“Hello—Hello!”
“That you, Julius Price? Charles Ingram speaking—When are you starting for Italy?”
I had only received my marching orders from the office the previous day, so the thought came to my mind “Early next week,” but I hadn’t the pluck to give expression to it. Instead, I compromised lamely with “As soon as possible.”
“Rubbish!” snapped the voice, “Get off at once.”
I had known my Charles Ingram—best of chiefs—most loyal of friends—too long to attempt to argue. I had started on too many journeys for The Illustrated London News not to realize that a War-Artist must have no collars to buy—no friends to bid farewell to—so there was only one stereotyped answer possible—“All right, I’ll leave to-morrow morning.”
“Well, goodbye and good luck to you.”
8.30 the following morning therefore saw me at Charing Cross, duly passported and baggaged, bound for Rome.
Although Italy had not yet officially declared her intention of joining in with the Allies, it was well known that it was but a matter of a few days before she would do so. The War fever all over Italy was at its height, and there seemed no possibility of anything occurring to influence adversely the decision of the King. The sands of time were rapidly running out, while Count Berchtold, the Austrian Chancellor, was deliberately—for the Allies, fortunately—playing with the destiny of his nation.
The centre of interest at the moment was obviously the Capital, so I was anxious to reach it in time to witness the historic scenes of the near future. Rumour had it that so eager was the nation to get to grips with its hereditary foe that a revolution would ensue were the King to hesitate as to his course of action, while it had been an open secret for some weeks that a general mobilisation of the Army and Navy had been in active progress since the commencement of the period of tension. Italy, therefore, was the point de mire of the entire world on the 20th of May, 1915, when I left London, and I could congratulate myself that, thanks to the journalistic flair of Charles Ingram, I should be on the spot in time for anything that might happen.
At that date one was still able to reach Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne—England was only just awakening to the fact she was at war—the popular short sea-passage route had not yet been taken over by the military authorities, and although the examination of passports and passengers was severe, there was nothing like the difficulty and delay one now experiences in getting across the Channel. The scheduled time from London to Paris was a mere matter of twelve hours, which, of course, was not excessively long under the circumstances, while as compared with the time the journey occupies to-day via Southampton and Havre, it was rapidity itself.