I
wished and without any further formality.
The complete freedom of action this gave me was particularly
delightful, and was in marked contrast to what I had experienced on
the Western Fronts. I found several old friends amongst the Italian
correspondents established permanently at Headquarters, so there was
no difficulty in making arrangements with regard to a car, as, of
course, one could go nowhere without one.
It may be of interest to mention that only military chauffeurs were
allowed to drive in the zone of operations, and their permits had to
be renewed at stated intervals.
On arriving in Udine everybody in the newspaper line was away in the
Trentino, as obviously all interest centred there for the moment; the
Censorship building was, therefore, very forlorn and deserted looking.
I duly reported myself and was given my “pass” to go on to the scene
of action at once if I chose; not the slightest difficulty was placed
in my way; in fact, everything was done to facilitate my work, even
to providing me with a car and an officer to act as my guide.
So without delay I started for Vicenza, the nearest important place
to the fighting. Everything was very calm and peaceful there, no sign
of anything out of the common happening. Yet the Austrians had got
within 25 miles of the city and less than five from the Venetian
Plain, which surrounds it. Truly the Latin temperament has undergone
a wonderful metamorphosis in the last decade.
We stayed the night in Vicenza, and started the following morning for
Arsiero, the Italian town in Schio, occupied by the Austrians, and
which had only a few days previously been recaptured. For the first
fifteen miles or so there was nothing of particular interest along
the road except the endless defile of troops and transport of every
description, such as might have been expected; but in the villages
the daily life of the peasants appeared to be going on as usual, with
women and children everywhere.
Then one appeared to cross an invisible line of demarcation, and once
beyond it, all was changed.
It was like going from daylight into darkness. The smiling villages
were deserted, save where some of the cottages were occupied by
soldiers. Through the open windows one saw that not only were the
inhabitants gone, but that they had removed most of their household
goods and chattels with them.
In several places were indications of panic—articles lying about as
though dropped in flight, even washing abandoned by a stream. The
sadness of it all was most impressive, but worse was to come. As we
neared the scene of the Austrian thrust there was abundant evidence
of the fate that would have been in store for any hapless folk whose
homes happened to be in reach of the Austrian guns.
Up till now what had impressed me perhaps most of all in the war on
the Italian Front was the entire absence, so to speak, of the horrors
of war in the shape of devastated towns, villages and country sides,
such as one got so hardened to in France and Belgium. This impression
was now to be rudely dispelled.
Once inside the radius of the big guns the spectacle was but a
repetition of what I had seen on the Western Front; heaps of
shapeless rubble and smouldering ruin on all sides bore witness to
Hun methods of frightfulness.
We at length came in sight of Arsiero and had to leave the car as
the road, which had been getting more and more choked with _débris_,
now became impassible. Moreover, big shells were coming over with
persistent frequency, and we could not afford to take any risk of our
transport being injured. We had no desire to walk back.
One must have seen the Front here for oneself in order to form any
conception of what the Austrian thrust meant, and how near it was to
succeeding.
Arsiero is situated in the valley of Astico; behind it is the
semi-circle of mountains which form the boundary of the tableland
of the Altopiano, so close as to dominate it completely, foremost
amongst these mountains being M. Cenzio and M. Cimone, standing up
like colossal barriers above the valley.
From the point of view of an artist it would be difficult to conceive
a more delightful panorama than one had before one’s eyes: it was a
glorious picture waiting to be painted in peace time, but you felt
that there was nothing attractive about it from the military point
of view. If an enemy were in possession of all these superb heights,
then the positions in the valley below would be very undesirable, to
say the least of it; and without any knowledge of military matters
you realised that the valley and all that it contained—towns,
villages, vineyards and what not—was completely at the mercy of the
men who manned the guns up above, and also that under cover of these
guns immense masses of troops could be safely brought down the side
of the mountains on to the plains, and established there pending
further movements.
Following up your thoughts as an amateur strategist, you could
not fail to come to the conclusion that the valley was as good
as lost if such a contingency came to pass, unless the defenders
could achieve what looked like a sheer impossibility, and drive the
invaders from their positions on the plain and back again up the
mountain side.
The idea of such a possibility was too fantastic to waste a thought
on it. Yet this is actually what happened during that fateful week
when Italy was on the brink of disaster.
On the road leading to the town there were signs everywhere of
the Austrians, and of the desperate fighting that had taken place
here only a few days previously. I had thought that there might
be a certain amount of panicky exaggeration in the reports of the
extent of the Austrian advance towards the place, but there were
incontestable proofs in the shape of trenches, barbed wire and so
forth pushed forward well in front of Arsiero.
Every yard of the enemy’s advance had been methodically consolidated,
but nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians—their blood was
up for vengeance—they were fighting on Italian soil and on their
way here had passed through the devastated villages and ruined
countryside, and had heard tales of outrage and infamy.
It was a case of God help the Austrians if they caught up with them,
for along the whole Front there had been considerable evidence of
the enemy’s barbaric methods; in one place, for instance, near
Magnaboschi, hundreds of naked corpses of Italian soldiers were found
in the mire.
With the knowledge of what they might expect if the Italians got
to grips with them, the Austrians, once they got on the run, never
stopped till they were safely back in their old positions, and here
they were putting up a stubborn fight when I was in Arsiero.
They were not beaten by any means, although driven from Italian soil.
That General Cadorna was evidently aware that any relaxation of
pressure would have brought them on again was substantiated by the
number of troops he was keeping in this sector.
Arsiero had suffered considerably, and although not entirely in
ruins, as has been stated, was more damaged by fire and shell than
any place in Italy I had yet seen.
On the outskirts of the town the gairish _nouvel art_ villa of the
famous Italian writer, Antonio Fogazzaro, which must have cost him a
little fortune to build was now but an unsightly ultra-modern ruin
standing in the midst of a wilderness of park-like grounds. One of
the most advanced of the Austrian communication trenches leading into
the valley started from here.
A little distance further down the road were the immense paper-mills
of Rossi and Co., said to have been the largest in Europe, and which
employed hundreds of workpeople.
The buildings were absolutely wiped out. They had been deliberately
set fire to by the Austrians before they evacuated the town. Nothing
remained now but acres of crumbling walls, smouldering timber, and
twisted _débris_ of machinery, over which hung a pall, as it were, of
smoke, a pitiful spectacle of wanton, insensate destruction.
The town itself, a picturesque, rambling, up-hill and down-dale sort
of place was only destroyed in patches, but with the shells still
coming over there was yet a possibility of its utter destruction.
As the gun-fire seemed to have lulled a bit, we had a stroll up to
the battlefield on the hill beyond the houses. There a barrage of
shell-fire had evidently been attempted, judging from the fragments
of shell-cases of all calibres lying about. In places the ground was
littered with the _detritus_ of war, and looked like an old-iron and
rag-refuse heap. Here and there were interesting curios and many
unexploded projectiles in perfect condition. It occurred to me that
I would take one of these away with me as a souvenir for my studio,
and was stooping down to pick up one when a soldier, who was passing,
rushed towards me yelling out at the top of his voice, “Non toccate!
non toccate! Signore.”
I did not understand much Italian, but I knew enough to comprehend
that I was not to touch it, and thought it strange that with all this
rubbish lying about I could not take something if I fancied it.
My companion came up at that moment and explained to me that it was
most dangerous to handle these unexploded live shells—even walking
too close to them has been known to cause them to explode. I did not
want any further telling, and contented myself with taking an empty
.77 as a souvenir.
[Illustration: But nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians (_see
page 158_)
_To face page 160_]
CHAPTER XIII
The fighting on the Asiago plateau—Brilliant counter-offensive
of General Cadorna—I go to Asiago—Wonderful organization of
Italian Army—Making new roads—Thousands of labourers—The
military causeway—Supply columns in full operation—Wonderful
scenes—Approaching the scene of action—The forest of Gallio—The big
bivouac—Whole brigades lying hidden—The forest screen—Picturesque
encampments—The “bell” tent as compared with the _tente d’abri_—Our
car stopped by the _Carabinieri_—“Nostri Canoni”—We leave the car—The
plain of Asiago—The little town of Asiago in distance—The Austrian
and Italian batteries and Italian trenches—Hurrying across—The
daily toll of the guns—Asiago in ruins—Street fighting—Importance
attaching to this point—An ominous lull—Regiment waiting to
proceed to trenches—Sad spectacle—The quarters of the divisional
commandant—His “office”—Staff clerks at work—Telephone bells
ringing—The commandant’s regret at our coming—Big artillery attack
to commence—A quarter of an hour to spare—A peep at the Austrian
trenches—A little ruined home—All movements of troops to trenches
by night—Artillery action about to commence—Not allowed to go to
trenches—Adventure on way back—Attempt cross no man’s land at the
double—My little “souvenir” of Asiago—Bursting shells—Ordered to take
cover—The wounded soldiers and the kitten—Anything but a pleasant
spot—The two _Carabinieri_—Cool courage—In the “funk-hole”—An
inferno—My own impressions—Effect on soldiers and our chauffeur—The
wounded sergeant—We prepare to make a start back—Irritating delay—A
shrapnel—My companion is wounded—Transformation along road—Curious
incident.
CHAPTER XIII
The Austrian thrust was not confined to the Arsiero sector, although
it was undoubtedly there that they made their greatest effort in men
and guns. The Asiago plateau in the district of the Sette Communi
was the scene of desperate fighting simultaneously with that around
Arsiero.
The counter-offensive of General Cadorna in this direction was, if
anything, more brilliantly conceived and carried out than in the
Astico valley, and that is saying a great deal. But here again,
although driven back, the enemy was by no means beaten, and continued
to fight sullenly for every yard he was forced to yield. Although the
Italians were pressing closely on the enemy’s heels, it was a tough
job to keep him on the move, as I was able to judge for myself.
I went up to Asiago on my return from Arsiero, and must admit I was
astounded at all I saw; it was inconceivable that so much could have
been accomplished in so short a time.
I have so often insisted on the wonderful organization of every
branch of the Italian Army that I hardly like to revert to it again,
but I had just returned, after having been away for several months,
and I found that my impressions were precisely the same as in the
beginning of the war; preparedness is still the _mot d’ordre_. An
instance of this will serve to convey my meaning.
It is uphill most of the way to the tableland where Asiago is
situated, and before the Austrian onslaught the roads to the
plateau were of so rough and primitive a description as to be quite
inadequate to meet the requirements of the immense transport service
of the army being sent up.
In order to cope with the exigencies of the situation drastic
measures had to be adopted, which were evidently foreseen and
arranged for in the event of certain contingencies such as the
present one arising.
Thousands of labourers, young and old, of the military classes not
yet called up, but who undoubtedly had been warned for this duty,
were brought from all over the country, provided with picks and
shovels and sent here by express trains. Without the delay of an hour
practically, they were set to work to cut down obstructing trees and
widen, build up and level the existing roads.
Of course they were well paid: five lires a day and their food
provided, but it was not a mere question of pay—of that you cannot
fail to be convinced—only men working with their hearts in their job
could have accomplished what these gangs of men did in the time. It
is truly an object lesson in the value of organized labour.
The fine broad highway, complete in every necessary detail, such as
stone parapets at the curves, and walling-up where there is risk of
landslides, came into being as though by the touch of a magician’s
wand, and proved of incalculable value in the counter-attack which
was meanwhile preparing. The transport of the masses of troops
synchronizing with the completion of the roads.
Certain it is that without such organization it would have required
many weeks to have carried out what was done in a few days, and in
the meantime the invaders, it is to be assumed, would not have been
idle on their side.
When I motored up to Asiago, had I not been told how long this
roadway had been in existence I should have said it was years old,
instead of days.
Along this military causeway was as busy and animated a scene as
could be imagined. The Italians had already recaptured all the
positions in the Sette Communi, and were pushing steadily on towards
the Altopiano beyond Asiago.
The supply columns were, therefore, now in full operation, and one
passed what was practically an endless convoy of munition trains,
motor lorries, picturesque carts from every corner apparently of the
peninsula, and long strings of pack horses and mules. In and out of
this imposing column and up the steepest parts of the road dispatch
riders on motor bicycles dashed along with reckless speed and
marvellous dexterity.
It was a wonderfully inspiriting scene, and this was accentuated as
one gradually began to hear the booming of the Italian guns in the
distance. We were rapidly approaching the scene of action, and the
Austrians were being given no respite.
The effect of all this, together with the glorious air of the
mountain, was as exhilarating as champagne—one felt years younger.
The car seemed to go too slowly, so eager were you to get on, and be
in the thick of it all.
The mountain side was bare and bleak, with scarcely a vestige of tree
or shrub—but on the tableland beyond the crest it gradually changed,
and we entered a belt of pine forest, dark and gloomy.
This was the forest of Gallio. The road wound in and out of the
dense trees, and only a short distance ahead could be seen. We had
now passed the head of the transport convoys, and came up with
reinforcements hurrying forward.
A remarkable scene now presented itself. The forest on either side of
the road was a big bivouac. The gloom under the trees was alive with
troops as far back as one could see. Every yard of ground appeared to
be occupied, whole brigades were lying hidden here waiting the order
to advance. No more effective screen could have been wished for than
this belt of forest, and it must have been a continual source of
anxiety to the Austrian generals to know what it concealed.
It was probably for this reason that the forest of Gallio was the
hottest section of this Front, as it was continually being shelled,
and the casualties were always correspondingly heavy.
There was something singularly reminiscent of mining scenes in the
Far West in all I saw around me as many of the men had erected their
picturesque little _tentes d’abri_ and formed little encampments in
all sorts of out-of-the-way corners. The soldiers were apparently
allowed considerable latitude in this respect, possibly because these
tents are so easily handled, and by reason of their small dimensions
are easily disguised with foliage.
The big and cumbersome “bell” tent so fondly adhered to by the
British Army Authorities under all circumstances would have looked
very out of date here, where initiative not dogma reigned supreme!
After passing through what gave the impression of miles and miles
of encampment, we approached the confines of the trees, and were
suddenly hailed by two _Carabinieri_ standing under the trees just
off the road, and informed that the car was not allowed to proceed
any further.[A]
[A] The _Carabinieri_ have a special _status_ in Italy, and only
men of the very highest character are accepted for the corps. In
peace time they are country constabulary, and patrol the rural
districts; in war they automatically become military police and
are exclusively employed in the immediate rear of the fighting
line, watching for deserters, looking after prisoners, carrying
despatches, and so forth. They only take orders from their own
officers, and never do any military service. On but one occasion
have they become combatants, and that was at the battle of Palestro
in 1859, when they saved the life of King Humbert by forming a
square to protect him. Their war footing is 50,000, of whom 8,000
are mounted.
Of course our chauffeur pulled up without hesitating: he knew that
_Carabinieri_ have to be obeyed without parley. My companion got
out, and I was following him when, scarcely had I got my foot off
the step, than there was a deafening report like a thunderclap a few
yards away. For a moment I thought my head had been blown off.
“Sonoi Nostri Canoni,” remarked my companion, who had been there
before, and who knew of an Italian big gun hidden in the trees within
a few yards of us; one of many along the outskirts of the forest, I
was told later, and which were giving the Austrians much trouble. We
left the car here to await our return and walked on. A hundred yards
or so and we were clear of the forest, which ended abruptly on the
edge of a slight acclivity.
A little below us was a wide expanse of grass-covered plain, and in
the centre of it, about a mile away, were the white houses of the
little town of Asiago, of which one had read so much during the past
few weeks.
Just beyond the town a line of low-lying hills stood out against the
horizon. On the crest of one of these hills—Monte Interrotto—about
two and a half miles distant were the Austrian batteries, and on
the slopes below were the Austrian and Italian trenches. In the far
distance to the North, Monte Zebio stood out amongst some rugged
peaks.
For the moment the scene was fairly peaceful, that is to say the guns
on either side were only firing in a desultory way; but, of course,
one could not tell how long this would last and what might “come
over” at any moment; however, as we had come here with the intention
of going right into Asiago, this had to be chanced. My companion
advised hurrying across as quickly as possible as there was no cover
anywhere, and the road was quite exposed to the view of the Austrian
gunners.
It was a typical summer morning, with the birds singing merrily on
all sides, so it was somewhat difficult to realize that there was
danger in strolling along leisurely, but before we had gone far we
met stretcher-bearers coming towards us with their sad burdens, and
quite a number of soldiers carrying wounded men on their backs.
No big engagement was in progress we learned, but the guns and rifles
were taking their steady and relentless daily toll all the time.
This constant stream of wounded ended by getting on one’s nerves, and
made you wonder what the fates had in store for you.
The town, from a distance, appeared to be quite undamaged, but on
getting near to it one found it was in a sad state of ruins. Very few
of the houses had escaped the ravages of fire or bombardment.
The position of Asiago, midway between the opposing batteries, had,
of course, in a great measure brought this about, and was responsible
for its gradual destruction.
There was a great deal of street fighting before the invaders
were driven out and back to the hills, and in several places were
hastily erected barricades formed with broken furniture and other
miscellaneous articles. Barbed wire entanglements of a novel
construction were also placed in some of the streets in case the
Italian cavalry attempted to force a way through.
So Asiago was very closely connected with the stirring events that
were taking place, and from being an unheard of little frontier town,
had become one of the most spoken of places in Italy.
The fact that the _communiqués_ referred to it almost daily is proof
of the importance attaching to this point, and it required ceaseless
vigilance on the part of the Italians to retain their foothold in its
ruined streets. But no attempt has been made to fortify the place,
its defences are the trenches on the hills beyond, and which, at the
time I was there, were gradually being pushed forward.
Any troops in the town itself were only there _de passage_ for a few
hours. It would have been risking unnecessary sacrifice of life to
have kept them there for any length of time.
We were in about as exposed a position as could probably have been
found on any front, but for the moment there was an ominous lull
which portended no good, and so it turned out. The respite was not to
last long; the Asiago plateau is far too important a sector of the
front to be left long in quietude.
The little town must have been a delightful place before the war, and
even now, destroyed though it mostly is, there are a few picturesque
corners which the bombardment has spared. There were comparatively
very few soldiers about, and the deserted, ruined streets looked
unutterably sad; but right in the centre, on an open piece of waste
ground, sheltered by some tall houses and a roughly made “screen” of
odd pieces of corrugated iron, a regiment was waiting for nightfall
to proceed to the trenches outside the town.
I had a good look through an aperture in the screen: the men
were noticeably subdued in their demeanour, as well they might
be, considering that at any moment they might be under a hail of
projectiles and with no means of escaping it.
They had evidently been on the road for some time, as they all looked
grimy with dust and dirt and tired out, judging from the way most of
them were lying about sleeping. It was an extremely sad spectacle,
and I had no inclination to make a sketch of it, novel though it was.
We enquired our way to the quarters of the Divisional Commandant,
as my companion had a letter to deliver to him, and an officer we
met sent some one with us to show us the house, as outwardly there
was no indication of its being occupied. The number of deep dug-outs
protected with sand-bags one saw everywhere was sufficient proof of
the awful time the men stationed here went through. As we went along
we were constantly meeting stretcher-bearers bringing along wounded
men. At the corners of streets men were sheltering close up to the
walls as though expecting at any moment something to happen.
The Commandant’s “office” was in a house that had suffered badly:
there were gaping cracks in the walls, and it looked as if any
explosion near it would bring it down with a run.
There were quite a number of staff clerks at work in the ground-floor
rooms, and the telephone bells were ringing incessantly.
We were received by the Commandant with much cordiality, and the
position of affairs in the immediate vicinity explained to us very
lucidly by means of a big military chart fastened to a table in one
of the rooms, but he expressed regret at our having come just on that
particular day as a big attack by the artillery was timed to commence
at eleven o’clock (it was then 10.45), and he feared we should not be
able to get back so soon as we wished.
As though in defiant response to his statement, there was at that
moment a loud report from an Austrian battery, and a big shell
screeched by overhead.
There was still a quarter of an hour to spare before the Italian guns
were to start off, so the Commandant suggested our going upstairs to
the third floor to have a peep at the Italian and Austrian trenches
through a shell-hole in the roof. The house was quite new and built
in flats, which had evidently been occupied by fairly well-to-do
people.
The room we went into had evidently been a sort of bedroom and
nursery combined: it was in a complete state of ruin, furniture
smashed, women’s clothes jumbled up all over the floor, with
tiles and bricks and mortar, here and there among the _débris_
a child’s toy, a broken doll, and what not, letters and papers
strewn everywhere, and all sodden with rain. There was something
inexpressibly pathetic in this little ruined home.
The Italian and Austrian trenches were but a few hundred yards away,
and only quite a short distance separated them. There was, however,
very little to see even through our powerful binoculars. The whole
hillside was very bare, and the trenches looked like mere furrows in
it, and yet one knew that these furrows were full of men waiting the
opportunity to get out and kill each other.
There was not a sign of life anywhere, as it meant certain death to
show yourself if only for an instant, the Commandant told me; even
where we were in this third floor room we ran the risk of being
spotted by some vigilant sniper, for the dilapidated roof offered
very little shelter.
All movements of troops up to the trenches were made by night, and
once the men were in position they were completely isolated, it only
being possible to take them their food once during the day, after
dark.
On the crest of Monte Interrotto opposite us, about fifteen hundred
yards distant, was a curious little squat-looking building which had,
I was told, been originally erected as a fort, but now it was merely
a landmark probably, and abandoned, or it would have certainly been
obliterated by the Italian artillery.
It was just upon eleven o’clock when we came down, and the telephone
bells were ringing furiously—the artillery action was evidently about
to commence.
My companion, who, by the way, had a camera with him, suggested our
going out to the trenches, but when he mentioned it to the Commandant
he was told that he, as an officer, could of course go if he wished;
there was nothing to stop him, but I could not be allowed to
accompany him under any circumstances.
The reason for this interdiction was not explained as far as I could
gather. There was, however, no arguing the matter, so rather than
leave me he decided that since that was the case, and there was
nothing more to see here it would be better if we chanced it and made
a dash back to the car whilst there was yet perhaps time.
Whilst we were talking, the Italian batteries were already opening
fire all along the line, though apparently only in a tentative
range-finding sort of way to start with, and the Austrians were
beginning to reply by dropping shells round Asiago, several big
projectiles bursting in the outskirts of the town.
It looked, therefore, as though we were going to have an exciting
time getting back, and so it turned out. The Commandant grimly wished
us luck, and off we went.
We had not got far when our adventures commenced. A big shrapnel
bursting right over us. Fortunately we had heard it coming, so had
time to get behind a wall. The fragments of the shell beat down on
the ground like Brobdingnagian hailstones.
After that the firing from both sides seemed to become general, and
it was evident that the attack was developing seriously.
Out in the open, as I have said, there was no cover whatever, so
there was nothing for it but to attempt to get across the mile of “No
man’s land” at the double.
Some soldiers, who were going across also, set the pace to start
with. I must regretfully confess, however, that I am long past
athletics, and even in my best days was never much of a pedestrian,
so I very soon had to give in and take it easily.
[Illustration: And came up with reinforcements hurrying forward (_see
page 165_)
_To face page 172_]
My companion, who was quite a young man, could without a doubt
have run the whole distance, but he good-naturedly slowed down to
remain with me.
Apart from my lack of stamina, I was somewhat severely handicapped
for sprinting, as, at the Commandant’s quarters I had been given the
butt-end of a big shell as “a little souvenir” of my visit to Asiago.
It certainly was an interesting trophy, though a trifle weighty, as
may be imagined, and I did not want to leave it behind if I could
help it, as I have a mania for collecting war “curios” for my studio;
but it was a terrible temptation to drop it now and chance getting
another later on. However, I stuck to it like grim death and, I may
add, eventually brought it to London.
The idea of a man of my years and experience attempting to run a mile
in a blazing hot sun and under fire with a piece of iron weighing
some 12lbs. under his arm was doubtless ridiculous, and probably my
companion thought so, though he said nothing.
We had just got out in the open when we heard a terrific explosion
and, looking back, we saw that a shell of the biggest calibre had
burst in the town.
An immense column of white smoke and dust rose high in the air, and
in it you saw fragments of timber and other _débris_ suspended by the
force of the explosion in the still atmosphere for what seemed a few
seconds—so long, in fact, that my companion actually had time to get
his camera out of its case and take a snapshot.
The artillery duel was now spreading ominously, and we could see that
shells were bursting unpleasantly near the spot where we had left the
car, the objective of the Austrians being, of course, the Italian
batteries along the edge of the forest.
About half way across was what looked like a railway embankment or
something of that sort, the road passing under it by a low archway.
There was a cottage close by, and when we got up to it we found
that it was a sort of infantry post in charge of a non-commissioned
officer, and that the soldiers who had preceded us had been ordered
to take cover here for a time—and we had to do the same—the object of
this evidently being to prevent too much movement being seen on the
road.
The cottage was little better than a shanty, and afforded no
protection whatever. In the one room were several badly-wounded men
lying on stretchers on the ground.
The thunder of the guns and the bursting shells outside did not
appear to affect them at all; in fact, two of the most heavily
bandaged were actually playing with a pretty little tabby kitten
that, strangely enough, was there. It was a curiously homely note,
and singularly out of keeping with its surroundings.
The sergeant detained us some little time, and then only allowed us
to go on singly and with intervals between. He evidently was using
his own judgment in the matter.
When we reached the forest the shells from the Austrian batteries
appeared to be passing overhead in a continuous flight, their wailing
screech sounding like a high wind in the tree-tops.
It was as if a gale were raging, accompanied by incessant crashes of
thunder. Branches of trees were being brought down by the shells in
every direction, and altogether it was anything but a pleasant spot
to find oneself in.
Yet close by, standing as calmly as though waiting for the storm to
pass, were the two _Carabinieri_ we had previously seen, and who were
evidently on guard here.
In all my war experiences I have never witnessed anything to surpass
the _sangfroid_ displayed by these two men. Neither the bursting
shells nor the falling trees appeared to perturb them in the least.
They were as unruffled as a London policeman on point duty. It was a
display of cool courage I shall long remember. Their horses, standing
just behind, shared their master’s composure; they showed no signs of
nervousness, and were not even fastened up.
I shall have occasion later to again refer to the remarkable
fearlessness of the _Carabinieri_—it was one of the things that
impressed me most on the Italian Front.
The car was not where we had left it, and the _Carabinieri_ told us
that the chauffeur had thought it advisable to move it to a less
exposed place further up the road so as not to risk its being smashed
to pieces.
We hurried on and soon found the car, but no _chauffeur_. After
calling out for some minutes and with difficulty making ourselves
heard above the din going on; we saw him coming up from what looked
like a cellar under the trees.
This was a “dug-out” or what our English Tommies have humourously
designated as a “funk-hole,” and was constructed of heavy timber
covered with turf and several layers of sandbags. It was entered by
a short flight of steps, so we went down to have a look at it. One
might have been in a settler’s hut out in the wilds somewhere, though
for the matter of that all log shanties convey that impression.
It was a very rough and gloomy place, but I was told that the King
had taken “cover” here only the day before, and had been forced to
stay in it for several hours.
Some soldiers were there, so we sat down with them and had a chat,
and it was well we did, for the firing increased in intensity every
moment, and heavy projectiles began to burst on the roof of the
“dug-out” with such terrific force that one expected at any moment
the whole place would be blown to atoms.
The very ground trembled under the shock of the explosions. I never
thought that human ears or nerves could stand such an inferno as we
were in for during the next hour.
The effect on me personally was at first a sort of atrophy of my
senses—a feeling came over me that if this was to be my end, well let
it be a quick and complete finish, no blinding or maiming or other
drawn out agony. Next a sensation of extreme hunger, which at the
time I felt inclined to pat myself on the back for, as indicating
heroic indifference to my surroundings, but which later I learned, to
my disappointment, is a well-known manifestation of “funk,” a form of
nervous dyspepsia—“fringale,” the French call it. But gradually these
impressions wore off, and I looked around with curiosity to see how
the young soldiers around me bore themselves.
Several were in a state of absolute terror at each explosion, and
were wringing their hands and ejaculating under their breath “Oh,
Dio—Oh, mamma!” whilst others sat stock still and gazed in front of
them in moody silence.
Our chauffeur was very much upset and made no attempt to disguise it;
so much so, in fact, that I wondered how on earth he would be able to
drive us back; his nerve seemed to be quite gone, and his face was
ghastly white.
Suddenly a soldier rushed down the steps calling out frantically
that the sergeant was mortally wounded and asking if anyone had any
brandy. No one had any, and I made a mental note never again to be
without a flask of it in my pocket. The poor fellow was lying just
outside the dug-out with his leg badly smashed up by a big fragment
of shell.
He was losing consciousness and kept sobbing and crying out for his
mother. Fortunately some stretcher-bearers were near by, so in a very
few minutes he was bound up with an improvised tourniquet to stop
the hemorrhage and hurried off to the nearest ambulance station,
though I doubt whether he ever reached it alive.
We returned to the dug-out as the firing shewed no signs of
abatement; but my companion began to get fidgetty, and at last said
we might have to stay there for hours if we waited till all was
quiet, and suggested our risking it and making a start.
Of course I could only agree; but the chauffeur was not so anxious.
He was, if anything, still more upset by what had just happened;
however, a few kind but forcible words brought him to his senses, and
with an effort he managed to pull himself together.
So we all went out somewhat anxiously to see if the car was still in
existence, and found that, fortunately, it had passed through its
ordeal of fire unscathed and had not been touched.
There was no time to lose, as may be imagined, with shells bursting
all round us, but as might have been expected, because we were in a
hurry to get away there was an irritating delay, and this delay was
directly the cause of an incident that now occurred, and which might
very easily have had a fatal result.
The car had to be turned round, not a quick operation at the best of
times, and especially in a narrow road, but under fire, a decidedly
nerve-testing job.
We were standing in the roadway watching with impatience the
apparently awkward manœuvres of the chauffeur when there was a flash
like lightning, a loud report and a shrapnel burst right over our
heads not more than twenty feet up.
Instinctively I raised my arm to shield my eyes, as I always do;
almost at the same moment I heard my friend, who was just by, call
out that he had been hit in the shoulder.
Looking round I saw him stoop down and gingerly pick up a long,
jagged fragment of shell lying at his feet. This was the piece that
had struck him—it was almost too hot to touch.
He said he did not think he was much hurt, and that it was no use
waiting there to do anything for it. So we lost no time in getting
off before something more serious happened; we were only asking for
trouble every moment we delayed.
As a matter of fact, although he made light of it, he had a nasty
flesh wound; it turned out that the strap of his camera case,
together with his thick overcoat and tunic, had undoubtedly saved his
arm.
We had only gone a few yards when a remarkable state of affairs
revealed itself: the road had disappeared, so completely was it
hidden by trees and branches brought down by the shells.
It was positively startling to see such a transformation in the
comparatively short time that had elapsed since we had come along it.
Here was a pretty fix, but luck favoured us in the shape of a
soldier, who saw our predicament and indicated a way of getting round
the obstacles and regaining the road further on.
I will candidly confess that I was not altogether sorry when we at
length got out of range of the Austrian guns.
We had been under fire for more than four hours, and I had had about
enough of it for one day.
There was a big stir amongst the troops bivouacked in the forest,
and we passed several regiments on the road, which led one to infer
that the artillery duel was to be followed up by an infantry attack
on a large scale at nightfall, and so it turned out, as I afterwards
learned.
But these operations on the Asiago plateau were then, and are still,
of almost daily occurrence, and, serious though they may appear when
seen at close range as on this particular occasion, are evidently
but a side issue in General Cadorna’s main plan of campaign.
We witnessed a somewhat curious incident on our way back. Going down
the steep zig-zag road a big motor ambulance waggon failed to take
one of the sharp curves sufficiently to get on to the straight run
beyond, and was only brought up by the brake on the extreme outer
edge of the road, which, as it happened, had no parapet at this
particular spot. It was in imminent danger of going over, a drop of
at least a hundred feet.
There was no lack of help, as there was an endless line of traffic
going both ways, and it was, of course, all held up by the
occurrence, so many willing hands were forthcoming. Big stones were
carefully placed under the wheels to prevent any forward movement of
the heavy vehicle.
Then suddenly, to the surprise and amusement of everyone, the least
severely wounded occupants jumped out of the wagon, and, in spite of
their bandaged condition, vigorously assisted in pushing it back to
safety.
CHAPTER XIV
Slow but certain progress on the Trentino front—An open secret—The
mining of the Castalleto summit.—Carried out by _Alpini_—Recapture
of Monte Cimone; also by _Alpini_—Heroic exploits—Udine one’s _pied
à terre_—An ideal “News centre”—The Isonzo Front—The old days of
the war correspondent as compared with the present conditions—Well
to be prepared—Returning to Udine for lunch—Attracting
attention—Unjustifiable—Things quiet at the Front—Unusual heat of the
summer—Changeable weather at Udine—Early days of August—Increasing
activity in the Isonzo Sector—Significant fact—_Communiqué_ of
August 4th—The _communiqué_ of the following day—General attack by
Italians all along this Front—Arrange start for scene of action—My
car companions 6th August—Magnificent progress everywhere—Afternoon
news—Capture of Monte Sabottina announced—We make for Vipulzano—On
the road—Stirring scenes—“New” regiments—“Are we down-hearted”—The
penchant for Englishmen—A _cortège_ of prisoners—Like a huge crowd of
beggars—Half-starved and terror-stricken strapping young fellows.
CHAPTER XIV
The success of the counter-offensive of General Cadorna in the
Trentino had a cogent bearing on the stirring events which were to
take place a few weeks later. Meanwhile, as I have pointed out, the
Austrians, although pushed back, were by no means beaten, and during
the whole of the month of July the Trentino Front loomed large in the
_communiqués_.
Slow but certain progress was continually being reported, and if
nothing startling in the shape of an advance could be recorded, it
was satisfactory to note that the Italians were without a doubt
holding up the greater part of the entire Austrian Army on this Front
alone.
This has been demonstrated beyond controversy, and in itself was no
mean achievement, and spoke volumes for the tenacity and endurance of
the Italian soldier, for it must not be overlooked that this Army was
not composed of the offscourings of the Dual Empire, but its crack
regiments, and commanded by its most distinguished officers.
It was an open secret that had it not been for an error of judgment
and generalship on the Italian side, the Austrians would never have
been so near achieving success.
The sudden _mise en retraite_ of one of the best known generals,
together with several divisional officers, bore this out, and proved
that General Cadorna will not overlook incompetency at a critical
moment, however high-placed may be the offender, or what his previous
record may be. This faculty, if one can so term it, of coming to
rapid decisions and holding by them is one of the most characteristic
traits of the Italian Generalissimo.
In the Trentino the weeks following the great push may, therefore,
have appeared quiet in comparison with what had taken place during
these exciting days, but they were by no means uneventful; on the
contrary, they were marked by two exceptionally brilliant exploits
which, as was seen, had considerable influence on operations
elsewhere, and went far to consolidating the Italian gains.
The mining and blowing up of the important Austrian position on the
Castalleto summit, east of the peak of Col dei Bos, was one of these
feats.
The work was entrusted to the _Alpini_, and was brilliantly carried
out, as may be imagined, for the _Alpini_ never do things by halves.
With infinite perseverence, and in the face of continual difficulty,
and peril, a tunnel some twelve hundred yards in length was bored,
an immense charge of dynamite was exploded, and the whole of the
Austrian force that occupied the summit was buried in the wreckage.
This success restored to the Italians the command of the Dolomites
Road, and enabled them to resist all attempts on the part of the
Austrians to regain the position.
The other great event of the month was the recapture of Monte Cimone,
the mountain which towers above Arsiero. This exploit was also
accomplished by the Alpini.
The table-like summit had been in the possession of the Austrians
since the latter part of May, and had been transformed by them into a
veritable citadel, and one of the strongest points on their line of
defence in this region.
The _Alpini_, as was to be expected from these mountaineering
athletes, set out without hesitation to accomplish what must have
looked like the impossible to the ordinary soldier, though it was
really but a repetition of previous heroic exploits of a like nature.
It appeared to me as a layman, incredible that anything but a chamois
could clamber up the cliff-like front of Cimone—that any human being
could do it never occurred to me for a moment.
It looked a sheer impossibility, yet the _Alpini_ did it, and in
spite of the plunging fire from machine guns on the summit, and the
shells from flanking batteries at Settecase further up the valley of
the Astico.
Verily these soldier mountaineers have well merited the eagle plumes
that adorn their Tyrolean hats.
I have recounted these exploits, because they appeared to me to
exemplify the burning enthusiasm that animated the troops, and made
them eager to undertake anything that was asked of them. From what
one could gather, scarcely a day passed without some unrecorded deed
of daring being accomplished.
Of course it was not possible for a correspondent to learn beforehand
any details of the operations about to be carried out, so, in the
event of anything big happening, it was purely a matter of luck being
on the spot or anywhere near it.
For this reason one made of Udine a _pied à terre_, as it was obvious
there was nothing to be gained by motoring from place to place on the
offchance of seeing something dramatic. At Headquarters one got to
know anything there was in the shape of news, and one could arrange
one’s movements accordingly.
From the point of view of the journalist, the Censorship Club-room
was an ideal “news” centre, since it is not absolutely necessary for
him to see what he writes about—so much can be done from hearsay—but
for me, as an illustrator, it was obviously a very different matter,
and doubtless I missed many a good subject for my pencil through
not being fortunate enough to be in the vicinity when some dramatic
incident was taking place.
It has always struck me that a pen picture has therefore an advantage
over a pencil one. You can, if forced to, make it through the medium
of your ears, and your eyes are not essential for its accuracy, as is
the case with an artist’s notes.
For several weeks the correspondents were all gathered together at
Udine, and only left it occasionally for short excursions.
The Isonzo Front was, from the motoring point of view, so short a
distance away that you could start off in the car at six o’clock in
the morning, be right up to the firing line by half-past seven, see
all there was to see and be back in Udine easily in time for lunch.
This, of course, would not have been possible before the advent of
the petrol engine.
In the old days of the war correspondent, when he could only get
about by means of horses, a “trip” such as is now made easily in a
morning would have meant a real “journey” of probably a couple of
days, and providing himself with food and probably sleeping outfit as
well, so as to be prepared against all contingencies.
With the car we could, bar accidents, time our return to a minute
almost, if we wanted to; and it was really remarkable how seldom any
_contretemps_ occurred on the road—an occasional puncture, nothing
more.
Such confidence, in fact, did the Italian correspondents place in
their cars, or the offchance of “getting something somewhere,” that
they hardly ever guarded against accidents by providing themselves
with food and drink when on an excursion, and my companions were
always surprised when I insisted on taking a parcel of creature
comforts for us all, in case we wanted them, for I had discovered
what it meant to be really hungry and thirsty.
[Illustration: The least severely wounded occupants jumped out of the
wagon (_see page 179_)
_To face page 186_]
One day, when visiting a position, I had forgotten to take anything
with me, but consoled myself with the idea that I should at least
be able to get a crust of bread and a drink of wine on the way.
But it turned out that we were in an outlying district, so I had to
pay the penalty of my forgetfulness by being famished all day, as one
does not like to ask anything of the soldiers if one can help it:
they usually only have sufficient for themselves, and would be too
good-natured to refuse you.
Returning to Udine for lunch, to my mind, always gave a touch of the
unreal to the scenes you had just witnessed.
There were, as I have said, several really decent restaurants in the
town, where everything was well served, and the appointments were
quite good. These would be crowded of a day, and one always saw many
ladies at lunch-time and dinner.
At one or other of these places you could be sure of meeting friends,
and as one was usually much too hot and tired after a long motor
drive to trouble to go back to one’s rooms to change, you would drop
into a restaurant just as you were, in campaigning kit, and covered
with dust or mud.
It generally happened, therefore, that you attracted as much
attention amongst the well-dressed _habitués_ of the place as if you
were “got up” for a fancy-dress ball.
At times, when one came back after a surfeit of horrors, it almost
seemed unjustifiable to be sitting down to a civilised meal in a
cheerful restaurant.
Of course it goes without saying that Udine was not by any means
inclined to be light-hearted, and usually the sole topic of
conversation everywhere was “la Guerra” and the operations on the
different Fronts.
There was an entire absence of excitement at all times, in spite of
the daily thrills provided us by the local press, and the arrival in
the evening of the big daily papers of Milan, Rome, etc.
When things were quiet at the Front, life in Udine was stagnant, and
I often used to wonder what the Italian correspondents could find to
write or wire about every day, for they always seemed to be hard at
it, even when the _communiqués_ were of the very briefest character.
Meanwhile events were undoubtedly shaping well, and day by day one
heard of minor successes in Trentino, and steady Italian progress all
along the line.
It was only what we all expected, but there was nothing yet of a
sufficiently startling nature going on anywhere to induce one to
start on motor trips to witness long range artillery duels.
Moreover, you had got to know every mile almost of the road leading
to the front lines, and it ended by becoming as monotonous as it had
been interesting at first, as you seldom saw any change.
The guns were always booming in the distance, the “drachen” hung
motionless in the still air, and Taubes came over and were fired on
assiduously but generally without result by the anti-aircraft guns.
Fresh subjects for one’s sketch book became more and more difficult
to find. It was a period of comparative suspense so far as one
was able to judge, and as combined with this, it was a summer of
unusual heat even for Italy, a good deal of superabundant energy was
necessary to rouse you to activity when there was so little to call
for it.
Udine was also bearing out its evil reputation of having the most
changeable weather of any place in Italy. Three fine days and a
thunderstorm became a bit monotonous, however much you might get used
to it.
In the early days of August there was every indication that the
period of quiescence was coming to an end, and the _communiqués_
began to refer persistently to increasing activity in the Isonzo
sector, and the Trentino was barely mentioned.
The atmosphere for some days past had been charged with rumours that
big events were impending, but one got so used to rumours here that
no undue importance was attached to the latest. You could only hope
that there was some truth in it, as one was beginning to get heartily
sick of doing nothing.
Still it was a significant fact that the King and General Cadorna had
been frequently seen in this sector during the preceding week and
that important movements of troops and _materiel_ were taking place
daily.
It was not, however, till the 4th August that there were any real
indications that rumour for once was true.
In his _communiqué_ of that date the Generalissimo concluded with a
line which, read in the light of subsequent events, was pregnant with
historic interest: “On the Isonzo, commencement of very active fire
with heavy shells.”
The _communiqué_ of the following day gave the welcome intelligence
that there had been a vigorous attack in the Monfalcone sector, and
that 145 prisoners, amongst whom were four officers, had been taken.
After this there appeared no doubt that something really important
was afoot, and this was confirmed by news that came in during the
day that a general attack by the Italians all along this Front was
rapidly developing.
There was no hesitation about leaving Udine now, and the
correspondents prepared to start at once. I arranged for a seat in
the car of Gino Piva, of the _Resto del Carlino_, of Bologna, and
with us was Roberto Cantalupo, of the _Corriere d’Italia_, of Rome.
Meanwhile one could hear the thunder of the guns in Udine, and
from the terrace of the castle the smoke of the bursting shells on
the hills was quite distinctly visible, although forty miles away,
and during the night the flashes from the guns looked like distant
lightning.
On the 6th of August the whole town was agog with excitement all day,
and news arrived almost every hour with the welcome intelligence of
magnificent progress everywhere.
As it was already rather late to make a start, we decided to wait
till the following morning before leaving, in order to be better able
to judge from the news that came in the meantime which would be the
best point to make for, a somewhat important consideration.
We did not want to waste time and petrol rushing about all over the
country, and one knew from previous experience that it was generally
only at Headquarters that reliable information could be obtained.
Out in the country nobody ever seemed to know anything of what was
going on a mile away from his own section. As it turned out, it was
particularly fortunate we deferred our departure.
Late in the afternoon the news reached Udine that the first line of
the Austrian defences from Monte Sabottina to Monte San Michele had
been completely destroyed by the terrific bombardment of the Italian
artillery, and that the infantry were preparing to advance.
Later it was announced that Monte Sabottina itself, the key of the
defences of Gorizia, had been captured and many prisoners taken.
Events were indeed marching with startling rapidity.
We got away shortly after five in the morning, as there was no time
to lose, the way things were shaping. I learned we were to make for
Vipulzano, the Headquarters of General Capello, the commander of the
sixth corps d’armée operating in the Sabottina zone, and where from
all accounts, we should get a capital _point de vue_ if the attack
developed further, as it is only three miles from Monte Sabottina
itself.
We went via Cormons, and, as might have been expected, there was
a big movement of troops all along the road. The offensive had
evidently been so well timed and pre-arranged that everything was
already on the spot and in readiness to proceed anywhere at a
moment’s notice. The capture of Sabottina was no haphazard slice of
luck, but the result of a well-matured _coup_.
We passed several “new regiments” of infantry on their way to the
trenches, and one could not fail to be greatly impressed by their
smart appearance. Well clothed and shod, their accoutrements and arms
in perfect condition, they looked fit to go anywhere and capable of
holding their own against any troops Austria could put up. The men
were bubbling over with animal spirits and enthusiasm, and we came in
for a lot of good-natured banter as we drove past.
As I was in khaki there was no mistaking my nationality, and they
seemed delighted to see an Englishman. In fact, I heard several real
cockney remarks made for my benefit by fellows who had evidently
lived in England, such as:
“Are we down-hearted?”
“Give my love to London,” which elicited much laughter from their
comrades, and cries of _viva l’Inghilterra_.
In this connection I must say that the _penchant_ for Englishmen
and everything English was quite remarkable amongst the soldiers
everywhere at the Front, and I am convinced that most of the
good-fellowship shewn to me whilst in Italy was chiefly by reason of
this sympathy rather than from anything personal.
In a village through which we had to pass we were held up for nearly
three-quarters of an hour, whilst a long column of prisoners from
Sabottina passed.
There must have been over three thousand, and it would be difficult
to imagine a more depressing spectacle than this long _cortège_ of
weary, dispirited men, plodding moodily through the ruined village.
The convoy was guarded by soldiers, and the inevitable _carabinieri_
on horseback.
Had it not been for the uniformity of colour, which was, however, but
a semblance of the original field-grey, and their head-gear, there
was scarcely anything to indicate that only a few hours previously
these had all been fully armed and equipped soldiers.
It looked almost like a huge crowd of beggars going past, for most of
the bedraggled men were in rags, and very few had any belongings, and
all had a half-starved, terror-stricken appearance that was pitiable.
As a matter of fact, many of them we learned had not eaten or drunk
anything for several days, the awful intensity of the fire of the
Italian Artillery having prevented any supplies reaching them.
Several were badly wounded, and limped along painfully or were
assisted by their comrades.
So many stories have been going around the Press of the degeneration
of the Austrian Army, that I was astonished to see that most of the
prisoners were strapping young fellows. From what I had read, I
should have expected a preponderance of old men and weedy youths.
If these were specimens of the troops Austria is still able to
put in the field, then she cannot yet be in such a condition of
_délabrement_ as has been stated.
CHAPTER XV
The commencement of the battle for Gorizia—We approach scene of
action—Sheltered road—Curious “Chinese” effect—Headquarters of the
6th Corps d’Armée—Cottage of British Red Cross—Our cordial reception
by General Capello—A glorious _coup d’oeil_—Wonderful spectacle—The
Socialist Minister Leonida Bissolati—More good news received—The
scene before us—Explanation of word “Monte”—Continuous line of
bursting shells—Country in a state of irruption—No indication
of life anywhere—Not a sign of troops—My motor goggles—Curious
incidents—“Progress everywhere”—Colonel Clericetti announces good
news—Capture of Gorizia bridge-head—Excited group of correspondents
and officers—Arrange start at once with two _confrères_ for fighting
Front—Our plan—The thunder of the guns—The rearguard of advancing
army—Our pace slackened—Miles and miles of troops—Wonderful
spectacle of war—Mossa—Go on to Valisella—Machine guns and rifle
fire—Ghastly radiance—General Marazzi’s Headquarters—Not allowed
proceed further—Decide make for Vipulzano—Arrive close on 10
o’clock—Bit late to pay visit—General invites us to dinner—Large
party of officers—Memorable dinner—Atmosphere of exultation—News
Austrians retreating everywhere—Thousands more prisoners—Dawn of
day of victory—I propose a toast—On the terrace after dinner—Battle
in full progress—Awe-inspiring spectacle—Little lights, like
Will-o’-the-Wisps—Amazing explanation—Methodical precision of it
all—Austrian fire decreasing gradually—Time to think of getting back
to Udine and bed.
CHAPTER XV
As we got nearer the scene of action it was as though we were
approaching a thunderstorm; the roar of the guns was absolutely
continuous.
The road now began to present a very curious appearance. For several
miles it was bordered on either side with high screens of straw
matting hung from poles, and wide strips of the same material were
hung across the centre; the object of this being to hide movements
of troops and convoys from the view of the Austrian gunners or the
prying eyes of airmen.
Quite a “Chinese” effect was produced by this curious screening of
the road. These “postiches,” as I believe they are called, have long
been used on the Western Front, but it was the first time I had seen
them here.
The sensation of driving through these “sheltered” roads was almost
eerie, as you knew that any moment a shell fired at random might
come through the matting, as it was all in full view of the Austrian
batteries.
This, in fact, not infrequently happens, I was told, when the
artillery is particularly active. The idea of the enemy evidently
being to attempt to create a feeling of insecurity and check the _va
et vient_ along the road, but in this they have not succeeded, as the
roads are used as freely as ever.
In other places the screens and traverses were made of brushwood,
which appeared to me to be perhaps more effective, as they were not
so visible at a distance as the square patches of yellow matting.
The headquarters of General Capello, the commander of the 6th Corps
d’armée, were in a large and picturesque house standing in its own
grounds on a slight acclivity off the road, and about as near to
the operations as one could get that day; in fact, a battery was
stationed in a vineyard within a hundred yards of the building, and
was firing with clockwork regularity the whole time we were up there,
whilst the Austrian shells in reply were bursting much too near to us
to be pleasant.
A cottage on the opposite side of the road had been taken by the
British Red Cross Society, and fixed up as an emergency station. One
of their big ambulance waggons, with an English chauffeur in khaki,
was waiting outside.
The General received us with marked cordiality, and readily gave his
permission for us to go wherever we chose in the vicinity, but there
was no need to go far, for, as it turned out, one could not have
hit on a spot better situated for getting a panoramic view of the
battlefield.
There was a broad terrace at the back of the house, from which one
obtained a glorious _coup d’oeil_ of the whole area from Monte
Sabottina to the Carso, and here we found a group of staff officers
keenly watching the wonderful spectacle with the aid of a powerful
telescope on a tripod.
There were two civilians amongst them who looked strangely out of
keeping with the martial surroundings. One of these, an elderly man,
was the famous Socialist Deputy, now a Cabinet Minister, Leonida
Bissolati, who was making a tour of the Front, accompanied by his
private secretary, Cavaliere Eusebio Allamandola. There was also
another Deputy present, Signor Arci, but he was in the uniform of a
sub-lieutenant of artillery.
Everyone was very elated, as well they might have been considering
the way things were shaping for the Italians, the General telling us
that further good news had been received that morning and that still
more prisoners had been taken.
So far as one could judge the action was still in the nature of a
colossal artillery duel, but the scene before us was so vast that it
took some little time to grasp the full import of what was taking
place. I will depict it roughly in order to convey some idea of our
position.
On our left was Monte Sabottina. In front of us was Monte San
Gabriele. The richly wooded undulating plain of Friuli, dotted with
villages, stretched away from below the terrace.
In the distance, a couple of miles or so away, was the Podgora
Ridge, bristling with gaunt tree-stumps; beyond it you could just
distinguish the houses of Gorizia. To the right was the Carso and
Monte San Michele, some five miles away.
It may be mentioned here that the word “Monte” in Italian does not
necessarily signify a “mountain” as it is understood in English.
The Italian “Monte” is a very elastic term, and, according to the
dictionary, may mean a mountain, a hill, or a heap. Monte San Michele
in the Carso, for example, is an ant-heap as compared with, say,
Monte Cristallo in the Alps, but they are both referred to as “Monte.”
I mention this because so many people I have met speak of the Carso
and the lower Isonzo round Gorizia as a mountainous region, whereas
the elevations there are merely in the nature of “foothills.”
However, to revert to the spectacle we had before us at Vipulzano.
From Monte San Gabriele to Monte San Michele, a distance of, roughly,
nine miles, was one continuous line of bursting shells of every
calibre; it never ceased for a moment, and this we were told had been
going on without a lull for forty-eight hours.
The whole country appeared to be in a state of irruption, and columns
or smoke of various colours and fantastic shapes were to be seen
rising everywhere like embryo volcanoes.
All this, combined with the incessant thunder of the guns near and
far, and the crash of the explosions, was positively blood-curdling.
Meanwhile the Austrian artillery was returning shell for shell
apparently, and the Italians were not having it all their own way,
though, as it turned out, the Austrian defensive had no backbone to
it, and its weakness was becoming more and more evident as time went
on.
Seen through the telescope, the desolation of the countryside was
revealed in all its horrors. At a first glance it was a rich and
smiling landscape bathed in the glorious sunshine of an Italian
summer morning, but one soon discovered that the white houses of the
villages were now but heaps of ruins.
There was no indication of life in them anywhere—the God of war
reigned supreme.
Along the roads there was not a sign of troops nor of any military
activity, yet hidden in the dense woods, we were told, masses of
troops were concealed waiting the signal to advance as soon as the
artillery had finished its work.
I was making a sketch when a shell burst somewhat nearer to the
terrace than was agreeable, and shortly after came another.
To my surprise then an officer hurried across to us and said, in
French, that the General would feel very much obliged if I would sit
in a less exposed position, as the sun was catching the glass of
the motor goggles I was carrying on my cap, and was attracting the
attention of an Austrian battery opposite.
[Illustration: And day by day one heard of minor successes in
Trentino (_see page 188_)
_To face page 198_]
I did not require to be asked twice; one well-aimed shell of the
calibre they were using would, I knew, have made short work of the
Headquarter chateau.
There is a certain monotony in watching an artillery duel, and as
it was quite uncertain how long this one would last, my companions,
after we had been there about a couple of hours, decided that the
best thing to do was to return to Udine to get off their “copy,” and
as I had some sketches I wanted to work up this suited me also.
“Progress everywhere” was reported the following morning, and there
was an air of suppressed excitement in the town. Everyone seemed to
have the idea that we were on the eve of important events. And so it
turned out.
About four o’clock in the afternoon I went to the Censorship to have
tea, and on the stairs I met Colonel Clericetti; he was positively
beaming with joy. “Have you heard the news?” he exclaimed in English
and wringing me effusively by the hand (for two pins I think he would
have embraced me!)
“We have captured the Gorizia bridgehead, and it is rumoured that at
any moment the troops may get into Gorizia itself.”
This was indeed wonderful tidings, and I felt I must be off again at
once if possible to get some sketches. In the Press-room there was an
excited group of correspondents and officers discussing the victory.
My _confrères_ with whom I had made the excursion the previous day
were not there for the moment, so in order not to lose time, I looked
round for someone else who might have a vacant seat in his car, and
was not only lucky enough to find one, but also with two men who were
starting immediately.
I hastened back to my lodgings to put together a few things in my
rucksack, as one could not tell how long we might be away or what
might happen.
The news was spreading like wildfire through the town. On the place
Vittorio Emanuele, a crowd was beginning to gather; on all sides one
heard the name of Gorizia.
In the main street the inhabitants were already preparing to put up
flags. It was like the sun coming out after a storm; an air of relief
after the tension of so many long months was discernible on every
face.
Owing to some trouble with the car and my companions being delayed
by telegrams they had to send, it was getting towards evening by the
time we got away, but we found the road was pretty free to start
with; so we made up for lost time by dashing along at top speed.
My car mates were Rino Allessi, of the _Secolo_, of Milan, and
Giovanni Miceli, of the _Prensa_, of Buenos Ayres also an Italian
correspondent, but for the nonce representing this South American
paper.
Both of them spoke French and were jolly good fellows, though for
the matter of that, all the Italian correspondents up at Udine were
charming, and one could not have come across a more genial and
good-natured group of men anywhere.
Our plan was, of course, to get as near the fighting as possible, and
with this idea we were making for Mossa, which is about a mile and
a half from the Gorizia bridgehead, and where we had been informed
we should find the Headquarters of General Marazzi, the Divisional
Commander, from whom we hoped to get permission to go on further.
When we had passed Cormons the thunder of the guns, which we had
heard all the way, appeared to increase in intensity till it
resembled a continuous roll of thunder, and always getting nearer.
The road now began to be congested, clouds of dust told us we had
caught up with the rearguard of the advancing army, and our speed had
to be slackened considerably. In places, in fact, we were hung up
altogether, but it was no use worrying about it; our pace was being
regulated, we found, by a monster gun just ahead, drawn by a traction
engine.
There seemed to be miles and miles of troops, infantry, cavalry, and
artillery.
The sun was setting, and in the waning light the interminable column
presented a spectacle of war that I shall never forget.
We were challenged by a patrol just before we got to Mossa, but had
no trouble whatever, as our passes were quite in order.
We learned that the Divisional Headquarters were at Valisella, quite
close by, but away from the main road, so we made our way there. To
get away from the dust for a little while was indeed a relief; we had
been almost choked with it, and looked like millers.
It was now almost dusk, and we were so close to the fighting that we
could hear the machine guns and rifle fire in between the reports of
the guns.
Every now and again what appeared to be fireworks lit up the scene
with ghostly radiance.
At the General’s quarters, which were in a fine old house, the
courtyard was crowded with officers and motor cyclists. Someone came
and asked our business. We explained our object in coming, so he took
in our cards and we waited outside for his reply.
After being kept waiting some little time, a staff officer,
accompanied by an orderly carrying a lantern, came up from some
underground part of the building.
He told us briefly that the General said it was impossible to allow
us to proceed any further. Moreover, the road was quite blocked
with troops a little further on, the bridge had been destroyed, and
fighting was still proceeding.
There was no arguing the matter—that would not have helped us—so we
got back into the car glum with disappointment. We motored slowly for
some distance, whilst my companions were examining the map with the
aid of a lighted match, and discussing what was best to be done, as
we did not feel inclined to return to Udine yet.
Then suddenly it occurred to them to make for Vipulzano and see if
General Capello, whom one of them knew, would help us.
It was only a run of about four miles, but it was across country
and away from the troops, so it was a bit difficult to find our way
in the dark; but we managed after some delays to get there somehow,
though it was close on ten o’clock when we arrived. It struck me as
rather a coincidence my returning at such an hour to the place I had
left only the day before.
Not a light was to be seen in the house, and had it not been for
the soldiers on sentry duty outside one might have thought it was
uninhabited.
It was a bit late to pay a visit, but we had come so far that we
decided to risk it, and groped our way up through the garden to the
front door. There we found an orderly, who took our cards in.
It was pitch dark where we stood in the shadow of the house, but
the sky was illumined every now and then by fitful flashes of light
from the battlefield. The thunder of the guns was still as terrific
here as on the previous day, but you could not fail to note that the
firing was now of greater volume from the Italian side.
We were not kept waiting long. The orderly returned, accompanied by
an officer.
The General, he told us, was only just sitting down to dinner, and
would be very pleased if we would join him.
Of course there was no refusing, though we felt a bit diffident as
we were white with dust. However, _à la guerre, comme à la guerre_,
so we followed the officer in.
The contrast between the darkness and gloom outside and the
brightness within was startling: a corridor led into a large central
hall, such as one sees in big country houses in England. This was
evidently used as a staff-office, and was lighted by several shaded
lamps, which gave it quite a luxurious appearance. The dining room
was off the hall.
There was a large party at dinner, amongst whom Signor Bissolati and
several of the officers I had met the previous day.
Everyone appeared unfeignedly pleased to see us, and the General,
doubtless out of compliment to me as an Englishman, seated me next to
him. That dinner party will long live in my memory.
It is difficult to describe the atmosphere of exultation that
pervaded the room; it positively sent a thrill through you. As may be
imagined, everyone was in the highest spirits.
We learned that the latest news was that the Austrians were
retreating everywhere, that thousands more prisoners had already been
taken, and that the troops were only waiting for daylight to make the
final dash for Gorizia.
The day of victory so long waited for was soon to dawn. The incessant
thunder of the guns now sounded like music, for it was mainly that of
Italian guns now, and we knew they were moving forward all the time
towards the goal.
I am usually painfully nervous when I attempt to make a speech,
however short, but this was an occasion when nervousness was
impossible, so I got up, and raising my glass towards the General,
asked to be permitted to drink to the Glory of the Italian Army!
Needless to add, that the toast was received with a chorus of
applause.
The dinner consisted of five courses, and was excellent; in fact, the
chef must have tried to surpass himself in honour of the victory.
The conversation was almost entirely confined to war subjects, and I
was surprised to find how well-informed my neighbours were in regard
to England’s great effort. I could not help thinking how very few
English officers could tell you as much about Italy’s part in the war.
After dinner we all went out on to the terrace, and the sight that
met our eyes beggars description.
It was now past eleven o’clock, but the battle was still raging
furiously from San Floriano to the Carso. From end to end of the
line the crests of the hills were illuminated by the lightning-like
flashes of exploding shells, and the rays of powerful searchlights.
The still night air seemed as though to vibrate with the continuous
crash of field-pieces. Every now and again “Bengal lights” and “Star
shells” rose in the sky like phantom fireworks, and shed a weird blue
light around.
We stood for some time in wrapt silence, spellbound by the
awe-inspiring spectacle, for it was certain that nothing living could
exist in that inferno on the hills.
The wooded plain below the terrace had the appearance of a vast black
chasm from where we stood. It was studded curiously here and there
with little lights like Will-o’-the-Wisps that were moving forward in
unison.
From what I had seen for myself the previous day I knew that the
whole countryside was uninhabited, so I asked an artillery officer
standing by me if he could let me know what they were.
To my amazement he told me that they were the guiding lanterns of
Italian batteries advancing—to enable the officers to keep touch and
alignment in the darkness.
There were, he added with dramatic impressiveness, at that moment
over six hundred guns converging on the Austrian positions.
The methodical precision of it all was simply marvellous; even here,
not even the smallest detail of organization had been left to chance.
Meanwhile the Austrian fire was noticeably decreasing, till at last
the crash of the guns came from the Italian batteries only; the
“Bengal lights” and “Star shells” were less frequent, and only one
solitary searchlight remained.
We had seen probably all there was to see that night, and it was
about time to think of getting back to Udine for a few hours sleep,
if we were to return to see the big operations in the early morning,
so we made our way back to the house to take our leave and fetch our
coats.
In the corridor an orderly asked us courteously to make as little
noise as possible, the General having gone to bed. We looked at our
watches: it was getting on for one o’clock, and we had a thirty mile
drive before us.
CHAPTER XVI
The capture of Gorizia—Up betimes—My lucky star in the ascendant—I
am put in a car with Barzini—Prepared for the good news of the
capture—Though not so soon—A slice of good fortune—Our chauffeur—We
get off without undue delay—The news of the crossing of the
Isonzo—Enemy in full retreat—We reach Lucinico—The barricade—View
of Gorizia—The Austrian trenches—“No man’s land”—Battlefield
_débris_—Austrian dead—An unearthly region—Austrian General’s
Headquarters—Extraordinary place—Spoils of victory—Gruesome
spectacle—Human packages—General Marazzi—Podgora—Grafenberg—Dead
everywhere—The destroyed bridges—Terrifying explosions—Lieutenant
Ugo Oyetti—A remarkable feat—The heroes of Podgora—“Ecco Barzini”—A
curtain of shell fire—Marvellous escape of a gun-team—In the
faubourgs of Gorizia—“Kroner” millionaires—The Via Leoni—The dead
officer—The Corso Francesco Guiseppe—The “Grosses” café—Animated
scene—A café in name only—Empty cellar and larder—Water supply cut
off—A curious incident—Fifteen months a voluntary prisoner—A walk in
Gorizia—Wilful bombardment—The inhabitants—The “danger Zone”—Exciting
incident—Under fire—The abandoned dog—The Italian flags—The arrival
of troops—An army of gentlemen—Strange incidents—The young Italian
girl—No looting—At the Town Hall—The good-looking Austrian woman—A
hint—The _Carabinieri_—“Suspects”—Our return journey to Udine—My
trophies—The sunken pathway—Back at Lucinico—The most impressive
spectacle of the day.
CHAPTER XVI
As may be imagined, I had no inclination to lie in bed the next
morning; in fact, it seemed to me a waste of time going to bed at all
in view of what was likely to happen in the early hours. Still there
was no help for it since one could not stay at the fighting Front all
night, so the only remedy was to be up and out as soon as possible.
I was, therefore, down at the Censorship betimes on the chance of
finding an officer or a _confrère_ who was going in the direction of
the operations, and who would let me have a seat in his car.
My lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, for shortly after my
good friend, Colonel Clericetti, turned up, beaming with good humour,
and on seeing me exclaimed:
“You are the very man I am looking for; Barzini is leaving in a car
I am letting him have, as his own has broken down, and if you like I
will put you with him. I thought you would want to get some sketches
as the troops will be entering Gorizia this morning.”
Of course I had been somewhat prepared for this news from what I had
learned overnight, but I certainly had never expected it would come
so soon, although I had long had the conviction that when Gorizia was
captured it would be in dramatic fashion.
I was therefore delighted to have a chance of being on the spot when
it happened, and was now on tenterhooks to get off at once; every
minute of delay meant perhaps missing seeing something important,
for on such an occasion every detail would doubtless be of absorbing
interest.
It was indeed a slice of good fortune to be going with Barzini,
as he is certainly the best known and most popular of Italian war
correspondents, and where he can’t manage to go isn’t worth going to.
His genial personality is an open sesame in itself, as I soon found.
Curiously enough, as it turned out, we were the only correspondents
to leave Udine that morning. Whether it was that the others did not
realise the importance of what was likely to happen or did not learn
it in time, I could not understand; but it was certainly somewhat
strange.
Our car was driven by a very well-known journalist of the staff of
the _Corriere della Sera_, named Bitetti, who is doing his military
service as a chauffeur and is a very expert one at that, and with
him was a friend, also a soldier chauffeur, so we were well guarded
against minor accidents to the car _en route_.
Well, Barzini and I got off without undue delay, and I soon
discovered that with him there would be no “holding up” the car on
the way. We made straight for Mossa, which is close to the Gorizia
bridgehead. There we got some great news.
During the early part of the night detachments of the Casale and
Pavia brigades had crossed the Isonzo and consolidated themselves
on the left bank, and the heights west of Gorizia were completely
occupied by the Italian infantry. The enemy was in full retreat, and
had abandoned large quantities of arms, ammunition and _materiel_.
Over 11,000 prisoners had been taken, and more were coming in.
Everything was going _à merveille_, and Austria’s Verdun was
virtually in the hands of the Italians already.
[Illustration: The object of this being to hide movements of troops
and convoys (_see page 195_)
_To face page 210_]
There was no time to lose if we were to be in “at the death.” Half
a mile further on we reached Lucinico. The Italian troops had only
passed through a couple of hours before, so we were close on their
heels. The village was in a complete state of ruin, hardly a house
left standing, and reminded one of what one got so accustomed to see
on the Western Front.
The car had to be left here, the road being so blocked that driving
any further was out of the question; so, accompanied by two officers
and our chauffeur and his friend, we set off on foot with the idea of
attempting to cross the battlefield.
Beyond Lucinico we were right in the very thick of it. The railway
line to Gorizia ran through the village, but just outside the houses
the rails had been pulled up and a solid barricade of stones had been
erected across the permanent way.
We got a splendid view of Gorizia from here—it looked a beautiful
white city embowered in foliage, with no sign at all of destruction
at this distance.
On the high hills beyond, which one knew to be Monte Santo and Monte
San Gabriele, little puffs of smoke were incessantly appearing—these
were Italian shells bursting—the booming of the guns never ceasing.
The Austrian trenches commenced a few hundred yards beyond Lucinico,
and we were now walking along a road that for fifteen months had been
“No man’s land.”
The spectacle we had before us of violence and death is
indescribable. Everything had been levelled and literally pounded to
atoms by the Italian artillery.
The ground all around was pitted with shell-holes, and strewn with
every imaginable kind of _débris_: the remains of barbed-wire
entanglements in such chaotic confusion that it was frequently
a matter of positive difficulty to pass at all; broken rifles,
unused cartridges by the thousand, fragments of shell-cases, boots,
first-aid bandages, and odds and ends of uniforms covered with blood.
We had to pick our way in places along the edge of the communication
trenches, which were very deep and narrow, and looked very awkward to
get into or out of in a hurry.
We had to jump across them in places, but otherwise we endeavoured
to give them as wide a berth as possible, as the stench was already
becoming overpowering under the hot rays of the summer sun. It only
needed a glance to see for yourself what caused it.
The Austrian dead were literally lying in heaps along the bottom.
They were so numerous in places, that had it not been for an
occasional glimpse of an upturned face, or a hand or a foot, one
might have thought that these heaps were merely discarded uniforms or
accoutrements.
It produced an uncanny sensation of horror walking alongside these
furrows of death, and this was heightened by the fact that at the
time we were the only living beings here; the troops having advanced
some distance, we had the battlefield quite to ourselves.
I recollect I had the strange impression of being with a little band
of explorers, as it were, in an unearthly region.
Shells were coming over pretty frequently, but it was not
sufficiently dangerous for us to think of taking cover, though I
fancy that had it been necessary we should all have hesitated before
getting down into one of these trenches or dug-outs. Curiously
enough, there were very few dead lying outside the trenches. I
imagine the intensity of the fire prevented any men from getting out
of them.
The railway line traverses the plain on a very high embankment just
before Podgora is reached, and the roadway passes under it by a short
tunnel.
Here was, perhaps, one of the most interesting and remarkable sights
of the whole area. The Austrian General had transformed this tunnel
into his headquarters, and it was boarded up at both ends, and
fitted internally like a veritable dwelling-place, as, in fact, it
was to all intents and purposes.
You entered by a tortuous passage, which from the outside gave
no idea of the extraordinary arrangements inside. There were two
storeys, and these were divided off into offices, dining rooms,
sleeping quarters for the officers, bath room and general offices.
All were well and almost luxuriously furnished; in fact, everything
that could make for comfort in view of a lengthy tenancy.
On the side which was not exposed to the Italian fire, a wooden
balcony with carved handrail, had been put across the opening, so
from the road it presented a very quaint and finished appearance.
Of course these quarters were absolutely safe against any shells,
however big, as there was the thickness of the embankment above them.
There was a well-fitted little kitchen with wash-house a few yards
away, so that the smell of cooking did not offend the cultured
nostrils of the General and his staff, who evidently knew how to
do themselves well if one could judge from the booty the Italians
captured here in the shape of wines, tinned food, coffee, etc.
But the spoils here consisted of much more important _materiel_ than
“delicatessen,” and proved how hastily the Austrians took their
departure. In a building adjoining the kitchen, which was used as
a store-house, was a big accumulation of reserve supplies of every
description, together with hundreds of new rifles, trenching tools,
coils of barbed wire, and stacks of boxes of cartridges. There was
little fear, therefore, of a shortage of anything.
This big store-house was also utilized for another purpose thoroughly
“Hun-like” in its method. At one end of the building was a gruesome
spectacle.
Lying on the ground, like so many bundles of goods, were about forty
corpses tied up in rough canvas ready to be taken away. I don’t think
I have ever seen anything quite so horrible as these human packages.
They were only fastened in the wrappers for convenience in handling
as there was no attempt to cover the faces. The callousness of it
gave me quite a shock. Of course it was not possible to ascertain
what was going to be done with them, but there was no indication of a
burial ground anywhere near.
In the roadway opposite the entrance of the “Headquarters” was
another motley collection of spoils of victory: rifles, bayonets,
ammunition pouches, boxes of cartridges, and a veritable rag heap of
discarded uniforms, coats, caps, boots, and blankets.
There was also a real “curio” which I much coveted, but which was too
heavy to take as a souvenir, in the shape of a small brass cannon
mounted on wheels. What this miniature ordnance-piece was used for I
could not make out, as I had never seen one before. All this booty,
of course, only represented what the Austrians had abandoned near
here. The amount of rifle ammunition captured must have been enormous.
General Marazzi, with several of his staff officers, were using the
entrance of the arch as a temporary orderly room, with table and
armchairs. Though he was, of course, much occupied, he courteously
gave us any information we wanted. He even went further by presenting
us with an Austrian rifle apiece as souvenirs of the victory.
The roadway from here passed along the foot of Podgora, the ridge of
sinister memories. Every yard of the ground here had been deluged
with blood, and had witnessed some of the most desperate fighting in
the war. It had once been thickly wooded but now nought remains of
the trees on its hog-back and slopes but jagged and charred stumps.
There was not a trace of vegetation, and one could see that the
surface had been literally ground to powder by high explosives.
Shells were still bursting over it, but they appeared to raise dust
rather than soil, so friable had it become.
In the long, straggling and partially destroyed village of Grafenberg
through which we now wandered, there were some Italian soldiers, but
so few that one might have wondered why they had been left there at
all. A tell-tale odour on all sides conveyed in all probability one
of the reasons.
The dead were lying about everywhere and in all sorts of odd places,
in the gutters alongside the road, just inside garden gates, anywhere
they had happened to fall. There was a ghastly object seated in quite
a life-like position in a doorway, with a supply of hand-grenades by
its side. Grafenberg was distinctly not a place to linger in.
Meanwhile we were walking parallel with the Isonzo, which was only
a hundred yards or so away; and the Austrians, though in full
rout, were keeping up a terrific flanking fire with their heavy
artillery, placed on Monte Santo and Monte San Gabriele with the
idea undoubtedly of destroying the bridges. Two were already wrecked
beyond immediate repair, one of the arches of the magnificent railway
viaduct had been blown up, and the long wooden structure just above
Grafenberg had been rendered useless for the moment.
There were two others still intact: an iron bridge the artillery and
cavalry were crossing by and a small foot-bridge we were making for.
To demolish these, and so further delay the Italian advance, was
now the object of the Austrians. To effect this they were sending
over projectiles of the biggest calibre. The terrifying noise of the
explosion of these enormous shells would have sufficed to demoralise
most troops.
At last we came to a pathway leading to the small bridge we hoped to
cross by. It was a pretty and well-wooded spot, and the trees had
not been much damaged so far. A regiment of infantry was waiting its
turn to make a dash forward. We learned that the bridge had been much
damaged in the early morning, but had been repaired under fire and in
record time by the engineers.
A friend of mine, Lieutenant Ugo Oyetti (the well-known art critic
in civil life), did some plucky work on this occasion, for which he
received a well-deserved military medal a few days later.
Whilst the repairs were being carried out, two infantry regiments,
the 11th and 12th, forded and swam across the river; a remarkable
feat, as it is here as wide as the Thames at Richmond, though it is
broken up with gravel islets in many places. It is frequently ten
feet deep, and the current is very strong and treacherous.
We pushed our way through the soldiers who filled the roadway, and
got to the bridge, which was a sort of temporary wooden structure
built on trestles known in German military parlance, I am told, as
a “behielfs brücken,” and evidently constructed to connect the city
with Podgora.
A continuous rain of shells was coming over and bursting along the
bank or in the river, and we looked like being in for a hot time.
At the commencement of the bridge two _carabinieri_ stood on guard
as placidly as if everything were quiet and peaceful. There was no
objection to our crossing, but we were told we must go singly and
run the whole way. The screech of the projectiles passing overhead,
and the terrific report of explosions close by, made it a decidedly
exciting “spurt,” and I, for one, was not sorry when I got across.
The opposite bank was steep and rocky, in curious contrast to the
Grafenberg side, and was ascended by a narrow gully. The bridge
ended with a wide flight of steps leading to the water’s edge, where
there was a strip of gravel beach, and seen from below the structure
had quite a picturesque appearance. The high banks made fine “cover,”
and under their shelter troops were resting.
These were some of the courageous fellows who had forded the river,
after having stormed the positions at Podgora. Their eyes were
bloodshot, they looked dog-tired, and they were, without exception,
the dirtiest and most bedraggled lot of soldiers it would be possible
to imagine.
The uniforms of many of them were still wet, and they were covered
with mud from head to foot.
Yet in spite of the fact that they had probably all of them been on
the move the whole night, and under fire most of the time without a
moment’s respite, they looked as game and cheerful as ever, and most
of them seemed to be more anxious about cleaning the dirt from their
rifles than resting. The shell-fire did not appear to trouble them in
the least.
As we got amongst them, Barzini, with true Latin impulsiveness, shook
hands effusively with all those around him, and complimented them on
their plucky achievement. It was this little touch of human nature
that explained to me the secret of his popularity with the soldiers.
Word was passed round “Ecco Barzini,” and the men crowded round to
get a glimpse of the famous war correspondent.
Under cover of the overhanging rocks one was able to observe the
curtain of shell-fire in comparative security, though at any moment
one of these shells might drop “short” and make mincemeat of us.
The Austrians had got the range wonderfully, and every shell burst
somewhere along the river which was really good shooting, but their
real object was, of course, to endeavour to destroy the bridges and
for the moment they were devoting all their attention to the iron
one, which was about four hundred yards below where we were standing,
and across which a stream of artillery and munition caissons was
passing.
It was truly astonishing how close they got to it each time,
considering they were firing from Monte Santo, nearly four miles
away, and a slender iron bridge is not much of a target at that
distance.
I have never seen such explosions before. They were firing 305mm.
shells, and the result was appalling to watch. They might have been
mines exploding, the radius of destruction was so enormous.
It brought your heart into your mouth each time you heard the
approaching wail of a shell, for fear this might be the one to “get
home.” You watched the bridge and waited in a state of fascination as
it were.
Suddenly, as we were gazing with our eyes glued to our field glasses,
someone called out in a tone of horror, “they’ve hit it at last.”
A shrapnel had burst low down, right in the centre of the bridge, and
just above a gun-team that was going along at the trot.
For a moment, till the smoke lifted, we thought that men, horses, and
guns were blown to pieces; it looked as though nothing could escape,
but when it had cleared off we saw that only one of the horses had
been killed.
In incredibly quick time the dead animal was cut loose and the team
continued on its way. There was no sign whatever of undue haste or
excitement; it was as though an ordinary review manœuvre was being
carried out. The coolness of the drivers was so impressive that
I heard several men near me exclaim enthusiastically “Magnifico!
magnifico!!”
I made up my mind to go later on to the spot and make a careful
sketch of the surroundings with the idea of painting a picture of the
incident after the war; but I never had an opportunity, as, a few
days after, the Austrians succeeded in destroying the bridge.
It was very palpable that at any moment one really unlucky shot could
hold up the entire line of communications and prevent supplies from
coming up for hours.
In this particular instance there was no doubt that the “hit” was
signalled to the Austrian batteries by a Taube which was flying
overhead at a great height at the moment, for the gunners redoubled
their efforts, and it was only sheer luck that helped the Italians
out.
Time to make good their retreat was what the Austrians wanted: they
knew perfectly well that with Monte Santo, Monte San Daniele, and
Monte San Gabriele still in their possession they could yet give a
lot of trouble. Fortunately, however, for the Italians, as it turned
out, they had not sufficient guns on these heights to endanger the
position at Gorizia.
The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and we were
practically carried up the gully with them. At the top was level
ground, with grass and bushes and some cottages mostly in ruins. We
were in the outskirts of Gorizia.
Another large body of troops was apparently resting here, and the
soldiers were snatching a hasty meal before advancing into the city,
though there was probably some other reason beyond giving the men a
“rest,” for keeping them back for the moment.
There had been some desperate fighting round these cottages, judging
from the broken rifles and splashes of blood amongst the ruins. Now
and then, also, one caught glimpses of the now familiar bundles of
grey rags in human form.
A few hundred yards farther on, across the fields, the faubourgs of
the city commenced, and one found oneself in deserted streets.
There were numbers of fine villas, many of considerable architectural
pretention and artistic taste, standing in pleasant gardens.
These were evidently the residences of Gorizia’s “Kroner”
millionaires. Most of these villas were considerably damaged by
shells and fire—some, in fact, were quite gutted.
Nearly all the street fighting took place in this particular quarter,
and along the Via Leoni especially all the houses were abandoned.
Inside these deserted homes were doubtless many gruesome tragedies.
One we discovered ourselves. Our young soldier friend, out of boyish
curiosity, went into one of the houses to see what it looked like
inside. He came out very quickly, and looking as white as a ghost.
I went to see what had scared him. Just behind the door was a dead
Austrian officer lying in a most natural position; he had evidently
crawled in here to die.
The guns were booming all around, and we could see the shells
bursting among the houses a short distance from where we were, yet we
had not met a soul since we had left the river banks. This seemed so
strange that we were almost beginning to think that the troops must
have passed straight through without stopping when we saw a soldier
coming towards us.
We learned from him that the city was by no means deserted, as we
should see, and that a short distance further on would bring us out
into the Corso Francesco Giuseppe, the principal thoroughfare of the
city. Then, to our astonishment, he added, as though giving us some
really good news, that we should find a big café open, and that we
could get anything we liked to eat or drink there. We could scarcely
credit what he said.
It seemed a mockery of war—surely it could not be true that the cafés
in Gorizia were open and doing business whilst the place was being
shelled, on the very morning, too, of its occupation by the Italians,
and with the dead still lying about its streets.
We hurried on, anxious to witness this unexpected sight. The
bombardment appeared to have affected only a certain zone, and there
were but few signs of destruction as one approached the centre of
the city, but all the houses were closely shuttered and apparently
deserted.
A big screen made of foliage was hung across the end of the street,
on the same principle as those one saw along the roads, and evidently
with the same object: to hide the movements of troops in the streets
from observers in “Drachen” or aeroplanes.
The Corso Franscesco Guiseppe is a fine broad boulevard, and reminded
me very much of certain parts of Rheims, it still had all the
appearance of being well-looked after, in spite of the vicissitudes
through which it had passed.
There were detachments of soldiers drawn up on the pavement close
to the houses, and already the ubiquitous _carabinieri_ were _en
evidence_, as they are everywhere along the Front. It seems strange
that no military operation in Italy seems possible without the
presence of _carabinieri_.
Of civilian life there was not a trace so far; the city was quite
given up to the military.
The “Grosses” Café faced us, a new and handsome corner building. It
was very up-to-date and Austro-German in its interior decoration and
furniture. German newspapers in holders were still hanging on the
hooks, and letters in the racks were waiting to be called for.
Although the place was crowded with officers, there was quite a
noticeable absence of any excitement. Signor Bissolati and his
secretary had just arrived, so we made a little group of four
civilians amongst the throng of warriors.
As may be imagined, it was a very animated and interesting scene, and
every table was occupied. Little did the Austrians imagine a week
before that such a transformation would come about.
Our informant had exaggerated somewhat when he gave us to understand
that the café was open and business going on “as usual.”
The Grosses Café was certainly “open,” but it was only a café in name
that morning, as there was really nothing to be got in the way of
drink or food; not a bottle of wine or beer or even a crust of bread
could be had for love or money.
The Austrians had cleared out the cellars and larder effectually
before taking their departure. I am, however, somewhat overdrawing
it when I state there was nothing to be got in the way of liquid
refreshment. The proprietor discovered that he happened to have by
him a few bottles of a sickly sort of fruit syrup, and also some very
brackish mineral water to put with it, and there was coffee if you
didn’t mind its being made with the mineral water.
It appeared that the Austrians had thoughtfully destroyed the water
supply of the city when they left, indifferent to the fact of
there being several thousand of their own people, mostly women and
children, still living there.
It makes me smile when I recall how we ordered the Austrian
proprietor about, and with what blind confidence everyone drank the
syrup and mineral water, and the coffee. They might easily have
been poisoned; it would only have been in keeping with the Austrian
methods of warfare.
[Illustration: Two infantry regiments, the 11th and 12th, forded and
swam across the river (_see page 216_)
_To face page 222_]
The big saloon of the café was quite that of a first-class
establishment; there were cosy corner seats in the windows looking
on the Carso, and as you sat there and listened to the thunder of
the guns so close by, it was difficult to realise what a wonderful
thing it was being there at all; and also that at any moment the
Austrians might make a successful counter-attack and get back into
the city. Our lives, I fancy, would not have been worth much if this
had happened.
A somewhat curious incident occurred whilst a little party of us was
seated at one of these tables. A very shabbily-dressed civilian,
wearing a dirty old straw hat, and looking as if he hadn’t had a
square meal or a good wash for weeks, came in a furtive way into the
café and, seating himself near us, tried to enter into conversation.
With true journalistic _flair_ Barzini encouraged him to talk, and it
turned out that he was an Italian professor who had lived many years
in Gorizia, where he taught Italian in one of the colleges.
When the war broke out the Austrians called on him to join the
Austrian Army. He could not escape from the city, so rather than
fight against his own countrymen, he determined to hide till an
opportunity presented itself for him to get away.
An Italian lady, also living here, helped him to carry out his
resolve, and for fifteen months he never once moved outside the
little room he slept in.
His friend would bring him by stealth food and drink once a week, and
so cleverly did she manage it, that no one in the house even knew he
was still there. Of course it would have meant death for her if she
had been caught helping him to evade fighting in the Austrian Army.
His feelings, he told us, were indescribable when he learned that at
last the Italians were approaching and his deliverance was at hand.
No wonder the poor fellow wanted to have a talk with someone; he had
not spoken to a living soul all those long months when Gorizia was
being bombarded daily.
He offered to act as our guide and show us round, and we gladly
accepted, as it was a chance to see something of the city before its
aspect was changed by the Italian occupation.
The Corso and the adjoining streets were still almost deserted, but
there were indications that this was not going to last long, and that
more troops would shortly be arriving.
We learned that the regiments that had first entered the city had
scarcely remained an hour. No sooner did they arrive than they were
off again, as it was hoped to cut off the retreat of the flying
Austrians. Only a rearguard had been left to await the arrival of
reinforcements to take possession of the city itself.
An order had been immediately issued that the inhabitants were to
remain indoors, the severest penalty being threatened for any breach
of this mandate.
It was somewhat surprising, considering how deserted the streets
appeared, to learn that there were several thousand inhabitants still
there.
We had thought we had the streets quite to ourselves as we strolled
along in the middle of the roadway, our footsteps awakening the
echoes; so it came as a nasty shock to suddenly realise that all the
time we were thinking this we were being glared at from the little
lattices in the shuttered windows above us on either side.
Hundreds of eyes full of malevolence followed our every movement. You
had, after this, the uncanny sensation that at any moment you might
be shot at from some upper storey.
The city was quite attractive, and one was not surprised it was
called the “Austrian Nice,” and that it had been a very delightful
and gay place to live in. There were several fine buildings, and a
park with the inevitable bandstand.
It was to a great extent an Italian city of some 25,000 inhabitants,
and its picturesque surroundings and genial climate made it a
favourite health resort. Our guide told us that it was largely
inhabited by retired Austrian officers with their families, many
having built themselves villas in the faubourgs.
The story of Gorizia being in ruins in consequence of the Italian
bombardment was evidently spread by the Austrians. There was, of
course, a good deal of damage done, but nothing like one had been led
to expect. I should say that on the day it was captured not more than
a hundred houses had suffered at all.
Since then, of course, its wilful bombardment with shells of heavy
calibre by the Austrians is causing an immense amount of damage, and
exacting a daily toll of death among the inhabitants, most of whom,
as I have pointed out, are actually Austrians.
Whilst we were taking our walk, the Austrian guns had not been idle
by any means, and the crash of explosions in the streets around
indicated that the peril of the women and children living in the
houses was actually accentuated by the entry of the Italians. It was
a glaring instance of the mentality of the pure-bred Austrian or
German.
Our newly-found Italian friend suggested that probably from the
Castle we could obtain a fine view of the positions and the fighting
north of the town. So we went in that direction.
The Castle, or as it is called there, the “Schloss,” of Gorizia,
stands on a steep hill which dominates the older part of the city;
steep, narrow, cobble-paved streets lead up to it. We soon found that
this quarter was the “danger zone,” and that one ran more risk here
than anywhere else.
The shells were bursting all around, and one could not help a feeling
of deep pity for the unfortunate people who were thus suffering at
the hands of their own people.
The Austrians might have averred, and I believe they afterwards
did, that they were firing on the Castle, though with what object
it is difficult to understand, since it is merely an archæological
monument; anyhow, every time they missed it they hit the town, so
there is nothing more to be said.
It was a bit of a climb, and as I had hobnails in my boots I was
sliding all over the road.
One part of the street was very old and picturesque, with a low
parapet on one side and a fine view from it towards the Austrian
positions.
It was a very hot corner to get past as it was quite exposed to
rifle fire, so we had to take it singly, crouching down and at the
double, an awkward and undignified performance when one is inclined
to _embonpoint_.
The street now narrowed considerably, with lofty houses on either
side. We stopped for a few moments in the middle of the road to get
our breath. Just behind us was a house built on low solid arches such
as one sees everywhere in Italy.
Suddenly we heard the screeching wail of a big shell approaching.
With one accord we made a bolt for the shelter of the arches,
and were only just in time; with a report like a thunderclap the
projectile burst on the house above us, and a huge mass of masonry
and bricks came tumbling down with a crash in the roadway just where
we had been standing.
A cloud of dust blotted out everything, and for a moment I thought
that the whole building would come down and bury us all under it, but
fortunately it was stout enough to withstand the shock.
We waited a moment, on the alert, in case another shell came over,
and then, without further ado, we deferred our visit to the Castle
and made a dash down the street for the comparatively safe regions
below.
But our adventures were not yet over even here. We were walking
through one of the wide main streets when we heard bombs exploding
close by—there is no mistaking the difference between the explosion
of a shell and that of an aeroplane bomb.
We looked up—a “Taube” had spotted us and was slowly circling
overhead directly above us. Just where we happened to be at that
particular moment there was not a recess or a corner anywhere near
where we could take shelter; we tried the doors of the houses but
they were all locked.
There was nothing for it therefore but to chance to luck, and we
stood gazing up as though transfixed at the beastly thing hovering
above us like some bird of prey.
Then suddenly we saw something bright drop from it. Instinctively we
flattened ourselves against the wall. There was the loud report of
an exploding bomb in an adjoining street—it had missed us by a great
many yards.
The machine then veered off in another direction, and we were not
under its “fire” again, but it was a real bit of a “thrill” while it
lasted.
As we then made our way back towards the café, we heard the plaintive
whining of a dog abandoned inside one of the big houses. We stopped
and called it. Its efforts to get out were pitiful, but there was no
chance of its being rescued as the door was a massive porte-cochère,
and the ground-floor windows were heavily barred.
There was nothing to be done. We walked on, one of my comrades
calling out in a husky voice, with the genuine feeling of a lover of
dumb animals:
“Que veux tu mon pauvre vieux? C’est la guerre!”
A great change had already come over the central part of the city
even during the time we had been for our walk.
The Italian flag had been run up on all the principal buildings.
Troops were evidently being brought up as quickly as possible, and
the Corso was blocked with cavalry.
In all the streets leading from the river, infantry in full
campaigning kit was advancing in Indian file and keeping as close up
to the walls as they could. The lines of soldiers on both sides of
the street seemed positively interminable, and the men appeared to be
in the highest spirits.
It was all deeply stirring, and you could not help having the feeling
that you were witnessing history being made before your eyes.
The soldiers behaved magnificently, as however might have been
expected of the heroes they were. There was not the slightest sign
anywhere of any disposition to “swagger” or show off either on the
part of the officers or men; they simply came in quietly and took
possession of Gorizia like an army of gentlemen.
To the inhabitants caged up in their houses, and peeping from their
shuttered windows, the remarkable scene could have been little short
of a revelation. This unostentatious entry of the Italian troops must
indeed have been very different to what they had expected.
I tried to picture in my mind what would have taken place had the
Austrians succeeded in getting into Vicenza!
Strange and unexpected incidents could be witnessed everywhere. In a
narrow side street I saw a regiment coming along, the men marching
like athletes; at their head was the Colonel, a fine, grey-haired old
fellow as alert in bearing as any of his subalterns.
The men were halted, and there was a hurried consultation of the map.
The Colonel was evidently in a quandary. I understood he was in doubt
as to which was the quickest way out of the city to get to San Marco.
To my surprise, then, a young Italian girl came from one of the
houses and boldly gave him the necessary information, whilst out of
the windows all round one saw eyes glaring down on her with impotent
fury.
In the street where this took place many of the houses had been
damaged by shells, and in several instances the shop fronts were so
wrecked that everything that was left intact could have been easily
got at through the broken windows; it only meant putting your hand in
and helping yourself, since there was no one that day to stop you,
and several of the shops had quite tempting displays of goods, yet I
did not hear of a single case of looting; this, I fancy, was evidence
of a remarkable state of affairs, and which reflected additional
credit on the soldiers.
A curious little scene was witnessed at the Town Hall when the
representatives of the Italian Government took over the place and the
municipal archives.
A number of Gorizia’s civil dignitaries, together with their
womenfolk, put in an appearance. Many of the people had not seen each
other for days during the height of the fighting, and their joy at
meeting again, though under such altered circumstances, was quite
touching, and there was a lot of embracing and weeping.
One or two of the younger women were smartly dressed and very good
looking. They looked a bit nervous at first, but this soon wore off
when they found we meant them no harm.
One in particular, with whom I had a chat, as she spoke French
fluently, was distinctly an attractive personality, and was dressed
as daintily as any Parisienne.
I asked if she and her girl friends were not horribly frightened by
the noise of the battle and the arrival of the Italian troops.
No, they were not, she replied emphatically, because the Austrian
officers, before going away, had told them they had nothing to fear,
as they would be back within a week with half a million troops and
drive the Italians out again.
She was so good looking, and was so confident this would really
happen, that we had not the heart to try and convince her otherwise.
She was beginning to tell us some of her experiences during the
bombardment when one of the staff officers came up and whispered
to us that it was not advisable that day to talk too much with the
inhabitants. Almost needless to add we took the hint.
_Carabinieri_ were already on guard here at the entrance to the
building, and from their stolid, impassive demeanour one would have
thought they were part and parcel of the municipality of Gorizia.
Here is an example of their all-round handiness.
In an adjoining street a big house had been set on fire by a shell,
and had been burning for three days we were told. There was no water
available to put it out with, and the inhabitants of the houses round
were in terror in case it should spread.
The _Carabinieri_ did not stand looking on, but took the matter in
hand without hesitation, found out where the fire pump was kept,
cleared the street, and in a very short time were fixing up a water
supply.
But the occasions when the _Carabinieri_ were _en evidence_ were
legion.
On the broad pavement outside the Café during the hot afternoon their
Colonel and one of his officers held a sort of rough-and-ready court
of enquiry. Chairs were brought out and placed under the trees, and
three civilian “suspects” were brought up to undergo a summary sort
of cross-examination.
It was a very unconventional and curious scene, and brought
significantly home to one the tragic power that can be wielded by a
conqueror.
In this instance, however, there was no fear of any injustice or
cruelty being inflicted on prisoners. They would get a fair trial at
the hands of the Italians, no matter what they had done to warrant
their being arrested.
The three “suspects” in this instance—a man, a woman and a little
girl—did not look very terrible, rather the contrary in fact, and one
wondered what they were “suspected” of doing.
The man, a tall, young fellow with long hair, was dressed in such
extraordinary fashion that this in itself may have caused him to be
looked on with suspicion. He had a panama straw hat, a dark Norfolk
jacket, white shirt with very large, low-cut collar outside his coat
collar, and no tie, white flannel knickerbockers, blue socks, and
black side-spring boots. The woman and the little girl were typically
Austrian.
I could not find out why they had been arrested, but as they were
taken away by the _Carabinieri_ after their examination it was
presumably a somewhat serious matter. It was certain beforehand that
the city would be infested with spies, so no chances were to be
taken, and rightly so.
During the course of the afternoon the city was completely occupied
by troops, and there had not been a hitch in the victorious advance.
One saw soldiers everywhere—cavalry, infantry, Bersaglieri cyclists;
in fact, almost every branch of the Army.
In every open space and in the courtyards of the principal public
buildings were bivouacs, all being carried out in the usual methodic
manner of the Italians. The troops had the streets entirely to
themselves, as no civilians were allowed out of doors that day, and
none of the shops were open.
Towards evening the Austrians recommenced heavily shelling the city,
aeroplanes began to put in an appearance, as if a big counter-attack
was coming, but it died out suddenly for some unexplained reason.
It was now time for us to be thinking of getting back to Udine, as
Barzini had to send off his despatch and I had my sketches to work
up. We had a longish walk before us to Lucinico, but there was no
particular need to hurry, so we made our way slowly to the wooden
bridge we had crossed in the morning.
I was loaded with trophies I hoped to take back to London; a rifle
slung over my shoulder, an Austrian knapsack full of heavy rubbish on
my back, and in my hand a much battered Gorizia policeman’s helmet,
something like a _pickelhaube_, in black with a silver spike, which
we had picked up in the street.
There were a good many soldiers round about the bridge, and my
appearance between our soldier chauffeur and his friend excited much
unpleasant comment as we elbowed our way through the crowd. I was
evidently mistaken for an Austrian spy in custody.
It was much quieter now along the river. The firing which continued
in a desultory way being directed further down stream, so there
was no necessity to rush across the bridge this time, though it
was advisable not to dally, as one could not tell what might come
screeching over at any moment.
We retraced our steps by the road we had previously come. Nothing was
changed yet: the dead were still lying about everywhere, but at the
archway under the railway embankment soldiers were already beginning
to clear the place.
General Marazzi, who was still there, advised us not to take the
road across the battlefield, as it was being heavily shelled at the
moment; in fact, had it not been for the protection afforded by the
high embankment, it would have been very uncomfortable here; as it
was, every moment I quite expected something to burst over us.
We made our way, therefore, by a sunken pathway amongst the bushes
and small trees that skirted the foot of the embankment for some
distance; a procession of soldiers, carrying wounded men, leading the
way. This gulley had evidently been exposed to the full fire of the
Italian batteries during the battle.
From end to end it was a gruesome spectacle of foulness and death.
The Austrians had evidently used it as a sort of back exit from their
trenches, and whilst beating a retreat in this direction had found it
a veritable cul de sac, from which there was no escape.
Lucinico was full of movement when we got back there: troops coming
in, motor ambulances arriving, and numbers of officers’ cars waiting.
A start had also been made at clearing the _débris_ of ruin from
the road, so no time was being lost. Wounded were being brought in
continually, and one saw them lying about on stretchers everywhere,
waiting for the Red Cross men to come along.
With difficulty we managed to get our car through the block of
vehicles and masses of soldiers, and headed for Udine. Then commenced
what, to my mind, was the most impressive spectacle of this wondrous
day.
For the next thirty miles along the road there was an unbroken line
of troops and military transport of every conceivable description
coming towards us through a dense haze of dust in the golden light of
the setting sun.
It was a victorious army advancing slowly but irresistibly, like a
flow of lava, and made a glorious _finale_ to a page of history.
[Illustration: The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and
we were practically carried up the gully with them (_see page 219_)
_To face page 234_]
CHAPTER XVII
After Gorizia—Method and thoroughness of General Cadorna—Amusing
story—Result of the three days fighting—Employment for first time
of cavalry and cyclists—Udine reverts to its usual calm—Arrival of
visitors—Lord Northcliffe and others—Mr. Whitney Warren—Changes along
the fighting Front—Monte San Michele—A misleading statement—“Big
events” pending—A visit to Gorizia—My companions—Great change visible
on road—Battlefield cleared away—Gorizia—Deserted streets—Rules
and regulations for the inhabitants—The two cafés open—Rumours of
counter-attack—The General’s Headquarters—Somewhat scant courtesy—A
stroll round—We decide spend night in Gorizia—The deserted
Hotel—We take possession of rooms—A jolly supper party—A glorious
summer night—One long hellish tatoo—The Austrian counter-attack—A
night of discomfort—The noise from the trenches—The cause of
my “restlessness”—The “comfortable” beds—Gorizia in the early
morning—Indifferent to the bombardment—Back to Udine via Savogna,
Sdraussina and Sagrado—Panorama of military activity—Monte San
Michele—Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay—The cemeteries—The
pontoon bridge—The Austrian trenches—The cavalry division—Renewed
shelling of Gorizia.
CHAPTER XVII
To describe what took place during the next few days might appear
somewhat in the nature of an anti-climax were it not that there was
no standing still on the part of the Italians. The Austrians would
doubtless have gladly welcomed some respite, but they were not going
to get it, as was soon realised.
The method and thoroughness of General Cadorna were displayed in
every move, and it is probably no exaggeration to state that even in
the most minute details everything had been reckoned upon, so that
had the unexpected unfortunately happened, he would not have been
taken unawares at any point.
I was told an interesting and amusing incident which conveys a good
idea of this method and thoroughness, which is so characteristic of
the Generalissimo.
On July 17th, 1915, the Mayor of Pavia, who is at present a captain
of artillery, wrote to General Cadorna offering to present a silk
Italian flag to the city of Gorizia the day it was occupied by the
Italians. General Cadorna replied humorously: “Keep it in pepper for
the present.” (Evidently as a preservative against moth).
The Mayor had quite forgotten the incident, when to his surprise, on
the 10th August, 1916, the day after the fall of Gorizia, he received
the following telegram from General Cadorna:
_In reference to your letter of the 17th July, 1915, if you like
you can send or bring what you offer. Salutations._
CADORNA.
Every hour almost brought further confirmation of the magnitude of
the victory that had been achieved by the Duke of Aosta’s third
army. During the three days fighting, 15,393 prisoners, including
350 officers, amongst whom were 20 senior officers, had been taken;
16 guns, a large number of machine guns, and an immense quantity of
ammunition and _materiel_ of every description.
Nor was this all; the entire front was now re-adjusted, and the
Austrians driven out of positions they had got to look upon as
impregnable. They had paid particular attention to the fortifications
of Gorizia, and had made the place a strategic centre round which
they had concentrated important forces.
It transpired that orders were given for the evacuation of the city
some twenty-four hours before the bridge-head, the key to the whole
position, was lost, which proved they realized the straits they were
in; and it is certain that this state of affairs was pretty well
known to General Cadorna.
Not the least interesting feature of the operations was the
employment for the first time of masses of cavalry and the famous
Bersaglieri cyclists, who preceded the advance of the main body of
troops beyond the Isonzo, and from all accounts did most excellent
work. I was fortunate enough to get some interesting sketches of the
cavalry crossing the river under fire.
In Udine, after the first flush of excitement had worn off,
everything reverted to its usual calm. The inhabitants took a
remarkably sober view of the situation, and it was realized that the
victory of Gorizia, glorious though it undoubtedly was, was but a
step further on the hard uphill road to final victory, and the flags
were therefore not left up more than 48 hours.
The importance of what Italy is doing was evidently being realized
now, as several English visitors arrived in Udine during the next few
days on flying visits; amongst others Lord Northcliffe, Mr. H. G.
Wells, and Mr. Harold Cox, also a group of Spanish correspondents,
and a very charming and erudite American citizen, Mr. Whitney Warren,
the distinguished New York architect and membre de l’Institut de
France.
He was bubbling over with enthusiasm for the cause of the Entente,
and had a grip of the aims and doings of the war that made him at
once a delightful and sympathetic comrade and a distinct addition to
the Censorship Club.
The fall of Gorizia brought about such changes along the fighting
front that there was little fear, for the present at any rate, of any
further period of stagnation so far as work for the correspondents
was concerned; we looked like being “full up” for some time.
On the Carso, Monte San Michele had been captured after a desperate
assault and hand to hand fighting, simultaneously with the Gorizia
bridge-head, so the long-standing menace and which had hitherto
barred any possibility of an advance in this direction was removed.
The potentialities opened up therefore by the conquest of the portal,
as it were, of the Carso, were immense; and it is certain that no
one knew this better than the Austrians themselves, for next to the
actual bridge-head there was no position to which they attached more
importance than that of Monte San Michele.
I regret to have to be at variance with the distinguished English
correspondent who wrote of the “towering mountains” and “beetling
crags” of the Carso; but I must point out, if only to convey some
sense of proportion, that Monte San Michele which is the highest
point in this part of the Carso, is only 275 metres in altitude, and
cannot therefore by the wildest stretch of imagination be described
as anything but a lofty hill; as a matter of fact, there are no
greater eminences in the entire Carso area than 450 metres.
Monte San Michele, in spite, however, of not being a “mountain,”
dominated the whole of this portion of the valley of the lower
Isonzo, so it would be difficult to overestimate what its loss meant
to the Austrians.
Its elimination form their line of defence in this direction gave the
Italians a secure tenure of the towns of Gradisca and Sagrado, which
for fifteen months had only nominally been in their possession owing
to their being constantly under the fire of the Austrian batteries
on its crest. These two towns now became habitable for troops and
available as centres for Red Cross work.
It was rumoured that more “big events” were pending in the near
future in this quarter; one was therefore constantly motoring out
there in order to gain a clear conception of what was taking place.
There was now so much of interest along the new line of Front that I
did not remain in Udine any longer than was necessary to work on my
sketches and get them passed by the Censor.
A few days after the fall of Gorizia I motored over there with Baccio
Bacci, of the _Nuovo Giornale_, of Florence, and with Bitetti, of the
_Corriere della Sera_ (of whom I have already spoken), as chauffeur,
to see how things were looking there. Not a week had elapsed since
the victory, yet the changes along the road were simply incredible,
and reflected enormous credit on the organization of the _troupes
sanitaires_ (the sanitation brigade). The iron bridge had been so
damaged by the Austrian curtain fire that it was out of commission
for the time being, so we had perforce to go by the road Barzini and
I had taken.
I therefore had an opportunity of judging for myself what had been
accomplished in five days. The village of Lucinico had now been so
cleared of _débris_ that there was no longer any occasion to leave
the car. We found to our surprise that the road was quite open all
the way to Gorizia, across the battlefield round by Podgora and
through Grafenberg.
The Austrians were still busy sending big shells over at intervals,
and a car just ahead of us had a very narrow escape; it was little
short of a miracle it was not blown to pieces, and it makes me feel
cold when I think of it.
The change everywhere was positively bewildering; if I had not seen
it for myself I should never have believed it possible. With the
exception of the ruined houses and the shattered trunks of the trees
there was no trace remaining of the battle.
The trenches had been filled in, thus forming ready-made graves for
the dead; the wreckage of barbed-wire entanglements; the shell-holes,
the gruesome litter of blood-stained garments; all had disappeared as
though by magic.
Perhaps, though, the most startling transformation was to be seen at
the archway under the railway I described in a previous chapter. It
was positively unrecognizable.
Everything had been cleared away. Unless you had seen it before,
you would never have believed that this very commonplace tunnel
for the road under the embankment, such as one sees everywhere and
through which we drove without stopping, was less than a week before
the elaborately fitted-up Headquarters and domicile of an Austrian
General and his staff.
The store-house in which I had seen the ghastly array of human
packages was now but an ordinary empty shed, the kitchen close by
only a simple wooden hut, the very last place one would have expected
to find an elaborate cuisine in.
To my companion this meant nothing, as it was the first time he
had come this way, but I must confess to a slight feeling of
disappointment that there should have been so much haste to remove
all traces of Austrian Military Kultur.
I felt I should have liked to see it all again, though I suppose had
I been able to, the impression would not have been the same as it
was on that morning when the place had only just been vacated by the
Austrians and the battlefield was, as it were, still red-hot.
There was nothing to stop for in Grafenberg, so we drove straight on
till we came to a wooden bridge which brought us right into Gorizia.
This was one of the bridges which had been partially destroyed on the
day of the battle, but was now repaired.
With the exception of soldiers, the streets were deserted; there was
not a civilian to be seen anywhere, and the shops were still closed,
the inhabitants, it appeared, only being allowed out of doors a
few hours during the daytime. I think it was for two hours in the
morning, and the same in the afternoon; after dark no inhabitant was
allowed in the streets under any pretext. This system saved a lot of
difficult policing, and gave the troops greater freedom of movement.
We found that two cafés were open now, the “Grosses” and another next
to the Theatre, but they were practically deserted. Coffee was about
all you could get to drink; wine and beer being quite out of the
question, and food also, as we discovered later.
We arrived somewhat late in the afternoon, but the evenings were
still long, and there was a full moon, so we knew there would be no
difficulty in getting back to Udine even if we remained till after
dark.
It was rumoured that the Austrians were going to make a big
counter-attack on Gorizia that night, and it was with the idea
of perhaps seeing something interesting and getting some good
“copy” that we had come. Luckily, as will be seen, we ran across a
_confrère_, Arnaldo Fraccaroli, of the _Corriere della Sera_, who had
driven in earlier in the afternoon with the same idea as ourselves,
and he joined us, as the man he had come with was returning to Udine
at once.
But for reasons which we were unable to fathom, it was soon pretty
evident that we were not wanted in Gorizia that day.
At the Headquarters of the General in a big house on the Corso, we
were received by an aide-de-camp with but scant courtesy; in fact,
this was my first experience of anything of the kind in Italy, and
was the more surprising as we all represented important papers, and
our passes were in order in every respect. We were curtly informed,
after being kept waiting in the street for some time, that the
General was “out”; so we decided to go for a walk and return later.
Except that more damage had been done by shells, there was little or
no change in the streets, and from what we could gather there was
little likelihood of the city resuming its normal aspect for a very
long time; such of the inhabitants as could get away were doing so,
and the Italian authorities were putting no obstacles in their way;
as a matter of fact, Gorizia was not a place for non-combatants, as
it was continually being bombarded.
When we got back to the General’s Headquarters we found he had
returned, but it was, however, one thing finding him in, quite
another matter getting him to receive us.
After again being kept waiting outside the garden gate till it was
almost dark, we were coolly told by a sergeant that the General
had nothing to tell us, so could not receive us. This was very
disappointing, but there was no help for it. He was evidently peevish
about something and did not want visitors.
We walked away slowly through the deepening gloom. There was not a
light to be seen anywhere. Now and again the loud report of a big gun
awakened the echoes of the empty streets.
My companions were much upset at the reception we had received,
and were discussing the matter at great length as we went along;
meanwhile I was gradually feeling very hungry and tired and heartily
sick of this aimless wandering along in the obscurity.
Suddenly they came to a decision, and announced to me that we were
going to spend the night in Gorizia, as it would be a pity to return
to Udine and perhaps just miss something important, as there was no
doubt, they explained to me, there was something _en l’air_.
Of course I had no opinion to offer in the matter as I understood so
little Italian, so there was nothing for it but to fall in with their
views. Moreover, there was no possibility of my getting away without
them since the car was theirs.
It having, therefore, been decided to remain in Gorizia, the next
important question was where to put up for the night.
There was, as I have said, not a light to be seen anywhere; not a
soul was about, the soldiers having long since returned to their
quarters. The two cafés were closed, and we were prowling along in
the dark like a lot of tramps in a city of the dead.
Had I been able to join in the conversation of my companions I might
perhaps have found the adventure amusing, but as it was, from my
point of view, it was deadly dull and uninteresting; however, I tried
to buck myself up with the idea that something exciting might happen
later, and so it did, as will be seen.
Our car, it appeared, had been left in the entrance of an hotel
opposite the theatre, so we made our way there to make sure it was
safe. The hotel we found was not locked up, although it was quite
deserted. On a table in the vestibule we, fortunately, discovered a
piece of candle, and, lighting it, we started to explore the place to
see if there was a chance of fixing ourselves up for the night in any
of the rooms.
It was a curious experience, and one that I shall long remember. The
hotel was quite a large one, and to our astonishment all the rooms
were in perfect order, with beds made, water in the jugs and bottles,
and soap, towels, everything in fact in readiness for visitors. We
could have wished for nothing better, except, perhaps, to have found
a whole candle instead of a piece of one; for the idea of being left
in the dark in a short time rather nullified the comfort by which we
were surrounded.
There were so many rooms to choose from that we were inclined to be
fastidious; it is not often that one has the run of a whole hotel,
and gratis at that; however, we settled on two, with a sitting room
in between and with two beds in each.
Now came the vital subject of supper. My car mates, with their usual
inconsequence, had brought nothing at all in the shape of food or
drink with them, always relying on “something turning up.” I had
as usual taken the precaution of putting in my haversack a box of
sardines, bread, cheese, chocolate, and my water flask was filled
with wine; but, of course, this was not sufficient for us all.
Then it turned out that after all we were in luck’s way. Fraccaroli
suddenly recollected that he had had the happy thought of bringing a
hamper with him in case of accident, and we found that it had been
put in our car when he had joined us.
It was brought in amidst general acclamation, and on opening it
we saw that whoever had packed it had, fortunately for us, had
broadminded views as to what one man’s appetite should be like.
There was ample for four people. Cold meat, cooked ham, butter,
bread, fruit, and last, but certainly not least, a magnum bottle of
excellent wine.
One could not have wished for a better supper anywhere, and the
mere sight of it, when I had arranged it artistically on sheets of
newspaper, put us in the highest spirits, and the empty corridors
echoed with our laughter as we tackled it, for we were pretty
ravenous by now. I am sure that no jollier supper party than ours
that night ever took place in Gorizia.
After we had finished, Fraccaroli and Bitetti suggested, as the moon
was now up, our having another attempt at seeing the General. Bacci
and I, however, thought we had done enough walking for one day, so
decided to remain where we were and have a quiet smoke before turning
in. The two men, therefore, went out, and we heard their footsteps
resounding through the empty corridor and down the staircase with
ghostly effect.
We filled our glasses again and lit up our pipes, and then Bacci
suggested that as there was only a tiny bit of candle left we might
dispense with it for a while as it was brilliant moonlight, so we
extinguished it and sat by the open window enjoying the cool breeze.
The room looked on to a small courtyard, and facing us was a high
wall, so we could not see far.
It was a glorious summer night, and all was so quiet and peaceful
that it was difficult for the moment to realise how near were the
horrors of war.
[Illustration: I was fortunate enough to get some interesting
sketches of the cavalry crossing the river under fire (_see page 238_)
_To face page 246_]
It was just the sort of night to engender depth of thought, and
we were both in poetic vein, and soliloquizing on the iniquity of
warfare while nature was always so beautiful, when the loud report of
a gun rang out in the stillness of the night and brought us back
to stern reality. It was so close that had it not been for the wall
in front of us we could have seen where it came from.
There were a few seconds of dead silence, and then there broke out
the most terrific fusillade it would be possible to imagine; machine
gun and rifle fire mixed up in one long hellish tatoo; whilst, as
though to punctuate the unearthly music, at intervals one heard
the isolated bang of trench mortars and the sharp detonation of
hand-grenades.
The extraordinary suddenness of it all was so remarkable that it was
as if it had been timed to commence at a certain minute.
All quietude was now at an end, and although the firing varied in
intensity it never ceased. At moments there would be a lull, and it
appeared as though about to die out, and then it would recommence
with renewed violence.
It could certainly not have been more than a few hundred yards away,
so near in fact that now and again one heard shouts and yells, and
several stray bullets actually struck the upper part of the hotel.
The fighting was still continuing when our companions returned. They
told us that they had found out that this was the commencement of
the expected counter-attack, but that so far it was not developing
to any serious extent, though what the night might bring forth might
alter matters considerably; anyhow, the Italians were not being taken
unawares as the Austrians were discovering.
This was interesting news, and made one feel that we were not
spending the night in Gorizia for nothing, and that we might have
an exciting time before the morning. For the moment, however, since
there was nothing to be seen, we thought the best thing to do was to
lie down and have a rest for an hour or so.
Our companions had had an extra bit of luck whilst they were out, in
the shape of a whole candle which had been given them, so we ran no
further risk of being left in darkness.
Of course we all lay down in our clothes, boots and all, ready for
any emergency; when big “counter-attacks” are on the _tapis_ it is as
well to take no chances.
The beds looked very comfortable, and had clean sheets and pillow
cases, but although I was very tired, I could not somehow get to
sleep for a long while. I felt a sensation of discomfort which was
almost unbearable, and had it not been that I did not wish to disturb
my companions, I should have got up and walked about the room.
It is not pleasant lying on a soft bed with all your clothes on,
including field boots, on a hot night, and I put my restlessness
down to this. However, I managed to doze off fitfully after a while,
though for what appeared to be hours I was being continually woke
up by what I took to be the noise made by men wearing heavy boots
running down the stone stairs and slamming the street door.
This at last woke me completely, when I realized that the noise came
from the trenches, and was caused by the rattle of machine guns and
rifles and the booming of mortars. I managed to get to sleep after
this; the monotony of the noise ended by exercising a sedative effect
on my nerves.
When I awoke it was quite early, but to my surprise I had the
rooms to myself, my companions having already gone out. I found
them downstairs, and learned that they had passed the night seated
in the car; they had decided that anything was preferable to the
“comfortable” beds of the hotel.
I then comprehended the cause of my “restlessness.” It was a striking
instance of “Where ignorance is bliss,” etc., for I had managed to
have a good sleep in spite of it all.
Gorizia, in the early morning sunshine, looked delightful, and
everybody we met seemed bright and cheerful like the weather; and
quite indifferent to the bombardment which still continued at
intervals. An officer told me that one often ended by trying mentally
to calculate what all this senseless waste of ammunition was costing
per hour.
Nothing had come of the counter-attack, except to give the Italians
a chance of further consolidating their front here, and as there
appeared no likelihood of anything important happening that day we
arranged to return to Udine forthwith.
Instead, however, of going via Grafenberg, we took the road which
follows the left bank of the Isonzo and goes through Savogna,
Sdraussina, and Sagrado, as Bacci was anxious to shake hands with a
doctor friend of his who was with a field hospital somewhere this way.
This gave us an opportunity of seeing the wonderful cantonments of
the troops waiting to advance on the Carso.
From Savogna right on to Sagrado, a distance of, roughly speaking,
six miles, was one continuous encampment on either side of the road.
A whole army corps must have been gathered here, cavalry, artillery,
infantry, motor transport, cyclists and motor ambulances, in endless
encampments.
It was as interesting a panorama of military activity as I had seen
anywhere on the Italian Front, and was alone worth coming here to
see. The troops were fully protected from shell fire, as the road
all the way is sheltered by Monte San Michele and the adjacent
hills, which tower above the route, so it was possible to construct
permanent huts on the slopes of the hill, and also to take advantage
of the many caves which are a feature of this region, to quarter the
men in.
Monte San Michele, as I shall describe in my next chapter, was
captured simultaneously with Gorizia, and one saw from here the
formidable series of trenches the Italians, with a courage which will
pass into history, constructed and gradually pushed forward up the
hill, under the fire of the Austrian guns, until the final assault,
when the whole position was taken.
Unless this operation had been successful, no troops would have been
here now, as this road was, prior to the victory, a “No man’s land.”
One saw every phase of soldier life along this interesting road,
and one could not fail to be deeply impressed by the extraordinary
“completeness,” I can think of no other word, of the arrangements on
all sides, and the business-like air of readiness to go anywhere at a
moment’s notice of every unit. Certain it is that the Austrians had
no conception of what was ready for them behind these hills.
It was like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay to find any
particular field ambulance amongst such a multitude, and the more
specially as these ambulance stations are continually being shifted
as necessity arises. So, after trying for some time and going
backwards and forwards up and down the road in the vicinity of
Sdraussina, where we hoped to come across it, we had to give it up as
a bad job.
A somewhat striking feature of this vast camping area were the
military cemeteries, where hundreds of soldiers’ graves were crowded
together in serried lines. Of course there is no sentiment in
warfare, and soldiers live in the midst of death, but it struck me
as somewhat unnecessary putting this burial ground alongside a road
so frequently traversed by the troops when there is so much space
elsewhere.
The Isonzo, which here is a broad, pelucid and swiftly running
stream much divided up with gravel islets, presented a scene of much
animation; hundreds of soldiers were taking advantage of a few hours
peaceful interregnum to have a bath and do a day’s washing.
We continued on past Sagrado, crossing the river lower down by a
newly-placed pontoon bridge below San Pietro dell Isonzo. Here there
was no regular road, but merely a rough track leading to the river,
and it was only by the skilfulness of our chauffeur friend that the
car was got through at all without accident.
Round about here were many Austrian trenches that had been hastily
abandoned, so we had a good opportunity for examining them.
They struck me as being constructed on the most approved principles,
and were finished in elaborate style with wicker work lining to the
walls and along the floors. None of these trenches, however, had ever
been used, so it was only possible to hazard conjectures as to their
utility.
Just here we met the cavalry division advancing dismounted in Indian
file. A fine lot of well-equipped men with very serviceable looking
horses.
It may be of interest to mention here that most of the Italian
cavalry officers who, as is well known, are magnificent horsemen,
ride thoroughbreds of Irish descent.
When we got back to Udine we learned that Gorizia was being heavily
shelled from Monte Santo, so it looked as if the Austrians were
attempting to destroy it by degrees, as the Huns are doing with
Rheims in revenge for losing it.
CHAPTER XVIII
Big operations on the Carso—General optimism—No risks
taken—Great changes brought about by the victory—A trip to the
new lines—Gradisca and Sagrado—A walk round Gradisca—Monte San
Michele—Sagrado—Disappearance of Austrian aeroplanes and observation
balloons—Position of Italian “drachen” as compared with French—On
the road to Doberdo—_Moral_ of troops—Like at a picnic—A regiment
on its way to the trenches—The Italian a “thinker”—Noticeable
absence of smoking—My first impression of the Carso—Nature in its
most savage mood—The Brighton downs covered with rocks—Incessant
thunder of guns—Doberdo hottest corner of the Carso—No troops—Stroll
through ruins of street—Ready to make a bolt—A fine view—The Austrian
trenches—Shallow furrows—Awful condition of trenches—Grim and
barbarous devices—Austrian infamies—Iron-topped bludgeons, poisoned
cigarettes, etc.—Under fire—A dash for a dug-out—The imperturbable
_Carabinieri_—Like a thunderbolt—A little incident—Brilliant
wit—The limit of patience—The Italian batteries open fire—No
liberties to be taken—On the way back—Effect of the heavy
firing—Motor ambulances—Magnified effect of shell fire on Carso—Rock
splinters—Terrible wounds.
CHAPTER XVIII
All the big operations were now taking place on the Carso, and
scarcely a day passed without news of progress in that direction.
The official _communiqués_ were, therefore, of the most cheery
description, and their cheerfulness was reflected all over the town.
Everybody was optimistic, and one was continually hearing rumours of
the surprises in store for the Austrians during the next few weeks.
That many of these rumours materialised was undeniable, but it was
soon realised that the conquest of the Carso is a very tough job, and
will require a lot of patience and necessitate much hard fighting for
every yard of ground; which obviously also meant much great sacrifice
of gallant lives unless the advance is carried out methodically and
without undue haste. In this respect General Cadorna may be relied
on, and also to take no risks of failure.
The Carso, therefore, presented the chief point of interest after
the fall of Gorizia, as every advance there means progress towards
the main objective, Trieste. Scarcely a day passed now without a car
from the Censorship going in the direction of the fighting line. I
was therefore constantly able to make excursions, and was gradually
filling up my sketch book with interesting subjects.
I may mention that no difficulty whatever was put in my way, and so
long as I could find a car to take me, I was at liberty to go where I
chose and stay away as long as I liked; it would have been impossible
to have been treated with greater courtesy and regard, and I shall
never be sufficiently grateful for it.
The changes brought about by the victory and the brilliant strategy
of General Cadorna were so widespread that they would have been
unbelievable if one had not seen it all for oneself a few days after
the battle. In fact, it was almost at once that the results were
discernable. You realized it yourself as soon as you reached certain
well-known points which had hitherto been inside the danger zone. The
sense of relief at being able to move about freely and without having
to keep your ears cocked all the time, listening for shells coming
over, was very pleasant.
With a little party of _confrères_ I motored out to the new Italian
lines within a few hours of their re-adjustment.
Most of the places we went through in order to get close up to the
fighting had only become accessible since the fall of Gorizia, whilst
others, as for instance Sagrado, and Gradisca, were now almost
peaceful after months of constant bombardment.
Gradisca interested me very particularly, as I had lively
recollections of the flying visit I had paid to it the preceding year
when, as I have described in a previous chapter, our cars to get
there had to run the gauntlet of the fire of the batteries on Monte
San Michele.
Now the Austrian guns were well out of range, and the little town
was quite delightfully peaceful in comparison, and you could wander
as you pleased under the big trees in the park, round the bandstand,
and fancy you were waiting for the music to commence; or through the
grass-grown, deserted streets and take note of the wanton damage done
by the Austrians to their own property.
Monte San Michele, at the back of the town, was now but a very
ordinary and unpicturesque hill in the distance, and from the
military standpoint no longer of any importance whatever.
The town itself was rapidly being occupied, and inhabited; several of
the big buildings were being transformed into first line hospitals,
and the General of the division had already fixed up his headquarters
here.
All these changes conveyed more to me than any _communiqués_ had
done; I saw for myself what had been accomplished since I was last
there, and there was no doubting the evidence of my own eyes.
At Sagrado, on the lower Isonzo, a similar condition of affairs
existed; but here it was my first visit, as it was inaccessible
the previous year. A one-time beautiful little town, I should say,
typically Austrian, it is true, but nevertheless from all accounts a
very pleasant place to live in.
All the river frontage at the present time is nothing but a shapeless
heap of ruins; the magnificent bridge and the elaborate system of
locks are irreparably damaged.
Fortunately a considerable portion of the town escaped damage by the
shells, and this was now crowded with troops. Yet, barely a week
before, it was practically uninhabitable except at enormous risk.
Not the least significant of changes one noticed on the way to the
lines was the complete disappearance of Austrian aeroplanes. There
had been a few over Gorizia on the great day, but here there appeared
to be none at all, and the “Caproni” now held undisputed sway in the
air.
As to the observation balloons, the “Drachen,” they had all along
been noticeable by their absence; as a matter of fact, I don’t
recollect ever seeing any of these aerial look-outs over the Austrian
lines at any time, the reason for this deficiency being perhaps that
they were not found to sufficiently fulfil their purpose.
The Italians evidently thought differently, and their “drachen” were
to be seen everywhere, and along this front in particular.
In this connection I could not fail to note how much further
behind the lines they are stationed here as compared with their
usual position on the French Front. There may be some very simple
explanation of this, but it appeared to me as a layman that they lost
a lot of their utility by being always so distant from the Austrian
lines.
We were bound for Doberdo, the village on the Carso that was being
mentioned every day in the _communiqués_. From Sagrado we went by way
of Fogliano, the road skirting the railway most of the way. We were
now on the confines of a region of universal havoc and desolation.
War had swept across the country-side with the devastating effect of
a prairie fire. Nothing had escaped it. All the villages we passed
through were only names now, and nothing remained but ruins to
indicate where they had been; of inhabitants, of course, there was
not so much as a trace.
In spite, however, of the general devastation, troops were to be
seen everywhere, and numbers were camping even among the ruins with
the utmost unconcern; in fact, you couldn’t fail to notice that the
_moral_ of the men was wonderful, and that they seemed as cheerful as
if at a picnic.
The Italian soldier struck me as having a happy faculty for making
the best of everything, so hardships do not seem to trouble him, and
the equivalent of “grousing” is, as I have already stated, an unknown
word in his vocabulary.
This was particularly observable here, though, of course, the
glorious weather may have had some thing to do with it; but the fact
remained that they were supporting exceptional hardships with a
stoicism that was quite remarkable, I thought.
[Illustration: The only difficulty the officers experienced was in
getting them to advance with caution (see page 273)
_To face page 258_]
Along the road at one place we passed a regiment halted on its way
to the trenches. The men, all apparently very young, were sitting or
lying about on either side of the road. We had to slow down in order
to get past, so I had an opportunity to take a mental note of the
scene.
It was the more interesting to me as I knew that these men were fully
aware that in a couple of hours or so they would be in the thick
of the hottest fighting. Nevertheless, I could see no trace of any
nervous excitement, though the guns were booming in the distance;
they might have all been case-hardened old warriors, so far as you
could outwardly judge from their stolid demeanour.
Many were taking advantage of the halt to snatch a few minutes sleep,
whilst others were writing letters. There was very little of the
grouping together or chatting one would have expected to see. The
Italian of to-day is becoming a “thinker.”
But what struck me perhaps most of all was the quite noticeable
absence of smoking. Probably every other man in an English or French
regiment under the circumstances would have had a pipe or a cigarette
in his mouth, and would have considered the hardships increased
tenfold if he hadn’t been able to enjoy a smoke. Here the men in the
field don’t seem to look upon tobacco as an absolute necessity; so
far as I could judge; and one seldom sees them smoking on the march,
like the French _poilu_, or the English Tommy.
About a mile and a half past Fogliano we took a road that went by an
archway under the railway embankment, and brought us a few hundred
yards on to a heap of rubble that had once been a little village
named Redipuglia, if I remember rightly.
On our right was the much talked of Monte Cosich, a hill that had
been the scene of innumerable desperate fights, and facing us was the
commencement of the Carso.
I shall never forget my first impression of this shell-swept waste;
for what I had already seen of it was only from a distance, and
though through powerful binoculars, one was not really able to form
any conception of what it is like in reality. I had been prepared to
see Nature in its most savage mood, but the scene before me was so
terrible in its utter desolation as to inspire a sense of awe.
Imagine the Brighton downs covered from end to end with colourless
stones and rock instead of turf; no sign of vegetation anywhere;
ribbed in every direction with trenches protected by low, sand-bagged
walls; bristling with wire entanglements, and everywhere pitted with
huge shell-craters.
Even then you have only a faint conception of what war means on the
Carso, and the awful character of the task the Italians have had
before them for the past eighteen months.
There is certainly nothing to compare with it on any of the other
Fronts; for here nature appears to have connived at the efforts of
man, and every hollow and every hummock form as it were potential
bastions. The incessant thunder of the guns in the distance seemed,
as it were, to be in keeping with the utter desolation of the scene.
The road gradually ascended for about a couple of miles, till we at
last arrived on the plateau of Doberdo, and close to all that remains
of the village.
Fighting was going on only a short distance away in the direction of
Nova Vas, so we were under fire here, as shrapnel was bursting all
round the village, and at times in amongst the ruins as well.
Doberdo was then reputed to be the hottest corner of the Carso, and
one literally took one’s life into one’s hands when going there.
But it was, nevertheless, so absorbingly interesting that it
compensated for the risk one was taking, and there was a weird sort
of fascination in listening to the booming of the guns and watching
the shells bursting.
There were no troops here, only some officers and a few soldiers,
for the village was far too much exposed for actual occupation; but
it was on the road to the trenches, so it was to a certain extent
“occupied” for the moment. There was also a Field Dressing Station,
where a few devoted Red Cross men were working under conditions of
ever-present peril.
Every yard almost of the ground had been shelled, and it was
pock-marked with craters of all sizes. In fact, the wonder was that
even a particle of the village was left standing.
We left the car under the shelter of the remnant of a wall, and
strolled along what had evidently been the main street; but it was
not altogether what one would term a pleasant stroll, for the stench
of unburied dead was in the air, and horrible sights faced you on all
sides.
We proceeded very gingerly and ready to make a bolt for cover
whenever we heard the warning screech of an approaching shell. There
was really not more to see at one end of the street than the other,
but one feels just a little bit restless standing still under fire,
so we started off on a look round.
At the end of the village there was a fine view looking towards
Oppachiasella on the left, and Monte Cosich and the road by which
we had come up on the right. One was, therefore, able to judge for
oneself what fighting in this arid wilderness means.
You had the impression of gazing on the scene of an earthquake,
so little semblance to anything recognizable was there in sight.
Here and there a black and gaping hole on the hillside indicated
the entrance to one of the famous Carso caves, which are so
characteristic a feature of the region.
What was left of the Austrian trenches after the Italian artillery
had done with them was sufficient to convey an idea of the awful time
their occupants must have passed through; you had the idea that any
human beings who survived after being in such an inferno deserved
peace and quietude to the end of their days.
In many cases these trenches were only a few yards apart, so the
courage necessary to take them by direct assault must have been
extraordinary. One could see the dead lying in between them. The
peculiar rock formation of the whole area precludes any making of
actual trenches except with enormous labour; to obviate this shallow
furrows are formed and protected with stone parapets, finished with
sand-bags (or rather bags of small stones, as, of course, there is no
sand here).
The condition of these parapets and “trenches” after continual
pounding with high explosives may be left to the imagination. A
gruesome detail must be mentioned: so difficult is it to excavate the
ground here that the dead are not being “buried” but simply covered
over with stones.
Many grim and barbarous devices for causing death in the most
horrible and unexpected form were discovered in the Austrian trenches
here on the Doberdo plateau, and the mere sight of them was often
sufficient to rouse the Italian soldiers to a pitch of frenzy.
One is apt to forget at times that the Austrian is by nature quite
as callous and inhuman a creature as the Hun, but here one had ample
reminder of what he is capable of when he realises that he is up
against a better man than himself.
It is of historic interest in this connection to recount a few of
the new infamies these apt disciples of the Hun have introduced:
the poisoned cigarettes and shaving brushes left in the trenches;
the bombs under dead bodies; explosive bullets; baccilli of typhoid
dropped from aeroplanes; and the iron-topped bludgeons.
The latter instrument of torture, for it is nothing less, is quite
one of the latest devices of Austrian “Kultur” for putting a wounded
adversary to death. The iron head is studded with jagged nails, and
has a long spike let into the end. No South Sea cannibal ever devised
a more awful weapon.
I was lucky enough to get one and brought it back to London, where it
makes a fitting pendant in my studio to another barbaric “souvenir”
of the war, one of the Hun “_proclamations_” put on the walls in
Rheims before the battle of the Marne.
However, to revert to Doberdo. We stood for some little while at the
end of the village endeavouring to grasp the import of the various
strategic points we could discern from here, when all of a sudden the
Austrian batteries started a furious bombardment in our direction
with apparently no object whatever, except perhaps that our car had
been seen, and they hoped to stop any further movement on the road.
We could see shell after shell bursting with wonderful precision on
either side, and in the centre, of the road. Then they must have
spotted our little group, for the range was shortened and we found
ourselves apparently receiving the polite attention of all the guns.
My two companions made a dash for a sort of dug-out which was close
by, and I was about to follow them when I happened to glance round
and saw a _carabinieri_ standing right out in the road a few yards
away, as imperturbably as though it was a slight shower of rain
passing over. He was looking in my direction, and I fancied I caught
a twinkle of amusement in his eyes at my hurry.
In an instant the thought flashed through my mind: if it doesn’t
matter to him remaining in the open why should it to me? So I climbed
back on to the road, trying the while to appear as though I had never
really intended to take shelter.
I had scarcely regained my feet when I heard the wail of an
approaching shell, and then the peculiar and unmistakable sound of a
big shrapnel about to burst overhead.
I only just had time to put my arm up to protect my eyes when it
exploded. It was like a thunderbolt, and so close that I heard pieces
of metal strike the ground all round me.
A moment elapsed and footsteps approached. Turning round I saw a
soldier I had not noticed before; he was fumbling with something in
his hands which appeared too hot to hold easily.
Then to my astonishment he said to me with a laugh, and in perfect
English: “I think this was addressed to you, Sir,” at the same time
handing me a jagged little piece of shell.
I was so taken aback at hearing English spoken just at that
particular moment that all I found to say to him in reply to his
brilliant wit was the idiotic commonplace “Thanks very much,” as I
took the interesting fragment.
It occurred to me afterwards that he must have thought me a very
taciturn and phlegmatic Englishman, but I had just had a very narrow
escape and felt a bit shaken up, as may be imagined, so was scarcely
in the mood for conversational effort.
We had hoped to have a look at the trenches round the lake of
Doberdo, about three-quarters of a mile away from the village, but
with the firing so intense and showing every sign of increasing
rather than diminishing, it would have been madness to have attempted
to get there, as it was right out in the open. In fact, there was
considerable doubt as to the advisability of starting on the return
journey yet, as the road was in the thick of it.
We had only just been remarking on the extraordinary quiescence of
the Italian guns which had not fired a shot since we had been up
here, when scarcely were the words out of our mouths than suddenly,
as though the limit of patience had been reached, with a terrifying
crash, all the batteries near us opened fire.
The result was positively magnificent, and roused one to the pitch
of enthusiasm. We could see the shells bursting along the crest of a
hill some two thousand yards away with such accuracy of aim that in
a few moments there was probably not a yard of the ground that had
not been plastered with high explosives; and anything living that was
there must have been battered out of existence.
The Italian Commander had no intention of wasting ammunition,
however; he only wished to show he was allowing no liberties to
be taken with him; for in less than a quarter of an hour the
Italian fire ceased with the same suddenness it had started, and
notwithstanding that the Austrian guns were still going it as hard as
ever.
There was no use waiting indefinitely for the chance of getting away
in quietude, so we started off on our return to Sagrado. We had extra
passengers in the car now, three officers having asked us to give
them a lift part of the way. One could not very well refuse, but it
made it a very tight fit.
The road was downhill all the way, and there were one or two awkward
turns. The effect of the heavy firing was visible all the way. There
were big shell-holes and stones everywhere, so it was impossible to
go at any speed, much as we should have liked it.
The only thing to do, therefore, was to sit still and trust to luck.
One or two shells burst quite close by us, but we managed to get out
of range safely.
We passed some motor ambulances full of serious casualties from
the plateau round Doberdo. Even when there was no actual battle
proceeding never a day passed I learned without a constant stream
of wounded coming down. The promiscuous shell fire of the Austrians
continually taking toll somewhere and helping to keep the ambulances
busy and the hospitals full.
I was told in Udine that the wounded coming in from the Carso are
usually found to be more seriously injured than those from any other
Front; the explanation of this being that owing to the peculiar
character of the rocky surface the effect of a shell exploding is, as
it were, magnified several times.
Wounds, therefore, are caused as often by the splinters of rock
flying upwards, and ricochets, as from the actual fragments of the
projectile itself. It is certain that the majority of the terrible
facial injuries are more frequently caused by re-percussion than by
direct hits.
As will have been gathered, therefore, the soldiers of Italy in this
region of desolation are fighting against two enemies, the Austrians
and the Carso.
CHAPTER XIX
Difficulties Italians have still to contend with on way to
Trieste—Italian superior in fighting quality—Dash and reckless
courage—Success reckoned by yards—Total number of prisoners taken—A
huge seine net—The “call of the wild”—A visit to San Martino del
Carso—My companion—Our route—The attraction of the road—Early morning
motoring—On our own—The unconventional quarters of the divisional
general—The Rubbia-Savogna railway station.—The signalman’s cabin—An
interesting chat with the General—At our own risk—The big camp on
Monte San Michele—The desolate waste of the Carso—An incident—Nothing
to sketch—“Ecco San Martino del Carso”—Shapeless dust-covered
rubble—The Austrian trenches amongst the ruins—Under fire—Back to
Udine—A pleasant little episode—Déjeuner to Colonel Barbarich at
Grado—A “day’s outing”—The little “Human” touch—The “funk-holes” in
the dining room—A trip in a submarine chaser—Things quiet in Udine—A
period of comparative inactivity.
CHAPTER XIX
A single glance at the map to-day—I am writing this in January—is
sufficient to give an idea of the enormous difficulties the Italians
have still to contend against and surmount in forcing their way
across the formidable barrier of stony wilderness between their
present position and their obvious objective—Trieste.
It is said that they will find that apart from the terrible character
of the natural obstacles, which, as I have endeavoured to show, they
are up against, the Austrians have series after series of entrenched
lines, each of which will have to be captured by direct assault.
Although it has been seen that man for man the Italian is far
and away superior in fighting quality to the Austrian, it cannot
be denied that when well supplied with machine guns, and behind
positions which afford him almost complete protection, the Austrian
soldier will put up a very determined resistance before he gives in.
This factor must, therefore, be reckoned with in any commencement of
an attempt at an advance.
The dash and reckless courage of the Italians, whilst thoroughly to
be relied upon under any circumstances however trying, must always
be held, as it were, in leash, otherwise even the smallest forward
move will be only achieved at an awful sacrifice of gallant lives.
The utmost caution, moreover, will have to be exercised, so as not
to fall into a _guet apens_, and every step forward must be fully
protected.
When success, therefore, can only be reckoned on, as it were, by
yards, it is not surprising to find on examining the map how slow
apparently has been the progress during the past four months; but
it is progress nevertheless, and the most tangible proof of it is
contained in the concluding lines of the brief summary issued by the
Italian supreme command of the operations from September to December:
“The total of prisoners taken on the Julian Front (_i.e._, the Isonzo
and the Carso) from August to December was 42,000, and the guns
numbered 60 and the machine guns 200.”
The gradual advance has not been confined to any one particular
sector of this Front, but was part of the general scheme which is
operating like a huge seine net over this part of the Carso. The
interest, therefore, was entirely concentrated in this zone after the
fall of Gorizia, and I never missed an opportunity of going in that
direction on the chance of getting some good subjects for my sketch
book.
I remember some years ago when I was crossing the Gobi desert, I
discovered that the desolation of the scene around me exercised an
inexplicable sort of fascination, and at times I would have a strange
longing to wander away alone into the wilderness.
I experienced somewhat the same sensation on the Carso. It is most
probably what Jack London designated the “call of the wild.” In this
case, however, the fascination was tempered by the knowledge that
one’s wandering fit might be cut short by an Austrian bullet, so
one’s peregrinations had perforce to be somewhat curtailed.
There was, of course, much of great interest to see and sketch in
the area where active operations were in progress, whilst every day
almost there seemed to be something, either in the shape of a rumour,
or in the official _communiqué_, that formed a good excuse for
getting into a car and heading for the “sound of the guns” again.
[Illustration: They came racing across the stretch of “No man’s land”
(_see page 294_)
_To face page 270_]
On one of these occasions I had as my companion Robert Vaucher, the
correspondent of the Paris _Illustration_, who had just arrived at
the Front for a short visit.
We decided to make for San Martino del Carso, the first village
captured by the Italians on the Carso, as it was quite close to the
fighting then going on round Oppachiassella.
Our route was via Palmanova, Romans and Sagrado a road one had got
to know by heart, so to speak, but of which one never tired, for
somehow, curiously enough, everything always seemed novel although
you had seen it many times before.
There was also the charm of starting off in a car just after sunrise;
it had a touch of adventure about it that made me feel quite youthful
again. I never tired of the long drives; and in the early morning the
air was like breathing champagne.
One frequently had the road to oneself at this hour, and you could
have imagined you were on a pleasure jaunt till you heard the booming
of the guns above the noise of the engine; for it did not matter how
early one was, the guns never seemed to be silent. With a sympathetic
companion in the car these runs out to the lines were quite amongst
the pleasantest features of one’s life up at the Front.
On this particular occasion the fact of being with someone with whom
I could converse freely made it still more agreeable. We went off
quite “on our own,” as Vaucher speaks Italian fluently; and as our
soldier chauffeur knew the road well, there was not much fear of our
getting lost.
We decided that it was advisable for form’s sake to call on the
Divisional General, and ask for his permission to pass through the
lines. With some little difficulty we succeeded in discovering his
Headquarters. These were, we learned, on the railway, close to the
Rubbia-Savogna Station, on the Trieste-Gorizia line.
It turned out to be about the last place where one would have
expected to unearth a General. The station itself was in ruins,
and presented a pathetically forlorn appearance, with posters and
time-tables hanging in tatters from the walls; no train had passed
here for very many months.
We left the car on the permanent way alongside the platform, and
picked our way along the track through the twisted and displaced
rails to the signalman’s “cabin,” which had been converted into the
Headquarters _pro tem_.
It was as unconventional and warlike as could well be imagined, and
as a subject for a picture would have delighted a military painter.
The General was a well set up, good-looking man of middle age, and
quite the most unassuming officer of his rank I have ever met. After
carefully examining our military permits to come there, he received
us with the utmost cordiality. He spoke French fluently, and was
apparently much interested in our work as war correspondents.
There was no difficulty, he said, about our going to San Martino,
but we did so at our own risk, as it was his duty to warn us that
it was still being constantly shelled; in fact, he added, the whole
neighbourhood was under fire, and he pointed out a gaping hole a few
yards away where a shell had burst only an hour before our arrival,
and had blown a small hut to atoms.
The railway station was being continually bombarded, and he was sorry
to say that he had lost a good many of his staff here.
No strategic object whatever was attained by this promiscuous
shelling; the only thing it did was to get on the men’s nerves and
make them fidgetty.
“They want to be up and doing instead of waiting about here when
their comrades have gone on ahead.”
We had quite a long talk with him, and gathered some interesting
details of the fighting that had taken place round here. He was most
enthusiastic about the _moral_ of his troops, that no fatigue or pain
can quell.
The only difficulty the officers experienced was in getting them to
advance with caution. “Ils deviennent des tigrés une fois lancés;
c’est difficile de les retenir.”
As we bade him adieu, he asked us as a personal favour not to mention
him in any article we might write, adding modestly: “Je ne suis qu’un
soldat de l’Italie, et ne désire pas de réclame.”
There was a turning off the main road beyond Sdraussina that passed
under the railway embankment, and then went up to San Martino del
Carso.
Here there was an animated scene of military activity. A battalion of
infantry was bivouacing, and up the side of the hill, which was one
of the slopes of Monte San Michele, there was a big camp with tents
arranged in careful alignment. I mention this latter fact as it was
an unusual spectacle to see an encampment so well “pitched.”
Both the bivouac and the tents were quite protected from shell-fire
by the brow of the hill, but they would have made an easy target
had the Austrians had any aeroplanes here; doubtless, though, all
precautions had been taken by the Italian Commander in the event of
this.
Over the crest of the hill the scene changed as though by magic, and
all sign of military movement disappeared.
The desolate waste of the Carso faced us, and we were in the zone of
death and desolation. The road was absolutely without a vestige of
“cover”; it was but a track across the rocky ground, and now wound
over a series of low, undulating ridges, on which one could trace the
battered remains of trenches.
Huge shell-craters were visible everywhere, and the road itself was
so freshly damaged in places that I involuntarily recalled what the
General had told us, and wondered whether we should get back safely.
The country was so open and uninteresting that one could see all that
there was to see for several miles ahead; it was therefore certain no
scenic surprises were awaiting you.
Meanwhile shells were bursting with unpleasant persistency round
about the road; it was not what one could term an inviting prospect
and recalled an incident that had occurred a few days previously on
this very road.
There was a good deal of firing going on as usual, and the chauffeur
of an officer’s car suddenly lost his nerve and became completely
paralysed with fear, not an altogether unusual case, I believe.
It was a very awkward situation, as the officer knew nothing about
driving, so he was obliged to sit still for over an hour, when,
fortunately for him, a motor lorry came along, and he was extricated
from his predicament.
It seemed to me to be very purposeless going on further, since there
was absolutely nothing to sketch and still less to write about.
Since, however, we could not be far from our destination now, I
thought it best to say nothing.
But where was the village? I knew by what we had been told that we
must be close to it by now; yet there was no trace of habitation
anywhere.
The chauffeur suddenly turned round and, pointing to what appeared
to be a rugged slope just ahead, said quietly, “Ecco San Martino del
Carso.”
I am hardened to the sight of ruins by now after more than two years
at the war, but I must admit I had a bit of a shock when I realized
that this long, low line of shapeless, dust-covered rubble actually
bore a name, and that this was the place we had risked coming out to
see.
No earthquake could have more effectually wiped out this village than
have the combined Italian and Austrian batteries.
We drove up the slope to what had been the commencement of the
houses. To our surprise a motor lorry was drawn up under the shelter
of a bit of wall; two men were with it. What was their object in
being there one could not perceive, as there was no other sign of
life around.
We left the car here, and I went for a stroll round with my sketch
book, whilst Vaucher took his camera and went off by himself to find
a subject worth a photograph.
The Austrian trenches commenced in amongst the ruins: they were
typical of the Carso; only a couple of feet or so in depth, and
actually hewn out of the solid rock, with a low wall of stones in
front as a breastwork.
So roughly were they made that it was positively tiring to walk along
them even a short distance. To have passed any time in them under
fire with splinters of rock flying about must have been a terrible
ordeal, especially at night.
San Martino was certainly the reverse of interesting, and I was
hoping my comrade would soon return so that we could get away, when
the distant boom of a gun was heard, followed by the ominous wail of
a big shell approaching.
The two soldiers and our chauffeur, who were chatting together,
made a dash for cover underneath the lorry; whilst I, with a sudden
impulse I cannot explain, flung myself face downwards on the ground,
as there was no time to make for the shelter of the trench.
The shell exploded sufficiently near to make one very uncomfortable,
but fortunately without doing us any harm. A couple more quickly
followed, but we could see that the gunners had not yet got the
range, so there was nothing to worry about for the moment.
Vaucher soon returned, having had a futile walk; so we made up for it
all by taking snapshots of ourselves under fire, a somewhat idiotic
procedure.
As we drove back to Udine, we were agreed that, considering how
little there had been to see, _le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle_, or
rather _ne valait pas le petrole_, to bring the saying up to date.
A very pleasant little episode a few days later made a welcome
interlude to our warlike energies. The Director of the Censorship,
Colonel Barbarich, received his full colonelcy, and to celebrate the
event the correspondents invited him and his brother officers to a
fish déjeuner at Grado, the little quondam Austrian watering place on
the Adriatic.
We made a “day’s outing” of it; several of the younger men starting
off early so as to have a bathe in the sea before lunch.
It was glorious weather, and we had a “top hole” time. It all went
off without a hitch; the déjeuner was excellent; I don’t think I ever
tasted finer fish anywhere; the wine could not have been better, and,
of course, we had several eloquent speeches to wind up with.
There was just that little “Human” touch about the whole thing
that helped to still further accentuate the _camaraderie_ of the
Censorship, and the good fellowship existing between its officers and
the correspondents.
Grado, though at first sight not much damaged since our visit on the
previous year, had suffered very considerably from the visits of
Austrian aircraft. They were still constantly coming over, in spite
of the apparently adequate defences, and many women and children had
been killed and many more houses demolished.
There was a curious sight in the dining room of the hotel where we
gave the lunch. The proprietor had built a veritable “funk-hole” in a
corner of the room. It was constructed with solid timber, and covered
in with sand-bags in the most approved style.
Inside were a table, chairs, large bed, lamp, food, drink, etc.;
in fact, everything requisite in case a lengthy occupation was
necessary; and there the proprietor and his wife and children would
take refuge whenever the enemy was signalled.
After lunch we were invited to make a trip in one of the new type
of submarine chasers, which are said to be the fastest boats afloat
anywhere, and went for an hour’s run at terrific speed in the
direction of Trieste; in fact, had it not been for a bit of a sea
fog hanging about we should have actually been well in sight of it.
Perhaps it was fortunate for us there was this fog on the water.
Things were a bit quiet in Udine now. Stirring incidents do not occur
every week, and the usual period of comparative inactivity had come
round again whilst further operations were in process of development;
there was but little inducement, therefore, to spend money on petrol
just for the sake of verifying what one knew was happening up at the
lines.
But I had plenty to occupy me in my studio, working on the numerous
sketches the recent doings had provided me with, till something worth
going away for turned up again.
In the interim an event of historic importance occurred.
CHAPTER XX
Declaration of war between Italy and Germany—Effect of declaration
at Udine—Interesting incident—General Cadorna consents to give
me a sitting for a sketch—The curious conditions—Methodic and
business-like—Punctuality and precision—A reminder of old
days—I am received by the Generalissimo—His simple, unaffected
manner—Unconventional chat—“That will please them in England”—My
Gorizia sketch book—The General a capital model—“Hard as nails”—The
sketch finished—Rumour busy again—A visit to Monfalcone—One of
the General’s Aides-de-camp—Start at unearthly hour—Distance to
Monfalcone—Arctic conditions—“In time for lunch”—Town life and
war—Austrian hour for opening fire—Monfalcone—Deserted aspect—The
damage by bombardment—The guns silent for the moment—The ghost of a
town—“That’s only one of our own guns”—A walk to the shipbuilding
yards—The communication trench—The bank of the canal—The pontoon
bridge—The immense red structure—The deserted shipbuilding
establishment—Fantastic forms—Vessels in course of construction—A
strange blight—The hull of the 20,000 ton liner—The gloomy
interior—The view of the Carso and Trieste through a port-hole—Of
soul stirring interest—Hill No. 144—The “daily strafe”—“Just in
time”—Back to Udine “in time for lunch”—Return to the Carso—Attack
on the Austrian positions at Veliki Hribach—New difficulties—Dense
forest—Impenetrable cover—Formidable lines of trenches
captured—Fighting for position at Nova Vas—Dramatic ending—Weather
breaking up—Operations on a big scale perforce suspended—Return
London await events.
CHAPTER XX
On the 28th August, 1916, Italy declared war on Germany. The
declaration had, however, been so long anticipated that, so far as
one was in a position to judge, it made little or no difference in
the already existing state of affairs; since the two nations had to
all intents and purposes been fighting against each other for months,
and at Udine, at any rate, it scarcely aroused any comment outside
the Press.
However, it settled any doubts that might have existed on the
subject, and henceforth the Italians and the Huns were officially
justified in killing each other whenever they got the chance.
Curiously enough, it was through General Cadorna himself that I
learned that war had been declared. It was under somewhat interesting
circumstances, which I will relate.
I had always desired to make a sketch of the Commander-in-Chief of
the Italian Army, and with this idea had asked Colonel Barbarich at
the Censorship if he would try and arrange it for me.
He willingly agreed, but a few days after he told me that he had done
the best he could for me, but that the General had said that for the
moment he was far too occupied, but perhaps he would accede to my
desire a little later. I must therefore have patience.
This looked like a polite way of putting me off, and I accepted it as
such.
Gorizia and other subjects engaged my attention, and I had forgotten
the incident when, to my surprise, one day Colonel Barbarich came
up to me and said that if I still wished to make the sketch of the
General, His Excellency would be pleased to receive me on the
following Monday morning at eleven o’clock precisely, and would give
me a sitting of exactly half-an-hour.
“But,” added Colonel Barbarich, “you must clearly understand it is
only half-an-hour, and also that the General will not talk to you as
he will not be interviewed.”
The “following Monday” was nearly a week ahead, so this was methodic
and business-like indeed.
Of course, in spite of all the conditions attaching to the sitting,
I was delighted to find that my request had not been overlooked, so
I replied jocularly to the Colonel that failing an earthquake or the
ill-timed intervention of an Austrian shrapnel, I would certainly
make it my duty to keep the appointment.
Well, the auspicious day arrived in due course, and so did I in good
time at the Censorship to meet Colonel Barbarich, who was to take
me on to the General, whose quarters were in a palace originally
intended for the Prefect of Udine, only a short distance away.
With the knowledge of the punctuality and precision of the General,
at l’heure militaire, that is to say, as the clock was striking
eleven, we made our way up the grand staircase to the first floor
where the General resided and had his offices.
In a large anti-chamber, with a big model of the Isonzo Front
occupying the whole of the centre, we were received by an
aide-de-camp, who evidently expected us exactly at that moment.
Colonel Barbarich briefly introduced me, then to my surprise left at
once.
The Aide-de-camp took my card into an adjoining apartment, and
returning immediately, said that His Excellency General Cadorna was
waiting for me, and ushered me in.
[Illustration: A grey-haired officer of medium height, whom I
immediately recognised as the Generalissimo, was reading an official
document
_To face page 283_]
Up till then nothing could have been more matter-of-fact and
business-like. It reminded me of the old days when I sought
journalistic interviews with city magnates. But the business-like
impression vanished as soon as I was inside the door.
I found myself in a very large room, well but scantily furnished.
Standing by a table, which was covered with maps, a grey-haired
officer of medium height, whom I immediately recognised as the
Generalissimo, was reading an official document.
He came forward and cordially shook hands with me in the most
informal way. I began to thank him for his courtesy in receiving me,
and was apologising for not being able to speak Italian, when he cut
me short, saying with a laugh:
“I speak but very leetle English,” but “Peut-être vous parlez
Français.” On my telling him I did he exclaimed genially:
“A la bonheur, then we will speak in French. Now what do you want me
to do? I am at your service.”
His simple and unaffected manner put me at once at my ease and
made me instantly feel that this was going to be a “sympathetic”
interview, and not a quasi official reception.
I must mention that I had asked Colonel Barbarich to explain that I
did not want to worry the General, but would be quite content if I
were permitted to make a few jottings in my sketch book of him at
work and some details of his surroundings. This, as I have explained,
was granted, but with the curious proviso that I was not to talk
whilst I was there.
It came, therefore, as a very pleasant surprise to find myself
received in this amicable fashion, and the ice being thus broken, I
said, I should like to sketch him reading a document, as I found him
on entering the room. He willingly acquiesced, and I at once started
my drawing as there was no time to lose.
With the recollection of the stipulation that I was not to open my
mouth during the sitting, and that I was only allowed half-an-hour I
went on working rapidly and in silence.
But I soon found that the General was not inclined to be taciturn,
and in a few moments we were chatting in the most unconventional
manner as if we were old friends. As a matter of fact, I shrewdly
suspected him of interviewing me.
When he learned how long I had been on the Italian Front he was much
interested, and was immediately anxious to know what I thought of his
soldiers. Were they not splendid? He put the question with all the
enthusiasm and affection of a father who is proud of his children.
As may be imagined, I had no difficulty in convincing him that I have
a whole-hearted admiration for the Italian Army after what I had seen
of its wonderful doings at Gorizia and elsewhere.
It was then that he gave me the news of the declaration of war
between Italy and Germany; the morning papers had not published it in
the early editions.
“That will please them in England,” he remarked with a laugh. I
agreed with him that it would, although it had long been expected.
The mention of England reminded me that he had just returned from the
war conference in London, so I asked if he had ever been there before.
“Yes,” he replied with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “forty years
ago; but I do not remember much of it; although my father was
ambassador to England I only lived with him in London for a short
while. It is, of course, much changed since then.”
Whilst thus chatting I was working with feverish haste at my sketch.
I now noticed he was getting a bit impatient at keeping the same
position, so I suggested a few moments rest. He came over to see how
I had got on, and asked if he might look through my sketch book.
It happened to be the one I had used at Gorizia, and the sketches I
had made that day pleased him very much.
“You were fortunate, you were able to see something; I never see
anything,” he remarked quite pathetically.
I felt there was no time to lose if I wanted to get finished in the
half-hour, so hinted at his resuming the pose for a few minutes
longer. He did so at once, and I ventured to tell him in a joking way
that he would make a capital model.
“Well, I am as active now as I ever was,” he replied, taking me
seriously, “and I can ride and walk as well now as I could when I was
a young man.”
This I could well believe, because he looks as “hard as nails,” and
chock full of energy and determination, as the Austrian generals have
discovered to their undoing.
I had now completed my rough sketch sufficiently to be able to finish
it in the studio.
The General expressed his gratification at my having done it so
rapidly, so I suggested another ten minutes some other day to put the
finishing touches.
“Come whenever you like, I shall always be pleased to see you,”
replied His Excellency genially.
Although, as I have said, there was no outward evidence of the
declaration of war making any difference in the conduct of the
campaign, rumours soon began to be persistently busy again, and it
became pretty evident that something big was going to happen on the
Carso before the weather broke up and the autumn rains set in and put
a stop to active operations for some time.
There had been a good deal of talk of operations pending in the
vicinity of Monfalcone, so I got permission to accompany a Staff
Officer who was going there one morning. I had always wanted to see
the place and its much talked of shipbuilding yards, but curiously
enough this was the first opportunity I had had of going there.
My companion was one of General Cadorna’s aides-de-camp, so we went
in one of the big cars belonging to Headquarters. We started at the
usual unearthly hour to which one had become accustomed and which, as
I have pointed out, is delightful in the summer, but is not quite so
fascinating on a raw autumn morning before sunrise.
I was very disappointed when I learned that we should probably be
back in Udine “in time for lunch” unless something untoward occurred
to force us to stay away longer; as I had been looking forward to an
extended run that would last the whole day, but as I was practically
a guest on this occasion I could say nothing. My companion, like so
many Italian officers, spoke French fluently, and turned out to be a
very interesting fellow; and as he had been stationed for some time
at Monfalcone before going on the Staff, he knew the district we were
making for as well as it was possible to know it.
The distance from Udine to Monfalcone is, roughly, the same as from
London to Brighton, and we went via Palmanova, Cervignano, and Ronchi.
It was a bitterly cold morning, with an unmistakable nip of frost
in the air, so although I was muffled up to my ears I was gradually
getting frozen, and my eyes were running like taps. It may be
imagined, therefore, how I was envying my companion his big fur-lined
coat.
I had arrived at the Front in the hottest time of the year, so had
taken no precautions against Arctic conditions. Motoring in Northern
Italy in an open car during the winter months must be a very trying
ordeal indeed, if what I experienced that morning was any criterion
of it.
As we sped along I asked the Aide-de-camp if there was any particular
reason for his starting off so early, and if it was absolutely
necessary for us to be back “in time for lunch.” To my mind the very
thought of it took the interest off the trip and brought it down to
the level of an ordinary pleasure jaunt, which was to me particularly
nauseating.
After all these months at the Front I have not yet been able to
accustom myself to the combination of every-day town life and war,
and I am afraid shall never be able to. Doubtless it is a result of
old time experiences.
My companion treated my query somewhat lightly. “You will be able to
see all there is to see in and round Monfalcone in three hours,” he
replied, “so what is the use therefore of staying longer? Moreover,”
he added seriously, “the Austrian batteries have made a practice
of opening fire every morning at about eleven o’clock, and usually
continue for some hours, so there is the risk of not being able to
come away when one wants to.”
There was, of course, no reply possible, and the more especially as
I am not exactly a glutton for high explosives, as will have been
remarked.
Monfalcone is a nice bright little town, typically Austrian, and
before the war must have been a very busy commercial centre.
When I was there it was absolutely deserted, with the exception of
a few soldiers stationed there. The shops were all closed, grass
was growing in the streets, and it presented the usual desolate
appearance of a place continually under the menace of bombardment.
The damage done to it up till then was really unimportant
considering the reports that had been spread as to its destruction.
Many houses had been demolished, as was to be expected, but I was
surprised to find how relatively undamaged it appeared after the
months of daily gun-fire to which it had been subjected.
We left the car in a convenient courtyard where it was under cover,
and made our way to the Headquarters of the Divisional Commandant,
where, as a matter of etiquette I had to leave my card.
For the moment the guns were silent, and there was a strange quietude
in the streets that struck me as being different to anything I
had noticed anywhere else, except perhaps in Rheims during the
bombardment when there was an occasional lull.
One had the feeling that at any moment something awful might happen.
Even the soldiers one met seemed to me to have a subdued air, and the
drawn expression which is brought about by constant strain on the
nerves.
Instinctively one walked where one’s footsteps made the least
noise, in order to be able to hear in good time the screech of an
approaching shell.
It had turned out a lovely day, and in the brilliant sunshine
Monfalcone should have been a bright and cheerful place, instead
of which it was but the ghost of a town with the shadow of death
continually overhanging it.
The peaceful stillness was not to be of long duration. Silence for
any length of time had been unknown in Monfalcone for many a long day.
Whilst we were having a talk with the officers at Headquarters there
was a loud detonation, apparently just outside the building. To
my annoyance I could not restrain an involuntary start, as it was
totally unexpected.
“That’s only one of our guns,” remarked, with a smile, a Major with
whom I was chatting, and who had noticed the jump I made. “The
Austrians won’t commence for another couple of hours at least,” he
added.
My companion and I then started off to walk down to the shipbuilding
yard, about a mile and a half from the town, and which was, of
course, the principal sight of the place.
One had not gone far when one had some idea how exposed was the
position of Monfalcone. A deep communication trench commenced in the
main street and continued alongside the road the whole way down to
the port—no one was allowed to walk outside it.
The object of this was to prevent any movement being seen from the
Austrian batteries, which were only a comparatively short distance
away, though it must have been no secret to them what was going on in
Monfalcone.
The Italian guns were now getting busy, and the noise was deafening,
but still there was no response from the enemy; it was evidently true
that he worked to time, and it was not yet eleven o’clock.
Although only a mile and a half, the walk seemed longer because one
could see nothing on either side, the walls of the trench being quite
six feet high; but at last we came out on the bank of what looked
like a broad canal. This is part of a waterway constructed to connect
up the port with the railway.
The communication trench now took the form of a sunken pathway
winding along the bank under the trees, and was quite picturesque in
places.
At last we reached the end, and facing us was the Adriatic as calm as
a lake, and away on the horizon one could see the hills that guard
Trieste.
We crossed the mouth of the canal by a pontoon bridge, which I
believe had been abandoned by the Austrians when they evacuated
Monfalcone at the beginning of the war.
A short distance ahead, towering above a conglomeration of long sheds
on the low-lying ground, was an immense red structure, the outlines
of which recalled something familiar. As one got nearer one saw that
it was the unfinished steel hull of a gigantic ocean liner, and that
the red colouring was caused by the accumulation of rust from long
exposure.
We soon reached the entrance to a vast shipbuilding establishment.
There were no bolts or bars to prevent our walking in.
The whole place was deserted, and all around us was a spectacle of
ruin and desolation that was more impressive than actual havoc caused
by bombardment.
In the immense workshops the machinery was rotting away; on the
benches lay the tools of workmen; strange metal forms, portions of
the framework of big ships lay here and there on the sodden ground
like huge red skeletons of ante-deluvian animals.
Many vessels had been in the course of construction, mostly for
the Mercantile fleet of Austria, though there were some destroyers
and war-craft on the stocks as well. Rust, of a weird intensity of
colour. I had never seen before, was over everything like a strange
blight.
Alongside the sheds was the hull of the big liner one had seen in the
distance. A 20,000 ton boat, I was told, which was being built for
the Austrian Lloyd Line.
The wooden slipway and the cradle supports had caught fire and had
been destroyed, and this I was told had caused the keel to break, so
that the hull was now but a derelict mass of steelwork which could
never be floated.
[Illustration: To advance through this jungle called for all the
cool, disciplined courage of the Italian soldier (_see page 293_)
_To face page 298_]
Had it not been for the satisfaction one felt in gazing on the ruins
of a prospective addition to the Mercantile Navy of the enemy, this
leviathan of wasted industry and material would have appeared
quite tragic.
The companion-way used by the workmen was still in position, so we
clambered up into the gloomy interior and had a walk round, our
footsteps echoing mournfully along the cavernous emptiness of the
decks.
Through a port-hole we got a very fine view of the Carso and the
Italian and Austrian positions in between Monfalcone and Duino;
whilst in the distance, some fifteen miles away, one could distinctly
see with the glasses the white buildings of Trieste, so near and yet
so far!
There was evidently a big fight going on at that moment in the
direction of a hill not far away from Monfalcone, known as No. 144,
which had been frequently referred to in the _communiqués_, and you
could see the bursting shells and hear the booming of the guns.
It was a panorama of soul-stirring interest, and one could have spent
hours gazing on it; but time was flying and we had to be thinking of
returning.
I had not attached much credence to the statement that the Austrians
had established a sort of precedent as to time with regard to opening
fire every day, but out of curiosity I glanced at my watch as we
started back.
It may have been a mere coincidence, but it was just on eleven
o’clock. Beyond, however, the dull booming of the guns in the
direction of Hill No. 144, there was no sign yet of artillery
activity anywhere near Monfalcone.
We had crossed the pontoon bridge and were making our way along the
canal bank when there was the report of a gun not very far away in
the enemy’s lines, and the screech of a shell passing over our heads
proved beyond a doubt that the “Daily Strafe” was about to commence.
The shell burst on the outskirts of the town and in the direction in
which we were going. My companion, who was walking on ahead, called
out jocularly that we should be “just in time.”
From now the firing increased every minute, and it seemed to me that
the sole objective of the Austrian gunners was the place where we had
left our car.
We met several groups of soldiers as we went along, and I noticed
that if a shell happened to be coming over just then, the majority of
the men always stopped and crouched down against the protecting wall
of the trench.
This prompted my asking my companion what he considered to be the
best thing to do when under fire. “Take no notice of it,” was his
laconic reply.
In Monfalcone the streets were nearly deserted, though whether in
consequence of the shelling commencing or some other cause, I could
not tell; anyhow, as there was nothing further to see that day we
returned to Udine “in time for lunch.”
A couple of days later I was back again on the Carso. A big attack
on the Austrian positions at Veliki Hribach, near Doberdo, having
suddenly developed.
Difficulties had to be surmounted here which were totally different
to any previously encountered, as the offensive was made through
close-growing woodland.
An important sector of the Carso district to the north of Trieste
consists of wooded country, and directly bars the Italian advance
in that region. The ground in question was artificially planted by
the Austrian Government some years ago under a scheme to reclaim the
Carso and convert it into forest tracts.
Plantations of fir trees were laid out over a large area, and these
are now grown into the woods, which present a very serious obstacle
to the Italians.
Sheltered by the almost impenetrable cover which the dense
growth of immature trees offers, the Austrians had constructed
Torres-Vedras-like series of fortified positions among the trees
along the ridges that intersect the district. In the Veliki Hribach
stretch of woods alone no fewer than eleven formidable lines of
trenches have been captured.
The trees are of too young growth to stop bullets; and hidden in
their trenches the Austrians could sweep the approaches at ground
level, lying low behind abattis and a mass of wire entanglements.
The whole aspect of the country here reminded me strangely of parts
of the West Australian “bush,” with, of course, the exception that
these are fir trees.
Still, there was so much resemblance that it would have been as easy
to lose oneself here in the dense growth as it is in the “bush.”
To advance through this jungle called for all the cool disciplined
courage of the Italian soldier. There was no opportunity for a wild
headlong assault on the Austrian trenches; they had to be virtually
“stalked,” as the cover afforded by the saplings was so illusory as
to give practically no protection at all.
The wood in which I made my sketch had been “blazed” beforehand by a
handful of the most daring spirits among the men; not by “barking”
the trees, which would have taken too long, but by means of whitened
stones dropped on the ground at intervals to indicate the direction
the troops were to follow.
The capture of the Veliki Hribach position proved that the Italian
soldier can be relied on under any circumstances, however trying.
The day following the offensive developed in the direction of Nova
Vas, about a mile and a half east of Doberdo, on the heights of San
Grado di Merna, and near Lokvica, with continued success for the
Italians.
The fighting for the position at Nova Vas on September 15th in
particular ended in so dramatic a fashion that it will long be
remembered by all who witnessed it.
After a furious preparatory bombardment for hours by the Italian
heavy guns, to which the Austrians replied vigorously, there was a
sudden cessation of the Italian fire.
The crisis had come: the infantry were to attack. But while waiting
word from elsewhere, there was a brief pause.
Next, suddenly, to the general amazement, within six minutes of the
guns ceasing, one saw hundreds of men abandoning the Austrian front
trenches. They held up their hands and waved handkerchiefs wildly in
token of surrender.
Out they poured, like driven rats stampeded by terriers from a barn.
They came racing across the stretch of “No man’s land” between the
opposing trenches, straight for the Italians, taking their chance
amidst the Austrian shells, still falling briskly.
The spectacular effect of the grey-coated figures, without arms
or accoutrements, running towards them, hands up, and frantically
shouting “Kamerad! Kamerad!” was startlingly dramatic.
The Italian soldiers were so amazed at the sight that, regardless of
the risk of exposing themselves, they showed themselves over their
own parapets and stood gazing at what was taking place.
In all, 2,117 Austrian prisoners mere made that day, including 71
officers.
Torrential rain set in during the night, and the captured trenches
were found to be in so complete a state of ruin and afforded so
little shelter that the troops were brought back to their original
positions.
After this offensive the weather showed unmistakable signs of
breaking up; bitterly cold winds with heavy rains every day put
a stop to all military movements of any importance. Although it
is certain that no weather, however bad, will entirely arrest the
activity of General Cadorna for even 24 hours, it was apparent,
however, that the resumption of operations on anything like a big
scale would have to be suspended _bon gré mal gré_ till the early
spring.
To spend the winter in Udine, therefore, presented no particular
attraction for me, so I decided to return to London and there await
events, in readiness to go back if necessary at a moment’s notice.
It was certainly with regret that I was leaving the Italian Front,
for I had spent many glorious days with King Victor Emmanuel’s heroic
soldiers, but my regret was softened by the thought that I should
soon be returning to assist at the final victory.
INDEX
ADIGE, RIVER, 99, 100, 151
Ala, 100
Allessi, Rino, 200
_Alpini, the_, 41, 42, 43, 45, 49, 75, 85, 86, 105, 121-126, 138,
140, 184, 185
Altopiano, Tableland of, 157, 165
Aosta, Duke of, 238
Aquileia, 144, 145
Arci, Signor, 196
Arsiero, 152, 156, 157, 159, 163, 184
Asiago, 152, 168, 169, 178
Astico, valley of, 157
Austrians, the;
withdraw across the Indrio, 37, 38;
defence at Monte Nero, 40-43;
advance in the Trentino, 151-156;
advance in the Asiago region, 163;
retire from Gorizia, 209-234;
characteristics of, 262, 263, 269
Avostaunis, 121
BACCI, BACCIO, 64, 240, 246, 249
Baldassarre, Signor, 63
Barbarich, Colonel, 153, 276-283
Barzilai, Signor, 63
Barzini, Luigi, 27, 29, 64, 210, 217, 223, 232
Basset, Serge, 65
Bauderesque, M., 65
Beak, Vice-Consul, 20
Beaumont, M., 145
Bedolo, Gino Calza, 65, 66, 104, 119
Belcredi, M., 68
Belluno, 15, 103, 115, 117
Belvedere, 145
Benedetti, M., 163
Berchtold, Count, 3
_Bersaglieri, the_, 75, 231-238
Berthod, Dr., 33, 132
Bissolati, Leonida, 196, 203-222
Bitetti, M., 240-246
Bologna, 15
Bormio, 79, 80, 82, 92
Boulogne, 46
Brazzano, 133, 134
Brenta, River, 151
Brescia, 15, 64, 67, 68, 71, 72, 78, 97
Brioni, Monte, 78
CADORNA, GENERAL, 15, 37, 44, 97, 98, 135, 137, 149, 150, 152, 158,
163, 179, 183, 189, 237, 238, 255, 256, 281, 282, 283, 285, 295
Cadorre, 135
Cafarelli, General, 58, 132
Cantalupo Roberto, 189
Capello, General, 190, 196, 203-205
Caporetto, 37, 133, 136, 139
Caprili, 109
_Carabinieri, the_, 166, 175, 230, 231
Carnia, 135
Carniola, 140
Carrère, Jean, 64, 68
Carso, Operations on the, 134, 141, 143, 196, 196, 223, 239, 240,
255-266, 270, 271, 273, 275, 285, 291, 292
Castalleto, the, 184
Censorship, the Italian, 15, 66, 67, 71, 72, 126, 153, 154, 155, 185,
209, 276, 282
Cenzio, M., 157
Cervignano, 37, 133, 144, 286
Chamonix, 81
Chizzola, 101
Cimone, Mont., 157, 184, 185
Croda, Rosso, 116
Civiedale, 133, 143
Clericetti, Colonel, 156, 199, 209
Col dei Bos, 184
Col di Lana, 105, 106, 107, 108, 117
Colfreddo, 116
Cortina d’Ampezzo, 105, 115, 116, 117
Cormons, 37, 38, 39, 133, 134, 135, 136, 191, 200
Corrada, Monte, 44
Cosich, Monte, 259, 261
Cox, Harold 239
Cristallo, Monte, 103, 116, 197
Cure, Capel, 63
_DAILY CHRONICLE, THE_, 65
_Daily Mail, The_, 65
_Daily News, The_, 65
_Daily Telegraph, The_, 65
Desenzano, 78
Doberdo, 258, 260, 262, 263, 264, 266, 292, 293
Dolomites, The, 104, 115
Donohoe, Martin, 65
Duino, 291
ELIA, GENERAL, 16
FALZAREGO PASS, 105
Fiera di Primero, 103
Florence, 59, 60, 63
Fogazzaro, Antonio, 159
Fogliano, 258, 259
Folkestone, 4
Forcola, The, 81, 85, 86, 88, 89, 90, 92
Fraccaroli, Arnaldo, 64, 243, 246
Freikoffel, The, 118, 121
Friuli, Plain of, 20, 38, 132, 134
GALLIO, FOREST OF, 165, 166
Garda, Lake of, 73, 76, 77, 78, 151
Garibaldi, Peppino, 22
Gemona, 118, 126, 127, 131
Germany, Italy declares war on, 281
Gobi Desert, The, 270
Gorizia, Italian attack on, 44, 134, 150, 154, 190, 200, 203;
capture of bridgehead, 199, 200;
capture of city, 209-234, 237-240;
the city after capture, 242-250, 255, 256, 270, 281, 284, 285
Gradisca, 44, 142, 144, 240, 256
Grado, 144, 145, 276
Grafenberg, 215, 216, 241, 242, 249
Giudicaria, Valley of, 73
IDRO, LAKE, 79
_Illustrated London News, The_, 1, 65
Indrio, River, 37
Ingram, Charles, 3, 4, 152
Interrotto, Monte, 167, 171
Isonzo, River, Operations on the, 42, 72, 74, 131-146, 186, 210-215,
250, 251, 257, 270, 282
ITALIAN ARMY, THE, impressions of, 38, 39, 50, 51, 76, 122, 123, 124,
258, 259, 269;
crosses the Indrio, 37;
attacks Monte Nero, 40-43;
storms Monte Cristallo, 116;
counter-offensive in the Trentino, 183;
begins attack on Gorizia, 189-192, 195;
captures bridge-head, 199-205;
captures city, 209-234
Italy, War Fever in, 3, 4;
declares war on Austria, 9;
declares war on Germany, 281, 284
JEFFRIES, J. M. N., 65, 119
KUK, MONTE, 134
LAMB, COLONEL, 54
Livinallongo Pass, 105
Lokvica, 293
London, Jack, 270
Lucinico, 210, 211
MACCHIO, BARON VON, 9
McClure, W. K., 65, 68
Marazzi, General, 200, 201, 214, 233
Marmolada, Monte, 104
Massey, W. T., 63
Medea, 37
Miceli, Giovanni, 64, 201
Milan, 79, 153
Molinari, Aldo, 64, 67, 119
Monfalcone, 44, 133, 189, 286-292
Montecroce, 118
_Morning Post, The_, 65
Mossa, 200, 201
NATHAN, LIEUTENANT, 136
Nero, Monte, 40, 41, 42, 43, 137, 138
Northcliffe, Lord, 239
Novara, 57
Nova Vas, 260, 293, 294
OPPACHIASELLA, 261, 271
Oyetti, Ugo, 216
PADUA, 15
Pal Grande, 118-125
Palmanova, 141, 142, 271, 286
Pal Piccolo, 118, 119
Paluzza, 118
Paris, 4, 6
Pavia, Mayor of, 237
Pilcante, 101
Piva, Gino, 64, 189
Plava, 44, 137
Podgora, 134, 197, 212, 216, 217, 241
Porro, General, 66
Pozzachio, Fort, 99
Prade, Georges, 65
QUARIN, MONT, 134
Quirino, Mont, 37
RANCIO, 123
Rateau, Jules, 65, 79, 86, 88, 92
Redipuglia, 259
Rheims, 288
Riva, 76, 77
Romans, 271
Rome, 9, 10, 11
Rombon, Monte, 140, 141
Ronchi, 286
Roveretto, 99, 101, 151
SABOTTINA, MONTE, 134, 190, 191, 192, 196, 197
Sagrado, 44, 240, 249, 256, 257, 258, 265, 271
San Daniele, Monte, 219
San Floriano, 204
San Gabriele, Mont, 44, 197, 211, 215, 219
San Grado di Merna, 293
San Michele, Mont, 143, 190, 197, 239, 240, 249, 250, 256, 273
San Pietro, 44
Santa Luccia, 44
San Marco, 44
Santa Maria, 44
Santo, Monte, 134, 211, 215, 219
Sdraussina, 249, 250
Savogna, 141, 249
Schluderbach, Valley of, 116, 117
Smith, Ernest, 65
Stelvio Pass, The, 73, 79, 81
Stivo, Hills, The, 101
Subida, 135
Svinjak, 140
TERNOVA, 133, 134
Terzo, 37, 133
Timau, Monte, 118, 121
_Times, The_, 65
Tofana, 116
Tolmezzo, 118
Tolmino, 38, 40, 136, 137, 141
Trent, 98
Trentino, the Operations in, 97, 114, 135, 151, 155, 183, 184, 189
Trieste, 255, 269, 290, 292
Turin, 7
Tyrol, Austrian, The, 89
UDINE, 15, 20, 21-33, 37, 39, 42, 43, 49, 50-59, 131, 133, 141, 146,
153, 154, 156, 186, 186, 187, 188, 190, 199, 205, 238, 242,
251, 266, 276, 277, 281, 282, 282, 286, 292
VAL SUGANA, 151
Valtellino, Valley of, 79
Vaucher, Robert, 65, 271, 276
Veliki, Hribach, 292, 293
Venadoro, 115, 117
Venetia, 114
Venice, 15, 16, 17, 23
Venzone, 118
Verona, 15, 72, 97, 98
Vicenza, 15, 103, 155, 156
Victor Emmanuel, King, 49, 50, 295
Vipulzano, 190, 197, 202
Vitry-le-Francois, 142
WARREN, WHITNEY, 239
Wells, H. G., 239
Weillschott, Captain, 153
Women carrying barbed wire, 118
ZEBIO, MONTE, 167
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when
a predominant preference was found in the original book. Some
missing — (mdash) separators have been inserted in the Table of
Contents.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Table of Contents:
Pg xii: ‘Descenzano’ replaced by ‘Desenzano’.
Pg xiii: ‘305mn. guns’ replaced by ‘305mm. guns’.
Pg xvi: ‘The battlefiield’ replaced by ‘The battlefield’.
Pg xviii: ‘Francesco Guiseppi’ replaced by ‘Francesco Guiseppe’.
Pg xxiv: ‘298’ replaced by ‘270’.
Main text:
Pg 17: ‘of Venetain life’ replaced by ‘of Venetian life’.
Pg 74: ‘unbelieveable that’ replaced by ‘unbelievable that’.
Pg 80: ‘the aclivity was’ replaced by the ‘acclivity was’.
Pg 89: ‘Brobdignagian cliff’ replaced by ‘Brobdingnagian cliff’.
Pg 93: ‘Asti Spamanti’ replaced by ‘Asti Spumante’.
Pg 116: ‘Falzarrego Pass’ replaced by ‘Falzarego Pass’.
Pg 120: ‘incessant fusilade’ replaced by ‘incessant fusillade’.
Pg 125: ‘constant fusilade’ replaced by ‘constant fusillade’.
Pg 126: ‘military tattoo’ replaced by ‘military tatoo’.
Pg 138: ‘retrogade direction’ replaced by ‘retrograde direction’.
Pg 139: ‘a spec of grit’ replaced by ‘a speck of grit’.
Pg 140: ‘Rombon and Svenjak’ replaced by ‘Rombon and Svinjak’.
Pg 149: ‘to develope it’ replaced by ‘to develop it’.
Pg 155: ‘the newpsaper line’ replaced by ‘the newspaper line’.
Pg 157: ‘of the Altepiano’ replaced by ‘of the Altopiano’.
Pg 157: ‘about if from’ replaced by ‘about it from’.
Pg 165: ‘the Altepiano beyond’ replaced by ‘the Altopiano beyond’.
Pg 207: ‘Francesco Guiseppi’ replaced by ‘Francesco Guiseppe’.
Pg 222: ‘Signor Bisolati’ replaced by ‘Signor Bissolati’.
Pg 233: ‘advisd use not’ replaced by ‘advised us not’.
Pg 261: ‘Monte Cossich’ replaced by ‘Monte Cosich’.
Index:
Pg 297: ‘Altepiano, Tableland’ replaced by ‘Altopiano, Tableland’.
Pg 297: ‘Bersagheri, the’ replaced by ‘Bersaglieri, the’.
Pg 298: ‘Descenzano’ replaced by ‘Desenzano’.
Pg 299: ‘Monte Cristello’ replaced by ‘Monte Cristallo’.
Pg 300: ‘Svenjak’ replaced by ‘Svinjak’.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Six months on the Italian front" ***
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