John Berger - G.

Each day fresh rumours circulated in the city about Italy’s impending declaration of war against Austria. It seemed scarcely possible for Italy to maintain her neutrality any longer — not because of any international incidents which had occurred, nor because of any official declaration by the Italian government, but because of the public campaign in favour of war which was being mounted in all the large Italian cities. It appeared that the will of the people was for war.

The Irredentists in Trieste prepared for the hour of glory. Many young Italians who had often talked of crossing the frontier illegally to join the Italian army but had put off actually packing their bags and setting out in the direction of Gorizia, realized that they must go now or never at all. Early in the evening they made their last caminada; the least prepossessing among them could now approach the girl who had never deigned to acknowledge his existence and force tears to her eyes by saying knowingly and gravely: If you do not see me on the Molo tomorrow, do not forget me. The prepossessing, having hinted at their departure in a similar way, advanced like standard-bearers with the tricolour above them, whilst whole clusters of girls followed them with their eyes and squeezed each other’s hands so as not to cry out or throw themselves on their knees. The older Irredentists went about the drab city on light feet for they foresaw a radiant Trieste and their life-long struggle achieved before the year was out.

Other Italians among workers and clerks and small shopkeepers listened to the rumours and scanned the newspapers with misgivings. They had much to fear: the reaction of the Austrians in the event of war: fighting in the city: the eventual economic collapse of Trieste under Italian rule. (None of them for one moment imagined that the Austrians would defeat the Italian army.) Yet the very language in which the fears of these Italians had to be expressed made these fears seem shameful. They felt that their mother tongue, as they spoke her, chastised them.

On the Thursday they read in the newspapers about the event which everybody had been awaiting, the unveiling of a statue to commemorate the departure from Genoa of Garibaldi and his Thousand. It was said that the King might attend the ceremony. At the last moment he sent a telegram apologizing for his absence but blessing the occasion.

The principal speaker at Genoa was Gabriele d’Annunzio, self-elected poet of Italian nationalism. He looked like an old hungry fox — but a fox mounted on an invisible horse, a fox so charismatic that he could ride to hounds and lead the hunt. He believed that the aviator was the ideal modern hero. (He had contemplated writing a poem for Chavez.) The crowd applauded him with limitless enthusiasm. His scraggy face seemed to be a proof of the profundity of what he was saying:

‘Blessed are those who have much, for they will be able to give much; blessed are those who despise all sterile love, for they will come as virgins to this their first and last love; blessed are those who spoke out yesterday against this event (i.e., the proposed war: the reference may have been censored), for they will accept in silence the law of necessity and will wish to be not the last but the first; blessed are the young, happy and thirsty for glory, for they will be satiated; blessed are the merciful, for they will have pure blood to wipe away and radiant pain to soothe; blessed are those who will return victorious for they will see the new face of Rome.…’

It looked as if the will of the Italian people was propelling Italy towards war. But the truth was somewhat different. On 26 April the King and Prime Minister had signed a secret treaty committing Italy to enter the war on the side of the Entente within one month. At that time Parliament was conveniently adjourned, but it would need to be recalled for the actual declaration of war, and it was known that a large majority would be opposed to intervention, as also were most of the peasants, the left wing of the socialist party, many trade-unions and the Vatican. Within one month the nation, and especially the cities, had to be roused in such a way that all opposition, parliamentary or otherwise, would crumble. This was the task allotted by the King and his two chief ministers, who were the only three men in the secret, to interventionist politicians and agitators like D’Annunzio.

At the same time as Britain and France and Russia were negotiating the terms of the secret treaty with Italy, Germany and Austria were making counter-offers in order to persuade Italy to maintain her neutrality. One of the principal differences between the two sets of offers made to the King and his ministers involved the future of Trieste. The Central Powers proposed that Trieste should become a Free City; the Entente proposed that it should become Italian.

Towards the end of the week there was a rumour that Prince Bülow, the Kaiser’s negotiator, had suddenly left Rome for Germany with all his staff. Italians who had passports began to leave Trieste sooner than intended. Austrians who had been in Italy hurriedly returned. In this atmosphere of increasing suspense, G. pursued his own interests. It did not occur to him to leave the city. Wolfgang von Hartmann and his wife were away in Vienna and were not returning until the weekend. With every day that passed the proposal to enlist Austrian sympathy on behalf of the young man arrested on the frontier became more blatantly absurd. G. had no intention of speaking of the matter to anybody until the return of von Hartmann and his wife; then, for his own reasons, he would be prepared to plead that absurd and impossible case.

Sunday, 9 May, appears to have been a sunny day all over Europe. Wolfgang von Hartmann made a habit of rising early and, since he did not believe in exceptions, he also got up early on Sundays. By seven o’clock he was dressed.

Four thousand men had already been killed along a line of two and a half miles in the Western Front. At 5am the British artillery had begun a bombardment of the German lines. At 5.20 a strong breeze blew across the southern edge of the battlefield dispersing momentarily the clouds of smoke and dust. The German breastwork could be seen with alarming clarity to be almost intact. Ten minutes later the first wave of three infantry divisions clambered over the parapet and began to advance in line into no-man’s-land. The diary of the opposing German regiment describes the attack as follows: There could never before in war have been a more perfect target than this solid wall of khaki men, British and Indian side by side. There was only one possible order to give — Fire until the barrels burst! The German machine guns fired. Some of the attacking soldiers tried to stumble back into their trenches, but they were prevented from doing so by the second and third waves of the attack already climbing out.

Wolfgang von Hartmann’s wife slept in the same room. She had tried unsuccessfully on several occasions to suggest that, given the onerousness of his work and public duties, it would be better if they had separate rooms. You would always be welcome, she added with a smile that was too eager to be happy. No, he replied, if that is what I had in mind I would not have married you and you could have been my mistress.

A handful of men advanced, no longer aware of who they were; if their mothers had called them by name they would not have answered. A little before the German lines they saw a ditch where they hoped to take cover. When they reached it, they discovered it was full of barbed wire. Some, in their desperation, threw themselves on the wire. The others, one by one, were shot and fell. A second attack, to be preceded by a forty-five-minute bombardment, had been ordered for 7am. This time the gunners were instructed to concentrate their fire on the wire in front of the German breastwork. Those British and Indian soldiers still alive in no-man’s-land, who had crawled to find shelter in craters or in small holes which they had frantically scraped out with their own bayonets, were now being killed by the shells of their own supporting artillery.