But the congestion occasioned by the retreating of all the various
convoys of an army 200,000 strong, with their innumerable oxen and
horse wagons, plus the fugitives, with or without wagons, along bad and
narrow roads, was now the more dangerous, because four enemies--the
Germans, the Austrians, the Bulgars and, henceforth, the Arnauts or
Albanians, who made sporadic and murderous raids upon the convoys for
the sake of loot--were all close upon our heels. From Barchinatz, in
the north of Serbia, to Scutari, near the coast of Albania, the sad
cortège was winding its way, like a writhing snake, without beginning
and without end, slowly, at oxen's pace, along roads, which sometimes
looked impassable, with mud, and holes, and broken bridges.
The poor old Kossovo General had a narrow escape from drowning, or
from a bad ducking, soon after we began to follow him. We came to a
swollen river, over which there was no bridge; the water came over the
steps of the four-seated pony carriage in which he drove, and, as the
bottom of the stream was mud and boulders alternately, the carriage
nearly overturned many times. I was ready to rescue him, but I expected
every minute to be submerged myself. When I had forded safely through,
leading a way for the others, I found that the fool of a sergeant had
let another column break in, and intercept our rear wagons, which ran
the risk of being left behind; so once more I was obliged to plunge
into the water and splash up and down, and risk being overturned by
angry, desperate drivers, and riders, whilst I insisted on our wagons
getting a passage, and showed the drivers the treacherous places to
avoid. The General soon got ahead of us, and we never saw him again.
We travelled all through the day and all through the night, with the
exception of an outspan during two hours from 11 to 1 p.m., when we had
supper by the roadside.
At 5 a.m. (Tuesday, November 23rd) we waited for the cars, which had
stayed behind to rest awhile, but they got blocked, and did not reach
us till 10 o'clock a.m. The cold during the night had been intense, and
I was often obliged to dismount and to walk, in the thick mud, to keep
my feet from freezing. Soon after starting again on Tuesday, November
23rd, we came to a wooden bridge, from which some planks had been
removed by the column ahead of us, for firewood. An army on the march
will commit any crime for firewood, and to a Serbian soldier, firewood
seems of more importance than even bread. Before the cars could pass,
we had to cut down some trees, which were, fortunately, available, and
mend the bridge. It seemed certain that the time would come when the
cars must be abandoned. How would the staff and their baggage then be
carried? The wagons could carry no more; but I always remembered the
old woman, who complained that "she 'ad indeed 'ad many troubles in
'er life, though"--she added, as an afterthought--"most of 'em 'ad
never com'd off." We, too, had a few troubles that day which didn't
come off. At one deep and bridgeless stream across the road, steep mud
banks led to it and from it; the cars made dashes and scrambled through
marvellously, but some of the wagons overturned in mid-stream. The
drivers then waded into the water, above their knees, to drag up the
fallen oxen, shouting "Ide! Ide! Terrai! Terrai!" and beating the poor,
panting beasts till they struggled to their feet and scrambled out
somehow. When they were out, they couldn't be given time to recover
breath, because of the multitudes following behind.
Evening came and no outspan could yet be made, and it was now obvious
that a second night must be spent without sleep. Sometimes our column,
with others, would be shunted to the side of the road, to make way
for artillery transport, which must, of course, have precedence. At
twilight, on this evening, at the top of a steep descent, we had been
thus halted, but finally, an officer in command at this point of the
road, ordered way to be made for us, and we started, in the dark, on a
narrow road, which was worse than anything we had yet met, with deep
holes and mud up to the axles. I could not believe that the cars could
possibly get through, but Mr. Little walked ahead with me, and said it
might possibly be done. The cars made the descent safely and, finding
that a road which was being reserved for artillery was better than the
road which we and all the other columns must follow, we obtained leave
for the cars to take that road and to meet us at Dreznik. And thankful
I was that this was done, for the road on which we travelled would have
been impossible, even for our wonderful cars and chauffeurs.
There were now only five motors, and they were overweighted. So J.
G. and Mr. Little came with the column and drove in one of the horse
wagons. At the bottom of the descent, the road ceased and became a
track across a narrow, swampy, grass plain. Here there was a congestion
of convoys which blocked us from 2 to 5 a.m. This was a blessing, as
the animals were exhausted. Rugs and coats were in the cars, but we sat
round the fire on some straw, made coffee, and pretended that there was
no frost and that we were quite warm.
Before dawn (on Wednesday the 24th) came the moment when we had to take
advantage of other columns who might be dozing, and get into the line
before them. There was no road, only a track through beech scrub and
up a steep ascent. I was accompanied, for a portion of the way, by the
Artillery Major, whose wife and family had lately joined him; two of
his sons, well-grown and well-mannered boys of about 15 and 16, were
with him, in Serbian uniform.
On the top of the hill, when we reached an opening in the forest,
we were told that we must halt while the road ahead of us was being
mended. That sounded hopeful, and we always cheered the men with
every scrap of hope that came our way. Meantime I was invited by some
officers to have breakfast with them--coffee, and little chunks of
fat bacon and bread--a huge treat. Soon afterwards we continued our
journey--the mended road was, alas! like all other good news, only a
rumour--over ploughed fields, feet deep in mud.
In the middle of the day, after a time of terrible straining for the
oxen and horses, we were about to outspan for an hour's rest, but I
was told we mustn't stop, even for a quarter of an hour. The animals,
however, were exhausted, and we gave them a ten minutes' breathing
interval, and the men time to swallow some food, and we went on. Would
Kievo ever come in sight?
We continued all through that day (Wednesday, November 24th) in one
ceaseless struggle with mud and ploughed fields, and through scrub
of Turkish oak and beech woods--no road anywhere. Towards evening
we climbed a steep hill through scrub, and reached a plateau which
would, under normal circumstances, have given great joy, for a more
gorgeous view it would be impossible to find. At first I thought that
the snow-white peaks in the high heaven, to the west, and south, were
fleecy clouds, but I soon saw that they were snow-capped mountains,
away up in the sky at an incredible height, as far away from this
troubled earth as they could get. I envied them. But there was no time
to look at scenery. Before us was a steep descent, and thousands of
wagons, converging from tracks running east and west, were streaming
down the steep hill and blocking us. I rode down, and then up and down
again, for some time, vainly trying to find an officer who could break
the line for us; when I saw an officer in the distance, he had always
ridden away by the time I reached the place. But eventually we got into
line and descended, and found ourselves once more upon a road.
At 9 p.m. (Wednesday the 24th) the oxen could go no farther, and we
outspanned for two hours in a wood by the side of the road, and we
slept in the wagons for those two hours till 11 p.m. Then into the
line again. But soon we were shunted to make room for artillery, and
the difficulty of getting a place again was greater than ever. Some of
the columns comprised two to three hundred wagons each. The sergeant,
as usual, suggested that we should wait till to-morrow, but at 2. a.m.
(Thursday the 25th) I found an officer of a munition column sitting
by his fire by the roadside; I sat and talked with him for a while
(J. G. and Mr. Little were asleep in the wagon), and then, when the
chance came, he helped us into the line again. I am afraid that this
officer will have a poor opinion of the intelligence of Englishwomen
if he judged by my conversation that night; for I had been without
sleep for seventy hours, and sometimes I couldn't prevent myself from
dozing in the middle of a sentence, and then I had to try and tack the
interrupted words correctly on to the next sentence, and I don't feel
sure that they always fitted.
At 6 a.m. (on Thursday the 25th) we halted, again blocked. Some
officers on the other side of the road were drinking coffee. I could
manage to keep awake whilst moving, but during a halt it was too
difficult; the officers saw me trying to keep awake, and dozing every
few minutes on my horse, and one of them, who was Commander of the
Staff of the Schumadia Division, second reserve (our division was first
line), came across and made friends. He asked how we managed always
to get a place in the line; he had noticed, he said, that we were
generally to the front, and he then asked if I would allow him to join
our column; he only now had eight horse wagons and carriages left,
and he would not, he said, incommode us. I was, of course, glad, and
he rode with us to Dreznik, which we reached at 4 p.m. on Thursday,
November 25th. We had left Prishtina at seven on the morning of Monday,
the 22nd, and had thus travelled continuously, with only occasional
short halts, during three days and nights, but though I had been 81
hours without sleep or rest, I was quite fresh and untired, and the
only inconvenience I had felt was from occasional fits of sleepiness
when nothing important had to be done.