Far, Far The Mountain Peak

by John Masters

  If they thought they had bribed him, they were mistaken. The politicians probably hoped the operation was feasible, so that they could get some troops away from the Western Front butchery and also keep the Italians in good humour. The generals were against it. They wanted him to report that the operation was impracticable. They would then say to the politicians: ‘This man Savage, who made this report, isn’t even one of us, a soldier; he’s a civil servant, and he has a reputation for boldness amounting to rashness. If he says it’s no go, you’ll have to believe him.’

  But Peter had an open mind, and he knew that in an operation this size his report could not by itself be the deciding factor. All the same, nothing was going to stop him from finding out the truth. The generals had forgotten that through Gerry and the Viceroy and the Secretary of State several members of the cabinet knew a lot about him. He could get a hearing from the Prime Minister any time he wanted to.

  He had a feeling that the operation might be a good one. He would not be surprised to find himself back here early the following year with considerably higher rank, acting as watchdog and galvanizer to the general who would be put in command of the British part of the operation. In the meantime, when this reconnaissance was finished, he was going on a mission to the Turkish Eastern Front, in Kurdistan. He had pointed out to an influential M.P. some facts of geography, strategy, and politics in connection with Kurdistan, Azerbaijan, and the area on the southern flank of the Russian advance against Erzerum. That mission was being studied in secret on a geopolitical level. The generals would be told about it later.

  Gerry ought to come with him, at least on the Kurdistan trip, if this present one gave him a taste for the work. The possibilities ahead were stupendous. The Indian Expeditionary Force in Mesopotamia could join hands with the Russians somewhere in southern Turkey; the Arabs in the desert and the Kurds in the mountains could be led to revolt simultaneously--Turkey forced out of the war by the end of 1916; this Alpine operation driving into southern Germany, where there were few troops, at the same time; the war over by the end of 1917. And then . . .

  Peter did not attempt to think further, for no one could know the conditions so far ahead. But Germany must be conquered quickly. Empires, powers, whole ways of life were at stake--all this he saw, and Gerry saw a woman with a boil on the back of her neck! Before God, he knew the woman was there and that someone must look after her; but it was a criminal waste for Gerry to devote himself to her when he could do so much, at Peter’s side, to stir the generals to grasp new ideas, fire the politicians to forget votes and think of the fate of mankind.

  ‘We will start at ten o’clock tomorrow, Major Savage,’ Cammarota said at last in English, turning to Peter. ‘A supply convoy will carry us to the headquarters of the Fifty-sixth Bersaglieri, and from there we will walk. We must practice our walking.’ He smiled, but not warmly.

  Peter said to himself: You don’t like me, Major Gabriele Cammarota, and you don’t like my being here; you think we ought to trust to your judgement, but I think you will be well advised to speak your mind with me.

  ‘Come on, Gerry,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  That was a Monday night. On the Tuesday they reached the Bersaglieri early in the afternoon and in the evening moved up to their forward listening-post, some trenches dug and well sheltered beside a rough stone hut on the slope of rock and snow to the west side of the Saraco Pass. Scattered shots echoed among the mountains as two patrols engaged each other with rifle fire, somewhere the other side of the saddle. A minute later half a dozen shells from each side rumbled up like carts from the valley and dumped explosive on the crest of the pass itself, throwing up tons of earth and rock splinters.

  Peter asked Cammarota whether anything special was going on. The major said: ‘There’s never anyone on the pass. The artillery on both sides know it. They drop a few shells there to let the other side know they are still awake and could do worse if they wanted to.’

  They moved on in the first dusk, not over the pass but along the steep valley that led west towards the Julio under the lee of the three big peaks. After travelling all night on goat tracks parallel with the ‘front,’ they reached a cirque a couple of miles below the Julio. It was nearly dawn, and Cammarota said: ‘We bivouac here.’

  Peter said: ‘All right.’

  Count Fraschelli said: ‘The enemy may send patrols this far over the side of the mountain.’ He and Cammarota always spoke in English, perhaps to reassure Peter that they had no secrets from him.

  Cammarota looked contemptuously at Fraschelli in the starlight and answered politely: ‘Certainly, Lieutenant, but they will not harm us, I am sure. We too have patrols. A sergeant from the detachment at the pass should make touch with us during the day.’

  They found places to lie down, curled up in blankets they carried rolled over their shoulders, and tried to get to sleep. Peter was amused to see that each of the two corporal-guides had chosen a pair of them--Gerry and he had Staldi--and were unofficiously looking after them just as though they were signores of a peace-time climbing expedition. The light came up then, and he had a look at the steep slopes that hid the pass. It was harsh country, and if they ran into any trouble they would have to do some severe mountaineering to get back to the Italian side.

  About two in the afternoon the sergeant came from the platoon that watched the pass and conferred an hour with Cammarota. When he had finished Cammarota strolled over with Fraschelli to where Gerry and Peter lay sprawled with their backs to rocks in the warm sun, smoking.

  ‘It is clear as we can hope,’ the major said. ‘An Austrian post of about a platoon lives in a forester’s hut the other side of the pass, but they seldom keep more than four men actually on the top. The sergeant thinks it will not be difficult to keep those four busy for an hour while our party traverses the mountain a few hundred feet higher up, and drops in again behind them. The main difficulty will be to avoid stumbling on the forester’s hut in the dark. But Carana was here twenty years ago with a party of climbers who were doing Monte Michele from the Austrian side. He thinks he remembers exactly where the hut is--unless it has burned down and been rebuilt in another place. That happens.’

  He smiled his mirthless smile, and Peter asked: ‘When shall we move off, then?’

  ‘I thought at dark--or perhaps two hours later? That should put us near the crest by eleven. Allowing an hour for the diversion to take effect, we should be over, down, and in shelter in the woods well before dawn. You agree?’

  Peter agreed and began to eat some Italian bread and sausage from his pack. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Cammarota said, ‘we pick up four days’ rations each at the platoon post when we pass through.’

  Peter nodded, finished eating, and tried to get back to sleep. The rocks were hard, and the sun had gone behind clouds. They were high, and a cold wind blew up the valley, and he did not feel sleepy. The Julio Pass lay round the corner there, and, beyond that, in the dark of night, the enemy and action and a hundred quick decisions.

  War was good. In peace-time, except on the worst places of the hardest mountains, people needed to be persuaded to do what must be done. They had to be overcome, urged, driven, shamed, shown the way forward. In war it was different. He had found that most men knew then that something had to be done, and most had tightened themselves to a higher pitch than they found comfortable in peace, but few knew what to do, and fewer still how to do it. There was a look in men’s eyes that he had not known before. We’ve got to do something tremendous, it said; but for God’s sake, who knows what, who will lead the way? ... And, after the war, what then? . . . After Meru, what then?

  But now he had to go to sleep, because there would be little sleep in the next few days. He rolled over one last time, settling himself, and saw that Gerry’s eyes were wide open and he was staring at the windy, wraith-blown sky racing past to the east over the crests of the mountains behind them.

  Peter said suddenly: ‘Penny for your thoughts, Gerry.’ Gerry s
tarted and turned his face slowly. ‘What? Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘I was trying to get to sleep.’

  ‘And I disturbed you? You won’t get to sleep very quickly with your eyes open. I wonder what Emily’s doing now.’

  He didn’t know why he said that except that the thought of her came suddenly into his mind and gave him a twinge of homesickness.

  Gerry said: ‘She doesn’t go out much.’

  Peter knew that. She had looked quite drawn from worrying about Gerry. On the way out to Italy he had teasingly told Gerry he’d been neglecting his duty to Emily. If he didn’t want to take her out himself he should have found some nice safe man for her--a captain, R.N., with a wooden leg, perhaps. It was not a good idea for her and Gerry to shut themselves up in the house all the time.

  Now--’Emily’s a---‘ Peter began, but stopped. He wanted to tell Gerry that few such women as Emily existed, or had ever existed, in the world. She had the power to be exciting and serene at the same time, and to put a tarnish, while he was in her presence, on any dreams of high adventure and universal victory. He felt a little of the same now, partly because he was thinking of Emily and partly because there was always a dulling of the vision when dreams had to be reduced to the scale of people. What was there of the giant in Cammarota, the stiff mountaineer who didn’t like him; or Fraschelli, who would have given a thousand lire to be back in his natural habitat, pinching the behinds of the pretty tourists as they leaned over the wall of the Colosseum; or the guides, with their air of patient responsibility?

  He began again: ‘Emily is a---‘ And again he stopped. How could he find words to tell Gerry what kind of woman she was, when Gerry could never exactly understand? To him she would always be a different woman. She would never show her strength to Gerry, for instance; or if she did, Gerry would not know that she had.

  Gerry said: ‘Peter--I---‘

  Peter said: ‘To hell with her. I don’t want to think about her. Let’s get to sleep.’

  Gerry was going to try and say something personal, probably about that time six years ago when he had lost Emily. He would have told how it had wounded him then, but how he came to feel that the best man ought to win, that it was best for all of them that it should have turned out this way. It would have hurt and embarrassed him to say it, so Peter prevented him. It did not need saying, anyway.

  He rolled over again, turning his back to Gerry, and went to sleep.

  They moved off as soon as the dusk had settled to a point where Cammarota was sure any Austrian standing patrol, hidden on the slopes, spending the daytime watching and listening, could not see them. The passage of the Julio went as planned. At quarter to eleven the Italian platoon crossed the pass, creeping forward in faint moonlight on a wide front, the centre in the neck of the pass, the wings well up the slopes on each side. Soon after eleven they made contact with the Austrians sitting in their positions a little way down the northern slope. The Italians had been making plenty of noise, and the Austrians greeted them with an indignant volley of rifle shots. The Italians replied in kind. Someone on the Austrian side was cursing in Italian. Cammarota whispered that the man had not been hit; he was furious at the irruption into the calm. The Italians played their part well and moved forward, edging away to the left, advancing slowly and firing busily while Cammarota led the reconnaissance party high up the right-hand slope.

  Soon, going fast over rock and scattered snow and at last a thousand feet of slaty shale, they reached the forests on the Austrian side. The firing on the pass had grown desultory by then. When they stopped, grouped under a heavy pine, Cammarota whispered: ‘Now the rest of the Austrians from this side will be going up to see what is happening. Some of them may come this way to get behind our people. I am going to move north-east for an hour to make sure we do not run into them.’

  They set off again. The going became harder as they traversed diagonally along the side of the mountains for an hour, then plunged straight down into the narrow valley, at that point almost a gorge. This was one of the valleys, leading down from a subsidiary pass to the north of the main chain, which linked the Saraco with the Julio and Michele Passes. They crossed it, and Cammarota led on north at a good pace. At dawn they were in tangled mountains, not very high, far from any track or trail, seven miles beyond the ‘front line.’ They ate, rested for two hours, and pushed on again. Late in the afternoon they stood on the ridge line of rolling hills, which could hardly be called mountains here, overlooking the Saraco Valley from the west.

  A mile below them a small village, about a dozen houses, was tucked into the head of a hanging alp, with cows grazing in the low sun and a pair of old women watching them. Staldi said it was an Italian-speaking village, like most in this area. A thin haze of smoke or dust hung over the main valley and even more obviously over a side valley directly opposite, on the east side of the Saraco. Peter raised his binoculars.

  The forests ran down to within two or three hundred yards of the motor road on that opposite side. A small, widely-spaced string of trucks was moving up the road, heading south, each vehicle trailing a low, long-lived plume of dust. Opposite the watchers they turned left on to some side road which could not be seen, since a wall hid it, and climbed towards the forested side valley. It was a stiff gradient, apparently. In the still air he could hear the growl and whine of the engines as they changed gear and moved slowly away from him to disappear into the trees. Over the trees the dust hung.

  This was interesting, and might be vital. Aerial reconnaissance was extremely hazardous in this mountain area, and what little the Italians had carried out had not brought any reports of large troop movements in the Saraco, or of major improvements to the road. But there was obviously a dump of some kind being stocked--or emptied--in the forests over there; and the road had obviously been improved from the cart road the Italians knew of, or it could not have stood heavy-truck traffic at the pace he could see the vehicles were moving. Armies did not build dumps for fun. They did it to place in a convenient position a stock of ammunition, rations, and so forth, sufficient to carry out some operation that was going to make extraordinary demands on those commodities. Since one man could eat only one ration a day, the existence of extra rations pointed to the expected arrival of extra men--that is, reinforcements--or to an expectation that the daily supply route might be cut off for some period of time by enemy action. Piled stacks of ammunition, on a front where so little was normally used, would point to the expectation of using more ammunition--such as in an attack, or a defence against an enemy attack.

  No one could read a whole battle plan into a few dust trails. They must go and see. Even then they would not learn much more, probably. But already they knew that the Austrians were expecting something. Peter’s guess was that they were expecting an attack such as his party was now making the reconnaissance for.

  He turned to Cammarota and told him that they must cross the valley and find out what was in the forests on the other side. Cammarota was looking worried. He knew perfectly well that he ought to do what was suggested; but it was outside the scope of his orders, which were to examine the topography of the possible routes from the Julio over into the Saraco that would have to be used by the light-armed troops making the ‘hook.’ However, he agreed at last, and they decided to sleep where they were until midnight.

  Before they settled down Cammarota emphasized that his worry was lest the Austrians see the party, or, worse still, capture Gerry or Peter. It was of the first importance not to let the Austrians know that any patrol had been reconnoitring as deep as this into the Saraco Valley; vital not to let them get an inkling that officers as high-ranking as majors were with the patrol; and supreme that the presence of British officers should not be suspected, for that could mean only that the British were thinking of reinforcing the Italians in this theatre. (Peter and Gerry were wearing Italian mountain uniform, complete with rope and ice axe; but that disguise would not last a moment if they were captured.)

  Peter recognized t
he importance of these considerations. But in the last resort they were here to find out whether this operation of war was or was not feasible. They had to press the reconnaissance home at all costs. He was not going to go back to London and tell them he thought it was possible. He was going to know, and he did not intend that Gerry or he should be captured. He lay down and went to sleep.

  At midnight they moved off once more, crossed the valley without trouble, and entered the eastern forests. They moved with great caution and were not challenged, though in the momentary flash of a truck’s headlights they twice saw Austrian sentries, rifles on their arms, a short distance below them through the woods.

  An hour before dawn Cammarota whispered: ‘I think this will be a good place to lie up, Major, at least till dawn, when we can see where we are. Lieutenant Fraschelli, you and Staldi stand sentry for the first hour.’

  During the day they saw what they wanted to see. It was a widely scattered ammunition dump, piles of shells stacked under the trees, and rough roads winding in all directions. They worked in pairs, with one man always guarding the base. Peter returned there finally with Carana shortly after dark, and they all held a brief conference. There was no doubt that the Austrians were ready for something big. In the twilight Peter had slouched up to one pile of shells and identified them as twelve-inch howitzer.

  ‘Interesting,’ Cammarota muttered worriedly. ‘No twelve- inch shell has yet been fired on this front. . . . There will be ration dumps too, I suppose, but we do not have time to find those. Nor is that our task. We can return across the valley.’ They began to work down through the forest. All went well until they reached the main road. Fraschelli and Staldi were in the lead, Gerry and Peter ten paces back, and Cammarota and Carana bringing up the rear. It was very dark, and Peter thought it would rain during the night, but the road showed as a dim white streak ahead. Staldi was stepping up on to it when a nervous voice challenged in German--’Wer da?’--and the beam of a torch illuminated the corrugated metalling of the road and the crouching figures of Fraschelli and Staldi, the former with his hands thrown up in front of his face as though to protect himself from a cuff.