A Visit to Three Fronts, June 1916 by Arthur Conan Doyle (any book recommendations txt) 📖
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recently made some advance, it is perfectly certain that they can never
really carry out any serious invasion. The Italians then have done all
that could be done in this quarter. There remains the other front, the
opening by the sea. Here the Italians had a chance to advance over a
front of plain bounded by a river with hills beyond. They cleared the
plain, they crossed the river, they fought a battle very like our own
battle of the Aisne upon the slopes of the hills, taking 20,000
Austrian prisoners, and now they are faced by barbed wire, machine
guns, cemented trenches, and every other device which has held them as
it has held every one else. But remember what they have done for the
common cause and be grateful for it. They have in a year occupied some
forty Austrian divisions, and relieved our Russian allies to that very
appreciable extent. They have killed or wounded a quarter of a million,
taken 40,000, and drawn to themselves a large portion of the artillery.
That is their record up to date. As to the future it is very easy to
prophesy. They will continue to absorb large enemy armies. Neither side
can advance far as matters stand. But if the Russians advance and
Austria has to draw her men to the East, there will be a tiger spring
for Trieste. If manhood can break the line, then I believe the Durandos
will do it.
‘Trieste o morte!’ I saw chalked upon the walls all over North Italy.
That is the Italian objective.
And they are excellently led. Cadorna is an old Roman, a man cast in
the big simple mould of antiquity, frugal in his tastes, clear in his
aims, with no thought outside his duty. Every one loves and trusts him.
Porro, the Chief of the Staff, who was good enough to explain the
strategical position to me, struck me as a man of great clearness of
vision, middle-sized, straight as a dart, with an eagle face grained
and coloured like an old walnut. The whole of the staff work is, as
experts assure me, moot excellently done.
So much for the general situation. Let me descend for a moment to my
own trivial adventures since leaving the British front. Of France I
hope to say more in the future, and so I will pass at a bound to Padua,
where it appeared that the Austrian front had politely advanced to meet
me, for I was wakened betimes in the morning by the dropping of bombs,
the rattle of anti-aircraft guns, and the distant rat-tat-tat of a
maxim high up in the air. I heard when I came down later that the
intruder had been driven away and that little damage had been done. The
work of the Austrian aeroplanes is, however, very aggressive behind the
Italian lines, for they have the great advantage that a row of fine
cities lies at their mercy, while the Italians can do nothing without
injuring their own kith and kin across the border. This dropping of
explosives on the chance of hitting one soldier among fifty victims
seems to me the most monstrous development of the whole war, and the
one which should be most sternly repressed in future international
legislation—if such a thing as international law still exists. The
Italian headquarter town, which I will call Nemini, was a particular
victim of these murderous attacks. I speak with some feeling, as not
only was the ceiling of my bedroom shattered some days before my
arrival, but a greasy patch with some black shreds upon it was still
visible above my window which represented part of the remains of an
unfortunate workman, who had been blown to pieces immediately in front
of the house. The air defence is very skilfully managed however, and
the Italians have the matter well in hand.
My first experience of the Italian line was at the portion which I have
called the gap by the sea, otherwise the Isonzo front. From a mound
behind the trenches an extraordinary fine view can be got of the
Austrian position, the general curve of both lines being marked, as in
Flanders, by the sausage balloons which float behind them. The Isonzo,
which has been so bravely carried by the Italians, lay in front of me,
a clear blue river, as broad as the Thames at Hampton Court. In a
hollow to my left were the roofs of Gorizia, the town which the
Italians are endeavouring to take. A long desolate ridge, the Carso,
extends to the south of the town, and stretches down nearly to the sea.
The crest is held by the Austrians and the Italian trenches have been
pushed within fifty yards of them. A lively bombardment was going on
from either side, but so far as the infantry goes there is none of that
constant malignant petty warfare with which we are familiar in
Flanders. I was anxious to see the Italian trenches, in order to
compare them with our British methods, but save for the support and
communication trenches I was courteously but firmly warned off.
The story of trench attack and defence is no doubt very similar in all
quarters, but I am convinced that close touch should be kept between
the Allies on the matter of new inventions. The quick Latin brain may
conceive and test an idea long before we do. At present there seems to
be very imperfect sympathy. As an example, when I was on the British
lines they were dealing with a method of clearing barbed wire. The
experiments were new and were causing great interest. But on the
Italian front I found that the same system had been tested for many
months. In the use of bullet proof jackets for engineers and other men
who have to do exposed work the Italians are also ahead of us. One of
their engineers at our headquarters might give some valuable advice. At
present the Italians have, as I understand, no military representative
with our armies, while they receive a British General with a small
staff. This seems very wrong not only from the point of view of
courtesy and justice, but also because Italy has no direct means of
knowing the truth about our great development. When Germans state that
our new armies are made of paper, our Allies should have some official
assurance of their own that this is false. I can understand our keeping
neutrals from our headquarters, but surely our Allies should be on
another footing.
Having got this general view of the position I was anxious in the
afternoon to visit Monfalcone, which is the small dockyard captured
from the Austrians on the Adriatic. My kind Italian officer guides did
not recommend the trip, as it was part of their great hospitality to
shield their guest from any part of that danger which they were always
ready to incur themselves. The only road to Monfalcone ran close to the
Austrian position at the village of Ronchi, and afterwards kept
parallel to it for some miles. I was told that it was only on odd days
that the Austrian guns were active in this particular section, so
determined to trust to luck that this might not be one of them. It
proved, however, to be one of the worst on record, and we were not
destined to see the dockyard to which we started.
The civilian cuts a ridiculous figure when he enlarges upon small
adventures which may come his way—adventures which the soldier endures
in silence as part of his everyday life. On this occasion, however, the
episode was all our own, and had a sporting flavour in it which made it
dramatic. I know now the feeling of tense expectation with which the
driven grouse whirrs onwards towards the butt. I have been behind the
butt before now, and it is only poetic justice that I should see the
matter from the other point of view. As we approached Ronchi we could
see shrapnel breaking over the road in front of us, but we had not yet
realised that it was precisely for vehicles that the Austrians were
waiting, and that they had the range marked out to a yard. We went down
the road all out at a steady fifty miles an hour. The village was near,
and it seemed that we had got past the place of danger. We had in fact
just reached it. At this moment there was a noise as if the whole four
tyres had gone simultaneously, a most terrific bang in our very ears,
merging into a second sound like a reverberating blow upon an enormous
gong. As I glanced up I saw three clouds immediately above my head, two
of them white and the other of a rusty red. The air was full of flying
metal, and the road, as we were told afterwards by an observer, was all
churned up by it. The metal base of one of the shells was found plumb
in the middle of the road just where our motor had been. There is no
use telling me Austrian gunners can’t shoot. I know better.
It was our pace that saved us. The motor was an open one, and the three
shells burst, according to one of my Italian companions who was himself
an artillery officer, about ten metres above our heads. They threw
forward, however, and we travelling at so great a pace shot from under.
Before they could get in another we had swung round the curve and under
the lee of a house. The good Colonel B. wrung my hand in silence. They
were both distressed, these good soldiers, under the impression that
they had led me into danger. As a matter of fact it was I who owed them
an apology, since they had enough risks in the way of business without
taking others in order to gratify the whim of a joy-rider. Barbariche
and Clericetti, this record will convey to you my remorse.
Our difficulties were by no means over. We found an ambulance lorry and
a little group of infantry huddled under the same shelter with the
expression of people who had been caught in the rain. The road beyond
was under heavy fire as well as that by which we had come. Had the
Ostro-Boches dropped a high-explosive upon us they would have had a
good mixed bag. But apparently they were only out for fancy shooting
and disdained a sitter. Presently there came a lull and the lorry moved
on, but we soon heard a burst of firing which showed that they were
after it. My companions had decided that it was out of the question for
us to finish our excursion. We waited for some time therefore and were
able finally to make our retreat on foot, being joined later by the
car. So ended my visit to Monfalcone, the place I did not reach. I hear
that two 10,000-ton steamers were left on the stocks there by the
Austrians, but were disabled before they retired. Their cabin basins
and other fittings are now adorning the Italian dugouts.
My second day was devoted to a view of the Italian mountain warfare in
the Carnic Alps. Besides the two great fronts, one of defence
(Trentino) and one of offence (Isonzo), there are very many smaller
valleys which have to be guarded. The total frontier line is over four
hundred miles, and it has all to be held against raids if not
invasions. It is a most picturesque business. Far up in the Roccolana
Valley I found the Alpini outposts, backed by artillery which had been
brought into the most wonderful positions. They have taken 8-inch guns
where a tourist could hardly take his knapsack. Neither side
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