"Then you are a prisoner of war?" I suggested.
"In old time," he continued, "Turks have Prilep. I go to America and
workit on railroad Chicago--three, four year. When I come back Turks
take me for army. Not liking I desert to Serbish army. When war
finish, Serbs have Prilep. I go home Serbish civil. Then this war
start. Bulgar come to Prilep and say, 'You Bulgar, you come work for
us.' You understahn me, boss?"
"I must look into this," I said to the Sergeant-Major. "Send for the
interpreter and ask the Bulgar officer to step in. He's just going
past."
Boris arrived with a salute and a charming smile and listened to my
tale. Then he turned a cold eye on Serge and burst into a torrent of
Bulgarian, under which Serge stood with lifting scalp.
"Sir," faltered Serge, when the cascade ceased, "I am liar. All I said
to you is false. I am good Bulgar. I hate Serbs."
"Then you are not, in fact, a Serb?" I said.
"Nope," said Serge, nodding his head frantically (the Oriental method
of negation).
"Do you want to go home?" I asked cunningly.
"Sure, boss," replied he. "Want to go Chicago."
Boris uttered one blasting guttural and Serge receded to the horizon
with great rapidity. "You understand, _mon ami_," explained Boris; "he
is really a Bulgar, but the villainous Serb propagandists have taught
him the Serbian language and that he is Serb. It is his duty really to
fight or work for Bulgaria, just as it was ours to liberate him and
his other Bulgar brothers in Serbia from the yoke of the Serbs. It is
understood, my friend?"
"Oh, absolutely," I replied.
He withdrew, exchanging a glance of hatred with Aristides
Papazaphiropoulos, who approached saluting with Hellenic fervour.
"You wish me, Sare?" he asked.
"I did," I answered, and outlined to him what had passed. "Is it true
that propaganda is, or are, used to that extent?"
"It is true," he answered sadly. "The Serb has much propagandism, the
Bulgar also. But in this case both are liars, since the population of
Prilep is rightfully Greek."
* * * * *
Three days later Boris appeared before me with a sullen face.
"I wish to complain," he said. "You have with you a Greek, one
Papazaphiropoulos. It is forbidden by the terms of the Armistice that
Greeks should come into Bulgaria. Greeks or Serbs--it is expressly
stated. I wish to complain."
"You are wrong," I replied. "He is no Greek. He is a Bulgar. But the
cunning Greek propagandists have taught him the Greek language and
that he is a Greek. It is really his duty to be the first to rush on
to the soil of his beloved Bulgaria--"
"Ach!" said Boris, grinding his teeth; "you mock our patriotism. You
are an Englishman."
"I don't," I replied. "And I'm not. I'm French. We came over in
1066. You ask my aunt at Tunbridge Wells. But the villainous English
propagandists taught me English, and the Scotch gave me a taste for
whisky, and--"
But Boris had faded away.
* * * * *