"It's this way," he explained. "A dozen aviators are ordered

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The War on All Fronts, Volume IV

ITALY AT WAR

AND THE ALLIES IN THE WEST

by

E. ALEXANDER POWELL

Correspondent of the "New York World"

and Now Captain in the National Army

Illustrated

[Illustration: The King of Italy and the Prince of Wales.

When the Prince was on the Italian front, he asked permission to

visit a trench which was being heavily shelled. The King bluntly

refused. "I want no historic incidents here," he remarked dryly.]

New York

Charles Scribner's Sons

1919

Copyright, 1917, by

Charles Scribner's Sons

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT

For the assistance they have given me in the preparation of this book,

and for the countless kindnesses they have shown me, I am indebted to

many persons in many countries.

His Excellency Count Macchi di Cellere, Italian Ambassador to the

United States; Signor Giuseppe Brambilla, Counsellor of Embassy;

Signor A. G. Celesia, Secretary of Embassy; his Excellency Thomas

Nelson Page, American Ambassador to Italy, and the members of his

staff; Signor Tittoni, former Italian Ambassador to France; Signor de

Martino, Chef du Cabinet of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; his

Excellency Signor Scialoje, Minister of Education; Professor Andrea

Galante, Chief of the Bureau of Propaganda; Colonel Barberiche and

Captain Pirelli of the Comando Supremo, and Signor Ugo Ojetti, in

charge of works of art in the war zone, all have my grateful thanks

for the exceptional facilities afforded me for observation on the

Italian front.

His Excellency M. Jusserand, French Ambassador to the United States,

General Nivelle, General Gouraud, and General Dubois; Monsieur Henri

Ponsot, Chief of the Press Bureau, and Professor Georges Chinard,

Chief of the Bureau of Propaganda of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs;

Commandant Bunau-Varilla and the Marquis d'Audigné all helped to make

this the most interesting and instructive of my many visits to the

French front.

To General Jilinsky, commanding the Russian forces in France, and to

Colonel Romanoff, his Chief of Staff, I am grateful for the courtesies

extended to me while on the Russian front in Champagne.

Lord Northcliffe, who on innumerable occasions has shown himself a

friend, Lord Robert Cecil, Minister of Blockade, and Sir Theodore

Andrea Cook, Editor of _The Field_, put themselves to much trouble in

arranging for my visit to the British front. Nor have I forgotten the

kindnesses shown me by Captain C. H. Roberts and Lieutenant C. S.

Fraser, my hosts at General Headquarters.

For the many privileges extended to me during my visit to the Belgian

front I take this opportunity of thanking his Excellency Baron de

Broqueville, Prime Minister of Belgium; M. Emanuel Havenith, former

Belgian Minister to the United States, Lieutenant-General Jacquez,

commanding the third division of the Belgian Army; Capitaine-Commandant

Vinçotte, and Capitaine-Commandant Maurice Le Duc of the État-Major.

To Lieutenant-Colonel Spencer Cosby, Corps of Engineers, United States

Army, I owe my thanks for much of the technical information contained

in Chapter V, as he generously placed at my disposal the extremely

valuable material which he collected during his three years of service

as American Military Attaché in Paris.

James Hazen Hyde, Esq., who accompanied me on my visit to the Italian

front, has, by his hospitality and kindness, placed me under

obligations which I can never fully repay. I could have had no more

charming or cultured travelling companion.

I also wish to acknowledge the information and suggestions I have

derived from Sydney Low's admirable book, "Italy in the War"; from R.

W. Seton-Watson's "The Balkans, Italy, and the Adriatic"; from V.

Gayda's "Modern Austria"; from Dr. E. J. Dillon's "From the Triple to

the Quadruple Alliance"; from Pietro Fedele's "Why Italy Is at War,"

and from E. D. Ushaw's "Railways at the Front."

And, finally, I desire to thank Howard E. Coffin, Esq., of the

Advisory Board of the Council of National Defence, for his hospitality

on his sea island of Sapeloe, where most of this book was written.

E. ALEXANDER POWELL.

WASHINGTON,

April fifteenth, 1917.

TO

THEIR EXCELLENCIES

COUNT V. MACCHI DI CELLERE, AMBASSADOR OF ITALY,

AND JEAN JULES JUSSERAND, AMBASSADOR OF FRANCE

IN APPRECIATION OF THE MANY

KINDNESSES THEY HAVE SHOWN

ME AND IN ADMIRATION OF THE

TACT, SINCERITY, AND ABILITY

WHICH HAVE WON FOR THEM,

AND FOR THE COUNTRIES THEY

REPRESENT, THE FRIENDSHIP AND

CONFIDENCE OF ALL AMERICANS

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE WAY TO THE WAR 3

II. WHY ITALY WENT TO WAR 37

III. FIGHTING ON THE ROOF OF EUROPE 68

IV. THE ROAD TO TRIESTE 105

V. WITH THE RUSSIANS IN CHAMPAGNE 138

VI. "THEY SHALL NOT PASS!" 155

VII. "THAT CONTEMPTIBLE LITTLE ARMY" 204

VIII. WITH THE BELGIANS ON THE YSER 253

ILLUSTRATIONS

The King of Italy and the Prince of Wales _Frontispiece_

FACING

PAGE

The _Teleferica_ 4

An Italian Position in the Carnia 5

The King of Italy and General Cadorna at Castelnuovo 32

The Peril in the Clouds 33

Alpini Going Into Action 68

On the Roof of the World 69

A Heavy Howitzer in the High Alps 82

An Outpost in the Carnia 83

"_Halt!_ Show Your Papers!" 160

A Nieuport Biplane About to Take the Air 161

Verdun's Mightiest Defender: a 400-mm. Gun 172

A Gun Painted to Escape the Observation of Enemy

Airmen 173

Australians on the Way to the Trenches 196

The Fire Trench 197

A British "Heavy" Mounted on a Railway-Truck

Shelling the German Lines 238

Buried on the Field of Honor 239

_These illustrations are from photographs taken by the

Photographic Sections of the Italian, French, British, and Belgian

armies and by the author._

ITALY AT WAR

I

THE WAY TO THE WAR

When I told my friends that I was going to the Italian front they

smiled disdainfully. "You will only be wasting your time," one of them

warned me. "There isn't anything doing there," said another. And when

I came back they greeted me with "You didn't see much, did you?" and

"What are the Italians doing, anyway?"

If I had time I told them that Italy is holding a front which is

longer than the French and British and Belgian fronts combined (trace

it out on the map and you will find that it measures more than four

hundred and fifty miles); that, alone among the Allies, she is doing

most of her fighting on the enemy's soil; that she is fighting an army

which was fourth in Europe in numbers, third in quality, and probably

second in equipment; that in a single battle she lost more men than

fell on both sides at Gettysburg; that she has taken 100,000

prisoners; that, to oppose the Austrian offensive in the Trentino, she

mobilized a new army of half a million men, completely equipped it,

and moved it to the front, all in seven days; that, were her trench

lines carefully ironed out, they would extend as far as from New York

to Salt Lake City; that, instead of digging these trenches, she has

had to blast most of them from the solid rock; that she has mounted

8-inch guns on ice-ledges nearly two miles above sea-level, in

positions to which a skilled mountaineer would find it perilous to

climb; that in places the infantry has advanced by driving iron pegs

and rings into the perpendicular walls of rock and swarming up the

dizzy ladders thus constructed; that many of the positions can be

reached only in baskets slung from sagging wires stretched across

mile-deep chasms; that many of her soldiers are living like arctic

explorers, in caverns of ice and snow; that on the sun-scorched floor

of the Carso the bodies of the dead have frequently been found

baked hard and mummified, while in the mountains they have been found

stiff, too, but stiff from cold; that in the lowlands of the Isonzo

the soldiers have fought in water to their waists, while the water for

the armies fighting in the Trentino has had to be brought up from

thousands of feet below; and, most important of all, that she has kept

engaged some forty Austrian divisions (about 750,000 men)--a force

sufficient to have turned the scale in favor of the Central Powers on

any of the other fronts. And I have usually added: "After what I have

seen over there, I feel like lifting my hat, in respect and

admiration, to the next Italian that I see."

[Illustration: The _Teleferica_.

"Many of the Italian positions can be reached only in baskets slung

from sagging wires stretched across mile-deep chasms."]

[Illustration: An Italian Position in the Carnia.

"Many of the Italian soldiers are living like arctic explorers, in

caverns of ice and snow."]

It is no exaggeration to say that not one American in a thousand has

any adequate conception of what Italy is fighting for, nor any

appreciation of the splendid part she is playing in the war. This lack

of knowledge, and the consequent lack of interest, is, however,

primarily due to the Italians themselves. They are suspicious of

foreigners. They are by nature shy. More insular than the French or

English, they are only just commencing to realize the political value

of our national maxim: "It pays to advertise." Though they want

publicity they do not know how to get it. Instead of welcoming neutral

correspondents and publicists, they have, until very recently, met

them with suspicion and hinderances. What little news is permitted to

filter through is coldly official, and is altogether unsuited for

American consumption. The Italians are staging one of the most

remarkable and inspiring performances that I have seen on any front--a

performance of which they have every reason to be proud--but

diffidence and conservatism have deterred them from telling the world

about it.

To visit Italy in these days is no longer merely a matter of buying a

ticket and boarding a train. To comply with the necessary formalities

takes the better part of a week. Should you, an American, wish to

travel from Paris to Rome, for example, you must first of all obtain

from the American consul-general a special visé for Italy, together

with a statement of the day and hour on which you intend to leave

Paris, the frontier station at which you will enter Italy, and the

cities which you propose visiting. The consul-general will require of

you three _carte-de-visite_ size photographs. Armed with your viséd

passport, you must then present yourself at the Italian Consulate

where several suave but very businesslike gentlemen will subject you

to a series of extremely searching questions. And you can be perfectly

certain that they are in possession of enough information about you to

check up your answers. Should it chance that your grandfather's name;

was Schmidt, or something equally German-sounding, it is all off. The

Italians, I repeat, are a suspicious folk, and they are taking no

chances. Moreover, unless you are able to convince them of the

imperative necessity of your visiting Italy, you do not go. Tourists

and sensation seekers are not wanted in Italy in these times; the

railways are needed for other purposes. If, however, you succeed in

satisfying the board of examiners that you are not likely to be either

a menace or a nuisance, a special passport for the journey will be

issued you. Three more photographs, please. This passport must then be

indorsed at the Prefecture of Police. (_Votre photographie s'il vous

plait._) Should you neglect to obtain the police visé you will not be

permitted to board the train.

Upon reaching the frontier you are ushered before a board composed of

officials of the French _Service de Sûrété_ and the Italian _Questura_

and again subjected to a searching interrogatory. Every piece of

luggage in the train is unloaded, opened, and carefully examined. It

having been discovered that spies were accustomed to conceal in their

compartments any papers which they might be carrying, and retrieving

them after the frontier was safely passed, the through trains have now

been discontinued, passengers and luggage, after the examination at

the frontier, being sent on by another train. In addition to the French

and Italian secret-service officials, there are now on duty at the

various frontier stations, and likewise in Athens, Naples, and Rome,

keen-eyed young officers of the "Hush-Hush Brigade," as the British

Intelligence Department is disrespectfully called, whose business it is

to scrutinize the thousands of British subjects--officers returning

from India, Egypt, or Salonika, or from service with the Mediterranean

fleet, King's messengers, diplomatic couriers--who are constantly

crossing Italy on their way to or from England.

That the arm of the enemy is very long, and that it is able to strike

at astounding distances and in the most unexpected places, is brought

sharply home to one as the train pulls out of the Genoa station. From

Genoa to Pisa, a distance of a hundred miles, the railway closely hugs

the Mediterranean shore. At night all the curtains on that side of the

train must be kept closely drawn and, as an additional precaution,

the white electric-light bulbs in the corridors and compartments have

been replaced by violet ones. If you ask the reason for this you are

usually met with evasions. But, if you persist, you learn that it is

done to avoid the danger of the trains being shelled by Austrian

submarines! (Imagine, if you please, the passengers on the New

York-Boston trains being ordered to keep their windows darkened

because enemy submarines have been reported off the coast.) In this

war remoteness from the firing-line does not assure safety. Spezia,

for example, which is a naval base of the first importance, is

separated from the firing-line by the width of the Italian peninsula.

Until a few months ago its inhabitants felt as snug and safe as though

they lived in Spain. Then, one night, an Austrian airman crossed the

Alps, winged his way above the Lombard plain, and let loose on Spezia

a rain of bombs which caused many deaths and did enormous damage.

Even the casual traveller in Italy to-day cannot fail to be struck by

the prosperity which the war has brought to the great manufacturing

cities of the north as contrasted with the commercial stagnation which

prevails in the southern provinces of the kingdom. In the munition

plants, most of which are in the north, are employed upward of half a

million workers, of whom 75,000 are women. Genoa, Milan, and Turin are

a-boom with industry. The great automobile factories have expanded

amazingly in order to meet the demand for shells, field-guns, and

motor-trucks. Turin, as an officer smilingly remarked, "now consists

of the Fiat factory and a few houses." The United States is not the

only country to produce that strange breed known as munitions

millionaires. Italy has them also--and the jewellers and champagne

agents are doing a bigger business than they have ever done before.

As the train tears southward into Tuscany you begin to catch fleeting

glimpses of the men who are making possible this sudden

prosperity--the men who are using the motor-trucks and the shells and

the field-guns. _They_ don't look very prosperous or very happy.

Sometimes you see them drawn up on the platforms of wayside stations,

shivering beneath their scanty capes in the chill of an Italian dawn.

Usually there is a background of wet-eyed women, with shawls drawn

over their heads, and nearly always with babies in their arms. And on

nearly every siding were standing long trains of box-cars, bedded with

straw and filled with these same wiry, brown-faced little men in their

rat-gray uniforms, being hurried to the fighting in the north. It

reminded me of those long cattle-trains one sees in the Middle West,

bound for the Chicago slaughter-houses.

Rome in war-time is about as cheerful as Coney Island in midwinter.

Empty are the enticing little shops on the Piazza di Spagna. Gone from

the marble steps are the artists' models and the flower-girls. To

visit the galleries of the Vatican is to stroll through an echoing

marble tomb. The guards and custodians no longer welcome you for the

sake of your tips, but for the sake of your company. The King, who is

with the army, visits Rome only rarely; the Queen occupies a modest

villa in the country; the Palace of the Quirinal has been turned into

a hospital. The great ballroom, the state dining-room, the

throne-room, even the Queen's sun-parlor, are now filled with white

cots, hundreds and hundreds of them, each with its bandaged occupant,

while in the famous gardens where Popes and Emperors and Kings have

strolled, convalescent soldiers now laze in the sun or on the

gravelled paths play at bowls. In giving up their home for the use of

the wounded, the King and Queen have done a very generous and noble

thing, and the Italian people are not going to forget it.

If Rome, which is the seat of government, shows such unmistakable

signs of depression, imagine the stagnation of Florence, which has

long been as dependent upon its crop of tourists as a Dakota farmer is

upon his crop of wheat. The Cascine Gardens, in the old days one of

the gayest promenades in Europe, are as lonely as a cemetery. At those

hotels on the Lung' Arno, which remain open, the visitor can make his

own terms. The Via Tornabuoni is as quiet as a street in a country

town. The dealers in antiques, in souvenirs, in pictures, in marbles,

have most of them put up their shutters and disappeared, to return, no

doubt, in happier times.

There is in the Via Tornabuoni, midway between Giacosa's and the

American Consulate, an excellent barber shop. The owner, who learned

his trade in the United States, is the most skilful man with scissors

and razor that I know. His customers came from half the countries of

the globe.

"But they are all gone now," he told me sadly. "Some are fighting,

some have been killed, the others have gone back to their homes until

the war is over. Three years ago I had as nice a little business as a

man could ask for. To-day I do not make enough to pay my rent. But it

doesn't make much difference, for next month my class is called to

the colors, and in the spring my son, who will then be eighteen, will

also have to go."

No, they're not very enthusiastic over the war in Florence. But you

can't blame them, can you?

* * * * *

In none of the great cities known and loved by Americans has the war

wrought such startling changes as in Venice. Because it is a naval

base of the first importance, because it is almost within sight of the

Austrian coast, and therefore within easy striking distance of

Trieste, Fiume, and Pola, and because throughout Venetia Austrian

spies abound, Venice is a closed city. It reminded me of a beautiful

playhouse which had been closed for an indefinite period: the

fire-curtain lowered, the linen covers drawn over the seats, the

carpets rolled up, the scenery stored away, the great stage empty and

desolate. Gone are the lights, the music, the merriment which made

Venice one of the happiest and most care free of cities. Because of

the frequent air raids--Venice has been attacked from the sky nearly a

hundred times since the war began--the city is put to bed promptly at

nightfall. To show a light from a door or window after dark is to

invite a domiciliary visit from the police and, quite possibly, arrest

on the charge of attempting to communicate with the enemy. The

illumination of the streets is confined to small candle-power lights

in blue or purple bulbs, the weakened rays being visible for only a

short distance. To stroll at night in the darkened streets is to risk

falling into a canal, while the use of an electric torch would almost

certainly result in arrest as a spy. The ghastly effect produced by

the purple lights, the utter blackness of the canals, the deathly

silence, broken only by the sound of water lapping the walls of the

empty palazzos, combine to give the city a peculiarly weird and

sepulchral appearance.

Of the great hotels which line the Canale Grande, only the Danieli

remains open. Over the others fly the Red Cross flags, and in their

windows and on their terraces lounge wounded soldiers. The

smoking-room of the Danieli, where so many generations of travelling

Americans have chatted over their coffee and cigars, has been

converted into a _rifugio_, in which the guests can find shelter in

case of an air attack. A bomb-proof ceiling has been made of two

layers of steel rails, laid crosswise, and ramparts of sand-bags have

been built against the walls. On the doors of the bedrooms are posted

notices urging the guests, when hostile aircraft are reported, to make

directly for the _rifugio_, and remain there until the raid is over.

In other cities in the war zone the inhabitants take to their cellars

during aerial attacks, but in Venice there are no cellars, and the

buildings are, for the most part, too old and poorly built to afford

safety from bombs. To provide adequate protection for the population,

particularly in the poorer and more congested districts of the city,

has, therefore, proved a serious problem for the authorities. Owing to

its situation, Venice is extremely vulnerable to air attacks, for the

Austrian seaplanes, operating from Trieste or Pola, can glide across

the Adriatic under cover of darkness, and are over the city before

their presence is discovered. Before the anti-aircraft guns can get

their range, or the Italian airmen can rise and engage them, they have

dropped their bombs and fled. Although, generally speaking, the loss

of life resulting from these aerial forays is surprising small, they

are occasionally very serious affairs. During an air raid on Padua,

which occurred a few days before I was there, a bomb exploded in the

midst of a crowd of terrified townspeople who were struggling to gain

entrance to a _rifugio_. In that affair 153 men, women, and children

lost their lives.

The admiral in command of Venice showed me a map of the city, which,

with the exception of a large rectangle, was thickly sprinkled with

small red dots. There must have been several hundred of them.

"These dots," he explained, "indicate where Austrian bombs have

fallen."

"This part of the city seems to have been peculiarly fortunate," I

remarked, placing my finger on the white square.

"That," said he, "is the Arsenal. For obvious reasons we do not reveal

whether any bombs have fallen there."

Considering the frequency with which Venice has been attacked from the

air, its churches, of which there are an extraordinary number, have

escaped with comparatively little damage. Only four, in fact, have

suffered seriously. Of these, the church of Santa Maria Formosa has

sustained the greatest damage, its magnificent interior, with the

celebrated decorations by Palma Vecchio, having been transformed

through the agency of an Austrian bomb, into a heap of stone and

plaster. Another bomb chose as its target the great dome of the church

of San Pietro di Castello, which stands on the island of San Pietro,

opposite the Arsenal. On the Grand Canal, close by the railway-station,

is the Chiesa degli Scalzi, whose ceiling by Tiepolo, one of the

master's greatest works, has suffered irreparable injury. Santi

Giovanni e Páolo, next to St. Mark's the most famous church in Venice,

has also been shattered by a bomb.

I asked the officer in command of the aerial defenses of Venice if he

thought that the Austrian airmen intentionally bomb churches,

hospitals, and monuments, as has been so often asserted in the Allied

press.

"It's this way," he explained. "A dozen aviators are ordered to

bombard a certain city. Three or four of them are real heroes and, at

the risk of their lives, descend low enough to make certain of their

targets before releasing their bombs. The others, however, rather than

come within range of the anti-aircraft guns, remain at a safe height,

drop their bombs at random as soon as they are over the city, and then

clear out. Is it very surprising, then, that bombs dropped from a

height of perhaps ten thousand feet, by aircraft travelling sixty

miles an hour, miss the forts and barracks for which they are

intended and hit churches and dwellings instead?"

Intentional or not, the bombardment of the Venetian churches is a

blunder for which the Austrians will pay dearly in loss of

international good-will. A century hence these shattered churches will

be pointed out to visitors as the work of the modern Vandals, and

lovers of art and beauty throughout the world will execrate the nation

which permitted the sacrilege. They have destroyed glass and paintings

and sculptures that were a joy to the whole world, they have undone

the work of saints and heroes and masters, and they have gained no

corresponding military advantage. In every city which has been

subjected to air raids the inhabitants have been made more obstinate,

more iron-hard in their determination to keep on fighting. The sight

of shattered churches, of wrecked dwellings, of mangled women and dead

babies, does not terrify or dismay a people: it infuriates them. In

the words of Talleyrand: "It is worse than a crime; it is a mistake."

The strangest sight in Venice to-day is St. Mark's. There is nothing

in its present appearance, inside or out, to suggest the famous

cathedral which so many millions of people have reverenced and loved.

Indeed, there is little about it to suggest a church at all. It looks

like a huge and ugly warehouse, like a car barn, like a Billy Sunday

tabernacle, for, in order to protect the wonderful mosaics and marbles

which adorn the church's western façade, it has been sheathed, from

ground to roof, with unpainted planks, and these, in turn, have been

covered with great squares of asbestos. By this use of fire-proof

material it is hoped that, even should the church be hit by a bomb,

there may be averted a fire such as did irreparable damage to the

Cathedral of Rheims.

The famous bronze horses have been removed from their place over the

main portal of St. Mark's, and taken, I believe, to Florence. It is

not the first travelling that they have done, for from the triumphal

arch of Nero they once looked down on ancient Rome. Constantine sent

them to adorn the imperial hippodrome which he built in

Constantinople, whence the Doge Dandolo brought them as spoils of war

to Venice when the thirteenth century was still young. In 1797

Napoleon carried them to Paris, but after the downfall of the Emperor

they were brought back to Venice by the Austrians and restored to

their ancient position. There they remained for just a hundred years,

until the menace of the Austrian aircraft necessitated their hasty

removal to a place of safety. Of them one of Napoleon's generals is

said to have remarked disparagingly: "They are too coarse in the limbs

for cavalry use, and too light for the guns." In any event, they were

the only four horses, alive or dead, in the whole city, and the

Venetians love them as though they were their children.

If in its war dress the exterior of St. Mark's presents a strange

appearance, the transformation of the interior is positively

startling. Nothing that ingenuity can suggest has been left undone to

protect the sculptures, mosaics, glass, and marbles which, brought by

the seafaring Venetians from the four corners of the globe, make St.

Mark's the most beautiful of churches. Everything portable has been

removed to a place of safety, but the famous mosaics, the ancient

windows, and the splendid carvings it is impossible to remove, and

they are the most precious of all. The two pulpits of colored marbles

and the celebrated screen with its carven figures are now hidden

beneath pyramids of sand-bags. The spiral columns of translucent

alabaster which support the altar, are padded with excelsior and

wrapped with canvas. Swinging curtains of quilted burlap protect the

walls of the chapels and transepts from flying shell fragments. Yet

all these precautions would probably avail but little were a bomb to

strike St. Mark's. In the destruction that would almost certainly

result there would perish mosaics and sculptures which were in their

present places when Vienna was still a Swabian village, and Berlin had

yet to be founded on the plain above the Spree.

If it has proved difficult to protect from airplane fire the massive

basilica of St. Mark's, consider the problem presented to the

authorities by the Palace of the Doges, that creation of fairylike

loveliness, whose exquisite façades, with their delicate window

tracery and fragile carvings, would be irretrievably ruined by a

well-aimed bomb. In order to avert such a disaster, it was proposed to

protect the façades of the palace by enclosing the building in

temporary walls of masonry. It was found, however, that this plan was

not feasible, as the engineers reported that the piles on which the

ancient building is poised would submerge if subjected to such an

additional weight. All that they have been able to do, therefore, is

to shore up the arches of the loggia with beams, fill up the windows

with brick and plaster, and pray to the patron saint of Venice to save

the city's most exquisite structure.

The gilded figure of an angel, which for so many centuries has looked

down on Venice from the summit of the Campanile, has been given a

dress of battleship gray that it may not serve as a landmark for the

Austrian aviators. Over the celebrated equestrian statue of

Colleoni--of which Ruskin said: "I do not believe there is a more

glorious work of sculpture existing in the world"--has been erected a

titanic armored sentry-box, which is covered, in turn, with layer upon

layer of sand-bags. Could the spirit of that great soldier of fortune

be consulted, however, I rather fancy that he would insist upon

sitting his bronze warhorse, unprotected and unafraid, facing the

bombs of the Austrian airmen just as he used to face the bolts of the

Austrian crossbowmen.

The commercial life of Venice is virtually at a standstill. Most of

the glass and lace manufactories have been forced to shut down. The

dealers in curios and antiques lounge idly in their doorways, deeming

themselves fortunate if they make a sale a month. All save one or two

of the great hotels which have not been taken over by the Government

for hospitals have had to close their doors. The hordes of guides and

boatmen and waiters who depended for their living upon the tourists

are--such of them as have not been called to the colors--without work

and in desperate need. In normal times a quarter of Venice's 150,000

inhabitants are paupers, and this percentage must have enormously

increased, for, notwithstanding the relief measures which the

Government has taken, unemployment is general, the prices of food are

constantly increasing, and coal has become almost impossible to

obtain. Fishing, which was one of the city's chief industries, is now

an exceedingly hazardous employment because of submarines and floating

mines. Save for the clumsy craft of commerce, the gondolas have

largely disappeared, and with them has disappeared, only temporarily,

let us hope, the most picturesque feature of Venetian life. They have

been driven off by the slim, polished, cigar-shaped power-boats, which

tear madly up and down and crossways of the canals in the service of

the military government and of the fleet. To use a gondola,

particularly at night, is as dangerous as it would be to drive upon a

motor race-course with a horse and buggy, for, as no lights are

permitted, one is in constant peril of being run down by the

recklessly driven power craft, whose wash, by the way, is seriously

affecting the foundations of many of the palazzos.

It is an unfamiliar, gloomy, mysterious place, is war-time Venice, but

in certain respects I liked it better than the commercialized city of

antebellum days. Gone are the droves of loud-voiced tourists, gone the

impudent boatmen, the importunate beggars, the impertinent guides,

gone the glare of lights and the blare of cheap music. No longer do

the lantern-strung barges of the musicians gather nightly off the

Molo. No longer across the waters float the strains of "_Addio di

Napoli_" and "_Ciri-Biri-Bi_"; the Canale Grande is dark and silent

now. The tourist hostelries, on whose terraces at night gleamed the

white shirt-fronts of men and the white shoulders of women, now have

as their only guests the white-bandaged wounded. In its darkness, its

mystery, its silence, it is once again the Venice of the Middle Ages,

the Venice of lovers and conspirators, of inquisitors and assassins,

the Venice of which Shakespeare sang.

But with the coming of dawn the Venice of the twelfth century is

abruptly transformed into the Venice of the twentieth. The sun, rising

out of the Adriatic, turns into ellipsoids of silver the

aluminum-colored observation balloons which form the city's first line

of aerial defense. As the sun climbs higher it brings into bold relief

the lean barrels of the anti-aircraft guns, which, from the roofs of

the buildings to the seaward, sweep the eastern sky. Abreast the

Public Gardens the great war-ships, in their coats of elephant-gray,

swing lazily at their moorings. Near the Punta della Motta lie the

destroyers, like greyhounds held in leash. Off the Riva Schiavoni, on

the very spot, no doubt, where Dandolo's war-galleys lay, are

anchored the British submarines. And atop his granite column, a link

with the city's glorious and warlike past, still stands the winged

lion of St. Mark, snarling a perpetual challenge at his ancient

enemy--Austria.

* * * * *

The Comando Supremo, or Great Headquarters, of the Italian army is at

Udine, an ancient Venetian town some twenty miles from the Austrian

frontier. This is supposed to be a great secret, and must not be

mentioned in letters or newspaper despatches, it being assumed that,

were the Austrians to learn of the presence in Udine of the Comando

Supremo, their airmen would pay inconvenient visits to the town, and

from the clouds would drop their steel calling-cards on the King and

General Cadorna. So, though every one in Italy is perfectly aware that

the head of the Government and the head of the army are at Udine, the

fact is never mentioned in print. To believe that the Austrians are

ignorant of the whereabouts of the Italian high command is to

severely strain one's credulity. The Italians not only know where the

Austrian headquarters is situated, but they know in which houses the

various generals live, and the restaurants in which they eat. This

extreme reticence of the Italians seems a little irksome and overdone

after the frankness one encounters on the French and British fronts,

but it is due, no doubt, to the admonitions which are posted in

hotels, restaurants, stations, and railway carriages throughout Italy:

"It is the patriotic duty of good citizens not to question the

military about the war," and: "The military are warned not to discuss

the war with civilians. An indiscreet friend can be as dangerous as an

enemy."

My previous acquaintance with Udine had been confined to fleeting

glimpses of it from the windows of the Vienna-Cannes express. Before

the war it was, like the other towns which dot the Venetian plain, a

quaint, sleepy, easy-going place, dwelling in the memories of its

past, but with the declaration of hostilities it suddenly became one

of the busiest and most important places in all Italy. From his desk

in the Prefecture, General Cadorna, a short, wiry, quick-moving man

in the middle sixties, with a face as hard and brown as a

hickory-nut, directs the operations of the armies along that

four-hundred-and-fifty-mile-long battle-line which stretches from the

Stelvio to the sea. The cobble-paved streets and the vaulted arcades

are gay with many uniforms, for, in addition to the hundreds of staff

and divisional officers quartered in Udine, the French, British,

Russian, and Belgian Governments maintain there military missions,

whose business it is to keep the staffs of their respective armies

constantly in touch with the Italian high command, thus securing

practical co-operation. In a modest villa, a short distance outside

the town, dwells the King, who has been on the front almost

constantly since the war began. Although, as ruler of the kingdom, he

is commander-in-chief of the Italian armies, he rarely gives advice

unless it is asked for, and never interferes with the decisions of

the Comando Supremo. Scarcely a day passes that he does not visit

some sector of the battle-line. Officers and men in some of the

lonely mountain commands told me that the only general who has

visited them is the King. Should he venture into exposed positions,

as he frequently does, he is halted by the local command. It is, of

course, tactfully done. "I am responsible for your Majesty's safety,"

says the officer. "Were there to be an accident I should be blamed."

Whereupon the King promptly withdraws. If he is not permitted to take

unnecessary risks himself, neither will he permit others. When the

Prince of Wales visited the Italian front last summer, he asked

permission to enter a certain first-line trench, which was being

heavily shelled. The King bluntly refused. "I want no historic

incidents here," he remarked dryly.

[Illustration: The King of Italy and General Cadorna at Castelnuovo.

Scarcely a day passes that the King does not visit some sector of

the battle-line, but he rarely gives advice unless it is asked for,

and never interferes with the decisions of the Comando Supremo.]

[Illustration: The Peril in the Clouds.

The gunners of an Italian anti-aircraft battery sight an Austrian

airplane.]

To obtain a room in Udine is as difficult as it is to obtain hotel

accommodation in New York during the Automobile Show. But, because I

was a guest of the Government, I found that a room had been reserved

for me by the Comando Supremo at the Hotel Croce di Malta. I was told

that since the war three proprietors of this hotel had made their

fortunes and retired, and after I received my bill I believed it.

There was in my room one of those inhospitable, box-shaped porcelain

stoves so common in North Italy and the Tyrol. To keep a modest

wood-fire going in that stove cost me exactly thirty lire (about six

dollars) a day. But a fire was a necessity. Luxuries came higher. Yet

the scene in the hotel's shabby restaurant at the dinner-hour was well

worth the fantastic charges, for there gathered there nightly as

interesting a company as I have not often seen under one roof: a poet

and novelist who has given to Italy the most important literary work

since the days of the great classics, and who, by his fiery and

impassioned speeches, did more than any single person to force the

nation's entrance into the war; an American dental surgeon who

abandoned an enormously lucrative practice in Rome to establish at

the front a hospital where he has performed feats approaching the

magical in rebuilding shrapnel-shattered faces; a Florentine

connoisseur, probably the greatest living authority on Italian art,

who has been commissioned with the preservation of all the works of

art in the war zone; an English countess who is in charge of an X-ray

car which operates within range of the Austrian guns; a young Roman

noble whom I had last seen, in pink, in the hunting-field; a group of

khaki-clad officers from the British mission, cold and aloof of manner

despite their being among allies; a party of Russians, their hair

clipped to the skull, their green tunics sprinkled with stars and

crosses; half a dozen French military attachés in beautifully cut

uniforms of horizon-blue; and Italian officers, animated and

gesticulative, on whose breasts were medal ribbons showing that they

had fought in forgotten wars in forgotten corners of Africa. At one

table they were discussing the probable date of some Roman remains

which had just been unearthed at Aquileia; at another an argument was

in progress over the merits of _vers libre_; one of the Russians was

explaining a new system he had evolved for breaking the bank at Monte

Carlo; the young English countess was retailing the latest jokes from

the London music-halls, but nowhere did I hear mentioned the grim and

bloody business which had brought us, of so many minds and from so

many lands, to this shabby, smoke-filled, garlic-scented room in this

little frontier town. Yet, had the door been opened, and had we

stilled our voices, we could have heard, quite plainly, the sullen

grumble of the cannon.

II

WHY ITALY WENT TO WAR

To understand why Italy is at war you have only to look at the map of

Central Europe. You can hardly fail to be struck by the curious

resemblance which the outline of the Austro-Hungarian Empire bears to

a monstrous bird of prey hovering threateningly over Italy. The body

of the bird is formed by Hungary; Bohemia is the right wing, Bosnia

and Dalmatia constitute the left; the Tyrol represents the head, while

the savage beak, with its open jaws, is formed by that portion of the

Tyrol commonly known as the Trentino. And that savage beak, you will

note, is buried deep in the shoulder of Italy, holding between its

jaws, as it were, the Lake of Garda. To continue the simile, it will

be seen that the talons of the bird, formed by the Istrian Peninsula,

reach out over the Adriatic in threatening proximity to Venice and

the other Italian coast towns. It is to end the intolerable menace of

that beak and those claws that Italy is fighting. There you have it in

a nutshell.

[Illustration: (Austria-Hungary map)]

Just as in France, since 1870, the national watchword has been

"Alsace-Lorraine," so in Italy, for upward of half a century, the

popular cry has been "_Italia Irredenta_"--Italy Unredeemed. It was a

deep and bitter disappointment to all Italians that, upon the

formation in 1866 of the present kingdom, there should have been left

under Austrian dominion two regions which, in population, in language,

and in sentiment, were essentially Italian. These "unredeemed"

regions were generally called after their respective capital cities:

Trent and Trieste. But, though the phrase _Italia Irredenta_ was

originally interpreted as referring only to the Trentino and Trieste,

it has gradually assumed, in the course of years, a broader

significance, until now it includes all that portion of the Tyrol

lying south of the Brenner, the Carso plateau, Trieste and its

immediate hinterland, the entire Istrian Peninsula, the Hungarian port

of Fiume, and the whole of Dalmatia and Albania. In other words, the

Irredentists of to-day--and, since Italy entered the war, virtually

the entire nation has subscribed to Irredentist aims and ideals--dream

of an Italy whose northern frontier shall be formed by the main chain

of the Alps, and whose rule shall be extended over the entire eastern

shore of the Adriatic.

In order to intelligently understand the Italian view-point, suppose

that we imagine ourselves in an analogous position. For this purpose

you must picture Canada as a highly organized military Power, its

policies directed by an aggressive, predacious and unscrupulous

government, and with a population larger than that of the United

States. You will conceive of the State of Vermont as a Canadian

province under military control: a wedge driven into the heart of

manufacturing New England, and threatening the teeming valleys of the

Connecticut and the Hudson. You must imagine this province of Vermont

as overrun by Canadian soldiery; as crisscrossed by military roads and

strategic railways; its hills and mountains abristle with forts whose

guns are turned United Statesward. The inhabitants of the province,

though American in descent, in traditions, and in ideals, are

oppressed by a harsh and tyrannical military rule. With the exception

of a single trunk-line, there are no railways crossing the frontier.

Commercial intercourse with the United States is virtually forbidden.

To teach American history in the schools of Vermont is prohibited; to

display the American flag is a felony; to sing the "Star-Spangled

Banner" is punishable by imprisonment or a fine. For the Vermonters to

communicate, no matter how innocently, with their kinsmen in the

United States, is to bring down upon them suspicion and possible

punishment. By substituting Austria-Hungary for Canada, Italy for the

United States, and the Trentino for Vermont, you will, perhaps, have a

little clearer understanding of why the liberation of the Trentino

from Austrian oppression is demanded by all Italians.

A similar homely parallel will serve to explain the Adriatic

situation. You will imagine Seattle and the shores of Puget Sound,

with its maze of islands, in Canadian possession. Seattle, Vancouver,

and Victoria are strongly fortified bases for Canadian battle-fleets

and flotillas of destroyers which constantly menace the commercial

cities along our Pacific seaboard. The Americans dwelling in Seattle

and the towns of the Olympic Peninsula are under an even harsher rule

than their brethren in Vermont. No American may hold a Government

position. The Canadian authorities encourage and assist the

immigration of thousands of Orientals in order to get the trade of the

region out of American hands. A Canadian naval base at Honolulu

threatens our trade routes in the Pacific and our commercial interests

in Mexico and the Orient. In this analogy Seattle stands, of course,

for Trieste; the Olympic Peninsula corresponds to the Istrian

Peninsula; for Vancouver and Victoria you will read Pola and Fiume;

while Honolulu might, by a slight exercise of the imagination, be

translated into the great Austrian stronghold of Cattaro. Such is a

reasonably accurate parallel to Italy's Adriatic problem.

For purposes of administration the Trentino, which the Austrians call

Süd-Tirol, forms one province with Tyrol. For such a union there is no

geographic, ethnologic, historic, or economic excuse. Of the 347,000

inhabitants of the Trentino, 338,000 are Italian. The half million

inhabitants of Tyrol are, on the other hand, all Germans. The two

regions are separated by a tremendous mountain wall, whose only

gateway is the Brenner. On one side of that wall is Italy, with her

vines, her mulberry-trees, her whitewashed, red-tiled cottages, her

light-hearted, easy-going, Latin-blooded peasantry; across the

mountains is the solemn, austere German scenery, with savage peaks and

gloomy pine forests, a region inhabited by a stolid, slow-thinking

Teutonic people. The Trentino and the Tyrol have about as much in

common as Cuba and Maine.