THE BRITISH AND THE ITALIAN SOLDIER
The sending of ten British Batteries to Italy had something more than a
military significance. Otherwise the thing was hardly worth doing. It
was evident that here was an international gesture. An effort was being
made to promote a real Anglo-Italian understanding, to substitute for
those misty and unreal personifications--"England" to an Italian,
"Italy" to an Englishman--real personal knowledge and a sense of
individual comradeship in a great cause. Our task, in short, was not
only to fight, but also to fraternise. But would we fraternise
successfully? For it has been said, not without some truth, that
"England is an island and every Englishman is an island," and in the
early days I was doubtful what sort of personal effect we should
produce, and what sort of personal impressions our men would bring away.
When I got back to the Battery from Versa I began to take stock of my
own impressions so far, and to notice, in the letters which I had to
censor, the drift of general opinion. It was surprisingly satisfactory.
"Some of these Italians," writes one gunner, "are the finest fellows you
could wish to meet. Our men get on very well with them." "The Italians,"
writes another, "are very good soldiers and nice chaps. We get on well
together." "The other night," writes a third, "I was out laying
telephone wires in a graveyard. We saw some Italian soldiers carrying a
tombstone for their Lieutenant who had recently been killed. The
Italians look after their graves very well. A Sergeant, who had spent
most of his life in England, asked us in and gave us some coffee and
cognac which was jolly acceptable. He asked if we had any old English
papers, as he was forgetting all his English, as he had been away from
England for five years." And a fourth writes, "The great majority of
these Italians have been in different parts of America" (this of course
is a wild exaggeration!), "they are very delighted to have a chat. In
fact I think the Italian people are very sociable. Nearly all the boys
can begin to make themselves understood." These tributes are obviously
sincere. They occur in the midst of good-natured grumbles about the
heat, and the monotony of macaroni and rice and stew, and of requests
for "more fags" and of hopes that "this business will soon be over."
The fact that so many Italians, having lived in England and America, can
speak English and know something of us and our ways, accounts for much.
For a foreign language is the Great Barrier Reef against the voyages of
ordinary people towards international understanding. And the country
counts for something, too. Its natural obstacles compel admiration for
an Army which has achieved so much in spite of them. And I am sure that
no British gunner, however inarticulate, who has served in Italy, and
especially those young fellows who, when war broke out, stood only on
the threshold of their manhood, with their minds still wide open for new
impressions, has not felt some sort of secret thrill at the astounding
and incomparable beauty of this country, the very contemplation of
which sometimes brings one near to weeping.
I recall, for instance, a tough old Sergeant Major, with twenty-seven
years' service with our Artillery all over the world, an utterly
unromantic person. He and I were bringing back my working party on the
10th of August from Versa to Rubbia in a lorry. The men were singing
loudly, and greeted an Italian sentry on Peteano bridge with cheerful
cries of "Buona sera, Johnny!" And the Sergeant Major suddenly observed
to me that "this must be a fine country in peace-time," and went on to
praise the mountains, and the rivers, and the trees, especially the
cypresses, and the surface of the roads, and some town behind the lines,
Udine I think, which was "very pretty" and "quite all right." The
Italians, too, were "all right," which from him was most high praise.
And then, as though half ashamed of having said so much, he added,
rather hastily, "But there's nothing to touch the old country after all.
I think I shall settle down there when this war's over. I've had about
enough of foreign parts."
And what do the Italians think of us, I wonder? I only know that they
treat us always with great friendliness, and show great interest in our
guns and all our doings. So the international gesture has, I think,
begun already to succeed. And its success will grow. For those British
graves, which we shall leave behind us--some are dug and filled
already--will tell their own story to the future. They will be facts, if
only tiny facts, both in British and Italian history, and "far on in
summers that we shall not see," bathed in the warm brilliance of Italian
sunshine, they will bear witness to Anglo-Italian comradeship across
the years.