Under Fire on Isonzo Front

From The Arthur Conan Doyle Encyclopedia

Under Fire on Isonzo Front is an article written by Arthur Conan Doyle first published in The Daily Chronicle and other newspapers on 27 june 1916.

First article about Arthur Conan Doyle's visit to the Italian front. Second article as A Glimpse of the Italian Army (29 june 1916).


Editions


Under Fire on Isonzo Front

The Daily Chronicle (27 june 1916, p. 6)

RUNNING GAUNTLET OF AUSTRIAN GUNS.

CAUGHT IN PREVALENT IRON RAINS OF ADRIATIC SHORE.

By Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

[Copyright 1916 by A. Conan Doyle in the United States of America.]

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.

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 business alertness of the Briton, and yet has a very special dash and fire of his own, covered over by a very pleasing and unassuming manner.

London has not yet forgotten Dorando 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 his dazed body somehow got across the line, it was an exhibition of luck which put the little sunburned baker straightway among London's heroes.

Dorando's spirit is alive to-day. I see thousands of them 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.

SPIRIT OF CAESAR'S MEN.

But from the first to last the Alpini have had the ascendancy 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.

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.

TRENCH WAR IN THE EAST.

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 everyone else. But remember what they have done for the common cause and be grateful for it. They have in a year occupied some 40 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.

This 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 Dorandos will do it.

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. Everyone 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, most 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 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 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 50 victims seems to me the most monstrous development of the whale war, and the one which should be most sternly repressed in future international legislation — if such a thing as international law still exists.

NO MAN'S TOWN.

The Italian Headquarters town, which I will call Nemini, was a particular victim of these murderous attacks. I speak with some feeling as the ceiling of bedroom had been shattered some days before my arrival.

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 extraordinarily 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 50 yards of them. A lively bombardment was going on from either side.

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 a very imperfect sympathy.

SOMETHING TO LEARN.

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.

At present the Italians have, as I understand, no military representatives 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.

I was anxious to visit Monfalcone, 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 up to the Austrian position at the village of Ronchi, and afterwards kept parallel to it for some miles. I was to 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 any 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.

AUSTRIAN GUNNERS AT WORK.

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 50 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 motors had been. There is no use telling me Austrian gunners cannot 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 Austro-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 mot reach.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.


With the Italians

The Times (27 june 1916)

THE SPIRIT OF CAESAR'S LEGIONS.

A TIGER SPRING AT TRIESTE.

By A. Conan Doyle.

Making every possible allowance for one's personal feelings of obligation to one's hosts, I come away from the Italian front 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 extra-ordinary difficulty.

First a word as to the Italian soldier. He is a type by himself, with a very special dash and fire, covered over by a very pleasing and un-assuming manner. London has not yet forgotten Dorando, of Marathon fame. He was just such another easy smiling youth as I now see everywhere 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. Caesar told how the big Germans used to laugh at his little men until they had been at hand-grips 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.

WHAT ITALY HAS DONE.

But if that is so why is it that they have not made me impression upon the enemy's position ? The answer lies in the strategical position of Italy. 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 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. There remains the other front, the opening by the sea. Here the Italians cleared the plain, crossed the river ; 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. They have in a year occupied some 40 Austrian divisions. 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, if 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 Dorando will do it.

And they are excellently led. Cadorna is an old Roman, a man cast in the big simple mould of antiquity, Irugal 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, 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.

AT THE ISONZO FRONT.

My first experience of the Italian line was at the portion which I have called the gap by the sea, otherwise the Isonzo Front. The Isonzo 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 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 50 yards of them.

The story of trench attack and defence is no doubt very similar in all quarters, but close touch should be kept between the Allies on the matter of new inventions. At present there seems to be a very imperfect sympathy. When I was on the British lines they were dealing with a new method of clearing barbed wire. But on the Italian front I found that the same system had been tested for many months. In the use of bullet-proof jackets the Italians are also ahead of us. At present the Italians have, as I understand, no military representatives, with our armies, while they receive a British general with a small staff. This seems very wrong.

SHELLED BY THE AUSTRIANS.

I was anxious to visit Monfalcone, the small dock-yard captured from the Austrians on the Adriatic. The only road to it ran close to the Austrian position at the village of Ronchi and afterwards kept parallel to it for some miles. As we approached Ronchi we could see shrapnel breaking over the road in front of us, we but we had not realized 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 50 miles an hour. At this moment there was a noise as if the whole four tires had gone simultaneously a most terrific bang in our very ears, merging into a second sound like a reverberating blow upon an enormous gong. All I glanced up I saw three clouds immediately above my head, two of them white and the other of a rusty red. It was our pace that saved us. The motor was an open one, and the three shells burst 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.

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 tire as well as that by which we had come. Had the Ostro-Bosches 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 were able finally to make our retreat on foot. So ended my visit to Monfalcone, the place I did not reach.



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