Hey there folks! Tonight we have a special treat for you, the first truly POV chapter of the timeline, this time from the perspective of Lieutenant Colonel Domenico Mondelli! Your musical accompaniment for this chapter
La Leggenda del Piave, or The Legend of Piave. It's a fitting song for this chapter that presents a brief history of the Italian Front in WWI, in that it embodies the spirit of Mondelli's actions in this chapter, as well as being a battle that he fought in during OTL's Great War. As always, feedback and comments are appreciated. Now that that's out of the way, enjoy Chapter IV - The Miracle of Vlora!
Chapter IV - The Miracle of Vlora
The Italian garrison in Vlora, during the Italian occupation in the Great War.
August 4th, 1920. Vlora, Albania.
Domenico Mondelli considered himself a good soldier, and a loyal one at that. After all, he’d served the House of Savoy with distinction for years, first in the Libyan War, and more recently in the Great War. Even now, stationed in damnable Albania, he wore his medals earned during the Great War with pride. In spite of that, he felt a certain sense of unease. He was proud to be Italian, proud to serve his country, yet the fatherland was engulfed in chaos. The PSI were occupying factories and advocating for revolution, civilians were flocking en masse to Red Turin and Black Fiume, while the king’s government was paralyzed in the face of all this unrest.
And here I am, stuck in this godforsaken country, fighting a pointless war with no orders from the mainland as the politicians squabble amongst themselves, Mondelli thought with indignation. The Albanians had fought like devils for months now, killing his superior officers and leaving him in charge, and no orders were coming in from the government idiots on the mainland. Mondelli kept up a calm facade for his men, but here in private he fumed. W
hat use is this so-called “war” if all it does is lead to more unnecessary deaths? How many brave Italian men must die for a mere parcel of Albania? He would not dare to utter such sentiments where his men could hear him, lest he further endanger the troops’ already weak morale.
Something had to be done, and soon, before more men succumbed to malaria or the attacks of those damned Albanian irregulars. Surrendering to the Albanians was out of the question, as that would besmirch the honor of his beloved army, and staying in the city would only lead to more of his men dying.
What we need is a miracle, not more silence from the bastards on the mainland, Mondelli mused.
We need something daring, something unexpected, something brave and worthy of the spirit of our elite corps, something...Fiuman. At that last thought, Mondelli paused. He’d refused to join in on the poet’s venture when it began out of principle, in order to stay loyal to his oath to the King and the House of Savoy. But now, with Italian troops stranded in Albania and dying in droves by the day, what good was that oath?
If the government won’t act, then it falls upon me to ensure our survival, and if that means abandoning the King for D’Annunzio, then so be it. No more brave Italian men will die for this malarial swamp.
But he couldn’t act alone in this daring endeavor, far from it. Even if the majority of the men looked up to him and agreed to the plan, he would still need officers to keep them in line as they marched to Fiume, and for that he would need Majors Guadalupi and Bronzini. Thankfully, it didn’t take too long to find the two men, since they’d become fast friends after their superior officers were slaughtered. It was a strange friendship, since Bonaventura Guadalupi was a hot-headed and brash officer of the Arditi while Giuseppe Bronzini was a calm and collected major in the Carabinieri. Regardless, Mondelli found them deep in discussion, this time arguing about the merits of Italian women.
“I’m telling you, Giuseppe, my brother, a good Sicilian wife will change your life! They cook, they clean, they take care of the children, what more could you want?” Guadalupi gestured with emphasis as he spoke, extolling the virtues of Sicilian women as wives and mothers.
“And what exactly would you know about wives, hmm?” Bronzini fired back with a probing question. “I don’t see a wedding ring around your finger, for all your talk of wives.”
At this, the brash Arditi man laughed heartily. “Ha, you’ve got me there, brother! I’m not the type for marriage and settling down, but I’ve met my fair share of lonely wives, if you know what I mean.” Guadalupi punctuated his reply with a conspiratorial wink.
Before Bronzini could respond, he noticed Mondelli approaching, nudged Guadalupi in the side, and snapped off a quick salute. “Lieutenant Colonel. What can we do for you?” Guadalupi quickly followed suit, though he was somewhat slower on the uptake than his comrade.
Mondelli smiled at the younger officers’ dedication to discipline before responding. “At ease, gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, there’s an important matter we need to discuss, and seeing as how you’re effectively my joint seconds-in-command, your presence is vital.” After giving a brief overview of his plan to break out of Vlora and lead the remaining 23,000 men trapped in the city to D’Annunzio and his Fiuman rebels, Mondelli waited patiently for a response from the officers he was placing his trust in.
It was Bronzini that spoke first, a look of clear bewilderment on his face. “Lieutenant Colonel sir, with all due respect, this plan is...well, it’s desertion from the army, an abandonment of our sworn duty as soldiers, and even worst of all, it’s treason against the King!” The normally composed Carabinieri officer was clearly disturbed by the plan put forth by Mondelli and it showed.
Guadalupi chimed in next, a grimace on his face. “I have to agree with Giuseppe here, sir. While I’d normally be all for giving the Albanians a black eye, this would be something else entirely, and for all the success the Fiumans have had, how do we know the army won’t move in to crush them?”
Mondelli frowned at the two junior officers’ response. While he’d anticipated Bronzini to be against it, he’d hoped that the brash Guadalupi would at least be more amenable to the idea. Nevertheless, he would still try to convince them. “Gentlemen, we are in a hopeless situation, as I’m sure that you know. You’ve both been here since the beginning of this damned war, and you’ve both seen how many men we’ve lost. Good men, brave men, men that didn’t deserve to die in this malarial backwater.” Mondelli was resolute in his tone as he fixed both men with a steely gaze.
Bronzini stood firm while Guadalupi remained silent, shifting back and forth with his hands in his pockets. “That may be true, Lieutenant Colonel, but this plan of yours, this idea to lead our men hundreds of kilometers through hostile territory, it’s...it’s madness born out of desperation! The Albanians will harass us all the way to the border, and the Yugoslavs won’t treat us any better if we’re caught. We should just maintain our position here and wait for orders from the mainl-”
At the mention of waiting for orders, Mondelli snapped. Everyone knew that no orders were coming, yet here was Bronzini suggesting that they wait for them. “Damn it man, there are no orders from the mainland! The generals, that fool Giolitti, even the King, they’re all willing to leave us here to die, can’t you see that? Would you rather surrender to the Albanians and lose your honor as a soldier or would you like to show the world that Italian soldiers never give up? Or do I need to remind you of the men we’ve lost in this so-called ‘war’!”
As Bronzini tried to stutter out a response to Mondelli’s outburst, taken aback by the fury behind his words, Guadalupi spoke up. “Giuseppe…” He trailed off for a moment, as if to try and find the right words to say, before continuing. “Giuseppe, whether you like it or not, the Lieutenant Colonel’s got a point. We haven’t received any orders in well over a month, our men are dying by the day, morale is plummeting, and if we stay here any longer we’re liable to meet the same fate as the generals.”
Now it was Bronzini’s turn to have an outburst, turning to his friend and comrade with a glare. “How can you even think that this is a good idea, Guadalupi? Not only would we be abandoning our post, but we’d be abandoning our oath to the king!” Pivoting to face Mondelli, he directed his vitriol towards his superior officer next. “And you! You’re suggesting that we abandon our oath to the king, and for what? Some madman’s Renaissance fever dream on the Adriatic? You may be my superior officer, sir, but I will have no part in this madness!”
Mondelli’s response to this outburst from his subordinate was short and to the point. “Very well, Major Bronzini. If you aren’t honorable enough to take the necessary action to save the lives of your men, then I will do it for you.” At that, he turned and left the room. He didn’t go far, however, merely lingering outside the room and waiting. After a few minutes, the two majors exited the room and turned to face him.
“Lieutenant Colonel, we’ve discussed the situation and…” Bronzini began, speaking in a sheepish tone, before Guadalupi finished his sentence for him. “We’re with you, Lieutenant Colonel. Fiume or death.” Mondelli smiled, knowing that Bronzini was an honorable man, and would assent to the plan if he’d cast aspersions on his honor as a soldier.
Just as planned.
“Excellent. Now that this is out of the way, Major Guadalupi, Major Bronzini, gather the men. We have an announcement to make.” With that, the smiling Lieutenant Colonel left his subordinates to gather the men for what would no doubt be a surprising announcement. After waiting for the men to assemble for roughly an hour or two, he now stood in front of a mass of weary soldiers, with both Guadalupi and Bronzini at his side, gazing out across their ranks.
Taking a moment to clear his throat, Mondelli began to address his troops. “Men, as I’m sure many of you are aware, we’ve been stuck in this Albanian swamp for the better part of two months. Not that there’s anywhere else that we could go, of course.” At that comment, several of the men audibly chuckled, but Mondelli wasn’t finished just yet. “As brave soldiers of Italy, we have held out in the face of adversity, even as our comrades have died from disease or at the hands of the Albanian devils. Yet despite our sacrifice, despite the hardships we’ve endured, the King and his Prime Minister Giolitti have abandoned us to our fate, to waste away and die as our fatherland suffers. So now we must look elsewhere for salvation, and we must strike out and seize it for ourselves. It is clear that the government would like to see us perish, but there are those who would prefer to see us live, who would welcome us with open arms: the valiant legionaries of Fiume.”
Now, murmurs swept through the crowd of assembled men, as they looked at each other in confusion and shock. Finally, a voice from the crowd spoke up. “What of the sick and injured? What of the Albanians and the Yugoslavs? And what of our oath to the King?” The murmurs grew in number as Guadalupi and Bronzini shifted nervously, and Mondelli knew he would have to convince them if he wanted to avoid a revolt.
Stepping forward so that the men could see the medals he kept pinned to his chest, Mondelli spoke. “You ask about the sick and injured among us. They will march with us, for we will not abandon them like the government has abandoned us! You ask about the Albanians and the Yugoslavs. We will overcome them, though they are bound to attack and harass us! Finally, you ask about our oath to the King. And to this, I say: What good is an oath to a King who will not protect his loyal soldiers? We have fought and bled and died for him, yet we remain trapped in this Albanian swamp while the politicians in the fatherland squabble among themselves, even as brave Italian men die in their stead!” Tearing the medals from his uniform and tossing them to one side dramatically, he continued. “If any among you doubt me or my devotion to Italy, know this: I have fought the Turk in Libia and the Crucco at the Piave, and have devoted my life to the fatherland! Now, I have but one question for you men: Will you march with me to the true Italy, to Fiume?”
Now, all was quiet as the crowd contemplated his words and talked amongst themselves. Then another voice rang out from the crowd, this time with a shout. “Fiume or death!” Then another voice echoed the call, and then another, and before long every soldier that could muster the strength to do so was shouting it. Mondelli couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The men would follow him to hell, if need be, and he knew it. Now let us pray to God that we don’t end up there, he silently thought to himself.
August 12th, 1920. The Outskirts of Fiume.
They had marched for eight days and nights through hostile territory, dodging Albanian irregulars and the Yugoslav authorities the entire time. They’d lost good men to disease and depredation, 2,385 in total according to Major Bronzini, but they’d survived nonetheless. I
t’s a miracle that we didn’t lose more, I suppose, Mondelli mused as he marched alongside his men. Before long, the first buildings of Fiume appeared in the distance, and Mondelli grinned while his men began to cheer and shout. Yet as they drew closer to Fiume, Mondelli’s heart sank as he saw an unknown flag fluttering in the wind: a crimson flag, emblazoned with an ouroboros and the stars of the Grande Carro.
Were we too late? Have D’Annunzio and his legionaries been driven from the city?
Thoughts of despair ran amok in his mind for a moment, before he caught sight of a pair of men standing guard at the entrance to the city. One of them, a bare-chested youth in black jodhpurs and jackboots who couldn’t have been older than 18 held a Carcano in his hands, a Moschetto 91 TS from the looks of it, with the practiced ease of a soldier. His companion, on the other hand, appeared somewhat older, and far more grizzled in appearance. The right side of his face was covered in what looked like shrapnel scars and a matching pair of scars on either side of his lips gave him a permanent grin, though his somewhat gruesome visage was offset by a pitch-black beard and mustache. Like his young comrade in arms he wore black jodhpurs and jackboots, but unlike his companion, he was bedecked from head to toe in black attire. He wore a black bicyclist’s coat with a lapel patch depicting black flames on it, and a black fez adorned his shaven head. As if to further emphasize the difference between the two, the older one carried a veritable arsenal of weapons on his person: he cradled a Beretta M1918 in his arms, a Glisenti M1918 was holstered on one side while what looked like an Austrian Steyr-Hahn was secured on the other, a pair of Thevenot hand grenades hung from his belt, and a long trench dagger was strapped to his side.
As he stared at the two men in slight awe, something suddenly clicked in Mondelli’s mind. Their uniforms, their arms, their appearance, it all began to make sense. T
hey’re Arditi, or are dressed like them at the very least. Which means they’re Italian, and that means that D’Annunzio still rules over Fiume. With newfound vigor, he rushed towards the pair, with his men trailing behind him. Now alerted to his presence, the two Arditi stopped their conversation, levelling their weapons at the newcomer.
The younger one spoke first, a lit cigarette jutting out from his lips as he promptly barked out an order. “Fermati! Identify yourself in the name of the Commandant and the Regency of Carnaro, or we will open fire, abissino!” Faced with a pair of guns pointed directly at him, Mondelli could do naught else but acquiesce to the command, as he slowly stepped towards the two men. As he did so, a single thought raced through his mind:
Who in God’s name is the Commandant, and what the hell is the Regency of Carnaro?
As the two men sized him up, the older one suddenly had a look of realization flash across his face. “Lieutenant Colonel Mondelli, is that you? What are you doing here?” At this, Mondelli breathed a sigh of relief. The man had recognized him from somewhere, though he had no idea where that could possibly be. Visibly relaxing, he took another step forward before responding.
“That would be correct, and you would be…” Mondelli trailed off, waiting for the man’s response.
“Lieutenant Lorenzo Secondari, former Ardito of the Third Army, at your service. I fought at the Battle of the Solstice, not under your command of course, but I thought I recognized you.” The black-clad veteran lowered his M1918 as his younger compatriot looked on in incredulity. Turning to the younger man, Secondari gave him a terse order. “Gim, lower your rifle, they’re friendly.” Returning his attention back to Mondelli, he continued speaking. “Don’t mind him, he’s seen his share of fights, and with how things have been lately, we can’t be too careful. Now then, Lieutenant Colonel, what are you doing here, so far from home?”
Taking a moment to relax after the tense situation, Mondelli answered the Ardito succinctly. “Well, Lieutenant Secondari, I have with me 20,615 Italian soldiers, fresh from the fighting in Albania and more than willing to join in your endeavor, myself included.” Secondari’s jaw dropped as Mondelli’s men came into view, many of them grinning and cheering. Even Major Bronzini looked pleased, despite his initial opposition to the plan.
Turning to the young man he’d called Gim, who was as astonished as he was, Secondari barked out a quick order. “Gim, go and inform the Commandant and the high command! They’ll want to know about this immediately.” As his comrade raced off, presumably to inform whoever this Commandant was of their arrival, Secondari clapped Mondelli on the shoulder as a grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the Regency of Carnaro, Lieutenant Colonel. If you’ll follow me, I’ll give you and your men the grand tour before you go to see the Commandant.”
In short order, Secondari proceeded to show Mondelli and his sufficiently awestruck men around what he cheerfully called “The City of the Holocaust, a place unlike any other in existence”. As he did so, he informed Mondelli of the newfound circumstances that the Fiumans had found themselves in and the situation within the city itself. The Commandant that Secondari and his younger comrade (who he identified as Ettore Muti) had referred to was the new title of D’Annunzio, and the Regency of Carnaro was the name that the poet had chosen for his newly-proclaimed independent city state.
Now we really are traitors and deserters, for better or for worse, he pondered grimly as Secondari talked. Once he got over the initial shock of the new situation he’d found himself in, he’d been whisked away to a meeting with the Commandant, trusting in Majors Guadalupi and Bronzini to maintain order among the men.
Thankfully, the meeting with D’Annunzio was mercifully short, with the Commandant mainly lavishing praise upon Mondelli and bestowing a grandiose title upon him, The Tigrayan Eagle, owing to his ethnic origins. Once the meeting was over, he’d been left to his own devices, free to wander the streets and do as he pleased. Checking in with Bronzini and Guadalupi to make sure the men had stayed out of trouble and had adequate lodgings, he learned that word had spread among Fiume’s legionaries of their escape from Vlora, an escape which was becoming known as “The Miracle of Vlora”. Afterwards, he spent the remainder of the day exploring the strange city of poets and supermen that he’d found himself in. As he lay down that night in the comfortable accommodations that Secondari had acquired for him, he couldn’t help but ponder the situation he’d found himself in.
What madness is this that I’ve gotten myself into, to be in this strange city of soldiers and scoundrels? Perhaps he was more like D’Annunzio and his legionaries than he’d care to admit. Or perhaps he was just another stranger in a strange land, looking to find his way again.
Endnotes
Alright folks, that concludes Chapter IV, I hope you've enjoyed it! You all got an introduction to Domenico Mondelli in TTL, as well as a brief glimpse at the young Ettore Muti and his older comrade (and POV character), Lorenzo Secondari. While I won't be doing footnotes for narrative POV chapters like this one, as I feel like that would bog down the narrative, I will provide some helpful endnotes to give a bit more context to the events within them. First up, the Red Turin that's mentioned in the narration is an obvious reference to the fact that the center of the Socialist occupations is in Turin, while Black Fiume is a reference to the fact that the legionaries of D'Annuzio that have taken over Fiume are mainly black-clad former Arditi. Next, Majors Guadalupi and Bronzini were real individuals listed in the Italian order of battle for the Vlora War, though I've obviously given them fictional first names, backgrounds, and personalities since I can't find anything about them online. You'll notice that the
Red Oni, Blue Oni character trope is in play here, with Guadalupi representing the passionate Red Oni, while Bronzini is the calm and collected Blue Oni.
As for the various Italian phrases and terms that I've sprinkled in throughout the chapter, as well as the term "The Battle of the Solstice". First off, Turk is clearly referring to the Ottomans that fought the Italians in the Italo-Turkish War (known in Italy as the Libyan War), while
Crucco is an Italian term for Germans that was coined during the Great War in both OTL and in TTL. It's derived from the Slovenian
kruh, or "bread", and was invented by Italian soldiers after they captured some hungry Austrian-Slovenian soldiers who asked for "kruh". In this context, Mondelli is using it to refer to the Austro-Hungarians that were fought at the Second Battle of the Piave River as Germans, regardless of actual ethnicity. Similarly, the term that Muti uses to refer to Mondelli when he first encounters him,
tizzone, is an Italian word (at least, as far as I can tell) referring to dark-skinned individuals, particularly those of black African descent. Meanwhile the word that Muti shouts at Mondelli before he calls him a tizzone,
Fermati, is the Italian for "halt!", though I could be wrong on this one as I'm relying on Google Translate.
@andry2806, feel free to correct me if I get any of the Italian words or phrases wrong! Next, the term "The Battle of the Solstice" that Secondari uses is another name for the Second Battle of the Piave River, one that was coined by D'Annunzio himself. Finally,
Grande Carro ("Great Wagon") is the Italian term for the stars of the Big Dipper, which feature prominently on the emblem and flag of the Regency of Carnaro.
Now then, one final note regarding the descriptions of both Muti and Secondari in this chapter. The rifle that Muti wields, the
Carcano Moschetto 91 TS, was one of the weapons that the Arditi were armed with during the Great War, with the Moschetto being a short-barreled carbine form used by Italian troops in the Great War. With regards to his clothing (or lack thereof), one of the more striking photos I've found of Muti, albeit one taken much later in life, was a shirtless picture of him in Addis Ababa. The name that Secondari uses for him, Gim, is a shortened version of the nickname that D'Annuzio gave him in Fiume, "Green-Eyed Jim", as mentioned in Chapter III. As for Secondari himself, he's decked out in full Arditi uniform, specifically the uniform of the Arditi Infantry (also known as the Black Flames). A black Bersagliere cyclist coat, black jodhpur trousers, black jackboots, black shirt, and a black fez. Lots of black, those Arditi. As for the various weapons he's armed with, they're all weapons that would've been used by Italian troops in the Great War, save for the Austrian Steyr-Hahn, which he stole (or as he'd say, "requisitioned") off of a dead Austrian during the war. The iconic weapons of the Arditi were the trench dagger and the hand grenade, among other, deadlier weapons. The Thevenot hand grenades were frequently used by the Arditi during the war, and were well-suited for assaults. While they weren't too powerful, they were extremely noisy, which proved useful to the Arditi as they used them to create panic and fear among the enemy troops. The
Beretta M1918, meanwhile, was the first submachine gun issued to and used by the Italian armed forces (and arguably the first submachine gun used as a general-issue combat weapon), while the
Glisenti M1910 was a 9 mm semi-automatic pistol issued to the Regio Esercito during the Great War, and both weapons seemed fitting for someone such as Secondari. Finally, the beard that I describe him sporting is the
Balbo style beard, named after Italo Balbo himself.