TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

There is only one Footnote in this book, on [page 166]. This Footnote has been moved and placed directly under the paragraph that has its anchor [A].

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Some minor changes to the text are noted at the [end of the book.] These are indicated by a dashed blue underline.

SIX MONTHS
ON THE ITALIAN FRONT

WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

FROM THE ARCTIC OCEAN TO THE YELLOW SEA

THE LAND OF GOLD

FROM EUSTON TO KLONDIKE

DAME FASHION

MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN PARIS

MY BOHEMIAN DAYS IN LONDON

The Author in San Martino del Carso.

From a snapshot by Robert Vaucher.
Correspondent of the Paris L’Illustration.

SIX MONTHS ON
THE ITALIAN FRONT

From the Stelvio to the Adriatic
1915-1916

By

Julius M. Price

War-Artist Correspondent of the
“Illustrated London News”

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

681 FIFTH AVENUE

1917

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE WESTMINSTER PRESS
411A HARROW ROAD
LONDON W

To the Italian Military Authorities
in recognition of the courtesy and many kindnesses
extended to me during my six months’ work with the
glorious Army of Italy.

NOTE

I am indebted to the Directors of the Illustrated London News for their kind permission to reproduce in this book the sketches and drawings I made for them whilst on the Italian Front, a great many of which have already been published.

PREFACE

As the reader will discover for himself, I have no pretensions to pose as a Military Expert. This book is the result of a few hasty impressions gathered over a period which, with all its minor inconveniences and little daily worries, I look back upon as among the happiest and best filled of a somewhat varied career. I have not yielded to the temptation to be interesting at the expense of veracity; to that fact the indulgent reader will, I trust, attribute many of the dull pages. If in the latter half of the book I have laid particular stress on the operations leading up to and culminating in the capture of Gorizia, I hope I may be forgiven, as I had the good luck to be the only foreign correspondent on the spot at these scenes of History-making. In my dedication I have paid a humble tribute to the many kindnesses I received at the hands of the Military Authorities, from His Excellency General Cadorna downwards. I can only repeat it here.

Julius M. Price.

21, Golden Square,
London, W.
January, 1917.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I

Marching orders—I leave for Rome—Paris via Folkestone and Boulogne in war time—My campaigning kit—The war-correspondent’s list—Quaint item—Travelling “light”—A box of choice Havanas—Boulogne to Paris; well-intentioned ladies and their “Woodbines”—The one and only cigarette—Paris to Turin—Curious order on train—Method and prescience—Few soldiers on route—Arrival in Rome—A cheap room—No sign of excitement in streets—23rd May—Excitability of the Italian no longer noticeable—Rome unruffled—The declaration of war—On the Corso Umberto that evening—The Café Aragno—National stoicism—The Day—Business as usual—The general mobilisation—A triumph of organization—At the War Office.

CHAPTER I

“Gerrard 2575?”

“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.

It had been a bit of a rush to get through all I had to do in the twenty-four hours I had at my disposal before leaving London. Consuls will not be hurried even for War-Correspondents, and one’s passport nowadays is far and away the most important article of one’s belongings. There are, moreover, always a hundred and one things that must be done before starting on an expedition of indefinite duration. I know of nothing more irritating when “on the road” than suddenly to discover you have forgotten to bring with you some insignificant but invaluable object which can be easily procured in London but which is unobtainable abroad.

In common with most Correspondents, I have always made it a habit to have my kit kept more or less packed ready for emergency, but not to the extent of one of the brotherhood, who, in order to obviate the danger of finding something missing from his trunks while on the war-path, had lists of the various items pasted in the lid of each trunk which he would carefully verify before starting. An excellent idea, and even amusing in places, as on the occasion when his old soldier-servant had described one of the important items in the list, “False tooth (Supernumerary).”

That the selection of every detail of one’s baggage when travelling “light” is an all important matter is incontrovertible, but personal experience and individual fancy can be the only guide to what one is likely really to want on a hazardous journey. For myself, I have contrived to sort things down to an irreducible minimum, which will go in a car or the luggage rack of a railway carriage. This, together with a small attaché case for my books, papers and spare pipes, constitutes my entire baggage, of which I never lose sight.

Two pals came to see me off, and one, a connoisseur in these matters, brought me a box of his choicest Havanas to smoke en route, and delighted though I was at his kind thought, I felt I was going to have trouble with this unexpected addition to my luggage. And it started when I found that my bags were so full up that I could find no immediate home for a box of 100 big cigars, much as I could appreciate them. I could not help feeling that had my friend given me a leg of mutton to carry to Rome it would have been a less awkward parting gift.

The trouble I had with those cigars makes me smile even now when I think of it—they seemed to get everywhere—rather than carry the box, I endeavoured to distribute them in various pockets—with the result that I was simply overwhelmed with Corona Coronas, and although I smoked hard all the way it seemed to make no impression on the supply, and the thought of what might happen at the Italian frontier became a positive obsession.

I had already spent six months on the French front, so was pretty familiar with the warlike scenes that presented themselves on the other side of the Channel, but to most of my fellow travellers they were quite new.

Several well-intentioned ladies in the train from Boulogne to Paris had provided themselves with big supplies of “Woodbines,” and all the way to Etaples, whenever we passed soldiers along the line, they were busy throwing the small packets of cigarettes out of the windows to English and French indiscriminately.

It was Voltaire, I believe, who asserted that England has sixty religious sects but only one sauce. I fancy that the French “Poilu” would now substitute “cigarette” for “sauce,” but whether they prefer the “one and only” to their more robust “Caporals” is a matter of doubt. For my own part, I was too busy that day getting through with my Coronas to trouble much about either.

I should have liked to have spent a few hours in dear old Paris, but the exigency of the situation in Italy did not permit me to entertain the idea for a moment. I just had sufficient time to drive to the Gare de Lyon, dine at a restaurant near the Station, and catch the Rome express.

The train was not crowded, and the journey till we reached Turin was quite featureless with the exception, as far as I could judge, that everyone was discussing the situation in Italy.

At the frontier station of Modane, where the examination of luggage was quite perfunctory, some important news had just come through. The Parliament, on reassembling, had given to the Salandra Cabinet by an overwhelming majority a vote of confidence, which amounted to a declaration of war against Austria.

At Turin, where we arrived in the afternoon, the station was buzzing with rumours that war had already been declared—this, as it turned out, was not the case, but it showed how acute was the crisis and the excited state of popular opinion.

This was borne strongly upon me by a curious order given to the passengers on the train leaving Turin. In broad daylight all blinds had to be drawn down and kept down till we had passed a certain station further on. The reason for this did not transpire, but it was rigorously enforced.

It was a typical Italian summer afternoon, so the discomfort thus entailed in the stuffy carriages may be better imagined than described; but it brought home to you the seriousness of the situation and the fact that whatever the outcome the Government was taking no chances. What was happening in the district through which we were passing was none of our business, and they let us know it—thus.

This was actually the first indication of the nearness of war, and also an illuminating insight of the “method” and prescience of the war department. What struck you everywhere was the small number of soldiers one saw, and you could but conclude that if movement of troops were taking place they were perhaps being carried out in the zone where the blinds had to be drawn, though Turin was so far from any prospective front that this seemed an excessive precaution.

Rome, if not exactly deserted, was much emptier than usual for the time of year; but as it was 84° in the shade that may have had something to do with it.

At the Grand Hotel, where I proposed staying, all the upper floors were closed.

The white waistcoated manager showed me a fine room on the second floor, and on my enquiring the price, asked me, as I thought with diffidence, whether I thought six lires a day was too much. As I knew the charge in normal times would not have been less than three times that amount, I told him I did not—and took it.

A stroll through the principal streets in the cool of the evening, when one might have expected some indication of popular feeling, revealed absolutely no sign of anything abnormal. It was outwardly the Rome of peace times, not as you would have expected to find it on the eve of war; yet the Press was full of the gravity of the impending crisis, and in the Capital, as on the journey towards it, one was struck by the remarkable absence of soldiers everywhere.

The following day, Sunday, the 23rd of May, it was evident from the tenor of the morning papers that the ultima ratio was in sight, and that it was now only a question of hours, or even minutes, when the momentous decision of the King would be announced. There was a significant calm everywhere that one could not fail to notice, though nobody appeared to have any doubt as to what was pending.

Strangely enough all the old characteristics of the Latin race seem to be dying out—the excitability, the hotheadedness, the volubility of the Italian of the days of yore are no longer en evidence. The men of Italy of to-day are of a different fibre, and though the old-time mettle remains, it is shown differently. There is a growing tendency amongst all classes towards the imperturbability and placidity one associates with Northern races. Events are accepted more dispassionately, and there is far less of the garrulity and dramatic gesture of twenty years ago.

As was generally anticipated, the fateful decision was made known towards evening, and the papers appeared announcing the declaration of war, and that Baron von Macchio, the Austrian Ambassador, had been handed his passports at 3.30.

Even then, when one would have expected the pent up feelings of the people to display themselves in some form of demonstration, there was no commotion whatever.

Along the Corso Umberto the gaily-dressed crowds strolled as leisurely as ever, and the laughter and merriment were the same as on any ordinary Sunday evening. There were perhaps more people about than usual, but this was probably because it was a delightfully cool evening after an exceptionally hot day.

The Café Aragno, which is the hub of the political, journalistic and social life of the Capital, was, of course, packed, as it always is on Sundays. Groups of people were standing about in the roadway and on the pavement reading and discussing the news. “Extra Special” Editions of the evening papers, with fresh details of the situation, seemed to be coming out every few minutes, and the paper boys did a big trade.

If, however, I had not seen it for myself I should never have believed that such composure in such exceptional circumstances could be possible. I could not help contrasting in my mind this quite remarkable absence of excitability in Rome with what I had seen in Paris on the first day of the mobilisation. When the streets resounded to the cheers of the Reservists and everywhere was wild excitement.

It may have been that the event had been so long anticipated in Italy that when the actual moment arrived its effect was discounted; but nevertheless stoicism of this remarkable character certainly struck one as being quite an unexpected trait of the national temperament.

I was, I must admit, the more surprised and disappointed, as my instructions from my Editor were to get to Rome as quickly as possible and make sketches of the scenes that would doubtless be witnessed in the streets as soon as war was declared, but there was no more to sketch in Rome on that Sunday evening than one would see any day in London, and there were certainly far fewer soldiers about.

In fact, it is probably no exaggeration to state that it was with a sigh of relief that the Italians learned that hostilities were about to commence against Austria.

“The Day” that had been looked forward to for forty-nine years, since peace was forced upon Italy by Prussia and Austria in 1860 after the Battle of Sadowa, had at last come, and found the nation united in its determination to endure anything and stand any sacrifice in its resolve to conquer its hereditary foe once and for all.

The absence of outward sign of feeling amongst the populace was as much marked in the days following the declaration of hostilities. The object of the war was well understood, and therefore popular with all classes—in the Capital at any rate, and there was in consequence no flurry or appearance of undue restlessness anywhere—business went on as usual, and except for the shouting of the newsboys, one could scarcely have known that war had commenced.

During the entire day the onward march continued ([see page 37])

To face page 11

All this was, of course, due to the fact that the general mobilisation had been gradually and quietly taking place for some time previously. There were therefore none of the heartrending scenes such as one witnessed in the streets and round the railway stations in Paris after the first flush of excitement had worn off, for most of the Reservists were well on the way to the Frontier by the time war was declared.

It was a veritable triumph of organisation, and reflected the greatest credit on all concerned.

I had occasion to go to the War Office several times, and found an air of solid business on all sides that was very impressive. Everything appeared to be going on as though by clockwork—a wonderful testimony to the efficiency of the different departments. There was not the slightest indication that anything had been left to chance or to luck in “muddling through somehow.”

Of course it is incontrovertible that those in charge of the destinies of the nation had had ample time to get ready and to profit by the lessons of the war elsewhere, but this does not alter the fact that it was only the wonderful state of preparedness in Italy that enabled her to take the initiative directly war was declared. It certainly revealed an intuitive power of grasping the exigencies of the situation on the part of the Chiefs of the War department that to my mind presaged victory from the outset.

CHAPTER II

My credentials—The War Zone—Italy’s preparedness—The Press Censorship—General Elia’s advice—Disappointment—A pipe in the Pincio—An inspiration—I leave for Venice—Venice in war time—The lonely pigeons of the Place St. Marc—The Doge’s Palace—The bronze horses—Interior of St. Marc, strange spectacle—First act of war between Italy and Austria—Aeroplane bombs Venice—French aviators—Treasures of Venice—Everyday life in Venice during daytime—After nightfall—On the qui vive—Extraordinary precautions—Dangers of the streets—Spy fever—Permis de séjour—The angry crowd—Defences against air attacks—Venice not a place forte—Nearest point of the Front—The British Vice-Consul, Mr. Beak—A good Samaritan—The letter of credentials—The Commandant of Venice—More advice—New Rescript of the Generalissimo—Reference to Correspondents—Decide attempt go to Udine—The language difficulty—The waiter at the Hotel Danielli—His offer to accompany me—Make arrangements at once—Introduced to Peppino Garibaldi—Amusing incident.

CHAPTER II

I arrived in Rome armed with sufficient credentials and recommendations, apparently, to frank me through every barrier to the Front, but I was not long discovering that in spite of the courtesy with which I was received by the officials to whom I had introductions, it was hopeless to expect any relaxation, for the time being, of the stringent decree with regard to the War Correspondents that had been issued by the Generalissimo.

A “War Zone” was declared at once, and the most rigorous precautions taken to insure its being guarded against intrusion. Within its confines were several important cities, as for instance, Brescia, Venice, Verona, Vicenza, Belluno, Bologna, Padua and Udine and the entire area was considered as in a state of war, and immediately placed under what was practically martial law. No railway tickets were obtainable unless one had a permit to travel on the line.

It is of interest to mention all these conditions ruling at the very beginning of the war as affording an object lesson in the “method” and foresight which were displayed in every move of General Cadorna even to the smallest details.

Italy took a long while making up her mind to throw in her lot with the Allies, but there was no losing time once she made a start, as was soon proved, and her preparedness was evidenced in every direction.

A censorship of the most drastic character was established at once, and it looked at one time as if correspondents were going to have a bad time of it, and see even less, if possible, than in the other areas of the war.

“Go and make a journey through Italy; there is lots to see that will interest you as an artist, and come back in about three months from now; then perhaps some arrangements will have been made with reference to correspondents going to the Front.” This was all I could get from General Elia, the genial Under-Secretary of State for War, who speaks English fluently—when at last, through the kindly intervention of the British Embassy I managed to see him and begged to be permitted to accompany the troops.

This could scarcely be construed as encouraging, and as I came away from the interview I must admit I felt the reverse of elated. I had already spent a week trying to get permission to go to the Front, and I certainly had not the slightest intention of playing the “tourist” for the next few months, nor of idling away my time in Rome if I could help it. But what was to be done?

I could hardly speak a word of Italian, so knew I was handicapped terribly for getting about alone. I strolled up to the solitude of the Pincio, and lighting my pipe, sat down under the trees to think it out. I forgot to mention that the decree placing Venice and other towns within the War Zone was not to come into force for another twenty-four hours.

Suddenly an idea occurred to me. I knew Venice well, why not go there; at any rate I should be quite near the Front, and with luck I might manage to make my way there. Anyhow it could not fail to be more interesting so close to the scene of operations than in Rome.

I made up my mind to start that day if possible, and, going to Cooks’ office near the hotel, found that I was in luck’s way—there was a train that afternoon, and there was not the least difficulty in getting a ticket, but this was the last opportunity of doing so without a permit, I was told.

The next day therefore saw me in Venice and amidst familiar scenes. But it was a very altered place from the Venice of peace time. It looked very dreary and lifeless. The week that had elapsed since the commencement of hostilities had brought about a great change.

There were no visitors left—only one hotel was open, Danielli’s—the Grand having been taken over by the Red Cross Society; the canals, those delightful arteries of Venetian life, appeared almost deserted, although the steam launches were running as usual; the pigeons had the place St. Marc practically to themselves, workmen were busy removing the glorious windows from the Doge’s Palace and bricking up the supporting arches.

The chapel at the base of the Campanile was shrouded in thick brickwork; the famous bronze horses on the portico of St. Marc had been taken down at once; the interior of the church itself presented a curious spectacle, as it had several feet of sand on the floor, and was hidden by a big bastion of sandbags.

It is perhaps of interest to mention that the first act of war between Austria and Italy took place at Venice. At 3.30 on the morning of the 24th May the inhabitants were aroused by the loud boom of a signal gun—this was immediately followed by the screech of all the steam whistles in the City and on the boats.

In a very few minutes the batteries of the Aerial-Guard Station and machine guns and rifles were firing as rapidly as they could at the intruders—several Taubes flying at a great height—without effect, unfortunately, as they managed to drop several bombs and get away unscathed. Two of the bombs fell in the courtyard of the Colonna di Castelpo, one in the Tana near the Rio della Tana, another in the San Lucia, and a fourth in the Rio del Carmini.

It was said that an enormous parachute, to which was suspended incandescent matter to light up the ground, was released from one of the aeroplanes, but this was not corroborated; it is certain though that the bomb that fell in San Lucia was incendiary and spread lighted petroleum, without effect happily. Austria, therefore, lost no time in beginning her war of vandalism.

Every precaution possible was being adopted while I was there, to protect the city against any further aeroplane attacks, and there was a contingent of French aviators—amongst whom was Beaumont—staying at the hotel, who were constantly patrolling over the city.

Unfortunately, in a place like Venice, which is such a veritable conglomeration of artistic treasures, it is obviously very difficult to protect all, and with a thoroughly ruthless and barbaric enemy like Austria it is to be feared that a lot of irreparable damage will be done before the end of the war.

Life in Venice during the daytime was practically normal—sunshine engenders confidence; it was after nightfall that you realised the high state of tension in which everyone was living; it could scarcely be described as terror, but a “nervy,” “jumpy” condition, which was very uncanny. Everyone seemed to be on the qui vive, though curiously enough the fear of the Venetians, as far as I could judge, was not so much for themselves as for the safety of their beloved city.

The most extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure its being shrouded in impenetrable obscurity at night—a ray of light shewing through a window meant instant arrest for the occupant of the room. Even smoking out of doors at night was strictly forbidden. The doorways of restaurants, cafés, and shops were heavily draped with double curtains, and after eight o’clock the electric light was turned off and only candles allowed.

It would be difficult to describe the weird effect of Venice in total darkness on a moonless night.

It is said that more people have lost their lives by falling into the canals than through aeroplane bombs, and I can quite believe it, for it was positively dangerous to go a yard unless one was absolutely certain of one’s whereabouts.

Added to this was the risk of being mistaken for a spy. One had to get a permis de séjour from the Police, but even with this in your pocket one was never really safe, for they had “spy fever” very badly indeed when I was there, and even old and well-known inhabitants were not immune from suspicion at times.

I heard of several cases of hair-breadth escapes from the clutches of the angry crowd which would gather on the slightest suggestion. To be heard speaking with a foreign accent was often sufficient to attract unpleasant attention, so you were inclined to be chary of venturing far from the Place St. Marc at any time, however much your papers might be en règle.

Apart from the defensive work that was being undertaken to protect Venice from Austrian air attacks, there was nothing of interest in the way of military or naval activity to be seen. Destroyers and torpedo boats occasionally came into the lagoon, but seldom remained long.

The position of Venice makes it a sort of cul de sac, and of no importance whatever from the point of view of land and sea operations, and it is quite at the mercy of Austrian aeroplanes or seaplanes operating from Pola or Trieste.

The sole object the Austrians can have in attacking it therefore is to cause wanton damage to its historic buildings and art treasures, for it is not a place forte in any sense of the word; and if there is one thing more than another calculated to stiffen the backs of the Italians against their enemy and to make them the more determined to do all in their power to crush Austria for ever, it is this cold-blooded onslaught on their national artistic heirlooms, for which there is no military justification whatever.

At that time the nearest point of the Front was some 40 miles from Venice, in Friuli, and after a few days marking time, I decided that this was where I must make for if I wanted to see anything of what was going on in this early stage of the war.

The courteous and genial British Vice-Consul, Mr. Beak, who had just taken over the post, proved a veritable good Samaritan, and did his best to help me.

I have not mentioned, I think, that when in Rome I had been given an important letter of credentials by the British Embassy recommending me for any facilities the Italian military authorities might be prepared to grant me, and the letter now proved invaluable. Mr. Beak got a translation made of it, to which he affixed the consular stamp, and, armed with this, I paid a visit to the Commandant of Venice, at the Arsenal.

He received me with the utmost cordiality, but when I suggested his giving me permission to go to the Front he informed me that he had no power to do this; that my best plan would be to go direct to Headquarters at Udine, where doubtless I would get what I wanted on the strength of my letter from the Embassy. I said nothing, but with the recollection of what General Elia had told me in Rome, I had my doubts. Anyhow, it gave me the idea of going to Udine and trying my luck; if the worst came to the worst, I could but be sent back, and in the meantime I should have seen something of the Front.

The following day a new rescript of the Generalissimo appeared in the papers to the effect that until further orders no correspondents were allowed in the War Zone. This was awkward for me, as, of course, I was already in it, but I made up my mind to run the further risk of getting up to the actual Front if it were possible. But how, without speaking Italian, for, of course, the “interpreter” element had disappeared from Venice since there were no longer any tourists to interpret for.

My ever faithful pipe as usual helped me to solve the difficulty (what I owe to Lady Nicotine for ideas evolved under her sway I can never be sufficiently grateful for).

There was a very intelligent young waiter at the hotel who spoke English fluently, and it occurred to me that he would make a useful guide if he would go with me. He not only jumped at the idea, but actually offered to come for a few days for nothing if he could get permission from the manager, and if I paid his expenses, so anxious was he to see something of the military operations.

There was no difficulty in getting the consent of the manager as the hotel was practically empty; and then my friend, the Vice-Consul, again good-naturedly came to my assistance by giving me a letter to the Military Commandant of Udine, in which he stated fully my object in coming to the front, and the fact that I was carrying a special letter of credentials from the Embassy.

These two important documents, together with my passport, were, I felt, sufficient to frank me some distance unless unforseen trouble arose; so I made arrangements to start at once; and in order not to be hampered with baggage, as I did not know where my venture would take me, decided to leave my bulky luggage behind at the hotel, only taking with me what I could carry on my back in my “ruksak.”

Before I left I was introduced to a very nice fellow who had just arrived in Venice, and a somewhat amusing incident occurred. I did not catch his name at first, and, as he spoke English so fluently and looked so much like an Englishman, I was somehow under the impression that he was a correspondent of a London paper. He appeared mystified when, after a few casual remarks, I asked him how long he had been in Italy.

“How long?” he exclaimed. “Why, I live here.” “But you are not an Italian?” “Well, you see my grandfather was,” he replied with a touch of humour which I was only able to appreciate, when I heard later that my “English journalist” was Peppino Garibaldi, a nephew of the great patriot. He had just come from the Front, where he had been to see the King to offer his services in raising a regiment of volunteers similar to the one he had recently commanded on the French front in the Argonne. His offer, it appeared, was not accepted, but afterwards I learned he was given a commission in the Army, and he has since so distinguished himself in action that he has risen to the rank of Colonel. I believe his brothers have also done equally well in the Army, thus proving that they are all real “chips of the old block.”

CHAPTER III

From Venice to Udine—Reservists rejoining—Interesting crowd—Delays en route—Endless procession of military trains—Drawn blinds—The Red Cross train—Arrival Udine—Scene on platform—In search of an hotel—A little incident—The well-dressed civilian—The obliging guide—My suspicions—Awkward questions—The best hotel in Udine—A little “Trattoria” close by—A cheap room—First impressions of Udine—At the Police Office—The permis de séjour—The Carabinieri and the local police—The fascination of the big guns—The “Military Commandant of Udine”—A difficult proposition—The luck of the undelivered letter—My guide has to leave me—I change my quarters—The Hotel “Tower of London”—Alone in Udine—An awkward predicament—A friend in need—Still more luck—Dr. Berthod—I am offered a studio—I accept—The delight of having this studio in Udine.

CHAPTER III

The train service between Venice and Udine was apparently running as usual, and there was no difficulty in getting tickets in spite of the drastic regulations with regard to passengers. Possibly it was assumed that anyone already inside the War Zone had permission to be there, so no further questions were asked.

My guide, of course, got the tickets, so I had no trouble in that matter; perhaps if I had gone to the booking office myself with my limited vocabulary of Italian it would have been different. As it was, it all seemed ridiculously simple, and there appeared to be no difficulty whatever.

In Venice they are so accustomed to Englishmen, and artists are such “common objects of the seashore,” that I attracted no particular notice, in spite of my rucksack and my Norfolk jacket, breeches and leggings.

The train left Venice at 8 o’clock in the morning, and was crowded with officers in uniform and reservists in civilian attire, going to join their regiments. Every class of Italian life was to be seen amongst them—from the peasant with his humble belongings in a paper parcel to the smart young man from Venice with his up-to-date suit case and other luggage.

All were in the highest possible spirits, and it gave me more the impression of a holiday outing of some big manufacturing company than a troop-train as it virtually was.

I now began to realize how handicapped I was in not speaking Italian; it would have been so interesting to have been able to chat with these enthusiastic young fellows.

It was supposed to take three hours to get to Udine, but we were two hours and a half longer, as we were continually being held up for trains with troops, artillery and every description of materiel to pass. It was an endless procession, and the soldiers in them seemed as happy as sand-boys, and cheered lustily as they passed us.

The blinds of our windows and doors had to be kept drawn down the whole way, and no one except the officers was allowed to get out of the train at the stations under any pretext. Still there was not much that we did not see; the blinds did not fit so tight as all that.

At one place we passed a long Red Cross train full of badly-wounded men just in from the Front. This was the first time there had been any evidence of the fighting that was taking place on ahead. It was almost a startling sight, and came in sharp contrast to the cheering crowds of healthy boys in the troop trains that had gone by a few minutes previously.

There was a big crowd of officers and soldiers on the platform at Udine, which was the terminus of the line, and one realised at once that it was an important military centre. Outside was a large assemblage of vehicles, motor waggons, and ambulance cars, and altogether there was a scene of military activity that presented a sharp contrast to sleepy Venice.

Rugged and threatening, visible for miles around is the frowning pinnacle of bare rock known as Monte Nero ([see page 40])

To face page 26

The station is some little distance from the town, so we set off in search of a small hotel we had been recommended to where we could get quiet lodgings for a day or two as I did not want to put up anywhere where we should attract undue attention. I had thought it would be advisable to drop the “War Correspondent” for the time being and to call myself simply a wandering artist in search of Military subjects, and my intelligent young guide quite entered into my idea—it was only a harmless little fib after all.

A few hundred yards from the station a little incident occurred which, curiously enough, turned out to be the commencement of the run of luck which, with one exception, of which I shall tell later, I had during the whole of my stay in Udine. It came about in this wise.

A good-looking, well-dressed man in civilian attire caught us up as we were walking along, and, noticing that we seemed uncertain which way to take, asked pleasantly if we were looking for any particular street. My companion unhesitatingly told him we had just arrived in Udine, and were looking for lodgings.

The stranger, noticing I could not speak Italian, addressed me in a very good French, and obligingly offered to accompany us part of the way. I could not well refuse, but I recollect how the thought instantly flashed through my mind that he was perhaps a police official in mufti or a detective, and my suspicions seemed to be confirmed by a question he put to me bluntly.

“Are you journalists?” he enquired suddenly.

My first impulse was to ask what business it was of his what we were, when it flashed through my mind that it was better not to resent his query, which might after all mean no harm. So I replied that I was a travelling artist in search of military subjects, and that my companion was my interpreter. “But why do you ask if we are journalists?” I continued.

“Because journalists are forbidden to come to Udine, and only yesterday the famous Barzini himself was arrested and sent back to Milan for coming here without permission. Of course there may be no objection to you as an artist if all your papers are in order.”

I assured him they were, but nevertheless I did not feel very reassured after what he had told me; it seemed a sort of hint that unless I was very sure of my position I had better not think of taking lodgings at Udine, otherwise I was asking for trouble. However, I had weighed all this in my mind beforehand, and was well aware of the risk I was taking.

It makes me smile even now when I recall how curtly I answered him, and how every remark he made only increased my early doubts as to his bona-fides, for he turned out to be as good and genuine a fellow as I ever met, and had it not been for this chance meeting, my early impressions of Udine would have been very different to what they were, apart from the result it had on my work whilst there, but of all this more anon.

The modest hotel we had been recommended to put up at was merely modest in comparison with Danielli’s at Venice, for it was the Hotel d’Italie, one of the best and most frequented in Udine, and the very last place I should have chosen for seclusion. As it turned out, they had not a room vacant, so we had perforce to seek accommodation elsewhere.

Meanwhile the obliging stranger had left us to our own devices, much to my relief, as I was not over keen on his knowing where we put up.

There happened to be a little “trattoria” close by, and we went in to get something to eat. It was late for lunch, so we had it to ourselves, and the proprietor, seeing we were strangers, came and had a chat with us.

It turned out that he had a room to let for 1.50 per night with two beds in it; it was large and very clean, so, to avoid walking about trying to find something better, I told him that I would take it. But it was more easily said than done.

“You must go to the Questura (the police) and get their permission to stay in Udine before I can let you have it,” he told us. This was a bit awkward, but there was no help for it but to go at once and get the ordeal over, so we made our way at once to the police station.

We had to pass through a main street, and I realised at once that Udine, although the “Front” and the Headquarters of the Army, was only a small Italian garrison town, with perhaps more soldiers about than there would have been in normal times.

Considering how close it was at that moment to the actual opening operations of the war, it was distinctly disappointing from my point of view, considering I was looking for military subjects. In this respect it was even less interesting than many of the French towns such as, for instance, Epinal or Langres, I had been in during the early days shortly after the commencement of hostilities.

This was my first impression of Udine—I had reason to modify it considerably in a very short time, in fact during the first day I was there. The echo of the big guns convinced me that although life in Udine was outwardly normal, the war was very near indeed.

At the Questura, to my surprise, the Commissaire made but little difficulty in giving me a permis de séjour, on seeing my passport and my last permis from Venice, and on my guide explaining that I might be remaining some little time, he readily made it out for one month.

As I came away I could not help wondering why it should have been so easy for me to obtain this permission to remain in Udine when Barzini had been arrested and sent away a couple of days previously.

I had yet to learn that in the War Zone the civil authorities and the local police take a very back seat, and that the permis de séjour I had just been given would prove of no value whatever if the Carabinieri—i.e., the military police—took exception to my being in Udine. Fortunately I did not learn this until some days later, and in the meantime, confident in the possession of my police permit, I had no hesitation in walking about the town freely.

The sound of the big guns, however, which one heard unceasingly, soon began to exercise the curious fascination over me that they always have, and I was not long making up my mind that I must lose no time in Udine.

It was a delightfully quaint old town, with cafés and restaurants, and altogether a pleasant place to spend a few days in, but this was not what I had come for. So I immediately set about making enquiries for the quarters of the “Military Commandant of Udine” in order to present my letter from the Consul, and ask for permission to go out to the scene of operations.

It seemed on the face of it a perfectly simple matter to find out where he was staying, but we spent several hours going from place to place without success.

The long official envelope with “On His Majesty’s Service” on it proved an open sesame everywhere, and I was received with marked courtesy by all the staff officers I showed it to, and the envelope itself seemed to inspire respect, but not one of them could (or as I thought “would”) give me the information of the Commandant’s whereabouts. It struck me as being very strange all this mystery as it appeared.

Well, after having spent two hours going from one staff building to another, we had to give it up as a bad job—it was evidently a very difficult proposition to present a letter to the “Military Commandant of Udine”—and the envelope was beginning to show signs of wear after being handled so much, so there was nothing for it but to have the letter always handy and chance coming across him sometime—in the meantime, if any questions were asked me as to the reason of my being in Udine I felt I had always the excuse of this document which I was waiting to hand personally to the “Military Commandant.”

As it turned out I owed all my luck in remaining in Udine as long as I did to this undelivered letter in its official envelope. Whenever I was asked any awkward questions as to why I was there, out it would come, and the mere sight of it seemed to afford me protection. It was a veritable talisman. How its spell was eventually broken I will narrate in due course.

To get out to the scene of operations without a permit appeared hopeless, for the moment; one realised it would take some time to work it, so the only thing to do was to chance it and to remain on in the hope of something turning up—that Udine was the place to stay in if one could was evident. I therefore decided not to budge till they turned me out, and I never had cause to regret my decision.

My guide had only been given a few days holiday, so when he saw that there was no immediate chance of getting out to see anything of the fighting he told me he thought he had better return to Venice.

This, of course, meant my remaining on alone—a somewhat dreary prospect, since I knew no one, and, as I said, could scarcely make myself understood, but there was no help for it.

Before he left I managed, with his assistance, to find a better room in a small hotel in the main street (curiously enough the hotel was named “The Tower of London”), and arranged to have my luggage sent from Venice.

It would be difficult to describe my feelings when I found myself alone outside the station after my guide had gone. I felt literally stranded, but my lucky star was in the ascendant, and in a few minutes a little incident occurred that made me feel that I might get used to Udine after all.

There is a tramcar running from the station to the town, so I got on it as a sort of first attempt at finding my way about without assistance, but when the conductor apparently asked me where I wanted to go I was at once non-plussed, and could only gesticulate my ignorance and offer him a lire to take the fare out of.

I might have been in an awkward predicament and have attracted more attention than I desired, when a big stout man, who was also standing on the platform of the car, turned to me and in excellent English asked me where I was going and if he could be of any assistance since he saw I was an Englishman and could not speak Italian.

Needless to add, that this led to a conversation, and I learned that he had lived for many years at Cairo, hence his speaking English so well. He was a very genial fellow, and a genuine admirer of the English nation and our methods in Egypt.

Before we parted it was arranged that I should meet him the following day at the principal café in the town, and that he would introduce me to a young fellow, a friend of his, who also spoke English fluently, and who would doubtless be glad to show me around. So within five minutes of the departure of my guide I had fallen on my feet.

My luck even then was not out: just as I got off the tram I ran into the affable stranger who had walked with us from the station on the day of our arrival. He seemed so genuinely pleased to meet me again that my suspicions of him vanished at once, and I unhesitatingly accepted his offer of an “Americano” at the café close by; the fact of my being alone seemed to interest him immensely, and he expressed astonishment at my risking remaining in Udine without understanding Italian.

In the course of conversation I learned he was Dr. Berthod, the President of an Agrarian Society, with a big warehouse and office in Udine. He asked me where I proposed to do my work, and when I said in my bedroom at the hotel, he told me that in his building there was a large room with a north light which he, speaking on behalf of his members, would be pleased if I would make use of as a studio whilst I was in Udine.

This was so unexpected that I was quite taken aback—such friendliness from a stranger quite overwhelmed me.

He would take no refusal, and insisted on my going with him to see if it would suit me.

It turned out to be a capital room, and I told him it would answer my purpose admirably, so he got some of his workmen to clear it out for me at once, in readiness for me to commence work, and promised to find me an easel and everything I required.

He refused to discuss the idea of my paying anything for it, saying they were only too pleased to help an Englishman, and that they would be delighted if I would consider it as my studio as long as I was in Udine. This was eighteen months ago, and the room is still reserved for me.

Without this studio, as I soon realised, life up at the Front for any length of time would have been terribly fatiguing and monotonous. It is difficult to convey an idea of the delight it was, having a quiet place to come back to work in after rushing about in a car for hours and probably having been under fire all the time.

To get away for a while from the turmoil of war when you were in the midst of it was a relief, like going from blazing sunshine into the cool interior of a cathedral.

CHAPTER IV

The wonderful system on which everything was worked—Udine “the Front”—The commencement of hostilities—The 24th May—The first day of operations auspicious for Italy—Redemption of the province of Friuli—New Italian Front—Cormons—The inhabitants of Italian origin—A good practical joke—The moral of the troops—Unpretentious attempts at wit—High spirits of the men—The road from Udine to Cormons—Wonderful sight—Italian flags everywhere—A mystery where they came from—Wild triumphant advance of the Italian troops—Women kiss the ground—But a lever de rideau—Italians cross the Isonzo—Austrians on Monte Nero—Monte Nero—The capture of Monte Nero—Incredible daring of the Alpini—The story of the great achievement—Number of prisoners taken—The prisoners brought to Udine—Their temporary prison—The tropical heat—An ugly incident—Austrian attempt to re-take Monte Nero—Success follows success—Capture of Monfalcone and Gradisca; Sagrado and Monte Corrada—Commencement of the attack on Gorizia—Subjects for my sketch book—Touches of human nature—High mass in the mountains—The tentes d’abri—Cheerfulness of men in spite of all hardships.

CHAPTER IV

Everything seemed to go as though by routine in the early operations, and from the moment war was declared and the Italian army made its “Tiger spring” for the Passes on the night of May 23rd-24th it was manifest that General Cadorna had well-matured plans, and, that they were being carried out without a hitch anywhere.

During the six weeks I managed to stay in Udine I had ample opportunity of observing the wonderful system on which everything was worked, and how carefully pre-arranged were the movements of troops and material. Certainly no army—not even excepting the German—ever started a war under better conditions.

Udine in the early weeks of the war was right up at “the Front,” so to speak, and therefore an extremely important centre. It was practically from here that the commencement of hostilities was made.

At four o’clock in the morning of the 24th of May the Italian army crossed the Indrio, a tributary of the Isonzo, overcame a feeble resistance and entered Austrian territory.

During the entire day the onward march continued. After a preparatory attack in Monte Quirino, the important town of Cormons surrendered and a few hours later Caporetto, Cervignano, Terzo, Medea, the ancient city of Aquileia and Grado, the “Austrian Ostend,” in the Adriatic. The first day of operations, therefore, dawned auspiciously for Italy.

Some fears were expressed at the time that the hasty withdrawal of the Austrians was a ruse, and that the Italians might find themselves in a fix later on, but, as was soon proved, this was not the case, and nearly the whole of the province of Friuli, that the Austrians had held since 1866, had been redeemed with no opposition worthy of the name, and the Italian front extended from Tolmino to the sea.

I was in Cormons shortly after the entry of the troops, and it was difficult to realise that the Italians had not always been there. The inhabitants of Italian origin helped to remove as many traces as possible of the Austrian occupancy—the hated names disappeared as if by magic from shop fronts and street corners; in fact, in a very few hours it was an Italian town again, and the good folk of Cormons had cast off their hated thraldom.

In the centre of the town is a statue of the Emperor Maximilian (it looks exactly like Beckmesser in the “Meistersingers” singing his pricelied), and on the day of the entry of the Italian soldiers some wag conceived the happy idea of placing a sack over the head and an Italian flag in one of the hands, an indignity that must have caused the Austrian inhabitants to gnash their teeth with impotent rage, but there were touches of humour discernable everywhere which conveyed to you more perhaps than anything else an idea of the moral of the troops.

Notices roughly scrawled on walls in the villages which one passed—“This way for Trieste,” “Nearest road to Monfalcone,” “Straight on and the second to the right for Gorizia,” and so forth—unpretentious little attempts at wit which have remade their appearance again and again in every war probably from time immemorial. All this, added to the wonderful patriotic ardour and enthusiasm one saw on all sides, was very impressive.

It meant practically scaling a cliff of rock ([see page 41])

To face page 38

It is certain that no troops ever went to battle in higher spirits than these splendid fellows. One heard them marching along singing and laughing as though they had not a care in the world.

The road all the way from Udine to Cormons was a wonderful sight, and looked like a defile of troops on some national fête day rather than the opening of hostilities.

I saw the French armies on their way to the Front at the beginning of the war, flower-bedecked and bubbling over with enthusiasm, but somehow that was different to this advance of the Italians. The world war had not then commenced; its horrors were as yet unknown—here there was no question as to what was going to happen if Italy did not “make good,” so the confidence and empressment was the more stirring to my mind.

Italian flags seemed to blossom forth everywhere. It was quite remarkable the numbers of them one saw. Where they all came from was a mystery, as it was well known that the Austrians never tolerated them anywhere in the province. It was suggested that the three different colours of material were purchased separately and in different places so as not to arouse suspicion, and held in readiness to be sewn together to form the flags when the time at last arrived.

The successful operations of the first day of the war were immediately followed up by a vigorous offensive, and the Italian troops practically swept everything before them during the next few days in their wild triumphant advance, all of which, in the language of the Ring, proved the value of being ready and getting in the first blow.

Everywhere the soldiers were received with open arms by the peasantry of the redeemed province, and many touching scenes were witnessed in the villages through which they passed, villages that had long given up hope of ever being under the Italian tricolour again. In one place the women said they would always kiss the ground the Italians were marching over.

Of course, however, all this was but a lever de rideau, and the merest prelude to what was going to take place in the near future when the opposing armies got to grips. The Austrians did not intend to submit to a walk over by any means, as was discovered when, a few days later, the Italians crossed the Isonzo and endeavoured to establish themselves on the slopes of Monte Nero preparatory to capturing the mountain itself, but the Austrians were found to be formidably entrenched, supported by heavy artillery and a great number of machine guns.

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.

By the time the summits of the mountains were illumined by the rays of the rising sun the whole of the heights and slopes of Monte Nero were in the hands of the Italians—750 unwounded prisoners, a large quantity of rifles and ammunition and several machine guns.

The prisoners were brought to Udine, and made a sorry spectacle as they marched through the streets. It was the first time the inhabitants had seen Austrian captives, and they produced a strange impression, as what had been seen of the war so far had been only the troops passing on their way to the front line.

Most of the men were Hungarians between 17 and 25 years of age; many were slightly wounded, their uniforms were in tatters, and the majority had no boots, but wooden shoes fastened to the foot and ankle by leather straps.

They were confined temporarily in an old building on the Piazza Garibaldi and I managed to get in and make a sketch and have a chat with one of them. He told me that most of them had come from the Serbian front and had had a very rough time. Looking round the motley crowd in the picturesque courtyard, I could quite believe him, but the men seemed quite reconciled to their fate and taking it very philosophically.

There was a group playing cards in one corner, and lying about in the shade were others chatting and smoking long German pipes, or sleeping peacefully. The heat that day was terrific, and certainly the prisoners in their scanty attire had a better time of it than their guards in full uniform.

Mentioning the tropical heat recalls to my mind a very curious incident which occurred when the prisoners were being brought into camp, and which gave a vivid idea of the awful conditions in the Austrian positions the suddenness of the Italian attack had brought about.

Some soldiers were bringing up big canteens full of water to be served out in due course, when suddenly there was a veritable stampede amongst the prisoners, and before it could be stopped there was a wild fight to get at the water. So overwhelming was the rush that the carriers were literally swept aside.

The struggle only lasted a few moments, as it was, of course, only a question of who was biggest and strongest; then those who had got at the receptacles flung themselves on the ground and literally buried their faces in the water, lapping it up greedily like so many animals, whilst their weaker comrades tried madly to drag them away to get at it also. It was a sickening spectacle, and proved how, under certain conditions, some human beings revert instantly to their primordial nature.

The capture of Monte Nero by the Italians appeared to put the Austrians on their mettle, and they made every endeavour to re-take it.

Battalion after battalion was thrown against the position, whole regiments were destroyed in the vain attempt to dislodge the Alpini, and as a last resource the Austrians brought up their own mountain troops, the famous “Kaiser Jagers,” but with no more success.

Thus the first few weeks of war fully bore out the expectations of those who were convinced that the skill of General Cadorna and the spirit of the Italian army would be more than a match for any efforts of the Austrians, and justified the confidence which was felt on all sides.

Events moved rapidly during those early weeks of the war, and success followed success without intermission.

Monfalcone, the seaport on the Adriatic, with its important shipbuilding yards, Gradisca and Sagrado were added to the list of Austrian towns captured by the Italians in June, together with the important position of Monte Corrada. All of which represented a distinct advance into enemy territory in the direction of Trieste.

It was not, however, a “walk over,” and the Italians had to pay dearly in places for their successes. The fighting for the middle Isonzo continued fiercely, and there were severe losses round Plava before the place was taken. The Austrians, however, lost still more heavily.

The attack on Gorizia, which was to last so many months, may be said to have commenced about the middle of June, when the Italians were able to start bombarding the fortifications of Santa Maria, San Pietro, San Marco, and Santa Lucia, besides the Austrian positions dominating the town, especially Mount San Gabriele.

Of course all this meant long range artillery duels day after day, which presented but little spectacular interest, though it was obvious that there was method in all this vast expenditure of ammunition, purposeless as it may have appeared to the layman; to me as an artist, however, there were plenty of subjects for sketches, and without having to search for them through field glasses. Not far afield there were always interesting incidents—little touches of human nature in the camps and on the road that fortunately for me had so far escaped the attention of the ubiquitous photographer.

On one occasion, for instance, I saw Mass being celebrated in a small encampment in the mountains; for it must be remembered that the innate piety and religious spirit of the Italian Army have been evident in every step of our Ally’s campaign against Austria.

On a road in the wild district near Pontebba a rude altar of rough boxes was set up—the altar cloth was a soldier’s blanket—the priest’s assistants were soldiers.

It was a common soldier who rang the bell at the Elevation of the Host, and the kneeling troops told of the devout spirit in which they had entered not only into the Divine Service but also into the war.

A battery was passing along the road at that moment, and the artillerymen bared their heads and piously made the sign of the Cross, whilst a sentry before a row of grey tents fell on his knees.

Even in the haste of a rapid transport of guns, reverence was not forgotten, although it was not possible for the convoy to stop. The kneeling troops were Alpini, who were encamped in this mountainous district and had already figured gallantly in action.

The operations on the frontier in the vicinity of Pontebba were especially interesting from an artistic point of view. The scenery here is magnificent, and much of the fighting took place along the big military highway constructed by Napoleon to connect Milan with Vienna.

It was always a pleasure to be amongst the troops, and it was an endless source of astonishment to me to see how they had in so short a time settled down to the irksome daily routine of warfare as it exists at the rear of the fighting line.

The glorious summer weather doubtless contributed in no small degree to the high spirits of the soldiers, for camp life in the Italian army is very different to that of the English—it is far more picturesque, but of comfort there is very little, it appeared to me. The quaint tentes d’abri afford very slight shelter either against the intense glare and heat of the Italian sunshine, or the cold and rain in bad weather, yet the men appeared to be thoroughly happy and contented under any conditions.

It may be said that it is all a question of habit or rather custom; but there is no doubt that the English Tommy expects to be, and is, pampered in the way of quarters and catering to an extent that would astonish the Italian soldier if he could see it; as a matter of fact, it was frequently a revelation to me what these men had to put up with at times, and their invariable cheerfulness in spite of all hardships and discomfort.

CHAPTER V

Udine the Headquarters of the Army—The King—His indefatigability—His undaunted courage—A telling incident—The King with the troops—Love and sympathy between Victor Emanuele and the men—Brotherhood of the whole Army—A pleasant incident—Men salute officers at all times—Laxity shown in London—Cohesion between rank and file—The Italians of to-day—The single idea of all—Udine crowded with soldiers—The military missions of the allied nations—Big trade being done—Orderly and sedate crowd—Restaurants—The food—The market-place—The Cinemas—Proximity of the fighting—The Café “Dorta”—Pretty and smartly-dressed women—An unexpected spectacle—The Military Governor—The streets at night—Precautions against “Taubes”—The signal gun—Curiosity of inhabitants—No excitement—Udine a sort of haven—I remain there six weeks—A meeting with the British Military Attaché, Colonel Lamb—My stay in Udine brought to an abrupt ending—The police officer in mufti—Am arrested—Unpleasant experience—An agent de la Sureté—At the police station—The commissaire—Result of my examination—Novara—Magic effect of the undelivered letter again—I write to General Cafarelli—My friends at the “Agrario”—General Cafarelli—His decision—The third class police ticket for the railway—Packed off to Florence—The end of the adventure.

CHAPTER V

Udine, as I have pointed out, was practically “the Front” in the early weeks of the war. It was also the Headquarters of the army, and every building of importance in the town had been requisitioned for Staff purposes.

It was said that the King and the Generalissimo were living there; but this, of course, was only surmise, although one was constantly seeing them motoring through the streets.

In fact, after a time one got to recognise instantly the Royal Fiat, however grimy and bespattered with mud it might be, for the King appeared indefatigable and was out and about in all weathers, and was said to have visited all the sectors of the Front and to be never satisfied unless he saw for himself all that was going on amongst the troops.

His undaunted courage is proverbial in Italy, and no danger, however great, deters him going anywhere if he sets his mind on it, as his personal staff knows only too well. In this connection I recollect a story that was told which will illustrate this.

On one occasion His Majesty expressed his intention of joining the advance guard on a height just occupied and which was being heavily fired on by the enemy. An officer of Alpini respectfully pointed out the danger and difficulty of attempting it. The King laughingly replied that where the Alpini could go an old Chamois-hunter like himself could also go, and insisted on climbing to the position.

The presence of the King always stimulated immensely the enthusiasm of the troops, and this was particularly noticeable when he accompanied the first brigade which crossed the Isonzo on a bridge thrown by the Engineers.

It is this desire to be not only with but amongst his soldiers and sharing their perils that has helped so much to establish the sort of fraternal love and sympathy that exists between Victor Emanuele and me men, which one cannot fail to notice whenever the word goes round “Here comes the King.”

It was quite touching to hear on all sides the expressions of affection of the big rough soldiers for the wiry little man, covered with dust, who saluted one and all so genially as he whirled past in the big car.

It is this feeling of brotherhood of which the King sets the example that animates the whole army—one could not fail to be struck by it—officers, non-commissioned officers and men are all on the most friendly terms together and there is probably no more democratic army in the world to-day than the Italian.

In this connection I recall a pleasing incident I witnessed one day on a mountain track; an officer riding a mule at the head of a small detachment of soldiers, who were plodding along stolidly in the intense heat, was reading his newspaper aloud for the benefit of them all. Curiously enough this camaraderie leads to no impairment of discipline—rather the contrary perhaps, as for instance, one sees men go out of their way, so to speak, to salute officers at all times, not as a matter of duty only, but to show their respect for their rank.

I was more particularly reminded of this on my return to London, where the laxity shewn by the rank and file towards officers in the matter of saluting in the streets is particularly noticeable.

A rude altar of rough boxes was set up ([see page 45])

To face page 50

The effectual result of this cohesion between the rank and file in the Italian Army is proved by the zeal which animates all, and which helps to lighten the most irksome duties.

During the six weeks I spent in and around Udine practically alone I had ample opportunity for studying the character of the Italian officer and ordinary soldier under true war conditions, and the more I saw of them the more I liked them and admired their fine qualities.

These virile, self-possessed specimens of the Italy of to-day present a remarkable contrast to those one recollects of the older generation, for in the matter of physique the Italian army now in the field can compare favourably in every respect with any other army in the world.

From the highest officer to the most humble private, one and all are animated with but a single idea—that of thrashing the Austrians and restoring to Italy the territory which is hers by right. But there is no frothy bombast about them; in the town, as in the trenches, though the conversation always reverted to “la guerra,” it was to discuss it in the sober, self-contained manner of the strong man who knows his own strength and therefore does not deem it necessary to insist on it.

As might have been expected, Udine, owing to its proximity to the enemy’s lines, was crowded with soldiers, and during the evening, when officers and men were off duty, it was almost difficult to walk along the main streets.

The three great allied nations were represented in the throng also, as “military missions” soon arrived in the town, and it was very pleasing to see Russian, French and English officers in their respective uniforms, fraternising everywhere with the Italians. Since then Japan, Belgium, and Serbia have also sent representatives, so there is now quite a foreign military colony as it were, with officers and permanent staffs.

The shops, cafés and restaurants were evidently doing a big trade, but it was always a very orderly and sedate crowd of young fellows one saw everywhere, and displayed far less ebullition of animal spirits than one would see in a French garrison town.

Although fighting was taking place within an hour’s motor run, nothing in the usual life of Udine was changed. There were several good restaurants, which were crowded for lunch and dinner, the delightful old twelfth century market-place that is one of the artistic treasures of the town, presented every day the customary scene of peaceful animation and brilliant colour one always associates with Italy, and which has such charm for the painter; it was “business as usual,” although you could generally hear the thunder of the guns quite distinctly.

Nor was amusement lacking of an evening, as there were two large Cinemas open, and at one a sort of music-hall entertainment as well; both these places were so well attended by the civilians, as well as the military element, that it was always difficult to get anything but bare standing room.

Here again the proximity of the fighting would often be vividly brought home to you when the booming of the guns was audible in an interval of the performance.

Of course the ordinary soldiers were only allowed out of barracks up to a certain hour—I forget for the moment what that was—so the streets looked comparatively deserted when they had gone.

The principal cafés were, however, well patronised up till closing time, and “Dorta’s,” in particular, was always very crowded with officers and civilians.

It was quite remarkable the number of pretty and smartly dressed women one saw about of a day—of course many of these were the wives or daughters of residents, but there were others also. On a fine Sunday morning, the Church parade on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele and along the Via Mercato Vecchio was quite one of the sights of Udine, for it was usually a galaxy of beauty and fashion.

To anyone like myself, newly arrived in the town, and expecting to find himself in the midst of warlike scenes considering how close one was to the operations, this unexpected spectacle came as a positive shock.

After a week or so, however, this impression of incongruity wore off, and you ended by feeling that after all these dainty apparitions in the streets or the restaurants were not so unpleasant to look on, and that they served to accentuate the grimness of the dust-covered warriors around them.

With the general advance of the Army, the majority of the troops was gradually shifted nearer the new Front, but the whole district was, and still is, under the command of a military governor, who wields the power of a dictator so far as the civilian element is concerned.

The streets were practically pitch dark on moonless nights, only the merest pretence of a glimmer of electric light in blue bulbs being allowed here and there, though the Stygian gloom was constantly being illumined by the powerful headlights of military cars passing through—a curious anomaly which appeared to me quite inexplicable.

Of course these precautions were taken owing, as I have said, to the proximity of Udine to the enemy’s lines and the fact in consequence that neighbourly visits from “Taubes” were frequently received, though fortunately they seldom succeeded in doing any damage or causing loss of life.

On several occasions, though they provided us with spectacular displays overhead, as there were always a number of our Capronis in the aerodrome close by in readiness to go up and tackle these intruders as soon as they were sighted, and there are few things more exciting to witness than an aerial fight.

A signal station was established on one of the highest buildings, and on the approach of a Taube a gun was fired to give the inhabitants timely warning, though the usual effect of this warning at first was to bring crowds into the streets to catch a glimpse of what was going on aloft rather than induce the people to make for safety. After a few of these alarms the novelty wore off, and though it cannot be said that scarcely any notice was taken of them, there was certainly no undue excitement when the signal gun was heard.

As will be gathered, therefore, the war, beyond transforming Udine from a picturesque, sleepy, little provincial town into a bustling and important military centre, had not effected so much change in it materially as might have been expected, so it was a sort of haven to return to after one had been in the zone of actual operations for a time.

I had now been up at the Front for six weeks, and was beginning almost to consider myself as settled permanently at Headquarters. How I managed to stay so long undisturbed I could not understand, considering the stringency of the police regulations.

It may have been that the authorities winked complacently at my presence during all these weeks in consequence of my being an artist as distinct from a journalist, for by this time I made no attempt at secrecy since no one took any notice of me apparently, and I went about everywhere as freely as if I had an official permit from the General himself.

I recollect one day meeting Colonel Lamb, the British Military Attaché, in the street. He had just arrived from Rome. He expressed his surprise at seeing me in Udine, and asked how long I had been there; when I told him he laughingly said: “You’ll end by being sent to prison and perhaps shot one day.”

I replied in the same vein that I had been expecting it to happen every day for weeks past, so should not be surprised when it did.

Well, whatever the reason, I had no unpleasant attention shown me until the last few days of my stay, and then it was suddenly brought home to me that I had overstayed my welcome.

It was really the last thing I was expecting to happen, as I had got on quite friendly terms with the Commandant of the Carabinieri, and only a few days previously the Commissaire of Police had given me his official sanction to remain in Udine. The order for what now took place must therefore have emanated from someone in higher authority than either of these gentlemen, so there was absolutely no appeal from it, as will be seen. It came about in this wise.

I was leaving the restaurant where I usually lunched when a tall, well-dressed civilian came up to me, and, as far as I could make out, since I hardly understood a word of Italian, asked me if I were Mr. Price, and if I were that person would I do him the inestimable favour to walk with him as far as the Questura, as they had something of importance they desired to communicate to me at once.

I guessed at once that he was a police officer in mufti, and that it was not for anything particularly agreeable to me that he stopped me thus. Thinking that perhaps he did not know that my papers were quite in order, I pulled out my police pass and shewed it to him; but this was not what he meant.

With the old time garrulity of the Italian, and unctiously wringing his hands as though he was in mental distress, he made me understand that it was very distasteful to him to have to interrupt my walk, but it was merely for a few moments, when I should be free to resume it, and he would again offer me his sincere apologies for venturing to accost me, but it was of sufficient importance for him to urge me to go with him now, as I was expected and being waited for. This is what I gathered from the few words I understood of all this verbosity.

Just at this moment, as luck would have it, someone I knew came along. He spoke a little French, so I asked him to tell me what it all meant. It was as I had guessed: this was an Agent de la Sureté, and I had to go with him to the police station at once for reasons which would be explained when I got there.

Of course there was no arguing the matter; I realised that it was all mock politeness I had been treated with, and that if I made any objection I should be spoken to very differently. At the station I was asked to produce “all my papers and my passport”; these were taken into an adjoining room. In a few minutes they were returned to me, and I was informed that I would hear further in the matter. Whereupon I was allowed to go, much mystified as to what was going to happen next.

The following morning a note was left at my Hotel to the effect that at 10 o’clock I was called upon to present myself again with “all my papers and my passport” at the police station, accompanied by someone to interpret for me. A young fellow who spoke French fairly well consented to accompany me.

I was taken before the Commissaire, the one who had given me the permis de séjour, and two other officials, who began to ply me with questions as to how I came to be in Udine, what I came for, and how long I had been there, together with a lot of other questions which were very irritating since the Commissaire knew all about me already, as he had his own signature before him on my papers.

There was a short conversation between the Commissaire and the officials, who looked towards me meanwhile in a friendly manner as I thought. I was soon to be undeceived though. They then turned to my interpreter and announced the upshot of these mysterious happenings.

“Well, what’s the result of all these proceedings?” I asked him.

“You are to be sent to Novara,” he replied unconcernedly.

“Be sent to Novara,” I repeated in amazement. “Where’s Novara?”