* * * * *

Afterwards I heard of some of the deeds that had been done “back there.”  I heard of the charges of the Italian Cavalry, of the Novara Lancers and the Genoa Dragoons, crack regiments, full of the best horsemen in Italy, who had been waiting, waiting, all the war through, for their chance to come.  Their chance had come at last, the chance to die, charging against overwhelming odds, in order that Italy, or at least the glory of her name, might live for ever.  One commanding officer called all his officers around him and said, “The common people of Italy have betrayed our country’s honour, and now we, the gentlemen of Italy, are going to save it!” and then he led the charge, and fell leading it.  It was a fine, aristocratic gesture, though the prejudices of his class partly blinded him.

Near Cervignano Italian Cavalry charged the massed machine guns of the enemy and, when the horses went down, the men went on, and then the men went down, all but a few, and those few for a moment broke the line and held up the advance, and gave to the mass of the retreating troops just that little space of extra time, which spans the gulf between escape and destruction.

And away up north on Monte Nero, left behind when the rest of the Army retired, Alpini and Bersaglieri resisted for many days, and aeroplanes flew back and dropped food and ammunition from the skies for them.  And when their ammunition was all shot away, that garrison came down into the plains, and a few survivors fought their way through with bombs and bayonets back to the Italian lines.

And many other such deeds were surely done that will never be known, because the men that did them died out of sight of any of their comrades who survived.

* * * * *

In the small hours of the 30th of October, I left our guns in Leary’s charge and determined to walk on to Latisana, to see if I could not find some person in authority and get something done to move things on.  I had only gone a little way when I met Bixio, a Captain of Mountain Artillery, attached to Raven’s Headquarters.  He had come back to see how far behind our rearmost guns were.  I saw him several times during the retreat.  He did fine work more than once in creating order out of confusion.  He looked a magnificent, almost a Mephistophelian, figure, with his dark features, his flashing angry eyes, his air of decision, his sharp gestures, his tall body enveloped in a loose cloak, his Alpino hat, with its long single feather.  He told me that all traffic along this road into Latisana had been stopped for the past three hours, in order to let traffic from the north get on, for it was from that direction that the advance of the enemy was most threatening.

I walked on and found a British Red Cross Ambulance stuck in the block.  I talked for a few moments to the driver, who gave me a piece of cake and some wine.  When I reached Latisana, I found traffic pouring through along the road from the north.  I crossed the bridge over the Tagliamento and looked down at the broad swift current, glistening beneath.  Hope leapt again within me at the sight.  Here, at last, I said to myself, is a fine natural obstacle.  We shall turn here and stand at bay, and the invader will come no further.