I
January 15, 1918.—The command of the Third Army has stationed its
headquarters in the village of Mogliano, near Venice. The troops of the
Third Army, which for the past two months have been successfully
resisting the continual thunderous attempts of the Austrian troops to
cross the Piave, have established a front extending from the bridge of
the Priula to the sea. Fortunately the region along the coast is
flooded. Our other troops hold the old Piave line. Even in the mountain
regions, events seem to favor us. After the first moments of confusion
had passed, the new recruits, especially the youths of nineteen,
exhibited once more all the boldness, all the pugnacity which had
brought them distinction on the Carso. In vain did the Germans hurl
their divisions, from the Lake of Garda to the Montello, against the
light line recently reinforced by the foot soldiers of our company. The
very troops which were unable to resist the forces of the enemy in the
trenches of the Carso, although supported by thousands of mouths of
every caliber belching forth fire, here on the rocky precipices of
the Grappa, with a few wire entanglements and a single line of
uninterrupted trenches, formed a barrier insurmountable by the violent
enemy.
The German troops, drunk with the wine from our cellars, and fattened
with the rich products from our fertile fields, were in a few
instances, held back without aid of munitions, as without support of
artillery, by mere stones and rocks hurled upon them by our men
inexorably determined not to let the enemy pass. Again I took courage.
I had never doubted the fate of our army, but in the rarer and more
hazardous moments, had none the less been compelled to question my own
convictions, since events scarcely justified my boundless optimism.
This optimism depended in some measure upon the fact that I was an
officer of the Third Army, the army which, under the command of the
Duke of Aosta, had numerous times endeavored to open up a way toward
Trieste, and which had occupied, little by little, the land of the
Dolina and the rocky regions of the Carso. We of the Third Army had
never considered ourselves beaten; we had been compelled to submit to
inevitable events; we had been compelled to withdraw, against our
wishes, lest we had been surrounded, and to the end that the stream of
Germans which had penetrated from Caporetto, might not cut off our road
to the Piave. But the heroes of Faiti, the heroes of Hermanda, even on
the day when the retreat was determined upon, repulsed more than thirty
attacks of the enemy, and in a final magnificent play, in defiance of
the enemy pressing them on all sides, made a desperate assault in which
they conquered new trenches and made several prisoners.
Those soldiers wept as they abandoned their huts. On our front the
enemy had always been held back, and when it did advance, its journey
was slow and costly. We aviators, who had been absolute masters of the
air over the Isonzo, who had traversed with unswerving flight the enemy
sky where hostile machines had in vain attempted our territory, who a
thousand times had brought a greeting to the City of Grief, Trieste,
seeming ever to be waiting for us there at the end of the Gulf at the
foot of the hills—we aviators of the Third Army had even in our
retreat inflicted such great damage on the enemy, that our troops, our
ordnance, our supplies were enabled to move slowly on the muddy,
congested roads, without fear of any harm from the wings of the enemy.
Although the enemy planes were supported on land by the slow,
persistent advance of their troops, they never dared nor risked firing
on our slowly retreating column. A feat which but for us would have
been easy, and would have shaken seriously the morale of our soldiers.
I shall ever be able to visualize the spectacle of that retreat; I
shall ever remember that throng of men with heads bent low, with an air
at once so grim, and so surly, that the collective countenance seemed
scarcely human. Yet there were not a few encouraging ones among them. I
shall always remember a corporal of the Alpini whom I met in the
village of Pordenone. He was lying exhausted beside his machine gun
which he had carried on his shoulder from summit to summit, from hill
to hill, for seven consecutive days, until he had reached the plain.
For food he had eaten bits of musty bread chanced upon along the road.
When I stopped he first begged me for a bit of bread, then anxiously
inquired on what line our command had decided to halt. He desired to
shoulder his gun thither, again to set it up against the enemy where
the need of halting their advance was greatest. The soldiers of the new
Italy were being re-born!
Without a tear I had left the countryside endeared to me by memories of
my childhood, the place where I was born, the place where for several
centuries my ancestors had lived. On the last night, when I had a clear
vision of the inevitable, after I had learnt from a superior officer
that our next stand would be on the Piave, and that all the region in
which lay my properties, my houses, my villas, all I possessed, was to
be ceded to the enemy, I rushed in an automobile borrowed from
headquarters to my father’s dwelling that I might persuade him to
depart. I was certain that he would not believe me, and it was not
without a prolonged struggle that I succeeded in convincing him. Indeed
he would have preferred on that day to hear that we, his two boys, had
fallen in battle, rather than learn from one of us that we had been
unable to stop the enemy. At last becoming resigned to the cruel
reality, giving no thought to the salvation of any of our belongings,
since even the dearest personal thing lost all significance when the
entire country was in danger he decided to leave.
Even now I can see his tall, straight figure on the threshold of the
house, as he turned to cast a final look upon the scene of all our
memories; a scene which he would never again observe as he left it that
night. The women servants in the house, convulsively weeping, threw
themselves at his feet that they might express in a last desperate
farewell all the strength of their love. I could not shed a tear. I had
given all my tears when I had seen our soldiers retreating from the
Carso. I had never feared death, yet then I prayed God with all my
strength and faith, that I might live; that I might not die with that
vision of defeat in my mind. A thousand times I had hurled myself where
danger seemed the greatest, where death was reaping a rich harvest, not
asking God to spare me. But at the Carso I prayed for life. I could not
die defeated.
Every foot of land we ceded to the enemy was a new grief to my Italian
heart. For every villa, for every square, for every expression of art
we had to cede, for every remembrance profaned by the greedy barbarian,
the wound became greater and hurt with a vehemence never heretofore
experienced. At the death of my mother alone had I felt anything
similar. I felt as though the world were crumbling about me. At dawn
and at evening, on the rising of the sun and its setting, I would ask
myself, how, with such immense grief in the world, nature could act
according to her custom of mathematical regularity, regardless of so
much suffering.
With our successful resistance on the Piave the most painful days had
passed. A wave of new bold blood, of passion, had permeated our
fighters. They had found themselves again, and if anyone among them
previously for a moment had felt a streak of cowardice, he now asked to
be allowed to sacrifice his life, to place his multiplied energy at the
disposal of his country. Often I had asked myself anxiously what would
become of our villages; often flying low over the territories which
were now held by the enemy but which I knew inch by inch, I had tried
to discover what the enemy plans might be. I had tried to steal from
the enemy the secret he guarded so jealously.
Once indeed while flying over San Vendemmiano, over the road which
passes near my villa, I discovered a long line of cars slowly traveling
eastward. Without a moment’s hesitation I ordered the pilot to lower
the plane as much as he could. We were a few hundred feet above the
enemy when I let loose on them the fury of our machine gun. Gradually I
saw a few men turn for cover towards my villa. This assured me that it,
too, was occupied by the enemy, and I fired repeatedly at my own house.
Small satisfaction though the deed brought me, it yet sufficed to drive
away somewhat of the deep dejection which recent events had instilled.
However, my usual program was interrupted one day by a communication
from the Intelligence Division of the Third Army, sent by Colonel
Smaniotto, ordering me to report at once to the Command for important
instructions. I had but just returned from a flight and was editing my
report on the movements I had noticed on the coast roads and the
modifications I had noticed on an enemy bridge over the new Piave, when
the summons came. Swiftly enough I traversed by automobile the short
distance between the aviation camp at Marcon and the headquarters of
the division which were in a villa in Mogliano. The colonel immediately
received me, with his customary smile and courteous manner. He was
seated in front of a large table burdened by maps and books—a high
table which dominated other smaller tables at which officers in charge
of special departments of the Intelligence Division were seated.
Colonel Smaniotto was the leading mind in the Intelligence Division. He
possessed the calm, fine, discriminating mentality which analyzed all
the varied reports—strange, common, unusual, gathered from all sides,
whence he prepared an exact summary of the enemy forces and plans for
the use of the General Staff. With his clear, straightforward look he
would stare into our eyes to divine our thoughts; his manner was
serious and tranquil; his entire personality inspired faith and
confidence.
“Are you from Vittorio?” he asked me.
“No, sir. I was born in Venice, but the old house of my family is in
Vittorio, and in Vittorio, Congliano, Cimetta, Fontanelle, in fact
scattered all over that region we have—or rather we had—extensive
properties.”
“Did you know,” the Colonel continued with a smile, “that the command
of the German army of Von Buelow had established itself in your house
in Vittorio?”
“I did not know.”
“But why? Don’t you read the daily bulletins which are circulated to
keep the aviators informed about the enemy forces?”
“No, sir. For the past few days I have been flying a great deal and I
have had less time for reading.”
“What would you say,” he asked me point-blank, “if I were to propose to
you an excursion to go on the enemy side for the purpose of seeking
exact information about the condition of the enemy? Nothing has been
determined as yet—the time, nor the means for effecting this project.
Think it over. We need a trustworthy person, a man who is serious, and
in whom we can have absolute faith. I am glad to see you have already
two medals, one of silver and one of bronze. This might be a chance for
you to earn a medal of gold. As I said before, I have as yet no
particular plan. It is up to you, knowing well as you do that
countryside, and the habits of its peasantry and their dialects, to
devise some way for landing and keeping yourself on the other side.
Tell me, now, when your family left Vittorio, didn’t you leave some
custodian or guardian to look after the houses?”
The question annoyed me, and I answered half in jest and half in
earnest, “The day of the retreat we were really very little preoccupied
by our own affairs, but I do believe, however, that an old agent and a
woman did not succeed in getting behind our lines. I presume they
remained in our house, where they used to stay before. But, Colonel, do
you think the Germans will have permitted them to remain in our house?
I do not think so. I am inclined to believe, however, that many of our
peasant families which live isolated out in the country, have not been
molested, and it would perhaps be better, if I should succeed in
reaching the other side, to try to join one of these families. I know
how deep is their affection for my father, and how greatly they love
all that belongs to our family.”
“Very well, think it over, and let me have an answer shortly. Meanwhile
I want you to live here in the Intelligence Office, that you may become
acquainted with the kind of information we receive concerning the
doings on the other side. This will not prevent your flying, since I
know that would displease you too much.” A broad smile passed over and
illumined his soldierly face. “Here you will get a clearer notion of
the possibilities of my project, and a better angle on the customs of
the enemy in invaded territory. Therefore to-morrow you will be
transferred to my department, without, however, binding yourself in any
way to undertake the trip I have mentioned. I shall expect you
to-morrow.”
Our hands met in a firm, cordial clasp, and I left him.
All night I could not sleep because of the thousands of plans I kept
revolving in my mind. One plan suggested another, and then another,
until there were heaps and heaps of them, confused, without beginning
or end, just overlapping fragments of ideas. Towards dawn I slumbered a
little, but I had to get up early to go to the office. On the fifteenth
of January I became a part of that complicated organization which
gathers and summarizes all the information the army has about the enemy.