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

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