One frequently had the road to oneself at this hour, and you could have imagined you were on a pleasure jaunt till you heard the booming of the guns above the noise of the engine; for it did not matter how early one was, the guns never seemed to be silent. With a sympathetic companion in the car these runs out to the lines were quite amongst the pleasantest features of one’s life up at the Front.
On this particular occasion the fact of being with someone with whom I could converse freely made it still more agreeable. We went off quite “on our own,” as Vaucher speaks Italian fluently; and as our soldier chauffeur knew the road well, there was not much fear of our getting lost.
We decided that it was advisable for form’s sake to call on the Divisional General, and ask for his permission to pass through the lines. With some little difficulty we succeeded in discovering his Headquarters. These were, we learned, on the railway, close to the Rubbia-Savogna Station, on the Trieste-Gorizia line.
It turned out to be about the last place where one would have expected to unearth a General. The station itself was in ruins, and presented a pathetically forlorn appearance, with posters and time-tables hanging in tatters from the walls; no train had passed here for very many months.
We left the car on the permanent way alongside the platform, and picked our way along the track through the twisted and displaced rails to the signalman’s “cabin,” which had been converted into the Headquarters pro tem.
It was as unconventional and warlike as could well be imagined, and as a subject for a picture would have delighted a military painter.
The General was a well set up, good-looking man of middle age, and quite the most unassuming officer of his rank I have ever met. After carefully examining our military permits to come there, he received us with the utmost cordiality. He spoke French fluently, and was apparently much interested in our work as war correspondents.
There was no difficulty, he said, about our going to San Martino, but we did so at our own risk, as it was his duty to warn us that it was still being constantly shelled; in fact, he added, the whole neighbourhood was under fire, and he pointed out a gaping hole a few yards away where a shell had burst only an hour before our arrival, and had blown a small hut to atoms.
The railway station was being continually bombarded, and he was sorry to say that he had lost a good many of his staff here.
No strategic object whatever was attained by this promiscuous shelling; the only thing it did was to get on the men’s nerves and make them fidgetty.