A Visit to Three Fronts, June 1916 by Arthur Conan Doyle (any book recommendations txt) 📖
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make serious progress, but there are continual duels, gun against gun,
or Alpini against Jaeger. In a little wayside house was the brigade
headquarters, and here I was entertained to lunch. It was a scene that
I shall remember. They drank to England. I raised my glass to Italia
irredenta—might it soon be redenta. They all sprang to their feet and
the circle of dark faces flashed into flame. They keep their souls and
emotions, these people. I trust that ours may not become atrophied by
self-suppression.
The Italians are a quick high-spirited race, and it is very necessary
that we should consider their feelings, and that we should show our
sympathy with what they have done, instead of making querulous and
unreasonable demands of them. In some ways they are in a difficult
position. The war is made by their splendid king—a man of whom every
one speaks with extraordinary reverence and love—and by the people.
The people, with the deep instinct of a very old civilisation,
understand that the liberty of the world and their own national
existence are really at stake. But there are several forces which
divide the strength of the nation. There is the clerical, which
represents the old Guelph or German spirit, looking upon Austria as the
eldest daughter of the Church—a daughter who is little credit to her
mother. Then there is the old nobility. Finally, there are the
commercial people who through the great banks or other similar agencies
have got into the influence and employ of the Germans. When you
consider all this you will appreciate how necessary it is that Britain
should in every possible way, moral and material, sustain the national
party. Should by any evil chance the others gain the upper hand there
might be a very sudden and sinister change in the international
situation. Every man who does, says, or writes a thing which may in any
way alienate the Italians is really, whether he knows it or not,
working for the King of Prussia. They are a grand people, striving most
efficiently for the common cause, with all the dreadful disabilities
which an absence of coal and iron entails. It is for us to show that we
appreciate it. Justice as well as policy demands it.
The last day spent upon the Italian front was in the Trentino. From
Verona a motor drive of about twenty-five miles takes one up the valley
of the Adige, and past a place of evil augury for the Austrians, the
field of Rivoli. As one passes up the valley one appreciates that on
their left wing the Italians have position after position in the spurs
of the mountains before they could be driven into the plain. If the
Austrians could reach the plain it would be to their own ruin, for the
Italians have large reserves. There is no need for any anxiety about
the Trentino.
The attitude of the people behind the firing line should give one
confidence. I had heard that the Italians were a nervous people. It
does not apply to this part of Italy. As I approached the danger spot I
saw rows of large, fat gentlemen with long thin black cigars leaning
against walls in the sunshine. The general atmosphere would have
steadied an epileptic. Italy is perfectly sure of herself in this
quarter. Finally, after a long drive of winding gradients, always
beside the Adige, we reached Ala, where we interviewed the Commander of
the Sector, a man who has done splendid work during the recent
fighting. ‘By all means you can see my front. But no motorcar, please.
It draws fire and others may be hit beside you.’ We proceeded on foot
therefore along a valley which branched at the end into two passes. In
both very active fighting had been going on, and as we came up the guns
were baying merrily, waking up most extraordinary echoes in the hills.
It was difficult to believe that it was not thunder. There was one
terrible voice that broke out from time to time in the mountains—the
angry voice of the Holy Roman Empire. When it came all other sounds
died down into nothing. It was—so I was told—the master gun, the vast
42 centimetre giant which brought down the pride of Li�ge and Namur.
The Austrians have brought one or more from Innsbruck. The Italians
assure me, however, as we have ourselves discovered, that in trench
work beyond a certain point the size of the gun makes little matter.
We passed a burst dug-out by the roadside where a tragedy had occurred
recently, for eight medical officers were killed in it by a single
shell. There was no particular danger in the valley however, and the
aimed fire was all going across us to the fighting lines in the two
passes above us. That to the right, the Valley of Buello, has seen some
of the worst of the fighting. These two passes form the Italian left
wing which has held firm all through. So has the right wing. It is only
the centre which has been pushed in by the concentrated fire.
When we arrived at the spot where the two valleys forked we were
halted, and we were not permitted to advance to the advance trenches
which lay upon the crests above us. There was about a thousand yards
between the adversaries. I have seen types of some of the Bosnian and
Croatian prisoners, men of poor physique and intelligence, but the
Italians speak with chivalrous praise of the bravery of the Hungarians
and of the Austrian Jaeger. Some of their proceedings disgust them
however, and especially the fact that they use Russian prisoners to dig
trenches under fire. There is no doubt of this, as some of the men were
recaptured and were sent on to join their comrades in France. On the
whole, however, it may be said that in the Austro-Italian war there is
nothing which corresponds with the extreme bitterness of our western
conflict. The presence or absence of the Hun makes all the difference.
Nothing could be more cool or methodical than the Italian arrangements
on the Trentino front. There are no troops who would not have been
forced back by the Austrian fire. It corresponded with the French
experience at Verdun, or ours at the second battle of Ypres. It may
well occur again if the Austrians get their guns forward. But at such a
rate it would take them a long time to make any real impression. One
cannot look at the officers and men without seeing that their spirit
and confidence are high. In answer to my inquiry they assure me that
there is little difference between the troops of the northern provinces
and those of the south. Even among the snows of the Alps they tell me
that the Sicilians gave an excellent account of themselves.
That night found me back at Verona, and next morning I was on my way to
Paris, where I hope to be privileged to have some experiences at the
front of our splendid Allies. I leave Italy with a deep feeling of
gratitude for the kindness shown to me, and of admiration for the way
in which they are playing their part in the world’s fight for freedom.
They have every possible disadvantage, economic and political. But in
spite of it they have done splendidly. Three thousand square kilometres
of the enemy’s country are already in their possession. They relieve to
a very great extent the pressure upon the Russians, who, in spite of
all their bravery, might have been overwhelmed last summer during the
‘durchbruch’ had it not been for the diversion of so many Austrian
troops. The time has come now when Russia by her advance on the Pripet
is repaying her debt. But the debt is common to all the Allies. Let
them bear it in mind. There has been mischief done by slighting
criticism and by inconsiderate words. A warm sympathetic hand-grasp of
congratulation is what Italy has deserved, and it is both justice and
policy to give it.
A GLIMPSE OF THE FRENCH LINE
I
The French soldiers are grand. They are grand. There is no other word
to express it. It is not merely their bravery. All races have shown
bravery in this war. But it is their solidity, their patience, their
nobility. I could not conceive anything finer than the bearing of their
officers. It is proud without being arrogant, stern without being
fierce, serious without being depressed. Such, too, are the men whom
they lead with such skill and devotion. Under the frightful
hammer-blows of circumstance, the national characters seem to have been
reversed. It is our British soldier who has become debonair,
light-hearted and reckless, while the Frenchman has developed a solemn
stolidity and dour patience which was once all our own. During a long
day in the French trenches, I have never once heard the sound of music
or laughter, nor have I once seen a face that was not full of the most
grim determination.
Germany set out to bleed France white. Well, she has done so. France is
full of widows and orphans from end to end. Perhaps in proportion to
her population she has suffered the most of all. But in carrying out
her hellish mission Germany has bled herself white also. Her heavy
sword has done its work, but the keen French rapier has not lost its
skill. France will stand at last, weak and tottering, with her huge
enemy dead at her feet. But it is a fearsome business to see—such a
business as the world never looked upon before. It is fearful for the
French. It is fearful for the Germans. May God’s curse rest upon the
arrogant men and the unholy ambitions which let loose this horror upon
humanity! Seeing what they have done, and knowing that they have done
it, one would think that mortal brain would grow crazy under the
weight. Perhaps the central brain of all was crazy from the first. But
what sort of government is it under which one crazy brain can wreck
mankind!
If ever one wanders into the high places of mankind, the places whence
the guidance should come, it seems to me that one has to recall the
dying words of the Swedish Chancellor who declared that the folly of
those who governed was what had amazed him most in his experience of
life. Yesterday I met one of these men of power—M. Clemenceau, once
Prime Minister, now the destroyer of governments. He is by nature a
destroyer, incapable of rebuilding what he has pulled down. With his
personal force, his eloquence, his thundering voice, his bitter pen, he
could wreck any policy, but would not even trouble to suggest an
alternative. As he sat before me with his face of an old prizefighter
(he is remarkably like Jim Mace as I can remember him in his later
days), his angry grey eyes and his truculent, mischievous smile, he
seemed to me a very dangerous man. His conversation, if a squirt on one
side and Niagara on the other can be called conversation, was directed
for the moment upon the iniquity of the English rate of exchange, which
seemed to me very much like railing against the barometer. My
companion, who has forgotten more economics than ever Clemenceau knew,
was about to ask whether France was prepared to take the rouble at face
value, but the roaring voice, like a strong gramophone with a blunt
needle, submerged all argument. We have our dangerous men, but we have
no one in the same class as Clemenceau. Such men enrage the people who
know them, alarm the people who don’t, set every one by the ears, act
as a healthy irritant in days of peace, and are a public
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