Time, 1:30 A.M. On the field there are a lot of people going to and fro. Many friends have come to bid me goodby. Even though I have spoken to very few about the adventure, still many know of it. With Colonel Smaniotto there are on the field several officers of the staff, Colonel Novellis of the Aviation, the Honorable Miari of the kite-balloon division, and many other of my aviator friends who wish to be present at my departure. I have taken with me a map as a precaution, for the weather which seemed most favorable at first has gradually become foggy, and since even the upper atmosphere does not seem very clear, it may be difficult to get our bearings. However, I am certain that once I have arrived in enemy territory, or rather 150 in my own home town, I shall not need any map. Our fur-lined leather coats and our helmets are ready and lie folded on the wing. The mechanics are busy about the motor, one gives a last look at the spark-plugs, another at the magneto, another at the gasoline feed, so that once departed we shall have no unpleasant surprises. Gelmetti is already at his place and is trying the levers. A groundman has turned the propeller and in the calm of the night nothing can be heard but the chirping of the crickets and the croaking of the frogs which are telling of their loves from the ditches. There arises the deep and powerful roar of the motor and from the curved arches of the hangars the echo answers so that it seems as if several machines were in motion in the distance. The moon is rising, and as I see her again after so many days of rain, she seems smaller, and I wonder how my pilot will be able to make a landing on unknown ground with so little light.

151 De Carli who probably will soon attempt a similar feat stands near me. There is in the eyes of all such great anxiety, emotion so deep that I ask myself why I too, should not feel moved. Lieutenant Simoni asks me if I feel as calm as at other times when I am about to leave for a war flight, and I answer him that I am certain I should not feel so calm if I were seeing another leaving in my place. Many of the pilots of chasing machines of the 77th squadron are present and among them Lieutenant Marazzani, one of our aces who has brought with him his little fox terrier.

“Before starting on a flight,” he tells me, “I always touch the nose of Bobby, and, as you see, I have always returned. You do the same, and you’ll see it will bring you good luck.”

He does not have to beg me twice, and I pass my hand over the damp nose of Bobby who looks at me with his intelligent eyes as though to ask me what unusual thing 152 is happening, for he is not accustomed to seeing planes leave at night. Everything is ready. I have the money in a small roll. Bottecchia has in his pocket a bar of chocolate, and I have brought with me my talisman which has been with me in every undertaking, an old crucifix of silver, a family heirloom which has been in many wars and many battles with my ancestors. We are in the plane and in place of the small observer’s seat they have fastened a small wooden board on which two of us must manage to sit. But the place is very narrow, and both Bottecchia and myself are not very comfortable. The inside of our “cabane” is lighted by blue lamps upon the dashboard and I hold in my hand a small lamp fastened to a long wire with which to watch the manometer which marks the oil pressure and the gasoline feed tube. The motor is hitting in all cylinders. Gelmetti advances and retards the accelerator and the machine pulses and vibrates, held back by 153 the wedges under the wheels and the mechanics who are holding it by the shaking wings. The “Voisin” seems to have found again its youth and seems eager to start the flight. The indicator marks 1300 revolutions. Everything seems to be proceeding regularly.

“Are we ready?” I ask Gelmetti. We button up our overcoats and buckle our helmets under our chins. Many hands are extended towards us. Some of the men clamber up on the large springs of the wheels to embrace me, and although the wool of my helmet covers nearly all my face, still I feel something moist on my skin. They surely are not my tears!... Bobby, jubilant at the sound of the motor going at full speed, begins to bark, and his master throws a stone down the field for Bobby to chase so that he will not disturb us, and so that I may exchange in quiet a few more words with Colonel Smaniotto.

“Above all I urge you to specify the sector 154 and the day of the offensive, and secondly the location of troops.”

Gelmetti slackens the motor, the mechanics remove the wedges from under the wheels and the plane is free and ready for the flight. We rise to our feet to give a final salute, and an indescribable emotion comes into the faces of all. The plane begins to move and our cry of “Viva L’Italia,” is drowned by the roar of the motor whose pulsations grow ever quicker and faster. The grass flits rapidly under the wheels. A slight jerk, a slight start, and we are in the air. What were living persons near us, what were houses, have become specks, have become infinitesimal statuettes against the dark background of the earth.

I see certain small red lamps on the tops of trees, I see the red lamp which marks the chimney of the furnace near the field. The great scaffolding from which the searchlights usually hurl upward the streams of their light, is lost in the night’s 155 darkness. The little canal which passes near the hangars glitters distinctly and along the plain traversed by roads and streams of water, many tranquil lamps are glowing. Along the road which leads from the field to the highway of Mogliano the searchlights of the automobiles leaving the field follow us. We turn slowly, and—as is always the case when in a plane—we feel as if we were still. We are now traveling towards Mestre and beyond we see the mirror of the glittering lagoon which the moon silvers with a thousand tiny flames, and in the background where sky and sea mingle in a dark gray mist, we can imagine Venice arising from the water.

The conditions of visibility are not good, and the fog instead of diminishing as we ascend becomes gradually more opaque. A swift, boisterous wind shakes the wings of the plane which slopes to the right and to the left according to the movements of the pilot. At times the entire machine vibrates 156 and we feel ourselves so closely bound in its flight that often we believe its wings are attached to our very shoulders. As I look back at the oil guides I see the sparks from the exhaust tube escaping rapidly like a swarm of fireflies swept by the wind. The tube of the silencer which is fastened onto the motor, although the exhaust remains at present completely open, is red and incandescent. I ask myself anxiously what will happen, when, having crossed the enemy’s lines, we shall have to make use of the silencer. I look at the altimeter; we have already arisen to a height of three thousand feet, and beneath us are outlined the walls and towers of Treviso. The tracks of the Treviso-Venice railroad sparkle in the light of the moon, and on the fields in the small pools of stagnant water, the light is reflected. Several searchlights placed about the city turn like sentinels of the air, but their rays do not strike us for they are not searching in our direction. The white 157 clouds slide above our heads hiding at intervals the moon which appears again and again between the wings of the aeroplane. The fog becomes ever denser. The wind increases, changing at times into sudden gusts, rapid vortices, and brief eddies. I hold my head low so as to offer as little resistance as possible to the blowing currents, and Bottecchia does likewise, pressing close to me. The calm hands of the pilot tightly gripped on the “joy-stick” move from right to left with automatic gestures. The motor does not seem to be operating well, and I whose sense of smell has become extremely sensitive to the odor of burning rubber—since the day when following an encounter my plane took fire near the ground—sniff about attentively to discover if there is anything burning. The indicator still marks 1400 revolutions. This is a reassuring sign. We are at 6900 feet. I do not believe we have to climb any higher, and tapping Gelmetti 158 on the shoulder, I point out to him the direction of the front.

Beneath us towards the Piave, which glimmers indistinctly in the east, the fireworks of our troops on guard in the trenches shower forth. Occasionally a ray with a parachute falls more slowly and vividly illuminates a small tract beneath us. A few flashes and unexpected streaks tell us that our artillery is firing prohibited shots. The sky about us is thick with the flashes of many shrapnel which shoot up in the air like fireworks. An anti-aircraft battery is firing at us. The rain of fire approaches and recedes according to the moment, and occasionally the explosion of a well-aimed shot is heard as it hisses past the plane. The pilot changes his course so as not to be hit. I am curious to know who is firing. I bend forward in my seat and beneath us in our territory, I see the parting flashes of several anti-aircraft shots which have begun a barrage fire. Immediately after, in the direction 159 of Treviso I see huge flashes on the ground as if large projectiles had fallen on the city. Now I understand! Our batteries are not firing against us, for they have certainly been informed by the observation posts that an Italian plane is flying over them, but their fire is directed against the enemy planes which are bombarding Treviso. We must be on the alert, for evidently there are many enemy planes about, and I should not care to run into a plane with the cross designed on it.

We are passing over Montello, all bent and shriveled, which reminds me of the configuration of the Carso. At the foot of the mountain I recognize Giavera and almost on the banks of the Piave, Narvesa shimmers. We are about to enter enemy territory. The broad flow of the Piave, which separates into various currents among the whitish masses of the islands, clearly outlines to us the flow of its impetuous waters. The supports torn from the bridge of the 160 Priola arise towards us like the stumps of a mutilated arm and farther down, the river widens its course towards the Grave di Pappadopoli and the sector of the front where the Bersaglieri of the 8th Regiment are stationed. Even Bottecchia recognizes the places in which he fought recently and points out to me Isola Maggiore, separated from Isola Caserta by a short, narrow current. All these strips of land which formerly were nought but unformed heaps of stones, now have a history, and on every one of them both the belligerent nations have tried to establish defenses, to construct outposts and small stations for machine guns.

“Oh rare, delightful sweetheart” ... the familiar melody is recalled by the buzzing of the motor and repeats itself continually in my ears. At times while listening to the powerful voice of the “Isotta” I feel as if there were many instruments playing in the night and the alternating melodies 161 and varying modulations in the orchestration recall the classic symphonies in which the greatest artists of sound have expressed with majestic power the rhythmic significance of their thought and the fury of their passions.

The Castle of Saint Salvador appears on top of the hills and although our guns must have fired at it frequently it still preserves its original structure and the heavy tower, which has something German about it, still rests on the high sloping roof. This castle belongs to an Austrian and, perhaps because his countrymen have spared it, undeviating justice has loosed against it the fury of our guns. The reverse of the hills which point towards Conegliano slopes slowly towards the hills of Pieve di Soligo, while the broad road of Susegana and Conegliano glimmers distinctly beneath us.

Gelmetti has inserted the handle of the silencer, and as though by magic the concert of the marvelous instruments which had 162 echoed many distant songs in my mind ceases. We now feel as if we were sliding through air, the same impression one feels while coasting in an automobile whose engine has been shut off.

The enemy territory is less illuminated than ours. The lights in the villages are scarce, and there are few searchlights turned towards us. As though by magic the enemy anti-aircraft batteries become silent. The reason for their silence is obvious; the Austrians have many of their own bombing planes in the sky and they certainly have not noticed the slight humming of our motor. Along the road of Susegana to Conegliano Pordenone, great green lights are lit from which many colored rays shoot forth at intervals. It is the first time I have observed those lights in enemy territory but I have heard about them from Lieutenant Ancilotto who often goes on nocturnal flights to try to down some enemy bombing plane which finds in the obscurity of the 163 night the courage to attempt what it dares not in the daytime. These signals are placed at convenient intervals so that if some enemy plane loses its way in the fog and cannot find its bearings, all it need do is to fly low over the lights which often indicate a safe place for a landing.

There is Conegliano.... The large tower and cypresses of the castle look small and flat and do not convey to me that feeling of reality which I felt as I looked at them from the bank of the Piave. Near the great stone quarry, from which even before our retreat powerful dredges had taken abundant construction material, there lies a large mansion with its lights aglow and surrounded by a vast garden. It is my own house! I recognize the tennis-court, the paths and barns, and I know who those are who are permitting themselves the luxury of so costly an illumination at this late hour. They are the surviving Austrian aviators of the 7th chasing squadron who miraculously 164 escaped the fire of our guns. They who cannot allow themselves the joy of combat and do not dare face us by day in the sky are trying perhaps other struggles against the weaker, against the women who succumb. What a pity that I have not a bomb. I am certain I would not miss my aim! The long path which leads from Vittorio to the inn at Gai is outlined clearly against the green fields and the Villa of Querini Stampalia on the top of the hill unfolds in the night its huge arches. The Austrians have built a new connection on the railroad line, Sacile-Conegliano, which will enable their trains to arrive directly at the station of Ceneda without passing through Conegliano.

The altimeter marks 7500 feet. I think we can begin to descend because there is not more than about ten miles between us and the field on which we have decided to land. The fog which at first was dense has thinned out gradually and we can now recognize 165 every detail on the ground beneath us as though it were daytime. The moon which is now high in the heavens follows its course, tipped up on one side. The vegetation beneath us changes gradually and in place of the cultivated fields, vineyards and rows of mulberry trees there is a flat, grassy region divided by many small streams of water lined with willow trees. The Meschio, a tributary of the Livenza, has already disappeared beneath the wing, and beyond glitter the tumultuous falls of the Livenza near Sacile. The river forms a huge “S” around the towers of this city whose sharp gables rise towards us. The streets are deserted and it seems as if no important movement had ever stained their whiteness. The still wing continues to descend. 4500 feet.... I stand up to inspect the ground because we must lean slightly towards the left in order to leave the road which leads from Sacile to Pordenone and take the road from Fontana Fredda to Aviano. The 166 field on which we have decided to descend is called “Praterie Forcate” and is about a mile from the enemy flying field at Aviano. I strain my eyes to try to recognize the little trenches to the left of our field, trenches which I have seen in photographs of this region made by Gelmetti from his “Spad.” There they are, right in front of us! I examine the field beneath us and there does not seem to be anything abnormal about it. The sections where the grass has been cut and those where it is still high form little splotches which resemble camouflaged military works. We are about 3000 feet above ground and Gelmetti begins spiraling so that I lose my equilibrium for a moment, but when the plane resumes its horizontal position I suddenly see flashing on the ground beneath us one of those green lights which I had previously noticed from on high and which are accustomed to indicate directions to enemy planes. Three colored stars rise up towards us and tremblingly 167 fall slowly back on the plain. There is no time to lose. We must at once modify all our plans because if in the field where we had decided to land there is a green light it means that nearby there are Austrians and if we do not wish to be captured at once we must attempt a landing in some other place. We describe a wide curve and resume our original route with our nose towards the camp of Aviano. Two searchlights suddenly blaze out on the ground and by their light we clearly see a “T” which is the sign used by the Austrians to indicate to their pilots the spot where they should place their wheels marked on the field. For a second we believe all is lost, we fear we must renounce our enterprise forever. If the rays of the searchlight succeed in enveloping us in their light we shall be discovered, fired at, and shall have to turn homeward. But instead of turning their lights towards us they concentrate the power of their rays on the ground, so that 168 the field beneath us seems to tremble with a myriad sparks which dance in their broad embrace. The searchlights cross and intersect over the “T” of the landing spot. Through the air there passes a swift vision; a few yards from us an enemy plane which I have recognized from the flashes of the exhaust, cuts across us but swiftly withdraws and its light disappears towards the higher strata of air. Therefore, the enemy planes must be departing, their motors must be going and they must be making an infernal noise.

Suddenly a wild plan occurs to me. What if, instead of landing on the field near the one which we had picked out, we should land right on the outskirts of the enemy’s flying field? In the first place we should be certain of the favorable character of the land, and secondly we could not be discovered by the Austrians because they have the light of the searchlights in their eyes; they would not hear the indistinct noise of 169 our motor because it is so slight that it would be drowned by the noise of their departing planes. Furthermore, the audacity of the project fascinates me; the risk tempts me; it would be too beautiful to be able to land right on their own field without having them notice it. In a second I unfold my plan to Gelmetti. He does not answer, but as a response he lessens still further the flow of gas. The earth rapidly approaches us. It seems as if it were coming towards us; with the rapidity of lightning everything retakes its just proportions. We are a few feet above a road; I am bent double so as not to hamper in the least the movements of the pilot. He concentrates all his efforts so as to make a safe landing, but perhaps because he is deceived by the distant light which, instead of helping, hinders us, he touches land too soon with his back wheels and the plane jerks forward suddenly; in a second he straightens it with great dexterity and we touch the ground 170 gently and glide swiftly towards the end of the field.

“Good, excellent!” I had time to say to Gelmetti and he answered, “Up to the very last moment you want to make fun of me.”

I jumped to the ground with my bundle of civilian clothes under my arm, and without waiting a moment I bent to kiss the ground for which I had suffered so much. My comrade also descended without uttering a word. We looked anxiously about but the searchlights continued to............