CHAPTER XII
Conclusion of Correspondents’ tour of Front—I return to London—Awaiting events—Brief official communiqués—Half Austrian Army held up on Italian Front—Harrying tactics—Trench warfare during the winter—Recuperative powers of the Austrians—Gorizia a veritable Verdun—Italian occupation of Austrian territory—Many thousand square miles conquered—A bolt from the blue—Serious development—Awakening Austrian activity—400,000 troops in the Trentino—Front from Lake Garda to Val Sugana ablaze—Totally unforseen onslaught—Towns and villages captured—Genius of Cadorna—Menace of invasion ended—I go and see Charles Ingram with reference going back to Italy—His journalistic acumen—My marching orders—Telegram from Rome—My journey back to Italy—Confidence everywhere—Milan in darkness—Improvement on the railway to Udine—Udine much changed—Stolid business air—Changes at the Censorship—Press Bureau and club for correspondents—The Censorship staff—Few accredited correspondents—Remarkable absence of Entente correspondents—Badges and passes—Complete freedom of action given me—I start for Vicenza en route for Arsiero—Scenes on road—From daylight into darkness—Hun methods of frightfulness—Arsiero—Its unfavourable position—Extent of the Austrian advance—Rush of the Italians—Austrians not yet beaten—Town damaged by the fire and bombardment—Villa of a great writer—Rossi’s paper-mills—The town itself—The battlefield—Débris of war—A dangerous souvenir for my studio.
One would have liked to spend an indefinite time at these scenes of warlike activity ([see page 131])
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CHAPTER XII
There were rumours that within a very short time the correspondents would be permitted to return to the Front, but it was very uncertain when this would be, so I decided, since we all had to leave the war zone, to return for the time being to London where I could find better employment in my studio, than playing the tourist in Italy.
For several months, however, no permission was given, and during this time, owing to the fact that there were no correspondents with the Army, little or nothing was known of what was taking place; the brief official communiqués conveying but the most meagre details.
That the Italians were marking time meanwhile was, however, in the last degree improbable, of that I felt convinced; General Cadorna is not made of that fibre. When he is apparently doing nothing of importance it is certain he is preparing some coup and waiting a favourable opportunity to develop it.
In the meantime practically half the Austrian Army and the pick of the troops at that was being held up on the Italian Front, and not in a state of immobility by any means; one was able to judge if one read between the lines of the Communiqués that day by day almost, and all through the winter, harrying tactics were being successfully carried on all along the Front. So much so, in fact, that the Austrian Generals must have often found themselves in a quandary for satisfactory matter for their daily reports.
The winter passed with ding-dong trench warfare, when the rate of progress could at times be only reckoned by yards in a week. Still, it was progress, and every yard was bringing the Italians nearer to their immediate objective, Gorizia.
Meanwhile the extraordinary and quite unexpected recuperative power of the Austrians was becoming more and more en evidence as was also the fact, unfortunately demonstrated by the heavy losses of the Italians, that they were putting up a desperate fight.
Gorizia had proved a veritable Verdun. Every hill and bluff being found to be fortified and honeycombed with deep entrenchments, which would have entailed enormous sacrifice of life to capture at this stage of the operations.
It looked, therefore, like taking months to accomplish what the Italians had fondly hoped would be but an affair of weeks, though considering the unforseen difficulties that had to be overcome, it redounded to the credit of General Cadorna and his lieutenants that so much could be recorded as actually compassed.
The occupation of two thousand square miles of Austrian territory with a population of over 300,000, was an achievement which in itself was sufficient answer to those captious stay-at-home arm-chair critics who were continually asking “What is Italy doing?”
Then suddenly—as a bolt from the blue—something totally unexpected happened, and developed into a crisis of so serious a nature that it called for the exercise of all the genius and resource of Cadorna, combined with the devotion of his troops, to master, and which might conceivably have altered the whole outlook of the war had it not been successfully handled.
On the 15th May the Italian communiqué, to the surprise of most of us, who followed with interest the fighting on this front, announced that on the previous day the Austrians had started a heavy bombardment on the positions on the Trentino Front near Roveretto which the Italians were expecting to capture at any moment.
This piece of news, after months of comparative quiescence, was sufficiently startling to attract immediate attention to the Italian Front, and the London papers actually began to mention Italy again.
The communiqués of the following days stated that the activity of the Austrian batteries continued, but gave no suggestion of anything untoward happening, so it was generally thought that the first intimation was perhaps somewhat exaggerated, and that there was “nothing much in it.”
But this sudden awakening of activity was, as it turned out, the first rumbling of the approaching storm, and, instead of dying out, as had previous artillery demonstrations, it gradually increased in intensity, until May 23rd, the anniversary of the declaration of war, when the burst came.
It was then discovered that the Austrians had concentrated no less than 400,000 troops in the Trentino sector at a point where they were protected by a series of powerful forts. This particular sector had all along been recognized as the weakest point on the Italian Front, but as there had been no indication of an offensive impending in this direction no steps had been taken to meet it.
In a few hours the 50 mile front from the Lake Garda to Val Sugana was ablaze, and the Italians were defending themselves for all they were worth against a heavy and determined Austrian thrust that tried their endurance to the utmost limit.
So totally unforseen was the onslaught that although the Italian wings on the Brenta and the Adige held firm, the centre was practically crumpled up by sheer weight of numbers, and the Austrians advanced victoriously into Italian territory. The towns of Arsiero, and Asiago, and many villages were captured, and it looked for a short time as if the plains of Venetia lay at the mercy of the invaders.
The genius and resource of General Cadorna saved the situation.
Brigades of infantry were hurried up to the threatened area in motor lorries and other vehicles, together with guns and huge quantities of ammunition. In incredibly short time an army of nearly 100,000 men were on the spot. The Italian line was consolidated and a counter-offensive begun.
Within four days the Italians had recovered the whole of the lost positions, including Arsiero and Asiago, and the menace of invasion was ended.
For some time previously I had been in daily expectation of receiving my marching orders to go back to Italy, and at the height of the crisis I went down to see Charles Ingram and again pressed him to let me start forthwith. He didn’t exactly say no, but was inclined to temporize.
Later I gathered that with true journalistic acumen he had in his mind that the British public were not exactly hungering after pictorial representation of Italian reverses. There was no hesitation on his part as soon as the first indication of the successful “push” arrived. My marching orders then were as peremptory as on previous occasions. I forgot to mention that I had received a telegram from the Ministero del Interno in Rome telling me I was permitted to return to Headquarters when I wished; so I had no anxiety on that score.
I got back to the Italian Front, therefore, in time to witness the expiring effort of the Austrian thrust.
On my journey across Italy I found everywhere a refreshing calm and confidence and not the slightest indication of any nervousness. Milan had had one or two visits from Taubes, so was in darkness at night, otherwise there was no reminder of the war; the life and gaiety of the city was the same as ever, and it was apparently bubbling over with prosperity.
There was a noticeable improvement in the railway service to Udine. Instead of a rough and ready journey there were now a sleeping car and restaurant attached to the train, so one travelled in comfort.
Udine appeared to me much changed. There were far fewer soldiers to be seen in the streets, owing probably to the fact that the fighting lines were now so much farther away, and the old time bustling military activity was no longer noticeable. An air of stolid business seemed to have taken its place. Many of the big public buildings that had been temporarily utilized for staff purposes, and which used to overflow with martial activity were now closed; more convenient quarters having been found elsewhere.
To anyone, therefore, arriving in Udine now for the first time the little town must have appeared quite commonplace, apart from its historical and architectural features.
But the greatest change was at the Censorship. It had been improved beyond all recognition, and it was evident that the Government no longer regarded the representatives of the fourth estate as interlopers, but as honoured guests.
A fine, roomy old palace had been rented and transformed into a Press Bureau and club for the war-correspondents. The Censorship staff, consisting of three officers—Colonel Barbarich, Lt.-Colonel Clericetti, and Captain Weillschott, three courteous and genial gentlemen—did their utmost to make the lot of the correspondents as pleasant as possible. They were good friends rather than mentors, and you could not help having the greatest regard and esteem for them.
In addition to the spacious and comfortable club-room, where writing paper and other requisites were provided, and soldiers were on duty as club servants, the Government had gone one better than any club I know of, for, with true Italian hospitality, black coffee after lunch or dinner, afternoon tea with cakes, and “soft” drinks in the evening were provided free of charge.
Before lunch or during the afternoon one was pretty sure to meet here everyone who was in Udine in connection with journalism, or who was visiting the Front; as Udine was still the starting point for expeditions to the lines, and it was only here that the military passes were issued.
The Censorship, therefore, had grown into a permanent and well-organized institution, but it had dwindled to insignificant proportions so far as the number of accredited correspondents was concerned, as compared with what it had been the previous year.
I was much surprised to find when I returned to Udine that there were not more than ten Italian pressmen there, and that I was the only foreign representative. As a matter of fact, during the whole of the three months I was at the Front this year I practically had the whole field to myself.
Considering the magnitude of the operations which culminated in the fall of Gorizia, it is scarcely to be wondered at that this remarkable absence of Entente correspondents excited much comment at Headquarters.
The Italian correspondents wore an enamel badge to indicate their profession, and military passes, “Salvo Condotti,” were issued to everyone. These passes were for fourteen days only, in the case of the foreign correspondents, who were not allowed to go anywhere unless accompanied by an officer deputed by the Censor.
I was shown particular courtesy and latitude, and all irksome restrictions waived in this respect, probably on account of my being an artist, as distinct from a journalist. I had moreover no difficulty whatever in remaining up at the Front as long as I chose, and on leaving was informed I was at liberty to return whenever I wished and without any further formality.
The complete freedom of action this gave me was particularly delightful, and was in marked contrast to what I had experienced on the Western Fronts. I found several old friends amongst the Italian correspondents established permanently at Headquarters, so there was no difficulty in making arrangements with regard to a car, as, of course, one could go nowhere without one.
It may be of interest to mention that only military chauffeurs were allowed to drive in the zone of operations, and their permits had to be renewed at stated intervals.
On arriving in Udine everybody in the newspaper line was away in the Trentino, as obviously all interest centred there for the moment; the Censorship building was, therefore, very forlorn and deserted looking.
I duly reported myself and was given my “pass” to go on to the scene of action at once if I chose; not the slightest difficulty was placed in my way; in fact, everything was done to facilitate my work, even to providing me with a car and an officer to act as my guide.
So without delay I started for Vicenza, the nearest important place to the fighting. Everything was very calm and peaceful there, no sign of anything out of the common happening. Yet the Austrians had got within 25 miles of the city and less than five from the Venetian Plain, which surrounds it. Truly the Latin temperament has undergone a wonderful metamorphosis in the last decade.
We stayed the night in Vicenza, and started the following morning for Arsiero, the Italian town in Schio, occupied by the Austrians, and which had only a few days previously been recaptured. For the first fifteen miles or so there was nothing of particular interest along the road except the endless defile of troops and transport of every description, such as might have been expected; but in the villages the daily life of the peasants appeared to be going on as usual, with women and children everywhere.
Then one appeared to cross an invisible line of demarcation, and once beyond it, all was changed.
It was like going from daylight into darkness. The smiling villages were deserted, save where some of the cottages were occupied by soldiers. Through the open windows one saw that not only were the inhabitants gone, but that they had removed most of their household goods and chattels with them.
In several places were indications of panic—articles lying about as though dropped in flight, even washing abandoned by a stream. The sadness of it all was most impressive, but worse was to come. As we neared the scene of the Austrian thrust there was abundant evidence of the fate that would have been in store for any hapless folk whose homes happened to be in reach of the Austrian guns.
Up till now what had impressed me perhaps most of all in the war on the Italian Front was the entire absence, so to speak, of the horrors of war in the shape of devastated towns, villages and country sides, such as one got so hardened to in France and Belgium. This impression was now to be rudely dispelled.
Once inside the radius of the big guns the spectacle was but a repetition of what I had seen on the Western Front; heaps of shapeless rubble and smouldering ruin on all sides bore witness to Hun methods of frightfulness.
We at length came in sight of Arsiero and had to leave the car as the road, which had been getting more and more choked with débris, now became impassible. Moreover, big shells were coming over with persistent frequency, and we could not afford to take any risk of our transport being injured. We had no desire to walk back.
One must have seen the Front here for oneself in order to form any conception of what the Austrian thrust meant, and how near it was to succeeding.
Arsiero is situated in the valley of Astico; behind it is the semi-circle of mountains which form the boundary of the tableland of the Altopiano, so close as to dominate it completely, foremost amongst these mountains being M. Cenzio and M. Cimone, standing up like colossal barriers above the valley.
From the point of view of an artist it would be difficult to conceive a more delightful panorama than one had before one’s eyes: it was a glorious picture waiting to be painted in peace time, but you felt that there was nothing attractive about it from the military point of view. If an enemy were in possession of all these superb heights, then the positions in the valley below would be very undesirable, to say the least of it; and without any knowledge of military matters you realised that the valley and all that it contained—towns, villages, vineyards and what not—was completely at the mercy of the men who manned the guns up above, and also that under cover of these guns immense masses of troops could be safely brought down the side of the mountains on to the plains, and established there pending further movements.
Following up your thoughts as an amateur strategist, you could not fail to come to the conclusion that the valley was as good as lost if such a contingency came to pass, unless the defenders could achieve what looked like a sheer impossibility, and drive the invaders from their positions on the plain and back again up the mountain side.
The idea of such a possibility was too fantastic to waste a thought on it. Yet this is actually what happened during that fateful week when Italy was on the brink of disaster.
On the road leading to the town there were signs everywhere of the Austrians, and of the desperate fighting that had taken place here only a few days previously. I had thought that there might be a certain amount of panicky exaggeration in the reports of the extent of the Austrian advance towards the place, but there were incontestable proofs in the shape of trenches, barbed wire and so forth pushed forward well in front of Arsiero.
Every yard of the enemy’s advance had been methodically consolidated, but nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians—their blood was up for vengeance—they were fighting on Italian soil and on their way here had passed through the devastated villages and ruined countryside, and had heard tales of outrage and infamy.
It was a case of God help the Austrians if they caught up with them, for along the whole Front there had been considerable evidence of the enemy’s barbaric methods; in one place, for instance, near Magnaboschi, hundreds of naked corpses of Italian soldiers were found in the mire.
With the knowledge of what they might expect if the Italians got to grips with them, the Austrians, once they got on the run, never stopped till they were safely back in their old positions, and here they were putting up a stubborn fight when I was in Arsiero.
They were not beaten by any means, although driven from Italian soil. That General Cadorna was evidently aware that any relaxation of pressure would have brought them on again was substantiated by the number of troops he was keeping in this sector.
Arsiero had suffered considerably, and although not entirely in ruins, as has been stated, was more damaged by fire and shell than any place in Italy I had yet seen.
On the outskirts of the town the gairish nouvel art villa of the famous Italian writer, Antonio Fogazzaro, which must have cost him a little fortune to build was now but an unsightly ultra-modern ruin standing in the midst of a wilderness of park-like grounds. One of the most advanced of the Austrian communication trenches leading into the valley started from here.
A little distance further down the road were the immense paper-mills of Rossi and Co., said to have been the largest in Europe, and which employed hundreds of workpeople.
The buildings were absolutely wiped out. They had been deliberately set fire to by the Austrians before they evacuated the town. Nothing remained now but acres of crumbling walls, smouldering timber, and twisted débris of machinery, over which hung a pall, as it were, of smoke, a pitiful spectacle of wanton, insensate destruction.
The town itself, a picturesque, rambling, up-hill and down-dale sort of place was only destroyed in patches, but with the shells still coming over there was yet a possibility of its utter destruction.
As the gun-fire seemed to have lulled a bit, we had a stroll up to the battlefield on the hill beyond the houses. There a barrage of shell-fire had evidently been attempted, judging from the fragments of shell-cases of all calibres lying about. In places the ground was littered with the detritus of war, and looked like an old-iron and rag-refuse heap. Here and there were interesting curios and many unexploded projectiles in perfect condition. It occurred to me that I would take one of these away with me as a souvenir for my studio, and was stooping down to pick up one when a soldier, who was passing, rushed towards me yelling out at the top of his voice, “Non toccate! non toccate! Signore.”
I did not understand much Italian, but I knew enough to comprehend that I was not to touch it, and thought it strange that with all this rubbish lying about I could not take something if I fancied it.
My companion came up at that moment and explained to me that it was most dangerous to handle these unexploded live shells—even walking too close to them has been known to cause them to explode. I did not want any further telling, and contented myself with taking an empty .77 as a souvenir.
But nothing had stopped the rush of the Italians ([see page 158])
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