CHAPTER V
Udine the Headquarters of the Army—The King—His indefatigability—His undaunted courage—A telling incident—The King with the troops—Love and sympathy between Victor Emanuele and the men—Brotherhood of the whole Army—A pleasant incident—Men salute officers at all times—Laxity shown in London—Cohesion between rank and file—The Italians of to-day—The single idea of all—Udine crowded with soldiers—The military missions of the allied nations—Big trade being done—Orderly and sedate crowd—Restaurants—The food—The market-place—The Cinemas—Proximity of the fighting—The Café “Dorta”—Pretty and smartly-dressed women—An unexpected spectacle—The Military Governor—The streets at night—Precautions against “Taubes”—The signal gun—Curiosity of inhabitants—No excitement—Udine a sort of haven—I remain there six weeks—A meeting with the British Military Attaché, Colonel Lamb—My stay in Udine brought to an abrupt ending—The police officer in mufti—Am arrested—Unpleasant experience—An agent de la Sureté—At the police station—The commissaire—Result of my examination—Novara—Magic effect of the undelivered letter again—I write to General Cafarelli—My friends at the “Agrario”—General Cafarelli—His decision—The third class police ticket for the railway—Packed off to Florence—The end of the adventure.
CHAPTER V
Udine, as I have pointed out, was practically “the Front” in the early weeks of the war. It was also the Headquarters of the army, and every building of importance in the town had been requisitioned for Staff purposes.
It was said that the King and the Generalissimo were living there; but this, of course, was only surmise, although one was constantly seeing them motoring through the streets.
In fact, after a time one got to recognise instantly the Royal Fiat, however grimy and bespattered with mud it might be, for the King appeared indefatigable and was out and about in all weathers, and was said to have visited all the sectors of the Front and to be never satisfied unless he saw for himself all that was going on amongst the troops.
His undaunted courage is proverbial in Italy, and no danger, however great, deters him going anywhere if he sets his mind on it, as his personal staff knows only too well. In this connection I recollect a story that was told which will illustrate this.
On one occasion His Majesty expressed his intention of joining the advance guard on a height just occupied and which was being heavily fired on by the enemy. An officer of Alpini respectfully pointed out the danger and difficulty of attempting it. The King laughingly replied that where the Alpini could go an old Chamois-hunter like himself could also go, and insisted on climbing to the position.
The presence of the King always stimulated immensely the enthusiasm of the troops, and this was particularly noticeable when he accompanied the first brigade which crossed the Isonzo on a bridge thrown by the Engineers.
It is this desire to be not only with but amongst his soldiers and sharing their perils that has helped so much to establish the sort of fraternal love and sympathy that exists between Victor Emanuele and me men, which one cannot fail to notice whenever the word goes round “Here comes the King.”
It was quite touching to hear on all sides the expressions of affection of the big rough soldiers for the wiry little man, covered with dust, who saluted one and all so genially as he whirled past in the big car.
It is this feeling of brotherhood of which the King sets the example that animates the whole army—one could not fail to be struck by it—officers, non-commissioned officers and men are all on the most friendly terms together and there is probably no more democratic army in the world to-day than the Italian.
In this connection I recall a pleasing incident I witnessed one day on a mountain track; an officer riding a mule at the head of a small detachment of soldiers, who were plodding along stolidly in the intense heat, was reading his newspaper aloud for the benefit of them all. Curiously enough this camaraderie leads to no impairment of discipline—rather the contrary perhaps, as for instance, one sees men go out of their way, so to speak, to salute officers at all times, not as a matter of duty only, but to show their respect for their rank.
I was more particularly reminded of this on my return to London, where the laxity shewn by the rank and file towards officers in the matter of saluting in the streets is particularly noticeable.
A rude altar of rough boxes was set up ([see page 45])
To face page 50
The effectual result of this cohesion between the rank and file in the Italian Army is proved by the zeal which animates all, and which helps to lighten the most irksome duties.
During the six weeks I spent in and around Udine practically alone I had ample opportunity for studying the character of the Italian officer and ordinary soldier under true war conditions, and the more I saw of them the more I liked them and admired their fine qualities.
These virile, self-possessed specimens of the Italy of to-day present a remarkable contrast to those one recollects of the older generation, for in the matter of physique the Italian army now in the field can compare favourably in every respect with any other army in the world.
From the highest officer to the most humble private, one and all are animated with but a single idea—that of thrashing the Austrians and restoring to Italy the territory which is hers by right. But there is no frothy bombast about them; in the town, as in the trenches, though the conversation always reverted to “la guerra,” it was to discuss it in the sober, self-contained manner of the strong man who knows his own strength and therefore does not deem it necessary to insist on it.
As might have been expected, Udine, owing to its proximity to the enemy’s lines, was crowded with soldiers, and during the evening, when officers and men were off duty, it was almost difficult to walk along the main streets.
The three great allied nations were represented in the throng also, as “military missions” soon arrived in the town, and it was very pleasing to see Russian, French and English officers in their respective uniforms, fraternising everywhere with the Italians. Since then Japan, Belgium, and Serbia have also sent representatives, so there is now quite a foreign military colony as it were, with officers and permanent staffs.
The shops, cafés and restaurants were evidently doing a big trade, but it was always a very orderly and sedate crowd of young fellows one saw everywhere, and displayed far less ebullition of animal spirits than one would see in a French garrison town.
Although fighting was taking place within an hour’s motor run, nothing in the usual life of Udine was changed. There were several good restaurants, which were crowded for lunch and dinner, the delightful old twelfth century market-place that is one of the artistic treasures of the town, presented every day the customary scene of peaceful animation and brilliant colour one always associates with Italy, and which has such charm for the painter; it was “business as usual,” although you could generally hear the thunder of the guns quite distinctly.
Nor was amusement lacking of an evening, as there were two large Cinemas open, and at one a sort of music-hall entertainment as well; both these places were so well attended by the civilians, as well as the military element, that it was always difficult to get anything but bare standing room.
Here again the proximity of the fighting would often be vividly brought home to you when the booming of the guns was audible in an interval of the performance.
Of course the ordinary soldiers were only allowed out of barracks up to a certain hour—I forget for the moment what that was—so the streets looked comparatively deserted when they had gone.
The principal cafés were, however, well patronised up till closing time, and “Dorta’s,” in particular, was always very crowded with officers and civilians.
It was quite remarkable the number of pretty and smartly dressed women one saw about of a day—of course many of these were the wives or daughters of residents, but there were others also. On a fine Sunday morning, the Church parade on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele and along the Via Mercato Vecchio was quite one of the sights of Udine, for it was usually a galaxy of beauty and fashion.
To anyone like myself, newly arrived in the town, and expecting to find himself in the midst of warlike scenes considering how close one was to the operations, this unexpected spectacle came as a positive shock.
After a week or so, however, this impression of incongruity wore off, and you ended by feeling that after all these dainty apparitions in the streets or the restaurants were not so unpleasant to look on, and that they served to accentuate the grimness of the dust-covered warriors around them.
With the general advance of the Army, the majority of the troops was gradually shifted nearer the new Front, but the whole district was, and still is, under the command of a military governor, who wields the power of a dictator so far as the civilian element is concerned.
The streets were practically pitch dark on moonless nights, only the merest pretence of a glimmer of electric light in blue bulbs being allowed here and there, though the Stygian gloom was constantly being illumined by the powerful headlights of military cars passing through—a curious anomaly which appeared to me quite inexplicable.
Of course these precautions were taken owing, as I have said, to the proximity of Udine to the enemy’s lines and the fact in consequence that neighbourly visits from “Taubes” were frequently received, though fortunately they seldom succeeded in doing any damage or causing loss of life.
On several occasions, though they provided us with spectacular displays overhead, as there were always a number of our Capronis in the aerodrome close by in readiness to go up and tackle these intruders as soon as they were sighted, and there are few things more exciting to witness than an aerial fight.
A signal station was established on one of the highest buildings, and on the approach of a Taube a gun was fired to give the inhabitants timely warning, though the usual effect of this warning at first was to bring crowds into the streets to catch a glimpse of what was going on aloft rather than induce the people to make for safety. After a few of these alarms the novelty wore off, and though it cannot be said that scarcely any notice was taken of them, there was certainly no undue excitement when the signal gun was heard.
As will be gathered, therefore, the war, beyond transforming Udine from a picturesque, sleepy, little provincial town into a bustling and important military centre, had not effected so much change in it materially as might have been expected, so it was a sort of haven to return to after one had been in the zone of actual operations for a time.
I had now been up at the Front for six weeks, and was beginning almost to consider myself as settled permanently at Headquarters. How I managed to stay so long undisturbed I could not understand, considering the stringency of the police regulations.
It may have been that the authorities winked complacently at my presence during all these weeks in consequence of my being an artist as distinct from a journalist, for by this time I made no attempt at secrecy since no one took any notice of me apparently, and I went about everywhere as freely as if I had an official permit from the General himself.
I recollect one day meeting Colonel Lamb, the British Military Attaché, in the street. He had just arrived from Rome. He expressed his surprise at seeing me in Udine, and asked how long I had been there; when I told him he laughingly said: “You’ll end by being sent to prison and perhaps shot one day.”
I replied in the same vein that I had been expecting it to happen every day for weeks past, so should not be surprised when it did.
Well, whatever the reason, I had no unpleasant attention shown me until the last few days of my stay, and then it was suddenly brought home to me that I had overstayed my welcome.
It was really the last thing I was expecting to happen, as I had got on quite friendly terms with the Commandant of the Carabinieri, and only a few days previously the Commissaire of Police had given me his official sanction to remain in Udine. The order for what now took place must therefore have emanated from someone in higher authority than either of these gentlemen, so there was absolutely no appeal from it, as will be seen. It came about in this wise.
I was leaving the restaurant where I usually lunched when a tall, well-dressed civilian came up to me, and, as far as I could make out, since I hardly understood a word of Italian, asked me if I were Mr. Price, and if I were that person would I do him the inestimable favour to walk with him as far as the Questura, as they had something of importance they desired to communicate to me at once.
I guessed at once that he was a police officer in mufti, and that it was not for anything particularly agreeable to me that he stopped me thus. Thinking that perhaps he did not know that my papers were quite in order, I pulled out my police pass and shewed it to him; but this was not what he meant.
With the old time garrulity of the Italian, and unctiously wringing his hands as though he was in mental distress, he made me understand that it was very distasteful to him to have to interrupt my walk, but it was merely for a few moments, when I should be free to resume it, and he would again offer me his sincere apologies for venturing to accost me, but it was of sufficient importance for him to urge me to go with him now, as I was expected and being waited for. This is what I gathered from the few words I understood of all this verbosity.
Just at this moment, as luck would have it, someone I knew came along. He spoke a little French, so I asked him to tell me what it all meant. It was as I had guessed: this was an Agent de la Sureté, and I had to go with him to the police station at once for reasons which would be explained when I got there.
Of course there was no arguing the matter; I realised that it was all mock politeness I had been treated with, and that if I made any objection I should be spoken to very differently. At the station I was asked to produce “all my papers and my passport”; these were taken into an adjoining room. In a few minutes they were returned to me, and I was informed that I would hear further in the matter. Whereupon I was allowed to go, much mystified as to what was going to happen next.
The following morning a note was left at my Hotel to the effect that at 10 o’clock I was called upon to present myself again with “all my papers and my passport” at the police station, accompanied by someone to interpret for me. A young fellow who spoke French fairly well consented to accompany me.
I was taken before the Commissaire, the one who had given me the permis de séjour, and two other officials, who began to ply me with questions as to how I came to be in Udine, what I came for, and how long I had been there, together with a lot of other questions which were very irritating since the Commissaire knew all about me already, as he had his own signature before him on my papers.
There was a short conversation between the Commissaire and the officials, who looked towards me meanwhile in a friendly manner as I thought. I was soon to be undeceived though. They then turned to my interpreter and announced the upshot of these mysterious happenings.
“Well, what’s the result of all these proceedings?” I asked him.
“You are to be sent to Novara,” he replied unconcernedly.
“Be sent to Novara,” I repeated in amazement. “Where’s Novara?”
“Oh, a long way from here, near the Swiss frontier—beyond Turin.” He then went on to say as coolly as though it could be but of little interest to me.
“They say you must leave Udine by the first train.”
It suddenly flashed through my memory that I had heard of Novara as the town where Austrians and Germans were interned. I was so stupified for a moment that I did not know what to say. Then I told him as calmly as I could to ask the Commissaire what was the good of having a passport and such papers as I had if I was to be treated the same as an alien enemy. I could understand being requested to leave Udine, but not being ignominiously sent away. The Commissaire merely shrugged his shoulders and replied those were his orders.
Suddenly I remembered the letter for the Military Commandant of Udine I had still in my pocket, fortunately. I pulled it out and asked to be at least permitted to deliver it before I was sent away.
Its effect was, as it always had been, magical. The Commissaire looked at the address attentively, motioned me politely to be seated, then picking up my passport, took it with the letter into an adjoining room. He was gone some few minutes.
When he returned he told my interpreter to inform me that if I would write out at once a full explanation of my object in coming to the Front and my reasons for desiring to remain, the letter should be given to General Cafarelli, who would decide what I had to do. I was warned, however, that there must be no delay, the statement must be delivered in a few hours. My papers were returned to me, and I was then allowed to leave the office.
My good friends at the “Agrario” came to my help and got the letter drawn up in Italian and duly forwarded. The following day I had again to present myself at the Questura, and I was at once taken to the General’s offices in the adjoining building.
General Cafarelli, the Governor of Udine, was a very tall, thin, elderly man, with a grey beard, strikingly like the popular pictures of Don Quixote. He held my dossier in his hand, and had evidently just read it. He received me in the most frigid and unsympathetic manner, and I felt instantly that if it depended on him I was done with Udine and the Front.
Without waiting for anything I might have to say, he said abruptly in French: “You must leave Udine at once; you are not permitted to remain.”
I produced the famous letter, and asked if he could tell me when I could deliver it as it might perhaps affect his decision.
To my surprise he just glanced at the superscription, then without hesitating, opened it and read it through.
“This does not alter your case. You leave to-day,” he snapped out.
“But not for Novara I hope, mon General,” I ventured to remark.
“Well, I will make you that concession, but you must go either to Turin or Florence or Rome by the first train,” and then he added significantly: “I hope you will make no difficulty about it.” There was no mistaking his meaning.
“Of course I will not,” I replied; “my only regret is that I should have given you any trouble at all, and I trust you will understand that my motive in coming here was perfectly innocent.”
This appeared to mollify him considerably.
“Well, it is understood then that you leave to-day; the police will provide you with a ticket for whichever of the places I have named you decide to go to.” Then, to my surprise, he held out his hand as I turned to leave the room, and said in almost a friendly manner:
“The question of permitting correspondents to visit the Front is being considered, and perhaps in another month or so you will be allowed to return.”
“Then I will say au revoir, not adieu, mon General,” I said, with an attempt at cheerfulness I did not feel as we shook hands.
Well, to cut a long story short, I was packed off to Florence that evening with a third class police ticket, and with instructions to report myself immediately on my arrival there to the Commissaire of Police.
Railway journeys are not pleasant in Italy in midsummer—and in third class especially—but I had no option as I was not permitted to go in another class by paying the difference in the fare.
It was therefore a hot and tiring journey, but not quite so bad as I expected. True, the carriage was crowded all the way, but I found the peasant folk who were my travelling companions kindly unobtrusive people, and had I been able to converse with them should probably have found them very interesting; as it was, when they discovered I was an Englishman they insisted on giving me a corner seat—a little touch of good feeling which was as pleasing as it was unexpected.
At Florence the formalities I had to go through were soon over. My arrival was evidently expected. I was given a permis de séjour, with a little note certifying I had duly reported myself, and then I was free once more.