Italy at War and the Allies in the West | Page 3

across
mile-deep chasms."]
[Illustration: An Italian Position in the Carnia. "Many of the Italian
soldiers are living like arctic explorers, in caverns of ice and snow."]
It is no exaggeration to say that not one American in a thousand has
any adequate conception of what Italy is fighting for, nor any
appreciation of the splendid part she is playing in the war. This lack of
knowledge, and the consequent lack of interest, is, however, primarily
due to the Italians themselves. They are suspicious of foreigners. They
are by nature shy. More insular than the French or English, they are
only just commencing to realize the political value of our national
maxim: "It pays to advertise." Though they want publicity they do not
know how to get it. Instead of welcoming neutral correspondents and
publicists, they have, until very recently, met them with suspicion and
hinderances. What little news is permitted to filter through is coldly
official, and is altogether unsuited for American consumption. The
Italians are staging one of the most remarkable and inspiring
performances that I have seen on any front--a performance of which
they have every reason to be proud--but diffidence and conservatism
have deterred them from telling the world about it.
To visit Italy in these days is no longer merely a matter of buying a
ticket and boarding a train. To comply with the necessary formalities
takes the better part of a week. Should you, an American, wish to travel
from Paris to Rome, for example, you must first of all obtain from the
American consul-general a special visé for Italy, together with a
statement of the day and hour on which you intend to leave Paris, the
frontier station at which you will enter Italy, and the cities which you
propose visiting. The consul-general will require of you three
carte-de-visite size photographs. Armed with your viséd passport, you
must then present yourself at the Italian Consulate where several suave

but very businesslike gentlemen will subject you to a series of
extremely searching questions. And you can be perfectly certain that
they are in possession of enough information about you to check up
your answers. Should it chance that your grandfather's name; was
Schmidt, or something equally German-sounding, it is all off. The
Italians, I repeat, are a suspicious folk, and they are taking no chances.
Moreover, unless you are able to convince them of the imperative
necessity of your visiting Italy, you do not go. Tourists and sensation
seekers are not wanted in Italy in these times; the railways are needed
for other purposes. If, however, you succeed in satisfying the board of
examiners that you are not likely to be either a menace or a nuisance, a
special passport for the journey will be issued you. Three more
photographs, please. This passport must then be indorsed at the
Prefecture of Police. (Votre photographie s'il vous plait.) Should you
neglect to obtain the police visé you will not be permitted to board the
train.
Upon reaching the frontier you are ushered before a board composed of
officials of the French Service de Sûrété and the Italian Questura and
again subjected to a searching interrogatory. Every piece of luggage in
the train is unloaded, opened, and carefully examined. It having been
discovered that spies were accustomed to conceal in their
compartments any papers which they might be carrying, and retrieving
them after the frontier was safely passed, the through trains have now
been discontinued, passengers and luggage, after the examination at the
frontier, being sent on by another train. In addition to the French and
Italian secret-service officials, there are now on duty at the various
frontier stations, and likewise in Athens, Naples, and Rome, keen-eyed
young officers of the "Hush-Hush Brigade," as the British Intelligence
Department is disrespectfully called, whose business it is to scrutinize
the thousands of British subjects--officers returning from India, Egypt,
or Salonika, or from service with the Mediterranean fleet, King's
messengers, diplomatic couriers--who are constantly crossing Italy on
their way to or from England.
That the arm of the enemy is very long, and that it is able to strike at
astounding distances and in the most unexpected places, is brought

sharply home to one as the train pulls out of the Genoa station. From
Genoa to Pisa, a distance of a hundred miles, the railway closely hugs
the Mediterranean shore. At night all the curtains on that side of the
train must be kept closely drawn and, as an additional precaution, the
white electric-light bulbs in the corridors and compartments have been
replaced by violet ones. If you ask the reason for this you are usually
met with evasions. But, if you persist, you learn that it is done to avoid
the danger of the trains being shelled by Austrian submarines! (Imagine,