Six months on the Italian front

by Julius M. Price

CHAPTER XVIII

Big operations on the Carso—General optimism—No risks taken—Great changes brought about by the victory—A trip to the new lines—Gradisca and Sagrado—A walk round Gradisca—Monte San Michele—Sagrado—Disappearance of Austrian aeroplanes and observation balloons—Position of Italian “drachen” as compared with French—On the road to Doberdo—Moral of troops—Like at a picnic—A regiment on its way to the trenches—The Italian a “thinker”—Noticeable absence of smoking—My first impression of the Carso—Nature in its most savage mood—The Brighton downs covered with rocks—Incessant thunder of guns—Doberdo hottest corner of the Carso—No troops—Stroll through ruins of street—Ready to make a bolt—A fine view—The Austrian trenches—Shallow furrows—Awful condition of trenches—Grim and barbarous devices—Austrian infamies—Iron-topped bludgeons, poisoned cigarettes, etc.—Under fire—A dash for a dug-out—The imperturbable Carabinieri—Like a thunderbolt—A little incident—Brilliant wit—The limit of patience—The Italian batteries open fire—No liberties to be taken—On the way back—Effect of the heavy firing—Motor ambulances—Magnified effect of shell fire on Carso—Rock splinters—Terrible wounds.

CHAPTER XVIII

All the big operations were now taking place on the Carso, and scarcely a day passed without news of progress in that direction.

The official communiqués were, therefore, of the most cheery description, and their cheerfulness was reflected all over the town.

Everybody was optimistic, and one was continually hearing rumours of the surprises in store for the Austrians during the next few weeks.

That many of these rumours materialised was undeniable, but it was soon realised that the conquest of the Carso is a very tough job, and will require a lot of patience and necessitate much hard fighting for every yard of ground; which obviously also meant much great sacrifice of gallant lives unless the advance is carried out methodically and without undue haste. In this respect General Cadorna may be relied on, and also to take no risks of failure.

The Carso, therefore, presented the chief point of interest after the fall of Gorizia, as every advance there means progress towards the main objective, Trieste. Scarcely a day passed now without a car from the Censorship going in the direction of the fighting line. I was therefore constantly able to make excursions, and was gradually filling up my sketch book with interesting subjects.

I may mention that no difficulty whatever was put in my way, and so long as I could find a car to take me, I was at liberty to go where I chose and stay away as long as I liked; it would have been impossible to have been treated with greater courtesy and regard, and I shall never be sufficiently grateful for it.

The changes brought about by the victory and the brilliant strategy of General Cadorna were so widespread that they would have been unbelievable if one had not seen it all for oneself a few days after the battle. In fact, it was almost at once that the results were discernable. You realized it yourself as soon as you reached certain well-known points which had hitherto been inside the danger zone. The sense of relief at being able to move about freely and without having to keep your ears cocked all the time, listening for shells coming over, was very pleasant.

With a little party of confrères I motored out to the new Italian lines within a few hours of their re-adjustment.

Most of the places we went through in order to get close up to the fighting had only become accessible since the fall of Gorizia, whilst others, as for instance Sagrado, and Gradisca, were now almost peaceful after months of constant bombardment.

Gradisca interested me very particularly, as I had lively recollections of the flying visit I had paid to it the preceding year when, as I have described in a previous chapter, our cars to get there had to run the gauntlet of the fire of the batteries on Monte San Michele.

Now the Austrian guns were well out of range, and the little town was quite delightfully peaceful in comparison, and you could wander as you pleased under the big trees in the park, round the bandstand, and fancy you were waiting for the music to commence; or through the grass-grown, deserted streets and take note of the wanton damage done by the Austrians to their own property.

Monte San Michele, at the back of the town, was now but a very ordinary and unpicturesque hill in the distance, and from the military standpoint no longer of any importance whatever.

The town itself was rapidly being occupied, and inhabited; several of the big buildings were being transformed into first line hospitals, and the General of the division had already fixed up his headquarters here.

All these changes conveyed more to me than any communiqués had done; I saw for myself what had been accomplished since I was last there, and there was no doubting the evidence of my own eyes.

At Sagrado, on the lower Isonzo, a similar condition of affairs existed; but here it was my first visit, as it was inaccessible the previous year. A one-time beautiful little town, I should say, typically Austrian, it is true, but nevertheless from all accounts a very pleasant place to live in.

All the river frontage at the present time is nothing but a shapeless heap of ruins; the magnificent bridge and the elaborate system of locks are irreparably damaged.

Fortunately a considerable portion of the town escaped damage by the shells, and this was now crowded with troops. Yet, barely a week before, it was practically uninhabitable except at enormous risk.

Not the least significant of changes one noticed on the way to the lines was the complete disappearance of Austrian aeroplanes. There had been a few over Gorizia on the great day, but here there appeared to be none at all, and the “Caproni” now held undisputed sway in the air.

As to the observation balloons, the “Drachen,” they had all along been noticeable by their absence; as a matter of fact, I don’t recollect ever seeing any of these aerial look-outs over the Austrian lines at any time, the reason for this deficiency being perhaps that they were not found to sufficiently fulfil their purpose.

The Italians evidently thought differently, and their “drachen” were to be seen everywhere, and along this front in particular.

In this connection I could not fail to note how much further behind the lines they are stationed here as compared with their usual position on the French Front. There may be some very simple explanation of this, but it appeared to me as a layman that they lost a lot of their utility by being always so distant from the Austrian lines.

We were bound for Doberdo, the village on the Carso that was being mentioned every day in the communiqués. From Sagrado we went by way of Fogliano, the road skirting the railway most of the way. We were now on the confines of a region of universal havoc and desolation.

War had swept across the country-side with the devastating effect of a prairie fire. Nothing had escaped it. All the villages we passed through were only names now, and nothing remained but ruins to indicate where they had been; of inhabitants, of course, there was not so much as a trace.

In spite, however, of the general devastation, troops were to be seen everywhere, and numbers were camping even among the ruins with the utmost unconcern; in fact, you couldn’t fail to notice that the moral of the men was wonderful, and that they seemed as cheerful as if at a picnic.

The Italian soldier struck me as having a happy faculty for making the best of everything, so hardships do not seem to trouble him, and the equivalent of “grousing” is, as I have already stated, an unknown word in his vocabulary.

This was particularly observable here, though, of course, the glorious weather may have had some thing to do with it; but the fact remained that they were supporting exceptional hardships with a stoicism that was quite remarkable, I thought.

The only difficulty the officers experienced was in getting them to advance with caution ([see page 273])

To face page 258

Along the road at one place we passed a regiment halted on its way to the trenches. The men, all apparently very young, were sitting or lying about on either side of the road. We had to slow down in order to get past, so I had an opportunity to take a mental note of the scene.

It was the more interesting to me as I knew that these men were fully aware that in a couple of hours or so they would be in the thick of the hottest fighting. Nevertheless, I could see no trace of any nervous excitement, though the guns were booming in the distance; they might have all been case-hardened old warriors, so far as you could outwardly judge from their stolid demeanour.

Many were taking advantage of the halt to snatch a few minutes sleep, whilst others were writing letters. There was very little of the grouping together or chatting one would have expected to see. The Italian of to-day is becoming a “thinker.”

But what struck me perhaps most of all was the quite noticeable absence of smoking. Probably every other man in an English or French regiment under the circumstances would have had a pipe or a cigarette in his mouth, and would have considered the hardships increased tenfold if he hadn’t been able to enjoy a smoke. Here the men in the field don’t seem to look upon tobacco as an absolute necessity; so far as I could judge; and one seldom sees them smoking on the march, like the French poilu, or the English Tommy.

About a mile and a half past Fogliano we took a road that went by an archway under the railway embankment, and brought us a few hundred yards on to a heap of rubble that had once been a little village named Redipuglia, if I remember rightly.

On our right was the much talked of Monte Cosich, a hill that had been the scene of innumerable desperate fights, and facing us was the commencement of the Carso.

I shall never forget my first impression of this shell-swept waste; for what I had already seen of it was only from a distance, and though through powerful binoculars, one was not really able to form any conception of what it is like in reality. I had been prepared to see Nature in its most savage mood, but the scene before me was so terrible in its utter desolation as to inspire a sense of awe.

Imagine the Brighton downs covered from end to end with colourless stones and rock instead of turf; no sign of vegetation anywhere; ribbed in every direction with trenches protected by low, sand-bagged walls; bristling with wire entanglements, and everywhere pitted with huge shell-craters.

Even then you have only a faint conception of what war means on the Carso, and the awful character of the task the Italians have had before them for the past eighteen months.

There is certainly nothing to compare with it on any of the other Fronts; for here nature appears to have connived at the efforts of man, and every hollow and every hummock form as it were potential bastions. The incessant thunder of the guns in the distance seemed, as it were, to be in keeping with the utter desolation of the scene.

The road gradually ascended for about a couple of miles, till we at last arrived on the plateau of Doberdo, and close to all that remains of the village.

Fighting was going on only a short distance away in the direction of Nova Vas, so we were under fire here, as shrapnel was bursting all round the village, and at times in amongst the ruins as well.

Doberdo was then reputed to be the hottest corner of the Carso, and one literally took one’s life into one’s hands when going there.

But it was, nevertheless, so absorbingly interesting that it compensated for the risk one was taking, and there was a weird sort of fascination in listening to the booming of the guns and watching the shells bursting.

There were no troops here, only some officers and a few soldiers, for the village was far too much exposed for actual occupation; but it was on the road to the trenches, so it was to a certain extent “occupied” for the moment. There was also a Field Dressing Station, where a few devoted Red Cross men were working under conditions of ever-present peril.

Every yard almost of the ground had been shelled, and it was pock-marked with craters of all sizes. In fact, the wonder was that even a particle of the village was left standing.

We left the car under the shelter of the remnant of a wall, and strolled along what had evidently been the main street; but it was not altogether what one would term a pleasant stroll, for the stench of unburied dead was in the air, and horrible sights faced you on all sides.

We proceeded very gingerly and ready to make a bolt for cover whenever we heard the warning screech of an approaching shell. There was really not more to see at one end of the street than the other, but one feels just a little bit restless standing still under fire, so we started off on a look round.

At the end of the village there was a fine view looking towards Oppachiasella on the left, and Monte Cosich and the road by which we had come up on the right. One was, therefore, able to judge for oneself what fighting in this arid wilderness means.

You had the impression of gazing on the scene of an earthquake, so little semblance to anything recognizable was there in sight. Here and there a black and gaping hole on the hillside indicated the entrance to one of the famous Carso caves, which are so characteristic a feature of the region.

What was left of the Austrian trenches after the Italian artillery had done with them was sufficient to convey an idea of the awful time their occupants must have passed through; you had the idea that any human beings who survived after being in such an inferno deserved peace and quietude to the end of their days.

In many cases these trenches were only a few yards apart, so the courage necessary to take them by direct assault must have been extraordinary. One could see the dead lying in between them. The peculiar rock formation of the whole area precludes any making of actual trenches except with enormous labour; to obviate this shallow furrows are formed and protected with stone parapets, finished with sand-bags (or rather bags of small stones, as, of course, there is no sand here).

The condition of these parapets and “trenches” after continual pounding with high explosives may be left to the imagination. A gruesome detail must be mentioned: so difficult is it to excavate the ground here that the dead are not being “buried” but simply covered over with stones.

Many grim and barbarous devices for causing death in the most horrible and unexpected form were discovered in the Austrian trenches here on the Doberdo plateau, and the mere sight of them was often sufficient to rouse the Italian soldiers to a pitch of frenzy.

One is apt to forget at times that the Austrian is by nature quite as callous and inhuman a creature as the Hun, but here one had ample reminder of what he is capable of when he realises that he is up against a better man than himself.

It is of historic interest in this connection to recount a few of the new infamies these apt disciples of the Hun have introduced: the poisoned cigarettes and shaving brushes left in the trenches; the bombs under dead bodies; explosive bullets; baccilli of typhoid dropped from aeroplanes; and the iron-topped bludgeons.

The latter instrument of torture, for it is nothing less, is quite one of the latest devices of Austrian “Kultur” for putting a wounded adversary to death. The iron head is studded with jagged nails, and has a long spike let into the end. No South Sea cannibal ever devised a more awful weapon.

I was lucky enough to get one and brought it back to London, where it makes a fitting pendant in my studio to another barbaric “souvenir” of the war, one of the Hun “proclamations” put on the walls in Rheims before the battle of the Marne.

However, to revert to Doberdo. We stood for some little while at the end of the village endeavouring to grasp the import of the various strategic points we could discern from here, when all of a sudden the Austrian batteries started a furious bombardment in our direction with apparently no object whatever, except perhaps that our car had been seen, and they hoped to stop any further movement on the road.

We could see shell after shell bursting with wonderful precision on either side, and in the centre, of the road. Then they must have spotted our little group, for the range was shortened and we found ourselves apparently receiving the polite attention of all the guns.

My two companions made a dash for a sort of dug-out which was close by, and I was about to follow them when I happened to glance round and saw a carabinieri standing right out in the road a few yards away, as imperturbably as though it was a slight shower of rain passing over. He was looking in my direction, and I fancied I caught a twinkle of amusement in his eyes at my hurry.

In an instant the thought flashed through my mind: if it doesn’t matter to him remaining in the open why should it to me? So I climbed back on to the road, trying the while to appear as though I had never really intended to take shelter.

I had scarcely regained my feet when I heard the wail of an approaching shell, and then the peculiar and unmistakable sound of a big shrapnel about to burst overhead.

I only just had time to put my arm up to protect my eyes when it exploded. It was like a thunderbolt, and so close that I heard pieces of metal strike the ground all round me.

A moment elapsed and footsteps approached. Turning round I saw a soldier I had not noticed before; he was fumbling with something in his hands which appeared too hot to hold easily.

Then to my astonishment he said to me with a laugh, and in perfect English: “I think this was addressed to you, Sir,” at the same time handing me a jagged little piece of shell.

I was so taken aback at hearing English spoken just at that particular moment that all I found to say to him in reply to his brilliant wit was the idiotic commonplace “Thanks very much,” as I took the interesting fragment.

It occurred to me afterwards that he must have thought me a very taciturn and phlegmatic Englishman, but I had just had a very narrow escape and felt a bit shaken up, as may be imagined, so was scarcely in the mood for conversational effort.

We had hoped to have a look at the trenches round the lake of Doberdo, about three-quarters of a mile away from the village, but with the firing so intense and showing every sign of increasing rather than diminishing, it would have been madness to have attempted to get there, as it was right out in the open. In fact, there was considerable doubt as to the advisability of starting on the return journey yet, as the road was in the thick of it.

We had only just been remarking on the extraordinary quiescence of the Italian guns which had not fired a shot since we had been up here, when scarcely were the words out of our mouths than suddenly, as though the limit of patience had been reached, with a terrifying crash, all the batteries near us opened fire.

The result was positively magnificent, and roused one to the pitch of enthusiasm. We could see the shells bursting along the crest of a hill some two thousand yards away with such accuracy of aim that in a few moments there was probably not a yard of the ground that had not been plastered with high explosives; and anything living that was there must have been battered out of existence.

The Italian Commander had no intention of wasting ammunition, however; he only wished to show he was allowing no liberties to be taken with him; for in less than a quarter of an hour the Italian fire ceased with the same suddenness it had started, and notwithstanding that the Austrian guns were still going it as hard as ever.

There was no use waiting indefinitely for the chance of getting away in quietude, so we started off on our return to Sagrado. We had extra passengers in the car now, three officers having asked us to give them a lift part of the way. One could not very well refuse, but it made it a very tight fit.

The road was downhill all the way, and there were one or two awkward turns. The effect of the heavy firing was visible all the way. There were big shell-holes and stones everywhere, so it was impossible to go at any speed, much as we should have liked it.

The only thing to do, therefore, was to sit still and trust to luck. One or two shells burst quite close by us, but we managed to get out of range safely.

We passed some motor ambulances full of serious casualties from the plateau round Doberdo. Even when there was no actual battle proceeding never a day passed I learned without a constant stream of wounded coming down. The promiscuous shell fire of the Austrians continually taking toll somewhere and helping to keep the ambulances busy and the hospitals full.

I was told in Udine that the wounded coming in from the Carso are usually found to be more seriously injured than those from any other Front; the explanation of this being that owing to the peculiar character of the rocky surface the effect of a shell exploding is, as it were, magnified several times.

Wounds, therefore, are caused as often by the splinters of rock flying upwards, and ricochets, as from the actual fragments of the projectile itself. It is certain that the majority of the terrible facial injuries are more frequently caused by re-percussion than by direct hits.

As will have been gathered, therefore, the soldiers of Italy in this region of desolation are fighting against two enemies, the Austrians and the Carso.