Six months on the Italian front

by Julius M. Price

The chief operations for the next few weeks, therefore, were confined to the mountainous region on the left bank of the Isonzo, about six miles west of Tolmino.

Here, towering nearly 7,000 feet high, rugged and threatening, visible for miles around, is the frowning pinnacle of bare rock known as Monte Nero, for the possession of which so many gallant lives were to be sacrificed. That it was of the utmost importance it should without undue delay be captured was patent from the very start. From its northern slope the Austrian artillery commanded the entire zone of operations in the vicinity right and left.

It is almost impossible to describe the terrible nature of the enterprise the Italians found themselves up against, but which had to be carried out at all costs. One must have seen Monte Nero to form a conception of the courage that was requisite to accomplish it, yet it was eventually achieved, and under conditions which will ever redound to the glory of the Italian army.

The whole story of the capture of Monte Nero is a veritable epic of heroism and endurance. It started with a series of stubborn conflicts for the possession of the spurs leading to the summit; these were gradually taken, and then came the crucial moment when only the actual summit remained in the possession of the Austrians. This had been transformed into a veritable fortress, and its eventual capture was probably one of the most thrilling episodes in the history of war.

The Austrians were so strongly entrenched and fortified that they had every reason to consider themselves in complete security from any attack except by long range artillery fire, and the front of their positions was further protected by nature, the side of the mountain being almost perpendicular for some distance from the top.

Many an experienced climber would hesitate to negotiate so precipitous an ascent in daylight. The Alpini, with almost incredible daring, undertook it on a moonless night.

It meant practically scaling a cliff of rock in pitch darkness, encumbered with rifle and munition; however, amongst the men, all of whom were hardy mountaineers, there was no hesitancy. In order to lessen the danger of making any noise which might arouse the suspicions of the Austrian sentries, they removed their boots and bound rags round their feet to prevent them being cut on the rocks.

Up they climbed in the Cimmerian gloom of midnight like so many panthers stalking their prey; now and again a rock, dislodged by accident, would disturb the stillness of the night as it rattled down into the valley below, and instantly the column would halt and remain motionless expecting the next moment the mountain side would be illumined by the enemy’s flares and their presence discovered, but their quarry slumbered in blissful ignorance of their approaching doom, and the sentinels, fortunately, heard nothing.

Half-an-hour before dawn the various detachments reached the summit and found themselves within a few yards of the front line of entrenchments. These were instantly rushed and captured at the point of the bayonet within a few minutes, most of their defenders being killed before they were awake.

The second line shared the same fate after a short and stubborn fight, for once aroused the Austrians fought like cornered rats and with the courage of despair, but they had no chance against the athletic Alpinist, many of whom had not even troubled to put on their boots after the long climb.