We were up at 3.30 the next morning, Friday, December 3rd, to pack
the ponies and get ready to start at daybreak. We must now leave our
much-loved and faithful cars behind; we gave them to the Prefect, with
instructions that he must burn them if the enemy arrived. We should
badly miss their sleeping accommodation, but for me personally it was
one anxiety the less. Possessions are at the root of all anxiety.
At 6.30 a.m. our reduced column, with its deformed carts, set out
through the narrow streets of Petch, to be swallowed up in the great
mountains; these already seemed ashamed of what they had in store for
us, and were hiding behind thick mists of cloud and rain. Nothing was
visible except the endless stream of two-wheeled carts, oxen, horses
and soldiers, behind us and ahead of us. The road that day was not
worse than usual, and we encamped at dark in a tiny but dry field,
behind a farmhouse in which Headquarters Staff were spending the
night. The P.M.O. came and had a talk with us, and said we were to
move on at one next morning. That was the last time we saw or heard of
Headquarters Staff till we reached Scutari.
We departed soon after 1 a.m., December 4th, and in a quarter of
an hour, we arrived at a block, which, in the darkness, seemed
to be composed of all the carts and oxen and soldiers of the
universe--apparently on an open plain. It was too dark to see what
lay ahead, blocking progress, and no one knew anything, except that
movement was impossible. So we lit fires and sat around them till
daylight at 6.30, when we had coffee, and moved with the multitude,
a few hundred yards. But we were at once again hopelessly blocked.
Then suddenly appeared, for a few minutes, our old friend, the cheery
Artillery Major, who had just performed the heartrending task of
destroying his three batteries. What were our little discomforts, in
comparison with the grief which this keen officer and patriot must have
suffered, in the destruction of his beloved guns--the last defences of
his country?
We took advantage of the halt to send the drivers for hay for the oxen
and horses, and we outspanned for two hours. The snow was now melting
under a hot sun, and making a miry slush, which was not warming for
the feet; but by the time we had procured hay, it was daylight, and as
we could then see that there was no road, there seemed to be no object
in waiting, so we wriggled out of the chaos of other columns, and took
a track of our own--an awful track over rocks, and scrub, and amazing
mud, but in the right direction; and at night we bivouacked on the
slopes of a wood, overlooking plains and mountains which lay in the
direction of Macedonia.
We could see the shrapnel fire, and hear the mountain guns close to us
all the evening. In deep ravines in the track in front of us, lay dead
horses and oxen and broken carts. At daybreak I took an excursion, on
foot, with Vooitch, to inspect the route ahead of us, and it seemed
impossible that carts could travel on it; the spaces between the maze
of ravines, twelve feet deep, were, in places, only two or three feet
broad. And, indeed, no carts were now visible, only pack ponies, and
oxen with blankets strapped upon them. I was wondering what was to
happen; but I had determined to make the start with carts, as I had
received no order to leave them behind, when a message came from an
officer in charge of the way, to say that we were to abandon wheels,
and continue as best we could, with any ponies we might have had the
prevision to buy at Petch. How thankful we were that we had bought
some; we could otherwise have carried no food or blankets. Our oxen
were now reduced to thirty-two. They could carry nothing, but they
must, of course, go with us, and be saved if possible.
There was no time for sentiment; we were obliged to harden our hearts,
and burn or otherwise destroy the carts.
The abandonment of carts, meant the abandonment of our beautiful
hospital material and camp equipment; all our treasures must be left
upon the ground. But I determined to save the instruments, and to
carry them with us at whatever trouble they might cost us; they were
valuable and belonged to the Serbian equipment. But, to my horror, the
man in charge of them, had taken upon himself to loot the box, and had
already begun distributing the knives, and other useful implements,
amongst his friends. I was just in time to save them. I wrathfully made
the man return the instruments. I then took them out of their box,
which was heavy, and placed them in my own brown canvas rug bag, to be
carried with my personal goods, instead of something else, which I left
behind. But, notwithstanding this precaution, they were, to my great
disappointment, stolen on the way.
We were now about to start upon a more difficult and uncomfortable
phase of the journey, and the men would need heartening. At daybreak
I called them together, and as I stood on a tree stump, at the edge
of the wood, facing the plain and the mountains of Macedonia, the men
came up and grouped themselves, in the grey light, in a half circle.
"Dobrdan!" ("Good morning!") "Maika, dobrdan, dobrdan!" The sun rose
blood-red over the mountains as I spoke. We must now, I said, be
prepared to meet discomforts and difficulties; but though we were
abandoning much, we could, and we must, take with us, goodwill and
a courageous spirit; these would be of more use to Serbia, than the
ointments and bandages which we were leaving behind. And now, if any
man wanted to turn homewards, and risk being shot by the Germans, the
Austrians, the Bulgars, or the Arnauts, he had better go now, at once,
and save us from the trouble of feeding him over the mountains. Those
who wanted to stay, and be loyal to their column, their Army, and their
nation, could put up their hands. And every hand went up, with a shout
of loyalty, and determination to keep together to the end.
Our British chauffeurs, William and Jordan, also the Serbian Ilia,
and Vooitch, now adapted themselves finely to the new task of packing
loads for the ponies' packs. We had only been able to procure one pack
saddle, and all the other loads, containing food and blankets, we tied
to the horses' backs, with string and cord, which we had brought with
us. At 11.30 a.m. we turned our backs on the ruins of our column--burnt
and broken carts, beds, tents, personal clothes, and, worst of all,
surgical boxes and hospital equipment. Our bivouac looked as though
burglars had been interrupted in looting operations, and in their
flight, had left the ground strewn with the spoils. Good-bye to our
hospitable field-kitchen and all its useful appurtenances; good-bye to
tents and beds and the last relics of comfort; good-bye to all hope of
hospital work; and, worst of all, good-bye to all hope of rescue for
Serbia.
For now, all hope of help from the Allies had vanished, and the
intensity of the tragedy to the Serbian nation was revealed. The
journey which we were then about to take--on foot--over the mountains
of Montenegro, and Albania, to the coast, is now, for thousands of
human beings, a memory of mental and physical suffering, which will
cause life henceforth to be seen through darkened spectacles.