We reached Palanka, a clean, cheery little town, at 1.30 p.m. We drew
up in the square, in the middle of the town, and I rode on to see the
officer at the military station, to ask for orders. He knew nothing, so
I went on to the central telephone station, rang up Headquarters Staff,
who were, I discovered, at Michaelovatz, and talked to our P.M.O., who
told me to put up our hospital in a field near the railway station,
and to arrange to send a motor-ambulance at six to-morrow morning, to
Michaelovatz to bring back wounded. That looked like business, and
greatly cheered the doctors and nurses, who were getting restless for
want of work. We pitched the camp before dusk, and had a peaceful night.
At six the next morning (Thursday, October 14th) I drove with one car,
and Dr. Payne with another, to Headquarters--a run of three-quarters
of an hour. Colonel Terzitch and our P.M.O. and our artist friend were
finishing coffee. They gave us some, and showed us two German prisoners
who had just come in. Fighting had begun, and it seemed that though
our one division of 25,000 men was confronted with 100,000 Germans and
Austrians under von Mackensen, with their biggest artillery, we were
holding our own fairly well. Wounded were coming along the road in
ox-carts from the battle-field, and along the road were also streams of
fugitives flying from the bombarded villages.
The P.M.O. came with me in the car to choose a site for our hospital,
nearer to Michaelovatz and the front, than Palanka. We found a
camping-place opposite a wood, near Aranya, twenty minutes' run from
Palanka. I then went back to the latter town to bring out the column,
and we were on the site, the southern side of a sheltering wood, by
two o'clock. Tents were pitched before dusk, and immediately streams
of wounded began arriving, and continued to come all through the
night, and the next day and night. They drove up, in rough, springless
ox-wagons, from the battle-field, were removed by the ambulance men,
and placed inside our hospital tent. The doctors received them,
diagnosed them, and treated them; the nurses dressed their wounds; the
cook gave them food and drink (popara and bread, and tea or coffee;
and, in the middle of the day, soup or stew); the chauffeurs then drove
those who were fit to travel, to the nearest evacuation hospital in
Palanka, and the others (fifty) spent the night in our tents, and were
transported next day.
Rain fell all day and all night; the mud was horrible, and the wind
unpleasantly cold; fugitives, in increasing numbers, streamed along the
road; and the thunder of the guns was continuous. But I never heard
anyone say anything about the guns; no one gave a thought to anything
but work. There were that day one hundred wounded to be tended.
To our relief a courier from Kragujevatz arrived with the spare parts
of the motors, and some benzine, and we took the opportunity of sending
back by him some tents, which we could spare, to lighten the wagons;
also we regretfully parted from one nurse and one orderly. They were
both satisfactory in every way, but it was desirable to economise space
in the cars, as we were likely to be continuously on the move, and
there was likelihood that their services might now be much needed in
the hospital at Kragujevatz, or at Lapovo.
On Saturday afternoon, October 16th, a mounted orderly from
Headquarters brought, in the usual white, square envelope, the order
to move on to Barchinatz. We left at 3.15, and arrived at 7 p.m.,
pitched our tents, in the dark and the rain, and had supper at nine. We
heard, to our intense satisfaction, that the Germans had been beaten
back, and that the French and English were fighting the Bulgars. But
our joy did not last long. On Sunday, October 17th, the mounted orderly
arrived; he brought with him the order to evacuate the camp; I signed
the envelope, and he left. Then, as usual on these occasions, I took
out the sectional map, provided by Headquarters, to see the direction
and the distance of the place to which the column must be moved.
Hitherto the direction had been northerly, and that meant, of course,
that we were advancing, and approaching the enemy's country. That was
good, and the officers and we had sometimes joked about the restaurants
we should patronise when we reached Vienna or Buda-Pesth. But now,
to my dismay, the map showed that Dobrido, the village to which we
were to move, was in a southerly direction. This meant retreat. We
hoped, of course, that this was only a temporary check; but from the
moment of that first retreat, we never advanced again. But, it must
be remembered, to the everlasting credit of the Serbian Army, that
though the retreat continued for nearly three months, the Army did not
content itself with retreating, but fought rearguard actions all the
time. Military experts will appreciate the wear and tear to body and
mind entailed in such a performance. We, of course, also, throughout
that time, put up our hospital tents, and received and evacuated the
wounded. Colonel Terzitch looked in on his way to new Headquarters; he
was as cheery as usual. He said that we were making a slight retreat,
because one of our regiments, composed of elderly soldiers, with poor
guns, had given way. He thought all would soon be well again.
We found this time a delightful camp site in a space enclosed by a fine
wood. The routine was always the same on arrival at our destination.
Shortly before reaching the village, or place designated, I would ride
on, with the interpreter and the sergeant, and choose a site. When the
column arrived in front of it, I would beckon to them to follow, and,
by hand gestures, indicate the positions respectively for the oxen and
horses and the wagons. The position for the motors was decided with
the leading chauffeur. The site for hospital tent, kitchen, and staff
quarters was then quickly arranged with the doctors, cook, and nurses.
Tents were immediately pitched, wood fires were lighted, the surgical
boxes were brought to the hospital tent, unpacked, and the contents,
arranged by the nurses and the hospital orderlies; kitchen stuff was
unpacked in the kitchen by the cook; the doctors put on their white
coats, the nurses their aprons; our Red Cross flag, on a pole, was
placed in the ground near the hospital tent, and everything was ready
for business.
Frequently, and also on this occasion, Major A.'s column was encamped
not far from us. He was this time on the other side of the main road.
There were no wounded that day, and he and the two French doctors, and
the Serbian artist had tea with us round our camp fire. Mons. Bettich
stayed the night with us, because we could not drive him back to
Headquarters until morning. He was amused at seeing four of the party,
after supper, playing bridge, sitting on a ground-sheet by the camp
fire, near the shelter of an ox-wagon, as though, he said, they were
in their London drawing-rooms. "Ah! you English!" We talked about the
arrogance of the Germans, and he told us, as an example, a story of a
German officer who had lately been taken prisoner; he was, as usual,
well treated and was allowed to write a letter to his friends at home;
but in the letter he made reference to the Serbian people as "those
Hottentots."
The next day (October 18th) things seemed to be going badly. Piteous
processions of refugees, from villages bombarded and threatened by the
Germans, were streaming southwards along the roads. In one village only
30 women and children had remained out of a population of 3,000 people.
Grenades had fallen in Michaelovatz, which only yesterday had been the
headquarters of the Staff; and the thundering of the guns, only five
miles away, was continuous. But everybody consoled themselves with the
belief that the Allies would soon be here and put things straight. The
metaphorical flags of welcome were already fluttering in our minds.
We again received wounded; amongst them was the commander of a
division. His foot was badly injured with shrapnel. After the doctors
had done what they could for him, he asked to see me, in order to
express gratitude for the help of our hospital. Tears were in his
eyes, and when he brushed them away, he hastened to explain that his
tears had come, not from fear of death, but because he could not go
back to his regiment. We drove him and all the other wounded, in
the motor ambulances to Palanka station, and they left by train for
hospitals farther south. During that evening, and throughout the night,
we were kept busy; 102 badly wounded men arrived in batches from the
battle-field close at hand. We could see the German captive balloons
hovering in the air near us. It was not surprising that some of the
soldiers were already dead when they were taken out of the rough,
springless wagons. The jolting over bad roads, in the cold and rain,
whilst huddled together, half a dozen badly wounded men in one small
cart, was bound to be disastrous. Moreover, some of the wagons had high
sides, and no opening even at the ends, and the patients, perhaps with
broken legs or smashed heads, must be hauled up and over the high
sides in the dark, in any fashion that came first.
We buried our dead near the roadside, without coffins, in their torn
and bloodstained uniforms. When possible we placed a candle in their
hands, and we made plain wooden crosses and wrote upon these the name,
the regiment and place of death. The Serbian soldier likes to be buried
near the main road, because then he thinks he will not be forgotten by
passers by. But surely the Serbian soldier will never be forgotten;
the sacrifices he has made in the cause of freedom have made his name
immortal.
We continued to evacuate the wounded till 11 p.m. Then the chauffeurs
rested till 5 a.m., when they began again. Headquarters lent us a large
Diesel French car, which held 10 patients, and this was a great help,
as the Fords, on the bad roads, could only safely take four patients at
a time.
We were glad to receive that day a second interpreter (George). He
knew very little English, but two interpreters were essential. One
was always needed in the hospital, and I wanted one for general work,
for, though I had learnt some Serbian, I never risked giving important
orders, or rebuking the men in a language of which I was not master;
ridicule must, at all costs, be kept out of the relationship between
us. I was obliged on that day, for instance, to correct, through the
interpreter, one of the corporals; I had given him leave to visit his
family, who lived near, and he returned 12 hours after his leave had
expired, riding one of our horses. The P.M.O., to whom I reported him,
said that he was to be punished by being sent at once to the front (he
stayed with us, however, to the end).
But my broken Serbian was sometimes effective enough. On one occasion,
when the wounded had been arriving continuously all through the night,
I noticed, about 3.30 a.m., that the wood fires upon which kettles
of water were kept boiling, for tea and coffee for the patients, were
all getting low. I called a soldier and told him to make up all the
fires. He replied that the fires had eaten all the wood; there was no
more wood left. The answer to that was easy in Serbian, for there were
plenty of trees of all sizes around us as we stood. I pointed to a
good-sized tree close to us. "Isn't that wood?" I asked severely. He
shook his head, and that meant "Yes." "Very well, then, cut it down."
He shook his head again, and fetched an axe and cut it down, and we had
as much wood as we wanted.
George brought us the news that at our Kragujevatz hospital 180 newly
wounded soldiers had just arrived, and that at Lapovo already 80
were in the new building. He also told us that the Allies had taken
Strumnitza from the Bulgarians and that England had declared war
against Bulgaria. Could this be believed?
By noon (Tuesday, the 19th) our wounded were all evacuated. This was
fortunate, as at one o'clock came the order to move on at once. News
from the front was bad; the Germans were pressing on, and were now
close behind us. The guns sounded very near. We had not far to go, only
to Uvidno, a two hours' trek. It was difficult to find a camp site;
the whole country near the roadside was mud swamp from the continued
rain. We pitched the hospital tent between the road and a wood, and
three tents, one for the doctors, one for the men, and one for the
women, were pitched in the shelter of the wood. The cars stayed on the
road. There were not many wounded that afternoon--that was a bad sign.
It meant that the enemy were giving no time for collecting them from
the field; they were also firing on the ambulance parties, and only
the least severely wounded came straggling in, as best they could, by
themselves. We evacuated them when their wounds were dressed, from our
own and also from Major A.'s hospital, which was on the other side of
the road.