Yet close by, standing as calmly as though waiting for the storm to pass, were the two Carabinieri we had previously seen, and who were evidently on guard here.
In all my war experiences I have never witnessed anything to surpass the sangfroid displayed by these two men. Neither the bursting shells nor the falling trees appeared to perturb them in the least. They were as unruffled as a London policeman on point duty. It was a display of cool courage I shall long remember. Their horses, standing just behind, shared their master’s composure; they showed no signs of nervousness, and were not even fastened up.
I shall have occasion later to again refer to the remarkable fearlessness of the Carabinieri—it was one of the things that impressed me most on the Italian Front.
The car was not where we had left it, and the Carabinieri told us that the chauffeur had thought it advisable to move it to a less exposed place further up the road so as not to risk its being smashed to pieces.
We hurried on and soon found the car, but no chauffeur. After calling out for some minutes and with difficulty making ourselves heard above the din going on; we saw him coming up from what looked like a cellar under the trees.
This was a “dug-out” or what our English Tommies have humourously designated as a “funk-hole,” and was constructed of heavy timber covered with turf and several layers of sandbags. It was entered by a short flight of steps, so we went down to have a look at it. One might have been in a settler’s hut out in the wilds somewhere, though for the matter of that all log shanties convey that impression.
It was a very rough and gloomy place, but I was told that the King had taken “cover” here only the day before, and had been forced to stay in it for several hours.
Some soldiers were there, so we sat down with them and had a chat, and it was well we did, for the firing increased in intensity every moment, and heavy projectiles began to burst on the roof of the “dug-out” with such terrific force that one expected at any moment the whole place would be blown to atoms.
The very ground trembled under the shock of the explosions. I never thought that human ears or nerves could stand such an inferno as we were in for during the next hour.
The effect on me personally was at first a sort of atrophy of my senses—a feeling came over me that if this was to be my end, well let it be a quick and complete finish, no blinding or maiming or other drawn out agony. Next a sensation of extreme hunger, which at the time I felt inclined to pat myself on the back for, as indicating heroic indifference to my surroundings, but which later I learned, to my disappointment, is a well-known manifestation of “funk,” a form of nervous dyspepsia—“fringale,” the French call it. But gradually these impressions wore off, and I looked around with curiosity to see how the young soldiers around me bore themselves.