July 18. The sun was very high. It was noon, the hour in which the
gendarmes were accustomed to begin their period of rest. We started on
our journey. Before arriving at Vittorio we met numerous squads of
Russian and Italian prisoners working on the roads, breaking stones
with hammers. The roads were so badly kept that whenever a vehicle
passed huge clouds of white dust arose. Those miserable remnants of men
whose faces and bodies were evidence of the unheard of sufferings they
had endured, staggered and swayed, for they were drunk from the heat of
the sun and fatigue. An enemy soldier, armed with rifle and drawn
bayonet, superintended the work and another oppressor held a whip in
his hand. As soon as one of them fell, overcome by heat and weariness,
the watchman cracked his whip in the air, and unless the prisoner
resumed his work at once the watchman struck him heavily on the poor,
lacerated shoulders and the torn flesh. I should have liked to delay a
moment with one of them; I should have liked to pour out to them all my
compassion, all my sympathy, but I restrained myself to avoid arousing
suspicion and the need for explaining to them who I was, for, from my
way of talking, they might suspect that I was an Italian officer.
It was very warm and the pack on my shoulders weighed heavily upon me.
The bundle was full of wood which I took with me as a precaution, since
I intended to go into my house which had been turned into an Austrian
headquarters. If someone were to ask me the reason why I entered I
could say that I was a peasant who had come to bring some wood to the
civilians who were still living in the house. Along the entire road
there was a great deal of commotion and everywhere the hungry, weary
prisoners trailed heavily about. An immense sultriness weighed us down,
and the mountains, burned and tanned by the sun, flung back their heat
upon the white roads. We arrived at Costa where the Austrians had
constructed a large station for despatching the aerial cable cars with
material and food for the army at the front. On that day I scarcely
recognized the scenery which I have known for so many years, because it
was so changed. Where there used to be broad, tranquil cultivated
fields there was now the noise and excitement of a great railroad
station despatching along many tracks the traffic of its trains. Only
one thing had survived, the little church surrounded by cypress trees
which adjoined the cemetery.
My comrades continued on their weary way, but I entered the cemetery
for a moment to bring a greeting to the tomb of my mother. Nothing had
changed, the little graves were still there, so were the round wreaths
which trembled in the wind, and at the background near the encircling
wall was our family tomb. The sepulchral stone was still intact and on
it were yet engraved the words, “Famiglia De Carlo Granelli.” The great
rose bush which climbed up the cross looked weary; its fallen petals
rested on the tomb. I knelt with one knee on the ground. All my life
reappeared before me with the sweetness of infancy, and from my dry
lips there came the cry of suffering humanity, the cry I have heard so
often from the mouths of the wounded and dying, “Mother, Mother!” I
prayed for a moment, then I plucked one of the red roses which still
bloomed for the dead and their survivors and returned to the dusty road.
As I reached the first houses of Vittorio everything seemed devastated,
everything seemed changed. It was as if I were meeting a person I had
known as young and beautiful and whom I now saw again after his
surviving some terrible skin disease. Every place was cluttered with
filth left by the soldiers and reeked with the nauseating stench of
their refuse. I recognized the smell; it was the smell which would
greet us on entering the trenches seized from the enemy, it was the
smell of the enemy, of the Austrians. I slowly sauntered along the road
flanked by mansions on which bulletins in German were posted, “Weg nach
Fadalto.” I had reached the great gate in front of my house, the façade
had not been touched, the large coat-of-arms in hammered brass was
still in its place. This was strange because they had gone about
requisitioning all metals for making projectiles. On the threshold I
met several Austrian officers who were leaving the house and they did
not even look at me. I went up the service stairs and reached one of
the ante-rooms. The doors were open, an inch of dust lay on the old
furniture, and on the huge, round chest of drawers under which we used
to hide when we were children. The huge carved portals of the ballroom
were open and I entered. The great mural paintings which celebrate the
glories and clemency of Alexander—because one of my ancestors was
called Alexander—were still hanging on the walls. The chandeliers of
Venetian glass still depended from the high ceiling and the beams in
the Sansovinian style still displayed the whiteness of their plaster
and their gilt coatings. The room seemed larger than usual and more
severe in its nakedness. The furniture had been removed so that I could
better appreciate the calm, harmonious lines of the Corinthian columns
supporting the beams. The gilt painted figures high up near the gallery
were still in their places and seemed to gaze out at me from their
carved frames. In that gallery, in the eighteenth century the musicians
were wont to sit, and powdered ladies bent in courtesies to the gay
sound of violins. Now the room was filled with little beds; it looked
like a ward in a hospital. The transient Austrian officers slept here
and several Generals had occupied the inner rooms in which the
tapestries hung. Therefore, I was not able to venture in for I was a
stranger in my own home. Several Russian prisoners were polishing the
brass knobs on the doors and dusting the heavy woodwork. No one looked
at me, no one bothered about me.
I entered the ante-chamber which leads into what used to be our dining
room, I entered and found before me all the portraits of my ancestors
who looked down upon me from their frames. “Jacopos Minuzius,
1593-1652.” It was strange the way they all seemed to be directing
their glance towards me from the canvasses blackened by time. The walls
were still covered by the antique brocade and above the chimney, little
flying cupids supported a crown of laurel over the portrait of an
august cavalier with powdered wig, who wore a light breastplate
ornamented with beautiful carvings. Beneath was the map of a turreted
city about which an attacking army aims its cannon, and the name
“Andreas Minuzius,” a date, “Anno 1662,” and the inscription, “Buda
ruens Bavaros claret augetque triumphos.” Farther on stands Marco
Antonio Minuzius, Bishop of Zara, his hand white against the red of his
cardinal robe.
“Good sirs, my ancestors, do you recognize your grandchild? The
grandchild who is fighting a far different war from the one you fought,
but not less worthy nor less adventurous. The enemies are always the
same, Turks and Bavarians. Good sirs, my ancestors, are you proud of
these poor rags which I have made my armor? Are you satisfied with your
distant offspring?”
On the dark canvas a slanting ray of sunlight gleamed and I did not
await their answer.
After having hurriedly greeted De Luca and Marietta, our old domestic,
I rapidly resumed my weary way to overtake my companions on the road
towards Serravalle. At the market-place I met two Austrian gendarmes
who, with drawn bayonets, were accompanying three of our prisoners and
with the butts of their guns were inciting them to hasten their steps.
Ugly encounter!... Naturally, not to arouse suspicion, I retarded my
pace and stopped for a moment feigning to contemplate the prisoners.
Outside of Vittorio I overtook Bottecchia and the women, and we resumed
our journey through the hills which lead to Tarzo where we found a road
which led to Vidor.
The way was long and arduous and we followed the back of the hills
which divide the plain from Valle di Folina. The little lakes of Revine
and Santa Maria di Lago reflected in their deep waters the heavy azure
of the sky, and the shadows of the mountains met in the changing
reflections of the water. The road ascended continually until it became
almost a path. We descended the little decline on which is nestled the
village of Tarzo and, strengthened by some good warm soup, we stole a
few hours of sleep. At one o’clock after midnight, when all was still,
everyone was asleep and even the gendarmes were not accustomed to be
about on the roads, we traveled on. An old man who had often been on
the front lines and who knew the ground inch by inch had added himself
to our group. Bottecchia was not happy in these days; he questioned
everything which might prove a sign of the future and he was greatly
depressed because when starting, a woman was the first person he met, a
sign, which, according to his theory, denoted bad luck. At times we
followed the road, and at times followed short-cuts which enabled us to
gain time. After many hours, during which we traversed a long stretch
of road, we passed through the villages of Refrentolo, Soliga and
Solighetto only to find that soldiers were quartered in most of the
houses.
We now had to cross a bridge where a sentinel was on guard, but after
we had shown him our papers he permitted us to pass without further
trouble. We reached Fara, the last village in which there were still
civilians and we sat on the ground for a moment to eat a bite. The
women spoke aloud since there did not seem to be a living soul about
us. Suddenly, when we least expected it, there appeared before us a
little, shriveled soldier who spoke German very badly and appeared to
be a Slovene. He asked us for our legitimization papers; we showed them
to him and kept on eating so as not to arouse suspicion. He frowned,
wanted to know why we had come here, and told us that it was prohibited
to go and glean wheat near the front lines because several women had
been wounded recently by projectiles fired from the Italian side and
because the sight of people attracts the fire of the Italian artillery
onto the trenches. A magical method which usually succeeded in calming
the Austrians was to offer them something to eat and we hoped that even
our questioner could be calmed, like Cerberus, by throwing a cake into
his mouth. I therefore offered to share our meal with him, but would
that I had never done it! He was resentful, angry, said he was not to
be bought, and that we must be spies. He drew his bayonet and ordered
us to follow him to the nearest guard post. He made us march in line in
front of him while he followed with his gun ready to fire at anyone of
us who offered any opposition. We had no alternative but to follow and
to try to win by using our wits. The stick I carried worried me for it
was a hollow cane with corks at the ends, and in it I had concealed all
the documents sent to me by Brunora for transporting them to the other
side. But, before they arrested us, I should always have time to throw
it away without being noticed.
We reached the guard post which was a little hut of straw. Two soldiers
were asleep and only a corporal was on guard. A heated discussion now
ensued between our captor and the corporal but I did not understand
them for they spoke in Slav. From their gestures I understood that the
corporal, after having examined our papers, found them valid, whereas,
the other insisted that we be sent to the Command of Gendarmes at Miane
where they could better judge of the validity of our papers. The women
began to whimper, entreating the corporal to set us free, for at home
our children awaited us. The corporal, a tall young man with a pleasant
look, let himself be persuaded and ordered us to return home at once.
We pretended to start on our journey home but instead, after we had
gone a short distance, we changed direction, crossed the main road and
walked for a long distance close to the embankment of the road that the
soldiers on the other side might not see us. After we had traversed a
goodly distance and had watched several wagons of artillery pass
towards the front, we tried to reach the left side of the road to
rediscover the short-cut we had been compelled to leave. At that point
there was a little bridge and near the bridge were many tree-trunks. As
we were about to pass behind the tree-trunks a soldier with drawn
bayonet appeared crying, “züruck, züruck.” We did not make him repeat
his command and hurriedly returned to the country on the other side.
The man on guard was confident that he had obstructed our passage and
did not suspect that as soon as he was out of sight we should resume
our journey in the direction towards the front. To avoid being seen we
stepped into a little ditch where the water was low and which had two
very high hedges of acacia on either side. The water reached to our
knees, but this was an excellent way of not being discovered and after
we had passed the most dangerous zone we should be able to travel more
freely.
Having journeyed for several hundred yards in the ditch we again
followed the path through the country and fortunately we found no more
sentinels to bar our way. We were now crossing the district where the
artillery which took part in the recent combat had probably been
stationed. Now there remained only little squares cluttered with torn
telephone wires and tablets which must have indicated the division
occupying that region. We crossed a demolished village with shattered
houses and torn rooms, where bits of familiar objects which showed
through the ruins reminded us of the tranquil life of days gone by. All
the fountains were destroyed and in vain we sought everywhere for a
draught of water to moisten our dry throats.
The country was now rougher and more wild for we were not far from the
stream of the Piave. We began to come to extensive wheat fields from
which almost all the sheaves had been cut and where women eagerly
gathered the few left and threw them into their sacks that they might
bring home the means of making a little bread. Near the long rows of
grape-vines there were many store-houses for guns and artillery and I
looked carefully about to see if there was a guard anywhere, but I saw
no sign of an Austrian. The last one we saw before arriving at this
spot was a Hungarian with a long mustache, who was resting peacefully
on the grass beside a stud of horses at their meal. The vines of
American grapes were heavy with fruit, and they were the only
fruit-bearing vines I had seen in a long time because the others, which
all needed sulphur, had shriveled and dried up. We reached the Chapel
of the Madonna del Carmine which is a few hundred yards from the rim of
the Piave. We should now have to be very cautious for there would be
guards on the front lines. I could not understand how we had been able
to come so far without finding any wire entanglements or a trench. We
traveled on, keeping close to the grape-vines. When hidden in the wheat
we imitated the women, who had begun sheaving. I tried to reach a point
whence I could see the course of the Piave to get an idea of the
defenses constructed by the Austrians and the difficulties we should
have to overcome in crossing. Near the margin the enemy had dug huge
holes lined with boards and prepared for machine-guns, but no soldiers
were on guard. By crawling on the ground I reached another hole and I
saw two Austrians who, instead of standing on guard were sleeping
heavily. The trees were thicker near the brink, and with infinite
precaution I arrived as far as a spot from which I could see the course
of the river. The bed was very broad; the Piave separated into an
infinite number of little streams and about half a mile away the real,
strong current flowed. Along the entire bank beneath us ran a little
wood and on the exterior edge of the wood there were entanglements.
Then the gravel began and there were two lines of entanglements which
did not seem to me to be firmly anchored to the ground. Our artillery
was firing and its shells exploded on the other side of the major
current where perhaps the enemy had some small posts.
I gained a sufficiently accurate notion of the topography of the place
and when night fell we were to try to pass. All day we lay crouching on
the ground covered by the wheat and chewed the little grass we could
find, that we might feel less the terrible thirst which burned us. The
sun had never felt so hot to me, and its ball of fire seemed never to
wish to set. Toward evening several Italian aeroplanes flew low and
performed tricks over our heads, upon which the outpost began to fire.
Blessed are the flying men who have no entanglements to separate them
from our lines, whereas we, as soon as the sun had set, would have to
commence our struggle against man and the elements.