1
The mountain warfare of Italy is extraordinarily unlike that upon any
other front. From the Isonzo to the Swiss frontier we are dealing with
high mountains, cut by deep valleys between which there is usually no
practicable lateral communication. Each advance must have the nature of
an unsupported shove along a narrow channel, until the whole mountain
system, that is, is won, and the attack can begin to deploy in front
of the passes. Geographically Austria has the advantage. She had the
gentler slope of the mountain chains while Italy has the steep side,
and the foresight of old treaties has given her deep bites into what is
naturally Italian territory; she is far nearer the Italian plain
than Italy is near any practicable fighting ground for large forces;
particularly is this the case in the region of the Adige valley and Lake
Garda.
The legitimate war, so to speak, in this region is a mountaineering war.
The typical position is roughly as follows. The Austrians occupy valley
A which opens northward; the Italians occupy valley B which opens
southward. The fight is for the crest between A and B. The side that
wins that crest gains the power of looking down into, firing into and
outflanking the positions of the enemy valley. In most cases it is the
Italians now who are pressing, and if the reader will examine a map of
the front and compare it with the official reports he will soon realise
that almost everywhere the Italians are up to the head of the southward
valleys and working over the crests so as to press down upon the
Austrian valleys. But in the Trentino the Austrians are still well over
the crest on the southward slopes. When I was in Italy they still held
Rovereto.
Now it cannot be said that under modern conditions mountains favour
either the offensive or the defensive. But they certainly make
operations far more deliberate than upon a level. An engineered road or
railway in an Alpine valley is the most vulnerable of things; its curves
and viaducts may be practically demolished by shell fire or swept by
shrapnel, although you hold the entire valley except for one vantage
point. All the mountains round about a valley must be won before that
valley is safe for the transport of an advance. But on the other hand a
surprise capture of some single mountain crest and the hoisting of one
gun into position there may block the retreat of guns and material
from a great series of positions. Mountain surfaces are extraordinarily
various and subtle. You may understand Picardy on a map, but mountain
warfare is three-dimensional. A struggle may go on for weeks or months
consisting of apparently separate and incidental skirmishes, and then
suddenly a whole valley organisation may crumble away in retreat
or disaster. Italy is gnawing into the Trentino day by day, and
particularly around by her right wing. At no time I shall be surprised
to see a sudden lunge forward on that front, and hear a tale of guns
and prisoners. This will not mean that she has made a sudden attack, but
that some system of Austrian positions has collapsed under her continual
pressure.
Such briefly is the _idea_ of mountain struggle. Its realities, I
should imagine, are among the strangest and most picturesque in all this
tremendous world conflict. I know nothing of the war in the east, of
course, but there are things here that must be hard to beat. Happily
they will soon get justice done to them by an abler pen than mine.
I hear that Kipling is to follow me upon this ground; nothing can be
imagined more congenial to his extraordinary power of vivid rendering
than this struggle against cliffs, avalanches, frost and the Austrian.
To go the Italian round needs, among other things, a good head.
Everywhere it has been necessary to make roads where hitherto there have
been only mule tracks or no tracks at all; the roads are often still in
the making, and the automobile of the war tourist skirts precipices and
takes hairpin bends upon tracks of loose metal not an inch too broad
for the operation, or it floats for a moment over the dizzy edge while
a train of mule transport blunders by. The unruly imagination of man's
heart (which is “only evil continually”) speculates upon what would be
the consequences of one good bump from the wheel of a mule cart. Down
below, the trees that one sees through a wisp of cloud look far too
small and spiky and scattered to hold out much hope for a fallen man
of letters. And at the high positions they are too used to the
vertical life to understand the secret feelings of the visitor from
the horizontal. General Bompiani, whose writings are well known to all
English students of military matters, showed me the Gibraltar he is
making of a great mountain system east of the Adige.
“Let me show you,” he said, and flung himself on to the edge of the
precipice into exactly the position of a lady riding side-saddle. “You
will find it more comfortable to sit down.”
But anxious as I am abroad not to discredit my country by unseemly
exhibitions I felt unequal to such gymnastics without a proper rehearsal
at a lower level. I seated myself carefully at a yard (perhaps it was a
couple of yards) from the edge, advanced on my trousers without dignity
to the verge, and so with an effort thrust my legs over to dangle in the
crystalline air.
“That,” proceeded General Bompiani, pointing with a giddy flourish of
his riding whip, “is Monte Tomba.”
I swayed and half-extended my hand towards him. But he was still
there--sitting, so to speak, on the half of himself.... I was astonished
that he did not disappear abruptly during his exposition....
2
The fighting man in the Dolomites has been perhaps the most wonderful
of all these separate campaigns. I went up by automobile as far as the
clambering new road goes up the flanks of Tofana No. 2; thence for a
time by mule along the flank of Tofana No. 1, and thence on foot to the
vestiges of the famous Castelletto.
The aspect of these mountains is particularly grim and wicked; they are
worn old mountains, they tower overhead in enormous vertical cliffs
of sallow grey, with the square jointings and occasional clefts and
gullies, their summits are toothed and jagged; the path ascends and
passes round the side of the mountain upon loose screes, which descend
steeply to a lower wall of precipices. In the distance rise other harsh
and desolate-looking mountain masses, with shining occasional scars
of old snow. Far below is a bleak valley of stunted pine trees through
which passes the road of the Dolomites.
As I ascended the upper track two bandages men were coming down on led
mules. It was mid-August, and they were suffering from frostbite.
Across the great gap between the summits a minute traveller with
some provisions was going up by wire to some post upon the crest. For
everywhere upon the icy pinnacles are observation posts directing the
fire of the big guns on the slopes below, or machine-gun stations, or
little garrisons that sit and wait through the bleak days. Often
they have no link with the world below but a precipitous climb or a
“teleferic” wire. Snow and frost may cut them off absolutely for weeks
from the rest of mankind. The sick and wounded must begin their journey
down to help and comfort in a giddy basket that swings down to the head
of the mule track below.
Originally all these crests were in Austrian hands; they were stormed
by the Alpini under almost incredible conditions. For fifteen days, for
example, they fought their way up these screes on the flanks of Tofana
No. 2 to the ultimate crags, making perhaps a hundred metres of ascent
each day, hiding under rocks and in holes in the daylight and receiving
fresh provisions and ammunition and advancing by night. They were
subjected to rifle fire, machine-gun fire and bombs of a peculiar sort,
big iron balls of the size of a football filled with explosive that were
just flung down the steep. They dodged flares and star shells. At one
place they went up a chimney that would be far beyond the climbing
powers of any but a very active man. It must have been like storming the
skies. The dead and wounded rolled away often into inaccessible ravines.
Stray skeletons, rags of uniform, fragments of weapons, will add to the
climbing interest of these gaunt masses for many years to come. In this
manner it was that Tofana No. 2 was taken.
Now the Italians are organising this prize, and I saw winding up far
above me on the steep grey slope a multitudinous string of little things
that looked like black ants, each carrying a small bright yellow egg.
They were mules bringing back balks of timber....
But one position held out invincibly; this was the Castelletto, a great
natural fortress of rock standing out at an angle of the mountain
in such a position that it commanded the Italian communications (the
Dolomite road) in the valley below, and rendered all their positions
uncomfortable and insecure. This obnoxious post was practically
inaccessible either from above or below, and it barred the Italians
even from looking into the Val Travenanzes which it defended. It was, in
fact, an impregnable position, and against it was pitted the invincible
5th Group of the Alpini. It was the old problem of the irresistible
force in conflict with the immovable object. And the outcome has been
the biggest military mine in all history.
The business began in January, 1916, with surveys of the rock in
question. The work of surveying for excavations, never a very simple
one, becomes much more difficult when the site is occupied by hostile
persons with machine guns. In March, as the winter's snows abated, the
boring machinery began to arrive, by mule as far as possible and then by
hand. Altogether about half a kilometre of gallery had to be made to the
mine chamber, and meanwhile the explosive was coming up load by load and
resting first here, then there, in discreetly chosen positions. There
were at the last thirty-five tons of it in the inner chamber. And while
the boring machines bored and the work went on, Lieutenant Malvezzi was
carefully working out the problem of “il massimo effetto dirompimento”
and deciding exactly how to pack and explode his little hoard. On the
eleventh of July, at 3.30, as he rejoices to state in his official
report, “the mine responded perfectly both in respect of the
calculations made and of the practical effects,” that is to say, the
Austrians were largely missing and the Italians were in possession of
the crater of the Castelletto and looking down the Val Travenanzes from
which they had been barred for so long. Within a month things had been
so tidied up, and secured by further excavations and sandbags against
hostile fire, that even a middle-aged English writer, extremely fagged
and hot and breathless, could enjoy the same privilege. All this, you
must understand, had gone on at a level to which the ordinary tourist
rarely climbs, in a rarefied, chest-tightening atmosphere, with wisps of
clouds floating in the clear air below and club-huts close at hand....
Among these mountains avalanches are frequent; and they come down
regardless of human strategy. In many cases the trenches cross avalanche
tracks; they and the men in them are periodically swept away and
periodically replaced. They are positions that must be held; if the
Italians will not face such sacrifices, the Austrians will. Avalanches
and frostbite have slain and disabled their thousands; they have
accounted perhaps for as many Italians in this austere and giddy
campaign as the Austrians....
3
It seems to be part of the stern resolve of Fate that this, the greatest
of wars, shall be the least glorious; it is manifestly being decided
not by victories but by blunders. It is indeed a history of colossal
stupidities. Among the most decisive of these blunders, second only
perhaps of the blunder of the Verdun attack and far outshining the wild
raid of the British towards Bagdad, was the blunder of the Trentino
offensive. It does not need the equipment of a military expert, it
demands only quite ordinary knowledge and average intelligence,
to realise the folly of that Austrian adventure. There is some
justification for a claim that the decisive battle of the war was fought
upon the soil of Italy. There is still more justification for saying
that it might have been.
There was only one good point about the Austrian thrust. No one could
have foretold it. And it did so completely surprise the Italians as to
catch them without any prepared line of positions in the rear. On the
very eve of the big Russian offensive, the Austrians thrust eighteen
divisions hard at the Trentino frontier. The Italian posts were then in
Austrian territory; they held on the left wing and the right, but they
were driven by the sheer weight of men and guns in the centre; they lost
guns and prisoners because of the difficulty of mountain retreats to
which I have alluded, and the Austrians pouring through reached not
indeed the plain of Venetia, but to the upland valleys immediately above
it, to Asiago and Arsiero. They probably saw the Venetian plain through
gaps in the hills, but they were still separated from it even at Arsiero
by what are mountains to an English eye, mountains as high as Snowdon.
But the Italians of such beautiful old places and Vicenza, Marostica,
and Bassano could watch the Austrian shells bursting on the last line of
hills above the plain, and I have no doubt they felt extremely uneasy.
As one motors through these ripe and beautiful towns and through the
rich valleys that link them--it is a smiling land abounding in old
castles and villas, Vicenza is a rich museum of Palladio's architecture
and Bassano is full of irreplaceable painted buildings--one feels that
the things was a narrow escape, but from the military point of view it
was merely an insane escapade. The Austrians had behind them--and some
way behind them--one little strangulated railway and no good pass road;
their right was held at Pasubio, their left was similarly bent back. In
front of them was between twice and three times their number of first
class troops, with an unlimited equipment. If they had surmounted
that last mountain crest they would have come down to almost certain
destruction in the plain. They could never have got back. For a time
it was said that General Cadorna considered that possibility. From the
point of view of purely military considerations, the Trentino offensive
should perhaps have ended in the capitulation of Vicenza.
I will confess I am glad it did not do so. This tour of the fronts has
made me very sad and weary with a succession of ruins. I can bear no
more ruins unless they are the ruins of Dusseldorf, Cologne, Berlin,
or suchlike modern German city. Anxious as I am to be a systematic
Philistine, to express my preference for Marinetti over the Florentine
British and generally to antagonise aesthetic prigs, I rejoiced over
that sunlit land as one might rejoice over a child saved from beasts.
On the hills beyond Schio I walked out through the embrasure of a big
gun in a rock gallery, and saw the highest points upon the hillside
to which the Austrian infantry clambered in their futile last attacks.
Below me were the ruins of Arsiero and Velo d'Astico recovered, and
across the broad valley rose Monte Cimone with the Italian trenches
upon its crest and the Austrians a little below to the north. A very
considerable bombardment was going on and it reverberated finely. (It
is only among mountains that one hears anything that one can call the
thunder of guns. The heaviest bombardments I heard in France sounded
merely like Brock's benefit on a much large scale, and disappointed me
extremely.) As I sat and listened to the uproar and watched the shells
burst on Cimone and far away up the valley over Castelletto above
Pedescala, Captain Pirelli pointed out the position of the Austrian
frontier. I doubt if the English people realise that the utmost depth to
which this great Trentino offensive, which exhausted Austria, wasted the
flower of the Hungarian army and led directly to the Galician disasters
and the intervention of Rumania, penetrated into Italian territory was
about six miles.