Diary World War I
"War 1915-17"
Giovanni Battista PIGHI (1970)I begin to write down some notes for the memories of my life. Laura [my daughter] wants to have them, for herself and especially for her children. I was thinking here [in Montorio see the map with all the places mentioned] in front of my old Underwood, of the beautiful impression that titles like "Memoirs of the old days, of school, of war, of the future, of dreams, etc." would produce. But I propose the method of having no method. I will write piecemeal what I remember from time to time, as the memory surfaces and capture my attention.
I can't guarantee precise dates; I have no intention of doing historical research, which would be out of place for such an unhistorical person as I am. I have already written some memoirs: for example, the trip to Portugal in 1956, my change of course, in Vicenza, from the Asiago Plateau to S. Floriano, in November 1917. The memoirs of my time at the military academy, for what little they matter, they are reduced to my state of service, and little else.
My memoirs as a scholar [of classical languages AS] result from the bibliography printed at the top of my "centenary" volume (called "Studies of rhythm and metrics"), and from the sequel, which I will put together in these years. My memories Casal's [Villa Pighi, the family's villa] memories are those that took shape in poems and fables in the Veronese language.
Casal, 15 October 1970, name day of my grandmother and my Laura-Teresa.
I am now copying again the manuscript written in Casal and Verona between October 15 and November 9, 1970, no longer on my old Underwood, which I have retired, but on my new (1972, except for error) Olivetti letter 32. The letter that I wrote to Laura itself suffered "change of course". It arrived as scheduled by mail in Holland, where it got lost in the very messy "archive" of the Schram house; perhaps it will come out, one day or another. In the meantime, I will summarize the story here. The materials I have collected in these days, will form a couple of volumes, the "documents" of school and home, from 1907 onwards. The memories of Casal are now gathered in the "Secret Book", to which today is added "El libro del Nano e de l'Anguana", which constitutes its continuation and, perhaps, the end.
Verona, 20 September 1974, my father's birthday.
JUNE 1916. The cloister of San Bernardino, in Verona, sees me naked, with a row of other boys of about 18 years of age, passing the medical examination. Passed! To avoid any fuss, I had hidden my glasses (minus 8 dioptry) in the pile of my clothes.
NOVEMBER 1916. New visit to the Military District, in via XX Settembre, for assignment to the regiment. Skilled for field artillery; assigned to the 170 Regiment of Campaign Artillery, Novara. I receive 2 lire, silver, for the trip: I am therefore now in the pay of the State, that is, a soldier; with my "Cavour" [a coin] in hand (because I am naked once again), I go to recover my clothes; very cold, but the old gunners are not afraid of pneumonia. I get dressed, put my glasses back on, again hidden this time, I go out and find my father and mother on the other sidewalk pretending not to be agitated.
My family had its first generation of fighters (my maternal grandfather, Diomiro Polettini, and the younger brother of my paternal grandmother, Luigi Gatti, Garibaldini in 1866. After just half a century, the third generation sends me into disarray, with a nice number of cousins.
FEBRUARY-APRIL 1917. As a conscript from February 22, in April. I'm now in Novara. My father accompanied me and recommended to his colleague from the Telegraphic and Telephone Constructions beyond, for possible and extraordinary expenses (some Tuscan vehicles and some extra breakfast in the dairy). They are in gray-green, booted and legged, with a maxi coat, without sword and without spurs: these were given then after the first period of education, that is when leaving for the front. Life as we knew it (curious that I say "as we knew it": and not to imply that I already knew it; but it was the life that we found natural for a soldier): wake up early, washing, exercises in the courtyard (Cavalli barracks), exercises on horseback in the stables and then out, brushing and rubbing certain American horses, very high withers, eating a loaf of bread, broth, fatty meat, an hour off, a bowl of milk and bread in the dairy, return to the dormitory, deep sleep.
No soldiers' "literature", but loud jokes, punches, bullying, and shouts from corporals and sergeants. A few dirty words, to heat up the atmosphere; in the end, however, nothing sensational. No discussions we all agree on the mission at hand, student soldiers, worker soldiers, peasant soldiers.
No propaganda: all boys of 18 or 19, who did not question their fate in the third year of a total and national war. We were then still a civilized nation; and this was the after all fourth war of the [Italian wars of the] Risorgimento: and it was the last. The great trial of the Risorgimento ended with that war; later, decadence began, with civil wars and total corruption of the state.
The main characteristic of our way of feeling was the problem-free acceptance of a hard life, which within a few months would have led us to risking life and limb.
Why? Most of [the soldiers] had only a vague notion; we students knew more. Our education had prepared us: Italy, homeland, duty, discipline. It was the turn of our classes, from 1889 to 98 (and then it was the turn of 99 and part of the 1900s). At that age, you don't think about death, or at least we didn't think about it; and if anyone was afraid, he wouldn't show it out of shame. We were neither bold nor reckless: just soldiers.
FEBRUARY 1917. University students from every Faculty were sent to Turin. From then on Turin is the city that I have loved the most, after Verona, of course: and don't think of love affairs, the rhetoric of "Addio Giovinezza" [a popular song in those days]: I was still in limbo then.
The Academy was paralyzed with thousands of new students; we did the instruction to the piece on the ramparts of Pietro Micca [a Piedmontese war hero].
The confusion ceased, and I think the Academy resumed functioning almost normally, when all the non-engineering students were loaded into very long train wagons, and sent to courses for infantry officer students.
It was a sad journey: the swaddling clothes, which kept falling off, instead of leggings. We learned later to put them crosswise (then we all had them in a "spiral", which miserably kept falling down), "salamini" instead of shoulder straps, instead of the belt (which had not yet been given) bandolier [a cross belt], our two legs instead of the horse's four. We became infantry! What a humiliation for us, "artillerymen". I believe that more than one, on that very long train that took us all one day from Turin to Piacenza and then to Modena, shed a few tears.
MAY 1917. The crash course in Modena lasted a month; then there was a month of "camp" at Porretta; living under the tent was then a novelty. In the end, so-called exams; and a great march with a packed backpack for those who wished to go to the Alpini. I was not an athlete, but healthy as a fish, with tireless legs and a strong heart for walking. I was among the first, and I wrote home exultant because being an Alpine was an honor in Verona.
JULY 1917. They send me home, with the rank of supplementary aspiring officer [in Italian alfiere in English sub-lieutenant], that is, with my well-earned little [golden] "shoe string" [indicating my rank] on the cap, and a Beretta 9 caliber in the belt. I am assigned to the Rome Brigade, 79th Infantry Regiment, Verona depot. Too bad! The Alpini needed officers, but the infantry devoured them in whole courses! The 79th was on the Isonzo.
AUGUST 1917. I enjoy a couple of months of leave at home in Verona from the end of June to early August. I prepare some university exams: those would have been the holidays between the second and third-year program in humanities (at the University of Padua).
Leave, or vacation, peaceful, as usual. No agitation in the family. My mother was quite sure that I would get away without a scratch; and then the daughter of a soldier of Garibaldi from [the battle of] Bezzecca could show no sign of fear. My father was not so Spartan: but he hid his feelings under the usual cheerful mask. I was calm: I would have fought my war, I would have come back, I would have taken up my Sanskrit, my Latin, I would have graduated, and I would have been a professor: university, of course. I didn't have the slightest doubt.
AUGUST 1917. In this spirit, the departure for the front was simple: it was something like the departure for Padua, like going for an university exam. The 79th had its own field of reserves near Santa Maria la Longa; the regiment was engaged with the rest of the 2nd Army in what became the Battle of the Bainsizza [on the Isonzo Front now in Slovenia], and supplied itself with soldiers and officers in that field. We aspiring officers were treated like ordinary soldiers, under the tent and without command. Then the II Army crossed the river, the Isonzo, and began to wear out on the Bainsizza; every other day it added a few people from its reserve. The order came to the Campo di Santa Maria, and a large unit set off on foot (the war was still waged like this at the time) towards the wild valley of Judrio. Above Codromàz, on a muddy slope, we found a village of branches.
New waiting period: every day some unit left for the front; the 79th three aspiring officers, but it was already in the trenches in front of the Chiapovano Valley.
Finally, we left, three aspiring officers to join up with our units. We leave at night. In the morning we were on the crest of the mountain that divides the Judrio valley from the Isonzo valley. The ground was all craters; the Isonzo ran down there in the background; the battle, now far away, made its roar heard at times. We crossed the bridge at Auzza, and up through those steep, barren heights.
We are included in a battalion of the 79th encamped in a forest, that is, in what remained of a forest. We receive the command of a platoon: luckily we had good non-commissioned officers and senior officers, aged 24 or 25.
In mid-August we move to the front line: the trench, an irregular furrow, at times more and sometimes less deep, among the stones; beyond there was no man's land; beyond those unfortunates who were officially called "the enemy". At night, no man's land was the terrain reserved for exploratory patrols and unexpected attacks at night. During the day, three or four of us dragged ourselves on our belly (an aspiring officer, a corporal, and a couple of soldiers), keeping us under cover from snipers, making walkways in the rock, zig-zagging to the trench, which had to be used for any other advance.
It goes without saying that the days varied from heavy artillery shots, alarms without consequences (those over there were more tired than us, the arrival of the scarce rations; even for the officers there was not much difference) and the hunt for lice.
AUGUST-SEPTEMBER 1917. I became a specialist miner. A soldier with an iron stake, another with the club, me with sticks of dynamite and the package of the detonator in my pocket, and the roll of the fuse in my hand. Splendid sun, silence and absolute desert; I felt like I was on Casal's hill. Reached the place, a few meters beyond yesterday's explosion, the hole is slowly dug, the detonator with its fuse is inserted, and it is set on fire. A brief pop, a cloud of stones, and a minute later, the enemy fires a couple of grenades. But by that time we were already in another place, or if there was time, to make our manholes, or we went back into our trenches.
It goes without saying that the days varied from heavy artillery shots, alarms without consequences (those over there were more tired than us, the arrival of the scarce rations; even for the officers there was not much difference) and the hunt for lice.
AUGUST-SEPTEMBER 1917. I became a specialist miner. A soldier with an iron stake, another with the club, me with sticks of dynamite and the package of the detonator in my pocket, and the roll of the fuse in my hand. Splendid sun, silence and absolute desert; I felt like I was on Casal's hill. Reached the place, a few meters beyond yesterday's explosion, the hole is slowly dug, the detonator with its fuse is inserted, and it is set on fire. A brief pop, a cloud of stones, and a minute later, the enemy fires a couple of grenades. But by that time we were already in another place, or if there was time, to make our manholes, or we went back into our trenches.
OCTOBER 1917. At the beginning of October the regiment rotated out. The descent towards the Isonzo was, in the early hours, rather confused. I think, but I don't know for sure, that some Austrian patrols took advantage of the opportunity to cross the line and shoot at us. I earned a nice hole in my helmet, a proposal for a medal of valor (simply because I hadn't lost my head or my mind) and the esteem of the colonel commander. I changed my helmet, the proposal got lost I don't know where, the colonel accepted my application for a leave for exams. My father came to visit me in Auzza. I got rid of the lice.
OCTOBER 21, 1917. The colonel made me write all letters that required good form and style. On 21 October he gave me my leave sheet and wished me well for the trip and for the exams. I deposited my order box to the carriage, of which the only precious content was the Dantino by De Gubernatis (two volumes, Purgatorio and Paradiso; the Hell volume got lost, I don't know when), that my mother had given me. There was great peace on the river, on the few mountains to the north, on the banks of the Bainsizza, on the valley that opens to the south, towards Canale. A splendid October: under the tent (one just for me) it was warm.
MONDAY 22 OCTOBER 1917. I left early, without luggage, that is, as the Venetians say, "a man scorlando"; I crossed the Ponte d'Auzza and found a truck, one of those still rare caissons, headed for Cividale, for Idria and Castelmonte. In Cividale I stayed a while, on the Natisone bridge, waiting for another truck. I arrived in Udine in the evening. A ramshackle train took me to Mestre, from there another to Verona.
THURSDAY 23 OCTOBER 1917. I woke up in time to get off at the Porta Vescovo station; it was still night (between 22h and 23h). I arrived home, in Borgo Venezia, via Betteloni 34 (the first house owned by my father) at 5 in the morning. My mother put a large cauldron on the fire; she hid all the dirty laundry in a sack, where a few visiting lice could still live; she prepared my bath. After half an hour, clean and fragrant, and in plain clothes, I ate a formidable breakfast, which also included dinner and dinner the day before. Then, in front of my father and mother and sister, I begin to tell. It was the morning of October 23, 1917.
Written up to now, in Verona, Wednesday 21 October 1970.
OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 1917. Caporetto [24 October], the retreat of the whole [Italian] front [during the so-called 13th Battle of the Isonzo], the resistance of the whole front, the resistance (a word not yet tarnished by politics in those days) on the Piave, and on the Grappa. At the 79th depot, they tell me that the regiment no longer exists. Meeting points for the enormous mass of stragglers are established. Not knowing what to do (they have no orders at the depot), I go to San Floriano di Valpolicella. The command was in the large villa behind the station of the disappeared Verona-Caprino tramway. I tell everything to the bearded alpine captain who dominates there (I was only carrying the leave sheet and the university booklet), with a small correction of the truth: at the 79th, I say, I was a machine gunner. This was possible: in the preceding months, in the preceding months, we had begun to supply fire-breathing infantry (double-barreled guns) and Fiat machine guns. [These early machine gunners] which were beginning to form autonomous companies. We spoke with admiration of the heavy machine guns, the Saint-Etienne (officially model 1907F), given to us by France. Its training center was in Turin. [As a result] I received blue and white insignia and became a machine gunner in San Floriano, awaiting orders. I go to Turin for the first time, with a military train; I am leaving with a hundred men and I arrive with 700. I deliver them to the barracks, and return. From San Floriano to Barbarano Vicenza, meeting point for machine gunners (both Fiat and Saint-Etienne) and centre for the establishment of machine gun companies. From Barbarano to Turin, for a training course at the War School; return to Barbarano.
NOVEMBER 1917. The Asiag plateau was in those days a furnace into which all the reserves of men and officers were thrown. We in Barbarano were waiting to be assigned to new or old companies as machine gunner; but that could wait, Asiago no. About thirty of the youngest, including myself, are set out on foot (only about thirty kilometers), towards Vicenza; some had to report in one place, some in another. I had the address of a certain command, which supplied a group of brigades with "meat", including the "Brigata Regina", who need more reinforcement than any other. I go up the stairs of an old monumental building; I enter a large room with a very high ceiling, decorated or painted: almost dark. No furniture, except an L-shaped table, with many papers on it, and a few shelves on the walls. Behind, sits a lieutenant, who looks old to me: I was nineteen and a half, he was over thirty.
He takes my leave sheet. He looks at me: "Student?" "Gentlemen". "Faculty?" and so on. I tell him: Padua, Letters, enrolled in the third year, the names of some professors. He tells me that he is a professor at the scientific-literary academy in Milan [later the University of Milan]; I see in front of the great beards of famous professors of classics Ascoli, Giussani, De Marchi, and in my mind I remain with my knees bent in front of this unknown demigod, a colleague of those noble demigods.
We talk about service again: I tell him: San Floriano, Barbarano, Turin, and now Asiago. He writes me the waybill, folds it, hands it to me. "Aspirant Officer" he tells me, "I am sending you back to San Floriano; there is no hurry; stay at home for a couple of days; and say hello to Verona". Thank you, I salute him strictly following military etiquette, about turn, I go down the staircase. I'm a bit stunned. I start to understand that this protector-angel and officer, instead of sending me to Asiago, sent me to Verona; effectively he had saved my life, at least until that point. The "Brigata Regina" brigade was worse than Moloch [ a Phenician deity whose worship was marked by the propitiatory sacrifice of children by their own parents]. When I went to Milan in 1925, I tried to find and get to know my savior; I asked the Cattolica prof. Calderini, who had been a pupil of De Marchi at the Academy; I found no trace of that professor, an officer at a Vicenza command on November 1917. I often think of him, even though I am aware of my unworthiness, of this angel-protector who for seventy-seven years has fulfilled, with every care and in the midst of many difficulties, the task of guarding me. (This paragraph on November 17, which replaces the letter sent to Laura on the subject, was written today, September 20, 1974, on a Friday, during the typing of these memoirs of mine)
NOVEMBER 1917 (cont.). At San Floriano, I waited for my destination. On the new front, the Companies of heavy machine guns were being formed, which were assigned four for each Army Corps Division. Of course, in those days I often visited home, by bicycle. Finally, with a short leave, I obtained my destination: 81 Company Machine Gun 907 F, XV Division of the VI Corps (IV Army), front of the Grappa, from Cima Grappa to Ponte San Lorenzo, under the Asolone.
DECEMBER 1917. The Company was at rest in Mussolente, north of the town, on the road that goes to Borso. It had been surprised by the retreat on the mountains of Strigno, in Valsugana; it had managed to save, going down the Valsugana, the mules and the carriage and the weapons; it had lost, between Valstagna and Col Moschin, the officers and most of the soldiers.
In Mussolente it had received one lieutenant, one aspiring officer, and new soldiers: the "small ones", boys who until six months earlier had not been called to arms because they did not have the prescribed height (one meter and sixty, I think). I learned all these things when, in mid-December, I found Mussolente, and in a farmhouse my Company, under a snow storm. I stayed with those talented and dearest people [many from Sardegna] until the end of the war and my return to Verona. I learned, old gunner, the hard trot of the mule; and one day I almost cut my head off with an iron wire which was stretched at the right height.
MONDAY 24 & TUESDAY 25 DECEMBER 1917. In the night between 24 and 25 we set off: it was snowing. [First to] Borso [del Grappa], mule track of Monte Palla, the trench between the Rivon and the Coston, with sufficient caves and huts [for hiding], under two meters of snow. On Christmas Eve we were all settled in, in what would be our home for ten months, until the last offensive [the Battle of Vittorio Veneto]. We had on the left, towards the Asolone, another of the four divisional companies on the right, the infantrymen of I do not remember which Brigade, which we soldiers, I mean all of us, including the little ones of stature, looked at with some condescension.
In theory, two divisional companies of heavy machine guns were to garrison the line I mentioned, Rivon-Coston-Asolone, instead of the infantry; and two to rest down between Borso and Crespano. In practice, our rest shifts, for one reason or another, were always shortened, while our trench shifts were lengthened. Behind the trench, just out of sight, there were the Batteries of the Heavy Artillery and of Mortars, in a long line, parallel to our six and six or twelve machine guns. The largest calibers were behind.
Written so far, from October-November to Christmas. of 1917, in Verona, Thursday 22 October 1970.
JANUARY-MARCH 1918. Apart from the snipers (I mean the Austrian sharpshooters, whom I had already experienced when on [the Isonzo font at] in Bainsizza), the compulsory passages where you could catch some grenades, some small bombing, and nocturnal surprises, which were moreover and without important consequences, in our trench it was fine. [We had] Sleeping bags and some very ingenious stoves which kept us warm. The food was good and plentiful, while in 1917 it was crap. News was received, mail, some newspapers, Renato Simoni's [newspaper] "La Tradotta". I had Pascoli's "Lyra" and "Epos". I told [my soldiers] "my little ones" the stories of the Aeneid, what little I knew about the stars, what I thought I knew about the reason for the war, about Italy, and about the rest of the world. We completely ignored politics, all of us: peasants and workers from Lombardy, Veneto, Abruzzo, Sicily and, the majority from Emilia. We were there to do what we were ordered; we did not feel like heroes, but only soldiers, each one of us where we were supposed to be.
We ignored the horrendous rot of politics that had infected, and continues to infect, the country at our backs. Yes, we knew about ambushes, pacifist propaganda and similar filth. But it was none of our business. We were simply there. We had no war cry; I never heard neither "Long live the house of Savoia" nor "Long Live Italy" during an assault. And those unlucky ones at the other side, the "enemy" who were just like us.
I realize when rereading that I went back several times to the state of mind of myself, and of the soldiers, who were with me: a state of mind that separated us from the rest of the country. I said that at the time (January 1917) we were still a civilized nation. I correct myself: we were beginning to be, and we were becoming, without of any rhetoric. All of us who were in the trenches.
I said that for us the war of 1915-1918 was the Fourth War of the Italian "Risorgimento" [re-birth]; we fought to complete the unification of Italy. The usual formula was "for Trento and Trieste", that is, for Trentino and Alto Adige up to Brennero and Resia passes, for Venezia-Giulia, Istria and Dalmatia; in other words for a border that has been semi-erased by immigration and infiltration, some migration dating from long ago, German and Slavic; for a geographically and militarily clear and secure border to the north, while ill-defined and often questionable in the east. Our idea was that, within the boundaries marked by military victory, Italian society would peacefully absorb Germanic and Slavic communities, or would seek fraternal coexistence according to the dreams of the writers Tommasèo and Aleardi. How many and what were our mistakes [as Italians], hindsight has seen and tested; and it is certain that the mistakes of others were no less serious. Our most serious mistake, or blunder, was to believe that the Italian people, the united nation, would be born from the victory of the [Italian] soldiers in the trenches.
APRIL 1918. I return to my old trench on the Monte Grappa. I find some instruction booklets for indirect shots of heavy machine guns; I build a carriage, or weapon holder, which allows a full 360° turn: good for both indirect and anti-aircraft shooting. Those airplanes, funny boxes of sticks and canvas did not like high altitudes (the Grappa is at about 1,700 meters), but sometimes they dared to reach those altitudes: in eight months, in my area, I only saw a couple of Austrian aircraft (and one machine-gunned us), no Italian. They [my parents] send me from home my old 3rd grade high school manual of trigonometry and logarithms, and, among these there is the instruction manual, my soul of an old gunner flourishes again. Some evidence persuades me that we can succeed [with indirect fire]; I'm talking about me, because my colleagues, two future engineers, didn't understand anything. After long calculations, [I determine] shooting sector, target, map locations (on the tablets at 25,000), I plant my weapons in a small valley opposite the Asolone Mountain; we knew that behind the Austrian trench, which followed very close to the top of the mountain, there were some pieces of artillery. All right: our six weapons pointed to the sky the steel barrels covered with shiny bronze sleeves; the long ribbons of cartridges with their pointed copper bullets are threaded into the magazines, ready to run at the speed of 700 rounds per minute. Three men for each weapon, serious and conscious of their importance. The steep slope of the mountain was ahead of us, the target was beyond, mathematically calculated.
I give the order, loudly "Battery, fire!" I had dreamed of that moment, ever since I left my regiment in Novara. The roar of the six machine guns in action seems like applause. When I told my gunner friends about my command "Battery, fire!" they made me pay for drinks, as was more than fair; but the day was not far off that they would hear [this command] with their own ears and applauded it with their own hands.
A minute of fire, 4,200 'copper hornets' that fly over the crest of the mountain and rain down there, in that tiny square, marked in blue, of my 1:25,000 military map. We disassemble the weapons, and in a long line we go down to the valley (the Val Damoro): we had to reach the road, on this side from the San Lorenzo bridge, avoid the "corner of death", exposed to heavy artillery fire, and go back to our usual positions, in line, for direct shooting. In silence, but happy and satisfied. The sky in April is warm and calm: when (it was about halfway from the famous "corner") [when bullets rain] the air fills with hums, twigs fall mowed, stones splash sparks; it looked like one of those sudden spring showers, except that the sky was perfectly clear and it was raining Schwarzlose bullets. My colleagues [Austrian machine gunners] on the other side had had the same idea, had identified the origin of our shot in bulk, and returned the courtesy. It was not pleasant to be in that rain; however, I was not injured. The reply was a clear sign that our message had been received and enjoyed as it deserved.
MARCH 1918. I had to write this before the previous story, but I'm not sure of the date. I know that the harsh winter had passed, snow melted almost everywhere, patrol actions, and skirmishes day and night. I think it was March, but April is also possible.
Between us, on Mount Rivon, and the Pertica the Val Cesilla sank, which slopes down from the Grappa, passes between Asolone and Pertica, descends towards the north as far as Cismon sulla Brenta. Up there we saw, on the slope of the Asiago Plateau, the houses of Enego. The Pertica was an outpost of the Grappa. In those months, we were barely holding on to it; the Asolone half ours, and half held by the Austrians, while the bottom of the valley, bare as far as the curve of the old mule track that went around the Col della Berretta, but wooded further down, was adventure land.
One day, we receive from the kitchens, which were below the current road to the Grappa, a double number of mules with a double number of 'cooking boxes' (our was cooked in them, that is to say it finished cooking, in that couple of hours which it took to ferry them up from the kitchens to the line) Behind the line of mules there were about fifty foreign-looking men, dressed like us, with a swollen hand grenade haversack, and a dagger in their belt. Some of them had a sidearm: officers, perhaps, without visible degrees. They spoke Italian, but spoke little. We had been warned by the Division Command: they were "Bohemian" volunteers [deserters], as they called then, Czechs or Czechoslovakians, as they later said; there were elderly among them. They ate in silence, accepted a few extra shots of grappa, then gathered under an overhang, under our trench. They made a circle, with their arms on each other's shoulders, and sang: a choir of bass and baritones, slow, very sad. Then they knelt down, and someone (by now it was dark, and could not see well) blessed them. Their line moved and confused in the night. They had to go down to Val Cesilla and arrive at the roots of Pertica.
That night there was no more noise than usual; the usual "ta-pum", the usual "poof" of bullets and mortars. But our friends preferred the dagger, which was quiet and safe. How many have returned, reaching the Grappa galleries after their actions, I don't know. It was said that none of those "Austrian deserters" let themselves be captured, because of the punishment they would face [they would be shot]. It was also said that there were bohemian departments at the Pertica: in October there certainly were.
At the time, the idea of a possible fratricide shocked me; the civil struggles that bloodied the World and Italy in particular, during the following half century and still last, persuaded me that I should have learned from the Bible: that fratricide is inherent with mankind: war comes later.
JUNE 1918. In one of the first days of June, an action of our Arditi [Italian storm troops] tried to conquer the whole Pertica. They succeeded in the middle, and our outposts were able to consolidate almost on the top of that mountain, which is joined to the top of the Grappa by a wide and high ridge, a kind of bridge between the head of the Val Cesilla and, beyond, the Stizzon valley. We enjoyed the whole show from our trench on the Coston. We didn't have to shoot; only the artillery, behind our line, got busy: the battery shots arrived on the Austrian side of the Pertica precise and marked: we heard the shot, behind us, the whistle, over our heads, we saw the gray and blue clouds get up on the back of the mountain; after a moment, if some other explosion did not intervene, the distant din will reach us.
The Austrian interdiction shots could not do much damage: if short, they hit the attacked, if long, they were lost on the granite face of the Grappa; and the space in between was not large. The attackers did not have to fear the artillery, but rather the cursed Schwarzlose, which never got stuck; we, accustomed to the whims of our elegant and delicate [St. Etienne heavy machine guns] 907Fs, were full of envious admiration for the ugly and tireless Austrian machine guns.
Gradually the mournful song of cannon and machine guns, punctuated by the hasty or slow rhythm of hand grenades, ceased. By noon everything was over: ours in their holes, the others in their holes; there was no trench up there. The dead, here and there, were not given further thoughts.
Written so far, from January to June 1918, in Verona, Friday 23 October 1970.
15 JUNE 1918. On June 15, the Austrians attacked on the whole front: between [the rivers] Brenta and Piave, on the mountains, to keep us busy, on the river Piave, from Valdobbiadene to the mouth of the river, to break and break through. The most suitable area for the break was [mount] Montello: if they passed, the whole Alpine array (tomba, Grappa, Moschin, and the Asiago plateau), taken from behind, would have collapsed, and Veneto was lost. But they could also break between [mount] Grappa and Col Moschin, taking the Piave line behind them, with similar consequences. The Alpine Line ([mounts] Grappa Moschin Tomba) held out; some leaks, especially between the [mount] Asolone and the Ponte San Lorenzo, were immediately blocked. The river line broke off at Montello; but we had sufficient reserves, the pocket was closed, the front restored. Within days, the last Austrian offensive was contained. In four months it would be our turn.
My Company defended, between Rivon and Coston, a kilometer of trench: a section (two units) in the cave, at the eastern end, one in line, one (mine), in reserve, behind the crest of the mountain, at the extreme. The position was strong; to attack us in front those unfortunate [Austrian troops] had to climb from the bottom of the Val Cesilla, a steep and completely uncovered climb of a thousand meters. From [mounts] Grappa to the Asolone; from Rivon to Grappa there was infantry and a strong concentration of artillery, from Coston to Asolone other infantry and two Saint-Étienne Companies (three therefore with 81st [army], plus the fourth divisional reserve). Being unable to attack us in front, they had to attack us under massive bombardment.
The bombardment began, all of a sudden, suddenly, at 3 am (morning of June 15). A moment before, silence; a moment later, the end of the world. The earth was shaking. You couldn't communicate even when screaming. My soldiers and I were in our foxholes, dug out of stone, covered by cardboard coated with roofing tar. There was nothing to do; if it happened, it happened. I said "It will pass"; my little soldiers looked confidently at me, the Bainsizza veteran. I said "Now they are lengthening their range": old gunner, inventor of indirect shooting to the fateful cry of "Battery, fire!", they believed me blindly. It was not true. In my hole there was room only for my orderly and myself; but four others were crouched with us. I said "As long as they throw artillery grenades at us, they won't come": and it was true: but a single blow would have scattered all our foxholes, with their contents, in the air. I heard close, soft thuds; and the smell of onions. I yelled "Masks! Teargas!" Someone's hands were shaking; I helped them, and we looked at each other, our new faces. Of the others, in the other holes, I did not mind; they had a corporal, Nanni from Bologna, and a sergeant, Lovato from Vicenza, veterans of the Valsugana, survivors of the old Company: two boys who never lost their heads.
The first glimpses of dawn showed themselves in the narrow square of the entrance; I put out the lantern in my hole; I went out on all fours in that hell of stones and splinters and bangs and smoke. It really seemed that they had extended the range of the medium artillery: they wanted to block the way to reinforcements and silence our artillery, but the heavy artillery still kept us company. I tried to take off my mask, to smell the air: no gas; I warned everyone (I always speak of the men in my section). Meanwhile, this bombardment like an earthquake continued, and I thought about what to do. I had no orders. I could hear our seventy-five mm[light field howitzers] barking, but I did not know what damage our line had suffered in that sector, either to the right (I later learned: everything was fine) or to the left (I later learned: the line on the [Mount] Asolone was broken; the officers killed and the two companies lost [St. Etienne heavy machine guns] 907F, the Austrian assault units were rejected only in the middle of the day, and the dangerous bulge closed.
To stay there, on the other side of the line, doing nothing, under the constant threat of 360 mm or 420 mm [heavy artillery] that would sweep us all away, there was neither juice nor sense. I decided we should return to our line. I called the sergeant and the corporal; there was a zig-zag walkway that crossed the crest of the mountain: we could get there with a short run, and that would have led us, barring accidents, into our trench. The transfer went smoothly. I found the trench deserted. First of all, I placed my two [machine guns] in the old pitches, which I knew well, and they dominated the entire Val Cesilla, from the woods to the Grappa mountain group. Then I went to look for the other units: they had moved towards the cave, to the right; all fine, except for a couple of injured.
Back to my section of the trenches; weapons, ammunition, everybody ready, but also a guest. 'And a bomber officer, who reached the line with his cannons, a little below (he explains to me) at the bomb craters where we were before, and has come to see what is beyond. It is now clear morning.
I explain to him the main characteristics of our position, which I know by heart (I have been looking at it for six months), and the possible routes of attack. We agree: he, if necessary, would have bombed the edge of the wood, there at the bottom of the Val Cesilla; I would have held on the slope under the Mt. Pertica under fire; I knew the other four machine guns couldn't do much on that slope, but they were able to deliver concentrated fire on the woods. The bomber friend sends someone to adjust the aim of the guns, and stays with us. My trench is a happy combination of a theater's front row, with the view of a seat in the gallery. The shooting of the enemies small calibers on us is aggressive, but we don't pay attention to it.
It seems, looking down there, that the forest has started moving, and is going up the valley: it is "them"! This green mass now covers a good part of the bottom and of the barren side; it expands rapidly. They advance in compact masses. The response of our artillery, from Rivon to Grappa, fails to cover the whole spot; large areas remain practically excluded.
This is the moment for our heavy machine guns. At the same time, artillery shells of the cannons trace, visibly, a beautiful arch above our heads, and fall back on the edge of the wood, teeming with people; we shoot into the thicket. The living mass sways, expands and narrows, thins out here and there, breaks into groups, now detached from its root in the wood, turns its back, disperses, hunted down by artillery shells and machine guns, it disappears in the depths of the wood, in the caves of Mt. Pertica. Our friend from the artillery and I, standing on the parapet of the trench, improvise a victory dance. Even my "little ones", at the order of "ceasefire!" went up there, screaming. Our friend from the artillery greets us and leaves. It was 10 am on June 15, 1918.
To the right and left of my kilometer of frontline trench, everything seemed quiet. I did not know then (I learned later, as I said, shortly after noon that that particular pocket had formed on my left from Mt. Asolone to the Ponte San Lorenzo; but an impervious stretch of mountain separated us from the pocket. I had to: 1° to report to the command of the Company: and I preferred to do it in person; 2° to have them send, for my little ones and me, to eat something to drink the hot rations certainly had not risen from the kitchens to the trenches, under that artillery bombardment, but in the cave, we had loaves and cans and the way to make us a few buckets of coffee and anise; 3° see what my artillery friends were planning to do: I knew what they were doing, because they were firing furiously (they had extended the shot); but in short I was curious to talk with them. I reported [to the commanding officer], I sent the corvée for food, my maneuver [of coordination of machine guns with artillery] was widely approved and praised (the second proposal for a medal of valor left the next day; I learned about it later, after the end of the offensive; the same outcome as the first [and the papers were lost),
I went out to do my reconnaissance. The long line of Field Artillery had not suffered any serious damage. They fired "at will", without interruption. They already knew how things were on "my kilometer" of trenches; they congratulated and said that I wore the officer's bandolier worthily: from Christmas 1917 I had no longer worn the hateful infantry belt. The noise up there was tremendous, but we were already used to communicate by screaming and gesturing.
From up there, 20 kilometers as the crow flies, you could see Mt. Montello wrapped in smoke, it was not fog; and we knew that this was the enemy's weak point, in the corner formed by the junction of our Alpine front with the river front. I had, leaving my artillery friends, the unfortunate idea of going a little further down, to then go up back to trench, from which I had left in the morning (six hours had passed; it seemed an eternity!), by way of that walkway.
The big Austrian heavy artillery chose that precise moment to resume shelling the area. I heard an incoming shell; I pressed myself to the ground. The noise exceeded my auditory capability; perhaps I was stunned for a moment. When I raised my head and felt unharmed, I found myself on a narrow islet of land in the center of four enormous craters. Evidently, my mother was right, and she had provided me with a First Class Guardian Angel, one of those born under a lucky star.
In the afternoon the bombing from both sides ceased in my sector. The next day, we were informed of the furious battle around the Mt. Asolone bulge. We received some news in the evening. Our two sister 907F Companies had been completely destroyed, weapons and men. I knew two officers from one of the two companies; I had relieved them at Mt. Asolone; they were "old" between 25 and 30, a lawyer and a notary, from Milan, at war since 1915. When our people, at the end of the day, reoccupied that trench, they found them in their shacks, stabbed in the heart.
The evening was calm. Once the roar of the battle for the pocket stopped, it reached up there in the roar of the battle on the plains. I went to see the place where the walkway, mentioned several times, crossed the crest of the mountain and began to descend towards the trench. I climbed out. Fifteen hundred meters below was a sea of darkness; to the south-east the Mt. Montello was in flames.
Written up to now in Verona, Saturday 24 October 1970.
I would add that that day of June 15, 1918 unhinged the bones of my two ears (called the stirrup, I believe, the hammer and the anvil). The result was a continuous whistle, a kind of chorus of crickets in the height of summer, which it sings even now, after fifty-two years. Now then I start to get hard of hearing. But let's move on.
JUNE 1918. For us up there, those days after the 15th of June passed by quietly. The Austrians threw all their forces into the Mt. Montello pocket. We followed, from above, the long battle, on which our fate also depended. We did not know that the whole front was isolated from the rest of the country; and there confused and false news circulated. My father tried to reach Borso, to find out about me; he was stopped; even his status as colonel (it was the rank relating to his office as Inspector of Telegraphic and Telephone Constructions) was of no use. My mother later told me that my father seemed in a daze during those days; he went around all the hospitals in Vicenza, where the wounded of the battles on Mt. Grappa were sent, as well as from other places. When, about ten days later, the military post started up again and my first postcard, dated 16 or 17 June, arrived in Verona, it calmed down. My mother's blind faith in my invulnerability was thus confirmed, unsolicited but not rejected.
JULY-SEPTEMBER 1918. The decisive moment was approaching: we all knew it. Mt. Grappa was full of medium and long-range artillery, and of tunnels that could pour out an army towards Feltre and towards Valsugana, that is towards Trento. My kilometre of trench overlooked a deserted valley and faced an apparently deserted Mt. Pertica. There was only one point, at the far right, where the trench had collapsed, and one had to jump: a sniper on the other side, at the base of the Mt. Pertica, was ready to fire on the silhouette of the jumper. I often passed there, to go to the command of the Company and to return; you had to jump without a second's hesitation. He never caught me.
22 AND 23 OCTOBER 1918. On 22 October all the forces of that front, including the four divisional companies (the two destroyed had been reconstituted), were sent towards the great Mt. Grappa tunnel. Objective: Mt. Pertica. The whole column - mules, carts and materials - went up to join us at the entrance of this tunnel, and there we left it on the night of the 23rd.
I was the senior officer, second lieutenant: twenty years and eight months old: therefore I commanded the Company; I had a sub-lieutenant of little substance and a good battle aide, 77 men and 6 heavy machine guns. We left the gallery before dawn and set off along the ridge that connects the summit of Mt. Grappa to Mt. Pertica.
Thousands of men moved around us, but nothing could be heard. With the first light of dawn our artillery preparation began, to which the enemy artillery responded immediately. We received a very simple order: go ahead. I had studied it for months, Mt. Pertica, on the other side of the valley. On the south face there were two outlets to a cave, which I supposed (and in fact it was) very large; a shallow trench beyond the cavern ran down on the western face towards the bottom of the valley. I therefore, proposed to reach the cavern, which our Arditi [Italian storm troopers] had cleaned out with flamethrowers, and from there the ditch of the trench, where I supposed there would be the entrance of a minor cavern.
Aside from the bombardment, there was the nuisance of the Schwarzlose [Austrian machine guns], which were shooting from the other side of the valley: their shots too far and not very precise, for the moment. So we went ahead, in a long line: one section (with 2 machine guns) behind the other, the officer at the head, non-commissioned officer at the end of each section; and behind the officer the machine gun carrier, the tripod carrier, and the munition box carriers. We were all in anti-mustard gas suits, which they had made us wear at the exit of the great gallery.
Written so far in Verona, Sunday 25 October 1970.
OCTOBRE 23, 1918. The first stretch, up to the cavern, was covered without serious damage: some wounded, who immediately returned, walking on his legs, towards Mt. Grappa; shards of grenade filled the air.
It was almost under the first mouth of the large cavern(where in the meantime a kind of first aid and operating room was being organized), when a first counterattack occurred across the back of the mountain, a hundred meters above us. Weapons in position, in a semicircle, not even a single shot. The infantry up there had resisted and counterattacked just enough to hold off the enemy. It was then that I took a frightening punch on the chest, from the collarbone to the spleen: the punch was delivered by a fragment of a grenade, which hit me flat, with a smooth face. I fell to my knees, breathless, reasonably deducing that this could be the end. A month later, I was still all yellow on that side. When I could get to my feet, surprised to find myself still on my legs and whole, we found that the air was not only full of grenade fragments, but also of those well-known machine gun bullets. We headed for the ditch: better than nothing.
We were thus on the edge of the western face of the Mt. Pertica, in the worst possible position: because that trench was certainly not made for us, and was completely exposed to the fire of that damned machine gun on the other side. Bullets began buzzing up and down our line. I was at the highest point and had one of the little ones between my legs, rather frightened, crushing his head and helmet on my aching ribs. The enemy's machine gun covered us diligently with its deadly spray, up and down, up and down, now a palm ahead, now a palm further back; that able machine gunner was trying to clean up the longitudinal wrinkle of the mountain from its parasites (from his point of view), which his soldiers had almost lost. Finally, he succeeded, at least for the highest end of the wrinkle: a bullet pierced me, from side to side, overalls, jacket, shirt and sweater, leaving its mark, without breaking the skin, on my shoulder; the next bullet of the machine gun's ribbon went through my little one's neck, from the Adam's apple to the nape of the neck; his hair came out from under him, piercing the skin from the inside, now without much force: I took it in my hand and pulled it out: almost no blood, a moan and death. The third bullet splintered a stone near my feet; then the gush deviated those few centimeters that were necessary for me to survive.
We had to look for a better shelter. Our useless little trench ended a meter above my head; higher up a heap of stones indicate something which was worth going to see: whether it was a trench, a hole, or a cave, whatever it was. If there was anyone, one had to get rid of him, or them; if there was no one, so much the better. I passed the rumor; I took a couple of the "old men" with me and climbed up, belly to the ground, hoping that this able machine gunner would light a cigarette or blow his nose or shoot further down; then we understood why he no longer fired upwards. Those few meters, were rather tiring and distressing, crawling on two knees, an (empty) belly, and my left elbow, because the right arm was holding a hand grenade, ready for use. We found ourselves on the roof, so to speak, of a cave; in the narrow passage, between two high walls, at an angle, we saw three men lying on the ground and a magnificent Schwarzlose. We threw our hand grenades, for good measure, and tumbled down into the passage; three were dead one, captain (with three bone stars) was lying on a stretcher; the other two had perhaps been waiting for the moment to take him somewhere, maybe into the cave, or who knows where. Some of our grenades had covered them with shrapnel: or perhaps it had been our bombs. I didn't investigate further. We immediately aimed our weapons, ready to fire, at the black hole of the cave, waiting to see someone come out. Silence. Then one of the old men (the other was at the gun) and myself, pistol and rifle in hand, swung aside the black blanket that served as the door, and jumped inside with a scream. We were answered by a whiff of infected air, a stench of feces and a smell of rottenness; and a chorus of moans. The cave was full of Austrian wounded; they had been there from that the night, put on the floor and on overlapping cots, as in alpine shelters; the comings and goings of the battle had prevented their transport to the rear. For most, dead or dying, there was no hope; about ten were alive, and they said (in German and Italian) "Wasser" and "Acqua".
I tried to talk to someone; they were terrified, because some animal had told them that the Italians were killing everyone, to induce them not to take prisoners. And they shouted that they were "Bohemians", because they knew that the Italians were not angry with the Slavs. "Böhme, Wasser" they gasped. And we had nothing; by the early hours of the 23rd we were in that hell, and our meager provisions, solid and liquid, had been consumed. We hoped, faintly, that some supplies would reach us in the night. I shouted "Wasser, nachts!" and went out. I found all my people (there were not many by now) in the hallway; the three dead had been taken out; my six machine guns, useless (the Saint-Etienne is a static weapon and not an assault weapon; it needs to be taken care of, oiled and cleaned); the Schwarzlose aimed at the entrance, that is where the entrance came out on the slope of the mountain. I had no particular orders; the battle was stopped, and probably my cave was, on the side of the mountain towards Val Cesilla, our most advanced position. The night would have brought us perhaps a drink, without doubt a counterattack. I arranged a shift to guard the weapon and one over the cave. Fatigue overwhelmed our thirst.
OCTOBER 24th, 1918. The provisions did not come that night between the 23rd and the 24, and the counterattack did not develop on our side. At dawn on the 24th the bombardment began again on both sides. The attack had been delayed; and it was, as expected, a mass attack. However, the northern ridge, which slopes from the top of the Mt. Pertica towards Mt. Prassolan, is quite narrow. Those poor wretches had to walk tightly across a kind of bridge before they came out on the head of the Perch. "My" Schwarzlose took them by the side, and worked miracles. Those few who reached the top were greeted by a furious counterattack, and furiously defended themselves. The artillery was silent and the clamor of the battle descended to our cave. I decided to go and see and look for some water: thirst drove us crazy; some of the little ones were delirious; inside the cave there was a continuous gasp with some groans.
I resumed my way to the cavern, alone; the battle adjutant stayed with the others in the cave. The cave had become a hospital, indeed an operating room; outside was carnage, rags and human limbs. Somehow it did not impress us, in a place where one would stumble upon a dead man every five steps. But in front of the first mouth of the cave (first, coming from the Mt. Grappa) a liquid pool shone, between yellow and red. I had a moment of madness: I was about to throw myself to the ground, to put my face inside that delicious liquid. Someone pulled me back; I said "Aqua [Water]"; they replied that what little they had was needed for the wounded and the surgeons.
Overcoming this crisis, very brief and violent, left me with the same thirst as before, but I was now lucid and calm. I returned to the other entrance of the cave. I found, sitting on the ground, the captain of one of the three divisional companies that had been alternating with mine, until a few days earlier, in the trench from Mt. Grappa to Mt. Asolone. He was sitting on the ground, crying. I greeted him; he told me that up there (he pointed to the top) in whatever attack or counterattack he had lost everything, men and weapons. Left alone in a tide of people who had other things to do, he went down to the cave, and there, thirst, tiredness, and pain had stopped him. He was a small man, somewhat large in body and with slender and strongly arched legs; fifteen years older than me. I said something to him to comfort him.
At that moment the fire became more intense and I heard shouts towards the top: a short counterattack of ours, I believe, to eliminate enemy infiltrations. It seemed right to me to go and see; if the summit certainly remained in our hands, my cave with wounded "Bohemians" was safe; if those others took back the summit, we were lost. I had a vague idea of joining our assault wave. The captain told me I was crazy. I left it, safely, in front of the mouth of the cave, started to climb the slope head on. I thought it had the same slope as Casal's "montaron"(remember, Laura?); The resemblance stopped there: because the "montaron" has always been green and the steep slope has no holes and the top is crowned by a thick hedge; conversely that "montaron" of Mt. Pertica was riddled with holes, full of dead bodies, and on the top hundreds of little men created havoc.
My climb was stopped by somebody with a southern accent: "Where are you going?" In a hole, or rather in the remains of a shack, there was a lieutenant of the Arditi, who had found the ideal place to get comfortable and drunk. He politely said "Do you want some?" he added "Not much left," and handed me the canteen. I answered neither the first nor the second question, I ignored the last and unpleasant observation [that not much was left], grabbed the canteen, swallowed that couple of glasses of mixture (coffee and grappa, it seemed to me), and returned the bottle with a faint "Thank you". "Where are you going?" Continued the other. "Upward" I answered. "Up there it's all over" he mumbled; "you can't hear anything anymore; soon they will start again." In fact, the big grenades were starting to fall again. "Take cover," said my new friend; "But not here: there is no room; I am going to take a nap "; and he curled up in the bottom of his hole, so quiet (and drunk) as if he were in the most protected room of the most fortified refuge, or ##"fifaus" as we used to say.
Those two sips of stuff had quenched my thirst. I followed the advice of the wise man; and went back down to the cavern. I got to safety and looked for the captain. The picture was the same as before: the mouth of the cave, the pile of rags and anatomical pieces, the same dead bodies. Yet there was something new: yes, a huge new crater lower down; and there, roughly where my captain had remained ten minutes before, almost hidden in a furrow among the stones, not a body, but the exact half of a body: two thin arched legs, a short pair of trousers, and, after the belt, nothing.
Written up to now in Verona, Monday 26 October 1970.
OCTOBER 24, 1918 (cont.). The day of the 24th passed slowly in our little cave. When I came back, coming to the larger cave, it was still morning: I don't know the time, because none of us had a wristwatch, and mine, a pocket watch, required, in order to be pulled out, such operations of unbuttoning my overalls and jacket, that I preferred to look at the sun. Early in the morning, I had sent one of my soldiers to the mess to solicit and guide a shipment of food, solid and especially liquid. Of course, the corvée would arrive at night. There was nothing to do but wait. We were all groggy; we spoke in softly; we tried not to listen to the rattle and groans, now becoming less frequent, that came from beyond the black blanket. The bombing never stopped until the evening. On the other hand, no movement of infantry. If our serious losses, artillery shelling, fatigue and the scarcity or lack of supplies had not taken away all of our strength, and if someone had had a little energy to advance, we would have found the void before us.
From Mt. Grappa to Mt. Pertica it is about 4 kilometers. I calculated that the corvée would start (if it left at all) in the dark, at 6 pm; at the latest he had to arrive at 20. He arrived, with four jugs of hot coffee with anise and a lot of food, bread, cheese tinned meat. We were all, tightly packed together, in that narrow entrance, which I mentioned several times before; I was at the exit of the cave, near the Schwarzlose. I took the first bucket of coffee, and carried it to wounded behind the black blanket, where the last in line were piled up. It must be borne in mind that that short corridor did not allow us many movements, and that we were rather out of energy. At the back of the line I passed the bucket. "For the wounded, lieutenant?" he asked. "Come in, and hurry up". Then the coffee distribution began. Our rescue expedition also had brought two stretchers; none of us needed it; we sent back two injured "Bohemians".
The eldest of the expedition had brought me an order, verbally, unfortunately. The 15th Division recalled the remains of its four Saint-Etienne Companies; a vast re-enforcement maneuver was underway; they withdrew the first wave, and sent fresh troops forward. I said: "Let's finish eating, let's give what is left to the wounded in there, and let's go back to the Mt. Grappa tunnel". We left the tripods (which were recovered the next day); the first who came out of the street loaded a weapon on his shoulder and took a box of ammunition in his left hand: so did the second up to the sixth machine gun. I had given two order boxes to the runner (who had left a long time ago) and I added two rifles; I took four rifles, two on each side: four and two for a total of six, as many as my "little ones" with their weapons on their shoulders; the bearers of the Schwarzlose, which was lighter and less cumbersome, had kept his rifle. There was no one else: seven of us, plus two absent for a total of nine (Nanni and Lovato, injured, had left the day before). We set off in silence.
In the middle of the ridge that joins the two peaks, there were the ruins of a house, where a short stop was made on the 23rd night, towards dawn. I had no intention of stopping there; tired as we were, the idea of going back to the gallery and finding our logistical support there, and having news of our wounded, kept us going.
OCTOBER 25, 1918. At the point of the ruins, a sentry shouts who-goes-there? I answer "81 Saint-Etienne Machine Gun Company, 15 Division". "Enter the command place." I enter and, sitting on a cot, I see an old colonel (around 50), in shock or frightened, or both, who had been the commander of some infantry regiment (one of those of the second wave), who assaults me with senseless screams. He wants to see my written order of the order of the XV Division. I call the runner, who confirms. The Colonel doesn't know what the 15th Division is; he screams that he is keeping us under arrest; he makes us go to a nearby room, that is, between four walls, without roof, of a stable, without straw. We bundle our weapons, the seven machine guns, the rifles, the cassettes, and we lie down on the ground, falling asleep immediately.
On the morning of the 25th we woke us up in the midst of a great silence. That crazy old colonel had left with his regiment. The second wave (we learned later) found almost no resistance, went down to Cismon and Seren, and went to get the applause and the laurels.
The nine of us gather our equipment, and resumed our way to the Mt. Grappa tunnel; we wanted to reach our logistical support and sleep. That good sergeant major of the logistical support had prepared a curious welcome for us: eight portions of a boiling, very bitter liquid (the runner didn't need it); he wanted everyone, before going to sleep, to drink his bowl down to the last drop; we were too weak to resist, and drank that healthy grog. I am sorry to lower these "heroic" memories to such a vulgar level; the fact is that, from the morning of the 22nd to the time of our return, that is, the morning of October 25th, our digestive system had not worked much at the "entry" and had worked very little at the "exit". Upon our awakening, on the afternoon of the 25th, was perhaps anticipated by the effects of that drink; but we soon found ourselves free, and willing to honor a special meal.
OCTOBER 26, 1918. We received the order, this time written, to descend towards Borso. At the Headquarters of the XV Division, which was in the Prati di Borso, we would have received instructions. We left before dawn on the 26th; early in the morning I left my patrol(mules, wagons and men) on the edge of the meadows, at the mouth of the steep mule trail that descends towards Borso, and went to the command. I was received by a major, senior aide to General Pirzio Bìroli; I made my report, including the old colonel's screams. My only merit was having brought back the Company's weapons and a Schwarzlose: it is clear that the machine gunner's point of honor lies in not losing his weapons.
He congratulated me; he told me that he was awaiting the reports of the Pesaro Brigade Command (to which we had been aggregated, unbeknownst to us); he hinted that things were going well; from Borso, he said, in a few days we would leave for Barbarano, where we would terminate our service for the XV Division. I don't know if the third proposal for a medal for valor in the field was included in the reports of the Pesaro Brigade, or added by the Command of the XV Division. I received news of it in November, in Udine.
NOVEMBER OCTOBER 31, 1918. On October 31, the 81st 907F Machine Gun Company set off from Borso del Grappa towards Barbarano. We weren't very fit; there were 80 kilometers ahead of us, to be done on foot, because the carts were loaded with materials and a bit of space had to be left for those who could not walk well. It was a very long walk, through beautiful countryside, with excellent weather. It didn't get very far in one day. On 4 November, in a small village between Cittadella and Vicenza, news of the armistice reached us, and we celebrated by drinking a lot.
NOVEMBER 1918. We arrived in Barbarano the 6th or 7th. The large army base was preparing for its closure. In the immense hall of the villa, where the officers' mess was, customers changed on a daily basis; and the same for the barracks of the soldiers. Companies came in from all over the front, and companies left to reach the centers where all equipment was returned.
After mid-November, the Company prepared for its last march: nearly 200 kilometers. We retraced our steps, as far as Cittadella; followed by Castelfranco, Montebelluna, Montello and Cornuda. We crossed the Piave river at the Vidor bridge, and on towards Codroipo, from here we reached the well-known countryside and meadows of S. Maria la Longa; we stopped at a farmhouse, waiting to be called to Udine. I did some great horse riding (with some tumbles), less wild but perhaps taller than my American horses from Novara. At the end of the month, we deposited our equipment in Udine, and each one left for his district. There were no romantic goodbyes; the dominant thought was that we were going home (or at least close to home) and that the war was over.
DECEMBER 1918-MAY 1919. I arrived in Verona in early December. In January 1919 I went to the University of Padua to attend the accelerated courses: I should have finished my fourth year in 1919. In April, I received the news of my promotion to lieutenant (the highest rank achieved in my "military career"), with I don't know how many months of salaries in arrears. Exams in May.
JUNE 1919 - MAY 1920. In June again in Verona, where, among various time wasters (at the investigative office for petty crimes, at the office for the liquidation of residual materials, and stuff like that) and preparing those university exams I still had to do, I carried on until March 24, 1920. On May 12, I was sent on temporary leave (after two months of leave). I was put on final leave on May 27, 1920, at the age of 22 years and 27 days, after 40 months of military service, which had started in February 1917.
Written so far, Wednesday, October 28, 1970.
SMALL MEMORIES. For a week (from 15 to 28 October 1970) I recalled those forty important months of my life, I relived them by telling them to the closest people, two who understand and two who will understand [when they are older]. I have not told everything I remember, colors, landscapes, feelings, countless details: enough to make a book out of it, if I were my writer of this genre (for which I never had sympathy). Living among this dirty, suffering, irrational and often generous humanity (I remember the spontaneous one "For the wounded?" on 24 October, as described earlier). My relationships (I think they can be called that) with horses and mules, adapt the body to their step or trot or gallop, the intoxicating ride marked by the fourfold thud in the Novara and Friuli meadows. The river Natisone at Cividale (October 1917) and the deserted banks of the Isonzo river. The Villa [Mosconi Bertani] of Novare in Valpolicella where I spent a few nights in November 1917, and I learned that [the writer] Pindemonte had spent a holiday there. The Mill of Mussolente (December 1917).
A colossal hangover in January 1918 (the only pour hangover of my life), my revenge against fellow machine gunners and gunners who had wanted to get me drunk; last I went back to the hut where they were already snoring, gathered all their shoes and carefully filled them with all the liquid that those wretches had made me swallow.
The ruined villages of Mt. Montello and the Piave river: the few houses of the Isonzo and the rocks of Mt. Grappa had not given me an idea of what an entire village destroyed looks like: church, schools, pharmacy, town hall, rich and poor houses, the square marked by bomb created, and uprooted and burnt trees, the waste inside the houses, a picture hanging crookedly on a wall without ceiling and floor. I couldn't imagine then the disasters I would see in our cities during the war of 1940-45.
On the other side of the Piave, in November 1918, at the end of a long day's march, someone came to tell us that our Company had to lodge for the night in a certain farmhouse. I had a mule saddled with blankets and pack belts (we had no saddles) and I set off at a brisk pace along a country road. I thought, with the sufficiency of the soldier, that I would impress the girls: twenty years old, not really bad looking, despite the glasses, liberator (even the use of this word was spoiled during the last cursed war) and commander of the Company; in addition, a Venetian of language and customs and character. I hadn't taken into account my very long raincoat between yellow and gray, and very dirty in every way, and my northern European face. So I enter the courtyard, descend with elegance (and I challenge any horseman to dismount with such grace, removing my feet from two straps applied as "Ersatz" of the stirrups) and I yell out. An old woman and a little girl come to the door, look at me and the mule, and the woman shouts "Madona Santa, i Todeschi!". It took all my skills to persuade them that, despite my glasses, my nordic face, my blond-brown hair and the raincoat, I was Italian or rather from the Western Veneto, in fact from Verona.
I have not described people (except for a couple of names); I have left aside the portraits and the traditional anecdotal stories common in war memories. My grandfather [Diomiro Polettini] and great-uncle [Luigi Gatti] had Garibaldi, their hero to remember and venerate, an invincible leader. In my war, these characters were missing. The air force and navy of small assault vehicles lent themselves to great adventures, to legendary gestures; not us infantry, children of the earth.
As for the leaders, we had no great opinion of them; all staff officers were behind the lines, they wrote, or were preparing, their propaganda, thinking about the future, and would write their useless "memoirs". We all knew about General Cadorna's mistakes; about General Diaz it was said that he was good, and the way he fed us better than Cadorna; General Giardino, General Badoglio and the Duke of Aosta were names only, signatures; the King was never talked about, it was only a historical institution.
The real leaders, modest, unknown, patients, were us, aspiring lieutenants, captains at most, and our non-commissioned officers. Among the senior officers I know there were some brave ones, personally; but usually, in our war of position, we, the people of the trenches, did not see them; and besides, to do our duty and to give our lives, we didn't need them. It was perfectly natural for us. We were in our place, and they were in theirs. But I don't make the history of the war, I make my own, tiny, history.
Let's talk about fear. When I, in August 1917, with two of my rank and found ourselves on the crest of the mountain that divides the Judrio valley from the Isonzo valley, in the midst of those craters that demonstrated the violence of the battle, the oldest of us said without roundabouts that he was afraid, and he asked us if we were afraid. The other, my age, said he didn't know; I replied "no", and the old man replied that I was reckless. Very true: in the sense that I was not aware, even though I knew it, of the reality of the dangers I was facing. But when I found myself in the midst of these dangers, I always found myself rather excited than depressed: it was a cheerful excitement and vigilant attention, for me and for those soldiers who followed me; I was talking ridiculous nonsense, and, if necessary, I was making fun of others and myself.
I don't remember any memorable sentences; only one, who knows why, I can remember. It was the first day on Mt. Pertica, October 23, after the impact of that splinter of a grenade shell had stunned me, in that section below that small trench below the cave of the "Bohemians". A lieutenant from the Pesaro Brigade Command passed me by (only on the 26th did I know that we were attached to that Brigade); I recognized him as a student from Padua, I don't know which Faculty. "Hello; what are you doing here?" "I am going onward. And you?" "I am going up" (towards the top of Mt. Pertica). "It is nicer at the Canto del Galo [a student pub in Padova]" I say (meeting place for students, in Padua). "I think so too. Bye". "Bye". Nothing sensational.
Due to "recklessness", I was not afraid: and added to that recklessness a keen curiosity to see how things were going, and the pride of the grandson of a soldier of Garibaldi. But I felt a moment of real fear (I'm not ashamed of it) on October 24th, while I was descending towards the cave at Mt. Pertica, after having drunk those two sips from the Ardito's canteen. I was suddenly certain that I would not be able to reach the artillery captain I had left at the entrance of the cave; the bombing was furious, and I didn't have type of shelter. I ran down, out of breath; what I saw in front of the cavern revealed to me that my rapid ascent and drink, and the descent had saved me. And my fear went away.
One of the many things I learned in my trench kilometer is this: that indecision is dangerous. I said it in the memoirs of July-September-October 1918. It was not mere bravado to face that jump so often; but I'm afraid a little vanity was involved. And I knew that if I had hesitated, apart from almost certainly being hit by the sniper's bullet, I would have lost the confidence of my soldiers.
I never had religious feelings. As a boy, my weak and superficial faith had been wiped out at the end of 1912, when I entered high school and philosophy (for which, moreover, I have always harbored a healthy distrust) began to dance in my head, and in 1913, when my grandmother Teresa died. Mine were perfectly agnostic; they did not tell me, when I stopped going to church, neither "Good" nor "Bad"; they let me free and I felt neither crisis nor anguish. Religious problems, liturgy, sacred music, biblical readings (for my taste, and out of respect for the memory of my two grandparents, who, practicing Catholics, however, read the Bible of the Diodati, because of their anti-clericalism attitude part and parcel of the Risorgimento) continued to interest me, indeed interest grew with age and education; but I felt these things did not regard me.
I was like a pebble, smooth and round (very round), thrown by a mysterious hand (maybe Nature, I thought, or Evolution, and such nonsense), which follows, obedient to physical and biological laws, life' s course, until its end, far or near as it may be. I lived, that's all. Only the idea of not being free repelled me strongly; but I sensed that my provisional settling into that crude positivistic mechanism would have ended, if I had admitted the freedom of the will, the 'libero arbitrio'. And I tried to make the morsel less bitter, deceiving myself with a number of excuses, of which you will find some examples in the rest of my memoires.
The war did not bring any change in my state of mind: I did not curse (which is a kind of religion in reverse) and I did not pray. My world, my family, my studies and projects, my dreams (philology and poetry, science and music) were enough for me. That was my Life: a happy Life, in my view a life that the Fatherland (historical and social entity) had loaned to me, so to speak, and could take back whenever it wanted. The return to, or of, faith in God, which took place in 1925, gave my latest conviction a deeper meaning, without altering its substance and practice.
Written in Verona on November 1, 1970, All Saints Sunday.
THE STAMP. These days I have put in order (more or less) the five drawers of my desk: a job that had been needed to be done for at least four years. Among the junk I found the "stamp", the seal of all the paperwork of my Company. I want to imprint it here, at the end of this summary of my military memories, a bureaucratic relic of a tiny and very relative authority:
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