ry light. We are
standing less than four miles from the advanced enemy positions. The
stage is set, the battle is about to begin. Information brought in
during the day tells of fresh units of the enemy, massed in second
line. Deserters, surrendering to Italian patrols, report that an
important action is impending. The general commanding bids us good
night.

"We make our way on foot through quiet country lanes. Through the
trees, the glimmer of the searchlights' flashes comes and goes like
giant fireflies. The clear notes of a nightingale ring out in the
stillness of the night. Nestling in the valley lies a large town,
which only a fortnight ago was filled with civilians, 'redeemed
Italians,' who had enjoyed eight months of prosperity and liberty
under Italian rule. Now these have been evacuated and scattered in the
four corners of Italy, and the deserted houses and empty streets add
to the unreality of the scene. The whirring of the field-telephone
wires which hang low, hastily looped over the branches of olive and
mulberry trees, alone indicates any activity of man. There are no
troops in sight, save a patrol which stops us and examines our papers.
It seems difficult to realize that a great battle is impending. No
scene could be more peaceful. In the marshes, frogs are croaking in
loud unison. The scent of new-mown hay is wafted across the valley.

"The minutes hang heavily. A half hour passes. An hour seems
interminable. This afternoon, beyond the mountains, in the next
valley, not more than nine miles away as the crow flies, a bloody
action was fought. Not a sound of the cannonade reached us; what had
happened there we did not know, for the Austrians are attacking from a
single base, and their battle line is not more than fifteen miles
long, pivoting on a central position, whereas the Italian forces in
this same sector are compelled, by the configuration of the mountains
and the intersecting valleys, to fight separate actions which can only
be coordinated with utmost difficulty.

"Shortly before one o'clock in the morning the Austrian batteries open
fire. From the west, the north, the east, the hail of shell and
shrapnel tears open the crest of the hill, the Monte Collo, against
which the attack is directed. So intense an artillery fire has not
hitherto been witnessed on the Italian front; 380's, 305's, 240's,
149's, 105's rain upon the short line of Italian intrenchments.

"For more than three hours the bombard