Thus the lengend grew and spread from the Adige to Leno, from the
Altissimo to Coni Zugna, from Pasubio to the Col Santo, wherever the
Alpini were engaged.
And every hardy mountaineer who was called to the colors cheered his
loved ones on parting with the words: "Never fear! I am going to join
Antonio Cantore's brigade."
One night on the slopes of Monte Campo, Gen. Cantore was on
reconnoitring patrol. For he was his own scout. Most commanders ask
for two or three volunteers for a night reconnaissance. This general,
instead, would say: "Are there two men who would like to come with me
to-night and inspect the enemy's barbed wire entanglements?" And all
the men would want to go. He would pick out two, saying to the others:
"No, no, boys; I need only two of you. Thank you, just the same.
Your time will come." To the chosen ones it was like a promotion or
receiving a medal of honor.
And so, one night he was out scouting with only his sergeant as
company. "His" sergeant was Sergt. Cillario, a veteran of Libya,
who had stayed in the army just to be with Antonio Cantore, whom he
called "my" general. They had climbed a difficult mule-path toward
the Austrian trenches, the general leading, the sergeant following in
silence.
At last the general told the sergeant to stop, and he went on alone.
When he would not permit a man to risk his life, that man did as he was
told. Only on such occasions did Gen. Cantore make his rank felt. He no
longer said: "Let us go, my boy," but "Sergeant, stay there." His boys
were not saints, but they obeyed. They had to, for otherwise he--raised
his voice and smiled no more!
So that night, as on many others, he went on alone. And when his hands
touched the first barbed wire the sentries of the Austrian trenches
fired at him. This did not disconcert him. He went on with his hands
in his pockets, his head on one side, stooping to examine through his
spectacles the entanglements by the light of flashes from the enemy's
guns. He was ten yards from the Austrian trench, a single dark shadow
advancing like fate through the volleys, an invulnerable shadow seeking
out the interstices of the barbed wire entanglements to find spaces
through which men might pass, scrutinizing them with the calm interest
of a botanist examining a garden.
A Tryolean kaiserjaeger, who has been taking careful aim at him, saw
the insignia of his rank.
"My God! a General!" he exclaimed, and let his rifle fall.