9.
Italy.
Back on my bike, I returned to Obertilliach via a steep track and the spooky forest from the previous morning. After travelling a few miles west along the valley I stopped at a small village. Next to the road was a memorial to the villagers who had died whilst fighting for Austro-Hungary during the Great War. It reminded me of similar, small memorials that you see at every village and town across Britain and it was good to see that the Austrians did the same. I had probably seen or would see the places that those Austrian men had met their ends, so I left a poppy in their memory.
The weather was warming up again in stark contrast to the snow the day before, so I was relieved about the stiff breeze which was blowing through the valley, as I headed west towards the town of Sillian and the Italian border, which I reached in the late afternoon.
After passing through the border, I couldn’t notice any obvious differences between Austria and Italy. The scenery and buildings looked the same, plus the locals spoke German as their first language, which probably doesn’t please the Italian government. It would seem that the Italian desire to control the area of South Tyrol, which was the main reason for them entering the fighting against their allies of Austria-Hungary, was a total waste of time and lives. South Tyrol might now be a region of modern Italy, but I think that even after a century, its heart and soul still belongs to Austria.
The sun had set and dusk was falling as I reached the town of San Candido (Innichen). Although desperate to find somewhere to sleep, I still stopped at a monument to the war which lay at the side of the road to the east. Upon closer inspection I discovered that it was an ossuary containing the remains of 218 Italian and 10 Austro-Hungarian soldiers. After leaving a poppy, I carried on through the town before camping in the woods on the southern outskirts.
My route through Italy was supposed to be the most difficult section of my journey, but by the time I got to Slovenia, I knew that I would have to change my plans. I had planned to leave my bike at the bottom of the Dolomite mountains whilst I ascended them by the Via Ferratas, before dropping back down to retrieve my bike. A lot of the Via Ferratas had been originally constructed by the mountain troops during the war as a means of quickly ascending the mountains to their defensive positions.
At the time, I wasn’t particularly disappointed about not sticking to my plans, but now I regret it. My journey was all about following the battlefields. I still did that through Italy, but mostly from the bottom of the valleys, as I deemed it too risky to use the Via Ferratas in my weakened state. (Plus, I didn’t have a spare £50 for the safety lanyards which I had planned on buying in Italy!) I will get back there one day to follow those battlefields, but I probably made the correct decision at the time.
The following morning I turned south onto the road, which leads from Dobiacco (Toblach) and through the heart of the Dolomites, until it reaches the large town of Cortina d’Ampezzo. After a few miles, I turned a corner and saw the still waters of Toblacher See (lake) perfectly mirroring the vertical mountains high above. My immediate thought was ‘How the heck could anybody fight up there?’ I wasn’t thinking of the difficulties of fighting in such a place, but rather the beauty of it. It inspires you to revel in the majesty of nature and peace. I just sat and stared at it for about half an hour before continuing on my way. The soldiers from a century ago probably had the same thoughts. Fraternisation with the enemy was a common problem for both sides on the Italian Front and I’m not surprised, as the scenery doesn’t inspire you to kill people. It wasn’t unheard of for units of Austro-Hungarian and Italian soldiers to meet up on remote mountains for a picnic!
A little bit further along the road past Toblacher See, I came across an Austro-Hungarian cemetery in the most remarkable setting. It had been constructed adjacent to a field hospital, so the soldiers who now lay there had died of their wounds after reaching the relative safety of a field hospital.
The cemetery is located in a small clearing in the pine forest at the foot of the mountains. The trees muffled the noise of the traffic from the nearby road through the valley, forming a sanctuary of peace and quiet which was very fitting as those men deserve to lie in peace. The Germanic looking wooden grave markings were set in rows, which rose up through the hillside before merging with the trees at the back of the clearing. Despite its beauty, there is one slightly upsetting thing about this cemetery. In the 1940s, all of the German speaking soldiers were moved to another cemetery, whilst leaving the rest here. It was almost like they were not good enough. Death should not recognise a class system. Indeed it does not, but I couldn’t help thinking that whilst there.
1,256 Hungarians, Serbs, Slovenians, Russians and a single Belgium soldier lie in the cemetery. I don’t know where they moved the German speaking soldiers to, but wherever it is, it can’t compare to the natural beauty which surrounds that cemetery. As I was stood there, my eyes were drawn to a sheer cliff face which rose above the trees around the cemetery. The white Dolomite limestone was shining bright in the sun and in all of the cemeteries that I visited on my journey, I had never seen a finer obelisk or memorial to the dead who lay below.
The men in that cemetery had died from wounds inflicted during the fighting to capture Monte Piana, which is located a couple of miles further south in the valley. Its lofty bulk rises to a height of 2305m and was one of the most heavily fought over mountains in the Dolomites.
Fortunately for me, it wasn’t too difficult to access that particular battlefield.
After I hid my bike in the forest, to the north of Lago di Landi (lake), I ascended a wartime mule track, which wound up the forested north western slopes of Monte Piana. Higher up, the trees which hid the views gave way as I headed south to the well preserved Austro-Hungarian positions on its northern summit. As well as the far reaching views from this location, it also afforded me a great view of the Italian positions a few hundred yards away on the southern summit.
The whole mountain plateau has been preserved as an outdoor museum in the memory of those who died there from both sides during one of the longest and most bloody battles of the Italian Front. Monte Piana formed part of the frontier between pre-war Italy and Austro-Hungary, so it was therefore of great tactical and historical importance to both sides on the outbreak of the war. The Austrians occupied it first, but were forced to retreat to the northern summit in the face of almost fanatical attacks by the Italians. Despite many attacks and counterattacks by both sides, neither side managed to capture the whole mountain until after the breakthrough during the Battle of Caporetto, many miles to the east. The Italians were forced to abandon their positions on Monte Piana to avoid becoming marooned in Austrian held territory.
Back in the valley, I headed to the town of Cortina d’Ampezzo, which although pleasant, offered little for me and my lack of money, although I did manage to charge my phone up for an hour or so in a tourist information office. It was very late in the day by then, so I headed south west out of the town and onto the start of the Passo Faizarego road, where I camped in some woods and ate a massive meal comprising entirely of pasta and rice. The ‘slightly’ hilly terrain meant that I was having to eat like a horse in order to maintain my energy levels but after a quick foray into an Italian shop earlier that day I had noticed that Italian food was quite pricy to say the least! (A single tin of Heinz tomato soup cost over five flipping Euros!) The 83 Euros that I had left a few days ago had now been reduced to about 50! Gulp!
The upper reaches of Passo Faizarego were literally no man’s land during the majority of the war, with the Italians holding the mountain to the south (Cinque Torri.) whilst the Austro-Hungarians held the mountains to the north and at the head of the pass (Lagazoui and Sasso di Stria.) Neither side managed to dislodge the other, despite some serious fighting on the ridges and summits. Apparently there’s still at lot of remains left on those mountains, but I had neither the time nor the energy to search for them, although I did manage to visit Fort Tre Sassi which is located a bit further down the northern side of the pass. The fort bore the scars of heavy Italian shelling which occurred during the first year of the Italian Front in 1915. A few hundred yards to the west of the fort are the remains of an Austro-Hungarian defensive line, which was built to defend the northern end of the pass from an Italian attack. It is now an open air museum and although it’s an interesting place in stunning mountain scenery, it felt a bit too well kept and false. I suppose that they had reconstructed the buildings and trenches so that people can see what it looked like during the war, whilst I prefer ruins. (It’s just the way I am, as I’ve always preferred ruined castles, with their air of mystery, over complete castles which still looked like they could be lived in.)
Back at the top of the pass, I started to descend a third road which headed south down a series of hairpin bends towards the valley below. Part way down, I stopped at a clearing in the forest to have a distant look at the amazing Andraz castle which sits on a rocky knoll on the side of the mountain Col di Lana. It looked like something out of an Arthurian legend. My eyes and thoughts then drifted upwards to the mountains above, recalling the events that took place up there during the war.
The Col di Lana was part of the high chain of defensive positions which the Austro-Hungarians retreated to at the start of the war and despite many attacks by the Italians they managed to hold onto the summit during 1915 and the early part of 1916. This changed on the 17th April 1916, when the Italians blew the top off the mountain with a huge underground mine, forcing the Austro-Hungarians to relinquish the summit and retreat to a neighbouring summit (Monte Sief) ½ a mile or so to the north. To prevent the Italians doing the same on Monte Sief, the Austro-Hungarians destroyed the pass between the two mountains in November 1917 using an explosive charge of 45,000 pounds, which had the desired effect and prevented any further gains by the Italians.
My route then followed the high Buchenstein Valley which heads west, below the heavily fought over mountains before ending at the Pordoi Pass.
The war is still a touchy subject in this area, as the Italians banned usage of the word Buchenstein until 2013, preferring Fodora Valley instead. Partly because everything in that valley looks Austrian, but also because I’m an obstinate Yorkshireman, I will therefore refer to it as the Buchenstein Valley. Yes, it is Italian now and has been since 1919 when the ‘Mighty Italian Liberators’ marched in, but the Austrians didn’t lose the Buchenstein Valley through war, they lost it through peace, as the Italians had retreated from this area to avoid becoming surrounded after the German/Austro-Hungarian breakthrough during the Battle of Caporetto in late Autumn 1917. It was only the final collapse of the Central powers that gifted the Buchenstein Valley to the Italians.
Although I couldn’t follow the high mountainous battlefields that border the valley, there were still some reminders of the war in the valley bottom. I left a poppy at a war memorial in the village of Pieve before heading towards Arabba ,which is the principle town and ski resort of the Buchenstein Valley. A couple of miles before Arabba were the remains of two small fortresses, which were part of the Austro-Hungarian defences. Although they were never attacked directly, they had to endure some very heavy Italian artillery bombardments. Unfortunately neither of them is currently open to the public so I just had to view them from the road instead. The first was Fort La Corte, which is now a total ruin and part of someone’s garden. The second was the Fortress Ruaz, which has been rebuilt and is now a hotel and restaurant.
Although a nice enough place, Arabba didn’t offer anything of interest to me, so after passing through I started to ride up a series of tortuous hairpin bends which eventually led to the summit of the Pordoi Pass.
As you have probably realised by now, throughout my journey I was beset by spells of bad luck and my time on the summit of the Pordoi Pass wasn’t any different. By the time I got there (late afternoon) it was foggy and cold. The fine views over the Dolomite mountain range had been replaced by low cloud and fog. Bloody typical, but it helped to set the mood for my next destination.
On the northern side of the pass I followed a smaller road which headed east for about a mile, before leaving my bike at a small building which was the local office for the Volksbund Deutsche Kriegsgraberfursorge. Next to the building was a small stone cross which was probably the original German memorial at that location and I left a poppy there before walking east on a path towards a low tower like structure that kept disappearing from sight into the mist and cloud that shrouded the pass.
The Pordoi Austro/German war cemetery stands at a height of 2,239m (7,345ft) and despite the building work starting in the 1930s it wasn’t completed until the late 1950s due to another little war getting in the way. The building, itself reminded me of the German cemetery in Bitola, Macedonia, which I had visited earlier in my journey. Fortunately it was in a much better state of repair.
Like the Bitola cemetery, Pordoi was also an ossuary, which contained the remains of 8,582 Austro-Hungarian and German soldiers who had died in that general area during World War One. As the ossuary itself had been finished in the 1930s, 849 German soldiers who had been killed during the Second World War had been buried outside of this, but inside a second lower wall which enclosed both themselves and the ossuary from the mountainside.
The ossuary in the centre was built as an 8.5m high octagonal tower with a single door and narrow slit like windows high upon the walls. Because of those, the interior was as gloomy as the fog outside as I slowly stepped into the short entrance tunnel. On a bright day, the sun probably streamed through the small windows, lighting up the walls, carvings and central altar, but all I saw were primeval shadows inside that castle of the dead. The atmosphere felt stifling at first, only softening slightly when I lit a candle that stood upon the central altar. The flickering light from the candle meant that I could explore further. Wreaths of flowers adorned the bare stone walls along with rough carvings of figures depicting German soldiers, whilst above these on a second floor, a balcony encircled what lay below. I can’t bring myself to describe the interior of an ossuary as a place of beauty, but it was very striking and an extremely well thought out memorial to the men who lay there in their everlasting sleep. Before I entered, I had wished that the sun had been out to brighten the mood, but as I left, I was glad for the gloom, for it meant that I was alone as I held my head, with nobody to see the English tears, mourning the Germanic dead.
That evening I decided to spend some of my rapidly dwindling money by staying on a campsite for two nights at the town of Canazei. There were a couple of reasons for this decision, the first being my need to charge up my phone & battery packs, whilst the second was an urge to get up an Italian mountain and back to the actual battlefields.
The following morning, after a very early start, I headed south and then east along the valley from Canazei. The mighty Mt Marmolada to the south towered over the valley, blocking out the early morning sun. Although Mt Marmolada wasn’t my destination as I had neither the time nor the energy to climb its lofty peaks, I couldn’t help thinking about the battles which took place up there all those years ago.
Before the war, the border between Austro-Hungary and Italy dissected the mountain, so upon the opening of hostilities it’s understandable that both sides wanted control of the 3,343m high summit. Whilst the main battles were fought on the high summits and ridges, or underneath in the many tunnels, the most casualties occurred on both the north and the south faces of the mountain, where the soldiers from both sides were billeted. As along came the tragedy of White Friday, although it actually happened on Wednesday the 13th December 1916. (The newspapers reported it on the Friday, hence its name.)
An early winter’s heavy snowfall and sudden thaw caused a series of avalanches to plunge down the mountainsides on Mt Marmolada and the surrounding mountains. 10,000 men from both sides died in the December 1916 avalanches. Many of the men were never recovered and their remains still lie somewhere in the mountains, either buried by rocks or ice, or reduced to scraps of bleached white bones in some forgotten corner of the century old battlefields. In recent years, well preserved bodies have been recovered from the areas retreating glaciers. At least now they will receive a decent burial.
No, I was in no fit state to get up the Marmolada, so I headed further east towards the high damned lake of Lago di Fedaia where I hid my bike in some woods on the southern shore.
Although I thought that this would be the easiest place to get back to the high battlefields in the area, I still struggled with the steep gradient as I ascended a path up towards the summit of a ridge to the north. I was correct to avoid anything more technically challenging than walking, as my journey had weakened me considerably. My destination was the Austro-Hungarian defensive positions on the slopes of Mt Padon, which was tame compared to the bulk of Marmolada on the other side of the valley. After finding a few old bunkers and trenches, I was content to just spend a few hours staring at the majestic scenery which surrounded me, as I knew that I had to save some energy for the ride back to the campsite later that afternoon. It was the first time that I have ever struggled to climb a mountain, but I was happy all the same and fortunately the rest of the day was quite leisurely. Although I recognised the fact that there would have to be no more mountains climbed in Italy whilst on my little journey.
My original route would have followed the battlefields south west from Mt Marmolada until I reached Lake Garda, where I would have turned a corner and headed north along even more mountains, until reaching the Swiss border near to the town of Bormio, 50 odd miles further north. I had slightly overestimated my ability to complete this section of my route. There is no doubt in my mind that I would be able to complete the route in normal times, but not after what my journey had thrown at me since Turkey. Maybe I’ll have another crack at it in the future, but at the time I was more concerned about not being able to make it home and I didn’t have a back-up plan!
With less than 30 Euros and 4 days worth of food left to my name, I decided to abandon my plans for that section of the Italian Front. I would still try to visit as many sites related to the war as possible, but on a more direct route towards the Swiss border.
With the decision made, I could relax as I rode along the upper Fassa Valley. My spirit was unbroken and I still had the drive to complete my journey in the best way that I could. Therefore I felt better about my decision after I had visited the Austro-Hungarian dead at a small cemetery located near the village of Vigo di Fassa, which contains the remains of 663 soldiers.
Further down the valley, past the town of Predazzo, the southern skyline was dominated by the mountain of Monte Cauriol, which was unexpectedly captured by the Italians during August 1916. I’ve said unexpected, as the attack against Monte Cauriol was just supposed to be a diversion to take the Austro-Hungarian minds away from the real attacks that were to take place upon neighbouring mountains and passes in the area. None of the other objectives were captured, but a relatively small force of Italian soldiers managed to capture Monte Cauriol, which was comprised of a very heavily fortified Austro-Hungarian position.
The snow capped northern summits were shining in the sun, as I stared up at them from the road, I’d have given my left nut to be up there instead of in the valley far below, but it was not to be. I said a few words to the long dead souls who were killed on Monte Cauriol, before carrying on down the valley towards the city of Trento about 40 miles to the south west.
Trento is the capital of the Trentino province of Italy, which is the most southerly region which used to be part of the greater Austro-Hungary before the First World War changed everything.
The region of Trentino stretches from Lake Garda in the south, to just above the city of Meran in the north. Whilst the western edge reaches the Swiss border and the east ends just before Cortina d’Ampezzo. Its high mountains and deep valleys contain many reminders of the horrendous events of a century ago. Where the land and most of the people belonged to Austria, but like I’ve said before, they still do really.
In the north east of the city, near to the river Adige, are located a number of ossuaries and burial sites from the war. Looking back now, I can’t differentiate them from each other, but I do remember that they were separated by nationality, with two (I think?) containing the remains of over 10,000 Austro-Hungarian soldiers. There were a similar number of Italians buried under another two ossuaries but what stood out for me the most was a single British grave located in a nearby civilian cemetery. Corporal Thomas Glover of the Border Regiment died on the 1st September 1918, aged 23. I presume that he had died in captivity after being captured during the Second Battle of the Piave River which was fought during June 1918.
The First Battle of the Piave occurred after the German/Austro-Hungarian breakthrough during the Battle of Caporetto near Bovec, Slovenia. With the Italians only managing to stop the enemy advance when they reached the Piave river. Here the Italian soldiers who were in shock from the speed of their enemies’ advance were bolstered by British and French reinforcements which comprised of 11 infantry divisions (although this was a quite large reinforcement, about half of them were sent back to the Western Front after the attempted German breakthrough of March 1918.)
The Italian high command had learnt a few lessons from their defeat at the Battle of Caporetto and changed their tactics accordingly. Gone were the rigid tactics which kept large amounts of troops immobile in the front line trenches. Instead, each unit could operate as it felt fit, in a more fluid way, advancing or retreating when needed and not being stuck in the strict routine which had led to their costly defeat. They had also decided to keep a large contingent of their troops in reserve, ready to be quickly moved by motorised transport to any weak spots on their new line.
Unfortunately for the Austro-Hungarians, the Germans left Italy during early 1918 to prepare for their spring offensive on the Western Front. With their withdrawal, they also took the ‘Stormtrooper’ tactics which had been so decisive during the Battle of Caporetto. Before they left, they had trained some Austro-Hungarian units in the same tactics, but their high command ultimately decided to go back to the mass attacks which had been so costly to both sides throughout every theatre of the war. It was a mistake that they would never recover from.
Although Britain and France had removed a lot of their forces from Italy due to German pressures on the Western Front, they had left one decisive element of their forces: aircraft. On the 14th June 1918, aerial observers had seen a build up of Austro-Hungarian troops on the eastern side of the Piave River and Italian scouts reported to their high command that an attack was imminent. Therefore at 2.30 am on the 15th June a massive Italian artillery bombardment was aimed at the Austro-Hungarian trenches, which were packed full of soldiers ready to attack, causing many casualties.
The attack still went ahead, but as they had lost the element of surprise, as well as a good amount of their attacking troops due to the Italian artillery, the Austro-Hungarian attack wasn’t the breakthrough that they had hoped for.
Despite the above setbacks they still managed to gain a bridgehead over the Piave River, which was 5 miles deep and 15 miles wide but fierce Italian resistance would beat them in the end. The Italian artillery managed to destroy all of the bridges which the Austro-Hungarians were using to supply their troops in the bridgehead. Cut off and unable to receive supplies and reinforcements they were forced to try to retreat to the relative safety of the eastern bank. 20,000 Austro-Hungarians drowned whilst trying to reach their own lines.
By the 23rd June, it was all over. The Second Battle of the Piave River was the last great Austro-Hungarian offensive of the war, but the Italians wisely chose not to follow up the Austro-Hungarian defeat by an attack over the Piave of their own, as they would have faced the same problems which beset their enemies advance.
The stalemate continued for another four months, until the night of the 23rd October 1918, when the leading elements of the British and Italian armies managed to capture the large island of Grave di Papadopoli, which is located in the middle of the lower Piave River, before establishing a bridgehead on the far bank the following day. At the same time, a huge offensive was begun which stretched along the full length of the 1918 Italian Front. Although the Austro-Hungarians had more fighting men (61 divisions compared to the Allies 57 divisions: 51 Italian, 3 British, 2 French, 1 Czech and the 332nd US Infantry Regiment) their morale was lower due to the disastrous 2nd Battle of the Piave River and the fact that their empire was starting to crumble.
The Italian forces manning the more northerly defensive lines in the mountains were ordered not to attack, but to just follow the Austro-Hungarians as they retreated. One exception to this rule was the capture of the more southern mountain of Monte Grappa which had been held by the Austro-Hungarians since the breakthrough after the Battle of Caporetto the previous Autumn.
The attack against Monte Grappa was designed to draw in the Austro-Hungarian reserves and this plan probably worked to some degree, but the Austro-Hungarian forces had also had enough by that time and began to refuse to fight. This was especially true in the south, where counter attacks against the Piave bridgeheads had to be abandoned due to the Austro-Hungarians refusal to obey their orders.
By the 28th October the Austro-Hungarians were in full retreat. On the same day, the Czechs declared their independence from Austro-Hungary. The South Slavs (Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia) did the same the next day, followed by Hungary on the 31st October 1918. Austro-Hungary was no more.
In the face of defeat, the Austrian defences on Monte Grappa collapsed on the 31st October. The allies continued to push against the retreating Austrians until an armistice was finally signed on the 3rd November 1918. This last but significant battle on the Italian Front cost the lives of 60,461 soldiers from both sides. It also cost what was left of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the provinces of South Tyrol, Istria, Dalmatia and western Carniola. The lower Isonzo River was also forfeited as well as the towns of Tarvisio, Gorizia and Trieste. These last four places plus South Tyrol and Trentino still lie inside the borders of modern Italy.
Approximately 1.2 million soldiers from both sides were killed during the Italian campaign, as well as approximately 500,000 civilians. The true figure will probably never be known, as how on earth do you record such numbers?
My journey north from Trento along the wide Adige River valley was made easier by the abundance of wonderf