l_ at Brighton before the
war. We went along the front line trenches on Hill 126, recently
captured. These trenches ran beside the river and were now in fine
condition, great repairs and reconstruction having been carried out
during the past three weeks. It was here that Austrian Trench Mortars
were active. They were firing when we arrived and caused some
casualties. As it grew light, a strong Austrian patrol was seen moving
about in No Man's Land, and it was thought that a raid might be coming.
The order "Stand to" was given, and the Infantry came swarming out of
their dug-outs, a crowd of youths, some very handsome, with almost
Classical Roman features, and older men, sturdy and bearded. They
densely manned the parapet, with fixed bayonets and hand grenades. The
machine gun posts were also manned. But nothing happened!

A little later an Austrian was seen to emerge from cover in No Man's
Land, about a hundred yards away from us, and run towards our trenches,
throwing away his rifle and shouting some unintelligible words. He was
sick of the war and wanted to surrender. But a young Italian recruit, in
the trenches for the first time, quivering with excitement and eagerness
to distinguish himself, not realising the man's motive, fired at him
through a peephole. He missed, but the Austrian turned and doubled back
like a rabbit to his own lines, where I suppose he was shot, poor brute,
by his own people. I was standing quite close to the young recruit when
he fired. No one rebuked him, but a Corporal patiently explained things
to him. We smiled at one another, and I wished him "auguri" and went on
up the hill.

The Austrian snipers were busy, and another Italian standing close to
me, looking out slantwise through a peephole, was shot through the jaw.
He was bandaged up, profusely bleeding, and went stoically down the
hill, supported by a companion, leaving a red trail along the wooden
duck-boards that paved the trench.

I went down two saps which the Italians had pushed out, one to within
twenty yards, the other to within ten yards, of the Austrian front line.
Here every one spoke in a low whisper or by signs. They warned me to
keep well down, as the Austrians hated khaki worse even than
"grigio-verde," as one is always apt to hate third parties who butt in
against one in what one conceives to be a purely private quarrel.

But I went back armed with some useful information regarding the
position of those Austrian Trenc