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.