The fighting on the Asiago plateau—Brilliant counter-offensive

of General Cadorna—I go to Asiago—Wonderful organization of

Italian Army—Making new roads—Thousands of labourers—The

military causeway—Supply columns in full operation—Wonderful

scenes—Approaching the scene of action—The forest of Gallio—The big

bivouac—Whole brigades lying hidden—The forest screen—Picturesque

encampments—The “bell” tent as compared with the _tente d’abri_—Our

car stopped by the _Carabinieri_—“Nostri Canoni”—We leave the car—The

plain of Asiago—The little town of Asiago in distance—The Austrian

and Italian batteries and Italian trenches—Hurrying across—The

daily toll of the guns—Asiago in ruins—Street fighting—Importance

attaching to this point—An ominous lull—Regiment waiting to

proceed to trenches—Sad spectacle—The quarters of the divisional

commandant—His “office”—Staff clerks at work—Telephone bells

ringing—The commandant’s regret at our coming—Big artillery attack

to commence—A quarter of an hour to spare—A peep at the Austrian

trenches—A little ruined home—All movements of troops to trenches

by night—Artillery action about to commence—Not allowed to go to

trenches—Adventure on way back—Attempt cross no man’s land at the

double—My little “souvenir” of Asiago—Bursting shells—Ordered to take

cover—The wounded soldiers and the kitten—Anything but a pleasant

spot—The two _Carabinieri_—Cool courage—In the “funk-hole”—An

inferno—My own impressions—Effect on soldiers and our chauffeur—The

wounded sergeant—We prepare to make a start back—Irritating delay—A

shrapnel—My companion is wounded—Transformation along road—Curious

incident.

CHAPTER XIII

The Austrian thrust was not confined to the Arsiero sector, although

it was undoubtedly there that they made their greatest effort in men

and guns. The Asiago plateau in the district of the Sette Communi

was the scene of desperate fighting simultaneously with that around

Arsiero.

The counter-offensive of General Cadorna in this direction was, if

anything, more brilliantly conceived and carried out than in the

Astico valley, and that is saying a great deal. But here again,

although driven back, the enemy was by no means beaten, and continued

to fight sullenly for every yard he was forced to yield. Although the

Italians were pressing closely on the enemy’s heels, it was a tough

job to keep him on the move, as I was able to judge for myself.

I went up to Asiago on my return from Arsiero, and must admit I was

astounded at all I saw; it was inconceivable that so much could have

been accomplished in so short a time.

I have so often insisted on the wonderful organization of every

branch of the Italian Army that I hardly like to revert to it again,

but I had just returned, after having been away for several months,

and I found that my impressions were precisely the same as in the

beginning of the war; preparedness is still the _mot d’ordre_. An

instance of this will serve to convey my meaning.

It is uphill most of the way to the tableland where Asiago is

situated, and before the Austrian onslaught the roads to the

plateau were of so rough and primitive a description as to be quite

inadequate to meet the requirements of the immense transport service

of the army being sent up.

In order to cope with the exigencies of the situation drastic

measures had to be adopted, which were evidently foreseen and

arranged for in the event of certain contingencies such as the

present one arising.

Thousands of labourers, young and old, of the military classes not

yet called up, but who undoubtedly had been warned for this duty,

were brought from all over the country, provided with picks and

shovels and sent here by express trains. Without the delay of an hour

practically, they were set to work to cut down obstructing trees and

widen, build up and level the existing roads.

Of course they were well paid: five lires a day and their food

provided, but it was not a mere question of pay—of that you cannot

fail to be convinced—only men working with their hearts in their job

could have accomplished what these gangs of men did in the time. It

is truly an object lesson in the value of organized labour.

The fine broad highway, complete in every necessary detail, such as

stone parapets at the curves, and walling-up where there is risk of

landslides, came into being as though by the touch of a magician’s

wand, and proved of incalculable value in the counter-attack which

was meanwhile preparing. The transport of the masses of troops

synchronizing with the completion of the roads.

Certain it is that without such organization it would have required

many weeks to have carried out what was done in a few days, and in

the meantime the invaders, it is to be assumed, would not have been

idle on their side.

When I motored up to Asiago, had I not been told how long this

roadway had been in existence I should have said it was years old,

instead of days.

Along this military causeway was as busy and animated a scene as

could be imagined. The Italians had already recaptured all the

positions in the Sette Communi, and were pushing steadily on towards

the Altopiano beyond Asiago.

The supply columns were, therefore, now in full operation, and one

passed what was practically an endless convoy of munition trains,

motor lorries, picturesque carts from every corner apparently of the

peninsula, and long strings of pack horses and mules. In and out of

this imposing column and up the steepest parts of the road dispatch

riders on motor bicycles dashed along with reckless speed and

marvellous dexterity.

It was a wonderfully inspiriting scene, and this was accentuated as

one gradually began to hear the booming of the Italian guns in the

distance. We were rapidly approaching the scene of action, and the

Austrians were being given no respite.

The effect of all this, together with the glorious air of the

mountain, was as exhilarating as champagne—one felt years younger.

The car seemed to go too slowly, so eager were you to get on, and be

in the thick of it all.

The mountain side was bare and bleak, with scarcely a vestige of tree

or shrub—but on the tableland beyond the crest it gradually changed,

and we entered a belt of pine forest, dark and gloomy.

This was the forest of Gallio. The road wound in and out of the

dense trees, and only a short distance ahead could be seen. We had

now passed the head of the transport convoys, and came up with

reinforcements hurrying forward.

A remarkable scene now presented itself. The forest on either side of

the road was a big bivouac. The gloom under the trees was alive with

troops as far back as one could see. Every yard of ground appeared to

be occupied, whole brigades were lying hidden here waiting the order

to advance. No more effective screen could have been wished for than

this belt of forest, and it must have been a continual source of

anxiety to the Austrian generals to know what it concealed.

It was probably for this reason that the forest of Gallio was the

hottest section of this Front, as it was continually being shelled,

and the casualties were always correspondingly heavy.

There was something singularly reminiscent of mining scenes in the

Far West in all I saw around me as many of the men had erected their

picturesque little _tentes d’abri_ and formed little encampments in

all sorts of out-of-the-way corners. The soldiers were apparently

allowed considerable latitude in this respect, possibly because these

tents are so easily handled, and by reason of their small dimensions

are easily disguised with foliage.

The big and cumbersome “bell” tent so fondly adhered to by the

British Army Authorities under all circumstances would have looked

very out of date here, where initiative not dogma reigned supreme!

After passing through what gave the impression of miles and miles

of encampment, we approached the confines of the trees, and were

suddenly hailed by two _Carabinieri_ standing under the trees just

off the road, and informed that the car was not allowed to proceed

any further.[A]

[A] The _Carabinieri_ have a special _status_ in Italy, and only

men of the very highest character are accepted for the corps. In

peace time they are country constabulary, and patrol the rural

districts; in war they automatically become military police and

are exclusively employed in the immediate rear of the fighting

line, watching for deserters, looking after prisoners, carrying

despatches, and so forth. They only take orders from their own

officers, and never do any military service. On but one occasion

have they become combatants, and that was at the battle of Palestro

in 1859, when they saved the life of King Humbert by forming a

square to protect him. Their war footing is 50,000, of whom 8,000

are mounted.

Of course our chauffeur pulled up without hesitating: he knew that

_Carabinieri_ have to be obeyed without parley. My companion got

out, and I was following him when, scarcely had I got my foot off

the step, than there was a deafening report like a thunderclap a few

yards away. For a moment I thought my head had been blown off.

“Sonoi Nostri Canoni,” remarked my companion, who had been there

before, and who knew of an Italian big gun hidden in the trees within

a few yards of us; one of many along the outskirts of the forest, I

was told later, and which were giving the Austrians much trouble. We

left the car here to await our return and walked on. A hundred yards

or so and we were clear of the forest, which ended abruptly on the

edge of a slight acclivity.

A little below us was a wide expanse of grass-covered plain, and in

the centre of it, about a mile away, were the white houses of the

little town of Asiago, of which one had read so much during the past

few weeks.

Just beyond the town a line of low-lying hills stood out against the

horizon. On the crest of one of these hills—Monte Interrotto—about

two and a half miles distant were the Austrian batteries, and on

the slopes below were the Austrian and Italian trenches. In the far

distance to the North, Monte Zebio stood out amongst some rugged

peaks.

For the moment the scene was fairly peaceful, that is to say the guns

on either side were only firing in a desultory way; but, of course,

one could not tell how long this would last and what might “come

over” at any moment; however, as we had come here with the intention

of going right into Asiago, this had to be chanced. My companion

advised hurrying across as quickly as possible as there was no cover

anywhere, and the road was quite exposed to the view of the Austrian

gunners.

It was a typical summer morning, with the birds singing merrily on

all sides, so it was somewhat difficult to realize that there was

danger in strolling along leisurely, but before we had gone far we

met stretcher-bearers coming towards us with their sad burdens, and

quite a number of soldiers carrying wounded men on their backs.

No big engagement was in progress we learned, but the guns and rifles

were taking their steady and relentless daily toll all the time.

This constant stream of wounded ended by getting on one’s nerves, and

made you wonder what the fates had in store for you.

The town, from a distance, appeared to be quite undamaged, but on

getting near to it one found it was in a sad state of ruins. Very few

of the houses had escaped the ravages of fire or bombardment.

The position of Asiago, midway between the opposing batteries, had,

of course, in a great measure brought this about, and was responsible

for its gradual destruction.

There was a great deal of street fighting before the invaders

were driven out and back to the hills, and in several places were

hastily erected barricades formed with broken furniture and other

miscellaneous articles. Barbed wire entanglements of a novel

construction were also placed in some of the streets in case the

Italian cavalry attempted to force a way through.

So Asiago was very closely connected with the stirring events that

were taking place, and from being an unheard of little frontier town,

had become one of the most spoken of places in Italy.

The fact that the _communiqués_ referred to it almost daily is proof

of the importance attaching to this point, and it required ceaseless

vigilance on the part of the Italians to retain their foothold in its

ruined streets. But no attempt has been made to fortify the place,

its defences are the trenches on the hills beyond, and which, at the

time I was there, were gradually being pushed forward.

Any troops in the town itself were only there _de passage_ for a few

hours. It would have been risking unnecessary sacrifice of life to

have kept them there for any length of time.

We were in about as exposed a position as could probably have been

found on any front, but for the moment there was an ominous lull

which portended no good, and so it turned out. The respite was not to

last long; the Asiago plateau is far too important a sector of the

front to be left long in quietude.

The little town must have been a delightful place before the war, and

even now, destroyed though it mostly is, there are a few picturesque

corners which the bombardment has spared. There were comparatively

very few soldiers about, and the deserted, ruined streets looked

unutterably sad; but right in the centre, on an open piece of waste

ground, sheltered by some tall houses and a roughly made “screen” of

odd pieces of corrugated iron, a regiment was waiting for nightfall

to proceed to the trenches outside the town.

I had a good look through an aperture in the screen: the men

were noticeably subdued in their demeanour, as well they might

be, considering that at any moment they might be under a hail of

projectiles and with no means of escaping it.

They had evidently been on the road for some time, as they all looked

grimy with dust and dirt and tired out, judging from the way most of

them were lying about sleeping. It was an extremely sad spectacle,

and I had no inclination to make a sketch of it, novel though it was.

We enquired our way to the quarters of the Divisional Commandant,

as my companion had a letter to deliver to him, and an officer we

met sent some one with us to show us the house, as outwardly there

was no indication of its being occupied. The number of deep dug-outs

protected with sand-bags one saw everywhere was sufficient proof of

the awful time the men stationed here went through. As we went along

we were constantly meeting stretcher-bearers bringing along wounded

men. At the corners of streets men were sheltering close up to the

walls as though expecting at any moment something to happen.

The Commandant’s “office” was in a house that had suffered badly:

there were gaping cracks in the walls, and it looked as if any

explosion near it would bring it down with a run.

There were quite a number of staff clerks at work in the ground-floor

rooms, and the telephone bells were ringing incessantly.

We were received by the Commandant with much cordiality, and the

position of affairs in the immediate vicinity explained to us very

lucidly by means of a big military chart fastened to a table in one

of the rooms, but he expressed regret at our having come just on that

particular day as a big attack by the artillery was timed to commence

at eleven o’clock (it was then 10.45), and he feared we should not be

able to get back so soon as we wished.

As though in defiant response to his statement, there was at that

moment a loud report from an Austrian battery, and a big shell

screeched by overhead.

There was still a quarter of an hour to spare before the Italian guns

were to start off, so the Commandant suggested our going upstairs to

the third floor to have a peep at the Italian and Austrian trenches

through a shell-hole in the roof. The house was quite new and built

in flats, which had evidently been occupied by fairly well-to-do

people.

The room we went into had evidently been a sort of bedroom and

nursery combined: it was in a complete state of ruin, furniture

smashed, women’s clothes jumbled up all over the floor, with

tiles and bricks and mortar, here and there among the _débris_

a child’s toy, a broken doll, and what not, letters and papers

strewn everywhere, and all sodden with rain. There was something

inexpressibly pathetic in this little ruined home.

The Italian and Austrian trenches were but a few hundred yards away,

and only quite a short distance separated them. There was, however,

very little to see even through our powerful binoculars. The whole

hillside was very bare, and the trenches looked like mere furrows in

it, and yet one knew that these furrows were full of men waiting the

opportunity to get out and kill each other.

There was not a sign of life anywhere, as it meant certain death to

show yourself if only for an instant, the Commandant told me; even

where we were in this third floor room we ran the risk of being

spotted by some vigilant sniper, for the dilapidated roof offered

very little shelter.

All movements of troops up to the trenches were made by night, and

once the men were in position they were completely isolated, it only

being possible to take them their food once during the day, after

dark.

On the crest of Monte Interrotto opposite us, about fifteen hundred

yards distant, was a curious little squat-looking building which had,

I was told, been originally erected as a fort, but now it was merely

a landmark probably, and abandoned, or it would have certainly been

obliterated by the Italian artillery.

It was just upon eleven o’clock when we came down, and the telephone

bells were ringing furiously—the artillery action was evidently about

to commence.

My companion, who, by the way, had a camera with him, suggested our

going out to the trenches, but when he mentioned it to the Commandant

he was told that he, as an officer, could of course go if he wished;

there was nothing to stop him, but I could not be allowed to

accompany him under any circumstances.

The reason for this interdiction was not explained as far as I could

gather. There was, however, no arguing the matter, so rather than

leave me he decided that since that was the case, and there was

nothing more to see here it would be better if we chanced it and made

a dash back to the car whilst there was yet perhaps time.

Whilst we were talking, the Italian batteries were already opening

fire all along the line, though apparently only in a tentative

range-finding sort of way to start with, and the Austrians were

beginning to reply by dropping shells round Asiago, several big

projectiles bursting in the outskirts of the town.

It looked, therefore, as though we were going to have an exciting

time getting back, and so it turned out. The Commandant grimly wished

us luck, and off we went.

We had not got far when our adventures commenced. A big shrapnel

bursting right over us. Fortunately we had heard it coming, so had

time to get behind a wall. The fragments of the shell beat down on

the ground like Brobdingnagian hailstones.

After that the firing from both sides seemed to become general, and

it was evident that the attack was developing seriously.

Out in the open, as I have said, there was no cover whatever, so

there was nothing for it but to attempt to get across the mile of “No

man’s land” at the double.

Some soldiers, who were going across also, set the pace to start

with. I must regretfully confess, however, that I am long past

athletics, and even in my best days was never much of a pedestrian,

so I very soon had to give in and take it easily.

[Illustration: And came up with reinforcements hurrying forward (_see

page 165_)

_To face page 172_]

My companion, who was quite a young man, could without a doubt

have run the whole distance, but he good-naturedly slowed down to

remain with me.

Apart from my lack of stamina, I was somewhat severely handicapped

for sprinting, as, at the Commandant’s quarters I had been given the

butt-end of a big shell as “a little souvenir” of my visit to Asiago.

It certainly was an interesting trophy, though a trifle weighty, as

may be imagined, and I did not want to leave it behind if I could

help it, as I have a mania for collecting war “curios” for my studio;

but it was a terrible temptation to drop it now and chance getting

another later on. However, I stuck to it like grim death and, I may

add, eventually brought it to London.

The idea of a man of my years and experience attempting to run a mile

in a blazing hot sun and under fire with a piece of iron weighing

some 12lbs. under his arm was doubtless ridiculous, and probably my

companion thought so, though he said nothing.

We had just got out in the open when we heard a terrific explosion

and, looking back, we saw that a shell of the biggest calibre had

burst in the town.

An immense column of white smoke and dust rose high in the air, and

in it you saw fragments of timber and other _débris_ suspended by the

force of the explosion in the still atmosphere for what seemed a few

seconds—so long, in fact, that my companion actually had time to get

his camera out of its case and take a snapshot.

The artillery duel was now spreading ominously, and we could see that

shells were bursting unpleasantly near the spot where we had left the

car, the objective of the Austrians being, of course, the Italian

batteries along the edge of the forest.

About half way across was what looked like a railway embankment or

something of that sort, the road passing under it by a low archway.

There was a cottage close by, and when we got up to it we found

that it was a sort of infantry post in charge of a non-commissioned

officer, and that the soldiers who had preceded us had been ordered

to take cover here for a time—and we had to do the same—the object of

this evidently being to prevent too much movement being seen on the

road.

The cottage was little better than a shanty, and afforded no

protection whatever. In the one room were several badly-wounded men

lying on stretchers on the ground.

The thunder of the guns and the bursting shells outside did not

appear to affect them at all; in fact, two of the most heavily

bandaged were actually playing with a pretty little tabby kitten

that, strangely enough, was there. It was a curiously homely note,

and singularly out of keeping with its surroundings.

The sergeant detained us some little time, and then only allowed us

to go on singly and with intervals between. He evidently was using

his own judgment in the matter.

When we reached the forest the shells from the Austrian batteries

appeared to be passing overhead in a continuous flight, their wailing

screech sounding like a high wind in the tree-tops.

It was as if a gale were raging, accompanied by incessant crashes of

thunder. Branches of trees were being brought down by the shells in

every direction, and altogether it was anything but a pleasant spot

to find oneself in.

Yet close by, standing as calmly as though waiting for the storm to

pass, were the two _Carabinieri_ we had previously seen, and who were

evidently on guard here.

In all my war experiences I have never witnessed anything to surpass

the _sangfroid_ displayed by these two men. Neither the bursting

shells nor the falling trees appeared to perturb them in the least.

They were as unruffled as a London policeman on point duty. It was a

display of cool courage I shall long remember. Their horses, standing

just behind, shared their master’s composure; they showed no signs of

nervousness, and were not even fastened up.

I shall have occasion later to again refer to the remarkable

fearlessness of the _Carabinieri_—it was one of the things that

impressed me most on the Italian Front.

The car was not where we had left it, and the _Carabinieri_ told us

that the chauffeur had thought it advisable to move it to a less

exposed place further up the road so as not to risk its being smashed

to pieces.

We hurried on and soon found the car, but no _chauffeur_. After

calling out for some minutes and with difficulty making ourselves

heard above the din going on; we saw him coming up from what looked

like a cellar under the trees.

This was a “dug-out” or what our English Tommies have humourously

designated as a “funk-hole,” and was constructed of heavy timber

covered with turf and several layers of sandbags. It was entered by

a short flight of steps, so we went down to have a look at it. One

might have been in a settler’s hut out in the wilds somewhere, though

for the matter of that all log shanties convey that impression.

It was a very rough and gloomy place, but I was told that the King

had taken “cover” here only the day before, and had been forced to

stay in it for several hours.

Some soldiers were there, so we sat down with them and had a chat,

and it was well we did, for the firing increased in intensity every

moment, and heavy projectiles began to burst on the roof of the

“dug-out” with such terrific force that one expected at any moment

the whole place would be blown to atoms.

The very ground trembled under the shock of the explosions. I never

thought that human ears or nerves could stand such an inferno as we

were in for during the next hour.

The effect on me personally was at first a sort of atrophy of my

senses—a feeling came over me that if this was to be my end, well let

it be a quick and complete finish, no blinding or maiming or other

drawn out agony. Next a sensation of extreme hunger, which at the

time I felt inclined to pat myself on the back for, as indicating

heroic indifference to my surroundings, but which later I learned, to

my disappointment, is a well-known manifestation of “funk,” a form of

nervous dyspepsia—“fringale,” the French call it. But gradually these

impressions wore off, and I looked around with curiosity to see how

the young soldiers around me bore themselves.

Several were in a state of absolute terror at each explosion, and

were wringing their hands and ejaculating under their breath “Oh,

Dio—Oh, mamma!” whilst others sat stock still and gazed in front of

them in moody silence.

Our chauffeur was very much upset and made no attempt to disguise it;

so much so, in fact, that I wondered how on earth he would be able to

drive us back; his nerve seemed to be quite gone, and his face was

ghastly white.

Suddenly a soldier rushed down the steps calling out frantically

that the sergeant was mortally wounded and asking if anyone had any

brandy. No one had any, and I made a mental note never again to be

without a flask of it in my pocket. The poor fellow was lying just

outside the dug-out with his leg badly smashed up by a big fragment

of shell.

He was losing consciousness and kept sobbing and crying out for his

mother. Fortunately some stretcher-bearers were near by, so in a very

few minutes he was bound up with an improvised tourniquet to stop

the hemorrhage and hurried off to the nearest ambulance station,

though I doubt whether he ever reached it alive.

We returned to the dug-out as the firing shewed no signs of

abatement; but my companion began to get fidgetty, and at last said

we might have to stay there for hours if we waited till all was

quiet, and suggested our risking it and making a start.

Of course I could only agree; but the chauffeur was not so anxious.

He was, if anything, still more upset by what had just happened;

however, a few kind but forcible words brought him to his senses, and

with an effort he managed to pull himself together.

So we all went out somewhat anxiously to see if the car was still in

existence, and found that, fortunately, it had passed through its

ordeal of fire unscathed and had not been touched.

There was no time to lose, as may be imagined, with shells bursting

all round us, but as might have been expected, because we were in a

hurry to get away there was an irritating delay, and this delay was

directly the cause of an incident that now occurred, and which might

very easily have had a fatal result.

The car had to be turned round, not a quick operation at the best of

times, and especially in a narrow road, but under fire, a decidedly

nerve-testing job.

We were standing in the roadway watching with impatience the

apparently awkward manœuvres of the chauffeur when there was a flash

like lightning, a loud report and a shrapnel burst right over our

heads not more than twenty feet up.

Instinctively I raised my arm to shield my eyes, as I always do;

almost at the same moment I heard my friend, who was just by, call

out that he had been hit in the shoulder.

Looking round I saw him stoop down and gingerly pick up a long,

jagged fragment of shell lying at his feet. This was the piece that

had struck him—it was almost too hot to touch.

He said he did not think he was much hurt, and that it was no use

waiting there to do anything for it. So we lost no time in getting

off before something more serious happened; we were only asking for

trouble every moment we delayed.

As a matter of fact, although he made light of it, he had a nasty

flesh wound; it turned out that the strap of his camera case,

together with his thick overcoat and tunic, had undoubtedly saved his

arm.

We had only gone a few yards when a remarkable state of affairs

revealed itself: the road had disappeared, so completely was it

hidden by trees and branches brought down by the shells.

It was positively startling to see such a transformation in the

comparatively short time that had elapsed since we had come along it.

Here was a pretty fix, but luck favoured us in the shape of a

soldier, who saw our predicament and indicated a way of getting round

the obstacles and regaining the road further on.

I will candidly confess that I was not altogether sorry when we at

length got out of range of the Austrian guns.

We had been under fire for more than four hours, and I had had about

enough of it for one day.

There was a big stir amongst the troops bivouacked in the forest,

and we passed several regiments on the road, which led one to infer

that the artillery duel was to be followed up by an infantry attack

on a large scale at nightfall, and so it turned out, as I afterwards

learned.

But these operations on the Asiago plateau were then, and are still,

of almost daily occurrence, and, serious though they may appear when

seen at close range as on this particular occasion, are evidently

but a side issue in General Cadorna’s main plan of campaign.

We witnessed a somewhat curious incident on our way back. Going down

the steep zig-zag road a big motor ambulance waggon failed to take

one of the sharp curves sufficiently to get on to the straight run

beyond, and was only brought up by the brake on the extreme outer

edge of the road, which, as it happened, had no parapet at this

particular spot. It was in imminent danger of going over, a drop of

at least a hundred feet.

There was no lack of help, as there was an endless line of traffic

going both ways, and it was, of course, all held up by the

occurrence, so many willing hands were forthcoming. Big stones were

carefully placed under the wheels to prevent any forward movement of

the heavy vehicle.

Then suddenly, to the surprise and amusement of everyone, the least

severely wounded occupants jumped out of the wagon, and, in spite of

their bandaged condition, vigorously assisted in pushing it back to

safety.

CHAPTER XIV

Slow but certain progress on the Trentino front—An open secret—The

mining of the Castalleto summit.—Carried out by _Alpini_—Recapture

of Monte Cimone; also by _Alpini_—Heroic exploits—Udine one’s _pied

à terre_—An ideal “News centre”—The Isonzo Front—The old days of

the war correspondent as compared with the present conditions—Well

to be prepared—Returning to Udine for lunch—Attracting

attention—Unjustifiable—Things quiet at the Front—Unusual heat of the

summer—Changeable weather at Udine—Early days of August—Increasing

activity in the Isonzo Sector—Significant fact—_Communiqué_ of

August 4th—The _communiqué_ of the following day—General attack by

Italians all along this Front—Arrange start for scene of action—My

car companions 6th August—Magnificent progress everywhere—Afternoon

news—Capture of Monte Sabottina announced—We make for Vipulzano—On

the road—Stirring scenes—“New” regiments—“Are we down-hearted”—The

penchant for Englishmen—A _cortège_ of prisoners—Like a huge crowd of

beggars—Half-starved and terror-stricken strapping young fellows.

CHAPTER XIV

The success of the counter-offensive of General Cadorna in the

Trentino had a cogent bearing on the stirring events which were to

take place a few weeks later. Meanwhile, as I have pointed out, the

Austrians, although pushed back, were by no means beaten, and during

the whole of the month of July the Trentino Front loomed large in the

_communiqués_.

Slow but certain progress was continually being reported, and if

nothing startling in the shape of an advance could be recorded, it

was satisfactory to note that the Italians were without a doubt

holding up the greater part of the entire Austrian Army on this Front

alone.

This has been demonstrated beyond controversy, and in itself was no

mean achievement, and spoke volumes for the tenacity and endurance of

the Italian soldier, for it must not be overlooked that this Army was

not composed of the offscourings of the Dual Empire, but its crack

regiments, and commanded by its most distinguished officers.

It was an open secret that had it not been for an error of judgment

and generalship on the Italian side, the Austrians would never have

been so near achieving success.

The sudden _mise en retraite_ of one of the best known generals,

together with several divisional officers, bore this out, and proved

that General Cadorna will not overlook incompetency at a critical

moment, however high-placed may be the offender, or what his previous

record may be. This faculty, if one can so term it, of coming to

rapid decisions and holding by them is one of the most characteristic

traits of the Italian Generalissimo.

In the Trentino the weeks following the great push may, therefore,

have appeared quiet in comparison with what had taken place during

these exciting days, but they were by no means uneventful; on the

contrary, they were marked by two exceptionally brilliant exploits

which, as was seen, had considerable influence on operations

elsewhere, and went far to consolidating the Italian gains.

The mining and blowing up of the important Austrian position on the

Castalleto summit, east of the peak of Col dei Bos, was one of these

feats.

The work was entrusted to the _Alpini_, and was brilliantly carried

out, as may be imagined, for the _Alpini_ never do things by halves.

With infinite perseverence, and in the face of continual difficulty,

and peril, a tunnel some twelve hundred yards in length was bored,

an immense charge of dynamite was exploded, and the whole of the

Austrian force that occupied the summit was buried in the wreckage.

This success restored to the Italians the command of the Dolomites

Road, and enabled them to resist all attempts on the part of the

Austrians to regain the position.

The other great event of the month was the recapture of Monte Cimone,

the mountain which towers above Arsiero. This exploit was also

accomplished by the Alpini.

The table-like summit had been in the possession of the Austrians

since the latter part of May, and had been transformed by them into a

veritable citadel, and one of the strongest points on their line of

defence in this region.

The _Alpini_, as was to be expected from these mountaineering

athletes, set out without hesitation to accomplish what must have

looked like the impossible to the ordinary soldier, though it was

really but a repetition of previous heroic exploits of a like nature.

It appeared to me as a layman, incredible that anything but a chamois

could clamber up the cliff-like front of Cimone—that any human being

could do it never occurred to me for a moment.

It looked a sheer impossibility, yet the _Alpini_ did it, and in

spite of the plunging fire from machine guns on the summit, and the

shells from flanking batteries at Settecase further up the valley of

the Astico.

Verily these soldier mountaineers have well merited the eagle plumes

that adorn their Tyrolean hats.

I have recounted these exploits, because they appeared to me to

exemplify the burning enthusiasm that animated the troops, and made

them eager to undertake anything that was asked of them. From what

one could gather, scarcely a day passed without some unrecorded deed

of daring being accomplished.

Of course it was not possible for a correspondent to learn beforehand

any details of the operations about to be carried out, so, in the

event of anything big happening, it was purely a matter of luck being

on the spot or anywhere near it.

For this reason one made of Udine a _pied à terre_, as it was obvious

there was nothing to be gained by motoring from place to place on the

offchance of seeing something dramatic. At Headquarters one got to

know anything there was in the shape of news, and one could arrange

one’s movements accordingly.

From the point of view of the journalist, the Censorship Club-room

was an ideal “news” centre, since it is not absolutely necessary for

him to see what he writes about—so much can be done from hearsay—but

for me, as an illustrator, it was obviously a very different matter,

and doubtless I missed many a good subject for my pencil through

not being fortunate enough to be in the vicinity when some dramatic

incident was taking place.

It has always struck me that a pen picture has therefore an advantage

over a pencil one. You can, if forced to, make it through the medium

of your ears, and your eyes are not essential for its accuracy, as is

the case with an artist’s notes.

For several weeks the correspondents were all gathered together at

Udine, and only left it occasionally for short excursions.

The Isonzo Front was, from the motoring point of view, so short a

distance away that you could start off in the car at six o’clock in

the morning, be right up to the firing line by half-past seven, see

all there was to see and be back in Udine easily in time for lunch.

This, of course, would not have been possible before the advent of

the petrol engine.

In the old days of the war correspondent, when he could only get

about by means of horses, a “trip” such as is now made easily in a

morning would have meant a real “journey” of probably a couple of

days, and providing himself with food and probably sleeping outfit as

well, so as to be prepared against all contingencies.

With the car we could, bar accidents, time our return to a minute

almost, if we wanted to; and it was really remarkable how seldom any

_contretemps_ occurred on the road—an occasional puncture, nothing

more.

Such confidence, in fact, did the Italian correspondents place in

their cars, or the offchance of “getting something somewhere,” that

they hardly ever guarded against accidents by providing themselves

with food and drink when on an excursion, and my companions were

always surprised when I insisted on taking a parcel of creature

comforts for us all, in case we wanted them, for I had discovered

what it meant to be really hungry and thirsty.

[Illustration: The least severely wounded occupants jumped out of the

wagon (_see page 179_)

_To face page 186_]

One day, when visiting a position, I had forgotten to take anything

with me, but consoled myself with the idea that I should at least

be able to get a crust of bread and a drink of wine on the way.

But it turned out that we were in an outlying district, so I had to

pay the penalty of my forgetfulness by being famished all day, as one

does not like to ask anything of the soldiers if one can help it:

they usually only have sufficient for themselves, and would be too

good-natured to refuse you.

Returning to Udine for lunch, to my mind, always gave a touch of the

unreal to the scenes you had just witnessed.

There were, as I have said, several really decent restaurants in the

town, where everything was well served, and the appointments were

quite good. These would be crowded of a day, and one always saw many

ladies at lunch-time and dinner.

At one or other of these places you could be sure of meeting friends,

and as one was usually much too hot and tired after a long motor

drive to trouble to go back to one’s rooms to change, you would drop

into a restaurant just as you were, in campaigning kit, and covered

with dust or mud.

It generally happened, therefore, that you attracted as much

attention amongst the well-dressed _habitués_ of the place as if you

were “got up” for a fancy-dress ball.

At times, when one came back after a surfeit of horrors, it almost

seemed unjustifiable to be sitting down to a civilised meal in a

cheerful restaurant.

Of course it goes without saying that Udine was not by any means

inclined to be light-hearted, and usually the sole topic of

conversation everywhere was “la Guerra” and the operations on the

different Fronts.

There was an entire absence of excitement at all times, in spite of

the daily thrills provided us by the local press, and the arrival in

the evening of the big daily papers of Milan, Rome, etc.

When things were quiet at the Front, life in Udine was stagnant, and

I often used to wonder what the Italian correspondents could find to

write or wire about every day, for they always seemed to be hard at

it, even when the _communiqués_ were of the very briefest character.

Meanwhile events were undoubtedly shaping well, and day by day one

heard of minor successes in Trentino, and steady Italian progress all

along the line.

It was only what we all expected, but there was nothing yet of a

sufficiently startling nature going on anywhere to induce one to

start on motor trips to witness long range artillery duels.

Moreover, you had got to know every mile almost of the road leading

to the front lines, and it ended by becoming as monotonous as it had

been interesting at first, as you seldom saw any change.

The guns were always booming in the distance, the “drachen” hung

motionless in the still air, and Taubes came over and were fired on

assiduously but generally without result by the anti-aircraft guns.

Fresh subjects for one’s sketch book became more and more difficult

to find. It was a period of comparative suspense so far as one

was able to judge, and as combined with this, it was a summer of

unusual heat even for Italy, a good deal of superabundant energy was

necessary to rouse you to activity when there was so little to call

for it.

Udine was also bearing out its evil reputation of having the most

changeable weather of any place in Italy. Three fine days and a

thunderstorm became a bit monotonous, however much you might get used

to it.

In the early days of August there was every indication that the

period of quiescence was coming to an end, and the _communiqués_

began to refer persistently to increasing activity in the Isonzo

sector, and the Trentino was barely mentioned.

The atmosphere for some days past had been charged with rumours that

big events were impending, but one got so used to rumours here that

no undue importance was attached to the latest. You could only hope

that there was some truth in it, as one was beginning to get heartily

sick of doing nothing.

Still it was a significant fact that the King and General Cadorna had

been frequently seen in this sector during the preceding week and

that important movements of troops and _materiel_ were taking place

daily.

It was not, however, till the 4th August that there were any real

indications that rumour for once was true.

In his _communiqué_ of that date the Generalissimo concluded with a

line which, read in the light of subsequent events, was pregnant with

historic interest: “On the Isonzo, commencement of very active fire

with heavy shells.”

The _communiqué_ of the following day gave the welcome intelligence

that there had been a vigorous attack in the Monfalcone sector, and

that 145 prisoners, amongst whom were four officers, had been taken.

After this there appeared no doubt that something really important

was afoot, and this was confirmed by news that came in during the

day that a general attack by the Italians all along this Front was

rapidly developing.

There was no hesitation about leaving Udine now, and the

correspondents prepared to start at once. I arranged for a seat in

the car of Gino Piva, of the _Resto del Carlino_, of Bologna, and

with us was Roberto Cantalupo, of the _Corriere d’Italia_, of Rome.

Meanwhile one could hear the thunder of the guns in Udine, and

from the terrace of the castle the smoke of the bursting shells on

the hills was quite distinctly visible, although forty miles away,

and during the night the flashes from the guns looked like distant

lightning.

On the 6th of August the whole town was agog with excitement all day,

and news arrived almost every hour with the welcome intelligence of

magnificent progress everywhere.

As it was already rather late to make a start, we decided to wait

till the following morning before leaving, in order to be better able

to judge from the news that came in the meantime which would be the

best point to make for, a somewhat important consideration.

We did not want to waste time and petrol rushing about all over the

country, and one knew from previous experience that it was generally

only at Headquarters that reliable information could be obtained.

Out in the country nobody ever seemed to know anything of what was

going on a mile away from his own section. As it turned out, it was

particularly fortunate we deferred our departure.

Late in the afternoon the news reached Udine that the first line of

the Austrian defences from Monte Sabottina to Monte San Michele had

been completely destroyed by the terrific bombardment of the Italian

artillery, and that the infantry were preparing to advance.

Later it was announced that Monte Sabottina itself, the key of the

defences of Gorizia, had been captured and many prisoners taken.

Events were indeed marching with startling rapidity.

We got away shortly after five in the morning, as there was no time

to lose, the way things were shaping. I learned we were to make for

Vipulzano, the Headquarters of General Capello, the commander of the

sixth corps d’armée operating in the Sabottina zone, and where from

all accounts, we should get a capital _point de vue_ if the attack

developed further, as it is only three miles from Monte Sabottina

itself.

We went via Cormons, and, as might have been expected, there was

a big movement of troops all along the road. The offensive had

evidently been so well timed and pre-arranged that everything was

already on the spot and in readiness to proceed anywhere at a

moment’s notice. The capture of Sabottina was no haphazard slice of

luck, but the result of a well-matured _coup_.

We passed several “new regiments” of infantry on their way to the

trenches, and one could not fail to be greatly impressed by their

smart appearance. Well clothed and shod, their accoutrements and arms

in perfect condition, they looked fit to go anywhere and capable of

holding their own against any troops Austria could put up. The men

were bubbling over with animal spirits and enthusiasm, and we came in

for a lot of good-natured banter as we drove past.

As I was in khaki there was no mistaking my nationality, and they

seemed delighted to see an Englishman. In fact, I heard several real

cockney remarks made for my benefit by fellows who had evidently

lived in England, such as:

“Are we down-hearted?”

“Give my love to London,” which elicited much laughter from their

comrades, and cries of _viva l’Inghilterra_.

In this connection I must say that the _penchant_ for Englishmen

and everything English was quite remarkable amongst the soldiers

everywhere at the Front, and I am convinced that most of the

good-fellowship shewn to me whilst in Italy was chiefly by reason of

this sympathy rather than from anything personal.

In a village through which we had to pass we were held up for nearly

three-quarters of an hour, whilst a long column of prisoners from

Sabottina passed.

There must have been over three thousand, and it would be difficult

to imagine a more depressing spectacle than this long _cortège_ of

weary, dispirited men, plodding moodily through the ruined village.

The convoy was guarded by soldiers, and the inevitable _carabinieri_

on horseback.

Had it not been for the uniformity of colour, which was, however, but

a semblance of the original field-grey, and their head-gear, there

was scarcely anything to indicate that only a few hours previously

these had all been fully armed and equipped soldiers.

It looked almost like a huge crowd of beggars going past, for most of

the bedraggled men were in rags, and very few had any belongings, and

all had a half-starved, terror-stricken appearance that was pitiable.

As a matter of fact, many of them we learned had not eaten or drunk

anything for several days, the awful intensity of the fire of the

Italian Artillery having prevented any supplies reaching them.

Several were badly wounded, and limped along painfully or were

assisted by their comrades.

So many stories have been going around the Press of the degeneration

of the Austrian Army, that I was astonished to see that most of the

prisoners were strapping young fellows. From what I had read, I

should have expected a preponderance of old men and weedy youths.

If these were specimens of the troops Austria is still able to

put in the field, then she cannot yet be in such a condition of

_délabrement_ as has been stated.

CHAPTER XV

The commencement of the battle for Gorizia—We approach scene of

action—Sheltered road—Curious “Chinese” effect—Headquarters of the

6th Corps d’Armée—Cottage of British Red Cross—Our cordial reception

by General Capello—A glorious _coup d’oeil_—Wonderful spectacle—The

Socialist Minister Leonida Bissolati—More good news received—The

scene before us—Explanation of word “Monte”—Continuous line of

bursting shells—Country in a state of irruption—No indication

of life anywhere—Not a sign of troops—My motor goggles—Curious

incidents—“Progress everywhere”—Colonel Clericetti announces good

news—Capture of Gorizia bridge-head—Excited group of correspondents

and officers—Arrange start at once with two _confrères_ for fighting

Front—Our plan—The thunder of the guns—The rearguard of advancing

army—Our pace slackened—Miles and miles of troops—Wonderful

spectacle of war—Mossa—Go on to Valisella—Machine guns and rifle

fire—Ghastly radiance—General Marazzi’s Headquarters—Not allowed

proceed further—Decide make for Vipulzano—Arrive close on 10

o’clock—Bit late to pay visit—General invites us to dinner—Large

party of officers—Memorable dinner—Atmosphere of exultation—News

Austrians retreating everywhere—Thousands more prisoners—Dawn of

day of victory—I propose a toast—On the terrace after dinner—Battle

in full progress—Awe-inspiring spectacle—Little lights, like

Will-o’-the-Wisps—Amazing explanation—Methodical precision of it

all—Austrian fire decreasing gradually—Time to think of getting back

to Udine and bed.

CHAPTER XV

As we got nearer the scene of action it was as though we were

approaching a thunderstorm; the roar of the guns was absolutely

continuous.

The road now began to present a very curious appearance. For several

miles it was bordered on either side with high screens of straw

matting hung from poles, and wide strips of the same material were

hung across the centre; the object of this being to hide movements

of troops and convoys from the view of the Austrian gunners or the

prying eyes of airmen.

Quite a “Chinese” effect was produced by this curious screening of

the road. These “postiches,” as I believe they are called, have long

been used on the Western Front, but it was the first time I had seen

them here.

The sensation of driving through these “sheltered” roads was almost

eerie, as you knew that any moment a shell fired at random might

come through the matting, as it was all in full view of the Austrian

batteries.

This, in fact, not infrequently happens, I was told, when the

artillery is particularly active. The idea of the enemy evidently

being to attempt to create a feeling of insecurity and check the _va

et vient_ along the road, but in this they have not succeeded, as the

roads are used as freely as ever.

In other places the screens and traverses were made of brushwood,

which appeared to me to be perhaps more effective, as they were not

so visible at a distance as the square patches of yellow matting.

The headquarters of General Capello, the commander of the 6th Corps

d’armée, were in a large and picturesque house standing in its own

grounds on a slight acclivity off the road, and about as near to

the operations as one could get that day; in fact, a battery was

stationed in a vineyard within a hundred yards of the building, and

was firing with clockwork regularity the whole time we were up there,

whilst the Austrian shells in reply were bursting much too near to us

to be pleasant.

A cottage on the opposite side of the road had been taken by the

British Red Cross Society, and fixed up as an emergency station. One

of their big ambulance waggons, with an English chauffeur in khaki,

was waiting outside.

The General received us with marked cordiality, and readily gave his

permission for us to go wherever we chose in the vicinity, but there

was no need to go far, for, as it turned out, one could not have

hit on a spot better situated for getting a panoramic view of the

battlefield.

There was a broad terrace at the back of the house, from which one

obtained a glorious _coup d’oeil_ of the whole area from Monte

Sabottina to the Carso, and here we found a group of staff officers

keenly watching the wonderful spectacle with the aid of a powerful

telescope on a tripod.

There were two civilians amongst them who looked strangely out of

keeping with the martial surroundings. One of these, an elderly man,

was the famous Socialist Deputy, now a Cabinet Minister, Leonida

Bissolati, who was making a tour of the Front, accompanied by his

private secretary, Cavaliere Eusebio Allamandola. There was also

another Deputy present, Signor Arci, but he was in the uniform of a

sub-lieutenant of artillery.

Everyone was very elated, as well they might have been considering

the way things were shaping for the Italians, the General telling us

that further good news had been received that morning and that still

more prisoners had been taken.

So far as one could judge the action was still in the nature of a

colossal artillery duel, but the scene before us was so vast that it

took some little time to grasp the full import of what was taking

place. I will depict it roughly in order to convey some idea of our

position.

On our left was Monte Sabottina. In front of us was Monte San

Gabriele. The richly wooded undulating plain of Friuli, dotted with

villages, stretched away from below the terrace.

In the distance, a couple of miles or so away, was the Podgora

Ridge, bristling with gaunt tree-stumps; beyond it you could just

distinguish the houses of Gorizia. To the right was the Carso and

Monte San Michele, some five miles away.

It may be mentioned here that the word “Monte” in Italian does not

necessarily signify a “mountain” as it is understood in English.

The Italian “Monte” is a very elastic term, and, according to the

dictionary, may mean a mountain, a hill, or a heap. Monte San Michele

in the Carso, for example, is an ant-heap as compared with, say,

Monte Cristallo in the Alps, but they are both referred to as “Monte.”

I mention this because so many people I have met speak of the Carso

and the lower Isonzo round Gorizia as a mountainous region, whereas

the elevations there are merely in the nature of “foothills.”

However, to revert to the spectacle we had before us at Vipulzano.

From Monte San Gabriele to Monte San Michele, a distance of, roughly,

nine miles, was one continuous line of bursting shells of every

calibre; it never ceased for a moment, and this we were told had been

going on without a lull for forty-eight hours.

The whole country appeared to be in a state of irruption, and columns

or smoke of various colours and fantastic shapes were to be seen

rising everywhere like embryo volcanoes.

All this, combined with the incessant thunder of the guns near and

far, and the crash of the explosions, was positively blood-curdling.

Meanwhile the Austrian artillery was returning shell for shell

apparently, and the Italians were not having it all their own way,

though, as it turned out, the Austrian defensive had no backbone to

it, and its weakness was becoming more and more evident as time went

on.

Seen through the telescope, the desolation of the countryside was

revealed in all its horrors. At a first glance it was a rich and

smiling landscape bathed in the glorious sunshine of an Italian

summer morning, but one soon discovered that the white houses of the

villages were now but heaps of ruins.

There was no indication of life in them anywhere—the God of war

reigned supreme.

Along the roads there was not a sign of troops nor of any military

activity, yet hidden in the dense woods, we were told, masses of

troops were concealed waiting the signal to advance as soon as the

artillery had finished its work.

I was making a sketch when a shell burst somewhat nearer to the

terrace than was agreeable, and shortly after came another.

To my surprise then an officer hurried across to us and said, in

French, that the General would feel very much obliged if I would sit

in a less exposed position, as the sun was catching the glass of

the motor goggles I was carrying on my cap, and was attracting the

attention of an Austrian battery opposite.

[Illustration: And day by day one heard of minor successes in

Trentino (_see page 188_)

_To face page 198_]

I did not require to be asked twice; one well-aimed shell of the

calibre they were using would, I knew, have made short work of the

Headquarter chateau.

There is a certain monotony in watching an artillery duel, and as

it was quite uncertain how long this one would last, my companions,

after we had been there about a couple of hours, decided that the

best thing to do was to return to Udine to get off their “copy,” and

as I had some sketches I wanted to work up this suited me also.

“Progress everywhere” was reported the following morning, and there

was an air of suppressed excitement in the town. Everyone seemed to

have the idea that we were on the eve of important events. And so it

turned out.

About four o’clock in the afternoon I went to the Censorship to have

tea, and on the stairs I met Colonel Clericetti; he was positively

beaming with joy. “Have you heard the news?” he exclaimed in English

and wringing me effusively by the hand (for two pins I think he would

have embraced me!)

“We have captured the Gorizia bridgehead, and it is rumoured that at

any moment the troops may get into Gorizia itself.”

This was indeed wonderful tidings, and I felt I must be off again at

once if possible to get some sketches. In the Press-room there was an

excited group of correspondents and officers discussing the victory.

My _confrères_ with whom I had made the excursion the previous day

were not there for the moment, so in order not to lose time, I looked

round for someone else who might have a vacant seat in his car, and

was not only lucky enough to find one, but also with two men who were

starting immediately.

I hastened back to my lodgings to put together a few things in my

rucksack, as one could not tell how long we might be away or what

might happen.

The news was spreading like wildfire through the town. On the place

Vittorio Emanuele, a crowd was beginning to gather; on all sides one

heard the name of Gorizia.

In the main street the inhabitants were already preparing to put up

flags. It was like the sun coming out after a storm; an air of relief

after the tension of so many long months was discernible on every

face.

Owing to some trouble with the car and my companions being delayed

by telegrams they had to send, it was getting towards evening by the

time we got away, but we found the road was pretty free to start

with; so we made up for lost time by dashing along at top speed.

My car mates were Rino Allessi, of the _Secolo_, of Milan, and

Giovanni Miceli, of the _Prensa_, of Buenos Ayres also an Italian

correspondent, but for the nonce representing this South American

paper.

Both of them spoke French and were jolly good fellows, though for

the matter of that, all the Italian correspondents up at Udine were

charming, and one could not have come across a more genial and

good-natured group of men anywhere.

Our plan was, of course, to get as near the fighting as possible, and

with this idea we were making for Mossa, which is about a mile and

a half from the Gorizia bridgehead, and where we had been informed

we should find the Headquarters of General Marazzi, the Divisional

Commander, from whom we hoped to get permission to go on further.

When we had passed Cormons the thunder of the guns, which we had

heard all the way, appeared to increase in intensity till it

resembled a continuous roll of thunder, and always getting nearer.

The road now began to be congested, clouds of dust told us we had

caught up with the rearguard of the advancing army, and our speed had

to be slackened considerably. In places, in fact, we were hung up

altogether, but it was no use worrying about it; our pace was being

regulated, we found, by a monster gun just ahead, drawn by a traction

engine.

There seemed to be miles and miles of troops, infantry, cavalry, and

artillery.

The sun was setting, and in the waning light the interminable column

presented a spectacle of war that I shall never forget.

We were challenged by a patrol just before we got to Mossa, but had

no trouble whatever, as our passes were quite in order.

We learned that the Divisional Headquarters were at Valisella, quite

close by, but away from the main road, so we made our way there. To

get away from the dust for a little while was indeed a relief; we had

been almost choked with it, and looked like millers.

It was now almost dusk, and we were so close to the fighting that we

could hear the machine guns and rifle fire in between the reports of

the guns.

Every now and again what appeared to be fireworks lit up the scene

with ghostly radiance.

At the General’s quarters, which were in a fine old house, the

courtyard was crowded with officers and motor cyclists. Someone came

and asked our business. We explained our object in coming, so he took

in our cards and we waited outside for his reply.

After being kept waiting some little time, a staff officer,

accompanied by an orderly carrying a lantern, came up from some

underground part of the building.

He told us briefly that the General said it was impossible to allow

us to proceed any further. Moreover, the road was quite blocked

with troops a little further on, the bridge had been destroyed, and

fighting was still proceeding.

There was no arguing the matter—that would not have helped us—so we

got back into the car glum with disappointment. We motored slowly for

some distance, whilst my companions were examining the map with the

aid of a lighted match, and discussing what was best to be done, as

we did not feel inclined to return to Udine yet.

Then suddenly it occurred to them to make for Vipulzano and see if

General Capello, whom one of them knew, would help us.

It was only a run of about four miles, but it was across country

and away from the troops, so it was a bit difficult to find our way

in the dark; but we managed after some delays to get there somehow,

though it was close on ten o’clock when we arrived. It struck me as

rather a coincidence my returning at such an hour to the place I had

left only the day before.

Not a light was to be seen in the house, and had it not been for

the soldiers on sentry duty outside one might have thought it was

uninhabited.

It was a bit late to pay a visit, but we had come so far that we

decided to risk it, and groped our way up through the garden to the

front door. There we found an orderly, who took our cards in.

It was pitch dark where we stood in the shadow of the house, but

the sky was illumined every now and then by fitful flashes of light

from the battlefield. The thunder of the guns was still as terrific

here as on the previous day, but you could not fail to note that the

firing was now of greater volume from the Italian side.

We were not kept waiting long. The orderly returned, accompanied by

an officer.

The General, he told us, was only just sitting down to dinner, and

would be very pleased if we would join him.

Of course there was no refusing, though we felt a bit diffident as

we were white with dust. However, _à la guerre, comme à la guerre_,

so we followed the officer in.

The contrast between the darkness and gloom outside and the

brightness within was startling: a corridor led into a large central

hall, such as one sees in big country houses in England. This was

evidently used as a staff-office, and was lighted by several shaded

lamps, which gave it quite a luxurious appearance. The dining room

was off the hall.

There was a large party at dinner, amongst whom Signor Bissolati and

several of the officers I had met the previous day.

Everyone appeared unfeignedly pleased to see us, and the General,

doubtless out of compliment to me as an Englishman, seated me next to

him. That dinner party will long live in my memory.

It is difficult to describe the atmosphere of exultation that

pervaded the room; it positively sent a thrill through you. As may be

imagined, everyone was in the highest spirits.

We learned that the latest news was that the Austrians were

retreating everywhere, that thousands more prisoners had already been

taken, and that the troops were only waiting for daylight to make the

final dash for Gorizia.

The day of victory so long waited for was soon to dawn. The incessant

thunder of the guns now sounded like music, for it was mainly that of

Italian guns now, and we knew they were moving forward all the time

towards the goal.

I am usually painfully nervous when I attempt to make a speech,

however short, but this was an occasion when nervousness was

impossible, so I got up, and raising my glass towards the General,

asked to be permitted to drink to the Glory of the Italian Army!

Needless to add, that the toast was received with a chorus of

applause.

The dinner consisted of five courses, and was excellent; in fact, the

chef must have tried to surpass himself in honour of the victory.

The conversation was almost entirely confined to war subjects, and I

was surprised to find how well-informed my neighbours were in regard

to England’s great effort. I could not help thinking how very few

English officers could tell you as much about Italy’s part in the war.

After dinner we all went out on to the terrace, and the sight that

met our eyes beggars description.

It was now past eleven o’clock, but the battle was still raging

furiously from San Floriano to the Carso. From end to end of the

line the crests of the hills were illuminated by the lightning-like

flashes of exploding shells, and the rays of powerful searchlights.

The still night air seemed as though to vibrate with the continuous

crash of field-pieces. Every now and again “Bengal lights” and “Star

shells” rose in the sky like phantom fireworks, and shed a weird blue

light around.

We stood for some time in wrapt silence, spellbound by the

awe-inspiring spectacle, for it was certain that nothing living could

exist in that inferno on the hills.

The wooded plain below the terrace had the appearance of a vast black

chasm from where we stood. It was studded curiously here and there

with little lights like Will-o’-the-Wisps that were moving forward in

unison.

From what I had seen for myself the previous day I knew that the

whole countryside was uninhabited, so I asked an artillery officer

standing by me if he could let me know what they were.

To my amazement he told me that they were the guiding lanterns of

Italian batteries advancing—to enable the officers to keep touch and

alignment in the darkness.

There were, he added with dramatic impressiveness, at that moment

over six hundred guns converging on the Austrian positions.

The methodical precision of it all was simply marvellous; even here,

not even the smallest detail of organization had been left to chance.

Meanwhile the Austrian fire was noticeably decreasing, till at last

the crash of the guns came from the Italian batteries only; the

“Bengal lights” and “Star shells” were less frequent, and only one

solitary searchlight remained.

We had seen probably all there was to see that night, and it was

about time to think of getting back to Udine for a few hours sleep,

if we were to return to see the big operations in the early morning,

so we made our way back to the house to take our leave and fetch our

coats.

In the corridor an orderly asked us courteously to make as little

noise as possible, the General having gone to bed. We looked at our

watches: it was getting on for one o’clock, and we had a thirty mile

drive before us.

CHAPTER XVI

The capture of Gorizia—Up betimes—My lucky star in the ascendant—I

am put in a car with Barzini—Prepared for the good news of the

capture—Though not so soon—A slice of good fortune—Our chauffeur—We

get off without undue delay—The news of the crossing of the

Isonzo—Enemy in full retreat—We reach Lucinico—The barricade—View

of Gorizia—The Austrian trenches—“No man’s land”—Battlefield

_débris_—Austrian dead—An unearthly region—Austrian General’s

Headquarters—Extraordinary place—Spoils of victory—Gruesome

spectacle—Human packages—General Marazzi—Podgora—Grafenberg—Dead

everywhere—The destroyed bridges—Terrifying explosions—Lieutenant

Ugo Oyetti—A remarkable feat—The heroes of Podgora—“Ecco Barzini”—A

curtain of shell fire—Marvellous escape of a gun-team—In the

faubourgs of Gorizia—“Kroner” millionaires—The Via Leoni—The dead

officer—The Corso Francesco Guiseppe—The “Grosses” café—Animated

scene—A café in name only—Empty cellar and larder—Water supply cut

off—A curious incident—Fifteen months a voluntary prisoner—A walk in

Gorizia—Wilful bombardment—The inhabitants—The “danger Zone”—Exciting

incident—Under fire—The abandoned dog—The Italian flags—The arrival

of troops—An army of gentlemen—Strange incidents—The young Italian

girl—No looting—At the Town Hall—The good-looking Austrian woman—A

hint—The _Carabinieri_—“Suspects”—Our return journey to Udine—My

trophies—The sunken pathway—Back at Lucinico—The most impressive

spectacle of the day.

CHAPTER XVI

As may be imagined, I had no inclination to lie in bed the next

morning; in fact, it seemed to me a waste of time going to bed at all

in view of what was likely to happen in the early hours. Still there

was no help for it since one could not stay at the fighting Front all

night, so the only remedy was to be up and out as soon as possible.

I was, therefore, down at the Censorship betimes on the chance of

finding an officer or a _confrère_ who was going in the direction of

the operations, and who would let me have a seat in his car.

My lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, for shortly after my

good friend, Colonel Clericetti, turned up, beaming with good humour,

and on seeing me exclaimed:

“You are the very man I am looking for; Barzini is leaving in a car

I am letting him have, as his own has broken down, and if you like I

will put you with him. I thought you would want to get some sketches

as the troops will be entering Gorizia this morning.”

Of course I had been somewhat prepared for this news from what I had

learned overnight, but I certainly had never expected it would come

so soon, although I had long had the conviction that when Gorizia was

captured it would be in dramatic fashion.

I was therefore delighted to have a chance of being on the spot when

it happened, and was now on tenterhooks to get off at once; every

minute of delay meant perhaps missing seeing something important,

for on such an occasion every detail would doubtless be of absorbing

interest.

It was indeed a slice of good fortune to be going with Barzini,

as he is certainly the best known and most popular of Italian war

correspondents, and where he can’t manage to go isn’t worth going to.

His genial personality is an open sesame in itself, as I soon found.

Curiously enough, as it turned out, we were the only correspondents

to leave Udine that morning. Whether it was that the others did not

realise the importance of what was likely to happen or did not learn

it in time, I could not understand; but it was certainly somewhat

strange.

Our car was driven by a very well-known journalist of the staff of

the _Corriere della Sera_, named Bitetti, who is doing his military

service as a chauffeur and is a very expert one at that, and with

him was a friend, also a soldier chauffeur, so we were well guarded

against minor accidents to the car _en route_.

Well, Barzini and I got off without undue delay, and I soon

discovered that with him there would be no “holding up” the car on

the way. We made straight for Mossa, which is close to the Gorizia

bridgehead. There we got some great news.

During the early part of the night detachments of the Casale and

Pavia brigades had crossed the Isonzo and consolidated themselves

on the left bank, and the heights west of Gorizia were completely

occupied by the Italian infantry. The enemy was in full retreat, and

had abandoned large quantities of arms, ammunition and _materiel_.

Over 11,000 prisoners had been taken, and more were coming in.

Everything was going _à merveille_, and Austria’s Verdun was

virtually in the hands of the Italians already.

[Illustration: The object of this being to hide movements of troops

and convoys (_see page 195_)

_To face page 210_]

There was no time to lose if we were to be in “at the death.” Half

a mile further on we reached Lucinico. The Italian troops had only

passed through a couple of hours before, so we were close on their

heels. The village was in a complete state of ruin, hardly a house

left standing, and reminded one of what one got so accustomed to see

on the Western Front.

The car had to be left here, the road being so blocked that driving

any further was out of the question; so, accompanied by two officers

and our chauffeur and his friend, we set off on foot with the idea of

attempting to cross the battlefield.

Beyond Lucinico we were right in the very thick of it. The railway

line to Gorizia ran through the village, but just outside the houses

the rails had been pulled up and a solid barricade of stones had been

erected across the permanent way.

We got a splendid view of Gorizia from here—it looked a beautiful

white city embowered in foliage, with no sign at all of destruction

at this distance.

On the high hills beyond, which one knew to be Monte Santo and Monte

San Gabriele, little puffs of smoke were incessantly appearing—these

were Italian shells bursting—the booming of the guns never ceasing.

The Austrian trenches commenced a few hundred yards beyond Lucinico,

and we were now walking along a road that for fifteen months had been

“No man’s land.”

The spectacle we had before us of violence and death is

indescribable. Everything had been levelled and literally pounded to

atoms by the Italian artillery.

The ground all around was pitted with shell-holes, and strewn with

every imaginable kind of _débris_: the remains of barbed-wire

entanglements in such chaotic confusion that it was frequently

a matter of positive difficulty to pass at all; broken rifles,

unused cartridges by the thousand, fragments of shell-cases, boots,

first-aid bandages, and odds and ends of uniforms covered with blood.

We had to pick our way in places along the edge of the communication

trenches, which were very deep and narrow, and looked very awkward to

get into or out of in a hurry.

We had to jump across them in places, but otherwise we endeavoured

to give them as wide a berth as possible, as the stench was already

becoming overpowering under the hot rays of the summer sun. It only

needed a glance to see for yourself what caused it.

The Austrian dead were literally lying in heaps along the bottom.

They were so numerous in places, that had it not been for an

occasional glimpse of an upturned face, or a hand or a foot, one

might have thought that these heaps were merely discarded uniforms or

accoutrements.

It produced an uncanny sensation of horror walking alongside these

furrows of death, and this was heightened by the fact that at the

time we were the only living beings here; the troops having advanced

some distance, we had the battlefield quite to ourselves.

I recollect I had the strange impression of being with a little band

of explorers, as it were, in an unearthly region.

Shells were coming over pretty frequently, but it was not

sufficiently dangerous for us to think of taking cover, though I

fancy that had it been necessary we should all have hesitated before

getting down into one of these trenches or dug-outs. Curiously

enough, there were very few dead lying outside the trenches. I

imagine the intensity of the fire prevented any men from getting out

of them.

The railway line traverses the plain on a very high embankment just

before Podgora is reached, and the roadway passes under it by a short

tunnel.

Here was, perhaps, one of the most interesting and remarkable sights

of the whole area. The Austrian General had transformed this tunnel

into his headquarters, and it was boarded up at both ends, and

fitted internally like a veritable dwelling-place, as, in fact, it

was to all intents and purposes.

You entered by a tortuous passage, which from the outside gave

no idea of the extraordinary arrangements inside. There were two

storeys, and these were divided off into offices, dining rooms,

sleeping quarters for the officers, bath room and general offices.

All were well and almost luxuriously furnished; in fact, everything

that could make for comfort in view of a lengthy tenancy.

On the side which was not exposed to the Italian fire, a wooden

balcony with carved handrail, had been put across the opening, so

from the road it presented a very quaint and finished appearance.

Of course these quarters were absolutely safe against any shells,

however big, as there was the thickness of the embankment above them.

There was a well-fitted little kitchen with wash-house a few yards

away, so that the smell of cooking did not offend the cultured

nostrils of the General and his staff, who evidently knew how to

do themselves well if one could judge from the booty the Italians

captured here in the shape of wines, tinned food, coffee, etc.

But the spoils here consisted of much more important _materiel_ than

“delicatessen,” and proved how hastily the Austrians took their

departure. In a building adjoining the kitchen, which was used as

a store-house, was a big accumulation of reserve supplies of every

description, together with hundreds of new rifles, trenching tools,

coils of barbed wire, and stacks of boxes of cartridges. There was

little fear, therefore, of a shortage of anything.

This big store-house was also utilized for another purpose thoroughly

“Hun-like” in its method. At one end of the building was a gruesome

spectacle.

Lying on the ground, like so many bundles of goods, were about forty

corpses tied up in rough canvas ready to be taken away. I don’t think

I have ever seen anything quite so horrible as these human packages.

They were only fastened in the wrappers for convenience in handling

as there was no attempt to cover the faces. The callousness of it

gave me quite a shock. Of course it was not possible to ascertain

what was going to be done with them, but there was no indication of a

burial ground anywhere near.

In the roadway opposite the entrance of the “Headquarters” was

another motley collection of spoils of victory: rifles, bayonets,

ammunition pouches, boxes of cartridges, and a veritable rag heap of

discarded uniforms, coats, caps, boots, and blankets.

There was also a real “curio” which I much coveted, but which was too

heavy to take as a souvenir, in the shape of a small brass cannon

mounted on wheels. What this miniature ordnance-piece was used for I

could not make out, as I had never seen one before. All this booty,

of course, only represented what the Austrians had abandoned near

here. The amount of rifle ammunition captured must have been enormous.

General Marazzi, with several of his staff officers, were using the

entrance of the arch as a temporary orderly room, with table and

armchairs. Though he was, of course, much occupied, he courteously

gave us any information we wanted. He even went further by presenting

us with an Austrian rifle apiece as souvenirs of the victory.

The roadway from here passed along the foot of Podgora, the ridge of

sinister memories. Every yard of the ground here had been deluged

with blood, and had witnessed some of the most desperate fighting in

the war. It had once been thickly wooded but now nought remains of

the trees on its hog-back and slopes but jagged and charred stumps.

There was not a trace of vegetation, and one could see that the

surface had been literally ground to powder by high explosives.

Shells were still bursting over it, but they appeared to raise dust

rather than soil, so friable had it become.

In the long, straggling and partially destroyed village of Grafenberg

through which we now wandered, there were some Italian soldiers, but

so few that one might have wondered why they had been left there at

all. A tell-tale odour on all sides conveyed in all probability one

of the reasons.

The dead were lying about everywhere and in all sorts of odd places,

in the gutters alongside the road, just inside garden gates, anywhere

they had happened to fall. There was a ghastly object seated in quite

a life-like position in a doorway, with a supply of hand-grenades by

its side. Grafenberg was distinctly not a place to linger in.

Meanwhile we were walking parallel with the Isonzo, which was only

a hundred yards or so away; and the Austrians, though in full

rout, were keeping up a terrific flanking fire with their heavy

artillery, placed on Monte Santo and Monte San Gabriele with the

idea undoubtedly of destroying the bridges. Two were already wrecked

beyond immediate repair, one of the arches of the magnificent railway

viaduct had been blown up, and the long wooden structure just above

Grafenberg had been rendered useless for the moment.

There were two others still intact: an iron bridge the artillery and

cavalry were crossing by and a small foot-bridge we were making for.

To demolish these, and so further delay the Italian advance, was

now the object of the Austrians. To effect this they were sending

over projectiles of the biggest calibre. The terrifying noise of the

explosion of these enormous shells would have sufficed to demoralise

most troops.

At last we came to a pathway leading to the small bridge we hoped to

cross by. It was a pretty and well-wooded spot, and the trees had

not been much damaged so far. A regiment of infantry was waiting its

turn to make a dash forward. We learned that the bridge had been much

damaged in the early morning, but had been repaired under fire and in

record time by the engineers.

A friend of mine, Lieutenant Ugo Oyetti (the well-known art critic

in civil life), did some plucky work on this occasion, for which he

received a well-deserved military medal a few days later.

Whilst the repairs were being carried out, two infantry regiments,

the 11th and 12th, forded and swam across the river; a remarkable

feat, as it is here as wide as the Thames at Richmond, though it is

broken up with gravel islets in many places. It is frequently ten

feet deep, and the current is very strong and treacherous.

We pushed our way through the soldiers who filled the roadway, and

got to the bridge, which was a sort of temporary wooden structure

built on trestles known in German military parlance, I am told, as

a “behielfs brücken,” and evidently constructed to connect the city

with Podgora.

A continuous rain of shells was coming over and bursting along the

bank or in the river, and we looked like being in for a hot time.

At the commencement of the bridge two _carabinieri_ stood on guard

as placidly as if everything were quiet and peaceful. There was no

objection to our crossing, but we were told we must go singly and

run the whole way. The screech of the projectiles passing overhead,

and the terrific report of explosions close by, made it a decidedly

exciting “spurt,” and I, for one, was not sorry when I got across.

The opposite bank was steep and rocky, in curious contrast to the

Grafenberg side, and was ascended by a narrow gully. The bridge

ended with a wide flight of steps leading to the water’s edge, where

there was a strip of gravel beach, and seen from below the structure

had quite a picturesque appearance. The high banks made fine “cover,”

and under their shelter troops were resting.

These were some of the courageous fellows who had forded the river,

after having stormed the positions at Podgora. Their eyes were

bloodshot, they looked dog-tired, and they were, without exception,

the dirtiest and most bedraggled lot of soldiers it would be possible

to imagine.

The uniforms of many of them were still wet, and they were covered

with mud from head to foot.

Yet in spite of the fact that they had probably all of them been on

the move the whole night, and under fire most of the time without a

moment’s respite, they looked as game and cheerful as ever, and most

of them seemed to be more anxious about cleaning the dirt from their

rifles than resting. The shell-fire did not appear to trouble them in

the least.

As we got amongst them, Barzini, with true Latin impulsiveness, shook

hands effusively with all those around him, and complimented them on

their plucky achievement. It was this little touch of human nature

that explained to me the secret of his popularity with the soldiers.

Word was passed round “Ecco Barzini,” and the men crowded round to

get a glimpse of the famous war correspondent.

Under cover of the overhanging rocks one was able to observe the

curtain of shell-fire in comparative security, though at any moment

one of these shells might drop “short” and make mincemeat of us.

The Austrians had got the range wonderfully, and every shell burst

somewhere along the river which was really good shooting, but their

real object was, of course, to endeavour to destroy the bridges and

for the moment they were devoting all their attention to the iron

one, which was about four hundred yards below where we were standing,

and across which a stream of artillery and munition caissons was

passing.

It was truly astonishing how close they got to it each time,

considering they were firing from Monte Santo, nearly four miles

away, and a slender iron bridge is not much of a target at that

distance.

I have never seen such explosions before. They were firing 305mm.

shells, and the result was appalling to watch. They might have been

mines exploding, the radius of destruction was so enormous.

It brought your heart into your mouth each time you heard the

approaching wail of a shell, for fear this might be the one to “get

home.” You watched the bridge and waited in a state of fascination as

it were.

Suddenly, as we were gazing with our eyes glued to our field glasses,

someone called out in a tone of horror, “they’ve hit it at last.”

A shrapnel had burst low down, right in the centre of the bridge, and

just above a gun-team that was going along at the trot.

For a moment, till the smoke lifted, we thought that men, horses, and

guns were blown to pieces; it looked as though nothing could escape,

but when it had cleared off we saw that only one of the horses had

been killed.

In incredibly quick time the dead animal was cut loose and the team

continued on its way. There was no sign whatever of undue haste or

excitement; it was as though an ordinary review manœuvre was being

carried out. The coolness of the drivers was so impressive that

I heard several men near me exclaim enthusiastically “Magnifico!

magnifico!!”

I made up my mind to go later on to the spot and make a careful

sketch of the surroundings with the idea of painting a picture of the

incident after the war; but I never had an opportunity, as, a few

days after, the Austrians succeeded in destroying the bridge.

It was very palpable that at any moment one really unlucky shot could

hold up the entire line of communications and prevent supplies from

coming up for hours.

In this particular instance there was no doubt that the “hit” was

signalled to the Austrian batteries by a Taube which was flying

overhead at a great height at the moment, for the gunners redoubled

their efforts, and it was only sheer luck that helped the Italians

out.

Time to make good their retreat was what the Austrians wanted: they

knew perfectly well that with Monte Santo, Monte San Daniele, and

Monte San Gabriele still in their possession they could yet give a

lot of trouble. Fortunately, however, for the Italians, as it turned

out, they had not sufficient guns on these heights to endanger the

position at Gorizia.

The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and we were

practically carried up the gully with them. At the top was level

ground, with grass and bushes and some cottages mostly in ruins. We

were in the outskirts of Gorizia.

Another large body of troops was apparently resting here, and the

soldiers were snatching a hasty meal before advancing into the city,

though there was probably some other reason beyond giving the men a

“rest,” for keeping them back for the moment.

There had been some desperate fighting round these cottages, judging

from the broken rifles and splashes of blood amongst the ruins. Now

and then, also, one caught glimpses of the now familiar bundles of

grey rags in human form.

A few hundred yards farther on, across the fields, the faubourgs of

the city commenced, and one found oneself in deserted streets.

There were numbers of fine villas, many of considerable architectural

pretention and artistic taste, standing in pleasant gardens.

These were evidently the residences of Gorizia’s “Kroner”

millionaires. Most of these villas were considerably damaged by

shells and fire—some, in fact, were quite gutted.

Nearly all the street fighting took place in this particular quarter,

and along the Via Leoni especially all the houses were abandoned.

Inside these deserted homes were doubtless many gruesome tragedies.

One we discovered ourselves. Our young soldier friend, out of boyish

curiosity, went into one of the houses to see what it looked like

inside. He came out very quickly, and looking as white as a ghost.

I went to see what had scared him. Just behind the door was a dead

Austrian officer lying in a most natural position; he had evidently

crawled in here to die.

The guns were booming all around, and we could see the shells

bursting among the houses a short distance from where we were, yet we

had not met a soul since we had left the river banks. This seemed so

strange that we were almost beginning to think that the troops must

have passed straight through without stopping when we saw a soldier

coming towards us.

We learned from him that the city was by no means deserted, as we

should see, and that a short distance further on would bring us out

into the Corso Francesco Giuseppe, the principal thoroughfare of the

city. Then, to our astonishment, he added, as though giving us some

really good news, that we should find a big café open, and that we

could get anything we liked to eat or drink there. We could scarcely

credit what he said.

It seemed a mockery of war—surely it could not be true that the cafés

in Gorizia were open and doing business whilst the place was being

shelled, on the very morning, too, of its occupation by the Italians,

and with the dead still lying about its streets.

We hurried on, anxious to witness this unexpected sight. The

bombardment appeared to have affected only a certain zone, and there

were but few signs of destruction as one approached the centre of

the city, but all the houses were closely shuttered and apparently

deserted.

A big screen made of foliage was hung across the end of the street,

on the same principle as those one saw along the roads, and evidently

with the same object: to hide the movements of troops in the streets

from observers in “Drachen” or aeroplanes.

The Corso Franscesco Guiseppe is a fine broad boulevard, and reminded

me very much of certain parts of Rheims, it still had all the

appearance of being well-looked after, in spite of the vicissitudes

through which it had passed.

There were detachments of soldiers drawn up on the pavement close

to the houses, and already the ubiquitous _carabinieri_ were _en

evidence_, as they are everywhere along the Front. It seems strange

that no military operation in Italy seems possible without the

presence of _carabinieri_.

Of civilian life there was not a trace so far; the city was quite

given up to the military.

The “Grosses” Café faced us, a new and handsome corner building. It

was very up-to-date and Austro-German in its interior decoration and

furniture. German newspapers in holders were still hanging on the

hooks, and letters in the racks were waiting to be called for.

Although the place was crowded with officers, there was quite a

noticeable absence of any excitement. Signor Bissolati and his

secretary had just arrived, so we made a little group of four

civilians amongst the throng of warriors.

As may be imagined, it was a very animated and interesting scene, and

every table was occupied. Little did the Austrians imagine a week

before that such a transformation would come about.

Our informant had exaggerated somewhat when he gave us to understand

that the café was open and business going on “as usual.”

The Grosses Café was certainly “open,” but it was only a café in name

that morning, as there was really nothing to be got in the way of

drink or food; not a bottle of wine or beer or even a crust of bread

could be had for love or money.

The Austrians had cleared out the cellars and larder effectually

before taking their departure. I am, however, somewhat overdrawing

it when I state there was nothing to be got in the way of liquid

refreshment. The proprietor discovered that he happened to have by

him a few bottles of a sickly sort of fruit syrup, and also some very

brackish mineral water to put with it, and there was coffee if you

didn’t mind its being made with the mineral water.

It appeared that the Austrians had thoughtfully destroyed the water

supply of the city when they left, indifferent to the fact of

there being several thousand of their own people, mostly women and

children, still living there.

It makes me smile when I recall how we ordered the Austrian

proprietor about, and with what blind confidence everyone drank the

syrup and mineral water, and the coffee. They might easily have

been poisoned; it would only have been in keeping with the Austrian

methods of warfare.

[Illustration: Two infantry regiments, the 11th and 12th, forded and

swam across the river (_see page 216_)

_To face page 222_]

The big saloon of the café was quite that of a first-class

establishment; there were cosy corner seats in the windows looking

on the Carso, and as you sat there and listened to the thunder of

the guns so close by, it was difficult to realise what a wonderful

thing it was being there at all; and also that at any moment the

Austrians might make a successful counter-attack and get back into

the city. Our lives, I fancy, would not have been worth much if this

had happened.

A somewhat curious incident occurred whilst a little party of us was

seated at one of these tables. A very shabbily-dressed civilian,

wearing a dirty old straw hat, and looking as if he hadn’t had a

square meal or a good wash for weeks, came in a furtive way into the

café and, seating himself near us, tried to enter into conversation.

With true journalistic _flair_ Barzini encouraged him to talk, and it

turned out that he was an Italian professor who had lived many years

in Gorizia, where he taught Italian in one of the colleges.

When the war broke out the Austrians called on him to join the

Austrian Army. He could not escape from the city, so rather than

fight against his own countrymen, he determined to hide till an

opportunity presented itself for him to get away.

An Italian lady, also living here, helped him to carry out his

resolve, and for fifteen months he never once moved outside the

little room he slept in.

His friend would bring him by stealth food and drink once a week, and

so cleverly did she manage it, that no one in the house even knew he

was still there. Of course it would have meant death for her if she

had been caught helping him to evade fighting in the Austrian Army.

His feelings, he told us, were indescribable when he learned that at

last the Italians were approaching and his deliverance was at hand.

No wonder the poor fellow wanted to have a talk with someone; he had

not spoken to a living soul all those long months when Gorizia was

being bombarded daily.

He offered to act as our guide and show us round, and we gladly

accepted, as it was a chance to see something of the city before its

aspect was changed by the Italian occupation.

The Corso and the adjoining streets were still almost deserted, but

there were indications that this was not going to last long, and that

more troops would shortly be arriving.

We learned that the regiments that had first entered the city had

scarcely remained an hour. No sooner did they arrive than they were

off again, as it was hoped to cut off the retreat of the flying

Austrians. Only a rearguard had been left to await the arrival of

reinforcements to take possession of the city itself.

An order had been immediately issued that the inhabitants were to

remain indoors, the severest penalty being threatened for any breach

of this mandate.

It was somewhat surprising, considering how deserted the streets

appeared, to learn that there were several thousand inhabitants still

there.

We had thought we had the streets quite to ourselves as we strolled

along in the middle of the roadway, our footsteps awakening the

echoes; so it came as a nasty shock to suddenly realise that all the

time we were thinking this we were being glared at from the little

lattices in the shuttered windows above us on either side.

Hundreds of eyes full of malevolence followed our every movement. You

had, after this, the uncanny sensation that at any moment you might

be shot at from some upper storey.

The city was quite attractive, and one was not surprised it was

called the “Austrian Nice,” and that it had been a very delightful

and gay place to live in. There were several fine buildings, and a

park with the inevitable bandstand.

It was to a great extent an Italian city of some 25,000 inhabitants,

and its picturesque surroundings and genial climate made it a

favourite health resort. Our guide told us that it was largely

inhabited by retired Austrian officers with their families, many

having built themselves villas in the faubourgs.

The story of Gorizia being in ruins in consequence of the Italian

bombardment was evidently spread by the Austrians. There was, of

course, a good deal of damage done, but nothing like one had been led

to expect. I should say that on the day it was captured not more than

a hundred houses had suffered at all.

Since then, of course, its wilful bombardment with shells of heavy

calibre by the Austrians is causing an immense amount of damage, and

exacting a daily toll of death among the inhabitants, most of whom,

as I have pointed out, are actually Austrians.

Whilst we were taking our walk, the Austrian guns had not been idle

by any means, and the crash of explosions in the streets around

indicated that the peril of the women and children living in the

houses was actually accentuated by the entry of the Italians. It was

a glaring instance of the mentality of the pure-bred Austrian or

German.

Our newly-found Italian friend suggested that probably from the

Castle we could obtain a fine view of the positions and the fighting

north of the town. So we went in that direction.

The Castle, or as it is called there, the “Schloss,” of Gorizia,

stands on a steep hill which dominates the older part of the city;

steep, narrow, cobble-paved streets lead up to it. We soon found that

this quarter was the “danger zone,” and that one ran more risk here

than anywhere else.

The shells were bursting all around, and one could not help a feeling

of deep pity for the unfortunate people who were thus suffering at

the hands of their own people.

The Austrians might have averred, and I believe they afterwards

did, that they were firing on the Castle, though with what object

it is difficult to understand, since it is merely an archæological

monument; anyhow, every time they missed it they hit the town, so

there is nothing more to be said.

It was a bit of a climb, and as I had hobnails in my boots I was

sliding all over the road.

One part of the street was very old and picturesque, with a low

parapet on one side and a fine view from it towards the Austrian

positions.

It was a very hot corner to get past as it was quite exposed to

rifle fire, so we had to take it singly, crouching down and at the

double, an awkward and undignified performance when one is inclined

to _embonpoint_.

The street now narrowed considerably, with lofty houses on either

side. We stopped for a few moments in the middle of the road to get

our breath. Just behind us was a house built on low solid arches such

as one sees everywhere in Italy.

Suddenly we heard the screeching wail of a big shell approaching.

With one accord we made a bolt for the shelter of the arches,

and were only just in time; with a report like a thunderclap the

projectile burst on the house above us, and a huge mass of masonry

and bricks came tumbling down with a crash in the roadway just where

we had been standing.

A cloud of dust blotted out everything, and for a moment I thought

that the whole building would come down and bury us all under it, but

fortunately it was stout enough to withstand the shock.

We waited a moment, on the alert, in case another shell came over,

and then, without further ado, we deferred our visit to the Castle

and made a dash down the street for the comparatively safe regions

below.

But our adventures were not yet over even here. We were walking

through one of the wide main streets when we heard bombs exploding

close by—there is no mistaking the difference between the explosion

of a shell and that of an aeroplane bomb.

We looked up—a “Taube” had spotted us and was slowly circling

overhead directly above us. Just where we happened to be at that

particular moment there was not a recess or a corner anywhere near

where we could take shelter; we tried the doors of the houses but

they were all locked.

There was nothing for it therefore but to chance to luck, and we

stood gazing up as though transfixed at the beastly thing hovering

above us like some bird of prey.

Then suddenly we saw something bright drop from it. Instinctively we

flattened ourselves against the wall. There was the loud report of

an exploding bomb in an adjoining street—it had missed us by a great

many yards.

The machine then veered off in another direction, and we were not

under its “fire” again, but it was a real bit of a “thrill” while it

lasted.

As we then made our way back towards the café, we heard the plaintive

whining of a dog abandoned inside one of the big houses. We stopped

and called it. Its efforts to get out were pitiful, but there was no

chance of its being rescued as the door was a massive porte-cochère,

and the ground-floor windows were heavily barred.

There was nothing to be done. We walked on, one of my comrades

calling out in a husky voice, with the genuine feeling of a lover of

dumb animals:

“Que veux tu mon pauvre vieux? C’est la guerre!”

A great change had already come over the central part of the city

even during the time we had been for our walk.

The Italian flag had been run up on all the principal buildings.

Troops were evidently being brought up as quickly as possible, and

the Corso was blocked with cavalry.

In all the streets leading from the river, infantry in full

campaigning kit was advancing in Indian file and keeping as close up

to the walls as they could. The lines of soldiers on both sides of

the street seemed positively interminable, and the men appeared to be

in the highest spirits.

It was all deeply stirring, and you could not help having the feeling

that you were witnessing history being made before your eyes.

The soldiers behaved magnificently, as however might have been

expected of the heroes they were. There was not the slightest sign

anywhere of any disposition to “swagger” or show off either on the

part of the officers or men; they simply came in quietly and took

possession of Gorizia like an army of gentlemen.

To the inhabitants caged up in their houses, and peeping from their

shuttered windows, the remarkable scene could have been little short

of a revelation. This unostentatious entry of the Italian troops must

indeed have been very different to what they had expected.

I tried to picture in my mind what would have taken place had the

Austrians succeeded in getting into Vicenza!

Strange and unexpected incidents could be witnessed everywhere. In a

narrow side street I saw a regiment coming along, the men marching

like athletes; at their head was the Colonel, a fine, grey-haired old

fellow as alert in bearing as any of his subalterns.

The men were halted, and there was a hurried consultation of the map.

The Colonel was evidently in a quandary. I understood he was in doubt

as to which was the quickest way out of the city to get to San Marco.

To my surprise, then, a young Italian girl came from one of the

houses and boldly gave him the necessary information, whilst out of

the windows all round one saw eyes glaring down on her with impotent

fury.

In the street where this took place many of the houses had been

damaged by shells, and in several instances the shop fronts were so

wrecked that everything that was left intact could have been easily

got at through the broken windows; it only meant putting your hand in

and helping yourself, since there was no one that day to stop you,

and several of the shops had quite tempting displays of goods, yet I

did not hear of a single case of looting; this, I fancy, was evidence

of a remarkable state of affairs, and which reflected additional

credit on the soldiers.

A curious little scene was witnessed at the Town Hall when the

representatives of the Italian Government took over the place and the

municipal archives.

A number of Gorizia’s civil dignitaries, together with their

womenfolk, put in an appearance. Many of the people had not seen each

other for days during the height of the fighting, and their joy at

meeting again, though under such altered circumstances, was quite

touching, and there was a lot of embracing and weeping.

One or two of the younger women were smartly dressed and very good

looking. They looked a bit nervous at first, but this soon wore off

when they found we meant them no harm.

One in particular, with whom I had a chat, as she spoke French

fluently, was distinctly an attractive personality, and was dressed

as daintily as any Parisienne.

I asked if she and her girl friends were not horribly frightened by

the noise of the battle and the arrival of the Italian troops.

No, they were not, she replied emphatically, because the Austrian

officers, before going away, had told them they had nothing to fear,

as they would be back within a week with half a million troops and

drive the Italians out again.

She was so good looking, and was so confident this would really

happen, that we had not the heart to try and convince her otherwise.

She was beginning to tell us some of her experiences during the

bombardment when one of the staff officers came up and whispered

to us that it was not advisable that day to talk too much with the

inhabitants. Almost needless to add we took the hint.

_Carabinieri_ were already on guard here at the entrance to the

building, and from their stolid, impassive demeanour one would have

thought they were part and parcel of the municipality of Gorizia.

Here is an example of their all-round handiness.

In an adjoining street a big house had been set on fire by a shell,

and had been burning for three days we were told. There was no water

available to put it out with, and the inhabitants of the houses round

were in terror in case it should spread.

The _Carabinieri_ did not stand looking on, but took the matter in

hand without hesitation, found out where the fire pump was kept,

cleared the street, and in a very short time were fixing up a water

supply.

But the occasions when the _Carabinieri_ were _en evidence_ were

legion.

On the broad pavement outside the Café during the hot afternoon their

Colonel and one of his officers held a sort of rough-and-ready court

of enquiry. Chairs were brought out and placed under the trees, and

three civilian “suspects” were brought up to undergo a summary sort

of cross-examination.

It was a very unconventional and curious scene, and brought

significantly home to one the tragic power that can be wielded by a

conqueror.

In this instance, however, there was no fear of any injustice or

cruelty being inflicted on prisoners. They would get a fair trial at

the hands of the Italians, no matter what they had done to warrant

their being arrested.

The three “suspects” in this instance—a man, a woman and a little

girl—did not look very terrible, rather the contrary in fact, and one

wondered what they were “suspected” of doing.

The man, a tall, young fellow with long hair, was dressed in such

extraordinary fashion that this in itself may have caused him to be

looked on with suspicion. He had a panama straw hat, a dark Norfolk

jacket, white shirt with very large, low-cut collar outside his coat

collar, and no tie, white flannel knickerbockers, blue socks, and

black side-spring boots. The woman and the little girl were typically

Austrian.

I could not find out why they had been arrested, but as they were

taken away by the _Carabinieri_ after their examination it was

presumably a somewhat serious matter. It was certain beforehand that

the city would be infested with spies, so no chances were to be

taken, and rightly so.

During the course of the afternoon the city was completely occupied

by troops, and there had not been a hitch in the victorious advance.

One saw soldiers everywhere—cavalry, infantry, Bersaglieri cyclists;

in fact, almost every branch of the Army.

In every open space and in the courtyards of the principal public

buildings were bivouacs, all being carried out in the usual methodic

manner of the Italians. The troops had the streets entirely to

themselves, as no civilians were allowed out of doors that day, and

none of the shops were open.

Towards evening the Austrians recommenced heavily shelling the city,

aeroplanes began to put in an appearance, as if a big counter-attack

was coming, but it died out suddenly for some unexplained reason.

It was now time for us to be thinking of getting back to Udine, as

Barzini had to send off his despatch and I had my sketches to work

up. We had a longish walk before us to Lucinico, but there was no

particular need to hurry, so we made our way slowly to the wooden

bridge we had crossed in the morning.

I was loaded with trophies I hoped to take back to London; a rifle

slung over my shoulder, an Austrian knapsack full of heavy rubbish on

my back, and in my hand a much battered Gorizia policeman’s helmet,

something like a _pickelhaube_, in black with a silver spike, which

we had picked up in the street.

There were a good many soldiers round about the bridge, and my

appearance between our soldier chauffeur and his friend excited much

unpleasant comment as we elbowed our way through the crowd. I was

evidently mistaken for an Austrian spy in custody.

It was much quieter now along the river. The firing which continued

in a desultory way being directed further down stream, so there

was no necessity to rush across the bridge this time, though it

was advisable not to dally, as one could not tell what might come

screeching over at any moment.

We retraced our steps by the road we had previously come. Nothing was

changed yet: the dead were still lying about everywhere, but at the

archway under the railway embankment soldiers were already beginning

to clear the place.

General Marazzi, who was still there, advised us not to take the

road across the battlefield, as it was being heavily shelled at the

moment; in fact, had it not been for the protection afforded by the

high embankment, it would have been very uncomfortable here; as it

was, every moment I quite expected something to burst over us.

We made our way, therefore, by a sunken pathway amongst the bushes

and small trees that skirted the foot of the embankment for some

distance; a procession of soldiers, carrying wounded men, leading the

way. This gulley had evidently been exposed to the full fire of the

Italian batteries during the battle.

From end to end it was a gruesome spectacle of foulness and death.

The Austrians had evidently used it as a sort of back exit from their

trenches, and whilst beating a retreat in this direction had found it

a veritable cul de sac, from which there was no escape.

Lucinico was full of movement when we got back there: troops coming

in, motor ambulances arriving, and numbers of officers’ cars waiting.

A start had also been made at clearing the _débris_ of ruin from

the road, so no time was being lost. Wounded were being brought in

continually, and one saw them lying about on stretchers everywhere,

waiting for the Red Cross men to come along.

With difficulty we managed to get our car through the block of

vehicles and masses of soldiers, and headed for Udine. Then commenced

what, to my mind, was the most impressive spectacle of this wondrous

day.

For the next thirty miles along the road there was an unbroken line

of troops and military transport of every conceivable description

coming towards us through a dense haze of dust in the golden light of

the setting sun.

It was a victorious army advancing slowly but irresistibly, like a

flow of lava, and made a glorious _finale_ to a page of history.

[Illustration: The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and

we were practically carried up the gully with them (_see page 219_)

_To face page 234_]

CHAPTER XVII

After Gorizia—Method and thoroughness of General Cadorna—Amusing

story—Result of the three days fighting—Employment for first time

of cavalry and cyclists—Udine reverts to its usual calm—Arrival of

visitors—Lord Northcliffe and others—Mr. Whitney Warren—Changes along

the fighting Front—Monte San Michele—A misleading statement—“Big

events” pending—A visit to Gorizia—My companions—Great change visible

on road—Battlefield cleared away—Gorizia—Deserted streets—Rules

and regulations for the inhabitants—The two cafés open—Rumours of

counter-attack—The General’s Headquarters—Somewhat scant courtesy—A

stroll round—We decide spend night in Gorizia—The deserted

Hotel—We take possession of rooms—A jolly supper party—A glorious

summer night—One long hellish tatoo—The Austrian counter-attack—A

night of discomfort—The noise from the trenches—The cause of

my “restlessness”—The “comfortable” beds—Gorizia in the early

morning—Indifferent to the bombardment—Back to Udine via Savogna,

Sdraussina and Sagrado—Panorama of military activity—Monte San

Michele—Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay—The cemeteries—The

pontoon bridge—The Austrian trenches—The cavalry division—Renewed

shelling of Gorizia.

CHAPTER XVII

To describe what took place during the next few days might appear

somewhat in the nature of an anti-climax were it not that there was

no standing still on the part of the Italians. The Austrians would

doubtless have gladly welcomed some respite, but they were not going

to get it, as was soon realised.