Hell in the High Alps, Pt. 1

“Mountainous terrain usually favors defense and the force most familiar with the operating area, which is a factor to be considered in any comprehensive estimate of the enemy situation. Mountains restrict movement, delay timely responses, and often give the seasoned enemy a place to seek refuge while he prepares for his next operation.”

-	Soldier’s Guide to Mountain Warfare, Introduction

“If the enemy should stand before us, they will give way, none can match us man for man.”
-	Excerpt from the song of the Imperial Rifles March (Der Kaiserjägermarsch)

Part 1: Shots from the Stones

It was May when war came to the mountains, though none knew it yet.

 In Gorizia, Trieste, Montfalcone, Plezzo, and Riva, life continued much as it always had in the years since the war of liberation in 1866. To the peasants in the fields, it was another month in the lazy Tyrolese summer. To the church-goers, it was another month to hear the sermon from the pulpit. To the nationalists, it was another month to sit in dark rooms and conspire on how best to finish the risiorgimento that had started with Garibaldi. The firebrands and troublemakers, men like Mussolini, Mazzini, Marinetti, and D’Annunzio, were all thought to be out of touch. Too much time spent in the piazza of Rome, and not enough in the fields.

Nationalism? Liberation? These were fine ideas, the men would say to each other, but what did they mean? What love did Trieste have for Venice? No, the men in the fields would conclude with confidence, there would be little point in fighting a war here. Italy was neutral, and had been so since August of 1914. Let the Great Powers fight, and destroy, one another.

But since April, a cloud had settled over the region. From the Adriatic to the Swiss border, the Austro-Hungarian customs officers began cracking down on smuggling, demanding passports, and expelling anyone thought to be “making trouble”. Trains were coming, too, packed full of young men from all over Italy, their dialects so different as to make a soldier from Sicily seem like he was from another country.

The soldiers came with loaded knapsacks, carried rifles, bullets, picks, mattocks, barbed wire, axes, and some carried even stranger objects: parts of machineguns. Trucks and tractors (strange sights anywhere in Italy) carried 149mm artillery pieces. The men in the fields watched with horror as their soil was scraped off to make room for these metal monsters. Town squares became parade grounds. Schoolhouses became barracks.

War was coming. Anyone who thought otherwise was proven wrong by the steadily mounting number of guns, men, and material. So why weren’t they attacking? The Italian army would not attack until it was ready, officers explained to their men. Those were the orders of Generallisimo Cadorna.

April ended, and May began. They would not attack until the 23rd. Had Cadorna attacked in April, it is likely that over two million men would have been spared. Instead, the men watched for any sign of Austrian activity.

Troops from the Serbian and Galician fronts had been arriving to the Italo-Austro-Hungarian border since April 1915, when Conrad von Hötzendorf was forced to acknowledge the reality of the situation there. He had dreams of a grand offensive into Italy, smashing the treacherous ally once and for all. But reality asserted itself over Hötzendorf, just like it had over Cadorna.

The men arriving at the six railheads scattered across the border were veterans of the Galician and Serbian campaigns. Some were old hands, regular army officers and NCOs, most were part of the March battalions – replacements that were sent to the front to fill up the ranks. The professional army had gone. Conscripts and militia were all that was left.

Franz Ehrenberg was one of those replacements. The troop train came to a screeching stop at the station. Officers, most of them no more experienced than the replacements they’d be commanding, moved through the cars, shepherding the men onto the station. Ehrenberg found himself in front of a lieutenant, a bookish-looking young man who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five.

“You have experience in the mountains?” The lieutenant asked, a large book was open in one hand, while his other hand held a pen.
“My family took trips up to the Dolomites. But I-“ Ehrenberg was cut off as the lieutenant marked off something in the book. Closing the book with as much force as he could muster, the lieutenant drew himself up to his full height.

“You’ve been reassigned, soldier. General Boroević’s orders. You’ll be of more use in the mountains than near the Carso.” Before Ehrenberg could say anything, the lieutenant had opened the book again, flipped to a page, and tore out a form, his pen filling in several of the boxes. “By order of Generalmajor Svetozar von und zu Bojna,” the lieutenant began, handing the filled-out form to Ehrenberg. “Are hereby officially transferred from the Fifth Imperial and Royal Army to the Carnithian Force. You will report to Major Niemand.”

Franz Ehrenberg found himself hustled through the station by the lieutenant until he was pointed towards another troop train. An officer at the train directed Ehrenberg to the second-to-last car, and to find a seat. The rest of the train cars were filled with men from all over the empire: Slovenes, Czechs, Ruthenians, Germans, Hungarians, and several Bosnians were packed together. None sat together, of course, but clustered into their own separate groups. All looked at Ehrenberg as he walked past.

He soon came to the second-to-last car, a placard on the door announcing that it was reserved for the Carthinian Force Mountain Brigade. Just one train car for an entire brigade? It was possible, but how would Czechs know anything about mountain warfare? Or Poles? Or Croats? Opening the door, Ehrenberg found himself faced with a scene that was straight out of a propagandist’s dream.
There were perhaps thirty or so men in the train car, but all watched with rapt attention at the man who, in the middle of the aisle between seats was talking with great animation.

“-Russian machine-gun starts firing, as the bullets go zing! Zing! Right above our heads, Zuckertort jumps up, and in full view turns to us and yells, ‘Ragazzi, in piedi perchè questa è l’alba di un giorno migliore’!” Everyone in the car started laughing. The speaker waved a hand for silence as he continued. “The Russians were so confused, they thought Italy had declared war on them!” Another round of laughter as the speaker’s eyes fell on Ehrenberg. “And another new man for Niemand!”

All of them turned to look at Ehrenberg. He might as well have been an animal in the Tiergarten. The previous speaker gestured at him with one of those say something, idiot motions. “I…” Ehrenberg began, wondering if it was necessary for all of these men to just stare at him the way they did. “… don’t know why I’m here.”

Silence reigned for a moment. In the background the train’s whistle could be heard.

Then all the men started to laugh again. A few shouted their sympathy.

“You and every other new person!”

“Our Sveto works in mysterious ways!”

“At least you said something, Rohr had to have somebody else introduce him!”

The speaker waved his arms for silence again. “Enough! Enough! Come over here, and we’ll introduce ourselves. It’s rude to keep a guest waiting at the door.” Everyone agreed this was a wonderful idea. Ehrenberg found himself introduced to men as fast as Rohr (the man who’d been telling the story when Ehrenberg had walked in) could introduce them. Most of the men were Germans from southern Tyrol, like Rohr, but the rest were from Hungary, Galicia, Bohemia, and even some Bosians were present.

He found himself seated next to Rohr. “Germans, Hungarians, and southern Slavs.” Ehrenberg said as he thought about the strange names and bastardized Germanic patois that the men used. “Why are we all mixed up together like this?”

Rohr pointed outside the train, at the mountains that had once been faint outlines in the background, but were becoming larger and more defined each hour. “We all have experience with those. Our Sveto decided he needed the bet men for the job after the fighting in the Carpathians.”
“Is that why the brigade only has thirty men?” Ehrenberg asked. “Or will the rest of them being waiting for us in the Carnics?”
Rohr shrugged his shoulders. “Major Niemand said he would find the rest of the men to fill out the brigade. But none of us know if he’ll be waiting for us when we de-train.” With that, Rohr shifted his knapsack to use as a makeshift pillow, and drifted off to sleep. Most of the others had decided to do the same, and Ehrenberg followed suit.
#
It was the screeching of the train’s whistle that woke them all up. Ehrenberg could see that they’d finally arrived at the station. Rohr, looking through the window at the station, thumped Ehrenberg on the shoulder. “Captain Weissen is here.” Rohr pointed to where a man stood, an adjutant at his side. “He’s the second-in-command of the brigade. That means Major Niemand hasn’t arrived yet.” Rohr hurried to explain as the men filed out of the train car.

Ehrenberg found himself wondering how Rohr knew all of this information. He wasn’t an officer, or even an NCO, the lack of any rank insignia made that clear. Yet from the way Rohr talked, he made it seem as though he had a direct line to AOK headquarters in Teschen. Before Ehrenberg could think to ask, the men were formed up in front of Captain Weissen.

Weissen made a few comments to his adjutant, who recorded everything in a pocketbook. He started to speak. “I am Captain Weissen, Major Niemand’s second-in-command. The major is collecting the rest of the brigade and will be joining us at the front with them soon.”
Rohr gave Ehrenberg a look, mouthing the words told you so.

“While it is normal to wait for the brigade to be brought to full strength that is not possible at the moment.” Weissen continued. “We have been ordered to retake a ridge that was captured by the Italians last night. You will receive complete orders when we are at the front.” Weissen had the men fall into marching columns, and with as little pomp and fanfare as possible, they were marching out of the station, through the town, and followed a well-traveled road along which trundled trucks and wagons.

The mountains, which had been barely visible at the start of the train journey (how much time had passed since then, Ehrenberg couldn’t tell) now dominated the scene. As they marched along the road, Ehrenberg could see the town and the train station were in fact nestled at the beginning of the foothills. Fir trees covered the valleys in great masses, but Ehrenberg could see they thinned out the higher up the mountain they marched.

After several hours they reached the rear lines, just where the trees had begun to thin, and the bare rock of the mountain was becoming visible. Men were huddled around cooking fires and near tents. Trenches (where they existed) were just deep enough to keep a man’s head from showing. The artillery was being pushed into position as fast as the labor gangs could clear the ground, stack the sandbags, and push the guns into place.

Weissen led the men through the trenches in the rear lines towards the second line, where the trenches showed more care in their construction. Zig-zags and right angles were incorporated, the parapets were covered in sandbags, and the walls were reinforced with wood and sheets of metal. Weissen took the men down a bewildering set of twists and turns until they arrived in what would have been a command post, but was deserted save for empty tables and a few chairs.

Taking a piece of folder paper from his pocket, Weissen spread it out on the table. Ehrenberg, Rohr, and the others crowded around. Weissen pulled out a pencil, circling a point on the map. “Ridge 217. We’re only a few hundred meters from the front trenches.” He circled a point opposite of it. “Ridge 220. The Italians took it earlier today. We’re taking it back. As some of you have noticed, Ridge 217 and Ridge 220 trend parallel to each other, separated by this valley.” Weissen tapped the area with his pencil. “The ridges join together, forming a horse-shoe shape. I’ll be taking fifteen men along and attack Ridge 220 from the side. Lieutenant Teller,” Weissen pointed to a tall German, “will take the rest of the brigade, move down through the valley, and attack going up the opposite slope. Any questions?”

Rohr was the first to speak. “Shouldn’t we wait for the artillery first? There’s going to be wire.” Several of the others agreed with this reasoning. Ehrenberg did too, though he kept his thoughts to himself.

Weissen waved the question away. “The Italians have only been there since yesterday. And besides, we’re attacking the rear of the ridge, not the front like they had to. There aren’t any machine-guns, and there won’t be any barbed wire. Besides, we’ll be bringing our own artillery, so to speak.” At these words, several soldiers came into the command post, a crate in the arms of each. Setting them down on the unused tables, their leader (a sergeant, Ehrenberg guessed, going by the chevrons on his sleeve) had Weissen sign a piece of paper, saluted, and then left.

Weissen went to one of the crates, prised open the top, and pulled out what looked like a wooden stick with a metal topper. “Hand grenades.” What followed was a brief introduction and demonstration on how they worked. There were enough grenades for two per man. Ehrenberg stuck them into his belt. After that was done, a ration detail came to the command post.

“Hot meals are how you know you’re going on the attack.” Rohr explained to Ehrenberg at the latter’s confusion.

As the men ate, Weissen and Teller could be heard picking who they wanted for which part of the assault. After the men were finished, Rohr was assigned to the “up-slope assault” (as Rohr had explained it), and Ehrenberg to the “along the ridge assault” (again, as Rohr had explained it).

Rohr clapped Ehrenberg on the shoulder. “No worries, we’ll be having some of that Italian wine by sunset! Stick close to the captain, he’s an old hand.” With those last words of encouragement and advice, Rohr and the rest of the men Teller had picked for his assault unit made their last checks, and headed out of the command post. It had been decided that since it would take more time for Teller to get his men into position, they would set off first. Weissen would wait a half-hour before leaving with his mean to get into position.

#

Little over an hour later, and Ehrenberg found himself laying prone under some bushes. Weissen had taken them on a route that started on the crest of the ridgeline, but they soon found themselves on the eastern flank, screened from Italian sentries and snipers.

An Italian sentry stood on firing step, rifle in hand.

Ehrenberg looked to his right and left. Men in pike-gray uniforms were arrayed in a loose skirmishing line. Checking to make sure his bayonet was on, he grabbed one of the grenades from his waist, checking to make sure the fuse assembly had been inserted correctly.
He repeated this ritual another four times until he was satisfied that that it had been.

A shot rang out from the underbrush, somewhere on Ehrenberg’s right. The bullet took the Italian sentry in the chest. The man staggered once, and fell back into the trench.

Ehrenberg jumped up. That was the signal! Somewhere down the valley, another shot rang out. Teller’s assault had begun, just on schedule! Ehrenberg could hear men shouting, and the sound of explosions.

His rifle in one hand, the grenade in the other, Ehrenberg dashed across the open space between the wood and Ridge 220. Unscrewing the bottom of the grenade, he threw it into one section of the trench as he jumped into another. Weissen and another man landed next to him.

The next few minutes passed in a dizzying blur of mud, rock, and the sharp angles of the trench’s contours. Ehrenberg turned a corner, only to run into an Italian coming the opposite direction. Ehrenberg fired from the hip, the bullet took the Italian in the arm. It wasn’t enough. Brandishing a spiked mace, the Italian was on Ehrenberg before he had a chance to reload.

Ehrenberg ducked the Italian’s first wild swing. Slamming the butt of his rifle into the Italian’s body, Ehrenberg felt the reassuring crunch of bone. Howling, the Italian went down, clutching his side. Ehrenberg bayoneted the Italian twice before hurrying on.

It was a process repeated two more times as the Italians, disoriented by the twin prongs of the assault, were squeezed out of the trenches. Ehrenberg shot another two in a communications trench, cutting the field telephone line with his bayonet as he passed them.
As soon as the assault had begun, it ended. Those Italians that hadn’t been killed or given themselves up were forced back down the hill. Sending a runner back to Ridge 217 with news of the success and to ask for reinforcements and supplies, Weissen turned to Ehrenberg. “You have a grenade left? Good, follow me.”

A group of Italians had found cover inside a small cavern that had been dug into the limestone. Positioned in front of Ridge 220, it had to be cleared out. When Ehrenberg had asked how he was going to do so, Weissen shook his head.
“Wait and see.” He’d said.

Now the pair of them stood near the entrance. A pair of petrol containers were on the ground. Taking Ehrenberg’s grenade, Weissen unscrewed the bottom, pulled the cord, and threw it through the entrance. A muffled thump and some dust were the only results. Weissen motioned for Ehrenberg to grab one of the petrol containers as he grabbed the other. Pouring the contents down the entrance, Ehrenberg stepped back as Weissen struck a match and threw it into the entrance.

A sheet of flame poured out of the opening. Men came out too, screaming, their hair and clothes on fire. They moved like dancers on a stage, limbs flailing as they looked for some relief from the flames. Soon they fell to the ground, the flames still crackling as they burned. Weissen, still silent, made his way back to the trenches, Ehrenberg close behind.

A regiment of Bosnians reinforced Ridge 220 a few hours later.

Ehrenberg staggered into one of the dugouts, stumbled into one of the makeshift beds, and fell fast asleep. It would be the last night of restful sleep he’d have for three years.
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