CHAPTER II
My credentials—The War Zone—Italy’s preparedness—The Press Censorship—General Elia’s advice—Disappointment—A pipe in the Pincio—An inspiration—I leave for Venice—Venice in war time—The lonely pigeons of the Place St. Marc—The Doge’s Palace—The bronze horses—Interior of St. Marc, strange spectacle—First act of war between Italy and Austria—Aeroplane bombs Venice—French aviators—Treasures of Venice—Everyday life in Venice during daytime—After nightfall—On the qui vive—Extraordinary precautions—Dangers of the streets—Spy fever—Permis de séjour—The angry crowd—Defences against air attacks—Venice not a place forte—Nearest point of the Front—The British Vice-Consul, Mr. Beak—A good Samaritan—The letter of credentials—The Commandant of Venice—More advice—New Rescript of the Generalissimo—Reference to Correspondents—Decide attempt go to Udine—The language difficulty—The waiter at the Hotel Danielli—His offer to accompany me—Make arrangements at once—Introduced to Peppino Garibaldi—Amusing incident.
CHAPTER II
I arrived in Rome armed with sufficient credentials and recommendations, apparently, to frank me through every barrier to the Front, but I was not long discovering that in spite of the courtesy with which I was received by the officials to whom I had introductions, it was hopeless to expect any relaxation, for the time being, of the stringent decree with regard to the War Correspondents that had been issued by the Generalissimo.
A “War Zone” was declared at once, and the most rigorous precautions taken to insure its being guarded against intrusion. Within its confines were several important cities, as for instance, Brescia, Venice, Verona, Vicenza, Belluno, Bologna, Padua and Udine and the entire area was considered as in a state of war, and immediately placed under what was practically martial law. No railway tickets were obtainable unless one had a permit to travel on the line.
It is of interest to mention all these conditions ruling at the very beginning of the war as affording an object lesson in the “method” and foresight which were displayed in every move of General Cadorna even to the smallest details.
Italy took a long while making up her mind to throw in her lot with the Allies, but there was no losing time once she made a start, as was soon proved, and her preparedness was evidenced in every direction.
A censorship of the most drastic character was established at once, and it looked at one time as if correspondents were going to have a bad time of it, and see even less, if possible, than in the other areas of the war.
“Go and make a journey through Italy; there is lots to see that will interest you as an artist, and come back in about three months from now; then perhaps some arrangements will have been made with reference to correspondents going to the Front.” This was all I could get from General Elia, the genial Under-Secretary of State for War, who speaks English fluently—when at last, through the kindly intervention of the British Embassy I managed to see him and begged to be permitted to accompany the troops.
This could scarcely be construed as encouraging, and as I came away from the interview I must admit I felt the reverse of elated. I had already spent a week trying to get permission to go to the Front, and I certainly had not the slightest intention of playing the “tourist” for the next few months, nor of idling away my time in Rome if I could help it. But what was to be done?
I could hardly speak a word of Italian, so knew I was handicapped terribly for getting about alone. I strolled up to the solitude of the Pincio, and lighting my pipe, sat down under the trees to think it out. I forgot to mention that the decree placing Venice and other towns within the War Zone was not to come into force for another twenty-four hours.
Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I knew Venice well, why not go there; at any rate I should be quite near the Front, and with luck I might manage to make my way there. Anyhow it could not fail to be more interesting so close to the scene of operations than in Rome.
I made up my mind to start that day if possible, and, going to Cooks’ office near the hotel, found that I was in luck’s way—there was a train that afternoon, and there was not the least difficulty in getting a ticket, but this was the last opportunity of doing so without a permit, I was told.
The next day therefore saw me in Venice and amidst familiar scenes. But it was a very altered place from the Venice of peace time. It looked very dreary and lifeless. The week that had elapsed since the commencement of hostilities had brought about a great change.
There were no visitors left—only one hotel was open, Danielli’s—the Grand having been taken over by the Red Cross Society; the canals, those delightful arteries of Venetian life, appeared almost deserted, although the steam launches were running as usual; the pigeons had the place St. Marc practically to themselves, workmen were busy removing the glorious windows from the Doge’s Palace and bricking up the supporting arches.
The chapel at the base of the Campanile was shrouded in thick brickwork; the famous bronze horses on the portico of St. Marc had been taken down at once; the interior of the church itself presented a curious spectacle, as it had several feet of sand on the floor, and was hidden by a big bastion of sandbags.
It is perhaps of interest to mention that the first act of war between Austria and Italy took place at Venice. At 3.30 on the morning of the 24th May the inhabitants were aroused by the loud boom of a signal gun—this was immediately followed by the screech of all the steam whistles in the City and on the boats.
In a very few minutes the batteries of the Aerial-Guard Station and machine guns and rifles were firing as rapidly as they could at the intruders—several Taubes flying at a great height—without effect, unfortunately, as they managed to drop several bombs and get away unscathed. Two of the bombs fell in the courtyard of the Colonna di Castelpo, one in the Tana near the Rio della Tana, another in the San Lucia, and a fourth in the Rio del Carmini.
It was said that an enormous parachute, to which was suspended incandescent matter to light up the ground, was released from one of the aeroplanes, but this was not corroborated; it is certain though that the bomb that fell in San Lucia was incendiary and spread lighted petroleum, without effect happily. Austria, therefore, lost no time in beginning her war of vandalism.
Every precaution possible was being adopted while I was there, to protect the city against any further aeroplane attacks, and there was a contingent of French aviators—amongst whom was Beaumont—staying at the hotel, who were constantly patrolling over the city.
Unfortunately, in a place like Venice, which is such a veritable conglomeration of artistic treasures, it is obviously very difficult to protect all, and with a thoroughly ruthless and barbaric enemy like Austria it is to be feared that a lot of irreparable damage will be done before the end of the war.
Life in Venice during the daytime was practically normal—sunshine engenders confidence; it was after nightfall that you realised the high state of tension in which everyone was living; it could scarcely be described as terror, but a “nervy,” “jumpy” condition, which was very uncanny. Everyone seemed to be on the qui vive, though curiously enough the fear of the Venetians, as far as I could judge, was not so much for themselves as for the safety of their beloved city.
The most extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure its being shrouded in impenetrable obscurity at night—a ray of light shewing through a window meant instant arrest for the occupant of the room. Even smoking out of doors at night was strictly forbidden. The doorways of restaurants, cafés, and shops were heavily draped with double curtains, and after eight o’clock the electric light was turned off and only candles allowed.
It would be difficult to describe the weird effect of Venice in total darkness on a moonless night.
It is said that more people have lost their lives by falling into the canals than through aeroplane bombs, and I can quite believe it, for it was positively dangerous to go a yard unless one was absolutely certain of one’s whereabouts.
Added to this was the risk of being mistaken for a spy. One had to get a permis de séjour from the Police, but even with this in your pocket one was never really safe, for they had “spy fever” very badly indeed when I was there, and even old and well-known inhabitants were not immune from suspicion at times.
I heard of several cases of hair-breadth escapes from the clutches of the angry crowd which would gather on the slightest suggestion. To be heard speaking with a foreign accent was often sufficient to attract unpleasant attention, so you were inclined to be chary of venturing far from the Place St. Marc at any time, however much your papers might be en règle.
Apart from the defensive work that was being undertaken to protect Venice from Austrian air attacks, there was nothing of interest in the way of military or naval activity to be seen. Destroyers and torpedo boats occasionally came into the lagoon, but seldom remained long.
The position of Venice makes it a sort of cul de sac, and of no importance whatever from the point of view of land and sea operations, and it is quite at the mercy of Austrian aeroplanes or seaplanes operating from Pola or Trieste.
The sole object the Austrians can have in attacking it therefore is to cause wanton damage to its historic buildings and art treasures, for it is not a place forte in any sense of the word; and if there is one thing more than another calculated to stiffen the backs of the Italians against their enemy and to make them the more determined to do all in their power to crush Austria for ever, it is this cold-blooded onslaught on their national artistic heirlooms, for which there is no military justification whatever.
At that time the nearest point of the Front was some 40 miles from Venice, in Friuli, and after a few days marking time, I decided that this was where I must make for if I wanted to see anything of what was going on in this early stage of the war.
The courteous and genial British Vice-Consul, Mr. Beak, who had just taken over the post, proved a veritable good Samaritan, and did his best to help me.
I have not mentioned, I think, that when in Rome I had been given an important letter of credentials by the British Embassy recommending me for any facilities the Italian military authorities might be prepared to grant me, and the letter now proved invaluable. Mr. Beak got a translation made of it, to which he affixed the consular stamp, and, armed with this, I paid a visit to the Commandant of Venice, at the Arsenal.
He received me with the utmost cordiality, but when I suggested his giving me permission to go to the Front he informed me that he had no power to do this; that my best plan would be to go direct to Headquarters at Udine, where doubtless I would get what I wanted on the strength of my letter from the Embassy. I said nothing, but with the recollection of what General Elia had told me in Rome, I had my doubts. Anyhow, it gave me the idea of going to Udine and trying my luck; if the worst came to the worst, I could but be sent back, and in the meantime I should have seen something of the Front.
The following day a new rescript of the Generalissimo appeared in the papers to the effect that until further orders no correspondents were allowed in the War Zone. This was awkward for me, as, of course, I was already in it, but I made up my mind to run the further risk of getting up to the actual Front if it were possible. But how, without speaking Italian, for, of course, the “interpreter” element had disappeared from Venice since there were no longer any tourists to interpret for.
My ever faithful pipe as usual helped me to solve the difficulty (what I owe to Lady Nicotine for ideas evolved under her sway I can never be sufficiently grateful for).
There was a very intelligent young waiter at the hotel who spoke English fluently, and it occurred to me that he would make a useful guide if he would go with me. He not only jumped at the idea, but actually offered to come for a few days for nothing if he could get permission from the manager, and if I paid his expenses, so anxious was he to see something of the military operations.
There was no difficulty in getting the consent of the manager as the hotel was practically empty; and then my friend, the Vice-Consul, again good-naturedly came to my assistance by giving me a letter to the Military Commandant of Udine, in which he stated fully my object in coming to the front, and the fact that I was carrying a special letter of credentials from the Embassy.
These two important documents, together with my passport, were, I felt, sufficient to frank me some distance unless unforseen trouble arose; so I made arrangements to start at once; and in order not to be hampered with baggage, as I did not know where my venture would take me, decided to leave my bulky luggage behind at the hotel, only taking with me what I could carry on my back in my “ruksak.”
Before I left I was introduced to a very nice fellow who had just arrived in Venice, and a somewhat amusing incident occurred. I did not catch his name at first, and, as he spoke English so fluently and looked so much like an Englishman, I was somehow under the impression that he was a correspondent of a London paper. He appeared mystified when, after a few casual remarks, I asked him how long he had been in Italy.
“How long?” he exclaimed. “Why, I live here.” “But you are not an Italian?” “Well, you see my grandfather was,” he replied with a touch of humour which I was only able to appreciate, when I heard later that my “English journalist” was Peppino Garibaldi, a nephew of the great patriot. He had just come from the Front, where he had been to see the King to offer his services in raising a regiment of volunteers similar to the one he had recently commanded on the French front in the Argonne. His offer, it appeared, was not accepted, but afterwards I learned he was given a commission in the Army, and he has since so distinguished himself in action that he has risen to the rank of Colonel. I believe his brothers have also done equally well in the Army, thus proving that they are all real “chips of the old block.”