Sunday, February 07, 2010

The Fatal Mountains: The Austro-Italian Front,1915-18

The high alps

the bone mountains


we kill each other coldly

for the nameless are not real

we cannot read the letters tucked next to their hearts


Anonymous

we share the void

death is our brother

we live in the vertical


Italian infantry on the attack

scramble over rocks,over corpses,

screaming,brandishing their rifles uselessly,

as the Austrian machinegunners above

annihilate rank on rank.with ease,

until,at last, even the Austrians are sickened,

and call out, “Italians!Stop!Go back!

We don’t want to massacre you!”


D’Annunzio bellows swooning blood-incantation

over the heads of the masses;

the adolescent superman

his greyhounds in Hermès livery,

wears war like a carnation in his buttonhole.

the empire of the ego his to expand


Rock.Wind.Rain.

The horned viper’s hunting ground

You could scrape with your spade

for a hundred years

and not make a dent.

How will you even dig your grave here?


“Attack, you cowards, you stupid dogs!

Battles are not won from the trenches!”

General Cadorna rants at his troops.

He remembers his father dying,

raising a clenched fist.

Advance,advance,always advance,

with will and energy to conquer all;

it is the age of action as wisdom,

violence as religion.


General Conrad assures his Italian mistress,

“I much admire your people’s racial characteristics”

Yet hers is a lesser race, the congenital foe,

to be crushed.

The empire is doomed, he knows,

but better to perish honourably

than surrender without a fight.

A hopelss struggle,but it must be pursued,

for an ancient monarchy

cannot perish ingloriously.


The weather:

the third army

the legions of the dead


The Italian soldiers know an attack is imminent

when the military police mount their machineguns

behind the trench,

ready to shoot down their own countrymen

if they loiter when the battlecry “Savoy!” goes up.


Decimation for “deserters”.

Ten men chosen by lot

Against a cemetery wall.

Skylarks above the maizefields.

The firing squad aim.


Smell of thyme on the limestone ridges

snow gleaming blue under the moon

constellations overhead

the ecstasy of war

never more alive

than in death’s mountains

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