Narrativa contemporanea nel segno del Bersagliere

'The Battle in the Snows'

By Luigi Barzini

Luigi Barzini sr nasce a Orvieto (Terni, Italia) il 7 febbraio 1874. Figlio di un sarto e di una casalinga orvietani, mentre è studente a Perugia realizza con l'amico Ettore Marroni un giornaletto numero unico Sgorbi e Sgarbi, dove si dedica soprattutto ai disegni (agli sgorbi). Nel novembre 1898 con un centinaio di lire in tasca va a Roma per tentare l’avventura giornalistica. I risultati sono però deludenti, finché in gennaio ritrova l'amico Marroni, diventato capo redattore del Fanfulla, che lo aiuta facendo arrivare un suo primo pezzo sulla scrivania del direttore. Partendo da queste 25 lire inizia la collaborazione "umoristica" con il giornale, dove viene assunto "in prova". Collabora anche con il Capitan Fracassa, ma nel 1900 è già inviato speciale e corrispondente di guerra per il Corriere della sera di Luigi Albertini, e segue la rivolta dei Boxer cinesi. In seguito è sul fronte del conflitto russo-giapponese (Mukden 1905). Nell'estate 1907 partecipa all'avventuroso raid automobilistico Pechino-Parigi (traendone il libro fotografico "Da Pechino a Parigi in sessanta giorni", edito da Hoepli nel 1908 e distribuito in 11 lingue). Il terremoto di Messina del 1908 sarà ancora nel suo racconto. Nel corso della grande guerra scrive oltre che per l’Italia per giornali inglesi (The War Illustrated). Nel 1920 lascia il Corriere e si sposta negli Usa dove fonda e dirige il 'Corriere d’America' (1923/1931). Quando rientra in Italia è chiamato a Napoli a dirigere il Mattino. Per la sua popolarità e per le corrispondenze che ha col 'Popolo d’Italia' (organo del PNF) è senatore del Regno nel 1934. Di nuovo in prima linea durante il conflitto (Russia), dopo l’8 settembre accetta la direzione dell'agenzia di stampa Stefani della R.S.I. Dopo la Liberazione gli viene tolta la carica di senatore (ricorre ma la sentenza sarà comunque negativa) e soffre un isolamento che gli genera anche gravi difficoltà economiche. Muore a Milano (Italia) il 6 settembre 1947.


Luigi Barzini sr (February 7, 1874 – September 6, 1947) was an Italian journalist, war correspondent and writer.Born at Orvieto, Barzini started his career as a journalist in 1898, working for minor Italian magazines and was almost immediately noticed and hired by Luigi Albertini, then director of the Corriere della Sera, the most prestigious Italian newsaper. In 1900, he was sent as war correspondent to Qing Dynasty China, where he witnessed and reported about the Boxer Rebellion, distinguishing himself for his high sensitivity and ability to get first hand information and for his scoops. As a journalist of the Corriere della Sera, in 1907 he accompanied Prince Scipione Borghese in the famous Peking to Paris motor race, winning it after a journey of months in an Itala car across China and Siberia, traveling amongst regions and people that had never seen a car before. During World War I, Barzini was the official correspondent with the Italian Army; an account of his experiences was published in The War Illustrated. In the 1920s, Barzini left the Corriere della Sera and moved to the United States, where he directed the Italian-American newspaper Corriere d'America from 1923 to 1931. Returning to Italy, he was director of the Il Mattino and became a senator in 1934. He died in Milan in 1947. His son, Luigi Barzini, Jr., was also a journalist and writer. da wikipedia 

from 'the War Illustrated' 9th August, 1916

We were encamped on the mountain side, in caverns dug into the ice-hardened snow, around us the rugged and angry peaks of Pal Piccolo, beneath us the Pass of Monte Croce. Here is one of the vital spots in the Italian line, for it commands the Freikofel approaches, and consequently the way into the Italian plains. Where the cluster of hills reaches its highest point two crests tower above all the others, to a height of about 6000 feet. They stand opposite to one another, running somewhat parallel along their summits, separated by a distance of about one hundred yards. One is in our hands, the other in those of the Austrians. At half-past two in the morning, in the midst of a driving snowstorm, we were awakened by the incessant crackle of rifle fire. "There is a fight at Pal Piccolo," telephoned the sentry, "but it is a matter of no importance." A few moments later the captain in command at Quota 1859 — which is the great military trenchwork guarding our position on the Pal — telephoned for reinforcements. The Austrians had come over the snow and had attacked him. "Counter-attack immediately," was the order from the colonel. "I have done so already," replied the captain, "but I have lost a number of my men." Suddenly the telephone communications were broken off — a proof that he was already besieged and had his lines of communication destroyed.

White Phantoms in a Blizzard

The situation was extremely grave. One of our most important positions had suddenly fallen into Austrian hands. Over the intervening snow they had come, clad entirely in white. It was in the depth of night, with a blinding and bitter storm raging, so that the sentries could not have seen the moving mass. Generally on the darkest night a figure moving on the mountain, even though clad in the colour of the snow, throws a distinct reflection on the ice-encrusted ground ; but on that night no eye could pierce .the dense screen of the storm. Our men were shoveling the freshly fallen snow from their trenches when they were surprised by the phantom-like Austrians, who fell upon them in enormous masses. They bound the hands of the sentries with wire and smashed their skulls with rifles. On they came, wave after wave in quick succession, flooding the main trenches and connecting galleries. From these galleries to the caves where our Alpini dwell a system of subterranean corridors run. The corridors are in the form of stairways whose steps are made of wood or hewn into the rock. Up to the openings of the corridors the Austrians came, destroying the stairways as far as possible and building barricades across the exits, so as to prevent any advance on the part of those who had retired to the refuges.

Having fought bravely and lost heavily, the garrison of Quota 1859 withdrew into its refuge, bringing as many of its wounded as possible, and decided to await reinforcements. Its position became surrounded and its communications entirely cut off. But the captain was determined not to surrender. Screened somewhat by the darkness and the blinding storm, his men rushed to and fro, bringing sand- bags, tables, and iron plates to block the mouths of their fortress. When the morning broke they peered out, only to see the phantom mass of howling enemies surrounding them. Jeeringly the Austrians shouted : "Down, Italians ! We are your masters. To-day, Pal Piccolo ; to-morrow, Pal Grande." They were but twenty yards distant, shouting hurrahs, hymns, and songs of victory. And they had reason to be confident of success; for their enterprise had been carefully planned and skilfully carried out. An enormous mass of defensive material was brought up — sand-bags, steel plates, searchlights, ammunition, and artillery — and the position consolidated. Should they succeed in holding their ground they would eventually control one of the main roads to Italy.

The Italian Counter-Attack

We realised the seriousness of it fully. One of the most important spots along our whole line, a vital spot, was in danger. "We must act immediately," ordered the general. "Each hour's delay may cost hundreds of lives." A company of Bersaglieri at once received orders to attack the Austrians on the left. Forward they went, forging .ahead in single file, tunnelling the newly fallen snow to afford themselves a passage. But they were soon swept by the rifle fire and artillery of the enemy. The commander, two leading officers, and several of the men fell. Further advance was impossible; so they wheeled to the left and sought protection under the lee of a towering snow-peak. In order to understand this form of warfare one must know something of the conditions under which it is waged. On the mountain the distances are short but the journeys are long. In order to arrive at a point not more than two hundred yards away, one must follow a zigzag course, leading downwards over precipitous declines and again upwards, scaling angry crags and circumventing treacherous ravines. As one moves forward the path must be excavated, and this is absolutely necessary where fresh snow has fallen. The battlefield is small but the manoeuvring is on a colossal scale. The enemy is near at hand, but the movements necessary to come into touch with him lie through distances that are well-nigh infinite. The mountain takes part in the conflict, pushing forward gigantic obstacles which make every step a combat. It has thrown up its fortresses and delved its moats, and it must be conquered before the enemy can be attacked.

The attack of the Bersaglieri failed, and for the moment it appeared as if our line would be broken. So we hastily built new trenches and brought up reserves for the defence. Our artillery came into action, but the blanket of clouds rendered aim impossible. The sky was our target, the heavens themselves were now against us. The wounded were falling into the deep glacial ravines, their cries for help reverberating against the cruel walls, piteous and tragic. Then another plan of attack was decided upon. The Alpini took the centre of the advance, with the infantry on the right and the Barsagheri on the left. To make progress possible, and escape the withering fire of the Austrian artillery, they had to tunnel the mountain, through the hard ice and snow. In subterranean corridors they moved forward. It was tedious work, and all the while the Austrian position on the crest was growing stronger. After hours and hours of anxious waiting we saw our men emerge from their tunnels. Little black specks they looked on the side of the great white mountain. They appeared in batches of three, calling out orders and cries of encouragement to one another. One could see hands lifted to the grasping hand above, pulling one another upward by means of axes, ropes, alpenstocks, and rifles.

Then we saw circles of white smoke floating over the Austrian position. Our machine-guns rent the air. The crackle of their shells against the steel-plate Austrian defences was re-echoed from the glacial walls of the surrounding peaks. Recognising the sound, our troops on the lower portions of the hill shouted, "Bravo, Cariino ! Bravo, Carlino !" — the pet name given by the mountaineers to the little bronze machine-gun which is the watchdog of the trenches. The Austrians sneeringly shouted, "Come on, Italians !" They were not more than one hundred yards away, but they occupied a crest which controlled every approach. The intervening ground consisted of a rugged steep, teeming with jagged crags and deep ravines, the whole terrain swept by the enemy's artillery. To advance in daytime was out of the question, so it was decided to wait for the cover of night

Red Tracks Across the Snow

At nine o'clock the signal was given, and a riot of fire surrounded the crest. An Austrian searchlight swept the mountain side, the dark sky was lit up by an orange glow, and the whole zone became a palpitating mass of living flame. Our infantry swept around the shoulder of the crest, taking advantage of the shelter given them by the craggy banks of a mountain torrent. But our frontal attack could not proceed. There they stood, immobile and determined, but unable to advance, grappled together in groups, awaiting a more auspicious moment, annealed to the crags by the congealing snow and ice, insensible to cold and hunger, but determined not to yield an inch. A little before midnight they sprang once more to the attack. Wounded again and again, lines of red marked their track across the snow, but still they went forward and upward. At midnight some sections had already arrived at a spot within six yards of the Austrians; other sections were within fifty yards. But the Austrian rain of hand-grenades was devastating. Our troops lost all their officers, and the attack had to be suspended once again. A damp snow was falling, freezing into a mailcoat of ice as it covered the bodies of the men. At one in the morning a new order was given. Up from the shoulder of the hill came a detachment of Bersaglieri and Alpini. Some had rackets on their feet, tobogganing over mountains of snow, while others waded breast-deep through the newly-fallen drifts. Sometimes several hours were spent in covering only a few yards.

Then came the dawn — the dawn of the third day of struggle — ashen grey, cold and sad, filling one's soul with a sense of death. Because of the nearness of our troops to the Austrians our artillery could not come into action, but Carlino kept barking at the enemy, so that he was unable to show himself above the parapet. However, the Austrians were ready with a store of hand-grenades and rifles at the mouth of the gallery, just above the parapet. While they remained there, further attack was impossible.

Out of the unknown, like shades of the dead wandering on the mountain, came two Alpini, clad in white shirts. Nobody could divine whence they had come or whither they would go. They were utterly unarmed, simply carrying a harmless bread-basket. Soon they were at the mouth of the gallery, which towered above them like the balcony of a castle built of glistening ice. One was seen to stoop and lift the wooden ladder which the Austrians had thrown down. They placed it against the side of the wall and climbed upwards, while a shower of hand- grenades and rifle fire from the Austrians poured over their heads. Poising with the coolness of an athlete in the games, one launched his loaf of bread against the parapet. Another and another throw. Then the parapet leaped upwards. A wild cry of "Savoia!" rent the air; the. breach had been made. From crag to crag, from crest to crest, the loud hurrahs were passed, until the whole mountain became vocal. Upwards rushed the infantry, Bersaglieri, and Alpini, from right and left and centre. It was a struggle of sublime terror, waged on towering cliffs in the midst of the clouds, on a winter island, cast into the skies from the tepid seas of spring. As the battle raged the fighting units became intermixed. As the officers fell, the sergeants and soldiers leapt forward to command, but, dominating .all and directing all was the sublime faith and enthusiasm, which burned in each breast

"Avanti alla baionetta!"

"Up, up, Savoia!" rang the wild cry. Bersaglieri and Alpini pulled one another up the sides of the glistening crags, some holding the bare bayonet between their teeth. "Up, up, Savoia !" Soon they were scaling the parapet. An Alpine colonel threw his feathered hat in the air, crying out, "Avanti, alla baionetta !" Then a heavy green cloud of poison gas was belched forth from the Austrians, but the wind blew it away from our men. Heaven, was with us. "Avanti, Savoia !". In a thousand echoes the mountains crashed back the cry. Soon the bayonets were at work in the trenches, and the ground became encumbered with heaps of Austrian dead. The struggle of the terrible three days was over. Pal Piccolo was ours once more. We counted six hundred dead, but that was only a fraction of the enemy's losses. They fought well and bravely, but they could not master the bravery and skill of our men. And thus Pal Piccolo remains the most heroic and sublime struggle ever fought on the mountains. In the moment of victory the besieged garrison came forth gleamingly and shook the hands of their deliverers. "We knew you would come," they said.

Ebbe la medaglia d'oro alla memoria per il combattimento del 26-27 marzo 1916 il Sottotenente Michele Vitali (1895-1916) da Parma. Il 26 marzo, in mezzo a una tormenta di neve ed utilizzando gallerie sotto il ghiaccio il nemico occupò di sorpresa una sua vecchia posizione strappatagli con sacrificio. Soltanto la mattina del 27, dopo ore di lotta gli alpini i fanti e i bersaglieri del 16° del Col. Paolino Arcodaci riuscirono ad aprirsi un varco. Vitali ferito già nel primo contrattacco non abbandonò la lotta e rimase sul campo fermandosi solo davanti alla muraglia che gli si era parata contro e sulla quale stava il nemico con una micidiale mitragliatrice. Approntata una rudimentale scala a pioli, con 3 uomini al seguito fra cui  Sebastiano Scirè Risichella, (futuro oro), sale la parete e ingaggia un corpo a corpo coi nemici che difendevano la postazione. Ferito una seconda volta, attese l'arrivo di rinforzi e cadde al suolo definitivamente. Motivazione: Contrattaccava col suo plotone il nemico, che era riuscito ad occupare una nostra trincea. Ferito e respinto, si appostava a breve distanza dall’avversario e con tiri di fucileria lo molestava nei lavori di rafforzamento. Il giorno successivo prendeva d’assalto la posizione nemica, dandovi la scalata mediante una scala a pioli. Rimasto con pochi bersaglieri, si affermava sulla posizione stessa, finchè giunti nuovi rinforzi, benché ferito più volte, si slanciava all’assalto decisivo, cadendo colpito al capo; fulgido esempio di valore e di tenacia. Pal Piccolo, 26-27 marzo 1916.

Ebbe nello stesso giorno la medaglia d'Argento Gaetano Tavoni nato nel 1889 a Vignola (Mo): Volontario nel 6° bersaglieri, nel 1906, dopo avere raggiunto il grado di sergente maggiore fu ammesso alla Scuola di Modena dalla quale uscì sottotenente nel 1911. Destinato al 10° reggimento bersaglieri di Palermo, partecipò dal maggio 1915 alla prima guerra mondiale riportando una ferita al Pal Piccolo nel marzo del 1916 col 16° Bersaglieri (Il 10°bis generato dal deposito di PALERMO prese il numero 16° dal 5 gennaio 1916 inquadrandosi nella 26a div. del XII C.d.A. autonomo della carnia) e l’Argento. Dimesso dall’ospedale, rinunciò al servizio sedentario per raggiungere il 10° originario in Albania che lasciò nell’ottobre 1917 con la promozione a maggiore per assumere il comando di un battaglione del 204° fanteria della Brigata “Tanaro”. Rimpatriato e destinato al 9° reggimento alpini, fu promosso tenente colonnello nel 1927 ed assegnato al comando della III Brigata alpini ove rimase fino al 1932 quando rientrò al 9° . Con la promozione a colonnello nel 1939 ne assumeva il comando e il 13 aprile 1939 partiva per l’Albania. Ferito gravemente l’8 gennaio 1941, decedeva il 16 marzo all’ospedale militare del Celio in Roma.

Ebbe anche il bronzo al Valor Militare il LXIII battaglione per il combattimento del Trincerone

cartolina postbellica del XII CdAMotivazione della Medaglia d’Oro al valor militare “alla memoria” in Albania anni dopo :Comandante 9° Reggimento Alpini già fortemente provato in lungo e gravoso periodo di gloriose lotte in aspro terreno e contro nemico agguerrito, lo guidava a brillanti successi, anche in favore di altre unità che, accerchiate da preponderanti forze nemiche, potevano così disimpegnarsi. Impavido, instancabile, costantemente sereno di fronte alle maggiori offese nemiche nel corso di duri ininterrotti combattimenti, infondeva ai suoi reparti, con l’esempio personale, con l’ardente sua fede e con le sue preclari virtù di comandante, sempre maggiore spirito di lotta e di resistenza. Gravemente colpito, noncurante delle ferite riportate che, in seguito, ne causavano la morte continuava, con l’eroico suo comportamento ed ascendente personale sotto il violento fuoco avversario, a potenziare l’azione dei suoi reparti intesa a rompere gli ostinati attacchi del nemico che era costretto a ripiegare in disordine. Eroica figura di capo, superbo esempio di fede e di sacrificio. Pindo (Grecia), Monte Chiarista, 28 ottobre-31 dicembre 1940-Mali Topojanit

Un mese sulla difensiva tra le montagne della Carnia dal diario di guerra di Mussolini
26 Marzo.
Giunge dal Freikofel il rombo ininterrotto del cannone. Si combatte. Ma l’eco della battaglia vicina non sembra turbare eccessivamente i cittadini di Paluzza. La caratteristica chiesetta, dinanzi alla fontana, rigurgita di gente che ascolta la messa. Gruppi, fra i quali sono molti soldati, stanno davanti alla porta principale e a quelle laterali. Un sergente maggiore del Comando di tappa mi informa che da Timau si sono chieste « tutte le ambulanze disponibili ». Ciò dà un’idea della gravità del combattimento. (si tratta appunto della operazione in corso al Trincerane, al Pal Piccolo, che assurgerà agli onori di cronaca diversi giorni dopo)
Alle undici ci raduniamo per partire. Siamo accompagnati dal sottotenente Menini, lombardo. Addio Paluzza! Attraversiamo il But e tocchiamo Cercivento. Segue Ravascletto, dove troviamo la neve. Siamo a 947 metri. Ecco Comeglians, da dove comincia la valle del Degano. Tappa serale a Rigolato, pieno di alpini del 3°. Sono giovani del ‘96 provenienti da Torino. Le osterie sono affollate di soldati. Nelle strade non ci sono fanali. Buio pesto. Ma da un accantonamento, non lungi dalla strada principale, si leva un coro che si diffonde con una certa solennità nella notte stellata.
27 Marzo.
Da Rigolato a Forni Avoltri (siamo soto il Peralba) ci sono 7 km. e mezzo di strada maestra. A Forni c’è il Comando del mio battaglione. Lungo la strada, il solito movimento delle retrovie: biciclette, carri, camions. Incontriamo una piccola automobile della Croce Rossa inglese, guidata da uno chauffeur coll’inevitabile pipa corta in bocca. A Forni, dove giungiamo verso le 11, ci dicono dove si trova la mia compagnia. Ci mettiamo al seguito della colonna dei muli che portano i viveri. Di rimarchevole a Forni non ho visto che un palazzo delle scuole elementari, quasi grandioso. Siamo una decina di bersaglieri: con noi l’aspirante ufficiale Baldesi, toscano. Tre ore di marcia lungo una mulattiera che attraversa un’abetaia così folta, che impedisce al sole di giungere a terra. A quota 1576, alla destra del torrente Bordaglia, che nasce dal laghetto omonimo, trovo il 1° plotone della mia compagnia (33° btg). Sono arrivato. Il plotone è ricoverato — insieme con altri bersaglieri ciclisti del 10° — in una baracca di legno a tre piani. Di fianco c’è la cucina e uno sgabuzzino, sulla cui porta mal connessa sta scritto pomposamente: Sala convegno per fumatori. C’è il fumo, ci sono i fumatori, ma quanto alla sala è... un’esagerazione. La stanchezza mi concilia rapidamente il sonno.
30 Marzo.

Nevica da sedici ore. Tutto è bianco. La mulattiera è sommersa. Pomeriggio: nevica sempre. La posta non è giunta. Ore lunghe. Nella baracca, al primo, al secondo, al terzo piano si gioca a carte, si fuma, si canta. Io, col ventre a terra, scrivo queste note. Domattina, sveglia alle quattro. Dopo gli attacchi al Pal Piccolo, bisogna vigilare. Tale è l’ordine telefonico del capitano. L’eventualità di un’azione lusinga i soldati. Nevica sempre. Sono cadute due valanghe con un boato tremendo. Non si ha notizia di vittime. I morti in seguito a valanghe non sono stati molti in questa zona: cinque e alcuni feriti.


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