At the end of September last those whom we in Macedonia had come
to regard as our deadly enemies became our would-be friends with a
suddenness which was almost painful. Kultur is a leavening influence,
and our spurious local Hun in Bulgaria is every bit as frightful in
war and as oily in defeat as the genuine article on the Rhine.
To escape this unfamiliar and rather overpowering atmosphere of
friendliness our section of the Salonica Force immediately made for
the nearest available enemy and found ourselves at a lonely spot on
the Turkish frontier. The name of the O.C. Local Bulgars began with
Boris, and he was a _Candidat Offizier_ or Cadet, and acting Town
Major. As an earnest of good-will, he showed us photos of his home,
before and after the most recent _pogrom_, and of his grandfather, a
bandit with a flourishing practice in the Philippopolis district, much
respected locally.
We took up our dispositions, and shortly all officers were engaged
sorting out the suspicious characters arrested by the sentries. It was
in this way that I became acquainted with Serge Gotastitch the Serb.
When he was brought before me I sent for Aristides Papazaphiropoulos,
our interpreter, and in the meantime delivered a short lecture to the
Sergeant-Major, Quartermaster-Sergeant and Storeman on the inferiority
of the Balkan peoples, with particular reference to the specimen
before us, to whom, in view of the fact that he seemed a little below
himself, I gave a tot of rum. He eyed it with suspicion.
"What's this?" he asked suddenly (in English). "Whisky?"