A Visit to Three Fronts, June 1916 by Arthur Conan Doyle (best reads of all time .TXT) 📕

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