The Daily Telegraph - - Court & Social -

And they are ex­cel­lently led. Cadorna is an old Ro­man, a man cast in the big, sim­ple world of an­tiq­uity, fru­gal in his tastes, clear in his aims, with no thought out­side his duty. Ev­ery­one loves him. So much for the gen­eral sit­u­a­tion. Let me de­scend for a mo­ment to my own triv­ial ad­ven­tures since leav­ing the Bri­tish front. Of France I hope to say more in the fu­ture, and so I will pass at a bound to Padua, where it ap­peared that the Aus­trian front had po­litely ad­vanced to meet me, for I was wak­ened be­times in the morn­ing by the drop­ping of bombs, the rat­tle of air­craft guns, and the dis­tant rat-tat-tat of a maxim high up in the air. I heard when I came down later that the in­truder had been driven away, and that lit­tle dam­age had been done. The work of the Aus­trian aero­planes is, how­ever, very ag­gres­sive be­hind the Ital­ian lines, for they have the great ad­van­tage that a row of fine cities lies at their mercy, while the Ital­ians can do noth­ing with­out in­jur­ing their own kith and kin across the bor­der. This drop­ping of ex­plo­sives on the chance of hit­ting one sol­dier among fifty vic­tims seems to me the most mon­strous de­vel­op­ment of the whole war, and the one which should be most sternly re­pressed in fu­ture in in­ter­na­tional leg­is­la­tion. The Ital­ian Head­quar­ter town was a par­tic­u­lar vic­tim of these mur­der­ous at­tacks. I speak with some feel­ing, as not only was the ceil­ing of my bed­room shat­tered some days be­fore my ar­rival, but a greasy patch with some black shreds upon it was still vis­i­ble above my win­dow, which rep­re­sented part of the re­mains of an un­for­tu­nate work­man, who had been blown to pieces in front of the house.

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