A Visit to Three Fronts by Arthur Conan Doyle
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Arthur Conan Doyle >> A Visit to Three Fronts
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There is a large field on our left rear, and the German gunners have
the idea that there is a concealed battery therein. They are
systematically searching for it. A great shell explodes in the top
corner, but gets nothing more solid than a few tons of clay. You can
read the mind of Gunner Fritz. 'Try the lower corner!' says he, and up
goes the earth-cloud once again. 'Perhaps it's hid about the middle.
I'll try.' Earth again, and nothing more. 'I believe I was right the
first time after all,' says hopeful Fritz. So another shell comes into
the top corner. The field is as full of pits as a Gruyere cheese, but
Fritz gets nothing by his perseverance. Perhaps there never was a
battery there at all. One effect he obviously did attain. He made
several other British batteries exceedingly angry. 'Stop that tickling,
Fritz!' was the burden of their cry. Where they were we could no more
see than Fritz could, but their constant work was very clear along the
German line. We appeared to be using more shrapnel and the Germans more
high explosives, but that may have been just the chance of the day. The
Vimy Ridge was on our right, and before us was the old French position,
with the labyrinth of terrible memories and the long hill of Lorette.
When, last year, the French, in a three weeks' battle, fought their way
up that hill, it was an exhibition of sustained courage which even
their military annals can seldom have beaten.
And so I turn from the British line. Another and more distant task lies
before me. I come away with the deep sense of the difficult task which
lies before the Army, but with a deeper one of the ability of these men
to do all that soldiers can ever be asked to perform. Let the guns
clear the way for the infantry, and the rest will follow. It all lies
with the guns. But the guns, in turn, depend upon our splendid workers
at home, who, men and women, are doing so grandly. Let them not be
judged by a tiny minority, who are given, perhaps, too much attention
in our journals. We have all made sacrifices in the war, but when the
full story comes to be told, perhaps the greatest sacrifice of all is
that which Labour made when, with a sigh, she laid aside that which it
had taken so many weary years to build.
A GLIMPSE OF THE ITALIAN ARMY
One meets with such extreme kindness and consideration among the
Italians that there is a real danger lest one's personal feeling of
obligation should warp one's judgment or hamper one's expression.
Making every possible allowance for this, I come away from them, after
a very wide if superficial view of all that they are doing, with a deep
feeling of admiration and a conviction that no army in the world could
have made a braver attempt to advance under conditions of extraordinary
difficulty.
First a word as to the Italian soldier. He is a type by himself which
differs from the earnest solidarity of the new French army, and from
the businesslike alertness of the Briton, and yet has a very special
dash and fire of its own, covered over by a very pleasing and
unassuming manner. London has not yet forgotten Durando of Marathon
fame. He was just such another easy smiling youth as I now see
everywhere around me. Yet there came a day when a hundred thousand
Londoners hung upon his every movement--when strong men gasped and
women wept at his invincible but unavailing spirit. When he had fallen
senseless in that historic race on the very threshold of his goal, so
high was the determination within him, that while he floundered on the
track like a broken-backed horse, with the senses gone out of him, his
legs still continued to drum upon the cinder path. Then when by pure
will power he staggered to his feet and drove his dazed body across the
line, it was an exhibition of pluck which put the little sunburned
baker straightway among London's heroes. Durando's spirit is alive
to-day, I see thousands of him all around me. A thousand such, led by a
few young gentlemen of the type who occasionally give us object lessons
in how to ride at Olympia, make no mean battalion. It has been a war
of most desperate ventures, but never once has there been a lack of
volunteers. The Tyrolese are good men--too good to be fighting in so
rotten a cause. But from first to last the Alpini have had the
ascendency in the hill fighting, as the line regiments have against the
Kaiserlics upon the plain. Caesar told how the big Germans used to
laugh at his little men until they had been at handgrips with them. The
Austrians could tell the same tale. The spirit in the ranks is
something marvellous. There have been occasions when every officer has
fallen and yet the men have pushed on, have taken a position and then
waited for official directions.
But if that is so, you will ask, why is it that they have not made more
impression upon the enemy's position? The answer lies in the
strategical position of Italy, and it can be discussed without any
technicalities. A child could understand it. The Alps form such a bar
across the north that there are only two points where serious
operations are possible. One is the Trentino Salient where Austria can
always threaten and invade Italy. She lies in the mountains with the
plains beneath her. She can always invade the plain, but the Italians
cannot seriously invade the mountains, since the passes would only lead
to other mountains beyond. Therefore their only possible policy is to
hold the Austrians back. This they have most successfully done, and
though the Austrians with the aid of a shattering heavy artillery have
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 dug-outs.
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 can ever
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 Liege 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.