CHAPTER XX
Declaration of war between Italy and Germany—Effect of declaration at Udine—Interesting incident—General Cadorna consents to give me a sitting for a sketch—The curious conditions—Methodic and business-like—Punctuality and precision—A reminder of old days—I am received by the Generalissimo—His simple, unaffected manner—Unconventional chat—“That will please them in England”—My Gorizia sketch book—The General a capital model—“Hard as nails”—The sketch finished—Rumour busy again—A visit to Monfalcone—One of the General’s Aides-de-camp—Start at unearthly hour—Distance to Monfalcone—Arctic conditions—“In time for lunch”—Town life and war—Austrian hour for opening fire—Monfalcone—Deserted aspect—The damage by bombardment—The guns silent for the moment—The ghost of a town—“That’s only one of our own guns”—A walk to the shipbuilding yards—The communication trench—The bank of the canal—The pontoon bridge—The immense red structure—The deserted shipbuilding establishment—Fantastic forms—Vessels in course of construction—A strange blight—The hull of the 20,000 ton liner—The gloomy interior—The view of the Carso and Trieste through a port-hole—Of soul stirring interest—Hill No. 144—The “daily strafe”—“Just in time”—Back to Udine “in time for lunch”—Return to the Carso—Attack on the Austrian positions at Veliki Hribach—New difficulties—Dense forest—Impenetrable cover—Formidable lines of trenches captured—Fighting for position at Nova Vas—Dramatic ending—Weather breaking up—Operations on a big scale perforce suspended—Return London await events.
CHAPTER XX
On the 28th August, 1916, Italy declared war on Germany. The declaration had, however, been so long anticipated that, so far as one was in a position to judge, it made little or no difference in the already existing state of affairs; since the two nations had to all intents and purposes been fighting against each other for months, and at Udine, at any rate, it scarcely aroused any comment outside the Press.
However, it settled any doubts that might have existed on the subject, and henceforth the Italians and the Huns were officially justified in killing each other whenever they got the chance.
Curiously enough, it was through General Cadorna himself that I learned that war had been declared. It was under somewhat interesting circumstances, which I will relate.
I had always desired to make a sketch of the Commander-in-Chief of the Italian Army, and with this idea had asked Colonel Barbarich at the Censorship if he would try and arrange it for me.
He willingly agreed, but a few days after he told me that he had done the best he could for me, but that the General had said that for the moment he was far too occupied, but perhaps he would accede to my desire a little later. I must therefore have patience.
This looked like a polite way of putting me off, and I accepted it as such.
Gorizia and other subjects engaged my attention, and I had forgotten the incident when, to my surprise, one day Colonel Barbarich came up to me and said that if I still wished to make the sketch of the General, His Excellency would be pleased to receive me on the following Monday morning at eleven o’clock precisely, and would give me a sitting of exactly half-an-hour.
“But,” added Colonel Barbarich, “you must clearly understand it is only half-an-hour, and also that the General will not talk to you as he will not be interviewed.”
The “following Monday” was nearly a week ahead, so this was methodic and business-like indeed.
Of course, in spite of all the conditions attaching to the sitting, I was delighted to find that my request had not been overlooked, so I replied jocularly to the Colonel that failing an earthquake or the ill-timed intervention of an Austrian shrapnel, I would certainly make it my duty to keep the appointment.
Well, the auspicious day arrived in due course, and so did I in good time at the Censorship to meet Colonel Barbarich, who was to take me on to the General, whose quarters were in a palace originally intended for the Prefect of Udine, only a short distance away.
With the knowledge of the punctuality and precision of the General, at l’heure militaire, that is to say, as the clock was striking eleven, we made our way up the grand staircase to the first floor where the General resided and had his offices.
In a large anti-chamber, with a big model of the Isonzo Front occupying the whole of the centre, we were received by an aide-de-camp, who evidently expected us exactly at that moment. Colonel Barbarich briefly introduced me, then to my surprise left at once.
The Aide-de-camp took my card into an adjoining apartment, and returning immediately, said that His Excellency General Cadorna was waiting for me, and ushered me in.
A grey-haired officer of medium height, whom I immediately recognised as the Generalissimo, was reading an official document
To face page 283
Up till then nothing could have been more matter-of-fact and business-like. It reminded me of the old days when I sought journalistic interviews with city magnates. But the business-like impression vanished as soon as I was inside the door.
I found myself in a very large room, well but scantily furnished. Standing by a table, which was covered with maps, a grey-haired officer of medium height, whom I immediately recognised as the Generalissimo, was reading an official document.
He came forward and cordially shook hands with me in the most informal way. I began to thank him for his courtesy in receiving me, and was apologising for not being able to speak Italian, when he cut me short, saying with a laugh:
“I speak but very leetle English,” but “Peut-être vous parlez Français.” On my telling him I did he exclaimed genially:
“A la bonheur, then we will speak in French. Now what do you want me to do? I am at your service.”
His simple and unaffected manner put me at once at my ease and made me instantly feel that this was going to be a “sympathetic” interview, and not a quasi official reception.
I must mention that I had asked Colonel Barbarich to explain that I did not want to worry the General, but would be quite content if I were permitted to make a few jottings in my sketch book of him at work and some details of his surroundings. This, as I have explained, was granted, but with the curious proviso that I was not to talk whilst I was there.
It came, therefore, as a very pleasant surprise to find myself received in this amicable fashion, and the ice being thus broken, I said, I should like to sketch him reading a document, as I found him on entering the room. He willingly acquiesced, and I at once started my drawing as there was no time to lose.
With the recollection of the stipulation that I was not to open my mouth during the sitting, and that I was only allowed half-an-hour I went on working rapidly and in silence.
But I soon found that the General was not inclined to be taciturn, and in a few moments we were chatting in the most unconventional manner as if we were old friends. As a matter of fact, I shrewdly suspected him of interviewing me.
When he learned how long I had been on the Italian Front he was much interested, and was immediately anxious to know what I thought of his soldiers. Were they not splendid? He put the question with all the enthusiasm and affection of a father who is proud of his children.
As may be imagined, I had no difficulty in convincing him that I have a whole-hearted admiration for the Italian Army after what I had seen of its wonderful doings at Gorizia and elsewhere.
It was then that he gave me the news of the declaration of war between Italy and Germany; the morning papers had not published it in the early editions.
“That will please them in England,” he remarked with a laugh. I agreed with him that it would, although it had long been expected.
The mention of England reminded me that he had just returned from the war conference in London, so I asked if he had ever been there before.
“Yes,” he replied with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “forty years ago; but I do not remember much of it; although my father was ambassador to England I only lived with him in London for a short while. It is, of course, much changed since then.”
Whilst thus chatting I was working with feverish haste at my sketch.
I now noticed he was getting a bit impatient at keeping the same position, so I suggested a few moments rest. He came over to see how I had got on, and asked if he might look through my sketch book.
It happened to be the one I had used at Gorizia, and the sketches I had made that day pleased him very much.
“You were fortunate, you were able to see something; I never see anything,” he remarked quite pathetically.
I felt there was no time to lose if I wanted to get finished in the half-hour, so hinted at his resuming the pose for a few minutes longer. He did so at once, and I ventured to tell him in a joking way that he would make a capital model.
“Well, I am as active now as I ever was,” he replied, taking me seriously, “and I can ride and walk as well now as I could when I was a young man.”
This I could well believe, because he looks as “hard as nails,” and chock full of energy and determination, as the Austrian generals have discovered to their undoing.
I had now completed my rough sketch sufficiently to be able to finish it in the studio.
The General expressed his gratification at my having done it so rapidly, so I suggested another ten minutes some other day to put the finishing touches.
“Come whenever you like, I shall always be pleased to see you,” replied His Excellency genially.
Although, as I have said, there was no outward evidence of the declaration of war making any difference in the conduct of the campaign, rumours soon began to be persistently busy again, and it became pretty evident that something big was going to happen on the Carso before the weather broke up and the autumn rains set in and put a stop to active operations for some time.
There had been a good deal of talk of operations pending in the vicinity of Monfalcone, so I got permission to accompany a Staff Officer who was going there one morning. I had always wanted to see the place and its much talked of shipbuilding yards, but curiously enough this was the first opportunity I had had of going there.
My companion was one of General Cadorna’s aides-de-camp, so we went in one of the big cars belonging to Headquarters. We started at the usual unearthly hour to which one had become accustomed and which, as I have pointed out, is delightful in the summer, but is not quite so fascinating on a raw autumn morning before sunrise.
I was very disappointed when I learned that we should probably be back in Udine “in time for lunch” unless something untoward occurred to force us to stay away longer; as I had been looking forward to an extended run that would last the whole day, but as I was practically a guest on this occasion I could say nothing. My companion, like so many Italian officers, spoke French fluently, and turned out to be a very interesting fellow; and as he had been stationed for some time at Monfalcone before going on the Staff, he knew the district we were making for as well as it was possible to know it.
The distance from Udine to Monfalcone is, roughly, the same as from London to Brighton, and we went via Palmanova, Cervignano, and Ronchi.
It was a bitterly cold morning, with an unmistakable nip of frost in the air, so although I was muffled up to my ears I was gradually getting frozen, and my eyes were running like taps. It may be imagined, therefore, how I was envying my companion his big fur-lined coat.
I had arrived at the Front in the hottest time of the year, so had taken no precautions against Arctic conditions. Motoring in Northern Italy in an open car during the winter months must be a very trying ordeal indeed, if what I experienced that morning was any criterion of it.
As we sped along I asked the Aide-de-camp if there was any particular reason for his starting off so early, and if it was absolutely necessary for us to be back “in time for lunch.” To my mind the very thought of it took the interest off the trip and brought it down to the level of an ordinary pleasure jaunt, which was to me particularly nauseating.
After all these months at the Front I have not yet been able to accustom myself to the combination of every-day town life and war, and I am afraid shall never be able to. Doubtless it is a result of old time experiences.
My companion treated my query somewhat lightly. “You will be able to see all there is to see in and round Monfalcone in three hours,” he replied, “so what is the use therefore of staying longer? Moreover,” he added seriously, “the Austrian batteries have made a practice of opening fire every morning at about eleven o’clock, and usually continue for some hours, so there is the risk of not being able to come away when one wants to.”
There was, of course, no reply possible, and the more especially as I am not exactly a glutton for high explosives, as will have been remarked.
Monfalcone is a nice bright little town, typically Austrian, and before the war must have been a very busy commercial centre.
When I was there it was absolutely deserted, with the exception of a few soldiers stationed there. The shops were all closed, grass was growing in the streets, and it presented the usual desolate appearance of a place continually under the menace of bombardment.
The damage done to it up till then was really unimportant considering the reports that had been spread as to its destruction. Many houses had been demolished, as was to be expected, but I was surprised to find how relatively undamaged it appeared after the months of daily gun-fire to which it had been subjected.
We left the car in a convenient courtyard where it was under cover, and made our way to the Headquarters of the Divisional Commandant, where, as a matter of etiquette I had to leave my card.
For the moment the guns were silent, and there was a strange quietude in the streets that struck me as being different to anything I had noticed anywhere else, except perhaps in Rheims during the bombardment when there was an occasional lull.
One had the feeling that at any moment something awful might happen. Even the soldiers one met seemed to me to have a subdued air, and the drawn expression which is brought about by constant strain on the nerves.
Instinctively one walked where one’s footsteps made the least noise, in order to be able to hear in good time the screech of an approaching shell.
It had turned out a lovely day, and in the brilliant sunshine Monfalcone should have been a bright and cheerful place, instead of which it was but the ghost of a town with the shadow of death continually overhanging it.
The peaceful stillness was not to be of long duration. Silence for any length of time had been unknown in Monfalcone for many a long day.
Whilst we were having a talk with the officers at Headquarters there was a loud detonation, apparently just outside the building. To my annoyance I could not restrain an involuntary start, as it was totally unexpected.
“That’s only one of our guns,” remarked, with a smile, a Major with whom I was chatting, and who had noticed the jump I made. “The Austrians won’t commence for another couple of hours at least,” he added.
My companion and I then started off to walk down to the shipbuilding yard, about a mile and a half from the town, and which was, of course, the principal sight of the place.
One had not gone far when one had some idea how exposed was the position of Monfalcone. A deep communication trench commenced in the main street and continued alongside the road the whole way down to the port—no one was allowed to walk outside it.
The object of this was to prevent any movement being seen from the Austrian batteries, which were only a comparatively short distance away, though it must have been no secret to them what was going on in Monfalcone.
The Italian guns were now getting busy, and the noise was deafening, but still there was no response from the enemy; it was evidently true that he worked to time, and it was not yet eleven o’clock.
Although only a mile and a half, the walk seemed longer because one could see nothing on either side, the walls of the trench being quite six feet high; but at last we came out on the bank of what looked like a broad canal. This is part of a waterway constructed to connect up the port with the railway.
The communication trench now took the form of a sunken pathway winding along the bank under the trees, and was quite picturesque in places.
At last we reached the end, and facing us was the Adriatic as calm as a lake, and away on the horizon one could see the hills that guard Trieste.
We crossed the mouth of the canal by a pontoon bridge, which I believe had been abandoned by the Austrians when they evacuated Monfalcone at the beginning of the war.
A short distance ahead, towering above a conglomeration of long sheds on the low-lying ground, was an immense red structure, the outlines of which recalled something familiar. As one got nearer one saw that it was the unfinished steel hull of a gigantic ocean liner, and that the red colouring was caused by the accumulation of rust from long exposure.
We soon reached the entrance to a vast shipbuilding establishment. There were no bolts or bars to prevent our walking in.
The whole place was deserted, and all around us was a spectacle of ruin and desolation that was more impressive than actual havoc caused by bombardment.
In the immense workshops the machinery was rotting away; on the benches lay the tools of workmen; strange metal forms, portions of the framework of big ships lay here and there on the sodden ground like huge red skeletons of ante-deluvian animals.
Many vessels had been in the course of construction, mostly for the Mercantile fleet of Austria, though there were some destroyers and war-craft on the stocks as well. Rust, of a weird intensity of colour. I had never seen before, was over everything like a strange blight.
Alongside the sheds was the hull of the big liner one had seen in the distance. A 20,000 ton boat, I was told, which was being built for the Austrian Lloyd Line.
The wooden slipway and the cradle supports had caught fire and had been destroyed, and this I was told had caused the keel to break, so that the hull was now but a derelict mass of steelwork which could never be floated.
To advance through this jungle called for all the cool, disciplined courage of the Italian soldier ([see page 293])
To face page 298
Had it not been for the satisfaction one felt in gazing on the ruins of a prospective addition to the Mercantile Navy of the enemy, this leviathan of wasted industry and material would have appeared quite tragic.
The companion-way used by the workmen was still in position, so we clambered up into the gloomy interior and had a walk round, our footsteps echoing mournfully along the cavernous emptiness of the decks.
Through a port-hole we got a very fine view of the Carso and the Italian and Austrian positions in between Monfalcone and Duino; whilst in the distance, some fifteen miles away, one could distinctly see with the glasses the white buildings of Trieste, so near and yet so far!
There was evidently a big fight going on at that moment in the direction of a hill not far away from Monfalcone, known as No. 144, which had been frequently referred to in the communiqués, and you could see the bursting shells and hear the booming of the guns.
It was a panorama of soul-stirring interest, and one could have spent hours gazing on it; but time was flying and we had to be thinking of returning.
I had not attached much credence to the statement that the Austrians had established a sort of precedent as to time with regard to opening fire every day, but out of curiosity I glanced at my watch as we started back.
It may have been a mere coincidence, but it was just on eleven o’clock. Beyond, however, the dull booming of the guns in the direction of Hill No. 144, there was no sign yet of artillery activity anywhere near Monfalcone.
We had crossed the pontoon bridge and were making our way along the canal bank when there was the report of a gun not very far away in the enemy’s lines, and the screech of a shell passing over our heads proved beyond a doubt that the “Daily Strafe” was about to commence.
The shell burst on the outskirts of the town and in the direction in which we were going. My companion, who was walking on ahead, called out jocularly that we should be “just in time.”
From now the firing increased every minute, and it seemed to me that the sole objective of the Austrian gunners was the place where we had left our car.
We met several groups of soldiers as we went along, and I noticed that if a shell happened to be coming over just then, the majority of the men always stopped and crouched down against the protecting wall of the trench.
This prompted my asking my companion what he considered to be the best thing to do when under fire. “Take no notice of it,” was his laconic reply.
In Monfalcone the streets were nearly deserted, though whether in consequence of the shelling commencing or some other cause, I could not tell; anyhow, as there was nothing further to see that day we returned to Udine “in time for lunch.”
A couple of days later I was back again on the Carso. A big attack on the Austrian positions at Veliki Hribach, near Doberdo, having suddenly developed.
Difficulties had to be surmounted here which were totally different to any previously encountered, as the offensive was made through close-growing woodland.
An important sector of the Carso district to the north of Trieste consists of wooded country, and directly bars the Italian advance in that region. The ground in question was artificially planted by the Austrian Government some years ago under a scheme to reclaim the Carso and convert it into forest tracts.
Plantations of fir trees were laid out over a large area, and these are now grown into the woods, which present a very serious obstacle to the Italians.
Sheltered by the almost impenetrable cover which the dense growth of immature trees offers, the Austrians had constructed Torres-Vedras-like series of fortified positions among the trees along the ridges that intersect the district. In the Veliki Hribach stretch of woods alone no fewer than eleven formidable lines of trenches have been captured.
The trees are of too young growth to stop bullets; and hidden in their trenches the Austrians could sweep the approaches at ground level, lying low behind abattis and a mass of wire entanglements.
The whole aspect of the country here reminded me strangely of parts of the West Australian “bush,” with, of course, the exception that these are fir trees.
Still, there was so much resemblance that it would have been as easy to lose oneself here in the dense growth as it is in the “bush.”
To advance through this jungle called for all the cool disciplined courage of the Italian soldier. There was no opportunity for a wild headlong assault on the Austrian trenches; they had to be virtually “stalked,” as the cover afforded by the saplings was so illusory as to give practically no protection at all.
The wood in which I made my sketch had been “blazed” beforehand by a handful of the most daring spirits among the men; not by “barking” the trees, which would have taken too long, but by means of whitened stones dropped on the ground at intervals to indicate the direction the troops were to follow.
The capture of the Veliki Hribach position proved that the Italian soldier can be relied on under any circumstances, however trying.
The day following the offensive developed in the direction of Nova Vas, about a mile and a half east of Doberdo, on the heights of San Grado di Merna, and near Lokvica, with continued success for the Italians.
The fighting for the position at Nova Vas on September 15th in particular ended in so dramatic a fashion that it will long be remembered by all who witnessed it.
After a furious preparatory bombardment for hours by the Italian heavy guns, to which the Austrians replied vigorously, there was a sudden cessation of the Italian fire.
The crisis had come: the infantry were to attack. But while waiting word from elsewhere, there was a brief pause.
Next, suddenly, to the general amazement, within six minutes of the guns ceasing, one saw hundreds of men abandoning the Austrian front trenches. They held up their hands and waved handkerchiefs wildly in token of surrender.
Out they poured, like driven rats stampeded by terriers from a barn. They came racing across the stretch of “No man’s land” between the opposing trenches, straight for the Italians, taking their chance amidst the Austrian shells, still falling briskly.
The spectacular effect of the grey-coated figures, without arms or accoutrements, running towards them, hands up, and frantically shouting “Kamerad! Kamerad!” was startlingly dramatic.
The Italian soldiers were so amazed at the sight that, regardless of the risk of exposing themselves, they showed themselves over their own parapets and stood gazing at what was taking place.
In all, 2,117 Austrian prisoners mere made that day, including 71 officers.
Torrential rain set in during the night, and the captured trenches were found to be in so complete a state of ruin and afforded so little shelter that the troops were brought back to their original positions.
After this offensive the weather showed unmistakable signs of breaking up; bitterly cold winds with heavy rains every day put a stop to all military movements of any importance. Although it is certain that no weather, however bad, will entirely arrest the activity of General Cadorna for even 24 hours, it was apparent, however, that the resumption of operations on anything like a big scale would have to be suspended bon gré mal gré till the early spring.
To spend the winter in Udine, therefore, presented no particular attraction for me, so I decided to return to London and there await events, in readiness to go back if necessary at a moment’s notice.
It was certainly with regret that I was leaving the Italian Front, for I had spent many glorious days with King Victor Emmanuel’s heroic soldiers, but my regret was softened by the thought that I should soon be returning to assist at the final victory.