The Austrians abandoned all their positions here so precipitately that they left their wounded behind, who, together with those of the Italians, had to be actually lowered by ropes from the summit, there being no other means of bringing them down to the ambulances. Pal Grande had been the scene of several sanguinary fights before its final capture by the Italians not long before our visit to it; at one moment, in fact, the Austrians looked like re-taking it, so desperate and reckless was the counter-attack. It is said that had it not been for the presence of mind and initiative of one of the military doctors it was practically lost. He was attending the wounded in a temporary ambulance station at the back of the firing line when he realised the danger of the situation. Men and officers were falling all along the line, and it was imperative that their places should be immediately occupied if the position was to be held. On the spur of the moment it occurred to him to call on the least wounded of the men he was looking after to try and help. Explaining to them how critical was the situation, and also what was likely to happen to them if the Austrians recaptured the place, he stirred up such excitement and ardour that, regardless for the moment of the pain they were suffering from their wounds, those that were able sprang to their feet and returned to the trenches where, seizing the rifles of their fallen comrades, they managed to continue to defend the position till reinforcements arrived. If there was one thing more than another that struck me whilst amongst the troops in the mountains, it was the extraordinary enthusiasm displayed everywhere, even here in this bleak and exposed position; the _moral_ of the men was incomparable, and they seemed to be blessed with an inexhaustible stock of good humour and the power of taking things cheerfully. It was indeed impossible to mix with them and not feel the influence of their youthful eagerness and their confidence in ultimate victory. Napoleon’s well known aphorism that an army fights on its belly is well borne out in the Italian Army; and even on these lofty peaks the soldier, whatever he may have to endure in the shape of inevitable hardship, never suffers from want of food and well-cooked meals. The food convoys make their journeys with unfailing regularity, for there must be no hitch in the commissariat arrangements—and it is safe to assert that there is not a single soldier, no matter how isolated he may be, who does not receive every day his regulation allowance of 400 grammes of meat (about half a pound), a kilo and a half of bread, macaroni or polenta, coffee, tobacco, and half a litre of wine.