were not those architectural triumphs； those homes from home；
that grow to perfection upon the less active sections of the
great line。 They had been first made by men who had run rapidly
forward with spade and rifle； stooping as they ran； who had
dropped into the craters of big shells； who had organised these
chiefly at night and dug the steep ditches sideways to join up
into continuous trenches。 Now they were pushing forward saps
into No Man's Land； linking them across； and so continually
creeping nearer to the enemy and a practicable jumping…off place
for an attack。 （It has been made since； the village at which I
peeped was in our hands a week later。） These trenches were dug
into a sort of yellowish sandy clay； the dug…outs were mere holes
in the earth that fell in upon the clumsy； hardly any timber had
been got up the line； a storm might flood them at any time a
couple of feet deep and begin to wash the sides。 Overnight they
had been 〃strafed〃 and there had been a number of casualties；
there were smashed rifles about and a smashed…up machine gun
emplacement； and the men were dog…tired and many of them sleeping
like logs； half buried in …clay。 Some slept on the firing steps。
As one went along one became aware ever and again of two or three
pairs of clay…yellow feet sticking out of a clay hole； and
peering down one saw the shapes of men like rudely modelled
earthen images of soldiers； motionless in the cave。
I came round the corner upon a youngster with an intelligent face
and steady eyes sitting up on the firing step； awake and
thinking。 We looked at one another。 There are moments when mind
leaps to mind。 It is natural for the man in the trenches
suddenly confronted by so rare a beast as a middle…aged civilian
with an enquiring expression； to feel oneself something of a
spectacle and something generalised。 It is natural for the
civilian to look rather in the vein of saying； 〃Well； how do you
take it？〃 As I pushed past him we nodded slightly with an effect
of mutual understanding。 And we said with our nods just exactly
what General Joffre had said with his horizontal gestures of the
hand and what the King of Italy conveyed by his friendly manner；
we said to each other that here was the trouble those Germans had
brought upon us and here was the task that had to be done。
Our guide to these trenches was a short； stocky young man； a cob；
with a rifle and a tight belt and projecting skirts and a helmet；
a queer little figure that； had you seen it in a picture a year
or so before the war； you would most certainly have pronounced
Chinese。 He belonged to a Northumbrian battalion； it does not
matter exactly which。 As we returned from this front line；
trudging along the winding path through the barbed wire tangles
before the smashed and captured German trench that had been taken
a fortnight before； I fell behind my guardian captain and had a
brief conversation wit this individual。 He was a lad in the
early twenties； weather…bit and with bloodshot eyes。 He was； he
told me； a miner。 I asked my stock question in such cases；
whether he would go back to the old work after the war。 He said
he would； and then addedwith the events of overnight on his
mind： 〃If A'hm looky。〃
Followed a little silence。 Then I tried my second stock remark
for such cases。 One does not talk to soldiers at the front in
this war of Glory or the 〃Empire on which the sun never sets〃 or
〃the meteor flag of England〃 or of King and Country or any of
those fine old headline things。 On the desolate path that winds
about amidst the shell craters and the fragments and the red…
rusted wire； with the silken shiver of passing shells in the air
and the blue of the lower sky continually breaking out into
eddying white puffs； it is wonderful how tawdry such panoplies of
the effigy appear。 We knew that we and our allies are upon a
greater； graver； more fundamental business than that sort of
thing now。 We are very near the waking point。
〃Well；〃 I said； 〃it's got to be done。〃
〃Aye；〃 he said； easing the strap of his rifle a little； 〃it's got
to be done。〃
THE WAR IN ITALY （AUGUST； 1916）
I。 THE ISONZO FRONT
1
My first impressions of the Italian war centre upon Udine。 So
far I had had only a visit to Soissons on an exceptionally quiet
day and the sound of a Zeppelin one night in Essex for all my
experience of actual warfare。 But my bedroom at the British
mission in Udine roused perhaps extravagant expectations。 There
were holes in the plaster ceiling and wall； betraying splintered
laths； holes； that had been caused by a bomb that had burst and
killed several people in the little square outside。 Such
excitements seem to be things of the past now in Udine。 Udine
keeps itself dark nowadays； and the Austrian sea…planes； which
come raiding the Italian coast country at night very much in the
same aimless； casually malignant way in which the Zeppelins raid
England； apparently because there is nothing else for them to do；
find it easier to locate Venice。
My earlier rides in Venetia began always with the level roads of
the plain； roads frequently edged by watercourses； with plentiful
willows beside the road； vines and fields of Indian corn and
suchlike lush crops。 Always quite soon one came to some old
Austrian boundary posts； almost everywhere the Italians are
fighting upon what is technically enemy territory； but nowhere
does it seem a whit less Italian than the plain of Lombardy。
When at last I motored away from Udine to the northern mountain
front I passed through Campo…Formio and saw the white…faced inn
at which Napoleon dismembered the ancient republic of Venice and
bartered away this essential part of Italy into foreign control。
It just gravitates back nowas though there had been no
Napoleon。
And upon the roads and beside them was the enormous equipment of
a modern army advancing。 Everywhere I saw new roads being made；
railways pushed up； vast store dumps； hospitals； everywhere the
villages swarmed with grey soldiers； everywhere our automobile
was threading its way and taking astonishing risks among
interminable processions of motor lorries； strings of ambulances
or of mule carts； waggons with timber； waggons with wire； waggons
with men's gear； waggons with casks； waggons discreetly veiled；
columns of infantry； cavalry； batteries /en route。/ Every
waggon that goes up full comes back empty； and many wounded were
coming down and prisoners and troops returning to rest。 Goritzia
had been taken a week or so before my arrival； the Isonzo had
been crossed and the Austrians driven back across the Carso for
several miles； all the resources of Italy seemed to be crowding
up to make good these gains and gather strength for the next
thrust。 The roads under all this traffic remained wonderful；
gangs of men were everywhere repairing the first onset of wear；
and Italy is the most fortunate land in the world for road metal；
her mountains are solid road metal； and in this Venetian plain
you need but to scrape through a yard of soil to find gravel。
One travelled through a choking dust under the blue sky； and
above the steady incessant dusty succession of lorry； lorry；
lorry； lorry that passed one by； one saw； looking up； the tree
tops； house roofs； or the solid Venetian campanile of this or
that wayside village。 Once as we were coming out of the great
grey portals of that beautiful old relic of a former school of
fortification； Palmanova； the traffic became suddenly bright
yellow； and for a kilometre or so we were passing nothing but
Sicilian mule carts loaded with hay。 These carts seem as strange
among the grey shapes of modern war transport as a Chinese
mandarin in painted silk would be。 They are the most individual
of things； all two…wheeled； all bright yellow and the same size
it is true； but upon each there are they gayest of little
paintings； such paintings as one sees in England at times upon an
ice…cream barrow。 Sometimes the picture will present a
scriptural subject； sometimes a scene of opera； sometimes a dream
landscape or a trophy of fruits or flowers； and the harnessnow
much out of repairis studded with brass。 Again and again I
have passed strings of these gay carts； all Sicily must be swept
of them。
Through the dust I came to Aquileia； which is now an old
cathedral； built upon the remains of a very early basilica；
standing in a space in a scattered village。 But across this
dusty space there was carried the head of the upstart Maximinus
who murdered Alexander Severus； and later Aquileia brought Attila
near to despair。 Our party alighted； we inspected a very old
mosaic floor which has been uncovered since the Austrian retreat。
The Austrian priests have gone too； and their Italian successors
are already tracing out a score of Roman traces that it was the
Austrian custom to minimise。 Captain Pirelli refreshed my
historical memories； it was rather like leaving a card on Gibbon
/en route/ for contemporary history。
By devious routes I went on to certain batteries of big guns
which had played their part in hammering the Austrian left above
Monfalcone across an arm of the Adriatic； and which were now
under orders to shift and move up closer。 The battery was the
most unobtrusive of batteries； its one desire seemed to be to
appear a simple piece of woodland in the eye of God and the
aeroplane。 I went about the network of railways and paths under
the trees that a modern battery requires； and came presently upon
a great gun that even at the first glance seemed a little less
carefully hidden than its fellows。 Then I saw that it was a most
ingenious dummy made of a tree and logs and so forth。 It was in
the emplacement of a real gun that had been located； it had its
painted sandbags about it just the same； and it felt itself so
entirely a part of the battery that whenever its companions fired
t burnt a flash and kicked up a dust。 It was an excellent
example of the great art of camouflage which this war has
developed。
I went on through the wood to a shady observation post high in a
tree； into which I clambered with my guide。 I was able from this
position to get a very good idea of