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.