In late May 1916, my brigade—the 399th and 400th Regiments2—was still on the Carso.3 It had been fighting solely on that front since the beginning of the war. By now we couldn’t stand it anymore. Every square foot of terrain reminded us of a battle or the grave of a fallen comrade. We’d done nothing but take trenches and trenches and more trenches. After the trench of the “red cats” came the trench of the “black cats,” and then it was the trench of the “green cats.” But the situation never changed. As soon as we took one trench we had to take another. Trieste was still there, perched on the edge of the gulf, just as far away as ever, looming wearily. Our artillery hadn’t fired on it even once. The Duke of Aosta, commander of our Third Army, invoked its name in all his daily orders and speeches to fire up the soldiers.
The prince didn’t have much military acumen but he did have a great literary passion. He and his chief of staff made a perfect team. One wrote the speeches and the other delivered them. The duke learned them by heart and recited them in the oratorical style of an ancient Roman, with impeccable diction. All the grand ceremonies, and they were rather frequent, were especially designed to highlight these performances. Unfortunately, the chief of staff wasn’t a writer. So despite his best efforts, the general’s memory in reciting the speeches won more of our army’s esteem than the talent of his chief of staff in writing them. The general had a good voice, too. Apart from that, he was pretty unpopular.
One May afternoon, word reached us that, as a reward for all the sacrifices the brigade had endured, the duke had ordered that we be sent back behind the front line for several months’ rest. And since this news was followed by an order that we prepare to be replaced by another brigade, we were convinced it was true. The soldiers welcomed the news with cheers and shouts of praise for the duke. They finally realized that there was some advantage in having a prince of the royal family as their army’s commander. Only he could have granted such a long rest, and so far from the front line. Up to that time, their rest periods had been spent just a few kilometers from the trenches, under fire from enemy artillery. The division commander’s cook had told our colonel’s orderly (and the rumor had spread like lightning) that the duke wanted us to spend this rest period in a city. For the first time in the entire war his popularity was on the rise. The nicest things were said about him, and the news that he had had a heated argument with General Cadorna, in defense of our brigade, was deemed credible and made the rounds of all the units.
Our replacements arrived and that same night we headed down to the plains. After two days march we came to Aiello, a small town not far from what used to be the border.
We were overjoyed. Finally, we could live! Our heads were bursting with plans! After Aiello, we’d move on to a big city. Maybe Udine, who knew?
When we entered Aiello it was time for first rations. My battalion, the 3rd, was marching at the head of the line, with the 12th Company in the lead. The commander of the 12th was a cavalry officer, Reserve Lieutenant Grisoni. He had served as orderly officer for our brigade commander. When the commander died after being wounded by a grenade, Grisoni decided to stay in the brigade and came to serve in my battalion. As a cavalry officer he couldn’t be assigned to an infantry unit, but the commanding general of the cavalry had given him special authorization, with the right to keep his ordnance and horse. The whole brigade knew who he was. On August 21, 1915, with forty volunteers, he had launched a sneak attack and taken a solidly dug-in enemy advance trench defended by a Hungarian battalion. The attack was an example of extreme bravery. But it was a different escapade that made him famous. One night, during one of our rest periods, after mixing together and drinking, without excessive moderation, a number of Piedmontese wines, he rode his horse with his customary stealth and daring into the officers’ mess, where the colonel was eating with the officers from the regimental command. He didn’t utter a single word, but his horse, which appeared to have a perfect knowledge of military hierarchy, proceeded to whinny and prance around the colonel for the longest time. This deed, received somewhat differently than the first, nearly got him sent back to the cavalry.
My battalion was filing by now, in march step, in the square in front of the town hall. There to watch them were the brigade commander, the regiment commander, and the civic authorities. The lead company, four to a row, went marching by in martial fashion. The soldiers were muddy, but their trench getup made the parade more solemn. When they arrived opposite the authorities, Lieutenant Grisoni stood up in his stirrups, turned to the company, and shouted, “Eyes left!”
It was their salute to the brigade commander.
But it was also the agreed-upon signal for the company’s 1st Platoon to spring into action. Immediately, a carefully orchestrated fanfare shattered the ceremonial protocol. A trumpet, made out of a big metal coffee pot, blared the call to attention, followed by a motley assembly of instruments sounding their agreement, all of them improvised, with the largest portion made up of those that could make a loud noise to accompany the beat. Mess tin lids turned into cymbals. Old canvas baggage tarps were ingeniously adapted into drums. Pistons, clarions, and flutes were arranged out of closed fists blown into by specialists who, opening first one finger and then another, managed to toot to their hearts’ content. The end result was an admirable musical blend of the merriment of war.
The brigade commander wrinkled his brow, but in the end he smiled.
A reasonable man, he didn’t find it improper that soldiers, having lived in the mud and under fire for the better part of a year, should allow themselves a frolic, even if it was not in line with regulations.
Following the parade, the whole regiment moved into quarters in Aiello. Later that afternoon the mayor invited all the officers back to the town hall to enjoy a glass of wine and a speech. In a trembling voice, he read:
“It is a great honor for me, et cetera, et cetera. In the glorious war that the Italian people are fighting under the ingenious and heroic command of His Majesty the King …”
On the word “king,” we all snapped to attention, as we were required to do, with a loud and simultaneous clacking of heels and spurs. The sudden blast of that military salute reverberated in the municipal great hall like a gunshot. The mayor, a profane civilian, couldn’t have imagined that his modest reference to the sovereign would provoke such a clamorous demonstration of constitutional loyalty. He was a distinguished gentleman and, with forewarning, he certainly would not have failed to appreciate, in the appropriate measure and degree, such a patriotic act. But taken in this way, completely unawares, he flinched and made a slight jump that raised him several centimeters above his normal height. All the color drained out of his face. He turned his uncertain gaze toward the group of motionless officers and waited. The sheet of paper with the words of his speech written on it had dropped out of his hands and was lying, like a culprit, at his feet.
The colonel was wearing an honest smile of self-satisfaction, pleased to see highlighted, albeit only temporarily, the superiority of the military authorities over the civilian. With an expression of contained pride, which anyone without a long experience of military command would struggle futilely to display, he turned his gaze from the mayor to us and from us to the mayor, and, with that morsel of malice that insinuates itself into the heart of even the meekest of men, he realized how he could intimidate the mayor even more. He barked, “Officers, long live the king!”
“Long live the king!” we echoed, shouting out the phrase as a monosyllable.
Contrary to the colonel’s expectation, the mayor didn’t bat an eyelash and shouted along with us.
The mayor was a man of the world. Back in control of himself by now, he picked up the paper off the floor, and resumed his speech.
“We shall win, because it is written so in the book of fate …”
Where that book was, surely none of us, including the mayor, actually knew. And even less so, what might have been written in that irretrievably lost book. In any event, the phrase did not provoke any special reaction. On the other hand, there was remarkable attention for this other passage:
“War is not as hard as we imagine it to be. This morning when I saw your soldiers coming into the city in celebration, accompanied by the sound of that fanfare more joyous than one could ever conceive, I understood, and the entire population understood along with me, that war has its own beautiful attractions …”
The cavalry lieutenant saluted, rattling his spurs, as though the compliment had been directed especially to him. The mayor continued.
“Beautiful and sublime attractions. Unhappy is he who cannot feel them! Because, oh gentlemen, it is beautiful indeed to die for your country …”
This allusion didn’t appeal to anyone, not even the colonel. The judgment was a classic, but the mayor was not the most suitable person to make us appreciate, literarily, the beauty of death, even such a glorious one. Even the demeanor with which the mayor had accompanied his exclamation had been inappropriate. It seemed as though he’d wanted to say, “You are more beautiful dead than alive.” A sizable portion of the officers coughed and looked at the mayor disdainfully. The cavalry lieutenant displayed his restlessness with a rattling of spurs.
Did the mayor understand how we felt? Probably, because he hurried to conclude, praising the king. He said precisely this:
“Long live our glorious king, scion of a warrior race!”
The cavalry lieutenant was the closest to a large table covered with cups of sparkling wine. Quickly, he grabbed one that was still full, raised it, and cried out, “Long live the king of cups!”
For the colonel it was a direct blow to the chest. He looked at the lieutenant, amazed, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. He looked at the officers, appealing to them as witnesses, and said, more disconsolate than severe, “Lieutenant Grisoni, again today you have had too much to drink. Kindly leave the room and wait for my orders.”
The lieutenant clicked his spurs, stiffened to attention, took one step back, and saluted.
“Yes, sir!”
And he walked out, his whip tucked under his arm, visibly satisfied.