Six months on the Italian front

by Julius M. Price

CHAPTER I

Marching orders—I leave for Rome—Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne in war time—My campaigning kit—The war-correspondent’s list—Quaint item—Travelling “light”—A box of choice Havanas—Boulogne to Paris; well-intentioned ladies and their “Woodbines”—The one and only cigarette—Paris to Turin—Curious order on train—Method and prescience—Few soldiers on route—Arrival in Rome—A cheap room—No sign of excitement in streets—23rd May—Excitability of the Italian no longer noticeable—Rome unruffled—The declaration of war—On the Corso Umberto that evening—The Café Aragno—National stoicism—The Day—Business as usual—The general mobilisation—A triumph of organization—At the War Office.

CHAPTER I

“Gerrard 2575?”

“Hello—Hello!”

“That you, Julius Price? Charles Ingram speaking—When are you starting for Italy?”

I had only received my marching orders from the office the previous day, so the thought came to my mind “Early next week,” but I hadn’t the pluck to give expression to it. Instead, I compromised lamely with “As soon as possible.”

“Rubbish!” snapped the voice, “Get off at once.”

I had known my Charles Ingram—best of chiefs—most loyal of friends—too long to attempt to argue. I had started on too many journeys for The Illustrated London News not to realize that a War-Artist must have no collars to buy—no friends to bid farewell to—so there was only one stereotyped answer possible—“All right, I’ll leave to-morrow morning.”

“Well, goodbye and good luck to you.”

8.30 the following morning therefore saw me at Charing Cross, duly passported and baggaged, bound for Rome.

Although Italy had not yet officially declared her intention of joining in with the Allies, it was well known that it was but a matter of a few days before she would do so. The War fever all over Italy was at its height, and there seemed no possibility of anything occurring to influence adversely the decision of the King. The sands of time were rapidly running out, while Count Berchtold, the Austrian Chancellor, was deliberately—for the Allies, fortunately—playing with the destiny of his nation.

The centre of interest at the moment was obviously the Capital, so I was anxious to reach it in time to witness the historic scenes of the near future. Rumour had it that so eager was the nation to get to grips with its hereditary foe that a revolution would ensue were the King to hesitate as to his course of action, while it had been an open secret for some weeks that a general mobilisation of the Army and Navy had been in active progress since the commencement of the period of tension. Italy, therefore, was the point de mire of the entire world on the 20th of May, 1915, when I left London, and I could congratulate myself that, thanks to the journalistic flair of Charles Ingram, I should be on the spot in time for anything that might happen.

At that date one was still able to reach Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne—England was only just awakening to the fact she was at war—the popular short sea-passage route had not yet been taken over by the military authorities, and although the examination of passports and passengers was severe, there was nothing like the difficulty and delay one now experiences in getting across the Channel. The scheduled time from London to Paris was a mere matter of twelve hours, which, of course, was not excessively long under the circumstances, while as compared with the time the journey occupies to-day via Southampton and Havre, it was rapidity itself.

It had been a bit of a rush to get through all I had to do in the twenty-four hours I had at my disposal before leaving London. Consuls will not be hurried even for War-Correspondents, and one’s passport nowadays is far and away the most important article of one’s belongings. There are, moreover, always a hundred and one things that must be done before starting on an expedition of indefinite duration. I know of nothing more irritating when “on the road” than suddenly to discover you have forgotten to bring with you some insignificant but invaluable object which can be easily procured in London but which is unobtainable abroad.

In common with most Correspondents, I have always made it a habit to have my kit kept more or less packed ready for emergency, but not to the extent of one of the brotherhood, who, in order to obviate the danger of finding something missing from his trunks while on the war-path, had lists of the various items pasted in the lid of each trunk which he would carefully verify before starting. An excellent idea, and even amusing in places, as on the occasion when his old soldier-servant had described one of the important items in the list, “False tooth (Supernumerary).”

That the selection of every detail of one’s baggage when travelling “light” is an all important matter is incontrovertible, but personal experience and individual fancy can be the only guide to what one is likely really to want on a hazardous journey. For myself, I have contrived to sort things down to an irreducible minimum, which will go in a car or the luggage rack of a railway carriage. This, together with a small attaché case for my books, papers and spare pipes, constitutes my entire baggage, of which I never lose sight.

Two pals came to see me off, and one, a connoisseur in these matters, brought me a box of his choicest Havanas to smoke en route, and delighted though I was at his kind thought, I felt I was going to have trouble with this unexpected addition to my luggage. And it started when I found that my bags were so full up that I could find no immediate home for a box of 100 big cigars, much as I could appreciate them. I could not help feeling that had my friend given me a leg of mutton to carry to Rome it would have been a less awkward parting gift.

The trouble I had with those cigars makes me smile even now when I think of it—they seemed to get everywhere—rather than carry the box, I endeavoured to distribute them in various pockets—with the result that I was simply overwhelmed with Corona Coronas, and although I smoked hard all the way it seemed to make no impression on the supply, and the thought of what might happen at the Italian frontier became a positive obsession.

I had already spent six months on the French front, so was pretty familiar with the warlike scenes that presented themselves on the other side of the Channel, but to most of my fellow travellers they were quite new.

Several well-intentioned ladies in the train from Boulogne to Paris had provided themselves with big supplies of “Woodbines,” and all the way to Etaples, whenever we passed soldiers along the line, they were busy throwing the small packets of cigarettes out of the windows to English and French indiscriminately.

It was Voltaire, I believe, who asserted that England has sixty religious sects but only one sauce. I fancy that the French “Poilu” would now substitute “cigarette” for “sauce,” but whether they prefer the “one and only” to their more robust “Caporals” is a matter of doubt. For my own part, I was too busy that day getting through with my Coronas to trouble much about either.

I should have liked to have spent a few hours in dear old Paris, but the exigency of the situation in Italy did not permit me to entertain the idea for a moment. I just had sufficient time to drive to the Gare de Lyon, dine at a restaurant near the Station, and catch the Rome express.

The train was not crowded, and the journey till we reached Turin was quite featureless with the exception, as far as I could judge, that everyone was discussing the situation in Italy.

At the frontier station of Modane, where the examination of luggage was quite perfunctory, some important news had just come through. The Parliament, on reassembling, had given to the Salandra Cabinet by an overwhelming majority a vote of confidence, which amounted to a declaration of war against Austria.

At Turin, where we arrived in the afternoon, the station was buzzing with rumours that war had already been declared—this, as it turned out, was not the case, but it showed how acute was the crisis and the excited state of popular opinion.

This was borne strongly upon me by a curious order given to the passengers on the train leaving Turin. In broad daylight all blinds had to be drawn down and kept down till we had passed a certain station further on. The reason for this did not transpire, but it was rigorously enforced.

It was a typical Italian summer afternoon, so the discomfort thus entailed in the stuffy carriages may be better imagined than described; but it brought home to you the seriousness of the situation and the fact that whatever the outcome the Government was taking no chances. What was happening in the district through which we were passing was none of our business, and they let us know it—thus.

This was actually the first indication of the nearness of war, and also an illuminating insight of the “method” and prescience of the war department. What struck you everywhere was the small number of soldiers one saw, and you could but conclude that if movement of troops were taking place they were perhaps being carried out in the zone where the blinds had to be drawn, though Turin was so far from any prospective front that this seemed an excessive precaution.

Rome, if not exactly deserted, was much emptier than usual for the time of year; but as it was 84° in the shade that may have had something to do with it.

At the Grand Hotel, where I proposed staying, all the upper floors were closed.

The white waistcoated manager showed me a fine room on the second floor, and on my enquiring the price, asked me, as I thought with diffidence, whether I thought six lires a day was too much. As I knew the charge in normal times would not have been less than three times that amount, I told him I did not—and took it.

A stroll through the principal streets in the cool of the evening, when one might have expected some indication of popular feeling, revealed absolutely no sign of anything abnormal. It was outwardly the Rome of peace times, not as you would have expected to find it on the eve of war; yet the Press was full of the gravity of the impending crisis, and in the Capital, as on the journey towards it, one was struck by the remarkable absence of soldiers everywhere.

The following day, Sunday, the 23rd of May, it was evident from the tenor of the morning papers that the ultima ratio was in sight, and that it was now only a question of hours, or even minutes, when the momentous decision of the King would be announced. There was a significant calm everywhere that one could not fail to notice, though nobody appeared to have any doubt as to what was pending.

Strangely enough all the old characteristics of the Latin race seem to be dying out—the excitability, the hotheadedness, the volubility of the Italian of the days of yore are no longer en evidence. The men of Italy of to-day are of a different fibre, and though the old-time mettle remains, it is shown differently. There is a growing tendency amongst all classes towards the imperturbability and placidity one associates with Northern races. Events are accepted more dispassionately, and there is far less of the garrulity and dramatic gesture of twenty years ago.

As was generally anticipated, the fateful decision was made known towards evening, and the papers appeared announcing the declaration of war, and that Baron von Macchio, the Austrian Ambassador, had been handed his passports at 3.30.

Even then, when one would have expected the pent up feelings of the people to display themselves in some form of demonstration, there was no commotion whatever.

Along the Corso Umberto the gaily-dressed crowds strolled as leisurely as ever, and the laughter and merriment were the same as on any ordinary Sunday evening. There were perhaps more people about than usual, but this was probably because it was a delightfully cool evening after an exceptionally hot day.

The Café Aragno, which is the hub of the political, journalistic and social life of the Capital, was, of course, packed, as it always is on Sundays. Groups of people were standing about in the roadway and on the pavement reading and discussing the news. “Extra Special” Editions of the evening papers, with fresh details of the situation, seemed to be coming out every few minutes, and the paper boys did a big trade.

If, however, I had not seen it for myself I should never have believed that such composure in such exceptional circumstances could be possible. I could not help contrasting in my mind this quite remarkable absence of excitability in Rome with what I had seen in Paris on the first day of the mobilisation. When the streets resounded to the cheers of the Reservists and everywhere was wild excitement.

It may have been that the event had been so long anticipated in Italy that when the actual moment arrived its effect was discounted; but nevertheless stoicism of this remarkable character certainly struck one as being quite an unexpected trait of the national temperament.

I was, I must admit, the more surprised and disappointed, as my instructions from my Editor were to get to Rome as quickly as possible and make sketches of the scenes that would doubtless be witnessed in the streets as soon as war was declared, but there was no more to sketch in Rome on that Sunday evening than one would see any day in London, and there were certainly far fewer soldiers about.

In fact, it is probably no exaggeration to state that it was with a sigh of relief that the Italians learned that hostilities were about to commence against Austria.

“The Day” that had been looked forward to for forty-nine years, since peace was forced upon Italy by Prussia and Austria in 1860 after the Battle of Sadowa, had at last come, and found the nation united in its determination to endure anything and stand any sacrifice in its resolve to conquer its hereditary foe once and for all.

The absence of outward sign of feeling amongst the populace was as much marked in the days following the declaration of hostilities. The object of the war was well understood, and therefore popular with all classes—in the Capital at any rate, and there was in consequence no flurry or appearance of undue restlessness anywhere—business went on as usual, and except for the shouting of the newsboys, one could scarcely have known that war had commenced.

During the entire day the onward march continued ([see page 37])

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All this was, of course, due to the fact that the general mobilisation had been gradually and quietly taking place for some time previously. There were therefore none of the heartrending scenes such as one witnessed in the streets and round the railway stations in Paris after the first flush of excitement had worn off, for most of the Reservists were well on the way to the Frontier by the time war was declared.

It was a veritable triumph of organisation, and reflected the greatest credit on all concerned.

I had occasion to go to the War Office several times, and found an air of solid business on all sides that was very impressive. Everything appeared to be going on as though by clockwork—a wonderful testimony to the efficiency of the different departments. There was not the slightest indication that anything had been left to chance or to luck in “muddling through somehow.”

Of course it is incontrovertible that those in charge of the destinies of the nation had had ample time to get ready and to profit by the lessons of the war elsewhere, but this does not alter the fact that it was only the wonderful state of preparedness in Italy that enabled her to take the initiative directly war was declared. It certainly revealed an intuitive power of grasping the exigencies of the situation on the part of the Chiefs of the War department that to my mind presaged victory from the outset.