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.