CHAPTER XIX
Difficulties Italians have still to contend with on way to Trieste—Italian superior in fighting quality—Dash and reckless courage—Success reckoned by yards—Total number of prisoners taken—A huge seine net—The “call of the wild”—A visit to San Martino del Carso—My companion—Our route—The attraction of the road—Early morning motoring—On our own—The unconventional quarters of the divisional general—The Rubbia-Savogna railway station.—The signalman’s cabin—An interesting chat with the General—At our own risk—The big camp on Monte San Michele—The desolate waste of the Carso—An incident—Nothing to sketch—“Ecco San Martino del Carso”—Shapeless dust-covered rubble—The Austrian trenches amongst the ruins—Under fire—Back to Udine—A pleasant little episode—Déjeuner to Colonel Barbarich at Grado—A “day’s outing”—The little “Human” touch—The “funk-holes” in the dining room—A trip in a submarine chaser—Things quiet in Udine—A period of comparative inactivity.
CHAPTER XIX
A single glance at the map to-day—I am writing this in January—is sufficient to give an idea of the enormous difficulties the Italians have still to contend against and surmount in forcing their way across the formidable barrier of stony wilderness between their present position and their obvious objective—Trieste.
It is said that they will find that apart from the terrible character of the natural obstacles, which, as I have endeavoured to show, they are up against, the Austrians have series after series of entrenched lines, each of which will have to be captured by direct assault.
Although it has been seen that man for man the Italian is far and away superior in fighting quality to the Austrian, it cannot be denied that when well supplied with machine guns, and behind positions which afford him almost complete protection, the Austrian soldier will put up a very determined resistance before he gives in. This factor must, therefore, be reckoned with in any commencement of an attempt at an advance.
The dash and reckless courage of the Italians, whilst thoroughly to be relied upon under any circumstances however trying, must always be held, as it were, in leash, otherwise even the smallest forward move will be only achieved at an awful sacrifice of gallant lives. The utmost caution, moreover, will have to be exercised, so as not to fall into a guet apens, and every step forward must be fully protected.
When success, therefore, can only be reckoned on, as it were, by yards, it is not surprising to find on examining the map how slow apparently has been the progress during the past four months; but it is progress nevertheless, and the most tangible proof of it is contained in the concluding lines of the brief summary issued by the Italian supreme command of the operations from September to December:
“The total of prisoners taken on the Julian Front (i.e., the Isonzo and the Carso) from August to December was 42,000, and the guns numbered 60 and the machine guns 200.”
The gradual advance has not been confined to any one particular sector of this Front, but was part of the general scheme which is operating like a huge seine net over this part of the Carso. The interest, therefore, was entirely concentrated in this zone after the fall of Gorizia, and I never missed an opportunity of going in that direction on the chance of getting some good subjects for my sketch book.
I remember some years ago when I was crossing the Gobi desert, I discovered that the desolation of the scene around me exercised an inexplicable sort of fascination, and at times I would have a strange longing to wander away alone into the wilderness.
I experienced somewhat the same sensation on the Carso. It is most probably what Jack London designated the “call of the wild.” In this case, however, the fascination was tempered by the knowledge that one’s wandering fit might be cut short by an Austrian bullet, so one’s peregrinations had perforce to be somewhat curtailed.
There was, of course, much of great interest to see and sketch in the area where active operations were in progress, whilst every day almost there seemed to be something, either in the shape of a rumour, or in the official communiqué, that formed a good excuse for getting into a car and heading for the “sound of the guns” again.
They came racing across the stretch of “No man’s land” ([see page 294])
To face page 270
On one of these occasions I had as my companion Robert Vaucher, the correspondent of the Paris Illustration, who had just arrived at the Front for a short visit.
We decided to make for San Martino del Carso, the first village captured by the Italians on the Carso, as it was quite close to the fighting then going on round Oppachiassella.
Our route was via Palmanova, Romans and Sagrado a road one had got to know by heart, so to speak, but of which one never tired, for somehow, curiously enough, everything always seemed novel although you had seen it many times before.
There was also the charm of starting off in a car just after sunrise; it had a touch of adventure about it that made me feel quite youthful again. I never tired of the long drives; and in the early morning the air was like breathing champagne.
One frequently had the road to oneself at this hour, and you could have imagined you were on a pleasure jaunt till you heard the booming of the guns above the noise of the engine; for it did not matter how early one was, the guns never seemed to be silent. With a sympathetic companion in the car these runs out to the lines were quite amongst the pleasantest features of one’s life up at the Front.
On this particular occasion the fact of being with someone with whom I could converse freely made it still more agreeable. We went off quite “on our own,” as Vaucher speaks Italian fluently; and as our soldier chauffeur knew the road well, there was not much fear of our getting lost.
We decided that it was advisable for form’s sake to call on the Divisional General, and ask for his permission to pass through the lines. With some little difficulty we succeeded in discovering his Headquarters. These were, we learned, on the railway, close to the Rubbia-Savogna Station, on the Trieste-Gorizia line.
It turned out to be about the last place where one would have expected to unearth a General. The station itself was in ruins, and presented a pathetically forlorn appearance, with posters and time-tables hanging in tatters from the walls; no train had passed here for very many months.
We left the car on the permanent way alongside the platform, and picked our way along the track through the twisted and displaced rails to the signalman’s “cabin,” which had been converted into the Headquarters pro tem.
It was as unconventional and warlike as could well be imagined, and as a subject for a picture would have delighted a military painter.
The General was a well set up, good-looking man of middle age, and quite the most unassuming officer of his rank I have ever met. After carefully examining our military permits to come there, he received us with the utmost cordiality. He spoke French fluently, and was apparently much interested in our work as war correspondents.
There was no difficulty, he said, about our going to San Martino, but we did so at our own risk, as it was his duty to warn us that it was still being constantly shelled; in fact, he added, the whole neighbourhood was under fire, and he pointed out a gaping hole a few yards away where a shell had burst only an hour before our arrival, and had blown a small hut to atoms.
The railway station was being continually bombarded, and he was sorry to say that he had lost a good many of his staff here.
No strategic object whatever was attained by this promiscuous shelling; the only thing it did was to get on the men’s nerves and make them fidgetty.
“They want to be up and doing instead of waiting about here when their comrades have gone on ahead.”
We had quite a long talk with him, and gathered some interesting details of the fighting that had taken place round here. He was most enthusiastic about the moral of his troops, that no fatigue or pain can quell.
The only difficulty the officers experienced was in getting them to advance with caution. “Ils deviennent des tigrés une fois lancés; c’est difficile de les retenir.”
As we bade him adieu, he asked us as a personal favour not to mention him in any article we might write, adding modestly: “Je ne suis qu’un soldat de l’Italie, et ne désire pas de réclame.”
There was a turning off the main road beyond Sdraussina that passed under the railway embankment, and then went up to San Martino del Carso.
Here there was an animated scene of military activity. A battalion of infantry was bivouacing, and up the side of the hill, which was one of the slopes of Monte San Michele, there was a big camp with tents arranged in careful alignment. I mention this latter fact as it was an unusual spectacle to see an encampment so well “pitched.”
Both the bivouac and the tents were quite protected from shell-fire by the brow of the hill, but they would have made an easy target had the Austrians had any aeroplanes here; doubtless, though, all precautions had been taken by the Italian Commander in the event of this.
Over the crest of the hill the scene changed as though by magic, and all sign of military movement disappeared.
The desolate waste of the Carso faced us, and we were in the zone of death and desolation. The road was absolutely without a vestige of “cover”; it was but a track across the rocky ground, and now wound over a series of low, undulating ridges, on which one could trace the battered remains of trenches.
Huge shell-craters were visible everywhere, and the road itself was so freshly damaged in places that I involuntarily recalled what the General had told us, and wondered whether we should get back safely.
The country was so open and uninteresting that one could see all that there was to see for several miles ahead; it was therefore certain no scenic surprises were awaiting you.
Meanwhile shells were bursting with unpleasant persistency round about the road; it was not what one could term an inviting prospect and recalled an incident that had occurred a few days previously on this very road.
There was a good deal of firing going on as usual, and the chauffeur of an officer’s car suddenly lost his nerve and became completely paralysed with fear, not an altogether unusual case, I believe.
It was a very awkward situation, as the officer knew nothing about driving, so he was obliged to sit still for over an hour, when, fortunately for him, a motor lorry came along, and he was extricated from his predicament.
It seemed to me to be very purposeless going on further, since there was absolutely nothing to sketch and still less to write about. Since, however, we could not be far from our destination now, I thought it best to say nothing.
But where was the village? I knew by what we had been told that we must be close to it by now; yet there was no trace of habitation anywhere.
The chauffeur suddenly turned round and, pointing to what appeared to be a rugged slope just ahead, said quietly, “Ecco San Martino del Carso.”
I am hardened to the sight of ruins by now after more than two years at the war, but I must admit I had a bit of a shock when I realized that this long, low line of shapeless, dust-covered rubble actually bore a name, and that this was the place we had risked coming out to see.
No earthquake could have more effectually wiped out this village than have the combined Italian and Austrian batteries.
We drove up the slope to what had been the commencement of the houses. To our surprise a motor lorry was drawn up under the shelter of a bit of wall; two men were with it. What was their object in being there one could not perceive, as there was no other sign of life around.
We left the car here, and I went for a stroll round with my sketch book, whilst Vaucher took his camera and went off by himself to find a subject worth a photograph.
The Austrian trenches commenced in amongst the ruins: they were typical of the Carso; only a couple of feet or so in depth, and actually hewn out of the solid rock, with a low wall of stones in front as a breastwork.
So roughly were they made that it was positively tiring to walk along them even a short distance. To have passed any time in them under fire with splinters of rock flying about must have been a terrible ordeal, especially at night.
San Martino was certainly the reverse of interesting, and I was hoping my comrade would soon return so that we could get away, when the distant boom of a gun was heard, followed by the ominous wail of a big shell approaching.
The two soldiers and our chauffeur, who were chatting together, made a dash for cover underneath the lorry; whilst I, with a sudden impulse I cannot explain, flung myself face downwards on the ground, as there was no time to make for the shelter of the trench.
The shell exploded sufficiently near to make one very uncomfortable, but fortunately without doing us any harm. A couple more quickly followed, but we could see that the gunners had not yet got the range, so there was nothing to worry about for the moment.
Vaucher soon returned, having had a futile walk; so we made up for it all by taking snapshots of ourselves under fire, a somewhat idiotic procedure.
As we drove back to Udine, we were agreed that, considering how little there had been to see, le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle, or rather ne valait pas le petrole, to bring the saying up to date.
A very pleasant little episode a few days later made a welcome interlude to our warlike energies. The Director of the Censorship, Colonel Barbarich, received his full colonelcy, and to celebrate the event the correspondents invited him and his brother officers to a fish déjeuner at Grado, the little quondam Austrian watering place on the Adriatic.
We made a “day’s outing” of it; several of the younger men starting off early so as to have a bathe in the sea before lunch.
It was glorious weather, and we had a “top hole” time. It all went off without a hitch; the déjeuner was excellent; I don’t think I ever tasted finer fish anywhere; the wine could not have been better, and, of course, we had several eloquent speeches to wind up with.
There was just that little “Human” touch about the whole thing that helped to still further accentuate the camaraderie of the Censorship, and the good fellowship existing between its officers and the correspondents.
Grado, though at first sight not much damaged since our visit on the previous year, had suffered very considerably from the visits of Austrian aircraft. They were still constantly coming over, in spite of the apparently adequate defences, and many women and children had been killed and many more houses demolished.
There was a curious sight in the dining room of the hotel where we gave the lunch. The proprietor had built a veritable “funk-hole” in a corner of the room. It was constructed with solid timber, and covered in with sand-bags in the most approved style.
Inside were a table, chairs, large bed, lamp, food, drink, etc.; in fact, everything requisite in case a lengthy occupation was necessary; and there the proprietor and his wife and children would take refuge whenever the enemy was signalled.
After lunch we were invited to make a trip in one of the new type of submarine chasers, which are said to be the fastest boats afloat anywhere, and went for an hour’s run at terrific speed in the direction of Trieste; in fact, had it not been for a bit of a sea fog hanging about we should have actually been well in sight of it. Perhaps it was fortunate for us there was this fog on the water.
Things were a bit quiet in Udine now. Stirring incidents do not occur every week, and the usual period of comparative inactivity had come round again whilst further operations were in process of development; there was but little inducement, therefore, to spend money on petrol just for the sake of verifying what one knew was happening up at the lines.
But I had plenty to occupy me in my studio, working on the numerous sketches the recent doings had provided me with, till something worth going away for turned up again.
In the interim an event of historic importance occurred.