We decided that it was advisable for form’s sake to call on the Divisional General, and ask for his permission to pass through the lines. With some little difficulty we succeeded in discovering his Headquarters. These were, we learned, on the railway, close to the Rubbia-Savogna Station, on the Trieste-Gorizia line. It turned out to be about the last place where one would have expected to unearth a General. The station itself was in ruins, and presented a pathetically forlorn appearance, with posters and time-tables hanging in tatters from the walls; no train had passed here for very many months. We left the car on the permanent way alongside the platform, and picked our way along the track through the twisted and displaced rails to the signalman’s “cabin,” which had been converted into the Headquarters _pro tem_. It was as unconventional and warlike as could well be imagined, and as a subject for a picture would have delighted a military painter. The General was a well set up, good-looking man of middle age, and quite the most unassuming officer of his rank I have ever met. After carefully examining our military permits to come there, he received us with the utmost cordiality. He spoke French fluently, and was apparently much interested in our work as war correspondents. There was no difficulty, he said, about our going to San Martino, but we did so at our own risk, as it was his duty to warn us that it was still being constantly shelled; in fact, he added, the whole neighbourhood was under fire, and he pointed out a gaping hole a few yards away where a shell had burst only an hour before our arrival, and had blown a small hut to atoms. The railway station was being continually bombarded, and he was sorry to say that he had lost a good many of his staff here. No strategic object whatever was attained by this promiscuous shelling; the only thing it did was to get on the men’s nerves and make them fidgetty. “They want to be up and doing instead of waiting about here when their comrades have gone on ahead.” We had quite a long talk with him, and gathered some interesting details of the fighting that had taken place round here. He was most enthusiastic about the _moral_ of his troops, that no fatigue or pain can quell. The only difficulty the officers experienced was in getting them to advance with caution. “Ils deviennent des tigrés une fois lancés; c’est difficile de les retenir.” As we bade him adieu, he asked us as a personal favour not to mention him in any article we might write, adding modestly: “Je ne suis qu’un soldat de l’Italie, et ne désire pas de réclame.” There was a turning off the main road beyond Sdraussina that passed under the railway embankment, and then went up to San Martino del Carso.