CHAPTER XIII
The fighting on the Asiago plateau—Brilliant counter-offensive of General Cadorna—I go to Asiago—Wonderful organization of Italian Army—Making new roads—Thousands of labourers—The military causeway—Supply columns in full operation—Wonderful scenes—Approaching the scene of action—The forest of Gallio—The big bivouac—Whole brigades lying hidden—The forest screen—Picturesque encampments—The “bell” tent as compared with the tente d’abri—Our car stopped by the Carabinieri—“Nostri Canoni”—We leave the car—The plain of Asiago—The little town of Asiago in distance—The Austrian and Italian batteries and Italian trenches—Hurrying across—The daily toll of the guns—Asiago in ruins—Street fighting—Importance attaching to this point—An ominous lull—Regiment waiting to proceed to trenches—Sad spectacle—The quarters of the divisional commandant—His “office”—Staff clerks at work—Telephone bells ringing—The commandant’s regret at our coming—Big artillery attack to commence—A quarter of an hour to spare—A peep at the Austrian trenches—A little ruined home—All movements of troops to trenches by night—Artillery action about to commence—Not allowed to go to trenches—Adventure on way back—Attempt cross no man’s land at the double—My little “souvenir” of Asiago—Bursting shells—Ordered to take cover—The wounded soldiers and the kitten—Anything but a pleasant spot—The two Carabinieri—Cool courage—In the “funk-hole”—An inferno—My own impressions—Effect on soldiers and our chauffeur—The wounded sergeant—We prepare to make a start back—Irritating delay—A shrapnel—My companion is wounded—Transformation along road—Curious incident.
CHAPTER XIII
The Austrian thrust was not confined to the Arsiero sector, although it was undoubtedly there that they made their greatest effort in men and guns. The Asiago plateau in the district of the Sette Communi was the scene of desperate fighting simultaneously with that around Arsiero.
The counter-offensive of General Cadorna in this direction was, if anything, more brilliantly conceived and carried out than in the Astico valley, and that is saying a great deal. But here again, although driven back, the enemy was by no means beaten, and continued to fight sullenly for every yard he was forced to yield. Although the Italians were pressing closely on the enemy’s heels, it was a tough job to keep him on the move, as I was able to judge for myself.
I went up to Asiago on my return from Arsiero, and must admit I was astounded at all I saw; it was inconceivable that so much could have been accomplished in so short a time.
I have so often insisted on the wonderful organization of every branch of the Italian Army that I hardly like to revert to it again, but I had just returned, after having been away for several months, and I found that my impressions were precisely the same as in the beginning of the war; preparedness is still the mot d’ordre. An instance of this will serve to convey my meaning.
It is uphill most of the way to the tableland where Asiago is situated, and before the Austrian onslaught the roads to the plateau were of so rough and primitive a description as to be quite inadequate to meet the requirements of the immense transport service of the army being sent up.
In order to cope with the exigencies of the situation drastic measures had to be adopted, which were evidently foreseen and arranged for in the event of certain contingencies such as the present one arising.
Thousands of labourers, young and old, of the military classes not yet called up, but who undoubtedly had been warned for this duty, were brought from all over the country, provided with picks and shovels and sent here by express trains. Without the delay of an hour practically, they were set to work to cut down obstructing trees and widen, build up and level the existing roads.
Of course they were well paid: five lires a day and their food provided, but it was not a mere question of pay—of that you cannot fail to be convinced—only men working with their hearts in their job could have accomplished what these gangs of men did in the time. It is truly an object lesson in the value of organized labour.
The fine broad highway, complete in every necessary detail, such as stone parapets at the curves, and walling-up where there is risk of landslides, came into being as though by the touch of a magician’s wand, and proved of incalculable value in the counter-attack which was meanwhile preparing. The transport of the masses of troops synchronizing with the completion of the roads.
Certain it is that without such organization it would have required many weeks to have carried out what was done in a few days, and in the meantime the invaders, it is to be assumed, would not have been idle on their side.
When I motored up to Asiago, had I not been told how long this roadway had been in existence I should have said it was years old, instead of days.
Along this military causeway was as busy and animated a scene as could be imagined. The Italians had already recaptured all the positions in the Sette Communi, and were pushing steadily on towards the Altopiano beyond Asiago.
The supply columns were, therefore, now in full operation, and one passed what was practically an endless convoy of munition trains, motor lorries, picturesque carts from every corner apparently of the peninsula, and long strings of pack horses and mules. In and out of this imposing column and up the steepest parts of the road dispatch riders on motor bicycles dashed along with reckless speed and marvellous dexterity.
It was a wonderfully inspiriting scene, and this was accentuated as one gradually began to hear the booming of the Italian guns in the distance. We were rapidly approaching the scene of action, and the Austrians were being given no respite.
The effect of all this, together with the glorious air of the mountain, was as exhilarating as champagne—one felt years younger. The car seemed to go too slowly, so eager were you to get on, and be in the thick of it all.
The mountain side was bare and bleak, with scarcely a vestige of tree or shrub—but on the tableland beyond the crest it gradually changed, and we entered a belt of pine forest, dark and gloomy.
This was the forest of Gallio. The road wound in and out of the dense trees, and only a short distance ahead could be seen. We had now passed the head of the transport convoys, and came up with reinforcements hurrying forward.
A remarkable scene now presented itself. The forest on either side of the road was a big bivouac. The gloom under the trees was alive with troops as far back as one could see. Every yard of ground appeared to be occupied, whole brigades were lying hidden here waiting the order to advance. No more effective screen could have been wished for than this belt of forest, and it must have been a continual source of anxiety to the Austrian generals to know what it concealed.
It was probably for this reason that the forest of Gallio was the hottest section of this Front, as it was continually being shelled, and the casualties were always correspondingly heavy.
There was something singularly reminiscent of mining scenes in the Far West in all I saw around me as many of the men had erected their picturesque little tentes d’abri and formed little encampments in all sorts of out-of-the-way corners. The soldiers were apparently allowed considerable latitude in this respect, possibly because these tents are so easily handled, and by reason of their small dimensions are easily disguised with foliage.
The big and cumbersome “bell” tent so fondly adhered to by the British Army Authorities under all circumstances would have looked very out of date here, where initiative not dogma reigned supreme!
After passing through what gave the impression of miles and miles of encampment, we approached the confines of the trees, and were suddenly hailed by two Carabinieri standing under the trees just off the road, and informed that the car was not allowed to proceed any further.[A]
[A] The Carabinieri have a special status in Italy, and only men of the very highest character are accepted for the corps. In peace time they are country constabulary, and patrol the rural districts; in war they automatically become military police and are exclusively employed in the immediate rear of the fighting line, watching for deserters, looking after prisoners, carrying despatches, and so forth. They only take orders from their own officers, and never do any military service. On but one occasion have they become combatants, and that was at the battle of Palestro in 1859, when they saved the life of King Humbert by forming a square to protect him. Their war footing is 50,000, of whom 8,000 are mounted.
Of course our chauffeur pulled up without hesitating: he knew that Carabinieri have to be obeyed without parley. My companion got out, and I was following him when, scarcely had I got my foot off the step, than there was a deafening report like a thunderclap a few yards away. For a moment I thought my head had been blown off.
“Sonoi Nostri Canoni,” remarked my companion, who had been there before, and who knew of an Italian big gun hidden in the trees within a few yards of us; one of many along the outskirts of the forest, I was told later, and which were giving the Austrians much trouble. We left the car here to await our return and walked on. A hundred yards or so and we were clear of the forest, which ended abruptly on the edge of a slight acclivity.
A little below us was a wide expanse of grass-covered plain, and in the centre of it, about a mile away, were the white houses of the little town of Asiago, of which one had read so much during the past few weeks.
Just beyond the town a line of low-lying hills stood out against the horizon. On the crest of one of these hills—Monte Interrotto—about two and a half miles distant were the Austrian batteries, and on the slopes below were the Austrian and Italian trenches. In the far distance to the North, Monte Zebio stood out amongst some rugged peaks.
For the moment the scene was fairly peaceful, that is to say the guns on either side were only firing in a desultory way; but, of course, one could not tell how long this would last and what might “come over” at any moment; however, as we had come here with the intention of going right into Asiago, this had to be chanced. My companion advised hurrying across as quickly as possible as there was no cover anywhere, and the road was quite exposed to the view of the Austrian gunners.
It was a typical summer morning, with the birds singing merrily on all sides, so it was somewhat difficult to realize that there was danger in strolling along leisurely, but before we had gone far we met stretcher-bearers coming towards us with their sad burdens, and quite a number of soldiers carrying wounded men on their backs.
No big engagement was in progress we learned, but the guns and rifles were taking their steady and relentless daily toll all the time.
This constant stream of wounded ended by getting on one’s nerves, and made you wonder what the fates had in store for you.
The town, from a distance, appeared to be quite undamaged, but on getting near to it one found it was in a sad state of ruins. Very few of the houses had escaped the ravages of fire or bombardment.
The position of Asiago, midway between the opposing batteries, had, of course, in a great measure brought this about, and was responsible for its gradual destruction.
There was a great deal of street fighting before the invaders were driven out and back to the hills, and in several places were hastily erected barricades formed with broken furniture and other miscellaneous articles. Barbed wire entanglements of a novel construction were also placed in some of the streets in case the Italian cavalry attempted to force a way through.
So Asiago was very closely connected with the stirring events that were taking place, and from being an unheard of little frontier town, had become one of the most spoken of places in Italy.
The fact that the communiqués referred to it almost daily is proof of the importance attaching to this point, and it required ceaseless vigilance on the part of the Italians to retain their foothold in its ruined streets. But no attempt has been made to fortify the place, its defences are the trenches on the hills beyond, and which, at the time I was there, were gradually being pushed forward.
Any troops in the town itself were only there de passage for a few hours. It would have been risking unnecessary sacrifice of life to have kept them there for any length of time.
We were in about as exposed a position as could probably have been found on any front, but for the moment there was an ominous lull which portended no good, and so it turned out. The respite was not to last long; the Asiago plateau is far too important a sector of the front to be left long in quietude.
The little town must have been a delightful place before the war, and even now, destroyed though it mostly is, there are a few picturesque corners which the bombardment has spared. There were comparatively very few soldiers about, and the deserted, ruined streets looked unutterably sad; but right in the centre, on an open piece of waste ground, sheltered by some tall houses and a roughly made “screen” of odd pieces of corrugated iron, a regiment was waiting for nightfall to proceed to the trenches outside the town.
I had a good look through an aperture in the screen: the men were noticeably subdued in their demeanour, as well they might be, considering that at any moment they might be under a hail of projectiles and with no means of escaping it.
They had evidently been on the road for some time, as they all looked grimy with dust and dirt and tired out, judging from the way most of them were lying about sleeping. It was an extremely sad spectacle, and I had no inclination to make a sketch of it, novel though it was.
We enquired our way to the quarters of the Divisional Commandant, as my companion had a letter to deliver to him, and an officer we met sent some one with us to show us the house, as outwardly there was no indication of its being occupied. The number of deep dug-outs protected with sand-bags one saw everywhere was sufficient proof of the awful time the men stationed here went through. As we went along we were constantly meeting stretcher-bearers bringing along wounded men. At the corners of streets men were sheltering close up to the walls as though expecting at any moment something to happen.
The Commandant’s “office” was in a house that had suffered badly: there were gaping cracks in the walls, and it looked as if any explosion near it would bring it down with a run.
There were quite a number of staff clerks at work in the ground-floor rooms, and the telephone bells were ringing incessantly.
We were received by the Commandant with much cordiality, and the position of affairs in the immediate vicinity explained to us very lucidly by means of a big military chart fastened to a table in one of the rooms, but he expressed regret at our having come just on that particular day as a big attack by the artillery was timed to commence at eleven o’clock (it was then 10.45), and he feared we should not be able to get back so soon as we wished.
As though in defiant response to his statement, there was at that moment a loud report from an Austrian battery, and a big shell screeched by overhead.
There was still a quarter of an hour to spare before the Italian guns were to start off, so the Commandant suggested our going upstairs to the third floor to have a peep at the Italian and Austrian trenches through a shell-hole in the roof. The house was quite new and built in flats, which had evidently been occupied by fairly well-to-do people.
The room we went into had evidently been a sort of bedroom and nursery combined: it was in a complete state of ruin, furniture smashed, women’s clothes jumbled up all over the floor, with tiles and bricks and mortar, here and there among the débris a child’s toy, a broken doll, and what not, letters and papers strewn everywhere, and all sodden with rain. There was something inexpressibly pathetic in this little ruined home.
The Italian and Austrian trenches were but a few hundred yards away, and only quite a short distance separated them. There was, however, very little to see even through our powerful binoculars. The whole hillside was very bare, and the trenches looked like mere furrows in it, and yet one knew that these furrows were full of men waiting the opportunity to get out and kill each other.
There was not a sign of life anywhere, as it meant certain death to show yourself if only for an instant, the Commandant told me; even where we were in this third floor room we ran the risk of being spotted by some vigilant sniper, for the dilapidated roof offered very little shelter.
All movements of troops up to the trenches were made by night, and once the men were in position they were completely isolated, it only being possible to take them their food once during the day, after dark.
On the crest of Monte Interrotto opposite us, about fifteen hundred yards distant, was a curious little squat-looking building which had, I was told, been originally erected as a fort, but now it was merely a landmark probably, and abandoned, or it would have certainly been obliterated by the Italian artillery.
It was just upon eleven o’clock when we came down, and the telephone bells were ringing furiously—the artillery action was evidently about to commence.
My companion, who, by the way, had a camera with him, suggested our going out to the trenches, but when he mentioned it to the Commandant he was told that he, as an officer, could of course go if he wished; there was nothing to stop him, but I could not be allowed to accompany him under any circumstances.
The reason for this interdiction was not explained as far as I could gather. There was, however, no arguing the matter, so rather than leave me he decided that since that was the case, and there was nothing more to see here it would be better if we chanced it and made a dash back to the car whilst there was yet perhaps time.
Whilst we were talking, the Italian batteries were already opening fire all along the line, though apparently only in a tentative range-finding sort of way to start with, and the Austrians were beginning to reply by dropping shells round Asiago, several big projectiles bursting in the outskirts of the town.
It looked, therefore, as though we were going to have an exciting time getting back, and so it turned out. The Commandant grimly wished us luck, and off we went.
We had not got far when our adventures commenced. A big shrapnel bursting right over us. Fortunately we had heard it coming, so had time to get behind a wall. The fragments of the shell beat down on the ground like Brobdingnagian hailstones.
After that the firing from both sides seemed to become general, and it was evident that the attack was developing seriously.
Out in the open, as I have said, there was no cover whatever, so there was nothing for it but to attempt to get across the mile of “No man’s land” at the double.
Some soldiers, who were going across also, set the pace to start with. I must regretfully confess, however, that I am long past athletics, and even in my best days was never much of a pedestrian, so I very soon had to give in and take it easily.
And came up with reinforcements hurrying forward ([see page 165])
To face page 172
My companion, who was quite a young man, could without a doubt have run the whole distance, but he good-naturedly slowed down to remain with me.
Apart from my lack of stamina, I was somewhat severely handicapped for sprinting, as, at the Commandant’s quarters I had been given the butt-end of a big shell as “a little souvenir” of my visit to Asiago.
It certainly was an interesting trophy, though a trifle weighty, as may be imagined, and I did not want to leave it behind if I could help it, as I have a mania for collecting war “curios” for my studio; but it was a terrible temptation to drop it now and chance getting another later on. However, I stuck to it like grim death and, I may add, eventually brought it to London.
The idea of a man of my years and experience attempting to run a mile in a blazing hot sun and under fire with a piece of iron weighing some 12lbs. under his arm was doubtless ridiculous, and probably my companion thought so, though he said nothing.
We had just got out in the open when we heard a terrific explosion and, looking back, we saw that a shell of the biggest calibre had burst in the town.
An immense column of white smoke and dust rose high in the air, and in it you saw fragments of timber and other débris suspended by the force of the explosion in the still atmosphere for what seemed a few seconds—so long, in fact, that my companion actually had time to get his camera out of its case and take a snapshot.
The artillery duel was now spreading ominously, and we could see that shells were bursting unpleasantly near the spot where we had left the car, the objective of the Austrians being, of course, the Italian batteries along the edge of the forest.
About half way across was what looked like a railway embankment or something of that sort, the road passing under it by a low archway. There was a cottage close by, and when we got up to it we found that it was a sort of infantry post in charge of a non-commissioned officer, and that the soldiers who had preceded us had been ordered to take cover here for a time—and we had to do the same—the object of this evidently being to prevent too much movement being seen on the road.
The cottage was little better than a shanty, and afforded no protection whatever. In the one room were several badly-wounded men lying on stretchers on the ground.
The thunder of the guns and the bursting shells outside did not appear to affect them at all; in fact, two of the most heavily bandaged were actually playing with a pretty little tabby kitten that, strangely enough, was there. It was a curiously homely note, and singularly out of keeping with its surroundings.
The sergeant detained us some little time, and then only allowed us to go on singly and with intervals between. He evidently was using his own judgment in the matter.
When we reached the forest the shells from the Austrian batteries appeared to be passing overhead in a continuous flight, their wailing screech sounding like a high wind in the tree-tops.
It was as if a gale were raging, accompanied by incessant crashes of thunder. Branches of trees were being brought down by the shells in every direction, and altogether it was anything but a pleasant spot to find oneself in.
Yet close by, standing as calmly as though waiting for the storm to pass, were the two Carabinieri we had previously seen, and who were evidently on guard here.
In all my war experiences I have never witnessed anything to surpass the sangfroid displayed by these two men. Neither the bursting shells nor the falling trees appeared to perturb them in the least. They were as unruffled as a London policeman on point duty. It was a display of cool courage I shall long remember. Their horses, standing just behind, shared their master’s composure; they showed no signs of nervousness, and were not even fastened up.
I shall have occasion later to again refer to the remarkable fearlessness of the Carabinieri—it was one of the things that impressed me most on the Italian Front.
The car was not where we had left it, and the Carabinieri told us that the chauffeur had thought it advisable to move it to a less exposed place further up the road so as not to risk its being smashed to pieces.
We hurried on and soon found the car, but no chauffeur. After calling out for some minutes and with difficulty making ourselves heard above the din going on; we saw him coming up from what looked like a cellar under the trees.
This was a “dug-out” or what our English Tommies have humourously designated as a “funk-hole,” and was constructed of heavy timber covered with turf and several layers of sandbags. It was entered by a short flight of steps, so we went down to have a look at it. One might have been in a settler’s hut out in the wilds somewhere, though for the matter of that all log shanties convey that impression.
It was a very rough and gloomy place, but I was told that the King had taken “cover” here only the day before, and had been forced to stay in it for several hours.
Some soldiers were there, so we sat down with them and had a chat, and it was well we did, for the firing increased in intensity every moment, and heavy projectiles began to burst on the roof of the “dug-out” with such terrific force that one expected at any moment the whole place would be blown to atoms.
The very ground trembled under the shock of the explosions. I never thought that human ears or nerves could stand such an inferno as we were in for during the next hour.
The effect on me personally was at first a sort of atrophy of my senses—a feeling came over me that if this was to be my end, well let it be a quick and complete finish, no blinding or maiming or other drawn out agony. Next a sensation of extreme hunger, which at the time I felt inclined to pat myself on the back for, as indicating heroic indifference to my surroundings, but which later I learned, to my disappointment, is a well-known manifestation of “funk,” a form of nervous dyspepsia—“fringale,” the French call it. But gradually these impressions wore off, and I looked around with curiosity to see how the young soldiers around me bore themselves.
Several were in a state of absolute terror at each explosion, and were wringing their hands and ejaculating under their breath “Oh, Dio—Oh, mamma!” whilst others sat stock still and gazed in front of them in moody silence.
Our chauffeur was very much upset and made no attempt to disguise it; so much so, in fact, that I wondered how on earth he would be able to drive us back; his nerve seemed to be quite gone, and his face was ghastly white.
Suddenly a soldier rushed down the steps calling out frantically that the sergeant was mortally wounded and asking if anyone had any brandy. No one had any, and I made a mental note never again to be without a flask of it in my pocket. The poor fellow was lying just outside the dug-out with his leg badly smashed up by a big fragment of shell.
He was losing consciousness and kept sobbing and crying out for his mother. Fortunately some stretcher-bearers were near by, so in a very few minutes he was bound up with an improvised tourniquet to stop the hemorrhage and hurried off to the nearest ambulance station, though I doubt whether he ever reached it alive.
We returned to the dug-out as the firing shewed no signs of abatement; but my companion began to get fidgetty, and at last said we might have to stay there for hours if we waited till all was quiet, and suggested our risking it and making a start.
Of course I could only agree; but the chauffeur was not so anxious. He was, if anything, still more upset by what had just happened; however, a few kind but forcible words brought him to his senses, and with an effort he managed to pull himself together.
So we all went out somewhat anxiously to see if the car was still in existence, and found that, fortunately, it had passed through its ordeal of fire unscathed and had not been touched.
There was no time to lose, as may be imagined, with shells bursting all round us, but as might have been expected, because we were in a hurry to get away there was an irritating delay, and this delay was directly the cause of an incident that now occurred, and which might very easily have had a fatal result.
The car had to be turned round, not a quick operation at the best of times, and especially in a narrow road, but under fire, a decidedly nerve-testing job.
We were standing in the roadway watching with impatience the apparently awkward manœuvres of the chauffeur when there was a flash like lightning, a loud report and a shrapnel burst right over our heads not more than twenty feet up.
Instinctively I raised my arm to shield my eyes, as I always do; almost at the same moment I heard my friend, who was just by, call out that he had been hit in the shoulder.
Looking round I saw him stoop down and gingerly pick up a long, jagged fragment of shell lying at his feet. This was the piece that had struck him—it was almost too hot to touch.
He said he did not think he was much hurt, and that it was no use waiting there to do anything for it. So we lost no time in getting off before something more serious happened; we were only asking for trouble every moment we delayed.
As a matter of fact, although he made light of it, he had a nasty flesh wound; it turned out that the strap of his camera case, together with his thick overcoat and tunic, had undoubtedly saved his arm.
We had only gone a few yards when a remarkable state of affairs revealed itself: the road had disappeared, so completely was it hidden by trees and branches brought down by the shells.
It was positively startling to see such a transformation in the comparatively short time that had elapsed since we had come along it.
Here was a pretty fix, but luck favoured us in the shape of a soldier, who saw our predicament and indicated a way of getting round the obstacles and regaining the road further on.
I will candidly confess that I was not altogether sorry when we at length got out of range of the Austrian guns.
We had been under fire for more than four hours, and I had had about enough of it for one day.
There was a big stir amongst the troops bivouacked in the forest, and we passed several regiments on the road, which led one to infer that the artillery duel was to be followed up by an infantry attack on a large scale at nightfall, and so it turned out, as I afterwards learned.
But these operations on the Asiago plateau were then, and are still, of almost daily occurrence, and, serious though they may appear when seen at close range as on this particular occasion, are evidently but a side issue in General Cadorna’s main plan of campaign.
We witnessed a somewhat curious incident on our way back. Going down the steep zig-zag road a big motor ambulance waggon failed to take one of the sharp curves sufficiently to get on to the straight run beyond, and was only brought up by the brake on the extreme outer edge of the road, which, as it happened, had no parapet at this particular spot. It was in imminent danger of going over, a drop of at least a hundred feet.
There was no lack of help, as there was an endless line of traffic going both ways, and it was, of course, all held up by the occurrence, so many willing hands were forthcoming. Big stones were carefully placed under the wheels to prevent any forward movement of the heavy vehicle.
Then suddenly, to the surprise and amusement of everyone, the least severely wounded occupants jumped out of the wagon, and, in spite of their bandaged condition, vigorously assisted in pushing it back to safety.