KRALIEVO
We roused ourselves at seven a.m. A damp, chilly fog was hanging low
over the valley, it penetrated to the skin, and one shuddered. The
railway was congested, but train arrived after train, open trucks all
packed with men whose breath rose in steam, and whose clothes were
sparkling with the dew. We stepped from the station door into a thick
black "pease puddingy" mud, as though the Thames foreshore had been
churned up by traffic. Standing knee deep in the mud were weary oxen and
horses attached to carts of all descriptions, with wheels whose rims,
swollen by the mire, were sunk almost to the axles. Across the mud,
surrounded by shaky red brick walls, the District Civil Hospital showed
pale in the morning, and we made towards it, splashing.
We came to the lodge: an English girl was doing something to a kitchen
stove. She stared at us.
"Hullo!"
"We've just come from Vrnjatchka Banja," we explained.
She took Jo to the hospital, while Blease and Jan dropped their heavy
luggage and washed in a basin, provided by a Serb servant girl. Jo did
not return. Jan went to the hospital to look for her.
Crowds of men were at the door, crowds in ragged and filthy uniforms,
with bandages on arms, or foot, or brow, dirty stained bandages with
bloodstains upon them. Some of the men were crouching on the ground,
some were lying against the house, fast asleep. Somehow we got through
them. The passage was full of men, and men were asleep, festooned on the
stone stairs. The smell was horrible. Beyond a swinging glass door
Scottish women were hurrying to and fro bandaging the men as they
entered, and passing them out on the other side of the building. The
Serbs waited with the stoicism of the Oriental, their long lean faces
drawn with hunger, pain and fatigue. Now and again some man turned
uneasily in his sleep and groaned. A detachment of "Stobarts" had found
a lodging upstairs, in a bedroom with plank beds; amongst them we found
some old friends.
Leaving them we went into the village to look for a meal, back through
the mud. Soldiers, peasants, women, children, horse carts and bullock
waggons, all were pushing here and there, broken down and deserted
motor cars were standing in the middle of the road. In the great round
central "Place" confusion was worse, animals, carts, and refugee
bivouacks being all squashed together on the market place.
White-bearded officers with grey-green uniforms were gesticulating to
white-bearded civilians outside the Café de Paris. A motor rushed up,
disgorged three men in Russian uniform and fled. A small fat man vainly
endeavouring to attract the attention of a staff officer grasped him by
the arm; the staff officer shook him off angrily. Soldiers lounged
against the walls and peered in through the dirty windows....
Within, the big dark room was crammed. Opening the door was like turning
a corner of cliff by the seashore. Almost all, at the tables, were men:
officers, tradesmen, clerks, talking in eager tense words. We found
three seats. Nobody had anything to eat or drink. Three men came to the
table next to us. They exhibited two loaves of bread to the others, and
had the air of some one who had done something very clever. We were
famished.
Suddenly half the café rose and rushed to a small counter almost hidden
in the gloom of the far end. Coffee can be got, said some one. Blease,
who could get out the easier, went to explore. In a short while he
wandered back saying that he had got a waiter. A man came through
selling apples. We bought some. At last the waiter came.
"Café au lait," said we.
"And bread," we added, as he turned away.
"Nema," he answered, looking back.
"Well eggs, then."
"Nema."
"What have you got?"
"We have nothing but meat."
"No potatoes?"
"No."
We got a sort of Serbian stew, the meat so tough that one had to saw the
morsels apart with a knife and bolt them whole. As we were operating, a
soldier leaned up against our table, and stared at our plates with a
wistful longing. Jo caught his eye. She scraped together all our
leavings; what misery we could have relieved, had we had money enough,
in Serbia then.
We paid our bill with a ten dinar (franc) note. The waiter fingered it a
moment.
"Haven't you any money?" he asked.
"That is money."
"Silver, I mean."
"No."
He hesitated a moment. Then went away, turning the note over in his
hands. After a while he returned and gave us our change.
The day passed in a queer sort of daze of doing things; between one act
and another there was no definite sequence. The town itself was in a
sort of suppressed twitter, everybody's movements seemed exaggerated,
the eager ones moved faster, impelled by a sort of fear; the slow ones
went slower, their feet dragging in a kind of despondency. At one time
we found ourselves clambering up some steps to the mayor's office, in
search of bread. By a window on the far side of the room was a man with
a pale face, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and light hair:
Churchin. We ran to him.
"What are you doing here?" he said gloomily.
We explained.
"I don't think you can get any transport," he said; "but later I'll see
if I can do anything."
We thanked him. "But transport or no transport, we are going." Jan
showed him the bread order. He read it and pointed to the Nachanlik.
The Nachanlik read our order, scowled and passed it on to another man,
an officer. The officer read the order, looked us sulkily from head to
foot, then he pushed the paper back to us.
"We have only bread for soldiers."
"But--we are an English Mission."
"Only for soldiers here. We have nothing to do with English Missions."
Fearing that we had come to the wrong place we retired.
At another time we were climbing up back stairs to what had been the
temporary lodgings of the English legation. But it was empty and
deserted; Sir Ralph Paget had not yet come.
There were bread shops, but they were all shut and guarded by soldiers.
Jan saw some bread in a window. He went into the dirty café, which was
crowded with soldiers, some sitting on the floor and some on the tables.
"Whose bread?" asked he.
"Ours."
"Will you sell me a loaf?"
"We won't sell a crumb."
We bought some apples from a man with a Roman lever balance, and chewed
them as we went along.
At the hospital the "Stobarts" were packing up. A motor was coming for
them in the afternoon. We heard that Dr. May and the Krag people were at
Studenitza, an old monastery, halfway along the road to Rashka. On the
flat fields behind the station were another gang of "Stobarts," the
dispensary from Lapovo. One Miss H---- was in trouble, for thieves had
pushed their arms beneath the tent flaps in the night and had captured
her best boots.
"There are cases full of boots on the railway," said some one,
consoling.
"But those are men's boots," said another.
Part of the morning we spent sitting on the banks of the Ebar River and
watching the bridge, wondering if Ellis would come with his car. Ten
times we thought we could see it, and each time were deceived.
The French aeroplanes came in. They hovered over the town seeking a flat
place, finally swooping down on to the marshy plain on which the
"Stobarts" were encamped. They landed, dashing through the shallow
puddles and flinging the water in great showers on every side. As each
landed it wheeled into line and was pegged down. Behind them was a line
of cannons, the Serbian engineers were hard at work, smashing off their
sighting apparatus, destroying the breech blocks, and jagging the lining
with cold chisels. Some of the cannon were Turkish. All the morning,
through the noise of the town, the shouting of the bullock drivers, the
pant of the motor cars, and the steady tap, tap of the engineers'
mallets, came the faint booming of the battle at Mladnovatch, not
fifteen miles away.
After lunch we went again to the café. Again it was full, and we were
forced to wait for a table. Just as we sat down a woman with a drawn,
anxious face came up to us, clutched Jo by the arm and said eagerly--
"Is it true that you are going to Montenegro?"
"Yes," answered Jo. "If we can get there."
"Could you give me only a little advice, madame? You see we do not know
what to do. My husband--he is an old man, and he is an Austro-Serb. If
the enemy catch him they will hang him."
"I'm afraid he will have to walk," said Jo.
"But he is so old," said the woman, with tears in her eyes; "he is
fifty."
"We ourselves will have to walk," said Jo. "Make him a knapsack for his
food. Give him warm clothes. It is his only chance of safety. And," she
added, "the sooner he gets away the better, for in a little all the food
on the road will be eaten up, and one will starve."
The woman thanked us. "I will make him go at once," she said, and ran
out wringing her hands.
A Russian woman with a thin-faced man sat at her table.
"You are going to Montenegro?" she said.
We nodded.
"I too am going. I am a good sportswoman. I have walked fifty kilometres
in one day."
We looked at her well-corseted figure, her rather congested face, and
had already seen thin high-heeled shoes.
"I will come with you, yes?"
The little man interrupted. "Why do you say such things, Olga? You know
that you cannot walk a mile."
We pointed out that we were going to march across the Austrian front,
and that no one could tell us where the Austrians were exactly; that our
safety depended to some extent on our speed, and that the failure of one
to make the pace meant the failure of all. The little man drew her away.
In the afternoon a miserable fit of depression took us, but we pushed it
behind us. To the hospital for tea, taking with us a tin of cocoa and
some condensed milk, which the people lacked. Biscuits and treacle, the
treacle looted from the railway, where an obliging guard had said that
he could not give permission to take it, but that he could look the
other way. We heard the tale of Kragujevatz, of the camp and all the
buildings filled to overflowing. More aeroplane raids; and of the sudden
order to evacuate. All the wounded who could crawl were got from their
beds and turned into the street by the authorities to go: if they could
not walk, to crawl. A few Serb and Austrian doctors were left to guard
and watch those too ill to go; with them some Swedish and Dutch sisters,
and the Netherlands flag flying from the hospitals. Dr. Churchin seemed
to have been the good genius of the Missions, never flagging in his
efforts for them.
We heard that a Colonel Milhaelovitch was the bread officer. He lived
somewhere in the back of the big yellow schoolhouse at the end of the
street. After tea we wandered drearily down to seek him, gained
permission from a sentry, and clambered up some stone stairs. Jan saw an
acquaintance from the Nish ministry, asked him a question, and was
ushered ... straight into the Ministry of War. They seemed in a
frightful stew about something, an air of disorder reigned everywhere,
but somebody found time to look at the order.
"Nachanlik," said he.
"We've been there already."
"Well, go there again and say we sent you, and that they must give you
bread."
We were worn out by this. Jo went off to the plank bed which the
Stobarts had promised to her, while Jan and Blease to the tents, where
Sir Ralph's men were sheltering.
All the streets were edged with motionless bullock carts, in which men
were sleeping, and even in the mud between their wheels were the dim
forms of the weary soldiery. The two splashed across the marsh and found
the tents.
Rogerson and Willett were there; Willett was seedy. Another Englishman
named Hamilton, who had an umbrella which he had sworn to take back
with him to England. Also two Austro-Serb boys who had been acting as
interpreters.
West and Mawson were not there. Rogerson said that Sir Ralph had sent
them with Mrs. M----to see the road and conditions at Mitrovitza; nobody
knew when they would be back. We got two beds, but there were no
mattresses on the springs. Jan rolled up in his Serbian rug, but it was
loosely woven, and not as warm as he had hoped. Just not warm enough,
one only dozed. About eleven o'clock, Cutting came in with Owen,
Watmough, Hilder, and Elmer. They had come from Vrnjatchka Banja with
Dr. Holmes. Some one had told them that we had deserted them and had
gone off to Rashka on our own; they were cheered to find us still there.
After that we lay awake discussing details. None of them had realized
the difficulties of the road and the probable lack of food, though the
Red Cross men had brought with them a case of emergency rations. Jan
exposed his idea of the route; somebody said that there was some corned
beef and rice in a Red Cross train on the siding.
Intermittently in the silences one could still hear the sound of the
guns.
Next morning at breakfast Dr. Holmes came in. He had thought us gone,
and so had procured for himself and the sister who was with him, seats
in a Government motor which was going to Mitrovitza. We all splashed
across the marshy grass to the siding where the stores were. In the
empty trucks on the line families were camping, and some had fitted them
up like little homes. We found the truck, and with efforts dug out
twelve tins of corned beef, a case of condensed milk, one of treacle,
and two tins of sugar. We emptied a kitbag and filled it with rice.
The hospital was fuller than ever. The Scottish nurses were toiling as
quickly as they could, and each man received a couple of hard ship's
biscuits from a great sack, when his wounds were dressed. He immediately
wolfed the hard biscuits and lay down; in one minute he was asleep, and
the hospital grounds were strewn with the sleeping men. From time to
time sergeants came in, roused the sleepers, formed them into
detachments, and marched them off.
The Stobarts met us wringing their hands. There was no bread, nor could
they procure any. Jan took their order, and we promised to see what
could be done. As we passed the station we saw surging crowds of men,
from the midst came cries of pain, and sticks were falling in blows.
"Good Lord, what's that?" we cried.
We plunged into the crowd. Some of the men and boys were gnawing
angrily at pieces of biscuit which they held in their hands. The crowd
surged more violently, the sticks were plied with greater vigour;
presently the crowd fell back snarling. The ground which they left was
covered with the crumbs of trampled biscuit, and the soldiers drove the
crowd yet further back, beating with sticks and cursing. A bread sack
being unloaded from a waggon had burst, the hungry crowd had pounced ...
that was all. As we withdrew we saw the fortunate ones still gnawing
ferociously at the hard morsels which they had captured.
We took our passes to the mayor once more. He received us angrily.
"I told you yesterday," he said.
"The War Office sent us," said Jan, sweetly, "and said that you must
give us bread."
"I have no bread," said the mayor. "You must go to Colonel
Milhaelovitch."
We tramped back to the yellow school. There was no sentry, and a queer
air of forlornness seemed to pervade. We asked a loiterer for the
colonel's office. He pointed. We climbed yet another stair and found a
pair of large rooms; they were empty. Town papers were scattered on the
floor, one table was overturned.
A man lounged in. "Where is the colonel?" we asked.
"Ne snam bogami," he said, twisting a cigarette.
"Well, find out," said Jan.
He lounged away and presently returned with another.
"The colonel has evacuated," said the other; "he went naturally with the
Ministry of War to Rashka last night."
We went back in a fury to the mayor.
"You knew this," we cried angrily to him.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Where can we get bread?"
He took up the passes and looked at them. His face lightened.
"This one," he said, turning to another, "is written--Give them bread to
the value of three francs. We will give them three francs."
"No you won't," said we; "you'll give us bread. You cannot leave these
English sisters to starve."
After some grumbling he said we could inquire at the "first army." We
made him write out an order; we also made him give us a clerk to
accompany us. He gave us a tattered old man whose toes were sticking
from his boots.
We presented both orders at the "first army." It refused at once. We
threatened it with the War Office and with the mayor. After some demur
it sent us across the town again to the "magazine" office.
At the magazine office we were more wily. We presented our little order
for three humble loaves. He first said "Nema," then admitted that there
was bread and that we could have it. We then showed the order for the
other loaves.
"No, no," he cried, "you cannot have all that bread."
We pointed out that it was not much for a whole mission. He still
refused. So Jo got up and made a little speech. It was a nasty little
speech, but they deserved it, for we had found that they had bread.
She pointed out that the English Missions had now been working in Serbia
for a year, gratis; that no matter if we got no transport we were going
to get to England, and that it would not look well in the English papers
if we wrote a true account of our experiences, saying that they had
allowed the English Missions to starve. The threat of publicity finished
him. He grumbling consented to give us ten loaves in addition to our own
to last for two days. Not daring to leave them, and to send an orderly
for them, we rolled them up in Jo's overcoat and staggered down the road
to the hospital.
On the way we met an old Serbian peasant woman. She walked for a while
with us, turning her eyes to heaven and crying--
"What times we live in. Only God can help, only God."
At the hospital we met Sir Ralph Paget. He told us that the Transport
Board had promised him ten ox carts for the morrow. Two large motor
lorries had turned up to take the two contingents of the "Stobarts."
They were packing in, and we asked them to take our holdall as far as
Rashka, for we were still distrustful of the ox carts. We had begun to
get into a habit of not believing in anything till it was actually
there.
An Englishman came suddenly in with a face purple with anger and
swearing. He was the dispenser from Krag who had been left at Lapovo to
bring on the stores.
"What's the matter?" we cried.
"Brought my motor from Lapovo with the hospital stuff," he said
furiously. "Left it out there on the road. Came in here to tell you
about it; and when I go back the cussed thing isn't there. Found all the
stores in a beastly bullock cart. The people said that a Serb officer
had come along, turned all our stuff out, and gone off with the motor. *
* * *."
There was nothing to be done, so we went on packing. An aeroplane was
seen in the distance; everybody watched it.
"Taube," said somebody.
The Taube sailed slowly round, surveying the town. It passed right
overhead. Everybody stared upwards wondering if it were going to "bomb,"
for we were just opposite to the railway station. But it passed over and
flew away. As it went guns fired at it, and many of the Serbs let off
their rifles. We have often wondered where all the bits of the shells go
to, for nobody ever seems to be hit by them, even when they are bursting
right overhead.
The motor gave several snorts, everybody climbed aboard. The driver let
in the clutch, there was a tearing sound from underneath, but the motor
did not go. One of the drivers clambered down, and after examination
said that it could not go on that day, and they immediately began to
take it to pieces. The aeroplane came back twice, sailing to and fro
without hindrance.
[Illustration: PEASANT WOMEN LEAVING THEIR VILLAGE.]
[Illustration: SERB FAMILY BY THE ROADSIDE.]
It is impossible to describe properly the feeling in the town: it was
like standing in the influence of high-pressure electricity, even in the
daytime the soldiers in their rags--but with barbarously coloured rugs
and knapsacks--were sleeping in the hedges and gutters. There were vague
rumours that Rumania and Greece had finally joined in; many seized upon
these statements as being true, and one found little oases of rejoicings
amongst the almost universal pessimism. We ourselves doubted the
reports. Sir Ralph's ox carts--in an interview with Churchin--dwindled
down to a possible two; but Jan got a letter in the evening saying that
there were ten country carts for the next morning. Six were for us and
four for the "Stobarts," and that we were to take the Indian tents with
us.
We went back to the tents early to get a good start next day. Rogerson
and Willett were sorting their clothes. Hamilton had decided, as he
could not walk, to go back to Vrntze with the Red Cross stores which
Paget was sending to the hospital. As we were turning in, Dr. Holmes
arrived. He had not got the seat in the motor, but was going next day.
Later two mud-bespattered figures came in. They were West and Mawson.
We questioned them eagerly, and although they were worn out they
answered all they could.
The road was passable. They had scarcely slept for four days, Mitrovitza
was already crammed with fugitives, and rooms were not to be found. On
the way back the motor was working badly; the mud was awful. Then the
petrol ran out. They stopped a big car which was loaded with petrol and
ammunition, and asked for some. They got a little, and as they were
going to start the big car suddenly burst into flames: some fool having
struck a match to see if the petrol was properly turned off. Great
flames roared up into the air, and it was a long time before the car
was sufficiently burnt down to pass it.
West said that it was a most marvellous picture.
A little farther on a tyre had burst, and they had been forced to come
back on the rims. They eagerly welcomed Jan's idea of the Novi Bazar
route, feeling sure that if they once got to Mitrovitza it would be long
before they got away, and very doubtful if they could get lodging there.
Again we could hear the guns in the night, and news had come in that
Krag had been occupied and that the German cavalry were making towards
Kralievo.
[Illustration]