CHAPTER VIII
On the summit of the Forcola—We start off in “military” time—Our guide—Hard climbing—Realize we are no longer youthful—Under fire—Necessary precautions—Our goal in sight—An awful bit of track—Vertigo—A terrifying predicament—In the Forcola position—A gigantic ant-heap—Unique position of the Forcola—A glorious panorama—The Austrian Tyrol—The three frontiers—Shown round position—Self-contained arsenal—Lunch in the mess-room—Interesting chat—The “observation post”—The goniometre—Return to Bormio—Decide to pass another night there—An invitation from the sergeants—Amusing incident.
CHAPTER VIII
The summit of the Forcola is only nine kilometres as the crow flies from Bormio, but we were told that it meant covering at least three times that distance to reach our destination, and the hard climb would make it appear much more.
We therefore got off in military time in the morning, and went a bit of the way in the car till we came to a sort of wayside châlet, quite Swiss in appearance, where a detachment of Alpini was stationed.
On presenting our letter from the Colonel at Headquarters, the Officer in command ordered one of his men to accompany us, so leaving the car here to await our return, we started off without delay. Our guide, a brawny and typical young Italian mountaineer, leading the way at a pace that soon compelled us to ask him to slow down a bit.
We had been advised, as we were unaccustomed to climbing, not to “rush” it at first, as we had at least two hours of strenuous plodding to reach the fort, and it was a very hot day, which would make us feel the strain the more.
To our athletic cicerone this was evidently but an ordinary walk in the day’s work; in fact, so light did he make of it that he obligingly insisted on carrying our overcoats and other paraphernalia in spite of his being encumbered with his rifle, ammunition belt and heavy cape.
We were not long in discovering that the stiffness of the climb we were undertaking had not been exaggerated, and also that we were neither of us as young as we had been. This latter point in particular I recollect was irritatingly brought home to me at one time when we were really making splendid progress as we thought. Some Alpini, in full marching order, caught us up and passed us as easily as if we had been standing still. However, it was no good being discouraged because we were no longer youthful, and we continued to make our way slowly but surely up the winding rocky track.
We had got about half way, and so far there had been nothing in the nature of an incident, and no indication whatever that we were actually right up at the Front and within range of the Austrian batteries, for a dead silence had reigned in the mountains all the morning.
Suddenly, as we were crossing a comparatively level bit of boulder-strewn ground, the report of a big gun resounded in the still air, and in a few seconds we heard a wailing sort of shriek approaching, and an instant after the loud crash of a shell bursting a short distance away.
We stopped and looked at each other, uncertain what to do as there was no cover anywhere near. Our guide settled it for us without a moment’s hesitation.
“The Austrians have seen us, that’s why they have commenced firing in this direction; they probably think we may be part of a detachment of troops going up to the fort—we must hurry on, and with intervals of a couple of hundred yards or so between us.”
There was no time to lose, for whilst he was speaking another shell burst nearer than the previous one.
So off we went again with the Alpino leading the way. Rateau was in the centre, and I brought up the rear. Two hundred yards are not much on the level, but on a steep mountain track the distances are difficult to estimate, so the soldier was quite out of sight at times from where I was.
The firing still continued in a desultory manner, shells dropping aimlessly here and there, with no particular object so far as one could judge, but probably with the idea of hampering any movements of troops on the mountain. Meanwhile there was no response whatever from the Italian batteries. They were letting the Austrians waste their ammunition since they were so minded.
Our goal at last came into view high above on the summit of a cyclopean wall of rock and seemingly an inaccessible point to reach. It looked an awful place to climb up to and only to be tackled by mountaineers, yet somewhere on that precipitous height there was surely a means of ascent indistinguishable from below; and so it proved.
The track now became more and more steep and zig-zag, till at length the windings terminated, and there appeared a long straight stretch, going without a break along the face of the bluff, up to the summit at an angle of at least 60 degrees. Even now when I recall it, it makes me shudder.
It was certainly not more than a couple of feet in width, and overhung an abyss hundreds of feet deep. The mere aspect of it almost gave me vertigo.
Hesitation, however, was out of the question after coming so far; moreover, I was now quite alone, as my companions had already reached our destination; I had to go on.
Within a few yards of the top I happened unconsciously to look down. The effect produced by the sight of the yawning gulf beneath me was terrifying: a giddiness came over me, my knees began to tremble, and had I not managed to turn and clutch frantically at a projecting piece of rock I should have lost my balance and fallen over.
I shut my eyes and held on for a few minutes, not daring to stir; then, with a strong effort of will, I pulled myself together sufficiently to edge along with my face to the rock and grasp hold of some barbed wire outside the opening leading into the fort; then, of course, I was safe.
Almost needless to add that when I got inside I did not relate my perilous experience. You are not supposed to be subject to vertigo when you tackle mountain climbing; it might prove awkward for your comrades.
A wonderful spectacle confronted me as I looked round. The Forcola is nearly 10,000 feet high, and here, right on the summit, was a veritable citadel in course of construction, with armoured trenches, sandbag emplacements for big guns, barbed-wire entanglements; in fact, everything that modern military science can contrive to insure impregnability.
The whole place was teeming with activity, and looked like a gigantic ant-heap; on all sides soldiers were to be seen at work, and it was evident that those in charge of this important position were determined to leave nothing to luck. The little that nature had left unprotected was being made good by the untiring efforts and genius of the Italians, and the Austrian chances of ever capturing the place are practically nil. Its curious configuration largely contributes to its impregnability and power of resistance if ever besieged.
Behind its line of armoured trenches is a deep hollow, which could shelter an army corps if necessary; and here, under complete cover, are well-built, barrack-like buildings, in which the troops can be comfortably quartered during the long winter months when the fort is buried under yards of snow and practically isolated from the outer world.
As he whirled past in the big car ([see page 50])
To face page 88
The position on the Forcola is probably unique in the world, as it is situated exactly at a point where three frontiers meet: the Italian, Austrian and Swiss. From its sandbag ramparts on the front facing the Austrians one has the most sublime vista of mountain scenery it would be possible to conceive. It is impossible in mere words to attempt to convey anything but the faintest impression of it, yet it would be a sin of omission not to endeavour to.
As I gazed in front of me, the marvellous beauty of the scene held me in rapt suspense, and for a few moments the war passed from my mind.
The Austrian Tyrol was before me, a panorama of wondrous mountain peaks stretching away into the mist of the far distance, and towering above the highest was the mighty Ortler, crowned with eternal snow, and positively awe-inspiring in its stately grandeur.
My reverie was abruptly disturbed by the boom of a big gun. I was back again amongst realities, yet how puny did the biggest efforts of mankind at war appear in comparison with all this splendour of nature. Had it not been for the echoes produced by these giant peaks the report of even the heavy artillery would probably have scarcely been heard.
The Swiss and Austrian frontiers meet on the summit of a Brobdingnagian cliff of rock of strange formation, which towers above the Forcola. Through field glasses the frontier guards and the blockhouses are plainly discernable.
This overhanging proximity of the enemy strikes me as constituting a constant menace to the Italian position, as every movement within its enceinte is visible from the height above. The fact also of the Austrian and Swiss frontier guards being so close to each other as to be able to fraternise must inevitably conduce to espionage. Doubtless, however, all this has been well considered by the Italians, and they are not likely to be caught napping.
Rateau and I had a very cordial reception, and the officer in command of the position took a visible pride in showing us round it and explaining everything, whilst I made a lot of interesting sketches. The ability and rapidity with which it had been constructed and fortified were worthy of the very highest praise. Such a fortress brought into being in so short a time and at such an altitude was in itself such a marvel of military capacity that one was lost in wonder at it all. Evidently no obstacle presented by nature deterred its accomplishment.
In the emplacements were guns of a calibre one certainly never expected to see except in the valley, and you were lost in conjecture how the feat of getting them up here was achieved.
Everything was approaching completion, and by the time the snow set in and the position would be practically cut off from the lower world it would be a big, self-contained arsenal with all that was necessary for carrying on its share of the general scheme of operations on the Frontier without extraneous assistance should the rigours of the Alpine winter render it unapproachable.
In the warfare in the mountains, positions develop more or less into isolated communities, as the men seldom have an opportunity of going down to the busy world below, besides which the summer is so brief at these altitudes. Even on the date we were at the Forcola, the twentieth of August, there were already unmistakable signs of the approach of winter; the air was decidedly frosty—there had been a fall of snow a few hours previously, and most of the peaks were powdered with silvery white.
We gladly accepted the invitation to have some lunch in the mess-room, for the keen air had given both of us healthy appetites, and while we were doing justice to a well-cooked steak with fried potatoes and a flask of very excellent Valtellino. I had a chat with some of the younger officers, and learned to my surprise that they had not stirred from the place since they had come up nearly three months before, and they had no hope of getting leave for a long time to come as things were developing and the winter coming along. A visit from two civilians like ourselves, who could give them some news of the outside world, was therefore a veritable red-letter day for them.
Yet, in spite of the monotony of their existence, these cheery fellows did not complain. There was always plenty to occupy their minds, they said, and prevent them from brooding over old times. To defend the Forcola at all hazards was now their sole pre-occupation; and after all, they added, with an attempt at mirth, they might easily have been stationed in a still more isolated spot and with fewer companions. Such admirable equanimity was only what I expected to find now that I knew the Italian soldier, so it did not surprise me at all.
After lunch, as the Austrian batteries seemed to be getting busier, we strolled up to the “observation post,” a sort of tunnel in which was a telephone installation and an instrument known as a “goniometre,” a powerful telescope in miniature, combined with a novel kind of range-finder, through which the slightest movement of the enemy can be instantly detected and telephoned to the officers in command of the different gun emplacements. The machine is always in readiness, as it is so fixed that once it is focussed it requires no re-adjustment.
There was a small, irregular hole at the end of the tunnel that faced the enemy’s line, and through this the goniometre pointed. Two soldiers were on duty, one to keep his eye on the opposite mountain, the other to manipulate the telephone. It evidently required some practice to use the telescope, as I had a good look through it and could scarcely make out anything.
When we visited the post the Italian batteries were not yet replying to what I was informed were only the usual daily greetings of the Austrians, but their response would doubtless be sent in due course, judging from the conversation of the operator with the telephone.
Everything we saw was so absorbingly interesting that we should have liked to remain on the Forcola many hours more, but time was getting on by now, and we had to think of getting back.
As may be imagined, after my experience coming up I was particularly dreading this moment to arrive. I thought it best, however, to say nothing and trust to luck in getting down without another attack of vertigo. When we said goodbye to our genial hosts, several soldiers were about to descend also, so we were to have company.
“Three minutes interval between each man and go as fast as possible,” called out an officer, and off went everyone at a given signal. Rateau was just before me and, as it turned out, I was last.
I felt like the prisoners in the Conciergerie during the reign of terror must have felt as they waited their turn to go out to the fatal tumbril. Through the opening in the sandbags only a bit of the narrow pathway was visible, as it turned sharply to the right and went down the face of the cliff beyond. It was like looking out on limitless space.
“Well, goodbye and a pleasant journey,” said the officer to me when my turn came.
Out I went, putting my hand over my left eye to avoid looking into the void, and I managed to run like this all the way down.
It was getting late when we got back to Bormio, so we decided to remain another night, and were glad we did, as an amusing incident occurred during the evening.
Whilst we were finishing dinner at the hotel, we received a note inviting us afterwards to smoke a cigar and take a glass of wine with the sergeants of the regiment quartered in the town. Of course we accepted and duly turned up.
The reception—for such it was—took place in a large private room of the hotel we were staying in, and we were greeted with the utmost cordiality.
There was a big display of a certain very famous brand of champagne on a side table, and the corks soon began to fly merrily; toasts were given as usual, and everything was pleasant. During a pause a sergeant next to me, who spoke French fluently, asked me how I liked the wine.
In jocular vein I replied that it was excellent, but it was a pity it is German, as it is well known that the owner of the vineyards near Rheims is at present interned in France. To my surprise he took my words seriously; there was an icy moment as he communicated my remarks to his comrades, and then, as though with one accord, there was a crash of broken glass, and we had to finish up the evening for patriotic reasons on Asti Spumante.