Italy at War and the Allies in the West | Page 8

di Napoli" and
"Ciri-Biri-Bi"; the Canale Grande is dark and silent now. The tourist
hostelries, on whose terraces at night gleamed the white shirt-fronts of
men and the white shoulders of women, now have as their only guests
the white-bandaged wounded. In its darkness, its mystery, its silence, it
is once again the Venice of the Middle Ages, the Venice of lovers and
conspirators, of inquisitors and assassins, the Venice of which
Shakespeare sang.
But with the coming of dawn the Venice of the twelfth century is
abruptly transformed into the Venice of the twentieth. The sun, rising
out of the Adriatic, turns into ellipsoids of silver the aluminum-colored
observation balloons which form the city's first line of aerial defense.
As the sun climbs higher it brings into bold relief the lean barrels of the
anti-aircraft guns, which, from the roofs of the buildings to the seaward,
sweep the eastern sky. Abreast the Public Gardens the great war-ships,
in their coats of elephant-gray, swing lazily at their moorings. Near the
Punta della Motta lie the destroyers, like greyhounds held in leash. Off
the Riva Schiavoni, on the very spot, no doubt, where Dandolo's
war-galleys lay, are anchored the British submarines. And atop his
granite column, a link with the city's glorious and warlike past, still
stands the winged lion of St. Mark, snarling a perpetual challenge at his

ancient enemy--Austria.
* * * * *
The Comando Supremo, or Great Headquarters, of the Italian army is at
Udine, an ancient Venetian town some twenty miles from the Austrian
frontier. This is supposed to be a great secret, and must not be
mentioned in letters or newspaper despatches, it being assumed that,
were the Austrians to learn of the presence in Udine of the Comando
Supremo, their airmen would pay inconvenient visits to the town, and
from the clouds would drop their steel calling-cards on the King and
General Cadorna. So, though every one in Italy is perfectly aware that
the head of the Government and the head of the army are at Udine, the
fact is never mentioned in print. To believe that the Austrians are
ignorant of the whereabouts of the Italian high command is to severely
strain one's credulity. The Italians not only know where the Austrian
headquarters is situated, but they know in which houses the various
generals live, and the restaurants in which they eat. This extreme
reticence of the Italians seems a little irksome and overdone after the
frankness one encounters on the French and British fronts, but it is due,
no doubt, to the admonitions which are posted in hotels, restaurants,
stations, and railway carriages throughout Italy: "It is the patriotic duty
of good citizens not to question the military about the war," and: "The
military are warned not to discuss the war with civilians. An indiscreet
friend can be as dangerous as an enemy."
My previous acquaintance with Udine had been confined to fleeting
glimpses of it from the windows of the Vienna-Cannes express. Before
the war it was, like the other towns which dot the Venetian plain, a
quaint, sleepy, easy-going place, dwelling in the memories of its past,
but with the declaration of hostilities it suddenly became one of the
busiest and most important places in all Italy. From his desk in the
Prefecture, General Cadorna, a short, wiry, quick-moving man in the
middle sixties, with a face as hard and brown as a hickory-nut, directs
the operations of the armies along that
four-hundred-and-fifty-mile-long battle-line which stretches from the
Stelvio to the sea. The cobble-paved streets and the vaulted arcades are

gay with many uniforms, for, in addition to the hundreds of staff and
divisional officers quartered in Udine, the French, British, Russian, and
Belgian Governments maintain there military missions, whose business
it is to keep the staffs of their respective armies constantly in touch
with the Italian high command, thus securing practical co-operation. In
a modest villa, a short distance outside the town, dwells the King, who
has been on the front almost constantly since the war began. Although,
as ruler of the kingdom, he is commander-in-chief of the Italian armies,
he rarely gives advice unless it is asked for, and never interferes with
the decisions of the Comando Supremo. Scarcely a day passes that he
does not visit some sector of the battle-line. Officers and men in some
of the lonely mountain commands told me that the only general who
has visited them is the King. Should he venture into exposed positions,
as he frequently does, he is halted by the local command. It is, of
course, tactfully done. "I am responsible for your Majesty's safety,"
says the officer. "Were there to be an accident I should be blamed."
Whereupon the King promptly withdraws. If he is not permitted to take