We gladly accepted his suggestion, so it was arranged we should start

early the next day as we had a stiff climb before us. We then went

back to the village.

It was getting towards nightfall, and the narrow main street recalled

vaguely Chamonix. It was crowded with Alpine soldiers, and in the

dusk they conveyed some impression of mountaineering tourists, the

illusion being heightened by the clank of their hobnailed boots on

the cobbles and the alpenstoks they all carried.

The village had not been evacuated as most of them are near the

Front, so there were women and children about. The principal hotel

was open, and we got two good rooms for the night, and what was more

to the point, for we were both famished after our long drive, one

of the best dinners I have had anywhere in Italy, the big cities

included. It was a _table d’hôte_ for the officers, but we were

informed there was “probably no objection” to our dining at it.

Our appearance in the dining room created no little surprise, as we

were the only civilians present, our Press badges especially exciting

much comment, as this was the first time that correspondents had been

here.

Following the lead of my colleague, I bowed first to the Colonel,

who was at the head of the table, then to the rest of the officers

present, and we sat down at a small table by ourselves, amidst the

somewhat embarrassing attention we were attracting. This soon wore

off, however, as Italian officers are gentlemen not Huns, and it was

evidently realised that we had permission to come to Bormio or we

should not have ventured to be there.

CHAPTER VIII

On the summit of the Forcola—We start off in “military” time—Our

guide—Hard climbing—Realize we are no longer youthful—Under

fire—Necessary precautions—Our goal in sight—An awful bit of

track—Vertigo—A terrifying predicament—In the Forcola position—A

gigantic ant-heap—Unique position of the Forcola—A glorious

panorama—The Austrian Tyrol—The three frontiers—Shown round

position—Self-contained arsenal—Lunch in the mess-room—Interesting

chat—The “observation post”—The goniometre—Return to Bormio—Decide

to pass another night there—An invitation from the sergeants—Amusing

incident.

CHAPTER VIII

The summit of the Forcola is only nine kilometres as the crow flies

from Bormio, but we were told that it meant covering at least three

times that distance to reach our destination, and the hard climb

would make it appear much more.

We therefore got off in military time in the morning, and went a bit

of the way in the car till we came to a sort of wayside châlet, quite

Swiss in appearance, where a detachment of _Alpini_ was stationed.

On presenting our letter from the Colonel at Headquarters, the

Officer in command ordered one of his men to accompany us, so leaving

the car here to await our return, we started off without delay. Our

guide, a brawny and typical young Italian mountaineer, leading the

way at a pace that soon compelled us to ask him to slow down a bit.

We had been advised, as we were unaccustomed to climbing, not to

“rush” it at first, as we had at least two hours of strenuous

plodding to reach the fort, and it was a very hot day, which would

make us feel the strain the more.

To our athletic _cicerone_ this was evidently but an ordinary walk

in the day’s work; in fact, so light did he make of it that he

obligingly insisted on carrying our overcoats and other paraphernalia

in spite of his being encumbered with his rifle, ammunition belt and

heavy cape.

We were not long in discovering that the stiffness of the climb

we were undertaking had not been exaggerated, and also that we

were neither of us as young as we had been. This latter point in

particular I recollect was irritatingly brought home to me at one

time when we were really making splendid progress as we thought.

Some _Alpini_, in full marching order, caught us up and passed us

as easily as if we had been standing still. However, it was no

good being discouraged because we were no longer youthful, and we

continued to make our way slowly but surely up the winding rocky

track.

We had got about half way, and so far there had been nothing in

the nature of an incident, and no indication whatever that we were

actually right up at the Front and within range of the Austrian

batteries, for a dead silence had reigned in the mountains all the

morning.

Suddenly, as we were crossing a comparatively level bit of

boulder-strewn ground, the report of a big gun resounded in the

still air, and in a few seconds we heard a wailing sort of shriek

approaching, and an instant after the loud crash of a shell bursting

a short distance away.

We stopped and looked at each other, uncertain what to do as there

was no cover anywhere near. Our guide settled it for us without a

moment’s hesitation.

“The Austrians have seen us, that’s why they have commenced firing in

this direction; they probably think we may be part of a detachment of

troops going up to the fort—we must hurry on, and with intervals of a

couple of hundred yards or so between us.”

There was no time to lose, for whilst he was speaking another shell

burst nearer than the previous one.

So off we went again with the _Alpino_ leading the way. Rateau was

in the centre, and I brought up the rear. Two hundred yards are not

much on the level, but on a steep mountain track the distances are

difficult to estimate, so the soldier was quite out of sight at times

from where I was.

The firing still continued in a desultory manner, shells dropping

aimlessly here and there, with no particular object so far as one

could judge, but probably with the idea of hampering any movements of

troops on the mountain. Meanwhile there was no response whatever from

the Italian batteries. They were letting the Austrians waste their

ammunition since they were so minded.

Our goal at last came into view high above on the summit of a

cyclopean wall of rock and seemingly an inaccessible point to reach.

It looked an awful place to climb up to and only to be tackled by

mountaineers, yet somewhere on that precipitous height there was

surely a means of ascent indistinguishable from below; and so it

proved.

The track now became more and more steep and zig-zag, till at length

the windings terminated, and there appeared a long straight stretch,

going without a break along the face of the bluff, up to the summit

at an angle of at least 60 degrees. Even now when I recall it, it

makes me shudder.

It was certainly not more than a couple of feet in width, and

overhung an abyss hundreds of feet deep. The mere aspect of it almost

gave me vertigo.

Hesitation, however, was out of the question after coming so far;

moreover, I was now quite alone, as my companions had already reached

our destination; I had to go on.

Within a few yards of the top I happened unconsciously to look down.

The effect produced by the sight of the yawning gulf beneath me was

terrifying: a giddiness came over me, my knees began to tremble, and

had I not managed to turn and clutch frantically at a projecting

piece of rock I should have lost my balance and fallen over.

I shut my eyes and held on for a few minutes, not daring to stir;

then, with a strong effort of will, I pulled myself together

sufficiently to edge along with my face to the rock and grasp hold

of some barbed wire outside the opening leading into the fort; then,

of course, I was safe.

Almost needless to add that when I got inside I did not relate my

perilous experience. You are not supposed to be subject to vertigo

when you tackle mountain climbing; it might prove awkward for your

comrades.

A wonderful spectacle confronted me as I looked round. The Forcola

is nearly 10,000 feet high, and here, right on the summit, was a

veritable citadel in course of construction, with armoured trenches,

sandbag emplacements for big guns, barbed-wire entanglements; in

fact, everything that modern military science can contrive to insure

impregnability.

The whole place was teeming with activity, and looked like a gigantic

ant-heap; on all sides soldiers were to be seen at work, and it

was evident that those in charge of this important position were

determined to leave nothing to luck. The little that nature had left

unprotected was being made good by the untiring efforts and genius of

the Italians, and the Austrian chances of ever capturing the place

are practically _nil_. Its curious configuration largely contributes

to its impregnability and power of resistance if ever besieged.

Behind its line of armoured trenches is a deep hollow, which could

shelter an army corps if necessary; and here, under complete cover,

are well-built, barrack-like buildings, in which the troops can be

comfortably quartered during the long winter months when the fort is

buried under yards of snow and practically isolated from the outer

world.

[Illustration: As he whirled past in the big car (_see page 50_)

_To face page 88_]

The position on the Forcola is probably unique in the world, as it is

situated exactly at a point where three frontiers meet: the Italian,

Austrian and Swiss. From its sandbag ramparts on the front facing

the Austrians one has the most sublime vista of mountain scenery it

would be possible to conceive. It is impossible in mere words to

attempt to convey anything but the faintest impression of it, yet it

would be a sin of omission not to endeavour to.

As I gazed in front of me, the marvellous beauty of the scene held me

in rapt suspense, and for a few moments the war passed from my mind.

The Austrian Tyrol was before me, a panorama of wondrous mountain

peaks stretching away into the mist of the far distance, and towering

above the highest was the mighty Ortler, crowned with eternal snow,

and positively awe-inspiring in its stately grandeur.

My reverie was abruptly disturbed by the boom of a big gun. I was

back again amongst realities, yet how puny did the biggest efforts

of mankind at war appear in comparison with all this splendour of

nature. Had it not been for the echoes produced by these giant peaks

the report of even the heavy artillery would probably have scarcely

been heard.

The Swiss and Austrian frontiers meet on the summit of a

Brobdingnagian cliff of rock of strange formation, which towers

above the Forcola. Through field glasses the frontier guards and the

blockhouses are plainly discernable.

This overhanging proximity of the enemy strikes me as constituting

a constant menace to the Italian position, as every movement within

its _enceinte_ is visible from the height above. The fact also of

the Austrian and Swiss frontier guards being so close to each other

as to be able to fraternise must inevitably conduce to espionage.

Doubtless, however, all this has been well considered by the

Italians, and they are not likely to be caught napping.

Rateau and I had a very cordial reception, and the officer in

command of the position took a visible pride in showing us round

it and explaining everything, whilst I made a lot of interesting

sketches. The ability and rapidity with which it had been constructed

and fortified were worthy of the very highest praise. Such a fortress

brought into being in so short a time and at such an altitude was in

itself such a marvel of military capacity that one was lost in wonder

at it all. Evidently no obstacle presented by nature deterred its

accomplishment.

In the emplacements were guns of a calibre one certainly never

expected to see except in the valley, and you were lost in conjecture

how the feat of getting them up here was achieved.

Everything was approaching completion, and by the time the snow set

in and the position would be practically cut off from the lower world

it would be a big, self-contained arsenal with all that was necessary

for carrying on its share of the general scheme of operations on the

Frontier without extraneous assistance should the rigours of the

Alpine winter render it unapproachable.

In the warfare in the mountains, positions develop more or less

into isolated communities, as the men seldom have an opportunity of

going down to the busy world below, besides which the summer is so

brief at these altitudes. Even on the date we were at the Forcola,

the twentieth of August, there were already unmistakable signs of

the approach of winter; the air was decidedly frosty—there had been

a fall of snow a few hours previously, and most of the peaks were

powdered with silvery white.

We gladly accepted the invitation to have some lunch in the

mess-room, for the keen air had given both of us healthy appetites,

and while we were doing justice to a well-cooked steak with fried

potatoes and a flask of very excellent _Valtellino_. I had a chat

with some of the younger officers, and learned to my surprise that

they had not stirred from the place since they had come up nearly

three months before, and they had no hope of getting leave for a long

time to come as things were developing and the winter coming along.

A visit from two civilians like ourselves, who could give them some

news of the outside world, was therefore a veritable red-letter day

for them.

Yet, in spite of the monotony of their existence, these cheery

fellows did not complain. There was always plenty to occupy their

minds, they said, and prevent them from brooding over old times. To

defend the Forcola at all hazards was now their sole pre-occupation;

and after all, they added, with an attempt at mirth, they might

easily have been stationed in a still more isolated spot and with

fewer companions. Such admirable equanimity was only what I expected

to find now that I knew the Italian soldier, so it did not surprise

me at all.

After lunch, as the Austrian batteries seemed to be getting busier,

we strolled up to the “observation post,” a sort of tunnel in

which was a telephone installation and an instrument known as a

“goniometre,” a powerful telescope in miniature, combined with a

novel kind of range-finder, through which the slightest movement of

the enemy can be instantly detected and telephoned to the officers in

command of the different gun emplacements. The machine is always in

readiness, as it is so fixed that once it is focussed it requires no

re-adjustment.

There was a small, irregular hole at the end of the tunnel that

faced the enemy’s line, and through this the goniometre pointed. Two

soldiers were on duty, one to keep his eye on the opposite mountain,

the other to manipulate the telephone. It evidently required some

practice to use the telescope, as I had a good look through it and

could scarcely make out anything.

When we visited the post the Italian batteries were not yet replying

to what I was informed were only the usual daily greetings of the

Austrians, but their response would doubtless be sent in due course,

judging from the conversation of the operator with the telephone.

Everything we saw was so absorbingly interesting that we should have

liked to remain on the Forcola many hours more, but time was getting

on by now, and we had to think of getting back.

As may be imagined, after my experience coming up I was particularly

dreading this moment to arrive. I thought it best, however, to say

nothing and trust to luck in getting down without another attack of

vertigo. When we said goodbye to our genial hosts, several soldiers

were about to descend also, so we were to have company.

“Three minutes interval between each man and go as fast as possible,”

called out an officer, and off went everyone at a given signal.

Rateau was just before me and, as it turned out, I was last.

I felt like the prisoners in the Conciergerie during the reign of

terror must have felt as they waited their turn to go out to the

fatal tumbril. Through the opening in the sandbags only a bit of the

narrow pathway was visible, as it turned sharply to the right and

went down the face of the cliff beyond. It was like looking out on

limitless space.

“Well, goodbye and a pleasant journey,” said the officer to me when

my turn came.

Out I went, putting my hand over my left eye to avoid looking into

the void, and I managed to run like this all the way down.

It was getting late when we got back to Bormio, so we decided to

remain another night, and were glad we did, as an amusing incident

occurred during the evening.

Whilst we were finishing dinner at the hotel, we received a note

inviting us afterwards to smoke a cigar and take a glass of wine with

the sergeants of the regiment quartered in the town. Of course we

accepted and duly turned up.

The reception—for such it was—took place in a large private room of

the hotel we were staying in, and we were greeted with the utmost

cordiality.

There was a big display of a certain very famous brand of champagne

on a side table, and the corks soon began to fly merrily; toasts

were given as usual, and everything was pleasant. During a pause a

sergeant next to me, who spoke French fluently, asked me how I liked

the wine.

In jocular vein I replied that it was excellent, but it was a pity

it is German, as it is well known that the owner of the vineyards

near Rheims is at present interned in France. To my surprise he took

my words seriously; there was an icy moment as he communicated my

remarks to his comrades, and then, as though with one accord, there

was a crash of broken glass, and we had to finish up the evening for

patriotic reasons on _Asti Spumante_.

CHAPTER IX

From Brescia to Verona—Absence of military movement in rural

districts—Verona—No time for sightseeing—The axis of the

Trentino—Roveretto, the focus of operations—Fort Pozzachio—A “dummy

fortress”—Wasted labour—Interesting incident—Excursion to Ala—Lunch

to the correspondents—Ingenious ferry-boat on River Adige—The Valley

of the Adige—Wonderful panorama—“No sketching allowed”—Curious

finish of incident—Austrian positions—Desperate fighting—From

Verona to Vicenza—The positions of Fiera di Primiero—Capture of

Monte Marmolada—The Dolomites—Their weird fascination—A striking

incident—The attempted suicide—The Col di Lana—Up the mountains

on mules—Sturdy _Alpini_—Method of getting guns and supplies to

these great heights—The observation post and telephone cabin on

summit—The Colonel of Artillery—What it would have cost to capture

the Col di Lana then—The Colonel has an idea—The idea put into

execution—The development of the idea—Effect on the Col di Lana—An

object lesson—The Colonel gets into hot water—The return down

the mountains—Caprili—Under fire—We make for shelter—The village

muck-heap—Unpleasant position—A fine example of coolness—The wounded

mule—An impromptu dressing.

CHAPTER IX

It has been said that “who holds the Trentino holds not merely the

line of the Alps and the Passes, but the mouths of the Passes and the

villages which debouch into the Lombard Plain.”

The significance of this statement was being continually brought home

to me here on this northern frontier of Italy, and you could not

shut your eyes to the fact that the very safety of the whole country

depended on the army making good its “tiger spring” in the first

hours of the war.

It was not so much the necessity for an aggressive movement, but for

what one might term a successful defensive—offensive, and it cannot

be gainsaid—and even the Austrians themselves would admit it, that in

this respect the Italians scored everywhere along the line.

General Cadorna’s remarkable power of intuition was evidenced

by every movement of the army from the outset, but nowhere more

noticeably than in the Trentino sector at this early stage of the

war, when the slightest miscalculation on his part would most

assuredly have spelt irretrievable disaster for Italy.

We were to have abundant proof of what his organizing genius,

combined with the patriotic ardour of the troops, had been able to

accomplish in the short space of three months.

After eight days spent in and around Brescia we motored to Verona,

the next stage as arranged on our programme. Our road was across

country, and therefore some considerable distance from the Front,

so beyond being a delightful trip through glorious scenery, there

was nothing very special about it; touring motorists having done it

hundreds of times.

There was a noteworthy absence of any signs of military movements in

the rural districts, and the peasants were apparently going about

their usual peaceful avocations as unconcernedly as though the war

were in another country instead of being a comparatively short

distance away. In this respect, however, one felt that the motor

journeys we were scheduled to make from centre to centre would prove

exceedingly interesting, as they would afford us an insight of the

conditions prevailing in the rear of the Front, not an unimportant

factor in forming one’s impressions.

In Verona, had one been holiday making, many hours might have been

profitably spent in “doing” the place. As it was, my time was fully

occupied from the hour we arrived till the moment we left, and it

was, I am grieved to have to confess it, only by accident that I was

able to snatch the time to see anything of the artistic treasures of

the famous old city.

As a matter of fact, you scarcely had a moment to yourself if you

wanted to get any work done, as we only remained three days in Verona.

The reason for thus curtailing our stay did not transpire. In this

sector of the Front the most important operations in the Trentino

were taking place, and the Austrians were straining every nerve

in order to stay the victorious progress of the Italians, but the

lightning rapidity of their advance had proved irresistible, and had

forced a retirement to their second line. To dislodge them from this

was the tack the Italians had before them when we were in Verona.

The axis of the Trentino is obviously Trent, and in due course of

time it will doubtless fall into the hands of the Italians, but the

date of that event is on the knees of the gods.

Meanwhile the focus of the operations in August 1915, was the

fortified position of Roveretto, which has been described as the

“strategic heart” of the Trentino, and which guards the Austrian

portion of the valley of the Adige. Enclosed within several rings

of entrenchments and an outer chain of modern forts of the most

formidable character, it presented a redoubtable barrier to the

advance of the Italians into the Trentino in this direction.

But the lightning-like strategy of Cadorna upset all the plans of the

Austrian generals and, formidable though these defences were, they

were gradually being mastered.

Fort Pozzachio, which might have proved the most serious obstacle of

all, and have involved a long siege before it was captured, turned

out to be little more than a dummy fortress in so far as defensive

possibilities were concerned, and had to be abandoned at the

commencement of the war. This step being decided on by the Austrians

in consequence, as they stated in their _communiqué_, of its not

being in readiness to offer any prolonged resistance if besieged.

It transpired later that, although years had been spent working on it

and vast sums of money expended, it was so far from being completed

when war was declared that its heavy armament had not yet arrived.

It had been intended to make of it a stronghold which would be

practically impregnable.

Even now, it is a veritable modern Ehrenbreitstein, but with this

difference: it is not built on a rock but excavated out of the summit

of a lofty craig, which is quite inaccessible from the Italian side.

Although only about four miles from Roveretto, its surrender did not

help the Italians over much, in so far as the operations in that zone

were immediately concerned, but its loss must have been a severe blow

to Austrian pride.

It was said that it had been the intention of the Austrians to blow

it up rather than let the Italians reap the advantage of all the

labour that they had wasted on it, and in this connection there was a

story going round at the time that seemed circumstantial enough to be

worth recounting.

On the day of the occupation of the fortress an engineer officer,

strolling about examining the construction of the place, happened to

catch his foot in what he took to be a loose telephone wire, which

had apparently been accidentally pulled in from outside.

In disengaging it his attention was attracted by a peculiar object

attached to the wire, when to his surprise he found that it was

an electrical contrivance connected with a live fuse leading to a

positive mine of dynamite in one of the lower galleries.

A small splinter of rock had somehow got mixed up with the detonator,

and thus, as though by a miracle, the fortress and the Italian troops

in it had been saved from destruction. Almost needless to add, the

wire led from the nearest Austrian position.

We only made one excursion from Verona, but it was of extreme

interest in view of what was taking place at the time in this sector

of the Front. It was to Ala, a small Austrian town in the valley of

the Adige, which had been captured a few weeks previously.

There had been some sharp fighting in the streets, as many of the

houses bore witness to, but its chief interest to us lay in the fact

that it was in redeemed territory, and actually within the portals of

Austrian Trentino. Like, however, most of the liberated towns I had

visited, Ala was more Italian than Austrian.

[Illustration: The whole region was positively alive with warlike

energy (_see page 75_)

_To face page 100_]

The Mayor offered a lunch to the correspondents, and the usual

patriotic toasts followed. Afterwards we motored to the nearest

position, which was only a short distance from the town. Crossing the

river Adige on our way by an ingenious ferry-boat, constructed by

the engineers, the Austrians having destroyed the only bridge in the

vicinity. The “ferry” consisted of two big barges clamped together,

then boarded over and steered by an immense paddle projecting from

the after part. It was worked on the fixed-rope and sliding-pulley

principle, the swift current supplying the motive power.

We had all been looking forward to getting a good conception of the

operations, which just then were of vital importance, but we were to

be disappointed; we were only to be permitted a long range view.

On reaching a small hamlet on the bank of the river a few hundred

yards further on we were informed we could not proceed beyond this

point. We had, therefore, to be content with what we could see from

the roadway, which overlooked the river.

The _coup d’oeil_ was magnificent, though not so impressive as what

we had seen previously. Before us stretched the broad valley of the

Adige; its swiftly running stream divided up here by numerous gravel

islets. On the opposite bank was the railway line to Trent and the

town of Seravalle; whilst facing it on our side was Chizzola.

Away in the distance bathed in the effulgence of the glorious summer

afternoon, were the Stivo and other high hills, on which are the

forts guarding Roveretto, hidden from our view by a bend in the river.

Now and again one saw a tiny piff of white smoke, and heard the

muffled boom of artillery, but this was the only indication that any

operations were in progress. It was all so vast and so swamped as it

were by the immensity of the landscape that it was difficult to grasp

what was taking place.

A few hundred yards further down the road where we were standing

was the picturesque village of Pilcante, almost hidden in luxuriant

foliage.

In the immediate foreground and standing out in discordant detail

was a barbed-wire entanglement barricading the road, and guarded by

a detachment of infantry; whilst immediately below the parapet which

skirted the pathway, a cottage and a small garden on a spot of ground

jutting into the river had been transformed into a sort of miniature

“position” with an armoured trench, disguised by small trees stuck in

the walls.

It occurred to me that all this would make an interesting sketch; as

a matter of fact, it was the only subject that had appealed to me

that day, so I got out my book, and had just finished it when I felt

a touch on my shoulder and someone whispered in my ear:

“Be careful, sketching is not allowed here.” I looked round—it was

one of the officers accompanying us.

“Not allowed?” I queried; “surely there must be some mistake.”

“Not at all,” he replied; “special instructions were issued by the

General that no sketches or photographs were to be made here.”

As this was the first time I had heard of any restrictions since we

had started on the tour, my surprise may be imagined, and the more

especially as nothing apparently could have been more innocent than

the subject I had chosen.

“Well, I’m sorry, but what you tell me comes too late as I have

already made a sketch,” said I, showing it to him. “What shall I do?”

The officer, a very good fellow, laughed and shrugged his shoulders:

“Put your book back in your pocket and don’t let anyone see it; there

are several staff officers about.”

The finish of the incident was equally curious. I worked up a double

page drawing from the sketch in question, and, of course, submitted

it to the censors. It aroused a good deal of comment, but it was

eventually “passed” on condition that I altered the title and took

out all the names of the towns, mountains, etc.; only the vaguest

suggestion as to where I had made it being permitted.

In spite of the fact that the Austrians had the geographical

advantage of position almost everywhere, and that their frontier was

comparatively so close to many important Italian cities, the intrepid

advance of the Italian troops upset all the calculations of the

Austrian generals, and, instead of advancing into Italian territory,

they found themselves forced to act on the defensive some distance

to the rear of their first line positions, and well inside their own

frontier. But it was no easy task for the Italians, and tested their

valour and endurance to the utmost.

The fighting in the ravines and on the sides of the mountains was of

the most desperate character, for in this warfare at close quarters

it is man to man, and individual courage tells more than it does down

on the plains.

Here, in the fastnesses of nature, every clump of trees or isolated

rocks are potential ambuscades. So it requires the utmost caution,

combined with almost reckless daring, to advance at any time.

The Austrians, though well provided with heavy artillery, were quite

unable to hold on to their positions. It was brute force pitted

against skill and enthusiastic courage, and brute force was worsted

as it generally is under such conditions.

Our two next “stages,” Vicenza and Belluno, brought us into the very

heart of the fighting on the line of the Italian advance in the

Eastern Trentino towards Bolzano and the region round Monte Cristallo.

We halted a couple of days at Vicenza to enable us to visit the

positions of Fiera di Primero. The Italian lines here were some

distance inside Austrian territory, so we had a good opportunity of

judging for ourselves the difficulties that had to be overcome to

have advanced so far, as well as the preparations that had been made

by the Austrians for their proposed invasion of Italy.

Cunningly concealed trenches, barbed-wire entanglements and gun

emplacements commanded every approach, whilst protecting the advance

of troops. It seemed incredible that such well planned works should

have been abandoned.

But here as elsewhere the lightning strategy of Cadorna left the

Austrian commanders no option. Monte Marmolada, 11,000 ft. high, and

other mountains on which the Austrians had placed heavy artillery,

were captured by degrees. The strategic value of these positions was

incontestable.

Unless one has seen the Dolomites it is impossible to form any

conception of what these successes mean or the terrible difficulties

that had to be surmounted to gain them.

Neither Dante nor Doré in their wildest and most fantastic

compositions ever conceived anything more awe-inspiring than warfare

amidst these towering peaks.

At all times they exercise a kind of weird fascination which is

positively uncanny; add the thunder of modern artillery and the

effect is supernatural. You try hard to realize what it means

fighting amongst these jagged pinnacles and on the edges of the awful

precipices.

Death, however, has little terror for the men, judging from the

look on the faces of the mortally wounded one saw from time to time

brought down from the trenches.

A little incident related to me by Calza Bedolo brings home the

spirit of Italy’s soldiers.

He had shortly before come upon a stretcher-party carrying down from

the mountains a very dangerously wounded man. Upon enquiry as to

how the wound had been caused he was informed that it was a case of

attempted suicide.

What had led up to this desperate act? It appeared that for some

trivial breach of discipline the man had been deprived of the

privilege of a place in the front trenches and sent to a position in

the rear!

The most important of all the strategic points at that time was the

Col di Lana, which dominates the Falzarego and Livinallongo passes,

close to Cortina d’Ampezzo. Here the Austrians were putting up a

defence which was taxing the strength and resources of the Italians,

to their utmost, but it was gradually being overcome.

Every mountain which commanded the position was being mounted with

guns of the heaviest calibre, and big events were said to be looming

in the near future.

As a matter of fact, it was only six months later that the Italians

succeeded in capturing the Col di Lana, so strongly were the

Austrians entrenched on it. A young engineer conceived the idea of

mining it, and so successful was he that the entire summit of the

mountain, with the Austrian positions, was literally blown away.

One of the most interesting of the excursions the English group of

correspondents made was to the top of a mountain facing it. As it

would have been a very trying climb for amateur mountaineers like

ourselves, mules were considerately supplied by the General of the

division. So we accomplished the ascent in easy fashion, for it was

certain that very few of us would have tackled it on foot.

The sturdy _Alpini_ who accompanied us treated the excursion as a

good sort of joke apparently, and plodded steadily alongside us in

the test of spirits, laughing now and again at our vain efforts to

keep our steeds from walking on the extreme edge of the precipices.

This ride gave us a splendid opportunity of seeing how the Italians

have surmounted the difficulty of getting heavy artillery to the very

summits of mountains, where no human foot had trodden before the war

broke out. Rough and terribly steep in places though the road was,

still it was a real roadway and not a mere track as one might have

expected to find considering how rapidly it had been made. Men were

still at work consolidating it at the turns on scientific principles,

and in a few weeks, with the continual traffic passing up and down

it, it would present all the appearance of an old established road.

It is the method of getting the guns and supplies up these great

heights in the first instance that “starts” the road as it were.

Nothing could be simpler or more efficacious.

It consists in actually cutting the track for the guns just in

advance of them as they are gradually pushed and hauled forward. The

position and angle of the track being settled before starting by the

engineers.

This, of course, takes time at first, especially when the acclivity

is very steep, but it has the advantage of breaking the way for

whatever follows. The rough track is then gradually improved upon by

the succeeding gun teams, and so a well constructed zig-zag military

roadway gradually comes into being.

We left the mules a short distance from the summit and had to climb

the rest of the way. Instead of an artillery position as we expected

to find, it was an observation post, with a telephone cabin built in

a gap in the rocks, and a hut for half a dozen soldiers on duty.

The little station was quite hidden from the Austrians, although only

a couple of thousand yards distant. It was a most important spot, as

from here the fire of all the batteries round about was controlled.

We were received by the Colonel commanding this sector of the

artillery, a grizzled warrior, wearing a knitted woollen sleeping cap

pulled well down over his ears, which gave him a somewhat quaint and

unmilitary appearance.

The “observation post” was merely a small hole through the rocks, and

so awkward to get at that only two people could look through it at

the same time. Immediately facing you across a shallow valley was a

barren hill of no great elevation (of course it must be remembered

we were here several thousand feet up). There was no sign of life or

vegetation, and it looked so singularly bare and uninteresting that

unless you had been told to look at it your attention would never

have been attracted to it.

Yet this was the much talked of Col di Lana. Seen, however, through

field glasses its aspect altered considerably, and you could not fail

to notice what appeared to be row upon row of battered stone walls,

and also that the ridge was very much broken up, shewing patches

everywhere of red sand.

The “stone walls,” the Colonel told us, were what remained of

the Austrian trenches and the patches of sand were caused by the

incessant bombardment by the Italians. At that moment there was not

the slightest sign of military activity anywhere, no sound of a gun

disturbed the still air.

It seemed incredible that we were gazing on the most redoubtable

position on the whole Front, and one that for weeks had barred the

Italian advance in this direction.

Someone remarked that it did not look so very formidable after all,

and asked the Colonel if it would really mean a very big effort to

capture it.

“To take that innocent looking summit now,” he replied gravely,

“would necessitate attacking it with a couple of hundred thousand men

and being prepared to lose half of them. We shall get it by other

means, but it will take some time; meanwhile every yard of it is

covered by my batteries.”

We continued to gaze on the silent landscape with increasing

interest, when suddenly, as though an idea had occurred to him, the

Colonel said that if we did not mind waiting twenty minutes or so

he would show us what his gunners could do. Of course we asked for

nothing better. So he went up to the telephone cabin and was there a

little while; he then came back and told us to follow him.

He led the way down a ravine enclosed by lofty cliffs close by. At

the foot of it were large boulders, some with sandbags spread on

them. This was his sharpshooter’s lair, he informed us, but for the

moment they were not there.

We were then told to hide ourselves as much as possible behind the

rocks and watch what was going to happen on the Col di Lana, which

was in full view from here.

“We are right under fire here, but you are fairly safe if you keep

well under cover,” he added, as a sort of final recommendation when

he saw us all placed.

The stillness of death reigned for the next ten minutes perhaps. We

kept our eyes glued on the fateful hill opposite, not exactly knowing

what was going to happen, when all of a sudden there was the crash of

a big gun and we heard the shriek of a shell as it passed overhead;

then, with scarcely an interval this was followed up by such a

succession of firing that it sounded like a thunderstorm let loose.

The effect on the Col di Lana was startling: it was as though a

series of volcanoes had started activity, all along the summit and

just below it fantastic columns of smoke and dust rose high into the

air. As the Colonel had truly said, every yard of the hill was under

the fire of his batteries.

It was an object lesson in precision of aim, and one almost felt

sorry for the men who were thus, without the slightest warning,

deluged with high explosives. Meanwhile the Austrian batteries did

not fire a shot in reply.

The bombardment lasted exactly ten minutes, and ceased as abruptly as

it had started.

“Wonderful,” we all exclaimed when we were reassembled at the

station. The Colonel looked delighted with the way his instructions

had been carried out.

At that moment we heard the telephone bell ringing violently; he

excused himself and hurried to the box, and was there some minutes.

When he returned the look of elation on his face had disappeared.

“That was the General ringing up,” he explained. “He heard the firing

and wanted to know what had happened suddenly. He is in an awful rage

at my giving you this entertainment.”

Of course we were all very sorry that he should have got into trouble

on our account, but he seemed to make light of it, and evidently

had no fear of unpleasant consequences. We then left the place and

retraced our footsteps.

There was no mule-riding going down the mountain unless you wanted to

break your neck. It was far too steep, therefore we had to walk the

whole way, a very long and tiring job.

In the valley below was the village of Caprile, where we had arranged

to meet our cars. A mountain stream ran past the village, and there

was a broad, open space of ground facing the houses, in which was a

large encampment with long sheds and hundreds of horses and mules

picketted.

As we were walking across to the inn, where we were going to lunch,

we heard the dull boom of a gun in the distance, and in a few seconds

the approaching wail of a projectile, followed by the report of the

explosion a short distance away, and we saw the shell had burst on

the hillside a few feet from the Red Cross Hospital.

We had been remarking how quietly the Austrians had taken our

artillery attack. This was evidently the commencement of their reply.

The report had scarcely died away than there was a general scurrying

of everyone for shelter; mules and horses were rapidly released and

hurriedly led away. Then another report was heard in the distance.

This time there was no doubt we were in for a regular bombardment.

So with one accord we all made for a low parapet skirting the river,

which would afford some cover, and without stopping to look what was

behind it, leaped over like two-year-olds just as another shell burst

in the open close by.

I don’t think I am ever likely to forget where we found ourselves:

below the parapet was the village muck-heap, and we were in the very

midst of it. Unsavoury though the recollection is, it makes me smile

when I recall it and the look on the faces of everyone who had taken

refuge there.

If there was any luck as to position I perhaps, with two others, had

the best of it, for we were only in manure and rotten straw, though

we were in it up to our waists.

So soon as the report of the guns reached us we all listened intently

till we heard the approaching shell, then crouched down as low as

possible in the filth, and waited till the explosion was over. I

remember I found myself thinking at these moments that it could not

have been worse out in the open.

After some minutes in this unpleasant predicament there was a lull in

the firing, so a dash was made for the village, and in company with

a crowd of soldiers we took refuge behind a house.

Whilst there we witnessed a fine example of coolness. A

white-moustached old Colonel, a splendid looking fellow, kept pacing

up and down out in the open regardless of the bursting shells, in

order to make sure all his men were keeping under cover, and worked

himself quite into a rage because some of them would persist in

exposing themselves.

The bombardment only lasted about an hour, and then gradually died

out. As far as I could ascertain, no one was killed, and no great

damage done, but several animals were wounded; one, a mule, was badly

injured in the side, and the way the ambulance men gave it a sort of

temporary dressing was quite curious, and showed much resource on

their part. They fastened up the gaping wound with ordinary safety

pins, using nearly a dozen for the purpose, whilst soldiers held on

the animal’s tail and fore leg to prevent its taking objection to the

treatment.

[Illustration: A very useful-looking Nordenfeldt quick-firer mounted

on the fore-deck (_see page 77_)

_To face page 112_]

CHAPTER X

Belluno—Venadoro in the heart of the Dolomites—A fine hotel—Tame

excursions—Visit to Cortina d’Ampezzo—Austrian attempts to

recapture it—305mm. guns on the Schluderbach—Long range

bombardment—Austrian women and children in the town—Italians capture

Monte Cristallo—Aeroplanes and observation balloons impossible

here—Tofana in hands of Italians—Serenity of garrison—Cortina

d’Ampezzo—General invites us to a _déjeuner_—Living at

Venadoro—Delightful _camaraderie_—Evenings in the big saloon—From

Belluno to Gemona—Description of Front in this Sector—Our excursion

to Pal Grande—The road—On mules up the mountain—A warning—Rough

track—Peasant women carrying barbed wire up to the trenches—Pay

of the women—Much competition for “vacancies”—The climb from Pal

Piccolo to Pal Grande—A wonderful old man—“Some” climb—The entrenched

position on Pal Grande—Spice of danger—Violent artillery duel—The

noise of the passing shells—Magnificent view—Timau—The Freikoffel—Its

capture by the _Alpini_—Wounded lowered by ropes—Capture of Pal

Grande—Presence of mind of a doctor—A telling incident—Extraordinary

enthusiasm of the troops—Food convoys—The soldier’s _menu_—Daily

rations—_Rancio_; the _plat du jour_—Officers mess arrangements—An

_al fresco_ lunch on Pal Grande—The “mess-room”—“Pot Luck”—A

wonderful meal—A stroll round the position—An improvised bowling

alley—Use is second nature—In the trenches—A veteran warrior—The

pet of the position—Gemona—The list of lodgings—My landlady—Good

restaurants in Gemona—The _Alpini_ quartered there—The military tatoo

in the evenings—Reception by the Mayor—A delightful week.

CHAPTER X

The military authorities had arranged for the correspondents and the

staff of the censorship to be quartered in the big modern hydropathic

establishment and hotel in the heart of the Dolomites, known as

Venadoro, some eight kilometres from Belluno, and we remained there

ten days, making frequent visits to the Front of this sector and into

Austrian territory.

Although these excursions were extremely interesting many of them

were very tame, and there were days when we did not hear a gun fired.

This though of course disappointing, was quite comprehensible.

Important operations were being carried out everywhere, but these did

not of necessity entail daily conflict.

We happened to visit Cortina d’Ampezzo, for instance, at a moment

when its aspect was so peaceful that the war seemed to have given it

the go-by; yet the guns were only silent by accident, as it were,

for the Italian offensive was being pursued without intermission,

and only a short distance from here fighting was taking place night

and day. It was, therefore, somewhat difficult to realize from its

tranquility the enormous importance attaching to this picturesque

little Alpine township.

Its loss had been a terrible blow to Austrian pride, and several

efforts had been made to recapture it, but as these had failed they

had endeavoured to destroy it and thus prevent the Italians from

profiting by its possession.

With this object in view, so typical of Hun methods, they had

succeeded in placing several 305mm. guns on the heights along the

Schluderbach valley, from which they could bombard Cortina d’Ampezzo

at long range, and had already done so on one or two occasions, but,

fortunately, without causing any loss of life or doing much damage.

The hellishness of this procedure will be more fully grasped when it

is remembered that the majority of the inhabitants were only women

and children, and mostly Austrians at that.

The continued successes of the Italians, and the rapidity of

their advance was, however, gradually but irresistibly pressing

the Austrians back, and it was expected that within a very short

while Cortina d’Ampezzo would be freed from the menace of the big

projectiles.

With dogged courage and endurance which could not be surpassed by any

troops in the world, the Italians stormed Monte Cristallo, 10,600

feet high, thus capturing a position which commands the valley of

Schluderbach, and forcing the enemy to retreat towards Colfreddo and

Croda Rosso (Hohe Gaisl), some ten kilometres to the north, where new

defensive works were being hastily improvised.

In this mountain warfare where it is impossible to make use of

aeroplanes and observation balloons owing to the configuration of

the country, it is obvious that the initial operations are mainly

directed towards gaining positions which can be utilized for the

purposes of watching the movements of the enemy and directing

artillery fire.

In this respect the Italians have scored all along the line, for the

superior skill of their artillerymen is incontestable, apart from

which the quality of their ammunition appears to be far ahead of

anything the Austrians have been using.

At the time of our visit all the heights encircling the Cortina

Valley were already in the hands of the Italians, including Tofana,

10,700 feet high, which dominates the Eastern end of the Falzarego

Pass, and is in a way a factor in the operations against the Col di

Lana on the other side. So that the chances of the Austrians ever

recapturing Cortina d’Ampezzo are absolutely nil.

That the serenity of its garrison is in no way disturbed by an

occasional visit from a long range shell was pleasingly evidenced by

the General inviting us all to a _déjeuner_ at one of the big hotels

which was still open. It could not have been better served or more

copious in peace time.

Our comparatively long stay at Venadoro was not without its

compensations, in spite of the fact that there was little to be seen

on the neighbouring Front.

We were all living together in a well-appointed hotel, so it afforded

an opportunity of getting to know and appreciate each other in a way

that never occurred in the other places we stopped at, where everyone

was on his own, so to speak, and when you scarcely met, except by

chance for a few moments at the Censorship.

Here, at Venadoro, Italian, French and English fraternised in a

delightful spirit of healthy _camaraderie_ and although we all shut

ourselves up in our rooms during the daytime when we were not on an

excursion, in order to get on with our work undisturbed, we all met

for lunch, and the evenings after dinner saw us united in the big

saloon, where with music, billiards, and bridge the time passed very

cheerily.

Knowing the wonderful organization of the Italian Headquarters Staff,

I was sometimes tempted to wonder whether the assembly of the Allied

correspondents at Venadoro was not something more than a mere casual

arrangement for the convenience of the Censorship.

Whatever was missing in the shape of military spectacle on the

Belluno Front was amply made up for by what we were able to see at

the next stage of our journey, the little town of Gemona. From

here we made what was undoubtedly the most interesting of all our

excursions.

The Front on this sector is in the Upper But mountain group on the

Frontier, which comprises Monte Timau, Montecroce, the Freikoffel,

Pal Grande and Pal Piccolo—every one of them a position of

first-class importance, and the scene of desperate fighting and deeds

of valour probably unsurpassed in the annals of mountain warfare.

Our road lay through Venzone, Tolmezzo and Paluzza, and there was

sufficient military movement all the way to prove we were in a zone

of active military operations, even if the booming of the guns in the

distance had not borne this out.

A little beyond Paluzza, just outside the village of Muse, we found

mules waiting for us, and we commenced a long, steep ascent which was

to land us at the foot of Pal Piccolo, beyond which point the climb

had to be made on foot. We were quite a small party, mostly English I

may add.

About half way up we arrived at a hut where we were met by the

Colonel of the Artillery, who courteously explained the nature and

scope of the operations, concluding by warning us that we were going

up at our own risk, as the whole of this particular sector was

constantly under fire.

It had been but the merest pretence at a road so far, but beyond

there it became but little better than a rough goat track, and

terribly trying for our animals.

On one of the worst portions we passed a gang of peasant women

carrying barbed wire up to the trenches. I knew that everybody in the

war zone is doing his or her bit, but I must confess I was somewhat

surprised to see women engaged on so arduous a task as this, which

calls for unusual muscle and nerve, apart from an exceptionally

hardy physique. This will be realised when one learns that each of

these apparently insignificant coils of barbed wire weighs close on

fifty pounds dead weight.

When we passed this convoy, although it was high up in the mountains,

and the women must have been tramping for some hours, they were all

as cheerful as possible, and appeared to regard their job as a sort

of pleasure jaunt. Considering also that the big guns were thundering

close by and shells bursting in somewhat close proximity, it was a

good example of use being second nature.

Girls as well as women are employed. They are paid two lires a day

and their food is provided. It is a condition that they must come

from the villages round about the sector in which they are employed,

and there is, I learn, always keen competition for any “vacancies.”

Many of the girls I saw were distinctly good-looking, and the bright

tones of their picturesque costumes made a cheerful and unexpected

note of colour against the dull grey of the wild mountain pass.

At the foot of Pal Piccolo our party divided. It looked like a

terrific climb up to the summit of Pal Grande, and most of the men

thought “it wasn’t good enough,” and decided to explore the lesser

peak only. Five of us, including myself, went on: Jeffries, Bedolo,

Molinari, another Italian whose name I forget for the moment, and, of

course one or two officers.

I am sorry I cannot recall the name of the other Italian

correspondent, as he was a perfect wonder. Although quite an old

man—he was close on seventy if he was a day—he was certainly the

coolest and most unconcerned of the party.

The stiff climb did not appear to trouble him in the least, nor

did the bursting shells. He simply strolled up ahead of us all as

though he was taking a constitutional, with his hands in his pockets,

disdaining the assistance of an alpenstock. Dressed in an ordinary

tweed suit, and wearing a straw hat, his appearance was singularly

out of keeping with the surroundings. His nonchalance was positively

irritating, and he reached the top without turning a hair.

It was indeed “some” climb, though fortunately for me there were

no hair-raising bits to bring on mountain vertigo. It meant simply

plodding up and up amongst loose boulders at an angle of 75 degrees.

But if there were no perilous edges of precipices to negotiate, it

was none the less nerve-racking, as we were under shell fire more or

less the whole way, and many of the projectiles, which were of heavy

calibre, burst in unpleasant proximity to the track we were mounting.

The last bit up into the trenches had to be done at the double,

and crouching down, as we were here in full view of the Austrian

lines, and snipers were constantly at work. Once inside the sand-bag

ramparts we were in comparative security.

The entrenched position on Pal Grande was undoubtedly the most

interesting and impressive of all we had visited so far, and amply

repaid one for the tiring climb to get to it. Perhaps the contrast it

presented to the somewhat tame excursions we had previously made had

something to do with this impression, but it is certain that here we

were in the very midst of the “real thing,” and were sharing the same

perils as the officers and soldiers around us.

It was the spice of ever-present danger that gave, as it were, an

extra zest to being there, and made one the more appreciate all one

saw. The Austrian artillery was firing continuously over us, and

there was an incessant fusillade from their trenches, which were not

more than a couple of hundred yards away—so close in fact that you

could have plainly seen the men in them had they shewn themselves.

The difference between this entrenched position in the mountains and

others we had been into was very great; in fact, it struck me as

being unlike anything I had seen elsewhere.

Here the enemy’s trenches were below us, and we were midway between

the Austrian and Italian batteries, so that in the violent artillery

duel which was going on all the time we were on Pal Grande the

projectiles were passing overhead continuously, with a noise

reminding one of a big railway junction with an endless succession of

express trains going by.

Of course all the shells did not pass over us, but exploded round

about on the mountain side, too near in several instances to be

pleasant, especially when their objective appeared to be the

direction in which we had come up.

At times, in fact, one began to wonder if it would not be too “hot”

for us to get back that day, and that a big attack was developing.

Fortunately, the Austrian gunners did not know how close to the

Italian position they were dropping their shells, as they were only

firing blindly in our direction.

The view one got from here was magnificent. Towering above us on our

right, as we faced the Frontier, was Timau, nearly 10,000 feet high;

in the near distance, and just behind it, across the Frontier was

Avostaunis, only slightly less in height.

Almost facing us to the left were the precipitous slopes of the

Freikoffel, which the Alpini had captured at the point of the

bayonet, and under the fire of the Austrian guns a short time

previously.

How mortal man could be found to scale these giddy heights at all,

leave alone under such awful conditions, baffles me. There are

no tracks at all to ascend by it, so it is a mystery how it was

accomplished.

The Austrians abandoned all their positions here so precipitately

that they left their wounded behind, who, together with those of the

Italians, had to be actually lowered by ropes from the summit, there

being no other means of bringing them down to the ambulances.

Pal Grande had been the scene of several sanguinary fights before its

final capture by the Italians not long before our visit to it; at one

moment, in fact, the Austrians looked like re-taking it, so desperate

and reckless was the counter-attack. It is said that had it not

been for the presence of mind and initiative of one of the military

doctors it was practically lost.

He was attending the wounded in a temporary ambulance station at

the back of the firing line when he realised the danger of the

situation. Men and officers were falling all along the line, and it

was imperative that their places should be immediately occupied if

the position was to be held. On the spur of the moment it occurred to

him to call on the least wounded of the men he was looking after to

try and help.

Explaining to them how critical was the situation, and also what was

likely to happen to them if the Austrians recaptured the place, he

stirred up such excitement and ardour that, regardless for the moment

of the pain they were suffering from their wounds, those that were

able sprang to their feet and returned to the trenches where, seizing

the rifles of their fallen comrades, they managed to continue to

defend the position till reinforcements arrived.

If there was one thing more than another that struck me whilst

amongst the troops in the mountains, it was the extraordinary

enthusiasm displayed everywhere, even here in this bleak and exposed

position; the _moral_ of the men was incomparable, and they seemed

to be blessed with an inexhaustible stock of good humour and the

power of taking things cheerfully. It was indeed impossible to mix

with them and not feel the influence of their youthful eagerness and

their confidence in ultimate victory.

Napoleon’s well known aphorism that an army fights on its belly is

well borne out in the Italian Army; and even on these lofty peaks the

soldier, whatever he may have to endure in the shape of inevitable

hardship, never suffers from want of food and well-cooked meals.

The food convoys make their journeys with unfailing regularity, for

there must be no hitch in the commissariat arrangements—and it is

safe to assert that there is not a single soldier, no matter how

isolated he may be, who does not receive every day his regulation

allowance of 400 grammes of meat (about half a pound), a kilo and a

half of bread, macaroni or polenta, coffee, tobacco, and half a litre

of wine.

Of course the menu is not very varied, but neither is the national

Italian cuisine at any time. _Rancio_, a soup-like stew, made of meat

and macaroni or some similar _pasta_, with a sufficiency of good,

wholesome bread and a drink of red wine, should be sufficient to

satisfy the appetite of any soldier.

I made a meal of _rancio_ on many occasions after a long and cold

motor run, and always found it so appetising and comforting that I

wished I could have got it every day. This stew is the usual _plat du

jour_ of the Italian soldier as is the _stchi_ in the Russian Army,

and is always served out steaming hot.

In advanced trenches, outposts or similar exposed positions, where

culinary operations are, of course, impossible, the _rancio_ is taken

to the men after dark in special receptacles for keeping it hot,

known as _Cassette di Cottura_, which are constructed on the Thermos

principle. The men would indeed begin to think things were going

badly if the “food party” could not succeed in reaching them.

So far as the officers are concerned, these mess arrangements, when

up in the fighting line, of course, depend largely on circumstances,

though these do not seem to be always governed by the difficulty of

access to the position or its remoteness from the base.

I had a pleasant proof of this at Pal Grande. The officers hospitably

insisted on our taking “pot luck” with them, as they were just going

to have lunch, and it turned out one of the best _al fresco_ repasts

I have ever sat down to.

The “mess-room” was a well-protected dug-out which had been fitted up

in somewhat similar fashion to a settler’s hut in the Far West; it

was quite snug, in fact, and we were a merry party crowded round the

table that occupied nearly the whole of the interior, in spite of the

continuous booming of the guns and the screech of the shells overhead.

I had quite expected to get the roughest of meals in the

circumstances; imagine, therefore, my surprise when we started with

a fine macaroni soup; this was followed by beef steaks and fried

potatoes; then came a jam omelette, and we finished up with cheese

and fruit, the whole being washed down with excellent Verona wine.

Black coffee was then brought in, and one of our hosts produced a

bottle of cognac and a box of cigars.

You could not have wished for a more delightful meal: it made

one feel that even life in an entrenchment 8,000 feet up has its

compensations at times.

Of course it would not do to infer that in all positions the officers

were able to indulge in so sumptuous a “pot luck” repast, but I

gathered that whenever it is possible a mess is formed, a cook found

from amongst the men, and meals served comfortably.

[Illustration: Before us stretched the broad valley of the Adige

(_see page 101_)

_To face page 124_]

In outlying positions, where frequently everything is, so to speak,

stagnant for weeks at a time, this messing arrangement goes a long

way towards relieving the inevitable monotony and weariness of trench

life and the strain on the nerves caused by the constant vigil.

After lunch we went out for a stroll round the position, passing on

our way an improvised bowling alley, where a crowd of soldiers off

duty were interestedly watching a match in progress. Had it not been

for the sand-bag breastworks around us and the incessant noise of

the guns, it would have been hard to realise that we were in one of

the most exposed positions on this Front, and were actually under

fire the whole time. That one can get accustomed to anything was

exemplified here, as the officers and men were quite unperturbed by

what was to them merely a daily contingency.

There was no heavy artillery on the Pal Grande when we were there;

only a few machine guns, as the place was for the moment but an

entrenched outpost, which had to be constantly on the alert against a

surprise attack from the enemy’s lines below.

I had a walk along the trenches where the men were firing through

the loopholes as unconcernedly as though at a shooting competition

instead of having human beings for their target.

The Austrians were scarcely a hundred yards away in places, so it did

not require to be an expert marksman to hit anything at that range;

but it was not often that anything shewed itself above the parapets,

either on the Austrian or the Italian side; still the men kept up a

constant fusillade, for what reason I could not ascertain, except

that perhaps it was to prove that no liberties were possible.

Whilst in the trenches I was introduced to two important characters

of the position. One, a white-haired old veteran well over sixty

years of age, who was serving as a volunteer. A fearless, wiry

old chap I was told, and who could hold his own even now with any

individual Austrian if ever he had the opportunity.

The other character was the pet of the position, a jolly little fox

terrier that had, I was told, gone through all the fighting, and

had now the run of the place and was looked upon as a mascot by the

officers and men; in fact, there would be much perturbation if any

harm came to it; curiously enough this was the only occasion that I

saw a dog in the trenches.

Gemona was a quaint little town, or rather big village, and

the inhabitants were delighted to see us, and proved it by not

overcharging in the least.

When we arrived and reported at the Censorship, which was established

in the Town Hall, we were given a list of houses where lodgings could

be obtained, with the prices affixed. This was a capital idea, and

worked out admirably; it saved a lot of time running about hunting

for rooms, and as only those lodgings recommended by the Mayor were

in the lists there was no risk of unpleasant surprises.

I got fixed up at a very nice house, and the landlady, a delightful

old person, did her utmost to make me comfortable, as I used my room

for a studio also. Considering she only charged one lire and a half a

day it could not be considered excessive.

For our coffee in the morning we usually used to meet at a café; for

lunch and dinner there was no lack of choice, as curiously enough for

so small a place, there were several really good restaurants.

There was a regiment of _Alpini_ quartered there, a splendid body

of men, giving one the impression of picked athletes all, and of

an evening their band always gave a military tatoo, wet or fine,

marching through the main streets with torches and finishing on the

Place with a short concert. A very inspiriting procedure, which

considerably helped to liven us all up, and the more especially as

this was the only place on the Front where we had heard military

music.

The night before we left, the Mayor gave us a reception and _vin

d’honneur_, which further helped to emphasise the good feeling which

existed between us all. We had spent a delightful week in Gemona.

CHAPTER XI

Gemona to Udine—Final stage of official journey—Regrets—Arrival at

Udine—List of recommended lodgings—My room—My landlady an Austrian

woman—I pay my respects to General Cafarelli—My friend Dr. Berthod—My

old studio at the Agrario—The Isonzo Front—Many rumours—Off on

our biggest trip; 245 kilometres in the car—Roads excellent and

well-looked after—A great change—Cormons quite an Italian town—Same

with other towns in conquered territory—Observatory on Monte Quarin—A

splendid bird’s-eye view—The plain of Friuli—Podgora—The Carso—The

hum of aeroplanes—The Isonzo Sector—The immense difficulties—Received

by the General—A pleasant _goûter_—Lieutenant Nathan, Ex-Mayor of

Rome—The Subida lines of trenches—Explanation of Italian successes

everywhere—Caporetto via Tolmino—A desolate region—Road along the

Isonzo—The mighty limestone cliffs of Monte Nero—The great exploit of

its capture recalled—One mountain road very much like another—Nothing

to sketch—Perfect organization—The fog of dust—Caporetto—Not

allowed to motor beyond—Important strategic operations—Monte

Rombon—Difficult to locate Austrian guns—A glimpse of Plezzo—The

situation here—Excursion to Gradisca via Palmanova, a semi-French

town—Romans—Curious rearrangement of cars—Only two allowed

proceed to Gradisca under fire—The Italian batteries at work—The

deserted streets—The “observatory” room—The iron screens—View

of Monte San Michele being bombarded—Stroll through the town—A

big shell—Excursion to Cervignano, Aquileia and Grado—Peaceful

country-side—Grado the Austrian Ostend—Fish-lunch at a café—The town

continually bombarded by aircraft—Arrival of Beaumont, the French

airman—Conclusion of official tour of Front—No permission given for

correspondents to remain—Success of tour—Comments on organization,

etc.

CHAPTER XI

We were now nearing the final stage of our official journey along

the Front, as there only remained the Isonzo Sector to complete the

scheduled tour.

Although I was looking forward to revisiting Udine and seeing my

friends there again, there was the feeling that the end of our

sojourn amongst these cheery Italian soldiers was approaching, and

the recollection of the decree that we were all to leave the war zone

directly the tour was finished loomed up in one’s mind as a sort of

bugbear.

One would have liked to spend an indefinite time in these scenes of

warlike activity; there was so much to see, and we had really had so

little time to see it in, and now, as we were getting into the “hang”

of it all we had to think of leaving.

It was very irritating, and marred a good deal of the pleasant

impression one had received during the tour. However, there was no

help for it. We knew when we started that we were only invited on

this understanding, so there was an end of it.

Udine is quite close to Gemona, so it only took a short time to

motor there. On our arrival we found that following the example

of the Mayor of Gemona, the Censorship had arranged for a list of

recommended lodgings to be prepared for us.

I had at first intended returning to my old quarters at the Torra di

Londra, but decided that it was perhaps better not, so took a room in

the same house as my car companions.

Strange to relate, this room was in a flat rented by a young and

good-looking Austrian woman, a dressmaker, who was married to an

Italian. She was, to a certain extent, under police surveillance, I

was told, but had not been interfered with otherwise. It struck me

as a curious state of affairs, considering how strict were the police

regulations with regard to foreigners, though there may have been

some special motive in allowing an alien of her nationality to remain

here unmolested.

Almost the first thing I did when I was settled was to go and pay my

respects to General Cafarelli, the Military Governor of Udine, who,

as may be remembered, had had me arrested and sent away to Florence

some ten weeks previously. I sent in my card, and he received me very

graciously for a man of his stern demeanour. He congratulated me on

my altered circumstances, and we had almost a friendly chat anent the

incident.

My friend, Dr. Berthod at the “Agrario,” told me my studio was still

at my disposal; other people I met seemed pleased to see me back, so

I felt quite at home again in a very short time.

A very full programme had been arranged for the correspondents during

their stay here; the Isonzo Front being very much to the fore at

the moment, in the direction of Gorizia especially, and all sorts

of rumours were in the air with regard to coming events in the near

future.

If, as it is said, coming events cast their shadows before, how

long those shadows must have been if one only had known, and how

despondent everyone would have been if it could have been realised

then how many months would have to elapse before the coming events so

freely prophesied would materialise.

Although I already knew a good deal about the Friuli Sector, there

had been so much progress since I had been away from Udine that most

of what we were going to see would be new to me. Moreover, it was a

very different proposition being permitted to visit it to going about

furtively and under constant fear of arrest.

The Isonzo Front now extended over a very large area, and was a long

way inside Austrian territory. Roughly speaking, from Tirnova, in the

valley of the Isonzo, a few miles above Caporetto, to Monfalcone on

the Adriatic.

We were only to remain a week in Udine, so in order to obtain even

the most cursory impression, in the short time at our disposal, of

what was taking place in this wide zone of operations, entailed some

long motor journeys. This was evidently the plan of the authorities,

as they allowed us to lose no time in making a start.

At 6 o’clock in the morning following on our arrival we were off on

what turned out to be the biggest trip we had made hitherto, and when

we got back in the evening we had covered no less than 245 kilometres

in the car, and without a hitch or contretemps.

It spoke volumes for the excellent manner in which the roads in the

war zone are looked after. Heavy as military traffic was, seemingly

endless, everywhere one saw gangs of men at work making repairs,

where the surface had got broken up.

The three months that had elapsed since I was first on this Front,

had effected a great change, but nowhere was it more marked than

on the road to and beyond Cormons. The redeemed territory had now

so completely settled down that it was hard to realise one was

on Austrian territory, or rather, what had been so short a time

previously.

Cormons had become quite an Italian town, and a very busy one at

that. And the same could be said of Cervignano, Civiedale, Brazzano,

Terzo, and every village where the Italians had passed. An extremely

valuable slice of whilom Italian territory had passed back to its old

allegiance and with but little fighting. And no damage had been done

to either the maize crop or the vines.

Our programme for the day’s run was very comprehensive, and provided

the car did not break down, we were certain to see much of absorbing

interest.

Just beyond Cormons, on the summit of Mount Quarin, a wooded

hill which dominates the town, and where an observatory had been

established, you get a splendid bird’s-eye view of the whole of this

important section of the Front.

Spread out at our feet, as it were, was the vast fertile plain of

Friuli, every yard of which appeared to be under cultivation. The

straight outlines of the fields were fringed by trees and presented a

curious doll’s house and chequered appearance from this elevation.

On the far side of this plain, about four and a half miles distant

from where we stood, were the hills enclosing the valley of the

lower Isonzo, a curious succession of undulating ridges rising in

places to a considerable height. There was a good deal of smoke and

mist hanging about, and standing out in sharp relief against it was

the peculiar hog-back contour of the blood-soaked ridge of Podgora

bristling with the charred and shattered stumps of trees.

Even as we gazed, the distant boom of artillery reached our ears,

and we saw shells bursting constantly along the summit and we knew

that the attack which was costing so many gallant lives, was being

vigorously pursued.

To the right of Podgora lay the Carso, and in the hollow between

was Gorizia, the goal towards which all thoughts in Italy were then

turned. Three eminences loomed up in the mist beyond: Monte Kuk,

Monte Sabotino, and Monte Santo, the last-named being destined to

play important rôles in the future. In the far distance, and only

faintly distinguishable, towered the Mountains of Ternova.

The hum of aeroplanes was heard on all sides, and cleverly concealed

anti-aircraft guns started firing viciously from time to time, more,

however, with the object of keeping the enemy planes up as high as

possible, then hitting them, as they seemed to run little or no risk,

judging from the serene manner they hovered around.

The conditions along the Isonzo Sector are practically the antithesis

of those prevailing in the mountainous regions of the Cadorre,

Trentino, and Carnia. Here the low foothills and plains present

opportunities for operations which remind one of those being carried

out in Flanders and Northern France; armoured trenches, of course,

playing the principal part everywhere.

Every attempt, therefore, by General Cadorna at a forward move in

this direction had to be backed up, as it were, by defensive as well

as offensive precautions, with the result that the entire Front

of this region presents a series of lines of entrenchments and

barbed-wire entanglements that are designed to afford an immediate

protection should the advance fail, and a retirement prove necessary.

Prescience is evidently an innate characteristic of the Italian

Generals of to-day, and I was continually noting it along the Front,

but nowhere was it more impressed on me than in this particular

area. Between Cormons and Brazzano, at a place called Subida, is a

veritable masterpiece of military engineering work.

It consists of a vast series of elaborately constructed covered-in

armoured trenches with protective wire entanglements, and would

shelter several army corps at a pinch, though fortunately there has

not been the slightest fear of their being requisitioned, and all the

time and expense expended on them will, it is to be hoped, have been

precautionary measures.

In years to come these miles of covered-in trenches will doubtless

prove of intense interest to the military student, and though they

may not present the picturesque aspect of a Vauban fortification,

they are certainly none the less impressive.

It is certain they will long remain as evidence of the determination

and method with which Italy took her part in the great war.

All this, though only a side issue, serves further to convince you

that in carrying out her part of the operations, she has undertaken

everything in a thoroughly well-considered and skilful manner that

cannot fail to have a very cogent bearing on the ultimate issue of

the Allied policy of co-ordinated strategy.

Before continuing on our journey we were received most hospitably by

the Divisional General.

In the garden of a fine old house, which he was using as his

headquarters, an _al fresco_, stand-up _goûter_ awaited us.

Tables had been placed under the trees on the lawn, and there were

piles of dainty sandwiches, cakes and fruit, together with wines

and tea, and coffee, cigars and cigarettes, all very acceptable

considering how early we had started out.

Amongst the group of officers with the General was Lieutenant Nathan,

the wonderfully popular ex-Mayor of Rome. I had heard so much of him

that I seized the opportunity of introducing myself, and found him a

very cheery and sympathetic personality, speaking English as fluently

as a Cockney—so well, in fact, that it seemed strange to see him in

the uniform of an Italian officer.

[Illustration: On one of the worst portions we passed a gang of

peasant women carrying barbed wire up to the trenches (_see page 118_)

_To face page 136_]

From Cormons we proceeded to Caporetto via Tolmino, and thence

through the valley of the Isonzo, a desolate mountainous region,

which had been the scene of desperate fighting in the early weeks of

the war. Now it was relatively calm, and only once and again was the

silence of nature disturbed by the reverberation of a big gun in

the distance.

The long-prepared defensive positions of the Austrians, of which

one has heard so much, availed them naught against the strategy of

Cadorna and the daring of his troops. One by one they were captured,

and by attacking them from the very side where attack was least

expected.

The principal explanation of the victorious advance of the Italians

was undoubtedly that it was made from a direction where it was

not looked for and which, therefore, quite upset the plans of the

Austrian General.

Only the most reliable and enthusiastic of soldiers could have been

asked for so determined an effort and such sacrifices as the advance

in this region was bound to entail under any conditions, but without

wavering it was undertaken and eagerly at that.

It was perhaps to a certain extent but a repetition of the tactics in

the mountain warfare all along the Front, but it was so glorious that

no excuse is necessary for again dilating upon it.

Through a pathless wilderness of shrub or bare precipitous rocks the

men made their way forward unhesitatingly, cutting a roadway as they

advanced, dragging the heavy artillery with them and consolidating

each yard behind them with barbed-wire entanglement and trench work

in case the apparent weakness of the Austrian was but a ruse.

But there was no ruse, and nothing arrested the delirious rush of the

Italians at the commencement of hostilities along the left bank of

the Isonzo.

It was like an avalanche in its irresistibility, and the Austrians

were completely non-plussed by such unusual military evolutions,

with the result that three of their most important positions on the

Front—Monte Nero, Tolmino and Plava—were already in the hands of the

Italians before it was realised how important was the movement in

this direction.

The heroic feat of the capture of Monte Nero by the _Alpini_ in the

month of June I have already described. In spite of every endeavour

to re-take it, the Austrians had not made a yard of progress since

then, except in a retrograde direction.

The Italians had immediately fortified every position they had

gained, and the chances of the enemy ever recapturing them were

practically _nil_.

Our road passed by the scene of many heroic exploits. As we motored

through the frowning ravine along a winding road which skirted the

swiftly-flowing Isonzo, between Tolmino and Caporetto the mighty

limestone cliffs of Monte Nero gradually came into view, its towering

bulk illumined by the rays of the afternoon sun.

Unconsciously one’s thoughts reverted to the events of the early days

of the war, and you endeavoured to picture to yourself what had taken

place hereabouts, the onward rush of the Italian troops, undeterred

by the most terrible obstacles nature opposed to them, fording or

swimming the treacherous river by night and scaling the heights on

the opposite bank, and all this in the face of the Austrian fire.

You had an involuntary shudder as you gazed up at these gaunt rocks,

where now an almost death-like silence reigned. You felt it must

require the fanatic courage of a Dervish and to be cast in different

mould to every-day mortals to have accomplished such exploits.

The road we were following was particularly interesting, inasmuch

as it was in the immediate rear of the fighting line the whole way,

and we were therefore, right in the midst of every description of

military traffic and movement all the time.

It was quite remarkable considering this how little there was in the

shape of incident to record, or for the matter of that, to sketch

either. Everything appeared to be so perfectly organized that it

worked like a big well-oiled machine. It reminded me not a little of

a road in China with its endless stream of human beings.

One mountain road is very much like another, and to me on the

look-out for subjects for my sketch book, there was a very great

sameness everywhere, except the dust, which was worse than I have

seen it anywhere, even in South Africa. It could have given points

to the densest London fog and won easily. The big military motor

_Camions_, raised such clouds of it that progress at times was almost

impossible.

You could scarcely see a yard ahead, and where you knew that the

roadway ended abruptly on one side, it was not altogether pleasant to

reflect that your safety depended solely on the skill or luck of your

chauffeur—a speck of grit in his eye, a momentary lapse of “nerve,”

and you might find yourself in “Kingdom Come.” In fact, it always

struck me that the risk you ran from shell-fire was infinitesimal as

compared with that of motoring on these mountain roads.

We were only permitted to go a little way beyond Caporetto, the

General having given instructions that he did not desire any motor

traffic further along the road as it might interfere with his

“arrangements.”

As we were quite exposed to the Austrian batteries this appeared

reasonable enough, so, accompanied by a very amiable and learned

Staff Officer as guide we ascended a hill close by from which we were

able to gain some idea of what was going on.

Facing us were being carried out the most important strategic

operations on the whole of the Italian Front.

We were looking up the valley of the Isonzo River, here somewhat

narrowed; the stream, from the height where we were standing,

looking like a dark blue ribbon laid across white gravel.

Precipitous mountains rose abruptly from either side of the valley,

and towering above all was Monte Rombon, 10,000 feet high, at the

very summit of which the Austrians had their most strongly fortified

position in the Front.

This position was the key of the Austrian defences in the sector, and

to capture it the Italians, at the time of our visit, were putting

out every effort.

It was already completely invested, and the Italians were bombarding

it with heavy artillery, placed on Mount Svinjak opposite.

We could see the shells bursting high up on the precipitous slopes of

the mountain. The report of the guns echoed and re-echoed grandly,

but the tiny puffs of smoke looked ridiculously insignificant in

comparison to the volume of sound.

The difficulty for the Italian artillery was, we learned, to locate

the emplacement of the Austrian guns, as they were hidden in caves

and all manner of unwonted places on the mountain side. Still, they

were gradually being discovered and silenced, and at any moment the

_Alpini_ might be called upon to try and repeat their previous deeds

of valour by scaling the mountain and capturing the position _à

l’arme blanche_. Meanwhile the artillery duel between Rombon and

Svinjak proceeded without intermission.

At the foot of the mountains, in the valley on the right bank of

the Isonzo, at its junction with the Koritnica, one could just

distinguish the first house of the town of Plezzo and its fortress.

Through one’s glasses you saw that little but ruins now remained of

what had been one of the most picturesque and prosperous towns in the

Carniola.

Plezzo was now but a sort of “no man’s land,” and though practically

in the possession of the Italians, was for the moment uninhabitable,

being directly under the fire of the guns of Monte Rombon. The

Austrians, with their customary “kultured” amenity were continually

bombarding it in order to prevent the Italians from installing

themselves there, with the result that the town was slowly but surely

being wiped out of existence.

As a matter of fact, at that time it would have been impossible for

the Italians to have attempted, except at very heavy and needless

sacrifices of life, any thing but a “Moral” occupation of Plezzo, as

although the Austrians had evacuated the town they were very strongly

fortified and entrenched on several of the surrounding eminences.

The whole situation here at the moment, however, was, so far as one

could gather, dependent on the success of operations being carried

out in the direction of Tolmino. So that it could be safely left to

work itself out here, and there appeared to be no doubt whatever from

what we learned that everything was developing as satisfactorily as

possible. We then returned to Udine via Savogna and Cividale.

Another excursion we made to Gradisca was also particularly

interesting, and very exciting as well.

Gradisca, at that time, had only recently been abandoned by the

Austrians, and a somewhat similar state of affairs existed there as

in Plezzo. That is, it was continually under fire from the Austrian

batteries on the Carso, and many houses had already been destroyed.

There was, however, this difference, that there were soldiers in

the town, not many, perhaps, but sufficient for it to be considered

“occupied.”

It is only a short run of about 30 kilometres from Udine. En route we

drove through Palmanova, a delightful old semi-French town, dating

from the time of Napoleon I, and which reminded me a little of

Vitry-le-Francois. Its star-shaped setting of old ramparts with moat

and drawbridge and archways entrance, with big doors, presented a

strange contrast to the up-to-date military traffic passing through.

A little beyond Palmanova, at a village named Romans, we were

informed that all the cars could not be allowed to go to Gradisca,

which was some three kilometres further on, as the road was under

fire, and a procession of half-a-dozen vehicles would attract still

more attention from the Austrian batteries.

It was proposed, therefore, that we should all squeeze into two of

the biggest cars and make a dash along the road, with an interval of

twenty minutes between us. It was an uncomfortably tight fit, as may

be imagined, and we were packed like sardines. The car I was in, a

very high-powered one, surely did those three kilometres in record

time. I never motored at such a speed before.

As we neared Gradisca the shells began bursting with unpleasant

frequency in the fields, quite close to the road, and I feel sure

that everyone experienced a sense of relief when we reached the

shelter presented by the first house.

The town, which was not very much damaged, was typically Austrian,

and in the bright sunshine looked a very pretty and quaint little

place. There was a nice park with fine old trees, and in the centre

was a bandstand, so it was evidently a pleasant place in pre-war

time, but now it was absolutely deserted, and the streets presented a

very forlorn and ghostly appearance, which was heightened by the fact

of all the shutters of the houses being closed and grass growing in

the roadways everywhere.

There were Italian batteries on the hills just outside, and they were

firing continuously and with a regularity which almost savoured of

clockwork. The Austrians were only replying in a desultory manner.

The report of the guns, and the shriek of the projectiles passing

overhead, echoed through the empty streets with weird effect. It is

difficult to describe the uncanny feeling all this produced on one:

it was as though you were walking in a dream, but the reality of

it all was soon brought home to you when a shell burst amongst the

houses.

An officer conducted us into the centre of the town, through an

archway and up to the first floor of an old building. Here a large

room, with three windows, was used as a sort of observatory-post, as

it directly faced the Austrian lines about fifteen hundred yards away

on M. St. Michael.

The sashes of the windows had been removed, and big panels of sheet

iron, painted black, were propped up in front of the openings, so

that one could get a sideways glimpse outside without exposing one’s

self to view.

The room was bare of furniture, with the exception of some armchairs,

placed where one could sit comfortably and observe at one’s ease what

was going on. There would have been almost a touch of the theatrical

in it all had it not been for the occasional ping of bullets striking

the iron screens.

One got a remarkable view of this much talked about corner of the

Carso, for the possession of which the Italians were staking so much.

We saw the shells bursting with mechanical precision, and in endless

succession, along the summit, which was being gradually pounded to

bits.

Through your binoculars you searched in vain for some sign of life

or man’s handiwork on the desolate ridge, and it was difficult to

realize the importance attached to it. Yet it was certain that the

enemy was concealed there, and in great strength otherwise this

incessant and methodical bombardment would not have been deemed

necessary.

We had a bit of a stroll round on our way back to the car, and

found that, considering the town was midway between the Italian and

Austrian batteries, remarkably little damage had been done. What

struck me as particularly interesting was that many of the heavy

calibre Austrian shells had failed to explode.

There was a huge one I was shown that had wrecked a small house

simply by its weight alone. It was lying on the ground amongst a heap

of débris, quite unimpaired except for a few small scratches. If it

had exploded it would probably have destroyed half the side of the

street. One had heard so many rumours of the deterioration in the

quality of the Austrian projectiles that you wondered whether this

was a proof of it.

The visit to Gradisca practically concluded our tour of the fighting

Fronts. We made another excursion to Cervignano Aquileia and Grado,

but this was practically outside the range of military operations,

so it was more in the nature of a pleasure trip than anything else.

Still it helped to convey a good idea of what had already been

accomplished in the conquered area.

Cervignano, a rather large and important town, was full of troops,

but I learned that these were only “resting” there after a long spell

of the trenches.

It looked a very pleasant place to “rest” in, and, judging from the

cheery looks of the men, they thoroughly appreciated the change,

though it was not always peace and quietude even here, as Austrian

aircraft had a nasty habit of paying unexpected visits every now and

then, I was told. Several women and children had already been killed

by aeroplane bombs and a few houses damaged.

Aquileia, the ancient capital of Venetia, was only interesting from

an archæological point of view, as it presented no military features.

A learned officer showed us over the museum and the fine church,

with its Roman pavement, and both were, doubtless, interesting and

instructive from a student point of view, _mais ce n’était pas la

guerre_. I loathe sightseeing, but I suppose it would have been

sacrilege if we had missed seeing them since we were there.

From Aquilei we had a pleasant motor run through a peaceful

countryside to Belvedere, a tiny “port” at the head of the Adriatic,

where we embarked on a Government launch for Grado, which is situated

on an island a couple of miles away.

There was not a sign of warfare here. It was a little seaside town,

which reminded somewhat of Blankenbergh, but the place was well worth

seeing, as it has been called the Austrian Ostend, and the Casino was

its principal attraction during the season.

Of course all the hotels and the bathing establishments were closed,

but we were able to get an excellent fish luncheon at a café facing

the quay.

The town was continually being subjected to bombardment by Austrian

seaplanes operating from Trieste, some twenty miles distant.

Many people, chiefly women and children, had been killed and a number

of houses destroyed. Energetic measures were being adopted for the

defence of the town, and whilst we were there a seaplane, with

Beaumont, the famous French airman as passenger, arrived from Venice.

Our excursion to Grado concluded the official tour of the Front, and

much to the regret of us all, we had to make our preparations for

leaving the war zone; three days were given us to complete any work

we might have in hand and get it passed by the Censor.

It is almost needless to add that every effort was made by us to

obtain permission to remain for a time, if only in Udine, but in

vain—for reasons best known to those in authority, no further

publicity was desired for the moment.

With the conclusion, therefore, of the correspondents’ tour along the

Front, the veil of secrecy was once more drawn over the operations,

and was not to be lifted again except for the issue of the brief

“Official” _communiqués_ till such time as it might be decided to

allow representatives of the Press to return to the war zone.

That the tour had been a great success was incontrovertible. The

good fellowship shown to the foreign correspondents everywhere was

quite one of its most memorable features, and one was continually

experiencing it in some form or other.

Although perhaps, in consequence of the operations being in a state

of preparation only, we had not seen so much of active warfare as

we should have wished; what we had seen had opened our eyes to the

resource and courage of the Italian officers and soldiers and the

marvellous organization of the Army.

The progress that was being made in every part of the Front was,

in my opinion, convincing proof that Italy’s share in the Allied

operations is likely to be a very important factor in every phase of

the conflict, and subsequent events have strengthened my conviction.

CHAPTER XII

Conclusion of Correspondents’ tour of Front—I return to

London—Awaiting events—Brief official _communiqués_—Half Austrian

Army held up on Italian Front—Harrying tactics—Trench warfare during

the winter—Recuperative powers of the Austrians—Gorizia a veritable

Verdun—Italian occupation of Austrian territory—Many thousand square

miles conquered—A bolt from the blue—Serious development—Awakening

Austrian activity—400,000 troops in the Trentino—Front from Lake

Garda to Val Sugana ablaze—Totally unforseen onslaught—Towns and

villages captured—Genius of Cadorna—Menace of invasion ended—I

go and see Charles Ingram with reference going back to Italy—His

journalistic acumen—My marching orders—Telegram from Rome—My journey

back to Italy—Confidence everywhere—Milan in darkness—Improvement on

the railway to Udine—Udine much changed—Stolid business air—Changes

at the Censorship—Press Bureau and club for correspondents—The

Censorship staff—Few accredited correspondents—Remarkable absence of

Entente correspondents—Badges and passes—Complete freedom of action

given me—I start for Vicenza en route for Arsiero—Scenes on road—From

daylight into darkness—Hun methods of frightfulness—Arsiero—Its

unfavourable position—Extent of the Austrian advance—Rush of the

Italians—Austrians not yet beaten—Town damaged by the fire and

bombardment—Villa of a great writer—Rossi’s paper-mills—The town

itself—The battlefield—Débris of war—A dangerous souvenir for my

studio.

[Illustration: One would have liked to spend an indefinite time at

these scenes of warlike activity (_see page 131_)

_To face page 148_]

CHAPTER XII

There were rumours that within a very short time the correspondents

would be permitted to return to the Front, but it was very uncertain

when this would be, so I decided, since we all had to leave the war

zone, to return for the time being to London where I could find

better employment in my studio, than playing the tourist in Italy.

For several months, however, no permission was given, and during this

time, owing to the fact that there were no correspondents with the

Army, little or nothing was known of what was taking place; the brief

official _communiqués_ conveying but the most meagre details.

That the Italians were marking time meanwhile was, however, in the

last degree improbable, of that I felt convinced; General Cadorna

is not made of that fibre. When he is apparently doing nothing of

importance it is certain he is preparing some _coup_ and waiting a

favourable opportunity to develop it.

In the meantime practically half the Austrian Army and the pick of

the troops at that was being held up on the Italian Front, and not

in a state of immobility by any means; one was able to judge if one

read between the lines of the _Communiqués_ that day by day almost,

and all through the winter, harrying tactics were being successfully

carried on all along the Front. So much so, in fact, that the

Austrian Generals must have often found themselves in a quandary for

satisfactory matter for their daily reports.

The winter passed with ding-dong trench warfare, when the rate of

progress could at times be only reckoned by yards in a week. Still,

it was progress, and every yard was bringing the Italians nearer to

their immediate objective, Gorizia.

Meanwhile the extraordinary and quite unexpected recuperative power

of the Austrians was becoming more and more _en evidence_ as was

also the fact, unfortunately demonstrated by the heavy losses of the

Italians, that they were putting up a desperate fight.

Gorizia had proved a veritable Verdun. Every hill and bluff being

found to be fortified and honeycombed with deep entrenchments, which

would have entailed enormous sacrifice of life to capture at this

stage of the operations.

It looked, therefore, like taking months to accomplish what the

Italians had fondly hoped would be but an affair of weeks, though

considering the unforseen difficulties that had to be overcome, it

redounded to the credit of General Cadorna and his lieutenants that

so much could be recorded as actually compassed.

The occupation of two thousand square miles of Austrian territory

with a population of over 300,000, was an achievement which in itself

was sufficient answer to those captious stay-at-home arm-chair

critics who were continually asking “What is Italy doing?”

Then suddenly—as a bolt from the blue—something totally unexpected

happened, and developed into a crisis of so serious a nature that it

called for the exercise of all the genius and resource of Cadorna,

combined with the devotion of his troops, to master, and which might

conceivably have altered the whole outlook of the war had it not been

successfully handled.

On the 15th May the Italian _communiqué_, to the surprise of most

of us, who followed with interest the fighting on this front,

announced that on the previous day the Austrians had started a heavy

bombardment on the positions on the Trentino Front near Roveretto

which the Italians were expecting to capture at any moment.

This piece of news, after months of comparative quiescence, was

sufficiently startling to attract immediate attention to the Italian

Front, and the London papers actually began to mention Italy again.

The _communiqués_ of the following days stated that the activity of

the Austrian batteries continued, but gave no suggestion of anything

untoward happening, so it was generally thought that the first

intimation was perhaps somewhat exaggerated, and that there was

“nothing much in it.”

But this sudden awakening of activity was, as it turned out, the

first rumbling of the approaching storm, and, instead of dying out,

as had previous artillery demonstrations, it gradually increased in

intensity, until May 23rd, the anniversary of the declaration of war,

when the burst came.

It was then discovered that the Austrians had concentrated no less

than 400,000 troops in the Trentino sector at a point where they were

protected by a series of powerful forts. This particular sector had

all along been recognized as the weakest point on the Italian Front,

but as there had been no indication of an offensive impending in this

direction no steps had been taken to meet it.

In a few hours the 50 mile front from the Lake Garda to Val Sugana

was ablaze, and the Italians were defending themselves for all they

were worth against a heavy and determined Austrian thrust that tried

their endurance to the utmost limit.

So totally unforseen was the onslaught that although the Italian

wings on the Brenta and the Adige held firm, the centre was

practically crumpled up by sheer weight of numbers, and the

Austrians advanced victoriously into Italian territory. The towns of

Arsiero, and Asiago, and many villages were captured, and it looked

for a short time as if the plains of Venetia lay at the mercy of the

invaders.

The genius and resource of General Cadorna saved the situation.

Brigades of infantry were hurried up to the threatened area in motor

lorries and other vehicles, together with guns and huge quantities

of ammunition. In incredibly short time an army of nearly 100,000

men were on the spot. The Italian line was consolidated and a

counter-offensive begun.

Within four days the Italians had recovered the whole of the lost

positions, including Arsiero and Asiago, and the menace of invasion

was ended.

For some time previously I had been in daily expectation of receiving

my marching orders to go back to Italy, and at the height of the

crisis I went down to see Charles Ingram and again pressed him to let

me start forthwith. He didn’t exactly say no, but was inclined to

temporize.

Later I gathered that with true journalistic acumen he had in his

mind that the British public were not exactly hungering after

pictorial representation of Italian reverses. There was no hesitation

on his part as soon as the first indication of the successful “push”

arrived. My marching orders then were as peremptory as on previous

occasions. I forgot to mention that I had received a telegram from

the Ministero del Interno in Rome telling me I was permitted to

return to Headquarters when I wished; so I had no anxiety on that

score.

I got back to the Italian Front, therefore, in time to witness the

expiring effort of the Austrian thrust.

On my journey across Italy I found everywhere a refreshing calm and

confidence and not the slightest indication of any nervousness.

Milan had had one or two visits from _Taubes_, so was in darkness

at night, otherwise there was no reminder of the war; the life and

gaiety of the city was the same as ever, and it was apparently

bubbling over with prosperity.

There was a noticeable improvement in the railway service to Udine.

Instead of a rough and ready journey there were now a sleeping car

and restaurant attached to the train, so one travelled in comfort.

Udine appeared to me much changed. There were far fewer soldiers to

be seen in the streets, owing probably to the fact that the fighting

lines were now so much farther away, and the old time bustling

military activity was no longer noticeable. An air of stolid business

seemed to have taken its place. Many of the big public buildings that

had been temporarily utilized for staff purposes, and which used

to overflow with martial activity were now closed; more convenient

quarters having been found elsewhere.

To anyone, therefore, arriving in Udine now for the first time the

little town must have appeared quite commonplace, apart from its

historical and architectural features.

But the greatest change was at the Censorship. It had been improved

beyond all recognition, and it was evident that the Government

no longer regarded the representatives of the fourth estate as

interlopers, but as honoured guests.

A fine, roomy old palace had been rented and transformed into a

Press Bureau and club for the war-correspondents. The Censorship

staff, consisting of three officers—Colonel Barbarich, Lt.-Colonel

Clericetti, and Captain Weillschott, three courteous and genial

gentlemen—did their utmost to make the lot of the correspondents as

pleasant as possible. They were good friends rather than mentors,

and you could not help having the greatest regard and esteem for

them.

In addition to the spacious and comfortable club-room, where writing

paper and other requisites were provided, and soldiers were on duty

as club servants, the Government had gone one better than any club I

know of, for, with true Italian hospitality, black coffee after lunch

or dinner, afternoon tea with cakes, and “soft” drinks in the evening

were provided free of charge.

Before lunch or during the afternoon one was pretty sure to meet

here everyone who was in Udine in connection with journalism, or who

was visiting the Front; as Udine was still the starting point for

expeditions to the lines, and it was only here that the military

passes were issued.

The Censorship, therefore, had grown into a permanent and

well-organized institution, but it had dwindled to insignificant

proportions so far as the number of accredited correspondents was

concerned, as compared with what it had been the previous year.

I was much surprised to find when I returned to Udine that there were

not more than ten Italian pressmen there, and that I was the only

foreign representative. As a matter of fact, during the whole of the

three months I was at the Front this year I practically had the whole

field to myself.

Considering the magnitude of the operations which culminated in

the fall of Gorizia, it is scarcely to be wondered at that this

remarkable absence of Entente correspondents excited much comment at

Headquarters.

The Italian correspondents wore an enamel badge to indicate their

profession, and military passes, “Salvo Condotti,” were issued to

everyone. These passes were for fourteen days only, in the case of

the foreign correspondents, who were not allowed to go anywhere

unless accompanied by an officer deputed by the Censor.

I was shown particular courtesy and latitude, and all irksome

restrictions waived in this respect, probably on account of my

being an artist, as distinct from a journalist. I had moreover no

difficulty whatever in remaining up at the Front as long as I chose,

and on leaving was informed I was at liberty to return whenever I

wished and without any further formality.

The complete freedom of action this gave me was particularly

delightful, and was in marked contrast to what I had experienced on

the Western Fronts. I found several old friends amongst the Italian

correspondents established permanently at Headquarters, so there was

no difficulty in making arrangements with regard to a car, as, of

course, one could go nowhere without one.

It may be of interest to mention that only military chauffeurs were

allowed to drive in the zone of operations, and their permits had to

be renewed at stated intervals.

On arriving in Udine everybody in the newspaper line was away in the

Trentino, as obviously all interest centred there for the moment; the

Censorship building was, therefore, very forlorn and deserted looking.

I duly reported myself and was given my “pass” to go on to the scene

of action at once if I chose; not the slightest difficulty was placed

in my way; in fact, everything was done to facilitate my work, even

to providing me with a car and an officer to act as my guide.

So without delay I started for Vicenza, the nearest important place

to the fighting. Everything was very calm and peaceful there, no sign

of anything out of the common happening. Yet the Austrians had got

within 25 miles of the city and less than five from the Venetian

Plain, which surrounds it. Truly the Latin temperament has undergone

a wonderful metamorphosis in the last decade.

We stayed the night in Vicenza, and started the following morning for

Arsiero, the Italian town in Schio, occupied by the Austrians, and

which had only a few days previously been recaptured. For the first

fifteen miles or so there was nothing of particular interest along

the road except the endless defile of troops and transport of every

description, such as might have been expected; but in the villages

the daily life of the peasants appeared to be going on as usual, with

women and children everywhere.

Then one appeared to cross an invisible line of demarcation, and once

beyond it, all was changed.

It was like going from daylight into darkness. The smiling villages

were deserted, save where some of the cottages were occupied by

soldiers. Through the open windows one saw that not only were the

inhabitants gone, but that they had removed most of their household

goods and chattels with them.

In several places were indications of panic—articles lying about as

though dropped in flight, even washing abandoned by a stream. The

sadness of it all was most impressive, but worse was to come. As we

neared the scene of the Austrian thrust there was abundant evidence

of the fate that would have been in store for any hapless folk whose

homes happened to be in reach of the Austrian guns.

Up till now what had impressed me perhaps most of all in the war on

the Italian Front was the entire absence, so to speak, of the horrors

of war in the shape of devastated towns, villages and country sides,

such as one got so hardened to in France and Belgium. This impression

was now to be rudely dispelled.

Once inside the radius of the big guns the spectacle was but a

repetition of what I had seen on the Western Front; heaps of

shapeless rubble and smouldering ruin on all sides bore witness to

Hun methods of frightfulness.

We at length came in sight of Arsiero and had to leave the car as

the road, which had been getting more and more choked with _débris_,

now became impassible. Moreover, big shells were coming over with

persistent frequency, and we could not afford to take any risk of our

transport being injured. We had no desire to walk back.

One must have seen the Front here for oneself in order to form any

conception of what the Austrian thrust meant, and how near it was to

succeeding.

Arsiero is situated in the valley of Astico; behind it is the

semi-circle of mountains which form the boundary of the tableland

of the Altopiano, so close as to dominate it completely, foremost

amongst these mountains being M. Cenzio and M. Cimone, standing up

like colossal barriers above the valley.

From the point of view of an artist it would be difficult to conceive

a more delightful panorama than one had before one’s eyes: it was a

glorious picture waiting to be painted in peace time, but you felt

that there was nothing attractive about it from the military point

of view. If an enemy were in possession of all these superb heights,

then the positions in the valley below would be very undesirable, to

say the least of it; and without any knowledge of military matters

you realised that the valley and all that it contained—towns,

villages, vineyards and what not—was completely at the mercy of the

men who manned the guns up above, and also that under cover of these

guns immense masses of troops could be safely brought down the side

of the mountains on to the plains, and established there pending

further movements.

Following up your thoughts as an amateur strategist, you could

not fail to come to the conclusion that the valley was as good

as lost if such a contingency came to pass, unless the defenders

could achieve what looked like a sheer impossibility, and drive the

invaders from their positions on the plain and back again up the

mountain side.

The idea of such a possibility was too fantastic to waste a thought

on it. Yet this is actually what happened during that fateful week

when Italy was on the brink of disaster.

On the road leading to the town there were signs everywhere of

the Austrians, and of the desperate fighting that had taken place

here only a few days previously. I had thought that there might

be a certain amount of panicky exaggeration in the reports of the

extent of the Austrian advance towards the place, but there were

incontestable proofs in the shape of trenches, barbed wire and so

forth pushed forward well in front of Arsiero.

Every yard of the enemy’s advance had been methodically consolidated,

but nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians—their blood was

up for vengeance—they were fighting on Italian soil and on their

way here had passed through the devastated villages and ruined

countryside, and had heard tales of outrage and infamy.

It was a case of God help the Austrians if they caught up with them,

for along the whole Front there had been considerable evidence of

the enemy’s barbaric methods; in one place, for instance, near

Magnaboschi, hundreds of naked corpses of Italian soldiers were found

in the mire.

With the knowledge of what they might expect if the Italians got

to grips with them, the Austrians, once they got on the run, never

stopped till they were safely back in their old positions, and here

they were putting up a stubborn fight when I was in Arsiero.

They were not beaten by any means, although driven from Italian soil.

That General Cadorna was evidently aware that any relaxation of

pressure would have brought them on again was substantiated by the

number of troops he was keeping in this sector.

Arsiero had suffered considerably, and although not entirely in

ruins, as has been stated, was more damaged by fire and shell than

any place in Italy I had yet seen.

On the outskirts of the town the gairish _nouvel art_ villa of the

famous Italian writer, Antonio Fogazzaro, which must have cost him a

little fortune to build was now but an unsightly ultra-modern ruin

standing in the midst of a wilderness of park-like grounds. One of

the most advanced of the Austrian communication trenches leading into

the valley started from here.

A little distance further down the road were the immense paper-mills

of Rossi and Co., said to have been the largest in Europe, and which

employed hundreds of workpeople.

The buildings were absolutely wiped out. They had been deliberately

set fire to by the Austrians before they evacuated the town. Nothing

remained now but acres of crumbling walls, smouldering timber, and

twisted _débris_ of machinery, over which hung a pall, as it were, of

smoke, a pitiful spectacle of wanton, insensate destruction.

The town itself, a picturesque, rambling, up-hill and down-dale sort

of place was only destroyed in patches, but with the shells still

coming over there was yet a possibility of its utter destruction.

As the gun-fire seemed to have lulled a bit, we had a stroll up to

the battlefield on the hill beyond the houses. There a barrage of

shell-fire had evidently been attempted, judging from the fragments

of shell-cases of all calibres lying about. In places the ground was

littered with the _detritus_ of war, and looked like an old-iron and

rag-refuse heap. Here and there were interesting curios and many

unexploded projectiles in perfect condition. It occurred to me that

I would take one of these away with me as a souvenir for my studio,

and was stooping down to pick up one when a soldier, who was passing,

rushed towards me yelling out at the top of his voice, “Non toccate!

non toccate! Signore.”

I did not understand much Italian, but I knew enough to comprehend

that I was not to touch it, and thought it strange that with all this

rubbish lying about I could not take something if I fancied it.

My companion came up at that moment and explained to me that it was

most dangerous to handle these unexploded live shells—even walking

too close to them has been known to cause them to explode. I did not

want any further telling, and contented myself with taking an empty

.77 as a souvenir.

[Illustration: But nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians (_see

page 158_)

_To face page 160_]

CHAPTER XIII