"Oh, my poor brother! oh, my poor brother! What have they done to thee? Why should this evil have befallen thee?"
As we finished tying him up, Hardinge said, "Is it any good lying down?"
I answered, "If this poor chap had been lying down he would not have been hurt."
There was no stretcher, so we lifted the wounded man on a blanket into the ambulance, which Boon had now brought. The girl and the brother climbed within. I took the steering wheel. Boon wound up the engine, and swung alongside me. The driving was a difficult problem. Whether to drive fast and get to the hospital, or whether to go slow and spare the wounded man as much pain as was possible? The road was awful: once it had been laid with stone pavement, but many of the stones were missing, and in so bad a condition was it that although several bombs had fallen in the streets, one could not distinguish the bomb craters from the ordinary holes in the road. At last I decided that as it was not a fracture I would go as quickly as I dared. Above the clatter of the machinery I could hear the weeping of the brother and the intermittent cries of the wounded man, "Water, water."
"I think he's going," said the girl through the curtains.
At last we reached the hospital. We laid the man on the ground and the doctors did all they could. But it was useless, the piece of shell had cut in directly beneath the heart. In ten minutes he was dead. I turned to the brother and laying both hands upon his shoulders said—
"Your poor brother was too badly hit. We could not save him."
He stared at me for a moment, not understanding. Then he turned and flung himself down upon the body, weeping more bitterly than before.
I went to the ambulance and took it back to its place.
The aeroplane returning from the arsenal had flung three gratuitous bombs at the camp itself, one had fallen in the Serbian hospital yard, and had killed an Austrian prisoner; one had fallen in the top corner of the camp field, but had not exploded. The third had missed, only by a little, the room in which the two dead German aeroplanists were lying, had plunged into the Stobarts' storeroom, and had burst in the last case of marmalade which they possessed. It was an awful mess. Had it fallen three yards to the left it would have killed the chief cook, who was just on the other side of the wall.
I went back to the arsenal. None of the bombs had struck any important part, almost all had fallen in open places, though one had burst on the roof of the woodshed, only a few yards from the petrol store. Two cans of petrol had been punctured by bits of shell, and Austrian prisoners were hurriedly pumping them out. Almost half the work of the arsenal was done by Austrian prisoners. Another bomb had fallen in the horseshoe store, and inside horseshoes were everywhere, some even sticking in the beams like great staples. I had no idea before that the bombs had such force. Sava said he had been standing in a doorway and a bomb had exploded quite close, a piece had whizzed by his nose and had torn down the name board over his head. When he turned round to go on with the work the aide had fled and never appeared again.
I met Dr. Churchin. He is one of the best Serbs I have yet met, a philosopher. He was looking after the English units in Kragujevatz and I learnt did it excellently, and with a devotion to his duties altogether unusual. He told me that I had been nominated an honorary captain; but I am under the impression that it is an honour I cannot by national law accept.
We went in the afternoon in the car towards Rudnik to examine the one which had broken down. I soon saw that nothing could be done on the spot, and ordered it to continue its "bullocky" progress to the camp. In the evening went off to the Government motor school, where I found my old friend Ristich and Colonel Derrock; both these men are first-class Serbs—jolly, keen and friendly.
October 5th. Our car not being finished, Mr. Berry and Sister Hammond went back to Vrntze in a car lent by Colonel Derrock. I was to stay till all the repairs were completed on ours. There was another scare of aeroplanes, and the whole town emptied itself, families pouring by en route for the country; but the planes did not come. I went down to the arsenal and got on with the repairs. Dr. May lent me her camera and I got some photos. Mrs. Stobart went off with her "flying field force," taking with her nearly all the men and almost all the cars: if the hospital get many serious cases I imagined that they would be dreadfully shorthanded.
In the night the two German aeroplanists were buried without military honours. The Serbs said that they were assassins and deserved nothing. Still, Kragujevatz is an arsenal.
October 6th. Another aeroplane scare; town emptied itself once more. Dr. MacLaren and I rushed off to the anti-aircraft guns, hoping to get some photos; but nothing occurred. Got the Rudnik car running by taking Mr. McBlack's useless car to pieces. In the evening two sisters went to Uskub. One of the sisters went to get her bag, and I took what I thought to be a short cut to help her. I passed between the tents, and was striding along, when—Plop! I found myself swimming in a deep tank of water. The sister heard me fall, and ran back to the camp crying out—
"Help, help! The stranger is drowning in the bath-water sewage tank."
I clambered out, and hastily fled to my tent, where kindly souls brought me an indiarubber bath and hot water. I also got some refugee pyjamas, in which I wandered about for the rest of the evening. My clothes were taken to the kitchen and hung over the big stove.
October 7th. Went to the arsenal in borrowed refugee clothes miles too large. Worried the car till it worked. At lunch clothes dry. Got away by three, Hardinge coming with us. Night came on before we got home. Our car is a beastly nuisance in the dark, the lamps, electric and worked from the magneto, only giving light when going at full speed, which is impossible on these roads. I was just boasting to Harding that I had never run into anything except the owl, when I hit a cow. Figures appeared cursing from the darkness; we cursed back for allowing the animal to stray; other figures appeared cursing on our side. The motor was pushed back, the cow got up and walked off, and on we went. Found Jo on night shift. Got some supper, fixed up a bed for Hardinge, and so self to bed.
CHAPTER XVI
LAST DAYS AT VRNTZE
Up till now Vrntze was undisturbed by the war; the fine ladies were walking the streets much as usual, and were bringing pressure upon Gaschitch, the commandant, to make us close one of our hospitals, so that it might be reopened as a lodging-house. The chemist and Jan had an amusing conversation about the uncle of Nicholas I. It seems he was a great poet.
"Sir," said the chemist, earnestly, "I can assure you that he was one of the greatest poets that ever has lived. Were Serbian a language as universally spoken as is English, he would stand beside Shakespeare in the world's estimation, if not before. The depth of his philosophy, sir, it is astounding and so deep. There are passages in his poetry which I have studied for weeks on end and never yet been able to understand."
The true explanation is that the great poet translated an old work of German philosophy into Serbian, and very likely did not understand all the original himself.
We got more letters urging us to return. Our studios in Paris and all our work of the last eight years seemed in danger of being sold up. So Jan went once more to the Chief. He asked us to stay until at least the first batch of wounded arrived, for none of the others had had experience of the receiving arrangements, and of the disinfecting. We moved our beds and baggage to the school, which Jo was to take over as a convalescent hospital.
By the way, one of our doctors had a queer soothsaying experience. She was told that she was one day going to a foreign country with an S in the name. She would be quite safe in her first job, but that she would be offered a post in a large grey building from which if she accepted she might not escape alive, but in any case would be flying for her life, and that she and all her companions would suffer great hardships and sleep on dirty straw in awful places. She was offered a job at the Farmers' hospital in Belgrade. She refused. It is a great grey building, and we now heard that Belgrade was being violently bombarded and all had to escape. Rumours came of great German attacks on Shabatz and Obrenovatz.
The next day Serbian refugees arrived from Belgrade itself: they said that the town was in flames and that fierce fighting was taking place in the streets. Posheravatz was deserted, and a great battle was raging about its outskirts. There were reports that the King of Bulgaria had abdicated and that the Germans at Chabatz had been defeated, leaving 8000 prisoners in Serbian hands. Neuhat came to Jan in great glee.
"We have captured a German major," he said, "and he says that never was there a soldier like the Serb. He has fought English and French and Russians, but he says our troops are the most wonderful of all."
"Jolly sensible chap," said Jan. "I'd say the same myself if I was a prisoner."
Major Gaschitch told Dr. Berry that if the Serbian army retreated we were to retreat with them. Blease and Jan got hard at work putting rope handles to the packing-cases and labelling them for special purposes. One of our lady doctors was valued in the morning. In the outpatient department a question arose about marriage. A Serb patient said—
"I can marry any time I like. Pah! In Serbia one can get two maidens for twopence, and three widows for a mariasch (1/2d.)."
Everybody was now running about with maps, violently explaining the situation to everybody else, and all explaining differently. Major Gaschitch had fixed Novi Bazar as our probable haven, and Mr. Berry borrowed our map to see if there were a direct road over Gotch mountain, and suggested that Jan might get a horse and ride over to see. Alas, only a fourth-class road was marked, and heaven knows what that may be like: lots of country and choose for yourself probably. A woman was brought in with what she said was a bullet through the breast; it occurred during the celebration of the marriage ceremony, which lasted a week. The girl was brought by her father, the bridegroom having rushed off to the church to pray. The wound looked very like a dagger thrust.
The new slaughter-house was a fine erection. The walls were almost finished and the roof was being assembled. One of the Austrian prisoners had discovered a talent for stone carving, and Miss Dickenson was designing a frieze for the door and on each side. There was a fine ceremony—while we had been away—at the foundation, and Mr. Berry made a speech in Serbian. The disinfector had also arrived and was soon got into working order.
The news got better. The Austrians were now driven out of Belgrade with immense slaughter, the whole line of the Danube and of the Save had been reoccupied by the Serbs. Blease and Jan wondered if it were necessary to go on with the rope handles. Our first wounded man arrived in the evening, a non-commissioned officer, with a slightly wounded thumb. He had arrived by train, asked in the town which was the most comfortable hospital, and had walked up. We represented that we weren't looking for thumbs, but had to put him up for the night; this meant the whole business of washing, shaving, and disinfecting his clothes.
We heard that the French and English had arrived in Nish, 70,000 men, and that they had been greeted with the wildest enthusiasm; but against that was set the fact that Belgrade after all was not quite clear of Austrians, in fact, they still held half the town, but that the "Swobs" were not getting on at Chabatz. "Swobs" in Serbian are any of a Germanic country, while in Austria it is a term of opprobrium, meaning "German." One of our "Czech" orderlies said to Jo, pathetically—
"I never thought that I should be called a 'Swob.'"
Next day came a warning that two hundred wounded, serious cases, were to be expected, so everything and everybody was in a rush. The bathrooms to be cleaned, disinfecting-room and bags to be got ready, wards cleared as much as was possible.
The wounded did not come, and the next day they did not come. The chemist said that all the Austrians had been driven back, but that the Bulgars had at last attacked. Mr. Berry thought the news rather serious, and told us that Gaschitch had said that we must be prepared to move at twenty-four hours' notice; so back we went to the work on the boxes. Next day news was brought that the Bulgars had drawn back, and had said that the Serbs had attacked them first, that the Powers had declared war on Bulgaria, and that the Russians had bombarded Varna.
At last we got news that the wounded were really coming. We hurried into our disinfecting garments—looking like pantaloons,—and scissors were served out to all the assistants. It was dark before the first motor load came.
The undressing-room was a large white-stone floored room with four long plank beds covered with mackintosh; behind was the bathroom. The first wounded man was pushed in through the window on a stretcher, a brown crumpled heap of misery, and groaning. We laid him carefully on the bed while the doctor searched for the wound. While she was examining him a second was handed in. No need to examine this one. Bloody head bandage and great blue swollen eyelids told plainly where his wound was. We stripped the clothes as carefully as was possible from the poor fellows. Those who were too bad to go to the bathroom were washed where they lay. One orderly with soap and razors shaved every hair from each; and several plied clippers on the matted heads. Outside was one electric lamp which threw strong lights and darker shadows, making a veritable Rembrandt of the scene, lighting up the white clad forms of the assistants who were drawing out the stretchers, the big square end of the ambulance car, and picking out from the gloom of the garden a rose tree which bore one white rose.
The wounded were indescribably dirty, and their clothes in a shocking state, all stiff with blood. Jo took charge of the clothes bags, seeing that no man's clothes were mixed with any others. The men all seemed dazed, each soldier seemed to have the same protest upon his mind. "This wasn't the idea at all, I was not to be wounded. Why am I here?" One suddenly felt the brutal inanity of modern warfare; one felt that if the ones who had started this war could only be forced to spend three months in a war hospital, receiving and undressing the fruits of their plots, they would have a different view of the glory and honour of battle.
Each man had sewn in his belt some talisman to protect him from danger—small brass or lead image or medal, bought from the village priest.
There was confusion at first, for almost all were new to their tasks; the barbers were carrying stretchers when they ought to have been barbering; the clippers were scrubbing instead of doing their proper work; but, nevertheless, it was marvellously rapid. The motor tore back to the station, and by the time it had returned its first load had been washed, shaved, arrayed in clean pyjamas, and either lay in bed in the ward, or were waiting their turn outside the operating theatre.
Mr. Berry was hard at work: there were several cases shot through the brain, one through the lungs, one through the heart, and one through the spine; this latter was paralysed.
Some wounded came in carriages; it was very difficult to get them on to the stretchers without giving them unnecessary pain, because of the shape of the "fiacres." At last all were passed through.
Do not think us heartless if we rubbed our hands and said, "Some very good cases, what!" for emotional pity can be separated from professional pleasure, and if these things had to be we were pleased that the serious ones had come to us; had not gone to a Serbian hospital.
Next day we sorted clothes. Every uniform had to be taken from its bag, tabulated, searched for money or food, and repacked. They were swarming with vermin, but we wore mackintosh overalls which are supposed to be anathema to the beasties. More operations. One of the men had been hit in the cerebellum, and was quite blind. The boy who had been hit in the lungs prayed for a cigarette and an apple, he felt sure they would do him good. We sorted more clothes. One of the men had a pocket full of scissors—evidently regimental barber; another's pockets were crammed with onions; a third had a half-eaten apple, as though the fight had surprised him in the middle of his dessert. The cerebellum man wanted his purse. We could not find it; after exhaustive inquiry found that the lung youth had stolen it. Another patient claimed he had lost thirty-six francs; so down we had to go once more, search his package—the smelliest of the lot—and at last found the money pinned into the lining of his coat, also a watch. Jan took them back to him, wound up the watch and set it. The grateful owner said that the watch was an ornament, but that he could not read it.
The French were never in Nish at all—all lies; but Austrian aeroplanes had bombed it and killed several people. The Bulgarian comitaj cut the line at Vranja, but had been badly beaten in a battle near Zaichar. The flight over Gotch degenerated into a joke, and Jo was commissioned to do a caricature of it.
Suddenly a refugee turned up, the hostess of the rest house in Nish. She was very worried about the loss of her fifteen trunks, which she had had to leave, and which contained all her family mementoes and miniatures. She hoped that the scare would only last a few days. The Bulgars had occupied Veles though, which was bad news. Another refugee lady from Belgrade came in. More patients. Forty-nine for the "Merkur" hospital. Lots of running about, but at last all were bedded.
A Serbian comitaj girl came in in the afternoon, looking for a lady doctor. She was a fine upstanding creature with a strong, almost fierce, face. There had been six of her, she said, but one had been killed. The bombardment of Varna turned out to be a lie, but they said that all the Bulgars at Vrnja had been surrounded. Major Gaschitch also said that if Serbia could hold out till the 10th, something wonderful was going to happen.
Our visitors had rather a hard time. One of them was trotting into the little sitting-room of the hospital. She opened the door and started back aghast. There was a man within clad in nothing but a large pair of moustaches. She fled. Mr. Berry having nowhere to examine a stray patient had occupied the room at an unlucky moment. More wounded were expected, so we got into our war paint, and they arrived five hours later than we had expected them. They came in "fiacres," and climbed off very easily. We inquired, "Where wounded?" "Belgrade." "When?" "Three months ago." Not a serious case amongst them, and we had heard that the badly equipped hospitals at Krusevatz were crowded with the most frightful cases. We were furious. A lot more wounded came to the "State" café. None seriously hurt, and after examination one man had no wound to show at all, nor shock, nor anything. He had simply run away. There were several hand cases, some blackened with powder, proving that the poor devils had shot themselves to get out of it. One man would not have his hair cut because he said that he was in mourning for his brother, and his hat was decorated with a crown of black lace. At the same time some serious cases came to the main hospital; one man seemed to have been shot the whole length of his body, the bullet entering at the shoulder and emerging behind the hip. A small boy sat scratching. Jo said to him, "Why dost thou scratch?" He answered with a shout of fatuous content, "I have lice, I have lice," and scratched once more.
The disinfector was working overtime, clothes were poured upon us from all the other hospitals. Another alarm that wounded were coming, but they never came. In their place an English clergyman arrived from Krag. News came of the fall of Uskub, and that Lady Paget had been captured with all her staff. Next day the wounded came, many more than had been expected. Jan got rather strong signs of inflammatory rheumatism threatening, so he went to bed for a couple of days with salicylate.
The Serbian authorities were beginning to lose their heads. In the morning they said that the "State" was to be made into a hospital for officers, and chased all the patients out; in the afternoon they decided that it was not, and chased back the patients—who had been divided amongst the other hospitals. Thus they kept us busy and accomplished nothing. In the evening another batch of wounded came in.
Nearly all the reports of the previous week were now confessed to be lies. A Serbian minister had been dying in the town, and the good stories were made up to keep him cheerful. Now he was dead the truth leaked out. The Austrians and Germans were advancing on every side, the Serbs making no resistance since Belgrade. The Bulgars had occupied the whole of the line south of Nish. The French and English were advancing with extreme difficulty. The Farmers' unit trailed into the town, no conveyance having been arranged for them from the station. The Scottish women were already here, having come in the night; they had to sleep twelve or fifteen in a room. Next day a small contingent of the wounded Allies arrived.
Sir Ralph Paget arrived in a whirl. Leaders of units appeared from all sides, and a hurried conference was held.
Mr. Berry called a meeting at two. He said Paget had announced that the game was up; that all members of units should have the option of going home, and that he (Paget) was going to Kralievo to see about transports. Jan got to work on the map, and decided that the best route out would be one to Novi Bazar, and thence by tracks to Berane. There were villages marked in the mountains which did not seem so high as those by Ipek, also the road, if there were one, would be at least two days shorter.
Sir Ralph came back next day, and knowing that we had but lately returned from Montenegro, he asked Jan a lot of questions about the road, etc. Sir Ralph's latest decision was that all men of military age—not doctors—should attempt to cross the mountains into Montenegro. He could not say if any transport could be provided, or if there would be any means of escaping from Montenegro, and in consequence he advised no women to move, as they would be better where they were, than in facing the risks of the mountains; they would not be in the same danger as the orderlies, for whom internment was to be expected. Dr. Holmes decided to accompany us, as he said he wasn't going to doctor Germans, and he might be useful to the retreating Serbian army. Ellis also said that he would come and would bring his car, which would help us at least some of the way. Sir Ralph asked Jan to take charge of the party of the English Red Cross, and we went back to our rooms to repack, for Jo had already arranged things for internment, Mr. Blease decided to come with us. Nobody knew what the dangers would be, or where the Austrians and Germans were, and many doubted if it were possible to get through. The season was getting late, and snow was daily to be expected. Some imaginative people enlarged on "the brigands" and "wolves," but we did not think that they counted for much. The chief problems were, if we could get shelter each night, and could we carry enough food to support us in case we could get none, which seemed very possible.
We got an order from Gaschitch for bread from the Serbian authorities. We were going off into country, the real conditions of which nobody knew, and our friends took leave of us, many expecting to see us back in a few days. The Austrian prisoners were very sad at our going.
The station was dark and gloomy, the little gimcrack Turkish kiosk—like a bit of the White City—was filled with Red Cross stoves and beds. Two trains came in, but neither was for Kralievo; one was Red Cross and the other for Krusevatz. A lot of boys, in uniform, clambered on board and shouting out, "Sbogom Vrntze," were borne off into the night. Our spirits fell lower and lower. We thought of the friends we were leaving behind us, and of what we had before us. The reaction had set in, intensified by the gloom and cold of the station.
Hours later the train arrived. The only third-class carriage was filled to overflowing, people were standing on the platform and sitting on the steps. We tried the trucks. All were crammed so full that the doors could not be opened.
"You'd better go to-morrow," said the station-master.
"We're not going through that a second time," we said. "Can't we climb on to the roof?"
We scrambled up. There were other men there, lying in brown heaps. We made some of them move up a little, stowed our blankets and knapsacks, and sat amongst them.
"Are you all right?" shouted the station-master.
"Yes."
"Good-bye, then. Lie down when you come to the bridges, or you'll get your heads knocked off."
We lay down at once, taking no risks, not knowing when the bridges were coming. Luckily the wind was with us, and the night was warm. The engine showered sparks into the air, which fell little hot touches on to our faces and hands. Later a little rain fell.
Kralievo at three a.m. We did not know the town so Jo stormed the telegraph office. The officials tried to shut the door, but she got her foot into it.
"When I ask you a polite question you might answer it," she said.
"You can get shelter next door," said one grumpily.
We tried next door. It was crowded, and the heat within was unbearable. We saw a door in the opposite wall and opened it—back into the telegraph office. There were people sleeping there already, so without asking permission we dumped our baggage and lay down on the floor. The officials said nothing.
After a while two French generals (or somethings) came in. They were refused as we were, but they took no notice, unpacked their blankets and lay down under the great central table. With them was a wife, she sat miserably on a chair. The room got so stuffy when the door was shut that she wished it opened; the draught was so bad when the door was open that she immediately wished it shut. Unfortunately she got mixed: the Serbian for open is very like the word for shut, and she used them reversed. There was much confusion. Just as the officials were getting used to her inversions, she corrected herself. More confusion. An English girl came in, pushed aside the papers on the big table, and began to brew cocoa on a Primus stove which she had brought with her. The officials looked helplessly at each other. Jan recognized her as one of the Stobart unit from Krag: she had got astray from her band, but was now rejoining them.
CHAPTER XVII
KRALIEVO
We roused ourselves at seven a.m. A damp, chilly fog was hanging low over the valley, it penetrated to the skin, and one shuddered. The railway was congested, but train arrived after train, open trucks all packed with men whose breath rose in steam, and whose clothes were sparkling with the dew. We stepped from the station door into a thick black "pease puddingy" mud, as though the Thames foreshore had been churned up by traffic. Standing knee deep in the mud were weary oxen and horses attached to carts of all descriptions, with wheels whose rims, swollen by the mire, were sunk almost to the axles. Across the mud, surrounded by shaky red brick walls, the District Civil Hospital showed pale in the morning, and we made towards it, splashing.
We came to the lodge: an English girl was doing something to a kitchen stove. She stared at us.
"Hullo!"
"We've just come from Vrnjatchka Banja," we explained.
She took Jo to the hospital, while Blease and Jan dropped their heavy luggage and washed in a basin, provided by a Serb servant girl. Jo did not return. Jan went to the hospital to look for her.
Crowds of men were at the door, crowds in ragged and filthy uniforms, with bandages on arms, or foot, or brow, dirty stained bandages with bloodstains upon them. Some of the men were crouching on the ground, some were lying against the house, fast asleep. Somehow we got through them. The passage was full of men, and men were asleep, festooned on the stone stairs. The smell was horrible. Beyond a swinging glass door Scottish women were hurrying to and fro bandaging the men as they entered, and passing them out on the other side of the building. The Serbs waited with the stoicism of the Oriental, their long lean faces drawn with hunger, pain and fatigue. Now and again some man turned uneasily in his sleep and groaned. A detachment of "Stobarts" had found a lodging upstairs, in a bedroom with plank beds; amongst them we found some old friends.
Leaving them we went into the village to look for a meal, back through the mud. Soldiers, peasants, women, children, horse carts and bullock waggons, all were pushing here and there, broken down and deserted motor cars were standing in the middle of the road. In the great round central "Place" confusion was worse, animals, carts, and refugee bivouacks being all squashed together on the market place.
White-bearded officers with grey-green uniforms were gesticulating to white-bearded civilians outside the Café de Paris. A motor rushed up, disgorged three men in Russian uniform and fled. A small fat man vainly endeavouring to attract the attention of a staff officer grasped him by the arm; the staff officer shook him off angrily. Soldiers lounged against the walls and peered in through the dirty windows....
Within, the big dark room was crammed. Opening the door was like turning a corner of cliff by the seashore. Almost all, at the tables, were men: officers, tradesmen, clerks, talking in eager tense words. We found three seats. Nobody had anything to eat or drink. Three men came to the table next to us. They exhibited two loaves of bread to the others, and had the air of some one who had done something very clever. We were famished.
Suddenly half the café rose and rushed to a small counter almost hidden in the gloom of the far end. Coffee can be got, said some one. Blease, who could get out the easier, went to explore. In a short while he wandered back saying that he had got a waiter. A man came through selling apples. We bought some. At last the waiter came.
"Café au lait," said we.
"And bread," we added, as he turned away.
"Nema," he answered, looking back.
"Well eggs, then."
"Nema."
"What have you got?"
"We have nothing but meat."
"No potatoes?"
"No."
We got a sort of Serbian stew, the meat so tough that one had to saw the morsels apart with a knife and bolt them whole. As we were operating, a soldier leaned up against our table, and stared at our plates with a wistful longing. Jo caught his eye. She scraped together all our leavings; what misery we could have relieved, had we had money enough, in Serbia then.
We paid our bill with a ten dinar (franc) note. The waiter fingered it a moment.
"Haven't you any money?" he asked.
"That is money."
"Silver, I mean."
"No."
He hesitated a moment. Then went away, turning the note over in his hands. After a while he returned and gave us our change.
The day passed in a queer sort of daze of doing things; between one act and another there was no definite sequence. The town itself was in a sort of suppressed twitter, everybody's movements seemed exaggerated, the eager ones moved faster, impelled by a sort of fear; the slow ones went slower, their feet dragging in a kind of despondency. At one time we found ourselves clambering up some steps to the mayor's office, in search of bread. By a window on the far side of the room was a man with a pale face, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and light hair: Churchin. We ran to him.
"What are you doing here?" he said gloomily.
We explained.
"I don't think you can get any transport," he said; "but later I'll see if I can do anything."
We thanked him. "But transport or no transport, we are going." Jan showed him the bread order. He read it and pointed to the Nachanlik.
The Nachanlik read our order, scowled and passed it on to another man, an officer. The officer read the order, looked us sulkily from head to foot, then he pushed the paper back to us.
"We have only bread for soldiers."
"But—we are an English Mission."
"Only for soldiers here. We have nothing to do with English Missions."
Fearing that we had come to the wrong place we retired.
At another time we were climbing up back stairs to what had been the temporary lodgings of the English legation. But it was empty and deserted; Sir Ralph Paget had not yet come.
There were bread shops, but they were all shut and guarded by soldiers. Jan saw some bread in a window. He went into the dirty café, which was crowded with soldiers, some sitting on the floor and some on the tables.
"Whose bread?" asked he.
"Ours."
"Will you sell me a loaf?"
"We won't sell a crumb."
We bought some apples from a man with a Roman lever balance, and chewed them as we went along.
At the hospital the "Stobarts" were packing up. A motor was coming for them in the afternoon. We heard that Dr. May and the Krag people were at Studenitza, an old monastery, halfway along the road to Rashka. On the flat fields behind the station were another gang of "Stobarts," the dispensary from Lapovo. One Miss H—— was in trouble, for thieves had pushed their arms beneath the tent flaps in the night and had captured her best boots.
"There are cases full of boots on the railway," said some one, consoling.
"But those are men's boots," said another.
Part of the morning we spent sitting on the banks of the Ebar River and watching the bridge, wondering if Ellis would come with his car. Ten times we thought we could see it, and each time were deceived.
The French aeroplanes came in. They hovered over the town seeking a flat place, finally swooping down on to the marshy plain on which the "Stobarts" were encamped. They landed, dashing through the shallow puddles and flinging the water in great showers on every side. As each landed it wheeled into line and was pegged down. Behind them was a line of cannons, the Serbian engineers were hard at work, smashing off their sighting apparatus, destroying the breech blocks, and jagging the lining with cold chisels. Some of the cannon were Turkish. All the morning, through the noise of the town, the shouting of the bullock drivers, the pant of the motor cars, and the steady tap, tap of the engineers' mallets, came the faint booming of the battle at Mladnovatch, not fifteen miles away.
After lunch we went again to the café. Again it was full, and we were forced to wait for a table. Just as we sat down a woman with a drawn, anxious face came up to us, clutched Jo by the arm and said eagerly—
"Is it true that you are going to Montenegro?"
"Yes," answered Jo. "If we can get there."
"Could you give me only a little advice, madame? You see we do not know what to do. My husband—he is an old man, and he is an Austro-Serb. If the enemy catch him they will hang him."
"I'm afraid he will have to walk," said Jo.
"But he is so old," said the woman, with tears in her eyes; "he is fifty."
"We ourselves will have to walk," said Jo. "Make him a knapsack for his food. Give him warm clothes. It is his only chance of safety. And," she added, "the sooner he gets away the better, for in a little all the food on the road will be eaten up, and one will starve."
The woman thanked us. "I will make him go at once," she said, and ran out wringing her hands.
A Russian woman with a thin-faced man sat at her table.
"You are going to Montenegro?" she said.
We nodded.
"I too am going. I am a good sportswoman. I have walked fifty kilometres in one day."
We looked at her well-corseted figure, her rather congested face, and had already seen thin high-heeled shoes.
"I will come with you, yes?"
The little man interrupted. "Why do you say such things, Olga? You know that you cannot walk a mile."
We pointed out that we were going to march across the Austrian front, and that no one could tell us where the Austrians were exactly; that our safety depended to some extent on our speed, and that the failure of one to make the pace meant the failure of all. The little man drew her away.
In the afternoon a miserable fit of depression took us, but we pushed it behind us. To the hospital for tea, taking with us a tin of cocoa and some condensed milk, which the people lacked. Biscuits and treacle, the treacle looted from the railway, where an obliging guard had said that he could not give permission to take it, but that he could look the other way. We heard the tale of Kragujevatz, of the camp and all the buildings filled to overflowing. More aeroplane raids; and of the sudden order to evacuate. All the wounded who could crawl were got from their beds and turned into the street by the authorities to go: if they could not walk, to crawl. A few Serb and Austrian doctors were left to guard and watch those too ill to go; with them some Swedish and Dutch sisters, and the Netherlands flag flying from the hospitals. Dr. Churchin seemed to have been the good genius of the Missions, never flagging in his efforts for them.
We heard that a Colonel Milhaelovitch was the bread officer. He lived somewhere in the back of the big yellow schoolhouse at the end of the street. After tea we wandered drearily down to seek him, gained permission from a sentry, and clambered up some stone stairs. Jan saw an acquaintance from the Nish ministry, asked him a question, and was ushered ... straight into the Ministry of War. They seemed in a frightful stew about something, an air of disorder reigned everywhere, but somebody found time to look at the order.
"Nachanlik," said he.
"We've been there already."
"Well, go there again and say we sent you, and that they must give you bread."
We were worn out by this. Jo went off to the plank bed which the Stobarts had promised to her, while Jan and Blease to the tents, where Sir Ralph's men were sheltering.
All the streets were edged with motionless bullock carts, in which men were sleeping, and even in the mud between their wheels were the dim forms of the weary soldiery. The two splashed across the marsh and found the tents.
Rogerson and Willett were there; Willett was seedy. Another Englishman named Hamilton, who had an umbrella which he had sworn to take back with him to England. Also two Austro-Serb boys who had been acting as interpreters.
West and Mawson were not there. Rogerson said that Sir Ralph had sent them with Mrs. M——to see the road and conditions at Mitrovitza; nobody knew when they would be back. We got two beds, but there were no mattresses on the springs. Jan rolled up in his Serbian rug, but it was loosely woven, and not as warm as he had hoped. Just not warm enough, one only dozed. About eleven o'clock, Cutting came in with Owen, Watmough, Hilder, and Elmer. They had come from Vrnjatchka Banja with Dr. Holmes. Some one had told them that we had deserted them and had gone off to Rashka on our own; they were cheered to find us still there. After that we lay awake discussing details. None of them had realized the difficulties of the road and the probable lack of food, though the Red Cross men had brought with them a case of emergency rations. Jan exposed his idea of the route; somebody said that there was some corned beef and rice in a Red Cross train on the siding.
Intermittently in the silences one could still hear the sound of the guns.
Next morning at breakfast Dr. Holmes came in. He had thought us gone, and so had procured for himself and the sister who was with him, seats in a Government motor which was going to Mitrovitza. We all splashed across the marshy grass to the siding where the stores were. In the empty trucks on the line families were camping, and some had fitted them up like little homes. We found the truck, and with efforts dug out twelve tins of corned beef, a case of condensed milk, one of treacle, and two tins of sugar. We emptied a kitbag and filled it with rice.
The hospital was fuller than ever. The Scottish nurses were toiling as quickly as they could, and each man received a couple of hard ship's biscuits from a great sack, when his wounds were dressed. He immediately wolfed the hard biscuits and lay down; in one minute he was asleep, and the hospital grounds were strewn with the sleeping men. From time to time sergeants came in, roused the sleepers, formed them into detachments, and marched them off.
The Stobarts met us wringing their hands. There was no bread, nor could they procure any. Jan took their order, and we promised to see what could be done. As we passed the station we saw surging crowds of men, from the midst came cries of pain, and sticks were falling in blows.
"Good Lord, what's that?" we cried.
We plunged into the crowd. Some of the men and boys were gnawing angrily at pieces of biscuit which they held in their hands. The crowd surged more violently, the sticks were plied with greater vigour; presently the crowd fell back snarling. The ground which they left was covered with the crumbs of trampled biscuit, and the soldiers drove the crowd yet further back, beating with sticks and cursing. A bread sack being unloaded from a waggon had burst, the hungry crowd had pounced ... that was all. As we withdrew we saw the fortunate ones still gnawing ferociously at the hard morsels which they had captured.
We took our passes to the mayor once more. He received us angrily.
"I told you yesterday," he said.
"The War Office sent us," said Jan, sweetly, "and said that you must give us bread."
"I have no bread," said the mayor. "You must go to Colonel Milhaelovitch."
We tramped back to the yellow school. There was no sentry, and a queer air of forlornness seemed to pervade. We asked a loiterer for the colonel's office. He pointed. We climbed yet another stair and found a pair of large rooms; they were empty. Town papers were scattered on the floor, one table was overturned.
A man lounged in. "Where is the colonel?" we asked.
"Ne snam bogami," he said, twisting a cigarette.
"Well, find out," said Jan.
He lounged away and presently returned with another.
"The colonel has evacuated," said the other; "he went naturally with the Ministry of War to Rashka last night."
We went back in a fury to the mayor.
"You knew this," we cried angrily to him.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Where can we get bread?"
He took up the passes and looked at them. His face lightened.
"This one," he said, turning to another, "is written—Give them bread to the value of three francs. We will give them three francs."
"No you won't," said we; "you'll give us bread. You cannot leave these English sisters to starve."
After some grumbling he said we could inquire at the "first army." We made him write out an order; we also made him give us a clerk to accompany us. He gave us a tattered old man whose toes were sticking from his boots.
We presented both orders at the "first army." It refused at once. We threatened it with the War Office and with the mayor. After some demur it sent us across the town again to the "magazine" office.
At the magazine office we were more wily. We presented our little order for three humble loaves. He first said "Nema," then admitted that there was bread and that we could have it. We then showed the order for the other loaves.
"No, no," he cried, "you cannot have all that bread."
We pointed out that it was not much for a whole mission. He still refused. So Jo got up and made a little speech. It was a nasty little speech, but they deserved it, for we had found that they had bread.
She pointed out that the English Missions had now been working in Serbia for a year, gratis; that no matter if we got no transport we were going to get to England, and that it would not look well in the English papers if we wrote a true account of our experiences, saying that they had allowed the English Missions to starve. The threat of publicity finished him. He grumbling consented to give us ten loaves in addition to our own to last for two days. Not daring to leave them, and to send an orderly for them, we rolled them up in Jo's overcoat and staggered down the road to the hospital.
On the way we met an old Serbian peasant woman. She walked for a while with us, turning her eyes to heaven and crying—
"What times we live in. Only God can help, only God."
At the hospital we met Sir Ralph Paget. He told us that the Transport Board had promised him ten ox carts for the morrow. Two large motor lorries had turned up to take the two contingents of the "Stobarts." They were packing in, and we asked them to take our holdall as far as Rashka, for we were still distrustful of the ox carts. We had begun to get into a habit of not believing in anything till it was actually there.
An Englishman came suddenly in with a face purple with anger and swearing. He was the dispenser from Krag who had been left at Lapovo to bring on the stores.
"What's the matter?" we cried.
"Brought my motor from Lapovo with the hospital stuff," he said furiously. "Left it out there on the road. Came in here to tell you about it; and when I go back the cussed thing isn't there. Found all the stores in a beastly bullock cart. The people said that a Serb officer had come along, turned all our stuff out, and gone off with the motor. * * * *."
There was nothing to be done, so we went on packing. An aeroplane was seen in the distance; everybody watched it.
"Taube," said somebody.
The Taube sailed slowly round, surveying the town. It passed right overhead. Everybody stared upwards wondering if it were going to "bomb," for we were just opposite to the railway station. But it passed over and flew away. As it went guns fired at it, and many of the Serbs let off their rifles. We have often wondered where all the bits of the shells go to, for nobody ever seems to be hit by them, even when they are bursting right overhead.
The motor gave several snorts, everybody climbed aboard. The driver let in the clutch, there was a tearing sound from underneath, but the motor did not go. One of the drivers clambered down, and after examination said that it could not go on that day, and they immediately began to take it to pieces. The aeroplane came back twice, sailing to and fro without hindrance.