CHAPTER XVI
The capture of Gorizia—Up betimes—My lucky star in the ascendant—I am put in a car with Barzini—Prepared for the good news of the capture—Though not so soon—A slice of good fortune—Our chauffeur—We get off without undue delay—The news of the crossing of the Isonzo—Enemy in full retreat—We reach Lucinico—The barricade—View of Gorizia—The Austrian trenches—“No man’s land”—Battlefield débris—Austrian dead—An unearthly region—Austrian General’s Headquarters—Extraordinary place—Spoils of victory—Gruesome spectacle—Human packages—General Marazzi—Podgora—Grafenberg—Dead everywhere—The destroyed bridges—Terrifying explosions—Lieutenant Ugo Oyetti—A remarkable feat—The heroes of Podgora—“Ecco Barzini”—A curtain of shell fire—Marvellous escape of a gun-team—In the faubourgs of Gorizia—“Kroner” millionaires—The Via Leoni—The dead officer—The Corso Francesco Guiseppe—The “Grosses” café—Animated scene—A café in name only—Empty cellar and larder—Water supply cut off—A curious incident—Fifteen months a voluntary prisoner—A walk in Gorizia—Wilful bombardment—The inhabitants—The “danger Zone”—Exciting incident—Under fire—The abandoned dog—The Italian flags—The arrival of troops—An army of gentlemen—Strange incidents—The young Italian girl—No looting—At the Town Hall—The good-looking Austrian woman—A hint—The Carabinieri—“Suspects”—Our return journey to Udine—My trophies—The sunken pathway—Back at Lucinico—The most impressive spectacle of the day.
CHAPTER XVI
As may be imagined, I had no inclination to lie in bed the next morning; in fact, it seemed to me a waste of time going to bed at all in view of what was likely to happen in the early hours. Still there was no help for it since one could not stay at the fighting Front all night, so the only remedy was to be up and out as soon as possible.
I was, therefore, down at the Censorship betimes on the chance of finding an officer or a confrère who was going in the direction of the operations, and who would let me have a seat in his car.
My lucky star happened to be in the ascendant, for shortly after my good friend, Colonel Clericetti, turned up, beaming with good humour, and on seeing me exclaimed:
“You are the very man I am looking for; Barzini is leaving in a car I am letting him have, as his own has broken down, and if you like I will put you with him. I thought you would want to get some sketches as the troops will be entering Gorizia this morning.”
Of course I had been somewhat prepared for this news from what I had learned overnight, but I certainly had never expected it would come so soon, although I had long had the conviction that when Gorizia was captured it would be in dramatic fashion.
I was therefore delighted to have a chance of being on the spot when it happened, and was now on tenterhooks to get off at once; every minute of delay meant perhaps missing seeing something important, for on such an occasion every detail would doubtless be of absorbing interest.
It was indeed a slice of good fortune to be going with Barzini, as he is certainly the best known and most popular of Italian war correspondents, and where he can’t manage to go isn’t worth going to. His genial personality is an open sesame in itself, as I soon found. Curiously enough, as it turned out, we were the only correspondents to leave Udine that morning. Whether it was that the others did not realise the importance of what was likely to happen or did not learn it in time, I could not understand; but it was certainly somewhat strange.
Our car was driven by a very well-known journalist of the staff of the Corriere della Sera, named Bitetti, who is doing his military service as a chauffeur and is a very expert one at that, and with him was a friend, also a soldier chauffeur, so we were well guarded against minor accidents to the car en route.
Well, Barzini and I got off without undue delay, and I soon discovered that with him there would be no “holding up” the car on the way. We made straight for Mossa, which is close to the Gorizia bridgehead. There we got some great news.
During the early part of the night detachments of the Casale and Pavia brigades had crossed the Isonzo and consolidated themselves on the left bank, and the heights west of Gorizia were completely occupied by the Italian infantry. The enemy was in full retreat, and had abandoned large quantities of arms, ammunition and materiel. Over 11,000 prisoners had been taken, and more were coming in. Everything was going à merveille, and Austria’s Verdun was virtually in the hands of the Italians already.
The object of this being to hide movements of troops and convoys ([see page 195])
To face page 210
There was no time to lose if we were to be in “at the death.” Half a mile further on we reached Lucinico. The Italian troops had only passed through a couple of hours before, so we were close on their heels. The village was in a complete state of ruin, hardly a house left standing, and reminded one of what one got so accustomed to see on the Western Front.
The car had to be left here, the road being so blocked that driving any further was out of the question; so, accompanied by two officers and our chauffeur and his friend, we set off on foot with the idea of attempting to cross the battlefield.
Beyond Lucinico we were right in the very thick of it. The railway line to Gorizia ran through the village, but just outside the houses the rails had been pulled up and a solid barricade of stones had been erected across the permanent way.
We got a splendid view of Gorizia from here—it looked a beautiful white city embowered in foliage, with no sign at all of destruction at this distance.
On the high hills beyond, which one knew to be Monte Santo and Monte San Gabriele, little puffs of smoke were incessantly appearing—these were Italian shells bursting—the booming of the guns never ceasing.
The Austrian trenches commenced a few hundred yards beyond Lucinico, and we were now walking along a road that for fifteen months had been “No man’s land.”
The spectacle we had before us of violence and death is indescribable. Everything had been levelled and literally pounded to atoms by the Italian artillery.
The ground all around was pitted with shell-holes, and strewn with every imaginable kind of débris: the remains of barbed-wire entanglements in such chaotic confusion that it was frequently a matter of positive difficulty to pass at all; broken rifles, unused cartridges by the thousand, fragments of shell-cases, boots, first-aid bandages, and odds and ends of uniforms covered with blood.
We had to pick our way in places along the edge of the communication trenches, which were very deep and narrow, and looked very awkward to get into or out of in a hurry.
We had to jump across them in places, but otherwise we endeavoured to give them as wide a berth as possible, as the stench was already becoming overpowering under the hot rays of the summer sun. It only needed a glance to see for yourself what caused it.
The Austrian dead were literally lying in heaps along the bottom. They were so numerous in places, that had it not been for an occasional glimpse of an upturned face, or a hand or a foot, one might have thought that these heaps were merely discarded uniforms or accoutrements.
It produced an uncanny sensation of horror walking alongside these furrows of death, and this was heightened by the fact that at the time we were the only living beings here; the troops having advanced some distance, we had the battlefield quite to ourselves.
I recollect I had the strange impression of being with a little band of explorers, as it were, in an unearthly region.
Shells were coming over pretty frequently, but it was not sufficiently dangerous for us to think of taking cover, though I fancy that had it been necessary we should all have hesitated before getting down into one of these trenches or dug-outs. Curiously enough, there were very few dead lying outside the trenches. I imagine the intensity of the fire prevented any men from getting out of them.
The railway line traverses the plain on a very high embankment just before Podgora is reached, and the roadway passes under it by a short tunnel.
Here was, perhaps, one of the most interesting and remarkable sights of the whole area. The Austrian General had transformed this tunnel into his headquarters, and it was boarded up at both ends, and fitted internally like a veritable dwelling-place, as, in fact, it was to all intents and purposes.
You entered by a tortuous passage, which from the outside gave no idea of the extraordinary arrangements inside. There were two storeys, and these were divided off into offices, dining rooms, sleeping quarters for the officers, bath room and general offices. All were well and almost luxuriously furnished; in fact, everything that could make for comfort in view of a lengthy tenancy.
On the side which was not exposed to the Italian fire, a wooden balcony with carved handrail, had been put across the opening, so from the road it presented a very quaint and finished appearance. Of course these quarters were absolutely safe against any shells, however big, as there was the thickness of the embankment above them.
There was a well-fitted little kitchen with wash-house a few yards away, so that the smell of cooking did not offend the cultured nostrils of the General and his staff, who evidently knew how to do themselves well if one could judge from the booty the Italians captured here in the shape of wines, tinned food, coffee, etc.
But the spoils here consisted of much more important materiel than “delicatessen,” and proved how hastily the Austrians took their departure. In a building adjoining the kitchen, which was used as a store-house, was a big accumulation of reserve supplies of every description, together with hundreds of new rifles, trenching tools, coils of barbed wire, and stacks of boxes of cartridges. There was little fear, therefore, of a shortage of anything.
This big store-house was also utilized for another purpose thoroughly “Hun-like” in its method. At one end of the building was a gruesome spectacle.
Lying on the ground, like so many bundles of goods, were about forty corpses tied up in rough canvas ready to be taken away. I don’t think I have ever seen anything quite so horrible as these human packages. They were only fastened in the wrappers for convenience in handling as there was no attempt to cover the faces. The callousness of it gave me quite a shock. Of course it was not possible to ascertain what was going to be done with them, but there was no indication of a burial ground anywhere near.
In the roadway opposite the entrance of the “Headquarters” was another motley collection of spoils of victory: rifles, bayonets, ammunition pouches, boxes of cartridges, and a veritable rag heap of discarded uniforms, coats, caps, boots, and blankets.
There was also a real “curio” which I much coveted, but which was too heavy to take as a souvenir, in the shape of a small brass cannon mounted on wheels. What this miniature ordnance-piece was used for I could not make out, as I had never seen one before. All this booty, of course, only represented what the Austrians had abandoned near here. The amount of rifle ammunition captured must have been enormous.
General Marazzi, with several of his staff officers, were using the entrance of the arch as a temporary orderly room, with table and armchairs. Though he was, of course, much occupied, he courteously gave us any information we wanted. He even went further by presenting us with an Austrian rifle apiece as souvenirs of the victory.
The roadway from here passed along the foot of Podgora, the ridge of sinister memories. Every yard of the ground here had been deluged with blood, and had witnessed some of the most desperate fighting in the war. It had once been thickly wooded but now nought remains of the trees on its hog-back and slopes but jagged and charred stumps.
There was not a trace of vegetation, and one could see that the surface had been literally ground to powder by high explosives. Shells were still bursting over it, but they appeared to raise dust rather than soil, so friable had it become.
In the long, straggling and partially destroyed village of Grafenberg through which we now wandered, there were some Italian soldiers, but so few that one might have wondered why they had been left there at all. A tell-tale odour on all sides conveyed in all probability one of the reasons.
The dead were lying about everywhere and in all sorts of odd places, in the gutters alongside the road, just inside garden gates, anywhere they had happened to fall. There was a ghastly object seated in quite a life-like position in a doorway, with a supply of hand-grenades by its side. Grafenberg was distinctly not a place to linger in.
Meanwhile we were walking parallel with the Isonzo, which was only a hundred yards or so away; and the Austrians, though in full rout, were keeping up a terrific flanking fire with their heavy artillery, placed on Monte Santo and Monte San Gabriele with the idea undoubtedly of destroying the bridges. Two were already wrecked beyond immediate repair, one of the arches of the magnificent railway viaduct had been blown up, and the long wooden structure just above Grafenberg had been rendered useless for the moment.
There were two others still intact: an iron bridge the artillery and cavalry were crossing by and a small foot-bridge we were making for. To demolish these, and so further delay the Italian advance, was now the object of the Austrians. To effect this they were sending over projectiles of the biggest calibre. The terrifying noise of the explosion of these enormous shells would have sufficed to demoralise most troops.
At last we came to a pathway leading to the small bridge we hoped to cross by. It was a pretty and well-wooded spot, and the trees had not been much damaged so far. A regiment of infantry was waiting its turn to make a dash forward. We learned that the bridge had been much damaged in the early morning, but had been repaired under fire and in record time by the engineers.
A friend of mine, Lieutenant Ugo Oyetti (the well-known art critic in civil life), did some plucky work on this occasion, for which he received a well-deserved military medal a few days later.
Whilst the repairs were being carried out, two infantry regiments, the 11th and 12th, forded and swam across the river; a remarkable feat, as it is here as wide as the Thames at Richmond, though it is broken up with gravel islets in many places. It is frequently ten feet deep, and the current is very strong and treacherous.
We pushed our way through the soldiers who filled the roadway, and got to the bridge, which was a sort of temporary wooden structure built on trestles known in German military parlance, I am told, as a “behielfs brücken,” and evidently constructed to connect the city with Podgora.
A continuous rain of shells was coming over and bursting along the bank or in the river, and we looked like being in for a hot time. At the commencement of the bridge two carabinieri stood on guard as placidly as if everything were quiet and peaceful. There was no objection to our crossing, but we were told we must go singly and run the whole way. The screech of the projectiles passing overhead, and the terrific report of explosions close by, made it a decidedly exciting “spurt,” and I, for one, was not sorry when I got across.
The opposite bank was steep and rocky, in curious contrast to the Grafenberg side, and was ascended by a narrow gully. The bridge ended with a wide flight of steps leading to the water’s edge, where there was a strip of gravel beach, and seen from below the structure had quite a picturesque appearance. The high banks made fine “cover,” and under their shelter troops were resting.
These were some of the courageous fellows who had forded the river, after having stormed the positions at Podgora. Their eyes were bloodshot, they looked dog-tired, and they were, without exception, the dirtiest and most bedraggled lot of soldiers it would be possible to imagine.
The uniforms of many of them were still wet, and they were covered with mud from head to foot.
Yet in spite of the fact that they had probably all of them been on the move the whole night, and under fire most of the time without a moment’s respite, they looked as game and cheerful as ever, and most of them seemed to be more anxious about cleaning the dirt from their rifles than resting. The shell-fire did not appear to trouble them in the least.
As we got amongst them, Barzini, with true Latin impulsiveness, shook hands effusively with all those around him, and complimented them on their plucky achievement. It was this little touch of human nature that explained to me the secret of his popularity with the soldiers.
Word was passed round “Ecco Barzini,” and the men crowded round to get a glimpse of the famous war correspondent.
Under cover of the overhanging rocks one was able to observe the curtain of shell-fire in comparative security, though at any moment one of these shells might drop “short” and make mincemeat of us.
The Austrians had got the range wonderfully, and every shell burst somewhere along the river which was really good shooting, but their real object was, of course, to endeavour to destroy the bridges and for the moment they were devoting all their attention to the iron one, which was about four hundred yards below where we were standing, and across which a stream of artillery and munition caissons was passing.
It was truly astonishing how close they got to it each time, considering they were firing from Monte Santo, nearly four miles away, and a slender iron bridge is not much of a target at that distance.
I have never seen such explosions before. They were firing 305mm. shells, and the result was appalling to watch. They might have been mines exploding, the radius of destruction was so enormous.
It brought your heart into your mouth each time you heard the approaching wail of a shell, for fear this might be the one to “get home.” You watched the bridge and waited in a state of fascination as it were.
Suddenly, as we were gazing with our eyes glued to our field glasses, someone called out in a tone of horror, “they’ve hit it at last.”
A shrapnel had burst low down, right in the centre of the bridge, and just above a gun-team that was going along at the trot.
For a moment, till the smoke lifted, we thought that men, horses, and guns were blown to pieces; it looked as though nothing could escape, but when it had cleared off we saw that only one of the horses had been killed.
In incredibly quick time the dead animal was cut loose and the team continued on its way. There was no sign whatever of undue haste or excitement; it was as though an ordinary review manœuvre was being carried out. The coolness of the drivers was so impressive that I heard several men near me exclaim enthusiastically “Magnifico! magnifico!!”
I made up my mind to go later on to the spot and make a careful sketch of the surroundings with the idea of painting a picture of the incident after the war; but I never had an opportunity, as, a few days after, the Austrians succeeded in destroying the bridge.
It was very palpable that at any moment one really unlucky shot could hold up the entire line of communications and prevent supplies from coming up for hours.
In this particular instance there was no doubt that the “hit” was signalled to the Austrian batteries by a Taube which was flying overhead at a great height at the moment, for the gunners redoubled their efforts, and it was only sheer luck that helped the Italians out.
Time to make good their retreat was what the Austrians wanted: they knew perfectly well that with Monte Santo, Monte San Daniele, and Monte San Gabriele still in their possession they could yet give a lot of trouble. Fortunately, however, for the Italians, as it turned out, they had not sufficient guns on these heights to endanger the position at Gorizia.
The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and we were practically carried up the gully with them. At the top was level ground, with grass and bushes and some cottages mostly in ruins. We were in the outskirts of Gorizia.
Another large body of troops was apparently resting here, and the soldiers were snatching a hasty meal before advancing into the city, though there was probably some other reason beyond giving the men a “rest,” for keeping them back for the moment.
There had been some desperate fighting round these cottages, judging from the broken rifles and splashes of blood amongst the ruins. Now and then, also, one caught glimpses of the now familiar bundles of grey rags in human form.
A few hundred yards farther on, across the fields, the faubourgs of the city commenced, and one found oneself in deserted streets.
There were numbers of fine villas, many of considerable architectural pretention and artistic taste, standing in pleasant gardens.
These were evidently the residences of Gorizia’s “Kroner” millionaires. Most of these villas were considerably damaged by shells and fire—some, in fact, were quite gutted.
Nearly all the street fighting took place in this particular quarter, and along the Via Leoni especially all the houses were abandoned. Inside these deserted homes were doubtless many gruesome tragedies. One we discovered ourselves. Our young soldier friend, out of boyish curiosity, went into one of the houses to see what it looked like inside. He came out very quickly, and looking as white as a ghost.
I went to see what had scared him. Just behind the door was a dead Austrian officer lying in a most natural position; he had evidently crawled in here to die.
The guns were booming all around, and we could see the shells bursting among the houses a short distance from where we were, yet we had not met a soul since we had left the river banks. This seemed so strange that we were almost beginning to think that the troops must have passed straight through without stopping when we saw a soldier coming towards us.
We learned from him that the city was by no means deserted, as we should see, and that a short distance further on would bring us out into the Corso Francesco Giuseppe, the principal thoroughfare of the city. Then, to our astonishment, he added, as though giving us some really good news, that we should find a big café open, and that we could get anything we liked to eat or drink there. We could scarcely credit what he said.
It seemed a mockery of war—surely it could not be true that the cafés in Gorizia were open and doing business whilst the place was being shelled, on the very morning, too, of its occupation by the Italians, and with the dead still lying about its streets.
We hurried on, anxious to witness this unexpected sight. The bombardment appeared to have affected only a certain zone, and there were but few signs of destruction as one approached the centre of the city, but all the houses were closely shuttered and apparently deserted.
A big screen made of foliage was hung across the end of the street, on the same principle as those one saw along the roads, and evidently with the same object: to hide the movements of troops in the streets from observers in “Drachen” or aeroplanes.
The Corso Franscesco Guiseppe is a fine broad boulevard, and reminded me very much of certain parts of Rheims, it still had all the appearance of being well-looked after, in spite of the vicissitudes through which it had passed.
There were detachments of soldiers drawn up on the pavement close to the houses, and already the ubiquitous carabinieri were en evidence, as they are everywhere along the Front. It seems strange that no military operation in Italy seems possible without the presence of carabinieri.
Of civilian life there was not a trace so far; the city was quite given up to the military.
The “Grosses” Café faced us, a new and handsome corner building. It was very up-to-date and Austro-German in its interior decoration and furniture. German newspapers in holders were still hanging on the hooks, and letters in the racks were waiting to be called for.
Although the place was crowded with officers, there was quite a noticeable absence of any excitement. Signor Bissolati and his secretary had just arrived, so we made a little group of four civilians amongst the throng of warriors.
As may be imagined, it was a very animated and interesting scene, and every table was occupied. Little did the Austrians imagine a week before that such a transformation would come about.
Our informant had exaggerated somewhat when he gave us to understand that the café was open and business going on “as usual.”
The Grosses Café was certainly “open,” but it was only a café in name that morning, as there was really nothing to be got in the way of drink or food; not a bottle of wine or beer or even a crust of bread could be had for love or money.
The Austrians had cleared out the cellars and larder effectually before taking their departure. I am, however, somewhat overdrawing it when I state there was nothing to be got in the way of liquid refreshment. The proprietor discovered that he happened to have by him a few bottles of a sickly sort of fruit syrup, and also some very brackish mineral water to put with it, and there was coffee if you didn’t mind its being made with the mineral water.
It appeared that the Austrians had thoughtfully destroyed the water supply of the city when they left, indifferent to the fact of there being several thousand of their own people, mostly women and children, still living there.
It makes me smile when I recall how we ordered the Austrian proprietor about, and with what blind confidence everyone drank the syrup and mineral water, and the coffee. They might easily have been poisoned; it would only have been in keeping with the Austrian methods of warfare.
Two infantry regiments, the 11th and 12th, forded and swam across the river ([see page 216])
To face page 222
The big saloon of the café was quite that of a first-class establishment; there were cosy corner seats in the windows looking on the Carso, and as you sat there and listened to the thunder of the guns so close by, it was difficult to realise what a wonderful thing it was being there at all; and also that at any moment the Austrians might make a successful counter-attack and get back into the city. Our lives, I fancy, would not have been worth much if this had happened.
A somewhat curious incident occurred whilst a little party of us was seated at one of these tables. A very shabbily-dressed civilian, wearing a dirty old straw hat, and looking as if he hadn’t had a square meal or a good wash for weeks, came in a furtive way into the café and, seating himself near us, tried to enter into conversation.
With true journalistic flair Barzini encouraged him to talk, and it turned out that he was an Italian professor who had lived many years in Gorizia, where he taught Italian in one of the colleges.
When the war broke out the Austrians called on him to join the Austrian Army. He could not escape from the city, so rather than fight against his own countrymen, he determined to hide till an opportunity presented itself for him to get away.
An Italian lady, also living here, helped him to carry out his resolve, and for fifteen months he never once moved outside the little room he slept in.
His friend would bring him by stealth food and drink once a week, and so cleverly did she manage it, that no one in the house even knew he was still there. Of course it would have meant death for her if she had been caught helping him to evade fighting in the Austrian Army.
His feelings, he told us, were indescribable when he learned that at last the Italians were approaching and his deliverance was at hand.
No wonder the poor fellow wanted to have a talk with someone; he had not spoken to a living soul all those long months when Gorizia was being bombarded daily.
He offered to act as our guide and show us round, and we gladly accepted, as it was a chance to see something of the city before its aspect was changed by the Italian occupation.
The Corso and the adjoining streets were still almost deserted, but there were indications that this was not going to last long, and that more troops would shortly be arriving.
We learned that the regiments that had first entered the city had scarcely remained an hour. No sooner did they arrive than they were off again, as it was hoped to cut off the retreat of the flying Austrians. Only a rearguard had been left to await the arrival of reinforcements to take possession of the city itself.
An order had been immediately issued that the inhabitants were to remain indoors, the severest penalty being threatened for any breach of this mandate.
It was somewhat surprising, considering how deserted the streets appeared, to learn that there were several thousand inhabitants still there.
We had thought we had the streets quite to ourselves as we strolled along in the middle of the roadway, our footsteps awakening the echoes; so it came as a nasty shock to suddenly realise that all the time we were thinking this we were being glared at from the little lattices in the shuttered windows above us on either side.
Hundreds of eyes full of malevolence followed our every movement. You had, after this, the uncanny sensation that at any moment you might be shot at from some upper storey.
The city was quite attractive, and one was not surprised it was called the “Austrian Nice,” and that it had been a very delightful and gay place to live in. There were several fine buildings, and a park with the inevitable bandstand.
It was to a great extent an Italian city of some 25,000 inhabitants, and its picturesque surroundings and genial climate made it a favourite health resort. Our guide told us that it was largely inhabited by retired Austrian officers with their families, many having built themselves villas in the faubourgs.
The story of Gorizia being in ruins in consequence of the Italian bombardment was evidently spread by the Austrians. There was, of course, a good deal of damage done, but nothing like one had been led to expect. I should say that on the day it was captured not more than a hundred houses had suffered at all.
Since then, of course, its wilful bombardment with shells of heavy calibre by the Austrians is causing an immense amount of damage, and exacting a daily toll of death among the inhabitants, most of whom, as I have pointed out, are actually Austrians.
Whilst we were taking our walk, the Austrian guns had not been idle by any means, and the crash of explosions in the streets around indicated that the peril of the women and children living in the houses was actually accentuated by the entry of the Italians. It was a glaring instance of the mentality of the pure-bred Austrian or German.
Our newly-found Italian friend suggested that probably from the Castle we could obtain a fine view of the positions and the fighting north of the town. So we went in that direction.
The Castle, or as it is called there, the “Schloss,” of Gorizia, stands on a steep hill which dominates the older part of the city; steep, narrow, cobble-paved streets lead up to it. We soon found that this quarter was the “danger zone,” and that one ran more risk here than anywhere else.
The shells were bursting all around, and one could not help a feeling of deep pity for the unfortunate people who were thus suffering at the hands of their own people.
The Austrians might have averred, and I believe they afterwards did, that they were firing on the Castle, though with what object it is difficult to understand, since it is merely an archæological monument; anyhow, every time they missed it they hit the town, so there is nothing more to be said.
It was a bit of a climb, and as I had hobnails in my boots I was sliding all over the road.
One part of the street was very old and picturesque, with a low parapet on one side and a fine view from it towards the Austrian positions.
It was a very hot corner to get past as it was quite exposed to rifle fire, so we had to take it singly, crouching down and at the double, an awkward and undignified performance when one is inclined to embonpoint.
The street now narrowed considerably, with lofty houses on either side. We stopped for a few moments in the middle of the road to get our breath. Just behind us was a house built on low solid arches such as one sees everywhere in Italy.
Suddenly we heard the screeching wail of a big shell approaching.
With one accord we made a bolt for the shelter of the arches, and were only just in time; with a report like a thunderclap the projectile burst on the house above us, and a huge mass of masonry and bricks came tumbling down with a crash in the roadway just where we had been standing.
A cloud of dust blotted out everything, and for a moment I thought that the whole building would come down and bury us all under it, but fortunately it was stout enough to withstand the shock.
We waited a moment, on the alert, in case another shell came over, and then, without further ado, we deferred our visit to the Castle and made a dash down the street for the comparatively safe regions below.
But our adventures were not yet over even here. We were walking through one of the wide main streets when we heard bombs exploding close by—there is no mistaking the difference between the explosion of a shell and that of an aeroplane bomb.
We looked up—a “Taube” had spotted us and was slowly circling overhead directly above us. Just where we happened to be at that particular moment there was not a recess or a corner anywhere near where we could take shelter; we tried the doors of the houses but they were all locked.
There was nothing for it therefore but to chance to luck, and we stood gazing up as though transfixed at the beastly thing hovering above us like some bird of prey.
Then suddenly we saw something bright drop from it. Instinctively we flattened ourselves against the wall. There was the loud report of an exploding bomb in an adjoining street—it had missed us by a great many yards.
The machine then veered off in another direction, and we were not under its “fire” again, but it was a real bit of a “thrill” while it lasted.
As we then made our way back towards the café, we heard the plaintive whining of a dog abandoned inside one of the big houses. We stopped and called it. Its efforts to get out were pitiful, but there was no chance of its being rescued as the door was a massive porte-cochère, and the ground-floor windows were heavily barred.
There was nothing to be done. We walked on, one of my comrades calling out in a husky voice, with the genuine feeling of a lover of dumb animals:
“Que veux tu mon pauvre vieux? C’est la guerre!”
A great change had already come over the central part of the city even during the time we had been for our walk.
The Italian flag had been run up on all the principal buildings. Troops were evidently being brought up as quickly as possible, and the Corso was blocked with cavalry.
In all the streets leading from the river, infantry in full campaigning kit was advancing in Indian file and keeping as close up to the walls as they could. The lines of soldiers on both sides of the street seemed positively interminable, and the men appeared to be in the highest spirits.
It was all deeply stirring, and you could not help having the feeling that you were witnessing history being made before your eyes.
The soldiers behaved magnificently, as however might have been expected of the heroes they were. There was not the slightest sign anywhere of any disposition to “swagger” or show off either on the part of the officers or men; they simply came in quietly and took possession of Gorizia like an army of gentlemen.
To the inhabitants caged up in their houses, and peeping from their shuttered windows, the remarkable scene could have been little short of a revelation. This unostentatious entry of the Italian troops must indeed have been very different to what they had expected.
I tried to picture in my mind what would have taken place had the Austrians succeeded in getting into Vicenza!
Strange and unexpected incidents could be witnessed everywhere. In a narrow side street I saw a regiment coming along, the men marching like athletes; at their head was the Colonel, a fine, grey-haired old fellow as alert in bearing as any of his subalterns.
The men were halted, and there was a hurried consultation of the map. The Colonel was evidently in a quandary. I understood he was in doubt as to which was the quickest way out of the city to get to San Marco.
To my surprise, then, a young Italian girl came from one of the houses and boldly gave him the necessary information, whilst out of the windows all round one saw eyes glaring down on her with impotent fury.
In the street where this took place many of the houses had been damaged by shells, and in several instances the shop fronts were so wrecked that everything that was left intact could have been easily got at through the broken windows; it only meant putting your hand in and helping yourself, since there was no one that day to stop you, and several of the shops had quite tempting displays of goods, yet I did not hear of a single case of looting; this, I fancy, was evidence of a remarkable state of affairs, and which reflected additional credit on the soldiers.
A curious little scene was witnessed at the Town Hall when the representatives of the Italian Government took over the place and the municipal archives.
A number of Gorizia’s civil dignitaries, together with their womenfolk, put in an appearance. Many of the people had not seen each other for days during the height of the fighting, and their joy at meeting again, though under such altered circumstances, was quite touching, and there was a lot of embracing and weeping.
One or two of the younger women were smartly dressed and very good looking. They looked a bit nervous at first, but this soon wore off when they found we meant them no harm.
One in particular, with whom I had a chat, as she spoke French fluently, was distinctly an attractive personality, and was dressed as daintily as any Parisienne.
I asked if she and her girl friends were not horribly frightened by the noise of the battle and the arrival of the Italian troops.
No, they were not, she replied emphatically, because the Austrian officers, before going away, had told them they had nothing to fear, as they would be back within a week with half a million troops and drive the Italians out again.
She was so good looking, and was so confident this would really happen, that we had not the heart to try and convince her otherwise.
She was beginning to tell us some of her experiences during the bombardment when one of the staff officers came up and whispered to us that it was not advisable that day to talk too much with the inhabitants. Almost needless to add we took the hint.
Carabinieri were already on guard here at the entrance to the building, and from their stolid, impassive demeanour one would have thought they were part and parcel of the municipality of Gorizia. Here is an example of their all-round handiness.
In an adjoining street a big house had been set on fire by a shell, and had been burning for three days we were told. There was no water available to put it out with, and the inhabitants of the houses round were in terror in case it should spread.
The Carabinieri did not stand looking on, but took the matter in hand without hesitation, found out where the fire pump was kept, cleared the street, and in a very short time were fixing up a water supply.
But the occasions when the Carabinieri were en evidence were legion.
On the broad pavement outside the Café during the hot afternoon their Colonel and one of his officers held a sort of rough-and-ready court of enquiry. Chairs were brought out and placed under the trees, and three civilian “suspects” were brought up to undergo a summary sort of cross-examination.
It was a very unconventional and curious scene, and brought significantly home to one the tragic power that can be wielded by a conqueror.
In this instance, however, there was no fear of any injustice or cruelty being inflicted on prisoners. They would get a fair trial at the hands of the Italians, no matter what they had done to warrant their being arrested.
The three “suspects” in this instance—a man, a woman and a little girl—did not look very terrible, rather the contrary in fact, and one wondered what they were “suspected” of doing.
The man, a tall, young fellow with long hair, was dressed in such extraordinary fashion that this in itself may have caused him to be looked on with suspicion. He had a panama straw hat, a dark Norfolk jacket, white shirt with very large, low-cut collar outside his coat collar, and no tie, white flannel knickerbockers, blue socks, and black side-spring boots. The woman and the little girl were typically Austrian.
I could not find out why they had been arrested, but as they were taken away by the Carabinieri after their examination it was presumably a somewhat serious matter. It was certain beforehand that the city would be infested with spies, so no chances were to be taken, and rightly so.
During the course of the afternoon the city was completely occupied by troops, and there had not been a hitch in the victorious advance. One saw soldiers everywhere—cavalry, infantry, Bersaglieri cyclists; in fact, almost every branch of the Army.
In every open space and in the courtyards of the principal public buildings were bivouacs, all being carried out in the usual methodic manner of the Italians. The troops had the streets entirely to themselves, as no civilians were allowed out of doors that day, and none of the shops were open.
Towards evening the Austrians recommenced heavily shelling the city, aeroplanes began to put in an appearance, as if a big counter-attack was coming, but it died out suddenly for some unexplained reason.
It was now time for us to be thinking of getting back to Udine, as Barzini had to send off his despatch and I had my sketches to work up. We had a longish walk before us to Lucinico, but there was no particular need to hurry, so we made our way slowly to the wooden bridge we had crossed in the morning.
I was loaded with trophies I hoped to take back to London; a rifle slung over my shoulder, an Austrian knapsack full of heavy rubbish on my back, and in my hand a much battered Gorizia policeman’s helmet, something like a pickelhaube, in black with a silver spike, which we had picked up in the street.
There were a good many soldiers round about the bridge, and my appearance between our soldier chauffeur and his friend excited much unpleasant comment as we elbowed our way through the crowd. I was evidently mistaken for an Austrian spy in custody.
It was much quieter now along the river. The firing which continued in a desultory way being directed further down stream, so there was no necessity to rush across the bridge this time, though it was advisable not to dally, as one could not tell what might come screeching over at any moment.
We retraced our steps by the road we had previously come. Nothing was changed yet: the dead were still lying about everywhere, but at the archway under the railway embankment soldiers were already beginning to clear the place.
General Marazzi, who was still there, advised us not to take the road across the battlefield, as it was being heavily shelled at the moment; in fact, had it not been for the protection afforded by the high embankment, it would have been very uncomfortable here; as it was, every moment I quite expected something to burst over us.
We made our way, therefore, by a sunken pathway amongst the bushes and small trees that skirted the foot of the embankment for some distance; a procession of soldiers, carrying wounded men, leading the way. This gulley had evidently been exposed to the full fire of the Italian batteries during the battle.
From end to end it was a gruesome spectacle of foulness and death. The Austrians had evidently used it as a sort of back exit from their trenches, and whilst beating a retreat in this direction had found it a veritable cul de sac, from which there was no escape.
Lucinico was full of movement when we got back there: troops coming in, motor ambulances arriving, and numbers of officers’ cars waiting. A start had also been made at clearing the débris of ruin from the road, so no time was being lost. Wounded were being brought in continually, and one saw them lying about on stretchers everywhere, waiting for the Red Cross men to come along.
With difficulty we managed to get our car through the block of vehicles and masses of soldiers, and headed for Udine. Then commenced what, to my mind, was the most impressive spectacle of this wondrous day.
For the next thirty miles along the road there was an unbroken line of troops and military transport of every conceivable description coming towards us through a dense haze of dust in the golden light of the setting sun.
It was a victorious army advancing slowly but irresistibly, like a flow of lava, and made a glorious finale to a page of history.
The soldiers round us now began to move forward, and we were practically carried up the gully with them ([see page 219])
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