EXPERIENCES ON THE ITALIAN FRONT
The Polite Front--Udine--Under Fire--Carnic Alps--Italia
Irredenta--Trentino--The Voice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Two days later I found myself, after an uneventful journey, at Padua
on my way to the Italian front. The Italian front seemed to have
politely come back to meet me, for I was awakened in the night by a
tremendous dropping of bombs, with the rattle of anti-aircraft guns.
I thought I was as safe in bed as anywhere, and so it proved. Little
damage was done, but Padua and the other Italian cities were having a
bad time, and it was a one-sided arrangement, since the Italians can do
nothing without injuring their own kith and kin across the border. This
dropping of explosives on the chance of hitting one soldier among fifty
victims was surely the most monstrous development of the whole war, and
was altogether German in its origin. If international law cannot now
stamp it out, the next war will send the people flying to the caves and
calling upon the mountains to cover them, even as was foretold.
I arrived at last at Udine, the capital of the Friulian Province,
where were the Italian Head-quarters--a funny little town with a huge
mound in the centre, which looked too big to be artificial, but was
said to have been thrown up by Attila. My recommendation was to the
British Mission, which was headed by Brig.-General Delme-Radcliffe,
a bluff, short-spoken and masterful British soldier, who received
me with hospitality. The Mission owned a white house on the edge of
the town. On the second floor under a window which proved to be that
of my bedroom there was a long dark smear on the whitewashed wall.
“That’s the stomach of a baker,” said the soldier-servant with a grin.
I thought it was a joke on his part, but it was literally true, for
a bomb a few days before had blown the man to bits as he passed the
house, and had plastered bits of him on the stonework. The ceiling of
my bedroom was full of holes from that or some other explosion.
There was some tendency at this time to cavil at the Italians and to
wonder why they did not make more impression upon the Austrians. As a
matter of fact they were faced by the same barbed wire and machine-gun
problem which had held up every one else. I soon saw, when I was
allowed next morning to get to the front, that the conditions were
very like those of Flanders in a more genial climate and in all ways
less aggravated. I had been handed over to the Italian Intelligence
people, who were represented by a charmingly affable nobleman, Colonel
the Marquis Barbariche, and Colonel Claricetti. These two introduced
me at once to General Porro, chief of the Staff, a brown, wrinkled,
walnut-faced warrior, who showed me some plans and did what he could to
be helpful.
It was about a seven miles drive from Udine before we reached the
nearest point of the trenches. From a mound an extraordinary view could
be got of the Austrian position, the general curve of both lines being
marked, as in Flanders, by the sausage balloons which float behind
them. The Isonzo, which had been so bravely carried by the Italians,
lay in front of me, a clear blue river, as broad as the Thames at
Hampton Court. In a hollow to my left were the roofs of Gorizia, the
town which the Italians were endeavouring to take. A long desolate
ridge, the Carso, extended to the south of the town, and stretched
down nearly to the sea. The crest was held by the Austrians, and the
Italian trenches had been pushed within fifty yards of them. A lively
bombardment was going on from either side, but so far as the infantry
went there was none of that constant malignant petty warfare with
which we were familiar in Flanders. I was anxious to see the Italian
trenches, in order to compare them with our British methods, but save
for the support and communication trenches I was courteously but firmly
warned off.
Having got this general view of the position, I was anxious in the
afternoon to visit Monfalcone, which is the small dockyard captured
from the Austrians on the Adriatic. My kind Italian officer guides did
not recommend the trip, as it was part of their great hospitality to
shield their guest from any part of that danger which they were always
ready to incur themselves. The only road to Monfalcone ran close to
the Austrian position at the village of Ronchi, and afterwards kept
parallel to it for some miles. I was told that it was only on odd
days that the Austrian guns were active in this particular section,
so determined to trust to luck that this might not be one of them. It
proved, however, to be one of the worst on record, and we were not
destined to see the dockyard to which we started.
The civilian cuts a ridiculous figure when he enlarges upon small
adventures which may come his way--adventures which the soldier endures
in silence as part of his everyday life. On this occasion, however, the
episode was all our own, and had a sporting flavour in it which made
it dramatic. I know now the feeling of tense expectation with which
the driven grouse whirrs onwards towards the butt. I have been behind
the butt before now, and it is only poetic justice that I should see
the matter from the other point of view. As we approached Ronchi we
could see shrapnel breaking over the road in front of us, but we had
not yet realized that it was precisely for vehicles that the Austrians
were waiting, and that they had the range marked down to a yard. We
went down the road all out at a steady fifty miles an hour. The village
was near, and it seemed that we had got past the place of danger. We
had, in fact, just reached it. At this moment there was a noise as if
the whole four tyres had gone simultaneously, a most terrific bang in
our very ears, merging into a second sound like a reverberating blow
upon an enormous gong. As I glanced up I saw three clouds immediately
above my head, two of them white and the other of a rusty red. The air
was full of flying metal, and the road, as we were told afterwards by
an observer, was all churned up by it. The metal base of one of the
shells was found plumb in the middle of the road just where our motor
had been. It was our pace that saved us. The motor was an open one, and
the three shells burst, according to one of my Italian companions, who
was himself an artillery officer, about ten metres above our heads.
They threw forward, however, and we, travelling at so great a pace,
shot from under. Before they could get in another we had swung round
the curve and under the lee of a house. The good Colonel wrung my hand
in silence. They were both distressed, these good soldiers, under the
impression that they had led me into danger. As a matter of fact it
was I who owed them an apology, since they had enough risks in the way
of business without taking others in order to gratify the whim of a
visitor.
Our difficulties were by no means over. We found an ambulance lorry
and a little group of infantry huddled under the same shelter, with
the expression of people who had been caught in the rain. The road
beyond was under heavy fire as well as that by which we had come. Had
the Ostro-Boches dropped a high explosive upon us they would have had
a good mixed bag. But apparently they were only out for fancy shooting
and disdained a sitter. Presently there came a lull and the lorry moved
on, but we soon heard a burst of firing which showed that they were
after it. My companions had decided that it was out of the question for
us to finish our excursion. We waited for some time, therefore, and
were able finally to make our retreat on foot, being joined later by
the car. So ended my visit to Monfalcone, the place I did not reach. I
hear that two 10,000-ton steamers were left on the stocks there by the
Austrians, but were disabled before they retired. Their cabin basins
and other fittings were adorning the Italian dug-outs.
My second day was devoted to a view of the Italian mountain warfare
in the Carnic Alps. Besides the two great fronts, one of defence
(Trentino) and one of offence (Isonzo), there were very many smaller
valleys which had to be guarded. The total frontier line is over 400
miles, and it had all to be held against raids if not invasions. It
was a most picturesque business. Far up in the Roccolana Valley I
found the Alpini outposts, backed by artillery which had been brought
into the most wonderful positions. They had taken 8-inch guns where a
tourist could hardly take his knapsack. Neither side could ever make
serious progress, but there were continual duels, gun against gun,
or Alpini against Jaeger. In a little wayside house was the brigade
Head-quarters, and here I was entertained to lunch. It was a scene that
I shall remember. They drank to England. I raised my glass to _Italia
irredenta_--might it soon be redenta. They all sprang to their feet
and the circle of dark faces flashed into flame. They keep their souls
and emotions, these people. I trust that ours may not become atrophied
by self-suppression.
The last day spent on the Italian front was in the Trentino. From
Verona a motor drive of about twenty-five miles takes one up the valley
of the Adige, and past a place of evil augury for the Austrians, the
field of Rivoli. Finally, after a long drive of winding gradients,
always beside the Adige, we reached Ala, where we interviewed the
Commander of the sector, a man who has done splendid work during the
recent fighting. “By all means you can see my front. But no motor car,
please. It draws fire, and others may be hit besides you.” We proceeded
on foot, therefore, along a valley which branched at the end into two
passes. In both very active fighting had been going on, and as we came
up the guns were baying merrily, waking up most extraordinary echoes
in the hills. It was difficult to believe that it was not thunder.
There was one terrible voice that broke out from time to time in the
mountains--the angry voice of the Holy Roman Empire. When it came all
other sounds died down into nothing. It was--so I was told--the master
gun, the vast 42-centimetre giant which brought down the pride of Liège
and Namur. The Austrians had brought one or more from Innsbruck. The
Italians assure me, however, as we have ourselves discovered, that in
trench work beyond a certain point the size of the guns makes little
matter.
We passed a burst dug-out by the roadside where a tragedy had occurred
recently, for eight medical officers were killed in it by a single
shell. There was no particular danger in the valley, however, and the
aimed fire was all going across us to the fighting lines in the two
passes above us. That to the right, the Valley of Buello, has seen some
of the worst of the fighting. These two passes form the Italian left
wing which has held firm all through. So has the right wing. It is only
the centre which has been pushed in by the concentrated fire.
When we arrived at the spot where the two valleys forked we were
halted, and were not permitted to advance to the front trenches which
lay upon the crests above us. There were about 1,000 yards between
the adversaries. I have seen types of some of the Bosnian and Croatian
prisoners, men of poor physique and intelligence, but the Italians
speak with chivalrous praise of the bravery of the Hungarians and of
the Austrian Jaeger. Some of their proceedings disgusted them, however,
and especially the fact that they used Russian prisoners to dig
trenches under fire. There is no doubt of this, as some of the men were
recaptured and were sent on to join their comrades in France. On the
whole, however, it may be said that in the Austro-Italian war there was
nothing which corresponded with the extreme bitterness of our Western
conflict. The presence or absence of the Hun makes all the difference.
It was a moment of depression at the Trentino front, as there had been
a set back. I may flatter myself when I think that even one solitary
figure in a British uniform striding about them was good at that
particular time to their eyes. They read of allies, but they never saw
any. If they had, we might have been spared the subsequent disaster at
Caporetto. Certainly I was heartily welcomed there, and surrounded all
the time by great mobs of soldiers, who imagined, I suppose, that I was
some one of importance.
That night found me back at Verona, and next morning I was on my way
to Paris with sheaves of notes about the Italian soldiers which would,
I hoped, make the British public more sympathetic towards them. I was
told afterwards by the Foreign Office that my mission had been an
unmixed success.
I have one other association with the Italian front which I may include
here. It is embalmed in the Annals of the Psychic Research Society.
I have several times in my life awakened from sleep with some strong
impressions of knowledge gained still lingering in my brain. In one
case, for example, I got the strange name Nalderu so vividly that I
wrote it down between two stretches of insensibility and found it on
the outside of my cheque book next morning. A month later I started
for Australia in the S.S. _Naldera_ of which I had then never heard.
In this particular Italian instance I got the word Piave, absolutely
ringing in my head. I knew it as a river some seventy miles to the
rear of the Italian front and quite unconnected with the war. None the
less the impression was so strong that I wrote the incident down and
had it signed by two witnesses. Months passed and the Italian battle
line was rolled back to the Piave, which became a familiar word. Some
said it would go back further. I was sure it would not. I argued that
if the abnormal forces, whatever they may be, had taken such pains
to impress the matter upon me, it must needs be good news which they
were conveying, since I had needed cheering at the time. Therefore I
felt sure that some great victory and the turning point of the war
would come on the Piave. So sure was I that I wrote to my friend Mr.
Lacon Watson, who was on the Italian front, and the incident got into
the Italian press. It could have nothing but a good effect upon their
morale. Finally it is a matter of history how completely my impression
was justified, and how the most shattering victory of the whole war was
gained at that very spot.
There is the fact, amply proved by documents and beyond all possible
coincidence. As to the explanation some may say that our own
subconscious self has power of foresight. If so it is a singularly dead
instinct, seldom or never used. Others may say that our “dead” can see
further than we, and try when we are asleep and in spiritual touch with
us, to give us knowledge and consolation. The latter is my own solution
of the mystery.