THE LUCK OF THIRTEEN

PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED
LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND

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It's interesting to trace something back to its origins and find out what remarkable causes lead to its outcomes. For example, it's odd to realize that the luck of the thirteen began way back when Jan, driving back from Uzhitze down the Morava valley, came around a corner too quickly and got stuck up to the axle in a pit of sticky wet sandy mud. The car almost seemed to shrug its shoulders as it settled in, and if cars could talk, it would have said, "Well, what are you going to do about that, huh?" This was about the 264th mud hole where Jan's car had gotten stuck, and we settled in to wait for the inevitable oxen. But it was a Sunday and oxen were scarce; the wait became boring, and during the moments of reflection mixed with frustration, Jan realized he needed a vacation.

To be clear, Jan was serving as the engineer for Dr. Berry's Serbian Mission from the Royal FreePage 2 Hospital:—Jan Gordon, and Jo is his wife, Cora Josephine Gordon, an artist and V.A.D.

We had six months of work behind us. We had seen typhus and had avoided the dreaded louse that spreads the infection. We had watched typhus fade away with the arrival of summer. We had helped clean and prepare six hospitals in Vrntze or Vrnjatchka Banja—whichever you prefer. We assisted Mr. Berry, the top surgeon, in ventilating his hospitals by breaking the windows—one felt like a kid again for a moment. Jo had learned Serbian and was helping Dr. Helen Boyle, the mental health specialist from Brighton, run a large and thriving outpatient department that dealt with tuberculosis and diphtheria—two major issues in Serbia. We tried to prevent typhoid by creating a sort of sanitation watchdog committee, after first firing the chief of police. We installed drains, which the chief Serbian engineer said he would remove as soon as we left. We helped plan a much-needed slaughterhouse that Mr. Berry was going to present to the town. That explained Jan's eagerness. The English newspapers had been shouting about typhus long after the disease had been driven out by English, French, and American doctors, who had disinfected the country until it stank of formalinPage 3 and sulfur; waves of dedicated Englishwomen were still arriving, generously willing to risk their lives in a danger that no longer existed. Our own unit, which had shrunk to a comfortable—almost family-like—size with Mr. Berry as the father figure, had suddenly grown by ten new members. These ten complicated things, as they all naturally wanted work, and we had filled all the positions.

So, after the struggles of February, March, and April, and the heat of June, Jan decided that a trip to that muddy patch in Uzhitze would be good for him and beneficial for everyone else. However, there was the issue of Jo. Jo is a socialistic type with conservative tendencies. She has a knack for staying on track and running smoothly until Jan shows up like a major train wreck and disrupts everything; but once she makes up her mind, she goes after the idea with a determination and intensity that leaves Jan way behind.

Jo had her outpatient department. Every morning, rain or shine, crowds of colorful peasants would gather by the little side door of our hospital, women in brightly colored handwoven skirts, like Joseph's coat, children in unimaginable rags, but with the usual belt tightly cinched around their little stomachs, men covered in tuberculous sores and so on, on some daysPage 4 as many as a hundred. Jo, after finishing breakfast, had to put on a commanding presence and step down into the crowd, sorting out the likely diphtheria cases—something she had learned to do over time—ordering everyone not to approach them under the threat of catching the disease, getting the others into a loose queue for the theater, which they never followed, and then rushing back into the office to help the doctor and translate. This daily routine was, of course, highly interesting, and so when Jan suggested the tour, she "didn't want to do it."

But authority was on Jan's side. Jo had a minor accident: a diphtheria patient ran away to avoid treatment, which happened often, and Jo chased after her; she tripped, fell, and bit her lower lip, leaving her momentarily stunned. When they caught the patient, they realized it was the wrong person—but that’s not the main point. Dr. Boyle thought Jo might have a mild concussion and sided with Jan. Dr. Berry was quite agreeable and gave us a task to start with by going to Salonika to find a disinfector that had gone missing. Another interpreter was found, so Jo said goodbye to her out-patients.

In Serbia, you had to get permission to move. Jan went to the mayor for the paperwork. There were crowds of people on the mayor's steps,Page 5 and Jan found out that all the peasants and hangers-on had been summoned to certify, making sure no one could dodge their military service. Later, we split up, taking two backpacks. Dr. Boyle and Miss Dickenson were really generous, giving us plenty of chocolate, Brand's essence, and corned beef for our journey, plus we had two boxes of "compressed luncheons," those black, horrible-looking, gooey tablets that claim to be soup, fish, meat, vegetables, and pudding all in one bite.

The Austrian prisoners said goodbye to us sadly, but many friends came to see us off at the station, including the chubby major and his even chubbier wife. Our major was an odd mix: he was cheerful because he was overweight, and he was serious because of his pointy nose, so in any conversation, you had to figure out whether his belly or his nose was in charge, so to speak. With his wife, it was a given—she had a flat nose. On this occasion, the major angrily slapped the Austrian prisoner coachman's ears, claiming he was the best driver he ever had. The poor driver had a look of regretful joy on his face. The two chubby folks waved four chubby hands until we turned the corner and disappeared from view.

On the train to Nish, it was incredibly hot. We had sixteen or seventeen fellow passengers in ourPage 6 third-class wooden-seated carriage—all the first-class seats had been taken out because they couldn’t be disinfected—and the windows, except for two, were screwed shut. Every time we stood up to look at the scenery, someone would slip into our seats, and we kept ending up sitting in unexpected laps. There were protests, apologies, and so on. Someone had chewed on a piece of one of the wheels, and we jolted through the landscape with a loud metallic clang that made it hard to have a conversation, yet Jo surprised the locals with her fluent Serbian. We had a huge director of a sanitary department and his plump wife, clearly well-off, but in Serbia, overweight people seem to rise to the top like balloons. We had three thin old men, one who hadn’t shaved in a week, another who had a mustache that looked like a stage butler’s from Piccadilly, some ultra-fashionable girls and guys, and a sweet old mute woman wearing three belts who used to be an outpatient; plus several sticky families with kids.

The old men were really interested in Jo. They engaged her in Serbian, and after every sentence, they turned to each other and raised their hands, exclaiming "kako!" (how!) with different expressions of admiration and flattery.

The American hasn't yet driven the TurkPage 7 out of Serbia, and the impact from our wheel disrupted the calmness of our drive. Trsternik's church—modern yet tasteful—sparkled like a jewel in the sun against the dark hills. On both sides were cornfields with stalks as tall as a person, their feathery tops casting a light veil over the intense green grass, russet like cobwebs spun in the sunset. There were plum orchards—for making plum brandy—so heavy with fruit that the branches were more purple than green, and between the trunks stood square white houses with red-tiled roofs and large, squat chimneys. Some of the houses were painted with bright decorations, featuring vases of flowers or soldiers, and one had a group of crudely drawn horsemen, dark against the white walls, meant to represent the heroes of old Serbian poetry.

To Krusevatz, the valley opened up, and the setting sun painted the expanding cornfields until they looked like huge gold squares. Our train had no lights, and soon darkness fell, making everyone feel isolated in their own thoughts. The hills became really dark and far away, and in the slight rising mist, the trees looked like they were standing around with their hands in their pockets, like vegetable versions of Charlie Chaplin.

A busy corner and a scramble for tables at the small outdoor restaurant. Back in the countryside we just left, everything felt peaceful, but here it was really chaos. In the dim lights, soldiers passed by; soldiers were huddled in piles in the dark corners of the station; even more soldiers crowded into large rectangular trucks or open wagons, waiting patiently for the train that was four or five hours late. There were women with them—wives, sisters, or daughters—carrying heavy backpacks and looking stoic and unreadable.

While we were dreaming of this war romance and the exciting adventures of our own trip, a little guy plopped down at our table, mentioned that he had a pain in his kidneys, and launched into a never-ending story about his wife and a dog. He was a huge fan of Jan and insisted that Jan had done a successful operation on him, even though Jan isn't a surgeon and had never seen the guy before.

Georgevitch rescued us. He was a tall, heavyset, young, and friendly military storekeeper at Vrntze. He was the perfect storekeeper and looked the part, but he had been a comitaj. He had roamed the country with belts full of bombs and holsters full of pistols, along with 189 others, surviving on two loaves of bread per man and the motto "Ever Forwards." Of the 189, only 22 remained, and one of them was a patient at our hospital wherePage 9 we called him the "Velika Dete" or "big child" because of his sensitivity. With Georgevitch was a dark-haired woman with sharp, sparkling eyes. This woman had single-handedly run the typhus barracks in Vrntze until the English missions arrived. She was from Montenegro; no Serbian woman was brave enough to take on the task. After struggling all winter, she fell ill about two weeks after the English arrived. The Red Cross Mission took care of her, and she made a full recovery.

We left that boring guy still talking about his wife and the dog, and rushed over to their table, where we chatted until our train arrived. We found a coupé—a carriage with just one long seat—which meant Jan had to spend the whole night with Jo's boots in his face, and we kind of slept as best as we could.

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To our surprise, something unusual happened—our train was on time, and we arrived in Nish at four o'clock. It was cold and foggy. The station was empty, and the town was quiet. In the courtyard around us, shabby soldiers were lying down with their heads resting on brightly striped bags. An elderly woman, who had asked Jo how old she was, what her relationship with Jan was, whether they had children, and where she had learned Serbian, suddenly lost interest in us and hurried off with chatty friends whose large braids around their flat red caps signified respectable middle-class women.

Piccadilly weepers disappeared, and a sad little group was left on the platform—just the two of us, a thin schoolteacher, and a round man who didn’t say a word. We found a clerk sitting in an office. He told us we couldn’t leave our bags in his room, but when we pointed out there was nowhere else to put them, he looked the other way while we dropped them in the corner.

In the early morning fog, the largePage 11 overgrown village of single-story houses looked like a real town lost in the mist. We found a café that was closed and sat waiting on green chairs outside. Around us, old men were discussing the news from the papers. They mentioned that Bulgaria was making territorial claims, and since the Balkan governments were obsessed with land, they felt pessimistic about whether Serbia would give anything up, shaking their heads and saying, "It will be another Belgium."

We celebrated the café opening by ordering five Turkish coffees each, and the schoolmaster and we took turns treating each other. Jo stocked up on aspirin to relieve a toothache that was bothering her.

We spent a sarcastic morning interviewing people who were supposed to know about lost luggage. Both they and we knew that the first hospital that got a stray suitcase clung to it, and when upset people came looking for their belongings, the anxious and guilty staff quickly painted the suitcase, telling each other, "In the end, it's for a good cause, and it's better than if it were stolen."

Then we went to meet the authorities who can say "no" to those looking to have a good time, and were given a revised request for a tour around Serbia, including the front, which we hadPage 12 submitted to them and which had been set aside for a month.

"But we don't want to see a bunch of monasteries," said Jan, staring at a small circle marked around the heavily visited area of Serbia. The authorities were firm and seemed to believe they had done us a big favor. We left feeling disappointed because monasteries weren't what we had in mind at all.

Half an hour later, we were focused on something completely different. We found out that Sir Ralph Paget was holding around £1000 worth of supplies meant for Dr. Clemow's hospital in Montenegro, and they needed to be escorted. He was a bit confused by our selfless eagerness to take them off his hands, but he was very relieved at the idea of getting rid of them.

We rushed to the station, grabbed our backpacks right in front of a new official who seemed really surprised, and headed to the nearby English rest house. English people were lounging in deck chairs outside the papier-mâché building, which was surrounded by a couple of tents and a wooden kitchen in the field. Austrian prisoners were making lunch, and we were introduced to Seemitch the dog.

Though he was young, Seemitch was overweight and showed signs of a diverse background. The original Seemitch, an important Serb with long gold teeth,Page 13 was quite upset that a dog, especially that particular dog, would bear his name, so Sir Ralph decided that of the two other puppies, one would be named after him and the other after Mr. Hardinge, his secretary. This way, the dignity of the man Seemitch was upheld.

At the station, to our great joy, we met two American doctors from Zaichar. One we had believed to be dead, and we were shocked to see him, looking pale, with stiff knees, and sitting uncomfortably on a chair in the middle of the platform. Months earlier, he had accidentally pricked himself with a needle while operating on a gangrenous case, and had been unconscious since then due to blood poisoning.

While we were celebrating his recovery, a little Frenchman snuck into our reserved compartment, which was just a coupe, and took the window seat. Jan saw him lubricating his mouth, already full from dinner, with wine from a bottle. Since he showed no signs of understanding from the guy, Jo tried a feminine indignation. "That seat is mine," she snapped at his head tilted back.

"Good. I expect nothing," he said, wiping his mustache upward. She suggested that if anyone was going to make demands, she had exclusive rights to do so.

"Which country?" he responded. Jo thought he was throwing shade at England and her as its closest representative, and things got a bit tense. The Frenchman quickly clarified that he was actually referring to Serbia, so they made peace and became acquaintances.

Uskub, or Skoplje, and an hour to wait. All around the wide plains, the mountains were just turning red with the sunrise, and we drank hot coffee at the station café.

One of the American doctors looked uneasy. Someone had mentioned that it was wise to keep an eye on the luggage. As they started to move the train around, he was soon navigating the sidings, determined not to lose sight of the luggage van. We wished him good luck and walked past into the Turkish quarter, accompanied by two dogs that followed us the entire way. We caught a quick glimpse of oddly shaped, colorful houses, women in trousers, and an overall Turkish vibe.

We came back to find our American friend angry, full of the better ways to check in luggage in the States.

We had beer with him at the border, refreshing drinks that had a calming effect. He told us he held the record for the most hernia surgeries in a month in Serbia. We would later meet his rival, a Canadian doctor, in Montenegro.

Locked in the train, we waited for the medicalPg 15 examination, sitting there feeling awkwardly healthy. Finally, the Greek doctor opened the door, took a quick look at a knapsack, and then disappeared. We were declared healthy.

It was a beautiful dark blue night when we arrived in Salonika. Crowds of people were dining at small tables that lined the streets off the quay, despite the terrible smells rising up from the harbor.

It’s impossible to sleep in Salonika. Shortly after dawn, the streets fill with children—bootblacks, paper sellers, and mobile shops; all of them loudly selling their goods. The only thing the kids don’t sell is carried by mules, which are loaded with glass-fronted cases on either side filled with meat.

We had breakfast in the street, enjoying the early morning and trying to shoo away the kids, who never left us alone. To defend ourselves, we got our boots polished, since the roaming bootblacks no longer bother someone with a nice shine on their shoes. It’s strange to walk around a town where a third of the people only care about how shoes look right now and never look at a face, like the man with the muckrake who's focused only on the ground two inches from him.

When we were done looking for disinfectantsPage 16 and dentists, we strolled up the hill through the charming streets. Jan was busy sketching, but Jo's toothache had taken a toll on her motivation, and she usually found a big stone to sit on and just think.

An old woman's face, peeking around the doorway, found her sitting on the step, a Greek trash collector staring blankly at her.

In two minutes, they were chatting away. The old woman was Bulgarian, but they could understand each other just fine. What Jo said to the old woman got translated for the dustman, and when Jan arrived, they were introduced to each other, with the dustman bowing to the ground with his broom like some old-fashioned court usher.

Once a Greek woman offered a chair to Jo. She felt really embarrassed, since the only Greek words she had learned were "How much?" and "Yet another," and neither seemed right for the moment. So, she tried to express her gratitude with a big smile.

We continued to make our way through streets that felt more like cliff faces than actual roads. The sun turned red until all of Salonika spread out below us, a tangled mass of purple shadows. We settled in an old Turkish cemetery, where we could see the ancient wall descending toward golden plains, where, crumbling into ruins, it offered its broken stones for building Turkish shacks.

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A kitten with paralyzed hind legs crawled over to us and enjoyed a little petting. As dusk fell, we moved on, amazed by the endless charm of Salonika.

As we scrambled down the steep paths, the priests were lighting up the minarets with hundreds of sparkling lights.

The next day was the Feast. Muslims were everywhere. By the women's pants, which sparkled beneath their veils, you could tell that they were beautifully dressed. Men in fezzes were lounging and smoking in all the cafes.

In the evening, we again strolled through the old Turkish neighborhood. We heard a strange sound like a hymn played by bagpipes, rhythmically accompanied by a loose drum. Around the corner came four cheerful African American men playing pipes, with the drummer following them. Very slender young men in vibrant sashes and light-colored pants were twisting, posing, and dancing happily. One of them threw Jo the most graceful kiss she had ever seen.

We left Salonika in the morning, awakened by new sounds. Thousands of marching feet and songs. It was confusing.

In the train, a young Greek told us that his country had mobilized against the Bulgarians, but it wasn't a big deal. He mentioned that there had been a lot of goodwill towards England in Greece, but that we had done our best to destroy it.

"You see, sir," he explained, "your offer to give away our land. It’s not yours to give. You say that doesn’t matter, but those colonies, large colonies in Africa, will not replace the small piece of land that we might give up. Kavalla means more to Greek hearts than all of Africa, because how could we abandon our Greek brothers and put them under the rule of the Turk or Bulgar?"

On the train were more American doctors. One had just arrived and was still excited about the scenery and cleanliness. Also, there was Princess —— surrounded by packing boxes. A few months earlier, she had visited our hospitals in Vrntze and had asked if one of our V.A.D.'s could be sent to her as a housemaid. Seeing her at the station, Jo couldn't help but think to herself, was she "sober, honest, and helpful?"

The American doctors and we had a picnic together. We ate canned meat and a big watermelon. The heat was terrible. The velvet seats felt like they were suffocating us. One of the doctors was sitting on the train step, and Jo saw him nodding off and smiling in his sleep. She saved him before he fell off.

After twelve hours, they left us. We were in Uskub again, with an hour to wait. We sat behind some treesPage 19 on the platform and ate omelet with a nice old Jewish man and his ten-year-old daughter, who already spoke five languages.

Then to sleep. We discovered our half coupé had a second seat that could be folded down, so we each had a bed. At four in the morning, we were jolted awake by a terrible imitation of a German band.

What happened? We looked outside. It was barely dawn, and a miserable little band was gathered at the edge of the small station. Every instrument was broken and tuned slightly off from the others. What it lacked in musical skill, it made up for in enthusiasm.

Why, oh, why at that hour, we never found out. Maybe it was to honor the Princess, poor lady!

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Back in Nish during the rain, Jo was wearing a cotton dress. There might be more depressing towns than Nish, but I haven't seen any yet. Even though the main squares were crowded with brightly dressed peasants—probably for some sort of celebration—there were carts overflowing with melons, melons scattered on the ground, and melons framing the faces of the hungry—bright green-rind moons sticking out from either cheek. The Montenegrin consul wasn't available, so we headed to the Foreign Office to deliver a letter to Mr. Grouitch, who directed us to the Sanitary Department of the War Office (from now on referred to as S.D.W.O.). S.D.W.O. wouldn’t proceed without a letter from "Sir Paget." We got the letter from "Sir Paget" and returned to S.D.W.O., only to find it closed, and to learn that it wouldn’t reopen until four.

Then there was the issue with Jo's tooth. This abscess had been bothering her nonstop, trying hard to get in the way of Jo enjoying the scenery. We looked for dentists in Salonika, turning one away because his office was too dirty, a second one because she (yes, a woman) was using her father's credentials, and the third, a little Spanish guy, only ended up irritating Jo's gums with a red-hot poker. But we heard about a really good Russian dentist in Nish. The Russian dentist turned out to be a small girl who didn't speak Serbian, but Jo was able to understand her in Russian thanks to the similarities between the languages.

"The tooth has to come out," squeaked the little dentist.

"Can't you save it?" Jo pleaded; "it's the best one I've got, and the one I send all the Serbian meat to."

"It has to come out," squeaked the Russ.

"Can't you save it?" Jo pleaded.

"It has to come out," the Russ insisted.

"You're really tiny," Jo said, unsure.

This irritated the dentist. She pushed a reluctant Jo into a chair, pulled out a pair of pliers, and, oh no! she pulled to the north, she pulled to the south, she pulled to the east, and there was the tooth, almost as big as the dentist herself.

"I can never eat Serbian meat again," Jo murmured as she wiped her mouth.

After tea, we went back to the S.D.W.O., and with our letter and being English, we jumped to the front of all the poor folks who had been waiting for hours, and we got our passes and everything right away.

Sir Ralph Paget's storekeeper wouldn't workPage 22 on Sunday, so we also took the day off, and we celebrated by sleeping in and going for a walk in the afternoon with an Englishman who was heading to Sofia. We arrived at a small village where every house was surrounded by tall, woven walls. The women quickly gathered around, thinking Mr. B—— was a doctor. Jo pretended to translate and gave advice to a girl with tuberculosis and an old woman whose hand was stiff from typhus, and we had to pay for the ointment for the latter. For the girl with tuberculosis, she said, "Open the windows, rest, and don’t spit"; but that isn’t a peasant's idea of healthcare: they want either medicine or magic, which is what matters to them.

The train took off "after eight" on Monday evening. The English guys at the Rest house were really nice to us, adding to our small supply of essentials a "Tommy's treasure," two rain capes, and some oxo cubes. One young guy said, "You won't want to travel again on a Serbian luggage train"; then he added, "I've done it! The shunting, ugh!"

A Serbian train station is a public hangout; along the platform, separated from the train, is a restaurant that’s one of the town's favorite cafés. It’s really enjoyable for the still playful Serbian mind to sit with a beer or wine, watching the trains move around and listening to the whistles. We hadPage 23 our dinner among the lively crowd, and then we headed out to the dark freight station to find our sleeping quarters, because we were going to sleep in the wagons—beds and mattresses were provided—and we had borrowed blankets from the Rest house.

We located our truck and jumped in. There were definitely enough beds since there were thirty lightweight iron folding bed frames stacked at one end. We picked two, and not happy with how the others were arranged, Jan rearranged them, keeping in mind what our friend had mentioned about Serbian shunting. Even then, Jo was still uneasy about them.

We were sitting on our beds, either reading or looking out our open door at the twinkling station lights, the moving flares of the engines, and the fountains of sparks shooting from their chimneys; listening to the sounds of a shunting train. Then we heard another series of bumps, coming quickly towards us, and suddenly—an awful CRASH. The candle went out, and we were thrown from our beds to the floor. Our truck sped down the tracks at about thirty miles an hour and suddenly hit something solid. Another loud crash, and all twenty-eight beds slammed down onto the spot where we had been, smashing our couches to the ground.

We’ve heard stories about the Spanish Inquisition where rooms shrink until they finally crush the poor victim into a pulp: we can now understand what that unfortunate person felt. There were stacks of packing crates at both ends of the van, and for the next hour, as we were tossed around by the Serbian engine-driver, those crates crept closer and closer with each jolt. The beds had fallen against the door, making it impossible to get out. When the bottom crates reached the beds, they stopped, but the ones on top kept moving toward us. In the brief moments of calm, Jan tried to push the crates back to restore some stability. Besides the shrinking space, we were thrown around with each lurch, landing on the corner of a packing crate or the edge of an iron bed, and with every crash, the light went out. We won’t give your prisoner from the Spanish Inquisition any advantage, except that we managed to escape while he did not.

The train conductor grew weary of the thrill just in time to protect our limbs, if not our lives, and he pulled the train out of the station and into the darkness.

At Krusevatch, we stayed for the next day. After talking to the station-master, who told us to come down first at six p.m., then at four, then at one, and finally in two hours, we made our way toward the town at nine a.m. There was an old beggar on the road, and he was hugging a "goosla," which is a Serbian one-stringed fiddle that sounds a bit like a swarm of bees in the summer. It’s played with the fleshy part of the finger, not the tips like a violin. As soon as he heard us coming, he started to wail and play his sad instrument, and as soon as we gave him some money, he stopped abruptly. We were no longer worth his effort, but we appreciated his honesty.

The Krusevatz marketplace feels like the backdrop of a Serbian opera. The houses resemble the ones found in opera sets, and in the center stands a terrible statue commemorating something, which adds to the overall bad taste that would ruin an opera scene. An old man wandered around with two knapsacks—one on his back and one on his chest—each with countless duck heads poking out. We went back to the station at nine, but were told nothing would happen until one o'clock. So, we headed up to the churchyard, laid out our raincoats, and took a much-needed nap. The church is very old, but it isn’t much to see, and since we aren't archaeologists, we'd rather look at the more modern one in Trsternick.

We went back to the station to unload our trucks because the broad-gauge line ends here, and only a narrow-gauge track goes into the mountains.Page 26 A group of Austrian prisoners was assigned to help us, and they instantly recognized us, knowing we came from Vrntze. They were in terrible shape: their clothes were torn, they said they had no clean underwear, and they were crawling with bugs. They couldn’t clean themselves because they even worked on Sundays and had no time to wash their clothes. They begged us for soap and asked us to send them some clean clothes from Vrntze. We sadly explained that we weren't going back just yet, but we could help them with the soap since a case had broken open, and the wagon was filled with bars. We also gave some to the engine driver as a little bribe to move us gently.

We thought the soap had burst because of the shifting, but in our second truck, we found that this shifting had been oddly selective. It had, for example, opened a case of brandy, it had burst a box of canned tongue, and even opened some of the tins that were scattered in the truck. And yet the truck had been sealed, both doors. Several cases of biscuits had also been taken, and all this must have happened right under the noses of the Englishmen who supervised the loading. Some of the prisoners said they were starving, so we shared our spare crusts with them, and they ate them eagerly.

In the fields by the railway were strange palePg 27 green plants that puzzled us. They looked like tall cabbages and glowed with an odd ghostly brightness in the twilight.

We dangled our feet over the side of our wagon, watching the scenery go by. At one point, we passed a train with other English people who stared at us in disbelief and waved as we disappeared. It was dusk when we passed Vrntze, and we reached the gorges of Ovchar in the dark. We thundered through tunnels and out over hanging cliffs, the river below us just a faint strip of greyish light in the darkness of the mountains.

Uzhitze in the morning at 4:30; it was cold and wet. Jan wanted to rush to the hotel, but Jo wisely declined, and we relaxed until a reasonable hour.

The hotel was a large room with a smaller yard; on one side of the yard were the kitchens and so on, and on the other side was a row of bedrooms. We then crossed the big square to the mayor's office.

Outside the mayor's office, we came across an old friend. He had been a patient at our hospital, and gangrene, following typhus, had damaged his legs so badly that both were amputated. He had been discharged the day before and had traveled about eight hours from Vrntze in an open truck.Page 28 The Serbian authorities had brought him from the station and had set him up on a wooden bench outside the mayor's office, where he had stayed all night, and that's where we found him. He was a nice guy, though very quiet. Once, when Jo had commented on his silence, he replied, "When a man no longer has any legs, it's appropriate for him to be silent."

He was waiting for his dad, who lived twelve hours away in the mountains. The old man arrived with a donkey, and there was a very touching reunion between the elderly father and his poor, injured son. Tears streamed down their faces, as Serbs are still straightforward enough to be unashamed of their emotions. The donkey had a regular saddle, which our friend was helped onto. He balanced awkwardly for a moment, then shook his head. A pack-saddle was swapped in.

"It’s tough," he said, "young enough, and yet just like a useless pile of stuff."

Twenty hours he had managed, and still had twelve left—thirty-two hours for a man without legs. This shows what some Serbs are made of.

Within the office, we found a professor we had met before, who was acting as assistant mayor. We took him to the station and figured that thirty-two wagons would handle our stuff.

Jo and Jan went for a walk, Uzhitze, especiallyPg 29 in the back streets, is like a Dürer engraving—that one of the Prodigal Son, for example, with all those little, pointy-roofed houses. We took a nap in the afternoon, but Jan was pulled out to chat with our professor, who explained that it was impossible for the Serbian Government to find thirty-two ox-carts all at once, so the convoy would have to make two trips. He also mentioned that horses would be arranged for us and that it would take two or three days to complete the journey, but there would be at least seven ox-wagons, which shattered our romantic dream of struggling up steep mountains at the front of straining ox-carts, sleeping by the roadside, dealing with bandits, and all that.

We went to the station, unloaded the truck, and checked the numbers. A few were missing, but not as many as we thought.

A group of soldiers was called up; at the command, they rushed to our packing boxes and quickly took them to a storage facility. The smaller boxes were left to be carried by donkeys, two on each side.

The professor had dinner with us. He's an Anglophile and was set on going to England after the war to find out the secret to its greatness. He believed it was rooted in their education system, which he wanted to completely import to Serbia. Jan disagreed and suggested that the truth might go even deeper than that.Pg 30

The next day was a feast day, and the main square was packed with villagers in their beautiful hand-woven clothes. Soldiers had just come back from the front, joking and flirting with the pretty girls, and soon a group started to dance the "Kola" around a man playing a pipe. Dancing the Kola isn’t hard. You hold hands to form a circle and then shuffle around in a circle. If you're feeling stylish, you kick your legs as much as you can, and we noticed that the men danced much better than the girls, who were mostly quite clumsy.

We were supposed to be woken up at six, so we went to bed early, and despite the smells from the yard, we slept well.

Pg 31

We got up on time, had breakfast, but there were no horses in sight. After waiting for two hours, a square-shaped man was brought to us by the waiter and introduced as our guide. The professor, who had promised to see us off, seemed to be glued to his bed, as he didn’t show up. Our guide was a quiet, awkward guy but had nice eyes and a pleasant demeanor; he helped us onto our horses, and we were off. Jan was a bit nervous at first since he hadn’t ridden much since he was a child, but his horse was calm, and soon he convinced himself he was a natural-born rider. Jo was riding side-saddle for the second time in her life.

We took the road to Zlatibor (golden hill). There was a thick mist, the hills were barely visible through the fog, and as we climbed the winding path, getting higher and higher, the town below looked tiny and magical; a soldiers' camp created a strange chessboard pattern across the green of thePg 32 valley. Jo's horse lost a shoe almost immediately, but the guide said it was no big deal. We continued to climb, our horses scrambling like goats. Overall, the scenery felt very British and reminded me a lot of the Devonshire side of Dartmoor.

Our guide took us on a two-mile detour to show us his house. Later, we reached a small village with an unusual church. We got off our horses for a moment and were welcomed by the locals, who offered us Turkish coffee and plum brandy (rakia), while we exchanged it for cigarettes made from English tobacco. At sixteen kilometers, we arrived at a larger village where we decided to have lunch. We were surprised by the sudden appearance of a French doctor. He was thrilled to see us, especially when he discovered we both spoke French, and invited us for coffee. We had lunch with our guide at the local inn and ordered pork; there wasn’t really anything else on the menu.

"How much?" asked the host.

"For three," we answered.

"But how much is that?" replied the host. "You see, each person eats differently." So we ordered a kilogram to start with.

Half a pig was pulled from a spit in front of the large fire and taken outside, sizzling, to the wood block, where the waiter chopped it up with an axe.

Page 33

We had noticed some quirks in our horses. They were completely against walking side by side and always lined up one behind the other; this was because the mountain paths were so narrow. Jo's horse, which oddly resembled Monkey Brand, insisted on staying in second place and refused to go any further back. Finally, we made it to the top of Zlatibor, named after a unique golden cheese that’s made there. The view was similar to the one from the Cat and Fiddle in Derbyshire, but much larger, and from there, the ride started to feel never-ending. It got darker, and we walked down the hills to relieve our sore knees, while Jan concluded that horse riding just wasn't for him.

Finally, the guide decided it was too late to reach Novi Varosh that night, so we changed direction. The road became stonier and stonier. A chilly breeze picked up with the evening. We arrived at a green valley, at the end of which was a rocky gorge, down which flowed the twistiest stream: it looked like it had been drawn by a blob of mercury on a wobbly plate. We veered away from the gorge onto a hill so rocky that the path was only visible where old horse hooves had left red stains on the stones.

The village had a huge school, a small church, soldiers gathered around fires in the churchyard, and seven or eight wooden huts.Page 34 Our guide stopped at the door of the dirtiest one and knocked. A suspicious woman's face peeked out into the darkness. We dismounted with difficulty because we had been on the road for thirteen hours.

"Beds?" the guide asked the woman.

"Oh my gosh!" thought we.

She shook her head sadly and said, "Ima," which means "there is." Serbians nod for no. The woman stepped out into the night and walked to another building, climbed the stairs to a porch, and vanished.

It got colder, and while the guide was busy unhitching the horses, we shivered and found shelter in the rundown house, which turned out to be not as bad inside as we had feared. It had just a long table and two benches, and was lit by a small fire in a large open hearth that provided no warmth at all. The woman returned and took us to the other house for dinner, which consisted of boiled eggs, and the guide kindly shared his bread with us since we had none. There was no water to drink, and Jo tried, but didn’t have much luck, quenching her thirst with rakia.

There were only two beds, and when we checked, we found there wasn't a spot for the guide, so we gave him one bed. On our own bed, it was clear the sheets hadn’t been changed since it was first made, and the pillow that used to be white was now a dark, grimy grey. We took off our raincoats and spread them over both the bedspread and the pillow. We lay down in our clothes, and by the time we were settled, the guide was already snoring.

As soon as the light was turned off, the entire room started to tick like ten restless clocks, and strange noises filled the darkness: rats scurried in every direction and eventually leaped over our heads. We had taken some aspirin to relieve the stiffness from unusual exercise, but we were sore, and the narrow bed forced us to lie on our backs; however, exhaustion outweighed all discomfort, and we fell asleep. Jo woke up during the night and yelped when she realized the raincoat had slipped and her head was resting on the pillow.

We were up again at 5:30, and Vladimir, our guide, suggested we have breakfast in Novi Varosh, which was four hours away; however, our stomachs weren't made of steel, and we insisted on having eggs. We got them, left Negbina—that was the name of the village—around seven, and once again set out on the road.

By eight, we had crossed the old Serbian border: the landscape was becoming more captivating, similar to the foothills of the Tyrol; along the streams were dilapidated old wooden mills, with water rushing wildlyPage 36 down a slope, hitting a tiny wheel that turned with great effort.

Novi Varosh, with its weathered wooden roofs shining purplish among the trees, was a charming little town, completely unlike any other we had seen; it was clean on the outside, and judging by the energy of its citizens at the village pump, it was clean on the inside too, especially for Serbia. There were Turks here as well: ladies in veils and trousers, and kids in orange, yellow, and purple clothes. Twice in the streets, we were stopped by officials. Our lunch was well cooked; it's clear this hasn't been Serbia for long, since Serbs are known for being the worst eaters in the world. Jo gave medical advice to a Serb, and once again.

On the road, there were travelers of endless variety, and one father was on horseback with a pack strapped behind him, and on top of the pack sat his little daughter dressed in colorful cottons, holding onto him tightly around the neck and peering curiously from behind his ear.

About three p.m., we arrived at the Lim. The road rises to a significant height, and the farmers in their colorful outfits were harvesting, with some of the fields so steep that we wondered how they managed to stand on them; on the opposite cliff was an old robber castle like one you'd find on the Rhine.

The Serbian town of Prepolji introduced itselfPg 37 with six Turks lying by the roadside, then three Turkish families, followed by a mix of small girls in pants, and finally, an old man shuffling along in a turban and a veiled beggar woman who asked for a tip. "Where are the Serbs?" we wondered.

The Greek church looked like it had just been built, allowing the Serbs to claim Prepolji as a Christian town, and it had a shiny tin roof that wasn’t rusted yet.

Our hotel was just like the one where Mr. Pickwick first met Sam Weller, a big open courtyard with a quirky wooden balcony on the second floor, and the bedrooms opening onto the balcony. When we opened our backpacks to get out our washing supplies, we found that the heat from the horse had melted all the chocolate in Jan’s bag, and it had spilled everywhere. It was a disaster, but chocolate was valuable, and we needed to save every piece. We had only been riding for ten hours, but we got off the horse feeling stiff and were quickly approached by a goofy-looking guy, whose appearance immediately annoyed Jo. This guy stuck with us throughout our stay and was a total annoyance; we nicknamed him "Glue Pot," and only when we were leaving did we find out he was the mayor who had been trying to honor us.

The next day was Sunday, and the village was fullPg 38 of peasants. Stiff-legged and slightly groaning, we walked around the town observing: Turkish soldiers, Turkish policemen, Turkish recruits, but all the peasants were Serb. The traditional clothing was different from that of the north; the vertical stripes on the skirts had been replaced by horizontal bands of color, and some women wore a sort of exaggerated ruffled trim around the waist. The men's vests were very ornate, and there was a lot of embroidery on their coats.

An English nurse arrived in town that afternoon. She, a Russian girl, and an English orderly had driven from Plevlie, on their way to Uzhitze. Halfway there, one of the wheels on their carriage broke, so they finished the journey on foot. Interestingly, we had traveled from England to Malta with this woman, Sister Rawlins, on the same transport. The Russian girl had just gotten married the day before to a Montenegrin officer, who was the nephew of Sirdar Voukotitch, the Commander-in-Chief of the North, and she was hurrying back to Russia to collect her belongings.

Next day while we were sketching in the charming main street, we heard a strange wailing coming from a distance, getting closer and closer.

"Hooray," we thought—two minds thinking as one—"a funeral—amazing. Just what we need to finish off the scene."

Pg 39

A line of donkeys turned the corner, with a case marked by a large red cross on either side of each animal. Among them were donkey-boys, and it was from their lips that the sad wailing came. We've never seen such a ragged and miserable group. The boys were clearly the "unfits," and their faces all showed the pale, sickly signs of hunger and illness. A few old men in big fur hats, with rifles slung over their backs, stumbled along, watching over the precious convoy. "Glue pot" led us to a large empty building, which used to be a Turkish merchant's store, where the cases were supposed to be stored. The bullock carts with the heavier packages arrived in the evening, and we sent the men five liters of plum brandy to warm up their cold, miserable bodies. This got them singing again, but we thought the songs sounded a little less gloomy.

The Commandant asked for, and received, six sheets from us as a kind of extra tip, and promised us horses for the next day.

The next morning started off poorly. Miss Rawlins and her friends were supposed to travel by mail cart, and their ride finally showed up, about two and a half hours late. It looked like a shoddy tent on four shaky wheels. There barely seemed to be room for one person inside the dark space, but both Miss Rawlins and the little Russian somehow managed to squeeze inPg 40. Charlie, the orderly, hung on by his fingertips in front, and they set off. We last saw two faces looking back at us from under the edge of the tent. They had terrible luck. Halfway to Uzhitze, the cart tipped over, and they all tumbled into a ditch, narrowly avoiding a drop of about sixty feet.

Our horses arrived later, we got on, and with cheers from the gathered officials, we took off.

The rain fell in a steady drizzle; we found that the waterproof cloaks we had borrowed from Nish weren’t very effective. We climbed right up into the clouds, but the rain kept coming. Great boulders and massive red cliffs jutted out from the floating mist. Our guide opened an umbrella and rode along, crouching beneath it. At 1400 meters, we reached an inn where we had lunch. A Montenegrin commissioner insisted on covering our bill, saying we could return the favor when he visited England. Everyone in Serbia or Montenegro is interested in ages. They were surprised by ours. They said Jo would have been seventeen if she were Serbian; one person stood up, shook Jan's hand warmly, and said he must have "navigated" the marriage well.

We crossed the border, but we weren't quite in the heart of Montenegro yet. This isn't the blackPage 41 mountain where the remnants of the old Serbian aristocracy resisted the Turks; this is still the Sanjak, which was Turkish just three years ago, with nice pastures on both sides.

At last, we emerged over Plevlie. In one corner, we could see the town curling around the base of a gray hill. Far away on the other side was a small, lonely white monastery, resembling a shivering saint, and in between was a vast valley with four purplish hills rising amidst the corn and maize fields, like giant whales breaking through a patchwork quilt.

Our horses were clearly in high spirits, and we trotted through the town's long streets at a lively pace, something Jo was taught as a child to see as poor etiquette.

A semi-transparent little man in a black hat stood on the hotel steps waving us over. But we didn't need hotel solicitors, so we waved our sticks and said, "Hospital." He looked oddly disappointed.

The hospital, a series of long, low buildings, was nestled in a park filled with trees. The staff lived in a small house nearby, where we were greeted by the cook, Mrs. Roworth. She explained that since the house could barely accommodate its ten or twelve residents, a room had been arranged for us at the inn, but we would be having meals with them.

Pg 42

"Not that you’ll enjoy the food," she said, "because it’s all canned, and I only have twenty-five shillings a week to spend on milk, bread, and fresh meat."

We wondered why, in such a rich country, a group of hardworking people should have to eat canned mackerel and vegetables shipped all the way from England?

However, the dinner was excellent—all "disguised," she said, because during the few weeks she had been there, she had focused on the art of disguising canned meat and worse issues. She had firmly put Dr. Clemow on omelets and steaks since his digestion had suffered after six months of nothing but canned food.

We ran into some old friends, fellow travelers heading out. Back then, they were a nostalgic little group, trying to figure out how to get to Montenegro since the Adriatic was blocked. Finally, one of the mountain passes was quickly fixed up for them by a thousand prisoners, and they made their way through the snow. Since then, typhus had broken out, two of them had been seriously ill, and one had passed away. Their energy had been incredible, and all over the country, people referred to them as the amazing English hospital. Even from Chainitza, where there was a Russian hospital, soldiers walked a long day’s march just to be treated by the English.

Pg 43

Dr. Roger's rival was there, the one who performed ninety hernia surgeries a week—or was it even more?

All about canned food!

Our hotel room was spacious and comfortable, with a friendly chatty Turk there to help us. We slept really well and were woken up by yet another terrible rooster crowing. All the roosters in the Balkans seem to have bronchitis.

Plevlie is a cluster of buildings topped with red tiles, surrounded by a ring of wooden-roofed Serb houses. There are ten mosques, and the only Greek church is sadly located on the other side of the large hollow, two miles away.

The town isn't truly Montenegrin. It has the cosmopolitan vibe of the entire Sanjak, featuring a mix of Turks, Austro-Turks, and Serbs—a combination similar to that in Marseille or Port Said.

The shops are Turkish, but their turbaned owners, sitting cross-legged on the floor-counters, can only speak Serbian—which puzzled us at the time.

We saw women in veils and children with partial veils everywhere, heavily latticed windows with curious eyes peering through, and yards with tall wooden fences to stop the young men across the street from catching a glimpse of the lovely ladies in the gardens.

Plenty of tall Montenegrin officers—wearing flat caps with the King’s initials and five rings symbolizing the dynasties of the ruling family—crowded the streets, along with the usual scruffy soldiers carrying beautiful bags on their backs.

Some of the women were also wearing these caps, but theirs were even smaller and fell over their noses, like the pork pie hats our grandmothers wore. One woman, who was heavily veiled, had a silhouette sticking up through her veil that looked just like a tin of shoe polish.

The Muslim is much more fanatical in these areas than his more civilized counterparts in Salonika or Constantinople. Women from the two religions don’t interact. The animosity is partly political, and Jo started to understand that her dream of visiting a harem wouldn’t be easy to fulfill. We encountered three women walking down a deserted street. Although their faces were hidden under multiple layers of black chiffon, they modestly pressed themselves against the wall and stood there, three indistinct bundles, until we were out of sight.

Jan's feelings were really hurt, but he quickly got used to being treated like a dangerous dragon.

When we got back to our hotel, we found the town's elite waiting in the bar for us. There was a big, cheerful Greek priest, all in a large hat and velvet attire, the prefect, the schoolmaster, a language expert,Page 45 and the little man in a black hat whom we had initially thought was a hotel tout.

The priest was the head of the Montenegrin Red Cross, the prefect was a former Prime Minister and a Voukotitch. All the important guys who aren’t Petroviches are Voukotitches; the first are part of the king’s family and the second are part of the queen’s family.

The little man in the black hat was the secretary of the Red Cross and was officially assigned to us as a guide while we were there. He explained that everyone had been at the hotel waiting for us the night before, with a lovely dinner prepared in our honor.

We apologized and quietly recognized the appreciative nature of the Montenegrin. We were seriously served coffee and brandy, and the cheerful priest dumped his cigarette pack into Jo's lap. When the initial polite formalities faded, we gently inquired about the front.

"Did we want to see the front?"

Certainly, said the prefect, we should get the first horses that come back to the town, and the little transparent shadow man should come with us. And what about our letter to Sirdar Voukotitch, the commander in chief of the north?—He should be informed about it when he returns that evening from the front.

Pg 46

At sunset, the call to prayer rang out, harsh voices shouted off-key from all the minarets. Right away, as if it were their cue, all the crows took off from the town, circled in groups for a moment, squawking, and flew up the hill to settle in the trees around the hospital until sunrise.

Salonika buzzes with children's laughter, Dawson City with the barking of dogs, but the towns of the Sanjak have no better sound than the croaking of scavenger crows.

Pg 47

When Jan woke up, it was dark, and he had a hard time waking Jo when suddenly a voice yelled through the keyhole that the horses were ready. Jan grabbed his watch—it was 5 a.m., but the horses were supposed to be ordered for 6. Quickly chewing on a dry biscuit, Jan jumped into his clothes and ran downstairs. There was a short, stocky guy with a round Mongolian face hanging between the yard door and the inn, and when Jan followed him, he found three saddled horses waiting. He quickly ordered white coffee to be made and rushed back upstairs to hurry Jo and pack. He dashed back down to pay the bill but discovered that the Montenegrin Red Cross had kindly covered everything, so he ran up again to urge Jo. The secretary, whom we called "the shadow," hadn’t shown up, so we asked the squint-eyed guy, got a lot of "Bogamis" in response, but nothing clear, so we decided, since it was past 6, that he had changed his mind and sent this Chinese-looking guy, whom we called "Bogami," in his place.

Pg 48

Jan's horse resembled an old "John" drawing of a slim but vintage siren, with all its beautiful curves. Jo's would have taken the boat to Antwerp long ago in England; her saddle had a big hump in the back and a tall front, covered by what looked like an old, angry bearskin rug. One stirrup was ridiculously too long, like a fire shovel, while the other was way too short, and both were positioned far back.

"What weird horses!" we remarked.

"Bogami," said Bogami; "when there are no horses, these are good horses, Bogami."

"Where's the secretary?"

"Bogami nesnam" (no idea).

From Uzhitze, we had great horses, from Prepolji just okay ones, and now these; it was hard to imagine how bad it would get if we had to do a fourth round to Cettinje, for example, but we were climbing up. Jo, with her oddly placed stirrups, sat forward like a racing cyclist. Bogami's horse was bare of any decorations, except for a piece of chain wrapped around its lower jaw, but he threw his great coat over the sharp edge of its back and jumped on. He must have had an iron tailbone. We had to push the animals into a walk—there were fifty kilometers to go.

After a while, we started to think it might be faster to get off and walk, but we didPage 49 catch up and eventually overtake a Red Cross Turk. We spotted a soldier striding ahead. With kicks and shouts, we sprinted along the flat road; we caught up to him and then started a race. We pulled ahead on the uphill sections, and on the downhills, he caught up and passed us. He was a quiet guy, and other than the fact that he was heading to Fochar, we didn’t learn much about him. On a long uphill, we gained a hundred yards and, with a lot of effort, managed to keep our lead. He eventually disappeared from sight, and we were celebrating our speed when we noticed that the telegraph wires were no longer with us—it's always helpful to follow the telegraph to find the nearest way since governments don’t waste wire. Jan searched for them and found them stretching away to the left, with our enemy the soldier way up on the horizon.

"Look," we shouted to Bogami, "isn't that the quickest route? The wires go that way."

"Yeah," he replied; "wires can, horses can't, for sure."

There’s a decent military road to Chainitza, built by the Austrians, but it looks more like a white necklace over the hills—almost like a decoration in the landscape. No one really seemed to use it, while our old Turkish road, which twisted and turned up and down, was worn down by the hooves of countless horses. It’s a rocky path, and our animals had flat plates instead of horseshoes; they slipped and slid, and we couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever had skating lessons when they were younger.Page 50

There was a thick mist that started to lift, revealing brief glimpses of the distant patterns of fields and forests, along with hints of large hills. The sun appeared like a large pale moon on the horizon. There were other travelers on the old Turkish trail: horsemen, Bosnians wearing dark claret-colored turbans, Montenegrins in flat khaki caps, peasants dressed in dirty white cotton pajamas, leading animals with bulging packs, and soldiers who were only distinguishable from the peasants by the rifles slung on their backs. Most were friendly and greeted us cheerfully.

From a house by the side of the road, a sheep suddenly ran out, followed by five men. They chased the sheep down the road, whistling at it. We had never known that whistling worked on sheep, and it definitely didn't seem to help in this case.

Somewhere beyond this house, Jan’s stomach started to growl for food, since two biscuits and a cup of café au lait were hardly enough for a long day’s ride. He cautiously tried a "compressed luncheon." It worked decently, but whether it provided actual nutrition from thePage 51 black goo or if it just stuck together the lining of his stomach, we still haven’t figured out. Jo would rather just deal with the hunger.

Bogami had a certain charm; for example, he understood the struggles we faced with the animals we were riding. Jo's horse stumbled a lot on the downhill parts; her saddle was very uncomfortable and so narrow that she could never shift her position. We were surrounded by breathtaking scenery, the beauty of which made a strong impression even on us, who felt pretty empty inside. There were deep green valleys that rose to peaks and hills, fading into the distant Serbian mountains, and vast pine forests filled with delicate, drooping trees that wrapped around us on all sides. Even though it was almost September, there were still ripe strawberries at the edge of the road, little red, juicy blobs among the greenery.

Metalka at one o'clock, and we were at the real Montenegrin border. There are two Metalkas, one in Montenegro and the other in Austria, separated by a strip of land about ten yards wide that splits the village in two like the path of a small cyclone. Bogami pointed us to a shack labeled "Hotel of Europe." A large woman was standing in the doorway; we asked for food, but she ignored us. Hunger was shouting inside us. We asked again. She waved her hand grandly in the direction of her competitor in Austria, where Montenegrin officers were sitting at tables enjoying coffee.

An officer welcomed us.

"We expected you yesterday," he said.

We waved at the horses.

"No horses allowed."

"That's too bad," he said softly. "You know, there was food to eat yesterday!"

In spite of his negativity, we managed to get eggs and wine. Bogami had a big crowd that he lectured to, and we sent him some eggs.

After lunch, we continued on, through territory we had conquered. They said it was one and a half hours to Chainitza, but it turned out to be closer to three.

We joined some farmers, and they told us they were heading to the big festival. The old woman stopped at a kind of sheep pen by the side of the road; when she came back to us, she was wiping her eyes.

"That was my brother," she explained; "he was killed in the war;" because it’s customary to put up memorial stones by the roadside. Many of these are very unique, sometimes painted with a soldier, or featuring the rifle, sword, pistols, and medals of the deceased.

Pg 53

Chainitza is located in a secluded area, where the deep valley makes a sharp turn. When we arrived, the sun was glaring in our eyes, and halfway between the hilltop and the river, the town appeared to be suspended in a blue haze; two white mosques stood out against the trees, and the roof of one wasn't just a single dome but multiple domes that looked like an upside-down frying pan, or as if it were bubbling over.

We were stopped at the entrance by a guard.

"Where are you headed?"

"To the Russian Hospital."

He took charge of us and guided us, despite our protests, to the hotel. A man in a worn-out coat greeted us, and Jo, thinking he was the innkeeper, once again asked for the Russians. The disheveled man clarified that he was the Prefect and that this was a state reception. We started to feel a sense of our own importance. We explained to him that the Shadow had changed his mind and had sent Bogami instead.

Bogami brought our backpacks to our room, where he was frozen by the sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror; he probably had never seen anything like it before, and he stared at it in amazement. Eventually, he slowly backed out of the room.

We took a break for a bit, then went down to find—the Shadow.

Pg 54

He was pretty upset with us and wanted to know why the heck we had left without him. We explained, checked our watches, and found that Jan's watch was an hour fast. The poor Shadow had been chasing us on a borrowed horse, with our permission to travel in his pocket, and was desperately hoping he would catch up to us before we were arrested as spies.

We had tea with the Russians in a small gazebo by the roadside, enjoying sweets that had just arrived from Petrograd after a three-month journey, but they were still delicious. Many officers joined us, including the husband of the little Russian girl we had met in Prepolji. They all appeared to be Voukotitches, and eventually, the Sirdar himself came to honor us. He is a huge man who seems to take up more space than his size suggests. He has a flat, almost plate-like face, with pale blue eyes that seemed to look past whatever they were focused on. If his mustache were larger, he would resemble Lord Kitchener, and he was quite pleased by the obvious comparison. He poses a bit, rarely moves but does so suddenly, and delivers his remarks like commands. He was very kind to us and was extremely impressed with Jo's Serbian, raising his hands and exclaiming "Kako" at every one of her sentences. He suggested that poor Bogami should be beaten, but we persuaded him not to. Captain Voukotitch, the newlywed, was designated to be our guide for the next day—thanks to Jo speaking Serbian.

After tea, we went to the lively mosque, which was actually the Greek church. We entered through a large gate; on one side of the yard was the church, and on the other was a big two-story guesthouse where people could stay while praying or on pilgrimages. Its long balconies were packed with country folks all there for the festival, feasting and laughing as if the war didn’t exist. The courtyard was filled with men and women in Bosnian outfits, with white and dark red embroidery. Through the open door of the church, you could see the silhouettes of peasants bowing before the icons and relics. It was almost dark when one man started playing a haunting melody on a wooden pipe, but even though they linked arms and shuffled their feet, the young men didn’t dance.

At dinner, the Shadow showed a quirky sense of humor, and then it was off to bed.

The next morning was beautiful, and we began at seven with the youngest Voukotitch and the others. Some officers had lent us their horses, and Voukotitch had proudly brought out his EnglishPg 56 saddle for Jo. On the road, a playful spirit took hold of him.

"You can ride just fine," he said; "wouldn't you want to go to the closest machine gun by the Austrian lines?"

"Actually," said Jo.

"You'll need to ride pretty hard, though. I know the major, and he's super bored. He'll let us."

"But what about the bullets?" asked the Shadow.

In time, the major showed up, coming out of a cottage by the road, along with some other officers, and we had a fun coffee gathering in a small outdoor space. One of them told Jo that he was a lawyer. The few Montenegrins who were unfortunate enough to be educated weren’t allowed to serve at the front, but he had been fortunate enough, thanks to connections, to be granted a commission. However, he hadn’t experienced much serious fighting, as there hadn’t been any movements for several months.

Then we took on the hills. "Come on," the major said cheerfully, and his horse's nose dipped down while its tail lifted up, and off it went sliding downhill. We had seen the Italian officers do this in the movies, but never imagined we’d be in the same situation. We thought it would be fine. Jo's horse nearly went vertical, and she leaned back against its tail. Jan followed. Sometimes there was a sheet of rock across the path—then we slid; other times the sand got really soft—we slid again. Then there was a muddy patch, and the horse sank down on its hindquarters.

Here we met a Serbian captain who was in charge of the battery. He was very lonely and thrilled to have someone to talk to, so he chatted nonstop all day. He showed us a tidy reservoir his men had built, explained that beautiful uniforms were on their way from Russia soon for the oddly dressed soldiers guarding the hills, and invited us to have lunch behind the trenches under a canopy of branches.

While lunch was being prepared, he showed us around his artillery and took us to his observation station at the top of a twisted tree. Below us, we could see the Dreina River—on the other side of which was Gorazhda, held by the Austrians—and the fortified hills beyond.

It felt unbelievable that this vast, tranquil scene was hiding a deadly threat, yet every now and then, you could faintly hear a "pop! pop!" like distant giants were having a party and popping open massive champagne bottles. In the hills, there was a camp of white tents that generated a bit of buzz, because theyPg 58 hadn’t been there the day before, and we were told they were well outside the danger zone.

During lunch, the youngest Voukotitch teased the major—who was in a great mood—suggesting that it was pretty boring to go home after getting so close to the Austrians, and that a few stray bullets wouldn't be a big deal.

The major understood the situation pretty quickly, so we got back on our horses and kept going on our winding path. In an open area where the Austrians could shoot at us if they wanted, we had to hurry down the hill, staying about one hundred yards apart from each other.

The little Shadow carefully got off his horse and used its body as a shield.

We knocked on the door of a cottage, and a young lieutenant came out; someone said he was nineteen and a hero.

Here we left our horses and started making our way through the thorny bushes along a narrow path, climbing up the back of a small hill where the machine guns were positioned. Just before reaching the top, we entered a tunnel that went through the hill; at the end was the gun. The hero squeezed in, adjusted the gun, and explained how it worked. He invited Jo to take a shot. She squeezed past him; therePg 59 was a knob at the back of the gun that she pressed with her thumbs, and she immediately wished for another pair of hands to cover her ears. The gun jammed unexpectedly. The hero shifted the belt around, and Jo started it up again.

The Austrian machine guns fired back and kept it going, so Jo pressed the button again and again. Then we got into the trenches above. Every time Jo peeked over the trenches for a better look, we heard quiet shots from the mountain across the way. A couple of bullets zipped over our heads, and we figured they were targeting Jo's big white hat.

Jan climbed down the hill and took snapshots of Gorazhda; the enemy fired a couple of shots that came pretty close to hitting him.

When the Montenegrins felt this sport was getting dull, they recalled the task at hand. A large house in Gorazhda was rumored to be packed with Hungarian officers, and they wanted to target it with one of the big guns. This decision had been made a day or two earlier after considerable thought. They believed the State could handle the expense. The valuable shell was taken out, and everyone admired it.

Men were gathered and massive preparations were made for spotting and aiming. WePage 60 hurried around with binoculars, and finally stood on tiptoe behind branches on a mound by the gun. There were a lot of soldiers busy in the dug-out, and eventually, they pulled the string.

"Wow! Now we've really done it," Jo thought, as the mountains echoed the scary news back at us in fading sounds. We seemed to wait forever, and then "something white" occurred far beyond the village.

The officers exchanged worried glances. "What a costly mistake."

We sensed that the resources of the Montenegrin Empire were shaky. It was terrible! Could they handle another?

Finally, with a lot of bravery, they concluded that it was smarter to spend two shells for a good shot instead of wasting one for no reason. The loud bang went off again, and this time the "something white" landed right on the roof of the house. The Hungarian officers rushed outside, and the machine guns below fired at them. As far as we know, no one was killed, but everyone was happy and thrilled.

Sunset was coming, and we rode away quickly, stopping only once to pull a reluctant old Turk from the mountainside and make him sing to the tune of a one-stringed goosla.Page 61 He didn’t want to do it since all his best songs were about victorious Muslims defeating Serbs, and of course, he couldn’t sing those.

He sat sulkily with his legs crossed on the ground, surrounded by our horses, humming a two-note tune, quickly tapping the string with the flat part of his fingers.

We left him unexpectedly because it gets dark quickly in those hills, so we hurried to the main road as fast as we could.

We rode quickly to the Colonel's cottage, sat down at the dinner table, which was set with light blue napkins, and a distinguished old Voukotitch, a former M.P. in traditional dress, served as the butler. Despite being over seventy, he had enlisted in the army as a regular soldier. He turned down all offers to join us, knowing his role. The young husband was his nephew, and they shared a warm goodbye with a kiss.

We rode back in the moonlight. At one point on the road, there was a sawmill, and the massive white pine logs scattered all around looked like the fallen columns of a ruined Athenian temple. We tried to enjoy the moment and push aside the dreadful thought that we had to get back on Rosinante and Co. the next day.

The Shadow was really full of himself about what he had done. The next morning, while we werePg 62 sketching in town, an officer came up to us respectfully.

"His excellency the Sirdar invites you to dinner," he said.

We paused for a moment, because we had planned to go back to Plevlie. The Shadow interrupted.

"It’s inconvenient to come to dinner," he said, much to our shock. "Tell his excellency that the gentleman and lady will come for lunch if he prefers."

The Sirdar politely replied that lunch would be perfect for him, and we could drive back to Plevlie with him. "Would we come to his house at 12:30?"

The Prefect told us that we should go to lunch at twelve because the Sirdar's clock was always thirty minutes fast. We arrived, but the Sirdar seemed to have forgotten about us; he didn't show up for another half hour, so we sat with his staff sipping rakia by the roadside.

The lunch was great, but the Sirdar's carriage, like every other carriage in Montenegro, was a strange, old, rusty, ornate mess held together with wire. We had two impressive staff officers, heavily armed, riding ahead, and two superior non-coms, also loaded with weapons, riding behind. On the front seat sat a man with a gun, pistols, sword, dagger, and a Page 63 bottle of wine and water that we shared whenever the Sirdar started to lose his voice. The coachman was as old and worn out as his carriage, and every five miles or so, he had to get down and tie up yet another problem with wire—ordinary people's carriages are fixed with string only.

The Sirdar took up almost the entire back seat, leaving Jo wedged into the small space that was left. Jan was sitting on a kind of ledge, facing them. The carriage was cramped, and having six legs meant there were two too many for the room. Jan's legs were the extra ones. He tried this position, he tried that, but despite his shifting around, he spent much of the seven-hour journey in intense discomfort and the last part in agony.

In spite of his throat, the Sirdar did almost all the talking. The country we were passing through was the backdrop of his battles: with one arm, he led a company over this hill, and with a gesture that nearly hit Jan in the eye, he marched an army corps down that valley. He shared how he had to give up the Ministry of War because there was no other capable commander for the north.

A blue line of pine trees appeared on our right.

"You see those hills," said the Sirdar: "Let me tell you about a funny response I had. Last winter, I ordered a general to march across thosePage 64 hills. He said the troops would starve. I looked him in the eye and shouted, 'Then you'll eat wolves!' He went."

If we passed by farmers, he would stop them. He seemed to have an amazing memory for names and faces.

"Always remember a face," he said, "always remember its name. That's the key to being popular."

He was really eager for us to go to Cetinje and Shkodra. He generously promised to take care of everything, arranging our horses and having our travel plans telegraphed ahead of us. At Podgorica, he mentioned that a government car would be waiting for us. He also suggested that we take a detour from the main road to visit the famous Black Lake of Jablanac and the Durmitor Mountains. We thanked him sincerely, but he brushed off our gratitude.

"And I'll write to my friend, the Minister of War. He'll make sure you go to Scutari." He then went on to explain all the reasons why Montenegro should control Scutari once the war was over.

"It was ours," he said; "we only gave it up to Venice so she would protect us from the Turk. If we don't hold Scutari, Montenegro can never be a state, so if we can't keep it, we might as well give up Cettinje. After all, we're just reclaiming what was once ours."

Pg 65

He was waiting every day for the uniforms from Russia and asked every soldier he saw on the road for updates. Finally, one soldier said he had seen them.

"The material is a bit thin, your excellency, but the boots are fantastic."

Pg 66

We were approached by a fit, cheerful young man, who had the police badge with outstretched wings on his hat. He said—

"Mister Sirdar, he told me to take you along with Nickshitch."

Sure enough, the next morning there he was, with three horses that, if not the exact ones from our Chainitza trip, were at least related to them. It was a dreary day, windy, with rain sweeping around the corners of the old streets. Even though it was early, the miserable prisoners were peering through the lattice windows of their prison, which clearly used to be the harem of some wealthy Turk; where beautiful women once lounged on luxurious couches, now wretched criminals huddled, half-starved, suffering from illness, and as we passed, they reached out with their bony arms. All Montenegrin saddles are tied on with string, even those of the highest in the land; in fact, it's hard to imagine how people managed before string was invented, and Pg 67 ours started to slip before we were even out of the town. Necessary adjustments were made, and we were off again.

Our guide was well armed—he had two menacing pistols and a long rifle slung across his back. He was in great spirits and showed us that the right way to ride Montenegrin horses was to let the reins fall onto the animal's neck, kick it in the stomach with both feet, raise your arms, and scream the wildest yells. Terrified by this, the unfortunate beast would canter a few yards, and our guide would turn in his saddle and grin back at us, who were content with the steady jog of our old horses along the well-trodden path—since there was no road.

We trudged along, miserable in the rain, with the scenery completely obscured by the clouds; but around midday, as we climbed higher and higher, we entered pine forests where the rain started to ease into mist, covering the trees with layers of drifting fog. Emerging from the forests—the rain having stopped—we found ourselves in a peculiar landscape, whose Japanese vibe is matched possibly only by Japan itself. There were the odd rounded hills, the gnarled and twisted little pines, and shadowy fir-covered slopes silhouetting the sky in sharp grey.

Here we stopped to eat. We opened a can ofPg 68 meat and made simple sandwiches with the coarse brown or black bread that is a staple for Serbian people. When we were done, there was some meat left in the can. Two poor, ragged children came down the road singing some half-Eastern chant, and we called to them. They refused the food with dignity and walked away offended.

We arrived at the Grand Canyon of Colorado—excuse us—the Grand Canyon of Montenegro, The Tara. Huge cliffs rose high on both sides, rough grey cliffs topped with pine trees and scrub oak. We descended down to the river for about an hour, and then we crossed the bridge from Novi Bazar into Montenegro—thirty years independent from the Turks. We stopped at a small coffee stall made of branches. Jan wanted to take a photo, but the women were so shy that Jo had to gently encourage them to come out into the open.

On the way up the other cliff, our guide started to open up. He had been in America, in the mining camps, and spoke pretty good English.

"In the old days, these were the borders," he said; "here were the Serbs, and there the Turks. Naturally, they hated each other. There were two guys who were pretty scared, one here, one over there, a Turk and our guy. Every day they came down to the river and shot at each other with their old pistols that were way past their prime. But they never hit anything. One day the Serb got mad and waded into the river, but he didn’t hit the Turk. The next day they waded in halfway across. They missed again. On the third day, they waded in right to the middle, and each shot the other dead. Yes sir, and their bodies floated down to here."

He looked up and pointed.

"Dey was a guy up there," he said.

"A human?"

"Yes, a man who had a woman all to himself."

"!!!!"

"Dey was an old town all made of stone," our guide explained, "where this man made his gooman. You know what a gooman is?—kill all the guys that pass by and do what you want."

We suddenly realized that "Government" was being referred to.

"That's what I say," he replied, "a guy—he was killed by a Montenegrin who threw him off the cliffs, and a Turk got all his land. That's how they did things back then. There isn't much of the old town left now."

"We had to chase the Turk out of here," he continued; "lots of fighting, but we got lucky. You see, they had two lines, and we took out the first line before he was ready, and wiped him out, so the second line didn't know if he was retreating or if we were advancing, and we got into them before they had made up their minds. Yes, sir."

The climb was really exhausting. Our animalsPage 70 were sweating, even though they were only carrying the backpacks.

"Do you see that flat stone?" the guide said. "That's where the guy hid his gold. There were three Italian guys here and they turned over that stone to roll it down the hill. And underneath was all that guy's gold. That madam laughed, I tell you."

We climbed higher and higher; we thought we would never reach the top. Sweat poured off us, and we were soaked.

On top, there were only a few stones left from the old castle, and we rode over the ruins. We moved into a strange, washed-out landscape with pale grey houses, light yellow or light green fields, a grey sky, and grey stones—an uneven plain where our guide lost his way. We became more and more aware of how uncomfortable our saddles were and hoped for the journey to be over.

We found the way again and asked a local, "How far is it to Jabliak?"

"Okay, fifteen minutes."

We celebrated.

At the end of twenty minutes, we asked again.

"Okay, 15 minutes."

At the end of another twenty minutes, we asked again, our spirits were sinking.

"Seriously, fifteen minutes."

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"* * *!"

We then asked a farmer and his wife. The woman thought for a moment.

"About an hour," she replied.

Her husband turned and cursed at her.

"Bogami, don’t listen to her, guys," he shouted, "it's only fifteen minutes."

We left them arguing.

It got dark, and we became miserable. Jabliak felt like a dream, and we felt like poor wandering Jews, doomed to always ride on awful saddles in this strange, pale country.

At last, a farmer said it was five minutes away, but it actually turned out to be a quarter of an hour away.

We came down from the hills to find the entire nobility—one captain—not to mention all their people, gathered on the grass to honor us. They had been notified by telegraph about our important decision to stay in their wooden village. When we got off our horses, our knees were so cramped that we could barely stand, and we limped after the captain into a painfully cold room that had no furniture. Various Montenegrins came to look at us, and an old veterinary surgeon, who was also traveling but in the opposite direction, spoke to us in poor German. The old vet was Romanian and the only animal doctor in all of Montenegro.

Pg 72

To their surprise, we asked for something to eat.

"Supper is at nine," they said sternly.

"But we haven't had anything since ten this morning," we complained.

"But dinner will be ready at nine," they said again.

After a lot of trouble, we finally got some scrambled eggs, but nothing could convince our guide, whose name was "Mike," to eat anything. It almost felt wrong to eat at odd hours, even if you were hungry.

After dinner, we sat getting colder and colder. Finally, in desperation, we asked if there was anywhere in the village that had a fire.

"Oh yes, there's a fire in the other café," and we were taken there.

We were in a cheerful wooden room, with a blazing stove and a cozy warmth. The hostess served us rakia, coffee, and walnuts, doing everything she could to make us comfortable. Montenegrins gathered around and talked about the likely outcome of the war. There wasn’t much excitement; most of the conversation focused on the difficulties, along with some complaints that the farms were falling apart due to the shortage of workers.

Before leaving Plevlie, Dr. Clemow hadPage 73 given Jan a box of Red Cross cigars, and he passed one to the captain. The official accepted it with appreciation.

"Ah!" he said. "Cigars, huh! You don't see those much these days."

The cigar was a Trichinopoli. Jan didn’t say anything, but just watched. The captain lit the cigar with confidence, and for a few minutes, he puffed away, looking like the epitome of aristocracy. Soon, he stopped puffing, looked thoughtful, and then mentioned that he had forgotten an important paper he hadn’t signed, and he took off. We found the cigars to be really handy later on, serving as a kind of spiritual disinfector, definitely effective against annoying people.

Into the cracks of the ceiling were stuck white and yellow flowers, thyme and other plants, until the roof looked like an upside-down flower bed. We had noticed this custom before and asked Mike if it meant anything.

"Oh yes," he replied, "all those things, they're stuck up there against the fleas and bugs."

This was translated into Serbian, and the woman smacked his ears.

We had dinner featuring meat—three courses—just meat, meat, and more meat, and it was so tough that our teeth couldn't break through it, making us swallow the pieces whole. One course left us exhausted, especially after our long journey, but Mike, making up for his previous lack of food, devoured his portion and finished what was left over from ours. Pg 74

The night was so cold that we went to bed in our clothes, and even then, we couldn't sleep for hours.

We woke up with some effort to a beautiful day and realized that what we thought yesterday was a plain was actually a vast plateau surrounded by tall gray mountains, with valleys and ravines filled with permanent snow. Jabliak is a unique village, made up of fifty or sixty weathered wooden houses—characterized by the steep roofs typical of Northern Serbia—scattered throughout this wild area, where grass and crops struggle to survive against the encroaching stones, and where the summer is so brief that the captain's plum tree—the only one—only matures in exceptional years. No vehicles ever come to Jabliak, making it a village without roads. Everything that moves here is carried by horses or people, and for hay, they use long narrow sledges that glide over the stones and slippery grass as if it were snow.

"Urrgh," said a man, "you should see this in winter. Snow ten to twelve feet deep, with just the roofs and the tops of the telegraph poles sticking out."

The village guided us to see the well-known Black Lake beneath the peaks of Dormitor.

Pg 75

The lake is pretty enough, but too large to be mysterious and too small to be impressive. One might have pictured it sparkling like the devious eye of a witch, with a white stone shoreline and pine trees for eyelashes, yet we ruined its tranquility by shooting at wild ducks with a rifle.

Jan had been telling the villagers how great Jo was at riding; now they think he’s lying. Her horse suddenly jumped at a small obstacle; the big hump at the back of the saddle shot up, throwing her forward, and before she knew it, she was hanging almost upside down over the horse’s neck, helpless because of the big steeple in front. This horse, as if it was used to situations like this, stood there calmly while Mike helped her get back upright.

Then we moved on again. Sometimes the tracks got really muddy, and the horses slipped a lot. At the top of a pass, we stopped to grab some coffee from a leafy hut. In front of us were the Voynik mountains, a blue ridge with shadowy, strange crevices and cliffs; behind us, Dormitor was still visible, a faint mark on the sky, as if that huge canopy had been brushing the edges in the dew.

Four women climbed up towards us. When they reached the top, they tossed down their huge backpacks and sat down. They were aPage 76 cheerful, attractive group, and we asked them where they were headed.

"Forward," they said.

"Why?"

"Those are for our husbands and brothers," they replied, patting the large, colorful backpacks.

"How far do you have to walk?" we asked.

"4 more days."

"And how far have you walked?"

"4 days."

No complaining, no feeling sorry for themselves, just a statement of fact: these women were happily hiking for eight days with bundles weighing 45 to 50 pounds on their backs to bring some luxuries or necessities to their fighting family members.

We said a cheerful goodbye, wished them good luck, and headed downhill.

The path got so steep that we had to get off our horses and walk, and that’s how we reached Shavnik.

Shavnik isn't made of wood; it's stone, and as we entered its small square—with the white riverbed on one side—we realized there was no welcome for us. To our angry dismay, the inn was full, and no telegram from the "State" had come.

We found out that in Montenegro there are two typesPg 77 of travelers—royalties and regular folks. Royals are finished, while regular folks do the best they can. We ended up in a not-so-clean room above a shop—there wasn’t anything better—we had seen worse before: so we ordered dinner and headed to the telegraph station to ensure we arrived as "Royalty" at the next stop.

A man suddenly rushed into the office, shouting, "Sirdar! Sirdar!"

Jo and Jan made their way through the dark to the inn, squeezing between sweating horses to reach the door. We were let in.

The Sirdar welcomed us warmly, but he was extremely tired and looked years older than he did just two days ago. He had ridden about 150 kilometers in sixteen hours, leaving Chainitza at two o'clock in the morning, and had been on horseback ever since. He’s a skilled horse rider, but he’s not young anymore. Almost all of his escort had given out from the pace, and he was full of the tale about his orderly's horse which had covered 300 kilometers in four days, being the only animal that made it through with him, as he changed mounts at Plevlie. We left him and went straight to bed.

Just as we were comfortably dozing off, a man burst into the room and demanded "Mike," mentioning something about a horse. Jan dressed quickly and hurried downstairs. It was pitch dark. He ran to the stable, felt his way in, and struck a match. There were two horses—one was lying on its side, obviously foundered and dying, but Jan sensed they wouldn't have disturbed him for that. By the light of the match, he realized that his own horses had been turned out by the Sirdar's orderly, and one was missing. Mike wasn’t anywhere to be found, but a small boy discovered the missing horse in the dry riverbed, apparently looking for water. Jan went back to his bedroom only to find that, in his absence, two more strangers had come in, much to Jo's annoyance. He pushed them out and locked the door.

When we woke up, the Sirdar had already resumed his fast pace—clearly, urgent news summoned him to Cettinje—leaving the orderly's brave horse dead behind him.

"He kills a lot of horses," said a peasant, shaking his head; "he rides fast—always."

We crossed the dry riverbed and got ready for the hill ahead of us. Suddenly, Mike's horse stepped into a bog. The poor animal struggled in the slippery green muck up to its stomach and groaned loudly, thinking it was done for. Mike jumped off the saddle and, after a lot of effort, finally pulled his horse out, which came out shaking and covered in slime. Mike gave a wry smile.

Pg 79

"I should have remembered," he admitted. "The Sirdar will get in there himself one day."

This day's ride was the worst we'd experienced so far. Our horses were exhausted, the road was terrible, with big rocks scattered all over the worn-out Turkish roads.

The Turkish road is a narrow path of flat paving stones laid right on the ground: but that's just the first stage. In the second stage, the paving stones start to tilt and lie like slates on a roof; in the third stage, they stand completely on edge, like a row of dominoes, and the horses, stepping carefully between the obstacles, pound the exposed earth into deep trenches of muddy slush. In the fourth stage, the stones have completely vanished, leaving only the trenches made by the horses, so the path looks like a sheet of violently corrugated metal. Most of the tracks are now between the third and fourth stages of deterioration. You never know how far the horse will sink its legs into the trenches, as sometimes they are very shallow, and other times the leg can disappear almost to the shoulder.

Jan's horse slipped over a domino, tipped into a trench, and the rider fell off. Fortunately, he landed on a pile of stones instead of into the mud, but he still decided to walk for a bit.

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Every so often, you would stumble upon signs of a major roadway being built—fresh white stone embankments that appeared out of nowhere and led to nowhere, and Mike admitted that he had lost the path again—

"When I come out of that annoying mood!"

After a rush across the country, we finally found the road and wished we hadn't, because it was a Turkish track in its most aggressive state.

At last we reached the top and took a break. Mike showed us his revolver.

"He has a good revolver," he said. "The last man I shot was killing a woman. I came in. He ran away. I told him to stop, but he didn't stop, so I shot him in the leg. He tried to hit me with a gun."

The man got 14 years.

We kept going, and on the road we found an overcoat, which we later returned to its owner, a Turk, who was heading to Nickshitch to buy sugar and salt for Plevlie.

Bits of the big white road popped up and faded away repeatedly. We asked who was behind its creation.

"Sirdar," Mike said; "he's a good boy. Works a lot."

The country was now like brown velvet laid over piles of massive potatoes.

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Our horses became slower and slower, and the inn we were looking for seemed to be getting further and further away. We passed many villagers, and it was clear we had entered a land of beauty, as each person was more attractive than the last. Since Jabliak, we hadn’t seen an ugly man or woman, and their grace was only matched by the elegance of their features. Ugly women must be in high demand here and probably marry young; people tend to value rarity more than beauty.

Mike talked to several of the girls, asking for their names and where they were from. One had the same name as him—which we can't remember—and he said that she must be his cousin. He told her to wait where she was, promising that he would come back later to give her a ride.

At last, we arrived at the wooden inn.

The nicer inns have separate dining rooms and kitchens, while second-class inns combine both. In either case, the fire is built on a pile of earth in the center of the floor; there’s no chimney, so the smoke fills the room with a blue haze that stings your eyes. It drifts up to the ceiling, where hams are hung, and escapes through the gaps in the wooden roof slats. This inn was second-class, and along one wall was a deep trough containing four huge lumps of a white substancePg 82 that puzzled us. At first, we thought it was snow, but that seemed impossible; then we considered that it might be salt—but why?

It was snow, as there was no clean water to drink, so the snow was kept in large underground cellars during the winter.

We got coffee and kaimak—a mix between sour milk and cream cheese—and as a special treat, the lady of the house, who looked pretty rough, brought us two eggs. Jan's was bad, but he set it aside without saying anything, because it's impossible to explain to these people what a "bad" egg is—all eggs seem the same to them.

We said a warm goodbye to Mike, as we got into a carriage that was waiting for us, and he rode off, pulling our tired horses along behind him.

As we were getting into the carriage, the filthy woman ran up and, before Jo could stop her, planted a loving kiss on each cheek.

We threw our tired limbs onto the worn-out cushions. Our driver was a cheerful guy who only responded with "sure" to everything we said. We traveled through miles of countryside so rocky that everything looked gray, as if the world had realized how old it was. The road twisted and turned around the mountains like Corporal Trim's stick: below, you could see the road, only halfPage 83 a mile straight ahead, but a good five miles with all the curves. We got stuck behind a big hay-cart. Our driver shouted and cursed to no effect, so he jumped down from the seat, ran around the hay, and whipped the cart driver. We braced for a fight, but nothing happened. When the hay finally moved aside, we discovered "just a girl." Poor thing! She looked pretty downcast.

The road was the best we'd seen in all the Balkans, white and well-paved like an English country highway, and finally, we rattled into Nickshitch, the most important town in Northern Montenegro. It resembled a decent-sized Cornish village, with small stone houses and stone-walled gardens filled with sunflowers.

A charming old major came to the inn to honor our invitation, and we strolled around the streets together. There's a beautiful Greek church on a formal hill at one end, and behind the town, a sheer rock ridge rises with an old castle where a man once lived who "was a man all to himself;" now it's a monastery, and one of the most picturesque in Montenegro.

We ate delicious trout straight from the river and large green figs. While getting undressed, Jan found a louse in his shirt—apparently from the filthyPg 84 bedroom at Shavnik. He went to bed, but his troubles weren’t over; there was another unwelcome guest, one that caused big, itchy welts. He searched for a while without luck, but finally caught and killed a huge bug. After that, things settled down.

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The rain fell heavily all night. At five o'clock, they called us, telling us not to wake up as the motor would arrive later. At six, they knocked again, saying—

"Get up fast; the car is outside."

Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.

We rushed so much that we left our best soap and our mascot, a cute little wooden chicken, behind forever. The major was waiting in the bar room.

We were sad to say goodbye; he was lonely, and we liked him. But we didn’t waste any time, as we were seven hours away from Podgoritza and who knows how far from Cettinje.

The carriage and driver were the same as yesterday's, but his expression was so gloomy in the pouring rain that he looked like a completely different person.

Just outside the village, he picked up a friend and helped her into the carriage. She was an elderly lady in a velvet coat, with a flat white face and two bright, birdlike brown eyes that never left us. Conversation was impossible because she had only one tooth, and her speech came out as a whistling sound, making it hard to understand her. She also hiccuped loudly every half hour. We were really uncomfortable. The hood was up, and a piece of tarpaulin stretched from it to the coachman's seat, blocking our view except for a small triangle we could see through.

What with three people, our bags, the old lady's bundle, and a huge sponge cake, we were really cramped. Whenever we tried to shift because of a stiff knee, her sharp eye was on us, and she would make a remark that we always had to respond to with "Ne rasumem," "I don't understand," while smiling at her to show we appreciated her attempts to make us comfortable.

The mist and rain completely blocked our view. Occasionally, a tree appeared as a dark shape against the gray. We had no idea that we were traveling through some of the most amazing scenery in Europe.

The carriage jarred to a stop. There was an issue with the harness; some string was pulled out, making it workable for the next half-hour. Carriages in Montenegro must have been designed back when builders cared more about stylish curves than about durability, because we havePage 87 never been in one without several stops, during which the driver tried to secure the carriage with string or wire to keep it from falling apart.

We stopped at roadside motels and politely treated the elderly woman to coffee at a penny a cup to make up for our lack of appreciation for her conversation skills.

Women walked by carrying their usual huge bundles. Sometimes they were with their husbands or brothers, who strolled along completely empty-handed.

Jo was busy sketching everyone she saw.

Passers-by asked, "What is she doing?" and the onlookers replied—

"She's writing to us;" because anything done with pencil on paper is considered writing to them.

One attractive young woman shook her fist, laughing—

"If I could write, I'd write you," she said.

We were no longer in the Sanjak. The Turkish influence was gone, and we wanted to see the famous Black Mountains of old Montenegro.

At Danilograd, we were impressed by the massive, expensive bridge that seemed to lead to nothing more than a couple of small villages. We missed the charming Turkish houses, which were built just for today, much like their roads, but were filled with unexpectedPg 88 corners and mysterious balconies. The Montenegrin houses were small and simple, just four walls and a roof, resembling a drawing by a three-year-old. The only thing missing was the curly smoke rising from the chimney. The wide streets lined with these houses had a dull effect and would have felt even more depressing if it weren’t for the bright colors they were painted in.

When the horses were full after their lunch, we loaded up, bringing on board a quiet man who sat on the front. We continued on to Podgoritza, arriving at two o'clock in a steady rain.

Podgoritza didn’t seem to notice we had arrived. The streets were deserted, and the Prefect's offices were occupied only by the porter, a Turk, who mentioned that the Prefect was taking his nap and seemed to think that was all there was to it.

This was terrible; after being royals for a week, to be treated like regular people and possibly miss the chance to get to Cettinje that night.

"Bring the Prefect," Jo demanded, stamping her foot, but the Turk just smiled and suggested we check out the adjutant's office. Back to the carriage we went and drove to a place that looked like a luggage depot. There was no adjutant, just a bunch of giggling boys. Our driver got restless and said his horses werePage 89 tired of the rain, so we dropped off the old lady, replaced her with a guy in American clothes who seemed sympathetic, and headed back to the Prefect's office with him. There, we found a sleepy lieutenant who ordered coffee, while our English-speaking friend explained to him that we were very important people and that something needed to be done for us right away. The officer promised to get the Prefect as soon as he could, and we went to the hotel to have more coffee with our baggy-trousered friend, who told us he was part of a large group of Montenegrins who had traveled from America to fight for their small country. "So, who are your buddies?" someone asked in a nasal voice, and the speaker, a friendly-looking guy in a broad-shouldered raincoat, sat down at our table. He was also a Montenegrin and had been working in the mines in America for several years. More coffees were ordered. We told the new American Montenegrin that we didn’t like Podgoritza, and he tried to make excuses—the time, the bad weather. The hotel manager approached us and indicated, in awe, that the Prefect had just dropped by with some friends.

Our look didn’t seem to impress the Prefect at all, and it’s no surprise. He admitted to getting a telegram about us, but there was no car available that day, so he left.

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"The Prefect is just more annoying than Podgoritza," Jo said to the American in the raincoat; but he figured it was just indigestion.

The Prefect, after visiting his office and meeting with the lieutenant, returned in five minutes, noticeably more polished in demeanor, and announced with seriousness that he was going to provide us with his personal carriage.

But the rain, the laughing boys, the smiling Turk, and the sudden fall from royalty to nothingness had been bothering Jo. She leaned back with disdain and said—

"But the Sirdar promised us a car."

"I'll go check if it's possible," said the Prefect, and he rushed out into the rain. He came back overflowing with apologies. All the cars were out, but he'd send his carriage over right away. "A lovely carriage," he added.

It arrived—a landau like the ones you'd see at Waddingsgate-super-Mare, so flawless that every Montenegrin stopped to stare at it.

The hotel owners, our American friends, and the Prefect with his captain were all highlighting its beauty while we walked away, leaving them standing in the rain.

"I'll always have my own side in this country," said Jo as she took a big bite of cheese.

We trudged on, and the day gradually gotPage 91 darker. We went by a campsite, where the firelight flickering on the trees created a strange yet cheerful scene.

The hours dragged on. Suddenly (our driver was probably falling asleep) we collided with something. It was a square gray carriage. Our driver shouted at it, and it gradually moved up the steep hill. A bright light shone from the windows, cutting a bright path through the foggy rain. Someone tossed away a cigar butt. The wet road glistened in the glow of our pink candles, and the lightning flashed intermittently, making the mountain peaks appear briefly before disappearing into the darkness; it felt like we were living in the opening of a mystery story from the Strand Magazine.

At last, in the drizzly rain, we saw the glow of the lights in Cettinje. Finally, we slowly navigated through the wet streets, passing our mysterious companion without being able to see who was inside, and made our way to the hotel. Since morning, we had been driving for fourteen hours, and we were incredibly relieved to stretch out and find some truly comfortable beds.

The next day we woke up early. There was a lot to do. We were scheduled to meet with the War Minister about Scutari, present a letter of introduction to the English minister, and check out the town.

Nature has partly filled a large crater with silt, andPg 92 the Montenegrins have partly covered it with Cetinje.

It’s a colorful village of small square houses, oddly cheerful yet dull, and you can’t really tell what its purpose is other than being secluded. The only building with any architectural charm is the monastery where the old bishops lived, and it probably has many strange stories to share.

Asking for the Count de Salis, the English minister, we were directed to the diplomatic street, a collection of small houses neatly arranged in front of the Palace, which was no bigger than a Park Lane house turned sideways, with the paint peeling off its walls.

Over the front door of each small house, a kind of barber's pole jutted out, striped with the national colors of the minister living inside.

We noticed with pride and relief that the Count de Salis' pole was painted a subtle white. The kind old lady who opened the door directed us to the Legation. There we found him checking the damage caused by the overnight storm. The Legation was large and cold, and since the beautiful fireplaces provided by the British Board of Works were only for anthracite (and Montenegro only produces wood), the English minister preferred his cozy cottage to the unheated Palace.

He wished us luck in our quest for Scutari, andPg 93 invited us for tea. We then rushed to a horrible building where the governing of Montenegro took place—a concrete structure given to Montenegro by the British Government, and a complete replica of one of our workhouses. There we met the Minister of War, a elegantly dressed short man with a pleasant grandfatherly sparkle in his eye. He only spoke Serbian, but with him was a scruffy young man covered in gold accessories, who quickly began to show off his fairly decent French. We explained what we had been doing and what we wanted to accomplish. The War Minister hadn’t heard about us from the Sirdar, who had been resting after his exhausting ride, but said that they were supposed to meet that day. The little man smiled warmly at us and said they always wanted to help the English, but he needed to see the Sirdar first.

"By the way," he said, "I forgot to introduce you. This is Prince Peter, the commander of the troops on the Adriatic coast." The young man stood up and clicked his heels. We also stood up. He shook hands with us seriously, and Jo, not used to speaking to royalty, said, "Dobra Dan" (Good day).

Then we all sat down again, planned another meeting for the evening, and we left, feeling like the War Minister and I had bowed to each other thirty times before we finally got out the door.

Out on the streets, while we were sketching, we spotted a big smile under a staff officer's cap coming toward us. It was the Sirdar, looking well-rested and twenty years younger. He was heading to the War Minister's office and promised to quickly set up our visit to Scutari. He glanced at our cryptic drawings of road cleaners, threw up his hands, and exclaimed "Kako" before striding out of our lives.

Tea in the small house with the subtle white pole was a wonderful experience. We hadn’t had tea like that since leaving England—served with butter and jam made by the old housekeeper, who mentioned this to us when she brought in another round of hot water.

She was the daughter of a man who had been pushed out of his village because he played a significant role in a blood feud, and the old Gospodar had told him he would be better off elsewhere. So they had moved all the way to Serbia, where she learned to read and write.

A woman from a respectable family but with a questionable reputation suddenly decided to leave Montenegro and ran to the shores of Cattaro, taking a lot of State secrets with her. The Court was shocked. What should they do?

A villain was needed. The father was chosenPage 95 and, with the help of the lady's brothers, she was kidnapped, taken back to Montenegro, and vanished forever. For this noble act, he was allowed to return to his village.

The old lady had a strong disdain for the Montenegrins who hadn't "traveled," but she viewed the increasing splendor of the Court with skepticism.

"Ah," she said, "those were great days when the king was just the Gospodar, and there weren't any of these gold-embroidered uniforms around, and the Queen and I used to slide down the Palace bannisters together."

In those days, the Royal family lived on the top floor, while the ground floor was stacked with firewood for the winter. Just around the corner was the old pink palace, now turned into a riding school. It had been the first place in Montenegro to have a billiard table. Since billiard tables were rarer and more interesting than kings, the palace was known as the Billiards.

The Queen, no matter how nimble she might have been at one time when going down banisters, is now a calm and home-centered person, and isn’t on board with bluestockings, despite the “Higher Education” of some of her daughters.

The story goes that once while the King was away, she kicked off one of those thorough spring cleanings that most women love. She ordered the dining room furniture out onto the street and oversaw its beating. Women in Montenegro have a tough time, but a woman of strong character can make things happen. A well-known English nurse was running a hospital in Cettinje during the first Balkan War. One of her patients, although he was well-connected like many peasants in Montenegro, was a drunken old troublemaker, and she told the authorities he needed to go. They hesitated—his family shouldn't be offended. She insisted. They did nothing. One morning, they found him, bed and all, in the middle of the street opposite the King's palace.

The authorities learned their lesson.

In the evening, we walked over the rocky hills with our host and got our first look at the true nature of the land that had kept the Turks at bay for so long. You could really see how much the people depended on the land for their claimed independence. With its barren rock and scrub oak, no army could sustain enough numbers here to conquer even a semi-warlike nation. Cettinje has been burned many times by the Muslims, but eventually, starvation pushed them back to the richer plains of the Sanjak, leaving them with a hollow victory. Just like Napoleon and Moscow all over again.

More miners from America arrived wearing theirPage 97 flashy machine-made clothes, along with their wives, who clearly had remained in the old country. If they had, they would have gained new ideas about women's rights and would definitely have refused to carry the heavy American suitcases while their husbands strolled casually ahead.

The next day we had another meeting with the War Minister, who introduced us to a guy in corduroys, the only truly round-faced person we had encountered in Montenegro. Part of his name was "Ob," so since we forgot the rest, we called him Dr. Ob. He was in charge of drains and similar issues. Since nothing had been explained to him about us beforehand, he masked his confusion by greeting us cheerfully, after which he completely misunderstood everything we said.

He got really excited when we mentioned that we had brought 14,000 kilos of supplies into Montenegro.

"But we haven't gotten it yet," he exclaimed. We explained that it was for the English hospital, and he calmed down, very disappointed.

Scutari was discussed again, and Dr. Ob promised to come and let us know that evening if Cettinje could provide a motor for the next morning.

More bows and smiles, and we left feeling puzzled. Montenegrins always make promises even when they don’t plan to follow through—kind of like thePage 98 stage Irishman—and we were taken aback when Dr. Ob met us in the evening and said that the motor was set for the next morning at eight.

We had tea with the count again. In the next house lived a charming old gentleman, and we learned that he had been the War Minister for over forty years. After about thirty years in office, it was thought that he could better maintain the dignity of his position if he could at least sign his name. So, he had to learn how to do that.

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Dr. Ob, wearing thick corduroys and a huge pith helmet, arrived on time in a Montenegrin Government vehicle. He had two companions: a girl dressed simply in a mismatched coat and skirt, with cotton gloves that had frayed fingers, named Miss Petrovitch, and an officer. The body of the vehicle—if you can call it that—was made from packing crates, creaking a thousand times and producing one awful squeak that made it impossible to hold a conversation. The landscape was all grey rock and small scrubby trees; the road was stunning, winding and twisting around the mountainside like a whip. Navigating those curves was no job for an amateur, and it was clear right away that our driver knew what he was doing. We crested a ridge, and in the distance, shining like the sun itself, a corner of Lake Scutari emerged between two hilltops.

We entered a fertile valley, passed through Rieka—home to the first Slavonic printing press—Page 100and then continued up into the barren mountains again. The peasants here seem very hardworking; every little patch of land is carefully cultivated and terraced almost in an Arab style. The houses were also better, somewhat Italian with painted balconies, but they’re made of porous stone and tend to be damp in the winter. The Rieka river flowed alongside the road for a while, very green and dotted with water-lily pods.

We drove past a parked carriage with a large man in Montenegrin clothing, and a little further along, we saw a man in a gray suit walking by. Dr. Ob was waving his arms dramatically and stopped the car to pick up a Frenchman—someone from the French embassy who was heading to Scutari for the weekend. He suddenly turned to Jan.

"That's not a life, sir," were the first words he said. He admired Miss Petrovitch a lot and quietly told us that she was the daughter of the governor of Scutari, the niece of the King of Montenegro, and one of "the most fashionable families."

We went down steeply to the Port, where there were ten houses in different colors and twenty-five people dressed in a variety of clothes. To our surprise, Miss Petrovitch hugged a pretty dirty old peasant, the doctor went off to find us lunch, the Frenchman went to wash up, and we walked around.

Pg 101

A voice called out to us, and when we turned around, we saw our American friend from Pod wearing a raincoat. We took him to the inn and bought him a drink. Dr. Ob came in, and we introduced them; however, Dr. Ob was aloof, and the American seemed shy. He lived nearby and wanted us to visit him, but we didn’t have time.

We had lunch in a bedroom covered in pictures. Montenegrins seem to be embarrassed by bare walls, and they really love royalty. In every room, you find portraits of the King of Montenegro, the queen, the princes, the King of Italy, his queen, the Tsar of Russia, the grand dukes and duchesses, the King of Serbia and his princes, and to top it all off, a sort of comprehensive display of all the male crowned heads of Europe—including Turkey—matched with another one featuring all the queens of Europe—excluding Turkey. The spaces left between these notable figures are filled with family portraits, framed samplers, picture postcards, or a German print illustrating the seven ages of man over a sort of step-ladder.

After lunch, packed with grapes that Miss Petrovitch's peasant friend brought us, we headed down to the steamer, which had been an old Turkish gunboat and was captured when the Montenegrins took Scutari.

The boat was packed, and the Frenchman sought refuge in the captain's cabin, which was stuffedPg 102 with red pepper pods, and fell asleep. Jo started sketching right away. There were two full-blooded Black men onboard with us: they were descendants of Ethiopian slaves from the harems, but the race is fading, as the climate doesn't suit them. We steamed out into the lake, down the "kingly" canal, a shallow ditch in the mud. Majestic mountains towered on every side above the water, where stunted willow trees with countless roots—like mangroves—found a half-water, half-land existence. We passed through their groves, hooting as if we were leaving Liverpool, and headed out into the eau-de-nil waters of the open lake.

In three hours, we arrived at Plavnitza, a muddy dock where more passengers were waiting for our already crowded boat. There were officers, peasants, Turks, and soldiers wearing French firemen's uniforms. These uniforms, by the way, caused a lot of resentment in Montenegro. The French sent them out as a gesture of pure economic kindness, and if the average Frenchman hadn't been short while Montenegrins were, on the other hand, tall, maybe the gift would have been received more graciously. But the sight of these huge men spilling out of their overly tight uniforms was ridiculous, and the soldiers felt it strongly.

Two women came on board, accompanied by officers,Pg 103 and dressed in long light blue coats, the formal attire of all classes; one had a wooden cradle strapped to her back, while the other, without a cradle, held a baby around ten or eleven months old, feeding it alternately with grapes and pomegranate seeds. Along with them was a large family that included a messy little boy who spat everywhere on the deck, and one of the fathers, a stern officer adorned in gold lace, carried a dog whip to keep his child in line.

After a while, we spotted Tarabosch, the famous mountain, and then the outline of the old Venetian fortress. From the water, we saw the smokestacks of another Turkish ship that had been sunk in the Balkan War, and we navigated into the mangrove trees on the mudflats of Scutari.

A boat with chairs came to pick us up, and we got off. The boat looked a bit like those paper hats children make, called cocked hats, but it was a bit longer. The rowers pushed the oars that were tied to twisted willow loops. Governor Petrovitch was waiting for us on the dock. He was a distinguished old man dressed in the extravagant style of a full national costume: a pale green long coat, a red and gold embroidered vest, and loose dark blue knee breeches that had way too much extra fabric in the back. He kissed his daughter and greeted us warmly. We climbed into the usual rundown cab with the typical rundown horses, and set off to the hotel.

The women by the roadside were dressed in colorful, ever-changing outfits. There were narrow carts with tall, Indian-style wheels covered in large nails; there were Albanians in black and white costumes, just like we had hoped for or expected.

Pg 105

After washing up, we hit the streets. It was the East, just as Eastern as Colombo or Port Said. The small fruit and jewelry shops with square lanterns, the tailors sitting cross-legged in their windows, the odd mix of outfits—even the long, skinny dogs seemed like they had been kicked out from the doors of a thousand mosques.

We left the stores to explore more. Scutari has always been described as a beautiful town. The word doesn't quite capture it: it's definitely quaint and a bit odd. Your second impression after the shops is this:—

Miles and miles of walls with huge doors. The main streets branch out into thousands of dead ends, each ending in a locked door. There are hardly any connecting streets because someone'sPg 106 walled garden is in between. The Muslims keep to themselves on one side of the town, while their despised enemies, the Christians, live on the other. Each house, whether Turk or Christian, has the same air of determined privacy, the only difference being that the Turk's windows are covered with painted lattice. The Muslim women's faces are covered with multiple layers of chiffon, usually black, while the Christian peasant women walk around with one eye and a half peeking out from the shrouding folds of a cotton headscarf, which they hold tightly under their noses.

With some effort, we located the English consul's house, since the Albanians don’t speak Serbian, and Montenegrins weren’t just hanging out on every corner. Eventually, we found it fittingly located on Rue du Consulat d'Angleterre. A stunning old butler, who looked a bit like a wolf, led us from the blank-walled street into a lovely square garden filled with flowering shrubs and vines. Not to be outdone by the vibrant colors of the flowers, the butler wore a red waistcoat embroidered with gold, a green coat, blue baggy trousers, and a red fez with a tassel almost a yard long. A connoisseur would have drooled at the sight of his antique silver watch chain with its exquisitely crafted hanging charms.

The inside of the house felt very spacious. There were wide stairs, a large upper landing that resembled a reception area, and a big drawing room so large you could easily get lost in it, decorated with simple frescoes on the walls above the panels.Pg 107

The English consul was an elderly Albanian man with charming manners. For a long time, he had been dealing with an illness that began from a head wound he received during the siege of Scutari. After the usual coffee and cigarettes, his son joined us and showed us the interesting spots in the town. Two women in beautiful clothes emerged from a large doorway. They had just finished a morning visit and said goodbye to their hostess. They were likely mother and daughter.

One was faded and beautiful; the younger one had a plump, cream-and-roses look with modestly downcast eyes. Both wore huge white lace veils reminiscent of Mary Queen of Scots, along with baggy trousers made from stiff, shiny black fabric, which gathered into hard, gold-embroidered cuffs around their ankles and higher up. These cuffs were so stiff that they had to walk with straight knees and feet wide apart. Their full cavalier coats were thickly adorned with many kilometers of black braid sewn in curly patterns, and the girl wore at least a hundred golden coins hanging in semicircles across her chest.

They left the third woman at the door andPg 108 walked back a few steps down the road, then turned, placing a hand on their chest, and bowed formally, first to the mother, then to the daughter, who never looked up; another twenty steps and they did the same thing again; one more time after that, and then they slowly waddled around the corner. Suma told us they were dressed in the attire of the upper middle class, and the girl was probably taken to meet her future mother-in-law.

The next sight that greeted us was the doctor in his finest attire, a frock coat, white spats, gloves, and a tiny pork-pie hat resting atop his round face.

"In Scutari, I need to be en tenue," was his explanation.

Suma said goodbye to us, promising to take us to the market the next day, and we spent the afternoon drawing and steering clear of a clueless guy who tried to entertain us by doing handstands in front of whatever we were sketching. Occasionally, he pushed a letter into our hands that he believed was a money-making charm. It read in English, "Kick this guy if he bothers you."

There are other signs of the English soldiers here. Little kids with outstretched hands crowd around, saying in pleading tones "Garn," or "Get away you," thinking they are saying "please."

At a street corner, we saw a professional beggar,Pg 109 a broken man filled with despair, his dirty clothes blending in with the color of the road. Jo started to sketch, but he quickly straightened up, twisted his long mustaches, and transformed from a worm into a lion. You can be a beggar in Albania, but as long as you have mustaches, you’re still a man.

The next day, the bazaar exceeded our wildest dreams. Strangely dressed peasants from all tribes came down from the mountains carrying rugs, junk, white fabrics, cheese, honey, poultry, and pigs. They sat on the ground behind their goods in the scorching heat while people from all over Northern Albania came to shop. The little stalls displayed their pottery, silverware, and brightly striped scarves. Jo picked up a woman's leather belt decorated with silver, imagining how great it would look with a modern skirt; but she dropped it with a loud crash because the leather was a quarter of an inch thick, and the silver was just as heavy.

Veiled women haggled and negotiated with everyone else, some wearing white with black chiffon covering their faces, and others looking even more unusual, dressed in flowered chiffon, with one large flower possibly covering one cheek and nose.

More religiously zealous than the men, they refused to be drawn, crouching to the ground and covering themselves entirely with cloths, so we had to stop.

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There’s no debate about beauty in these lands. It’s measured in "volume."

Put the women on the scales, and if there's a tie, measure their hips.

Vendors pushed gold-embroidered zouaves, vintage weapons, and ornate silverware on us; but we always looked away, and Jo suddenly grabbed a handkerchief, or more like a patchwork of pieces stitched together, each being a scrap of brightly colored patterned fabric.

"But that has no value," Suma said with a smile.

"Never mind, I'll wear it as a hat," said Jo; and Suma, a bit confused, put aside his pride and negotiated for it.

We next saw a beautifully striped rug hanging on the wall behind an old woman, with colors of red, green, yellow, black, and white—exactly what we wanted. She agreed to sell it for thirteen silver cronen, but not for Montenegrin paper money. She explained that she was poor. She had raised the sheep, spun and dyed the wool, and woven the lovely piece herself, and now she wanted silver because outside Scutari, where the Montenegrins forced people to accept their notes through corporal punishment, paper was worthless. To get the silver, we went into a general store and sold a sovereign.

While we were waiting for the money-changer, two Miridite women came in. They had shortPg 111 hair dyed black, white coarse linen blouses with large sleeves, embroidered zouave jackets, white skirts with front and back aprons that were lavishly embroidered, striped pants, and stockings knitted in bold diagonal patterns.

One of them told Suma that their village was held by Essad Pacha, that all their husbands had run away, and were still battling in the hills.

Suma, jokingly, asked her what she thought of Jo. Glancing over Jo's slim figure, she hesitated but was encouraged to be honest.

"I think she's forty," she said; and for some reason, Jo wasn't entirely happy.

The midday heat was intense, so we took a cab and drove back along two kilometers of dusty road. A veiled woman stopped the driver, asking him to give her tired little girl a ride. The driver refused, likely out of respect for us; but we insisted on taking her and asked the woman to come along too. Jo reached out her hands, but the woman recoiled in horror, even though she clearly looked exhausted from the heat.

"That's too bad," laughed Suma. "I was really hoping she would. It would have been a new experience for me."

Jo confided in him her intense desire to join a harem, but since he didn't have any Muslim friends, he thought the chance was unlikely.

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Two more middle-class women walked by. Jan took their picture, but not before they covered their faces with umbrellas. Even the Christian men are really jealous, and their women have some Turkish ideals. We spent the afternoon sketching outside a barber's shop, where coffee was brought to us on a hanging tray with a small fire underneath to keep it warm. Across from us was a shop that combined a blacksmith and fishmonger. It seemed like the oddest mix.

We had dinner with the Frenchman. He was an odd guy, only seeming to care about finance, his digestion, and getting older; he talked about possible places where an elderly person could live comfortably. He dismissed Egypt: too hot, and an old man doesn’t want to travel. The Greek islands had earthquakes. He had heard that Corfu was depressing; meanwhile, in the Canaries, there was sometimes wind, and you could catch a cold. We suggested "heaven," and he looked offended. He had been in Scutari in December. He told us that after dark, it was impossible to walk down the main street, which separates Christians from Turks, without carrying a lighted lantern to show you didn’t have bad intentions, or you might get shot.

Mr. Suma showed up the next day on time and handed Jan a letter for Count de Salis. WePg 113 said our goodbyes warmly, telling him like it was a prophecy that we would come back to Scutari—little did we know under what circumstances—and he mentioned that we would then see the "Maison Pigit," a fancy castle he had tried to get us to visit. Paget was an Englishman who seemed to have spent ten or twelve years drifting through life in Scutari, collecting ancient weapons. When the South African war broke out, he vanished. He was next heard of fighting for the Turks against the Italians, and later for the Turks against the Balkan alliance. He has never returned.

With Dr. Ob, we drove to the dock, passing an old woman struggling under the weight of a full iron and brass bed frame.

As we stepped out of our carriage, we noticed a crowd of Turks rushing toward us. In the middle of it was a brougham with tightly shut and veiled windows, which made us suspect that a woman from the harem would be traveling with us. The carriage stopped, and whatever was inside was quickly ushered out from the farthest door, hurried through the dense crowd of men, and rushed down the quay. The side of the steamer was packed with boats, so we went around to the back to board from the other side, only to find that the Turkish lady and her escort had also made their way around to do the same. We caused quite a scene as the beauty was hastily lifted aboard like a sack of goods, and we caught a glimpse of stunning pink brocaded trousers and jeweled shoes beneath her red-orange covering. Two women—one of them a Christian—followed behind her, and once she was seated, bent over her to act as a kind of shield, concealing even her clothes from the prying eyes of the naughty infidel.

Governor Petrovitch came down to the dock to say goodbye. He was accompanied by his daughter, who was traveling back with us. She didn’t have anything interesting to share about Scutari. The Frenchman had brought along a cook that he had hired to take care of his digestion.

We found comfy seats on a long box with a bale for a backrest, and the governor sent two chairs for the women. As we set off, we thought about the issue of Scutari.

There are about 300,000 Serbs, which is a high estimate, in all of Montenegro. The population of the Sanjak and its cities—Plevlie, Ipek, Berane, and Jakovitza—are mostly Muslim or Albanian, and the balance of people in the small mountain kingdom is already unstable. If Montenegro takes Scutari, a town where the Serb population is practically "nil," the scales will tip heavily against the ruling classes. We will either see Montenegro absorb Scutari, only to be absorbed by Scutari itself, or we will witness the crimes of Austro-Hungary repeated on a smaller scale, with Montenegro one day being condemned by a tribunal in Europe for ongoing injustice to the people placed in her care. The Albanians despise the Serbs even more than they hate the Turks, and right now, although they are trying to be polite, the Montenegrin police and soldiers look like debt collectors in the home of someone who has backed a friend's loan.Page 115

An Albanian noble said to Jan, "We’re calm for now: the Powers aren’t going to waste their time on us, and we’re not going to rebel and let ourselves get killed without any justice. But if things aren’t fixed after the war, my friend, there will be a revolution every single day."

We saw a pelican, and of course someone had to try to shoot it; but luckily the shooter was just an average marksman. The pelican took off, flapping its broad white wings. The Frenchman told us that the Turkish lady around the corner is a gypsy bride-to-be. A light bulb went off in our heads. The bed and these boxes we were sitting on: she was taking her furniture with her. Jan looked over at her. She was sitting on a low stool, and the two screens were there for privacy. They had picked the most secluded spot in the boat, which was next to the boilers. The day was really hot, and the atmosphere under the poor bride's thick coverings must have been terrible; though when no one was watching, she was allowed to lift the many layers of black chiffon that covered her face for a second to catch a few breaths of fresh air.

Dr. Ob suddenly pulled out a big sheep's head and dissected it with expert skill. He dug out an eye and offered it to Jo; when she declined the tasty treat, he sighed in relief and ate it himself. One of the guys on board had a fiddle and played for us as we crossed the lake. Someone said, "Play us the Merry Widow."

He shook his head.

"Come on," said his tempter, "there's no one here. Just give it to us." Finally, looking at Miss Petrovitch and the rest of us, the musician hesitantly began to play, since the "Merry Widow" is a hit in Montenegro because one of the characters is a caricature of Prince Danilo, so everyone plays it enthusiastically in private.

We arrived back at Plavnitza. A massive crowd of Turks was waiting for us; one wild, befezzed thug had a concertina and was dancing to his own music.

We were suddenly interrupted; the box was taken away, along with the bundles. The bed was also removed, as well as a tin dish that was too small for a bath but too large for a basin, and a tin watering can—the Page 117 bride's trousseau. The bride was grabbed by two men, whom we were told were her brothers, and they carried her up the stairs to a waiting carriage. The trousseau was loaded onto a bullock cart, and amidst shouting, singing, and dancing, the cortège moved out of sight.

At Virbazar, the steamer couldn’t dock at the quay, so the authorities laid a five-inch rounded tree trunk from the boat to the mud. Many people risked the tricky crossing, and one almost fell into the water. Dr. Ob was furious, and eventually, they replaced it with a plank. Then we discovered that the only way off the mud was to clamber around a corner of the wall on some shaky stepping stones. Dr. Ob fumed, his little round face got even rounder, his mustache went up and down as he threatened everyone with instant execution, like the Red Queen in "Alice." Then he realized that no motor was waiting for us. He rushed to the telephone while we grabbed a late lunch. No motors; one was out giving the Serbian officers a joyride, and Prince Peter had taken the other to Antivari. Montenegro seemed to have run out of motors. We consoled ourselves with "American" grapes. This grape tastes somewhat like strawberries and cream, but without the same sentimental connections, it doesn’t quite measure up. We heard a motor coming. Dr. Ob dashed out to stop it. It was packed.Pg 118 Then the telephone boy brought a message that Prince Peter's motor wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

Miss Petrovitch was anxious.

"We can't stay here for the night," she said.

"Are the bugs terrible?" we asked.

"It's not the bugs, it's those awful women," she replied. "We're all going to be killed in our sleep."

Now the women seemed completely harmless to us.

Dr. Ob was furious. He stomped his foot.

"But I'm a minister," he kept saying louder and louder, until he shouted to the villagers, "But I'm a minister."

It’s hard to take Montenegro seriously. There are unexpected situations around every corner that instantly remind you of "the Rose and the Ring," making us curious about what would happen next. Other late passengers were also hoping for transport, and the Frenchman’s carriage hadn’t shown up. Dr. Ob finally decided to take a boat with four women rowing to cross the river to Rieka, and then by carriage to Cettinje if any carriages were available. It was six p.m.; we could reach Rieka by ten.

We paddled out through the partially submerged trees. At the tip of a sandbar, there was a man chewing on aPage 119 piece of raw beef. We called out to him to ask what he was doing, and he replied that he was treating his malaria. The two women in the front were really attractive; one was just a kid.

There were strands of sunset clouds in the sky, and soon night descended completely.

As it got dark, all sense of movement vanished. The boat shifted uncomfortably with the movement of the oars, the rowlocks made of twisted willow creaked, but you couldn't tell that we were moving forward. The hills lost their shape, becoming just holes in the gray-blue sky, while a bright planet left a smear of light on the choppy water where the stars couldn't reflect. As we moved farther into the river and the mountains closed in around us, the water became calmer, and the stars appeared one by one beneath us. In the wake of our boat, the image of the planet flowed continuously in strings of little golden balls, like a magic trick.

The Frenchman turned his head and made a sound like the oars. "We still have to sing," he explained, "to encourage the others." Jo then started "Frère Jacques." Jan and Dr. Ob joined in until the Frenchman burst in with a completely different tempo and key. Then one of the women with the oars began a strange little melody made up of just four notes, and all four women joined in, one end of the boatPage 120 echoing the other. They sang through their noses and hit high falsetto notes. By shutting your eyes, you could picture a big ox wagon being pulled uphill by four bullocks, one of the wheels squeaking. Yet this odd, shrill rhythm wasn’t unpleasant—the persistent creak and splash of the oars, the mystery of navigating through the blue gloom, through beds of reeds and water lilies, up this cliff-lined river, and far away the faint twitter—also repetitive and monotonous—of some nightjar....

The night turned extremely cold on the water. One of our passengers, a small Russian dressmaker, had malaria and was shaking with chills. Jo gave her her coat. The Frenchman's cook was poorly dressed, wearing only a thin chiffon blouse. We were all in summer clothes, and we were really relieved to see the bright lights of Rieka in the sky.

Our luck was good; there were two old carriages with older horses, and another for the Frenchman. We had a light dinner at a restaurant run by an Austrian, and still shivering, we climbed into the carriages. We had no lights, but the road was visible thanks to the stars.

We kept climbing up the same road we had traveled down three days earlier. Below, you could see odd patches of varying darkness, but no clear shapes, and soon the physical discomfort made it hard to pay attention to the night. Besides, we were all tired of the dark. Miss Petrovitch told the boy to hurry the horses along; he whipped them, and then she scolded him for it. After a while, the boy got fed up with her mixed signals and laid down on the box, falling fast asleep. The poor old horses trudged along. On both sides were huge drops, but no one seemed to care.

We got to Cettinje around two a.m., found the hotel open and a room available for us, and despite our frozen limbs, we were soon fast asleep.

Pg 122

We went to see the doctor the next day, but he was late, so we walked to the market. They had fresh grapes and figs, walnuts, and lots of little dried fish strung on willow rings from Lake Scutari. The scene was vibrant, with men in their red and blue outfits, women dressed modestly in long embroidered coats of pale blue or white, and the village idiot, a man dancing around in just a woman's overall. We eventually caught up with the doctor, who was chatting with Mrs. G——, an Englishwoman from the hospital in Podgoritza; she was trying to push him to hurry, like you might with a butcher who’s late with your order. The doctor seemed to have relaxed his standards since his display of respectability in Scutari, and his beard and whiskers were enjoying a little break from shaving. He was with a Slav-Hungarian who suggested we take the route through Gussigne, Plav, and Ipek for the best scenery in all of Montenegro; he had just returned from Scutari, where he had been with a Montenegrin army that made it halfway across Albania. At every village, the locals had fled, burying their grain and driving away their cattle, leaving the villages deserted, and the army, starving, had eventually been forced to retreat. Dr. Ob promised us a motor by four but mentioned that they had no oil and very little gasoline. Then he became more serious, took us by the buttonholes, and asked us to use our influence with Count de Salis to request the Admiralty to allow petrol to be brought up from Salonika, where the British had imposed an embargo. He earnestly promised that all the petrol would come overland.

Intensely amused by the doctor's idea of our significance, we seriously conveyed his message to the Count.

We went to see the Serbian Minister, a charming guy with a rogue's face, to get our passports, and then back to Dr. Ob. He said the motor was leaving at 6:30. We internally cheered because we were getting tired of Cettinje, which reminded us of a watchmaker's wife dressed in her best silk dress. On our way downstairs, we stopped by to thank the Minister of War for our enjoyable trip; he wished us "Bon voyage."

We set off almost on time, and with us was Mrs. G——, who was also heading back as far asPg 124 Podgoritza. She worked as a storekeeper and accountant for the Wounded Allies, and she always had a tough and challenging time balancing what she needed with what she could get from the Sanitary Department. She took the front seat with Jo, while inside, Jan found a French sailor who worked in wireless telegraphy. He had recovered from typhoid fever and was now returning to work. As we bounced down the curves and along the edge of the darkening chasms of the mountainside, he summed it up with the brevity of a "rapin."

"During the day here, you know, there are plenty of opportunities for pictures."

We stopped in Rieka for water and then continued on our way. In the brightness of our headlights, we suddenly spotted small groups of soldiers with donkeys loaded with new uniforms emerging from the darkness. At one point, a donkey got scared and bolted back, causing the soldier in charge to yell and point his rifle at us. If we had done anything, he would have shot without hesitation. Later, the men set up camp, and along the rest of the road, we saw little fires made from fresh brushwood, with sparks shooting up like fountains into the night, where the soldiers and drivers were gathered, singing their strange songs.

At Podgorica, we found Dr. Lilias Hamilton having dinner with her staff. She has had a pretty tough time. The hospital was meant for Ipek, butPg 125 for some reason, even though there were wounded people in the town, the Montenegrins decided to relocate it to Podgorica, where there were none. After a challenging journey across the mountains, they settled in, but could never get enough transport from the Government to bring in their supplies, except in small amounts. They began to work, but since there were few soldiers to treat, Dr. Lilias, being a woman, took an interest in the Turkish female population, which the Montenegrins considered a complete waste of time and tried to prevent.

We booked a hotel room and, exhausted, tried to get some sleep; but the people in the café started a series of howling songs that were really off-key, keeping us awake until after midnight. We've never heard singing like this anywhere else.

Next day we crossed the river and explored the charming and beautiful streets of the Turkish quarter. The people are equally unpleasant on both sides of town; however, Podgoritza feels like the Whitechapel of Montenegro—and we eventually had to seek shelter in the sheds of the French wireless telegraphy. The commandant at the motor depot was rude to us again, but the Prefect was nice this time. He promised us a carriage for tomorrow if no motor was available.

After dinner, the people started singing those terrible howling songs; there was also a wild orchestra that hadPg 126 one clarinet for the melody and about ten deep bass trumpets for backup.

The next morning, no carriage showed up, so we went to the Prefect. He promised one "odmah," which means "at once," but really means in "eight or nine hours." We waited. Nine a.m. came and went. Ten a.m. passed. A little boy crept over and tried to sell some smuggled tobacco, but Jan had just bought "State." An irate Turkish gentleman arrived and said that his horses had been taken to drive us to Andrievitza and that we wouldn't get them until one o'clock because he was using them. We went back to the Prefect, not to complain—oh no—but to ask him to send a telegram to Andrievitza to let them know we were on our way. He was understandably surprised to see us again, and we explained the situation. A much humbler and better-tempered Turk came to the café to say that the horses would be with us "odmah."

A light rain had been falling all morning; finally, the carriage arrived. Our driver was a miserable, half-starved, high-cheeked Muslim in rags, and his trousers were only made windproof by sitting on the holes. He tried to squeeze another passenger in with us, but we were smarter and just couldn’t understand what he was saying. Our Turkish driver’s way of operating was to tie the reins to the carriage rail, waving a whip and shoutingPg 127 energetically; every ten minutes, he glanced nervously back to check that nothing had come loose or fallen off.

The valley we entered was really deep, but at some point, it had been partially filled with a mix of sand and pebbles that had hardened into crumbling rock. We were driving over the gravelly ledge, with limestone walls rising above us, and far below was the river that had carved the softer material into a hundred strange caves. Along the road, we passed groups of volunteers just back from America, dressed in store-bought clothes and carrying suitcases; the smart ones also had on boots. It was pretty chilly sitting in the carriage, and it got colder as we went higher.

At last, we stopped to rest the horses at a café. The impact of "Pod" was still strong. A group of grumpy people were sitting around a fire in the middle of the floor; they didn’t greet us—which is unusual in Montenegro—but continued their favorite pastime of spitting. In the center of the group was an old man in a chair, also spitting, and beside him sat an older, scraggly man, his waistcoat covered in snuff and medals, trembling in a state of old age, holding in a withered hand a handful of snuff he had forgotten to inhale. There were many women silently spitting andPg 128 not saying a word. A sour, hard-faced woman acknowledged that there was coffee.

Jo, trying to lighten the mood a bit, said cheerfully—

"Is Andrievitza far from here?"

A woman mumbled, "So far, seriously."

Jo again: "It's cold on the road."

A long silence was followed by the sound of someone spitting. Finally, a woman in the darkest corner whispered—

"Cold, bog."

It felt like the start of a Maeterlinck play, but we abandoned that thought, sipped our coffee, and when we were done, we hurried outside into the cold, which, after all, was warmer than the way these people welcomed us. Outside, we ran into a young man who spoke German, and wanting to show off, he stopped to chat. An older man who said he was his father joined us. The father turned out to be a cheerful old guy. He joked that his son was a weakling, but he had never seen a doctor in his life. So Jan decided to test his toughness with a cigar. An officer, a dirty old peasant in the remnants of a torn uniform, joined our group, but he wasn’t charming; still, Jan offered him a cigarette. The old peasant hurried forward, saying—

"Cigarettes are fine; but I’d prefer one of those you gave to the other guy."

Pg 129

The road twisted and turned upwards as usual, rain fell now and then, and it got colder and colder. Finally, we pulled out all our extra clothes from the backpack and put them on. We reached the top of the pass and started to jolt down the other side, keeping our spirits up in the increasing darkness by singing choruses of "The Old Swanee River" and "Uncle Ned."

We arrived at dusk at a grim little house on stilts, with creaky wooden steps leading to a poorly lit balcony covered by long wooden eaves.

"Is this Jabooka?" we asked, since we were told to get off at Jabooka.

"No," said the driver, "we can’t make it to Jabooka tonight. But here are some great beds, really great!"

We climbed in. The rooms were painted white and looked fine, but there was a strange smell. We'll know what it means the next time. There were a bunch of American Montenegrin volunteers in the kitchen. One cheerful guy was wearing a bright green robe that looked like an overcoat; he mentioned that his wife—a tough-looking woman who seemed like nobody cared about her—had brought his saddle horse. We got some hard-boiled eggs and corn bread. Corn bread is always a bit gritty because it doesn't have any binding agent, but when it's cooked well and has plenty of crust, it's pretty good. Pg 130 French cooking is far away, though, and the bread is generally a kind of soggy, half-baked mush, really unappetizing and hard to digest. This was the worst bread we had encountered so far.

They led us down a dark hallway where large chunks of raw meat hung from the walls, brushing against us with a cold, flabby touch as we walked by. In our room, there were four benches arranged to create two wide couches; we were given mattresses and rough, hand-woven rugs. Then, they left us alone. But we couldn't sleep; thoughts of lice occupied our minds, and eventually, Jan woke up and lit the tiny oil lamp. He quickly killed a bug, then another, then a big one, then one got away, and Jo caught one. In desperation, we got up, covered ourselves in paraffin, and tried to lie down again in a miserable, restless doze until morning.

Our driver was really slow: we had said we would leave at five a.m., and by six he was brushing his teeth in the small stream that acted as the village sewer. While we waited, our friend in the green coat rode off on his horse, with his wife trailing behind; the other Americans climbed into a big three-horse wagon, dragged their suitcases along, and took off. We left closer to seven than six. The air was chilly, and although there were some patches of blue in the sky, the hills were shrouded in mist, and there was a sharp shower. More groups of Americans were trekking along, and there were also quite a few peasants, the women as dignified and beautiful as usual. Very hungry, we finally arrived at Jabooka. A cheerful woman—we were leaving "Pod"—welcomed us and pulled us into the kitchen. She asked Jo a lot of questions, one of which was, "What relation is he to you, that man you're traveling with?" The fire on the floor was almost out, but she tossed sticks onto it, fanned the large central log, which acts as the backbone of the fire, until it blazed up, and soon the smoke was filling our eyes and drifting up among the hams hanging from the ceiling. We were enjoying a delicious café au lait when an old woman peeked in through the door.

"Such a beautiful Jabooka," she said.

We totally agreed.

"Not expensive either," she said.

We were surprised.

"You can get it for cheap," she continued.

We regretted not wanting to.

"But you have to eat to live," she argued.

We suggested that this was basically a given, but didn’t see the connection.

"But look at them," she exclaimed, holding out a large basket of apples; and we suddenly remembered that "Jabooka" also means apples, and realized that she wasn't a land agent.

Pg 132

Then we continued on our way. In the deep valleys, there were large modern sawmills, but the houses remained shabby, and the windows kept getting smaller and smaller and had no glass. At the junction of the Kolashin road coming from the north, we picked up a cheerful Montenegrin with a big dog. He was a driver by trade, and he helped speed up our sluggish progress a bit. Then the front spring broke. It was fixed with wire and a piece of wood; when we set off again, the reins snapped.

We stopped again at a café crowded with Americans; some had only left their home country six months ago, but to the locals, they were all "Americans." A few of them looked pretty unhappy with the welcome they had received, and we couldn't blame them. "In Ipek, I couldn't get my room," one guy said, "even though I had booked it ahead of time, because one of those stuck-up priests showed up with his family. I had to sleep like a dog, you guys, just like a dog." We thought that a strong sense of patriotism had brought all these men back to their homeland, but one tough guy set us straight.

"No, you guys," he said, "there wasn't any work for us in America. Most of the places had shut down to a shift or two at most per week. And for guys used to living pretty well, there wasn't enough to even cover rent. We had toPage 133 come or we would've starved." Of course, this wasn't true for many.

On and off, rain and sunshine switched back and forth, but we were still cold, especially our feet.

These mountains, these groups of slouching, slouch-hatted "Americans," these little weathered log cabins, flowing streams, and pine trees reminded one of a Bret Harte story, and you couldn't help but expect the sudden appearance of Broncho Billy or Jack Hamlin riding a fiery mustang. But we made it over the top of the pass without encountering either and started our final long descent to Andrievitza. Encouraged by our speed, the two troublemakers on the box began howling a Podgoritzian-style melody, which was quite discordant. The driver, oblivious to the fact that one of our springs was just wired together and that wheels in Montenegro easily fall apart, mercilessly whipped his horses, rattling along the edge of a hundred-foot drop. We stopped at a café so the driver could grab some coffee; then we rattled on again, stopped to ask about the price of hay; more rattling; stopped for the driver to greet a friend with a "How do you do"; more rattling; stopped to ask a guy if his dog had puppies yet... But we pushed back.

Andrievitza was the most beautiful village we had seen so far in Montenegro, and it had a lot more "Americans." In the street, a little boy encouraged us to go to "Radoikovitches," but we decided to go to the hotel instead. The hotel was full because a Pasha from Scutari had come with his three wives and their entire families. So we let the little blonde kid guide us to "Radoikovitches." A woman greeted us without much enthusiasm until she found out that Jo was Jan's wife, which made her much friendlier. A charming old officer treated us all to rakia in our honor. The mayor came in to welcome us, and we felt that finally, Pod had been left behind for good.

The mayor was a nice guy who spoke French, and he shared with us that he was dealing with a "stomach issue." When we thought we had shown enough sympathy, we asked him how far it was and if we could have horses to get to Petch. He replied that it was two days away, or more like one and a half, and that the horses would be ready for us at noon the next day. We went to bed early to catch up on sleep from last night, but Jan, feeling a bit itchy all day, searched the corners of his shirt and found—can we even say it—a louse, a souvenir from Liéva Riéka.

As we were having breakfast the next day, our driver, who had been really unpleasant the whole time, sidled up and asked Jan to sign a paper. While Jan was signing, the driver launched into a stream ofPage 135 explanations. We thought he was asking for a tip, but eventually realized he had lost (or gambled) the ten kronen that his employer had given him for expenses. We hadn't planned to tip him because he had refused to carry our bags the day before, but this made us reconsider. We asked Mr. Rad, etc., what we should do.

"Just sign his paper," he replied roughly, "and get rid of him; he's just a filthy Turk anyway."

The mayor sent our horses around early, but we stuck to our plan to leave in the afternoon and ordered lunch for noon. There was a big crowd gathered in front of the inn, and we noticed that the Pasha and his harem were leaving. One wife wore a blue furniture cover, another a green one, and another a brown one, so he could tell them apart from outside, since they all had heavy black veils over their faces. The Pasha himself seemed like a decent guy, sort of like a priest running a school feast. Four kids were crammed into two baskets that were slung on either side of a small horse, and various pieces of furniture, including a small tub (or large basin), were strapped onto other horses. The Pasha, followed by his wives, set off walking, casually throwing out charming comments behind him.

The mayor had lunch with us, and for a guy who claims to have stomach issues, chronic dysentery, and inflammation of the intestines, he ate quite a bit. If this is how he eats every day, he definitely earned it.

Our guide was the most colorful one we've had so far. He was an Albanian with a shaved head except for a tuft hair that angels will one day lift him to heaven by, a small white cap that looked like a saucer, and a twisted, dirty white scarf wrapped around it. He wore a short white coat heavily embroidered with black braid, tight trousers that were also heavily embroidered, but the waistband only pulled up to where the butt starts to curve—we kept wondering why they didn’t fall down—and the gap between his coat and trousers was filled with a tightly wound red and orange belt. He called himself Ramases or something like that. Our saddles were pretty good, the stirrups were like shovels, and the horses were the best (apart from those at the Front) that we had since Prepolji.

We crossed a creaky bridge, and Jan's horse wouldn't cooperate, so he had to go through the river and onto the new road that's being built to Ipek. Men and women, most of them in Albanian outfits, were scraping, digging, drilling, and blasting; some of the women wore a costume we hadn't seen before, a very short cotton skirt that ended above the knees, paired with long, embroidered leggings. We passed this main road as a group, and with the little horses moving along, we soon caught up with a line of donkeys, whose owner, a friend of Ramases, had a face that looked like a post-impressionist sculpture.Page 137

We walked past the donkeys and arrived at the typical café, a rough log cabin with a fire on the floor—but one of the women there gave Jo her only apple—clearly, we were far from Pod.

On again along river valleys. Jan's saddle had a bump in the seat that started to become uncomfortable. On every hill were patches of corn, the red stubble in the sunset looking like fields of blood.

In the evening, we arrived in Velika, a wooden village that looked like something from a storybook, where we would spend the night. As we had expected, the Pasha had already taken all the available rooms, arriving just ten minutes before us. However, the captain was very kind and sent a policeman to help us find a place to stay. By this time, it was dark. He led us down a completely dark alley where the mud covered our boots, then we climbed up a dirt cliff and looked into a room lit only by a small fire on the floor. Above the fire was a large pot, and a thin-faced woman was stirring whatever was inside. Behind her, a small baby wrapped in a red and white striped blanket was squished up to its armpits through an opening on all fours, where it hung. In a dark corner, a little boy was bothering a black cat.

Pg 138

"Can you give these people a bed?" demanded the policeman.

The woman shook her head sadly. "Mozhe," she said, which means "It's possible."

After dinner, which was Bovril and a cheese omelette, we went out to find a café. We trudged back through the mud and stumbled into a house that had a lot of lattice work, looking like a Chinese store. Startled, we tried another place. This time, we entered a stable, but there was a ladder leading up, and at the top was a lit room, so we decided to explore. We climbed up and found ourselves in a large loft where six tall, heavily bearded Albanians were gathered around a fire; a gypsy woman with wild, messy hair and sagging breasts was in the corner of the hearth, telling some long, monotonous story. An Albanian who spoke Serbian invited us in for coffee. It felt like a scene from the Arabian Nights. After a while, we climbed back down into the night and went home. Ramases hung around shyly, and the woman explained that he had nowhere to sleep, so we arranged for her to take him in as well.

As we stepped out of the door, the promise of a beautiful day greeted us. Below, we spotted the Pasha overseeing the packing of his family and belongings. We celebrated byPg 139 opening our last tin of jam, which we had carefully carried all this way, waiting for the perfect moment. We left the leftover jam for the small family, and as we were getting on our way, we noticed their faces smeared and streaked with "First Quality Damson." We began our climb almost immediately. The early morning smoke filtering through the slats created a faint blue cone above the black roofs of each hut and cottage; here and there, we saw traces of roadwork with groups of Albanian workers on stretches of leveled earth that our trail crossed at irregular intervals. Soon, we entered the clouds, enveloped in a thin mist that had a faint smell of smoke. After a while, we climbed above them and looked down to see the clouds patching the landscape, with small openings revealing sunlit fields and woods peeking through like the eyes of a Turkish woman through her yashmak.

Our horses panted and sweated as we climbed the long and tough slope for two grueling hours, going up and up; but everything eventually ends, and finally, we reached the top. We sat down to rest our tired animals and, to our surprise, long lines of mules and ponies passed by us carrying the very benzine that had caused so much hype in Cettinje. Alas for our reputations as miracle workers! If this blessed stuff had only arrived a week later, we might have even been seen as first cousins to the king in Montenegro; but this was just a bit too soon.

There was plenty of landscape here for any aspiring painters, but we still had eight hours to go and not enough money to waste time. The higher peaks of the mountains were already covered with fresh snow; in the valleys, the clouds had mostly lifted, leaving a thin layer of moisture that created shadows of pure ultramarine beneath the trees. Your typical commercial paint can't give you this color; it needs some of that pure jewel powder that old Swan kept in a bottle for his masterpiece, but he never found a subject worthy enough. Some of that stuff came from the recipe of old Cennino Cennini that concludes, "this is a work, fine and delicate, suitable for the hands of young maidens, but beware of old women." Pure Lapis Lazuli.

But it became tough even for us to enjoy the scenery because breakfast had already worn off, and lunch felt far off, so we resorted to the "compressed luncheon" once again. There are three stages in the taste of the "Tabloid." Stage one is when it tastes like glue; stage two is when it has a flavor similar to cheap beef broth, like around 11:30 a.m.; and stage three is when it tastes like the gravy from the most delicious beef steak. That happens around 2:30, while your lunch is still hours late.Page 141 We had reached stage three, and even Jo gave in to the appeal of the "Tab."

Hungry, we arrived at a café.

"Eggs?" we exclaimed to the host.

"Nema" (I don't have any), he replied.

"Got milk?"

"Nema."

"Cheese?" excitement.

"Nema."

"Bread?" loudly.

"Nema."

Despairing, we took three more lunch tablets each and complained about wanting tea. Ramases, who seemed to survive on tea alone, promised us a fully stocked café in an hour and a half.

The second café was completely Albanian. We climbed up some wobbly stairs into a room that, oddly enough, had a fireplace. Around the room was a raised platform where three or four shady characters were sprawled out. There was a small window with a deep sill, and we squeezed in there and loudly ordered eggs, bread, and cheese. An old woman, dressed in rags, came in and squeezed next to us, crouching down as she spun a long piece of wool and stared at Jo's face. Several cats were lounging around the room, but one came close and started to squirm like it was "setting" a mouse. SuddenlyPg 142 it leaped, grabbed the old woman's food bag from her feet, knocked it onto the floor, and vanished beneath the platform, followed by all the other cats. The old woman, who had been working with her distaff and spindle the whole time, let out a scream of anger and nearly disappeared under the platform. We all burst out laughing while below us the cats hissed and the old woman cursed, swatting at them with the handle of her distaff until she finally got her dinner back. She backed out with the bag, sat down again, and resumed spinning as if nothing had happened.

Beyond this café, the path turned rocky and uneven. We walked past a typical couple. The man was carrying a small bag filled with bottles, while the woman had a massive wooden chest on her back, and you could hear things rattling and clattering as she trudged along.

Jo looked at her with sympathy. "That's tough," she said.

The woman stared blankly and didn’t respond; but the man smiled and said—

"Yeah, heavy. Bogami."

We passed more caravans of that all too familiar gas. Cliffs started to rise up on every side, and steep drops fell away beneath us to a greenish, roaring river; large springs shot out from the rocks and tumbled down onto the stonesPg 143 below in a spray of foam: one was pink. Here, a general and his lady once rode, and the lady's horse slipped. The general reached for her but lost his own balance, and they both fell into the river and drowned. The path twisted up and down, often very slippery underfoot, and the horses, fitted with the usual flat iron shoes, were slipping and sliding on the edge of the cliffs. Finally, we got off and walked. It was such a relief: our saddles were incredibly hard, the stirrups uneven in length, and the knots rubbed harshly on our shins. We passed a man who was clearly English, and he stared at us as we went by, but neither of us stopped. The gorge deepened, and the water flowed faster. The cliffs rose higher, black and grey in massive vertical stripes. We heard sounds like thunder or blasting echoing in the canyon; it felt oppressive and gloomy, making one shudder to think about what would happen if an earthquake struck. The cliffs suddenly ended at a large grassy slope where crowds of people were working on the new road; we crossed the river on a wooden bridge.

We suddenly rode down into Ipek, passing the old orange-towered monastery, its outer walls half-buried, holding back the landslides. Ramases, who had suddenly adopted a different attitude, swung his leg over the saddle—he had been sitting sideways before—and twirled his mustache upwards. Jo wanted to canter ahead, but he firmly stopped her, slapping her horse on the nose and pushing it back when she attempted to pass; it would have completely ruined his manly dignity if a woman had gone ahead of him.

Our first sight of Ipek was a skyline filled with minarets rising above the orchards; there were no houses in sight. Ramases attempted to have us stay in a nondescript building. When we asked him if that was the best hotel, he shrugged and said, "Nesnam" (don't know); so we searched for ourselves and found a blue house in the main square marked "Hotel Skodar" in big letters.

Pg 145

We walked into the courtyard of the inn. As small as it was, it looked like Ipek was plucking chickens in there. An elegant older woman approached us, clearly the owner. She had short arms, and her hair was grey at the roots but dyed with henna, which matched her eyes. A dog lover once told us never to get a dog with light-colored eyes if we wanted a loyal and loving companion, so we wondered if the same rule applied to people.

She showed us a small, dungeon-like room completely taken up by two beds. We weren't impressed; but she promised us that we would have a large, beautiful room the next day for the same price. So we booked it and headed out into the evening.

Buffaloes were sitting in pairs around the big square. They chewed their cud with an air of unmatched wisdom, so different from the reproachful misery usually seen on an ox's face. Goats came down from the hills with their hair clipped in layers, making them look like ladies in layered skirts; and kids were playing a strange game. They jumped around in circles with bent knees, making a noise like a whooping cough followed by a splutter. We saw it often later and figured it must be the equivalent of our "Ring o' Roses." Pg 146

Work was done for the day, the sun had set behind the hills that surrounded us, and we headed to a café to pass the time.

While we were swapping coffees with an "American," who was proudly showing off his homemade wooden leg, a breathless man burst in.

He had been looking for us around town. The governor had told him to take us in because his place had a reputation for being a clean house. Since we had already booked a room with the friendly old lady, we didn’t want to let her down, so we chose not to move. The man sadly hoped we weren’t upset; and we went on to explain in detail.

When we got back to the hotel, our old hostess hurried over, sweeter than ever.

"We just came up with a small change," she said.

"How come?"

"Well, do you get it? The inn is really crowded tonight, so we thought it would be best if you both shared one bed and my daughter and I take the other."

"Oh," we said, "in that case, we should probably all move together. We have anoth—"

"Really, no, no," said the old lady, shocked. "Please stay, sit down. It’s fine, just keep your beds." She patted us and left.

We had a lackluster dinner. Greasy soup, tough boiled meat that made the soup, minced boiled meat in pepper pods, and two pears that turned out to be rotten. The company, made up of officers and random people, was no better than the dinner, so we decided to eat somewhere else tomorrow.

The governor's secretary came in to set up an interview with his boss—yet another Petrovitch, who is the brother of the governor of Scutari. By this time, we had each drunk a dozen Turkish coffees throughout the day, but we still managed to sleep from nine at night until nine in the morning.

Marko Petrovitch, whom we met earlier, was the best and last Petrovitch we encountered in Montenegro. Like all the Petrovitches, he wore traditional clothing. He was handsome, shy, and friendly, and insisted that we visit Dechani, the most famous of the Balkan monasteries, and promised us a cart for the trip.

After leaving the governor, we dove straight into drama.

Pg 148

Hearing a noise, we found groups of crying women and children around the steps of a store. A young man in a French firefighter's uniform was very active, and an elderly woman in trousers rolled down the steps after getting slapped.

We thought it was a police officer arresting an old thief, but Jo, noticing blood on the woman's face, told him he was a "bad man." He stumbled, looking at her blankly. His buddies, who were also firemen, stepped forward, grinning sheepishly, and we suggested they take him away to avoid trouble. But just then, a child in balloon pants ran up to us and tugged at Jan's coat.

"Quick, the devil guy is up to more bad stuff."

We ran down the road past the village and spotted him in the distance, dancing on an old Turk's bare feet while wearing hobnailed boots, switching between this fun and throwing punches to the face. We sprinted along, and when we saw a convenient little river winding by the roadside, Jan grabbed him by the neck and the back of his pants, spun him around, and tossed him in. The guy sat there for a moment, confused, in the water, and then climbed out cursing like crazy; but as he came up, Jan knocked him back into the water again.

Men in fireman uniforms appeared from all directions, shouting—

Pg 149

"What are you doing? You can't do that. Who are you?"

"We know the governor," Jo said. The men were making gestures of respect when the troublemaker rushed out of the river, swinging a wild punch at Jan that missed.

The men tackled him, but he grabbed Jan's coat and held on tight, shouting in surprising English—

"Shake hands with your enemy." Suddenly everyone spoke English, and we wondered what kind of fairy tale we had stumbled into.

It was lunchtime, so we didn’t stick around for explanations, but rushed back to town with the crying old Turk, gave him our spare change, which seemed to ease the pain in his feet, and looked for the other hotel.

It was hidden in a charming little side street. The bar room was small, but it was really nice to sit around the small tables under the shady trees in the courtyard.

"What do you have for lunch?" we asked a sturdy-looking waiter.

"Nema Ruchak, seriously." We have no lunch. We watched everyone else enjoying their meat and soup.

"Give us what you've got."

"We have nothing, seriously."

Pg 150

"Do you have soup?"

"Yeah, for sure."

"And cheese?"

"I'm serious, seriously."

"That works for us."

He then brought macaroni soup, boiled meat, roast meat, fried potatoes, cheese, grapes, and coffee.

We never figured out why people in Montenegro feel the need to insist they have nothing. It’s similar to the Chinese tradition of mentioning a "horrible" wife and a "gross" daughter.

After lunch, we went back to our hotel and found the hostess waiting for us with her arms crossed. She wanted us to return to the "beautiful large bedroom" where we had moved that morning, which turned out to be the same size as the one below but brighter. The previous guest had checked in, and we were going to be sent back to the small room.

"That's not good," Jo said, and we outright refused to go downstairs.

"If we leave this room, we all go together."

She patted us again and asked us to consider the matter settled. We could stay in the room.

Certainly, that dog lover was right.

There was a really old monastery that we passed by as we rode into Ipek.

Pg 151

Although we care more about the people of today than about ruins from the past, these old Serbian monuments evoke such a powerful memory of a civilization that was abruptly halted at its peak that they hold an emotional significance quite distinct from that of archaeology. These small pockets of culture preserved amid a sea of Turks entice travelers with a romance that's now fading from Roman and Greek ruins.

The Ipek monastery is a stunning old site with one side of its walls partially buried. The old church, orange on the outside, is very dark on the inside but has many beautiful paintings. This is definitely a hub for Post Impressionism and Futurism. The designs at the base of the pillars are quite futuristic, even orpeistic.

The pictures are Byzantine. But the Turks have taken out the eyes, as they always do. One huge painting of a head that filled a semicircle over a door is especially impressive. Most halos are round, but the artist decided that the ears and beard deserved extra protrusions in this saint's halo, which enhanced the decorative effect.

Beautiful apple trees were scattered throughout the big garden where the winding river flowed. Ducks, geese, and turkeys wandered around, so plump that they didn’t care about the food being served to them. A boy woke up the mother of aPg 152 family of young turkeys and nudged her toward the dinner with his foot. She hurried over without meaning to and sat down for a nap with her back to the plate, looking completely indignant.

We started talking to a priest who insisted we should visit the archbishop. The Metropolitan was a cheerful guy, wearing a Montenegrin pork-pie hat tilted to one side and black riding breeches that were visible as his long robes swayed during his many hand gestures.

While we were with him, we lost the sense that we were living in the surreal times of the Rose and the Ring. He was very sophisticated, spoke excellent French, and had plenty of great stories about his life in Constantinople and other places. He had a deep fondness for the English. The last Englishman in Ipek, a royal messenger, had rushed to the monastery to escape from the Hotel Europe and its bugs. The next morning, he refused to get up. The archbishop went to his room to reason with him.

"No, no," he replied; "I spent two nights under a ceiling that rained bugs on me, and I know a good bed when I've found one."

Coffee and cigarettes came in, the best kind, and the rakia was something different from the harsh stuff we were used to.

He acknowledged its superiority. The plums were from his own estate and were processed by the monks.Pg 153 The biggest challenge was to stop him from giving us too much.

We talked about the war, and he shared many atrocities, ending with, "Of course, England has to win; but what will happen to us in the meantime?"

That evening, we had a visitor. A very tall Montenegrin in a French firefighter's uniform knocked on the door. He said his name was Nikola Pavlovitch. He had been sent by the governor to apologize for the "trouble" Jan had that morning with the drunk soldier.

"'He’s in jail now, he’s really sorry and says if you forgive him, mister, he’ll never touch rakia again, not ever. He’s a good guy really. Had too much rakia this morning, thought about the Turks and got kind of mad somehow. He doesn’t know what he did; the first thing he knows, he finds himself in the river."

Nikola Pavlovitch was, even though he wasn’t an officer, the leader of a group of miners from America. The governor had also instructed him to act as our guide for the next day, as the cart had been arranged for our trip to Dechani.

We didn't like tour guides and hesitated.

"I can talk for you," he said. But we agreed to speak Serbian.

"I know the whole country; I can tell you things: I've been here for twenty years."

Pg 154

We could tell he wanted to join us, and we noticed he had a really likeable face, strong features, and kind, straight eyes. We figured he would be a really nice companion and set up a meeting at the stable for the next day.

And so, finally, we rode in one of those odd little Serbian carts we had been so hesitant to take. It was just a few planks nailed together and held together with a wobbly railing, four wheels loosely fitted on the axles with no pins to keep them in place, and a Turkish driver with his legs hanging out—this was our ride. We managed to find some hay to use as a seat; we bought some apples on credit since the vendor said he didn’t have change for our one shilling note, and off we went.

Nikola Pavlovitch started talking almost immediately, and we were never bored. He used to be a comitaj back when Turkey controlled Macedonia and the Sanjak. He claimed that most comitaj were educated and intelligent men. When Turkish rule became harsh, and too many Christian girls were kidnapped and disappeared forever into harems, the comitaj emerged; farms were raided, small but fierce battles were fought. However, despite this constant oversight, occasional and mysterious murders were necessary to keep the excesses of the Turks in check.

Pavlovitch waved a hand toward the gloomy mountains of Albania, which were to our right.

Pg 155

"Dose Swabs don’t think about anything but killing. Just plain slaughter, Mister Jim. Now that Jakovitza [a town to the south] doesn’t mean anything but 'blood' in their language, 'lots of blood,' that’s what it means. Sure. These people don’t respect anything but killing; and when you’ve taken down about fifty other guys, you’re seen as real tough. If you wanted to travel there, for instance, you’d have to get a promise of peace, a 'Besa' they call it, from one of these tough guys, and he makes himself responsible for stopping anyone who bothers you; he can send a kid along with you, and as long as the kid's with you, nobody will touch you. That’s true, Mister Jim, you believe me. But still, they’ve set it up so that this killing business isn’t polite when there are women around, so every guy takes his wife with him to avoid getting killed right away."

Every house by the roadside was a fortress, openings only on the ground floor, windows peeking out from under the eaves and towers with gun slits on the second floor; scattered throughout were old Turkish blockhouses, sturdy and square, demonstrating how the conquerors had feared the conquered.

"One of these tough guys killed more than a hundred people. He’s a great chief. When he was sixteen, his father was sentenced to prison way out in Mitrovitza. This young tough walked into courtPg 156 the next day, killed the judge and two of the officers, and escaped into the mountains."

Nick, when he was a comitaj, had been caught by the Turks twice. The first time, he was shot in thirteen different spots at once, but some Christian women found him and he eventually recovered. The second time, the Turks almost beat him to death with fencing sticks, and even though they thought he was dying, they put him on an ox cart and sent him deeper into Turkey.

"I was really angry about that trip," he said. "I don't want to go to hell if it's like that."

They took him to the hospital and treated him well; but once he got better, they locked him up in a Turkish jail. He explained that the prison was as dark as night, because the poorer inmates blocked the windows, stretching their arms out for handouts from people passing by.

"We were all infested with lice," he continued, "and if the people hadn't sent me money and food, I would have starved to death, for sure. Then they bribed the governor and a soldier, and they let me escape."

He spent six months recovering in Montenegro, but by summer, he made his way down to the Bay of Kotor and on the hot shores of the Adriatic, set up a makeshift sweat bath. After a few weeks, he started to feel better, and after a few months, he was fully healed. Next, he headed to the mines in America, since he was too afraid to go back to Macedonia. He saved £800 and returned to his sister’s place in Serbia, but the suffering around him weighed so heavily that he gave away all his money and went back.

"Dude, there's a lot of minerals in these mountains. I’ll show you a piece that one guy found, and I think it’s silver, for sure. When the war is over, you should come back and we’ll explore those places together. There's coal too. A lot."

He told us that the miserable skeleton who was driving us had the authority in Turkish times to take the labor of Christian workers and pay them nothing.

We walked past peaceful fields with cows, horses, and donkeys. The countryside looked untouched by war. Those cows would never have pulled heavy carts or collapsed, worn out and hungry, after a long day of work. The horses reminded me of the shiny mares owned by older women who looked up to their chauffeurs.

For all of this belonged to Dechani, and the state had no power to touch their wealth; they hadn't been disturbed even during the days of Turkish rule.

"You see, the monastery pays money to the toughest Albanians—Albanians who give their word—and no one ever harms the monasteries. Russia sends a lot of money, and always sends her Pg 158 priest to Dechani, and the Turks tend to be respectful."

Our first view of Dechani was a bit disappointing; its proportions didn’t have the beauty of the Ipek church. However, the large old door, marked by the fire the Turks had set against it decades ago, lifted our spirits a bit.

A friendly priest with a smooth face and two-foot-long curls welcomed us and took us to the small Russian hospital located in the Abbey, advising us not to hit our heads on the heavy oak beams in the hallways.

The Russians welcomed us warmly, making the most amazing tea, Australian butter, and white bread made with flour brought from Russia.

Pavlovitch had a great time. There wasn’t much food in the barracks. But he was really concerned about the priest's long curls.

"I'll cure him in no time, just a month of digging the trench!" he murmured.

After tea, we looked around the church. The inside was a stunning blue: pictures with blue backgrounds, apostles draped in blue, blue skies, a marvelous lapis lazuli.

Once the Muslims had defeated the defenders of the church and gotten inside, some of the saints' eyes were taken from the plaster. However, legend has it that while they were desecratingPg 159 the tomb of Tsar Stephan, who founded the church, the tomb of the queen beside it suddenly exploded with a loud noise, frightening the Turks, who then ran away.

They showed us the queen's tomb, split from top to bottom. The priests obviously claim it's a miracle; but Pavlovitch said, "I think they're really clever, they did that with gunpowder."

The Tzar Stephan wanted to build a church of gold and precious stones, but a fortune teller said—

"No, my lord, make it out of plain stone, because your empire will be taken from you, and if it's made of gold, greedy people will rip it apart. But if it's made of plain stone, it will stand as a monument forever."

So he built it from beautiful marble. The central pillars were forty feet tall, each carved from a single piece, with bizarrely carved tops. The large screen was intricately carved and gold-plated. Everywhere you looked, there was decoration, almost to an overwhelming extent.

Ringlets invited us to tea with the Russian bishop who was in charge. He was a short, friendly little guy who shook his head sadly about the war.

Somehow, Pavlovitch found out that he and the bishop were the same age, forty-eight. We compared Pavlovitch's lean, athletic build with the bishop's rounder form and instinctively sensed who was the better Christian. Coffee and slatka were served. This slatka is always offered to visitors in well-organized Serbian homes. It consists of jam served with many small spoons and glasses of water. Each guest takes a spoonful, licks the spoon, drinks the water, and then puts their spoon in the glass. There's also an interesting custom regarding the coffee. If a guest overstays their welcome, a second cup is brought in and carefully placed in front of them—but, of course, this hint depends on how it's done. Pg 160

"It’s Friday," said Pavlovitch, sadly. "On other days, we get really good meals." He really wanted us to stay the night so we could enjoy a great breakfast, but tomorrow was the Ipek fair, and we couldn't miss it.

Night was falling, so we rushed off and drove away. The horses moved quickly, as we had treated them to some barley. We found out that since the war started, when the Montenegrin Government took them, they had only eaten hay, and the owner, who was driving them, said they would soon die, and when that happened he wouldn’t get a dime and would end up broke. He added sadly—

Pg 161

"Nobody wants to see their animals die like that because, after all, they care about them."

We arrived after dark and ordered dinner for three. The innkeeper was shocked.

"But that's just a common soldier," she said. "There are many great people in the dining room who arrived today. The General—"

So we had dinner on the landing.

The next day we woke up very early, went down to the dining room, and found it was full of sleeping people; we had coffee in our room.

We walked around the market. It was still too early; people were arriving and setting up their goods, while men were hanging colorful carpets on the white walls. Beggars were everywhere, showing off their earnings in front of them. If one could understand, they seemed to be crying out like this—

"Ere you are, the old company; invest your money wisely in the real deal. I have more misery packed into each inch than anyone else has in a whole yard."

We found it impossible to negotiate since they only spoke Albanian, and we could only get as far as "Sar," meaning how much.

Pavlovitch showed up later and was really helpful. We rushed him to a silver shop that had a round silver ornament on display. He haggled them down from sixteen to ten dinars, and then we headed into a side street filled with women sitting cross-legged behind a variety of items that a hardworking woman with sheep could make. Pg 162

"I have nothing for you," said an old woman to Jo, who looked into her basket—Pavlovitch translating.

Jo pulled out a small pair of stockings—an incredible piece of knitting with lots of colorful patterns.

"What about these?" she asked.

"Do you have kids?"

"No; but how much?" Jo asked.

The price was four piastres. Jo handed over four groschen, and the old woman anxiously examined the cash in her hand.

"It's overwhelming," she said.

Pavlovitch explained that somehow four groschen added up to more than four piastres; but we left her to figure out what fractions of a centime she had earned.

Our old innkeeper looked really aggressive when we walked in.

"Are you eating lunch here?"

"No; we left a message."

"Then you can't stay."

We pointed out that her meals were terrible and super expensive. She responded by making a scary noise and invited us to sleep at the Europe; Pg 163 but we remembered the Archbishop's story and held our ground.

"If you don't leave us alone, we'll go to the Governor."

"Go on, go to the Governor," said the old lady, pointing at her little girl, a sour-faced cleaning woman, and a little boy whom Jo had seen stealing our cigarettes. The dog joined in and barked loudly.

We went to the nearby Governor. "They don't get innkeeping around here, and she’s just an old drunk," he said, and called for her husband.

We boldly went back to Europe for lunch.

Jo had been telling Pavlovitch that she wanted to visit a harem. He came to inform us that it was all set up because the chief of police was a friend of his, and he had asked a wealthy Muslim if Jo could visit his wives. The Muslim had kindly agreed, saying he would do it as a big favor to the chief of police, and that no "European" woman had ever been to an Ipek harem.

We walked down the wide street with its bright houses, admiring the flashy colors of the women’s pants. "What a shame," we said, "that such a word as loud was invented in English."

Pg 164

Outside a massive doorway, the police chief and a wealthy Albanian were waiting. We were introduced with much formality, and the Muslim man quickly led Jo through the doorway into a courtyard. At the far end was another door watched over by a serious-looking Albanian. He stepped aside, and she entered another courtyard filled with trees and a basket-like hut. She walked through the ground floor, which was filled with grain, and went up into a beautiful room with a bench built all around it.

It was fully furnished with carpets. He gestured to the seat, called to his wives like a sportsman calls his dogs, and then left.

They walked in, three women, simply dressed in long shirts and floral cotton shorts. Their voices were quivering with excitement, and they were really anxious because Jo stood up to greet them.

They only spoke Albanian and a few words of Serbian. One had been very beautiful, but her teeth were rotten; another was a healthy-looking young woman, and the third was honestly ugly.

They brought coffee, with the main wife offering it while holding her hand across her chest—a courteous way of saying—

"I am your servant."

Pg 165

Jo spoke Serbian, and they clearly said in Albanian—

"If only we could understand what you're saying."

After that, everyone sat back, smiling, and they kept calling for someone.

A chubby girl with dark eyes walked in, the daughter of the first wife. She spoke Serbian and translated for the wives.

They wanted to know everything, but they knew so little that they could understand nothing.

Where had Jo come from? She tried London, Paris; no luck, they had never heard of them—two weeks at sea—they didn't know what the sea was, nor ships nor boats. They had never left Ipek and only knew the little curly river.

The girl said that "devoikas" didn’t learn to read and write. That was for the guys.

Jo finally explained that she had ridden on horseback from Plevlie. Then they gasped—

"Wow, you've come such a long way! What an amazing life, and does your husband allow you to talk to other guys?"

She asked them what they were up to.

"Nothing." "Sewing?" "A bit," they admitted with effortless grace.

The main wife had recently lost one of her children but didn’t seem to know how it had happened.

Pg 166

"I think a woman doctor would be helpful here," said Jo.

They laughed out loud. "That's hilarious! She would be so big!" they said, spreading their arms as wide as they could.

They kept making excuses to hold her back, but when she stood to leave for the third time, they sadly said their goodbyes. The daughter took both of her hands and gave her a loud kiss.

Outside, the healthy-looking wife stepped out of the basket hut, where she seemed to be preparing some special dish to bring up, and she looked visibly disappointed.

The serious-looking man who let her out also expressed his regrets that she hadn’t stayed longer. In the big street doorway sat her husband, but there was no Jan, no Pavlovitch, so Jo sat with him, a bit awkward, eating pieces of apple that he peeled for her.

In the afternoon, we went to say goodbye to the Archbishop and brought Pavlovitch along. The Archbishop initially gave Pavlovitch a cold welcome until he heard his name.

"Are you Nikola Pavlovitch, the one I've heard so much about from the Governor? I thought you were just a regular soldier. I'm glad to finally meet you."

We felt like we were really hanging out with the greats.

Pg 167

Jo shared her experiences in the harem, and he talked about the efforts of the young Turks in Constantinople to get rid of the veil, how he had been a part of small dinner parties where the women had removed their veils, and the intense opposition from the priests and leaders who fought against and crushed the movement.

One woman had gone into the market without a veil, and one of the lowest women had slapped her in the face. When she asked a policeman for help, she got little comfort, as he told her she should be ashamed of herself.

As we were headed home, we ran into women coming back from the fair with unsold carpets. They approached us and wanted to know why we were writing about them in the morning so they could share the details with their relatives.

When we got to our bedroom, the old innkeeper came in. She complimented our purchases in a sweet voice. We felt a bit awkward.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around Jo's neck and said, "You can't be mad at me," and stayed there explaining.

When she left, Jo looked seriously at Jan, grabbed a fine-tooth comb, let her hair down, and put in some effort for a while.

The next day we went for a long walk. As we were heading back, an intense storm hit us. We hadPg 168 left our raincoats at the inn, and we were soon soaked. We returned just in time for dinner, and since Jan didn't have any dry clothes, he decided to go to bed in his wet clothes, piling blankets and rugs over himself in hopes of being dry by morning.

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Jan woke up feeling somewhat damp at 4:30 a.m. There was no one around, and we packed our things by candlelight. The dawn was purple, and the towering cliffs behind the minarets glowed a deep pink for at least ten minutes before the light reached the town. The streets were still and empty, until finally, an old man with a coffee machine on his back and a tin belt filled with cups took a seat at a corner. By six, he was surrounded by groups of Albanian workers drinking coffee, and he waved us over to join him, but we were wary of how clean his cups were. A sad-looking woman in mourning clothes was hanging around the post office door, and beside her was a ragged girl surrounded by trunks, suitcases, and bandboxes, so we figured they were probably there to be fellow travelers. A wagon loaded with boxes stopped in front of them, but the widow refused to let her luggage go past it.

Pg 170

At last, the mail wagon arrived. It was a small, open cart without springs, with a rounded canopy so it could roll if it tipped over—which happened more often than not. There was space only for the essentials, like "soap and a toothbrush," but the widow insisted on packing all her belongings, leaving just enough room for the four of us to squeeze in. The seat was low, and my chin and knees were dangerously close together; it was hard to imagine a less comfortable way to travel thirty-five miles. The widow's bulging suitcase, full of knobs and locks, pressed against Jo's back. The frazzled maid struggled to balance five packages on her knees, which she had no control over, so we did our best to look cheerful and reminded ourselves, "Well, at least it will make for a good story."

At first, Jan was thankful for the squash because the air was cold; soon, the damp, exposed areas of his clothes got freezing cold, and it was a relief that they weren’t more widespread.

As we rolled over the bumps and dips of the once stone-paved streets, the driver stopped here to buy a big loaf of bread, there to grab some smelly cheese, and finally to pick up a gold-laced officer, who we figured was the post-guard. The driver, who sat back to back withPg 171 Jan, complained about him taking up too much space. But Jan shot back that it was his own problem for not making the carriage bigger and that his knees weren’t telescopic. We got the post for Montenegro since this was the only way out; it was just three letters and a circular, so we assumed that Montenegrin censorship was pretty tight.

The road was level, and the nearby landscape was dotted with small, scraggly oak bushes, among which countless black pigs ran around. They wore long crossbars strapped to their necks to stop them from breaking through the hedges into the few cornfields. As the miles went by, Jan gradually started to dry out, his temperature rose, and his mood improved. We found out that the widow was the widow of a Greek doctor who had died of typhus in Plevlie, and she was on her way back to her homeland.

Right now, we arrived at a small inn, a shack just like all the others, and the driver told us to get out. By this time, we were used to seeing nobles greet market women and their families, so it didn’t surprise us to see the officer hug the somewhat dirty innkeeper and kiss all the kids; but when he went behind the bar and started serving coffee!... It took us a moment to realize that he hadn’t been guarding Pg 172 the three letters and the circular, but was just coming home.

At the Montenegrin border, a soldier asked us for a ride, as if he didn’t notice that we were already overloaded with luggage. At the Serbian border, they asked Jan for his passport, and since they didn’t ask the widow for hers, we figured they thought she was Mrs. Gordon, with Jo and the ragged one as her two handmaids.

Immediately after crossing the border, the road started to feel Serbian, although it wasn’t as distinctly Serbian as it would later become. We arrived at Rudnik—and lunch—without any issues. There was another carriage similar to ours, which held a Turkish family. The father was a strong Albanian man, and the son was a young priest wearing bright pink socks. The priest was carrying food to their carriage, and we found out that there was a woman inside, hidden at the back like a widow's luggage, carefully shielded by two curtains to prevent anyone from seeing her. You can imagine her discomfort during the journey from Rudnik to Mitrovitza, especially after hearing about our own.

From Rudnik, we walked to stretch our stiff legs, and the road became so rough that the driver took a shortcut through the countryside to avoid it. Here is the receipt for building a Serbian road.

"The engineer in charge will send two hundredPg 173 bullock trains from Here to There. He will then figure out which path has had the most traffic (i.e., which has the deepest ruts), after which an Austrian surveyor will map it and label it, 'Road to There.' If the ruts get so deep that the carts are dragging on the ground instead of rolling on their wheels, an overseer must be sent to throw stones at it. He and ten people worse than him will throw rocks until they think they’ve done enough damage, then they can go home, leaving the road in an even worse state than before, because the boulders are not meant to fill the ruts but to make them more thrilling."

Oh, we walked. We really walked way more than the driver thought was polite. We got out at every uphill and pushed ourselves so we wouldn’t get stuck on the downhills. With great effort, we managed to squeeze in four hours of walking out of the exhausting thirteen. Once—when we were far ahead—we were stopped by a police officer.

"Where are your passports?" he asked.

"In the car," replied Jan.

"Why did you leave your passports in the mail car?"

"Because they were in the pocket of my coat."

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"Why did you leave your coat in the mail wagon?"

"Because it's hot."

"I have to arrest you," said the officer.

But his officer came from a nearby building and told him not to make a fool of himself, and off we went, taking shortcuts, following the telegraph poles, which stumbled across the countryside like a line of drunks.

Eventually, the carriage caught up with us, and the driver insisted we get in. He added that he couldn't waste the whole day while we walked and that he would never reach Mitrovitza like that. It felt pointless to point out that we had moved faster than he had, but to avoid an argument, we clambered in. The driver, angry, whipped his horses, and off we went, barreling over bumps and rocks at full speed. It felt like being in a small boat in a rough sea, with mini-explosions happening beneath the hull every few minutes; this road was marked on the map as a first-class road. It's hard to imagine what the second and third-class roads must be like. These regions are still primitive at heart, but Europe cries out against blatant atrocities, so they came up with the post-wagon. After all, pain can be tallied up, and the total misery caused byPage 175 the post, traveling daily, must eventually surpass that of the Spanish Inquisition. This is how they indulge their brutal instincts.

We bounced along. The brakes didn’t work, the carriage slammed against the horses' hindquarters, who then jumped forward, causing our four heads to collide with a loud thud in the middle of the wagon; afterward, Jo insisted that the widow should turn her hatpins to the other side. The widow's luggage came loose and hit us in unexpected places when we weren't paying attention. The cart rocked and swayed, and we thought it might tip over. There were other wagons on the road—heavy, slow ox carts carrying wool or bringing in gasoline or ammunition, with wheels in every shape but round—some were even octagonal; and as they moved along, they made sounds that reminded us of Montenegrin songs, a final lament from the welcoming little country we were leaving behind.

The driver assured us that a better road was ahead, but it never appeared, and we kept waiting for something to give us relief. There were suggestions, it's true, incomplete suggestions: someday people will be able to travel comfortably from Mitrovitza to Ipek, but that day hasn't come yet. It's odd how the human body gets used to things, and we started to think that our driver not only accepted but actually relished each extra bump and jolt—almost like he was collecting them—because he definitely didn’t avoid anything, although sometimes he would press the brake, but that was just for show since he knew it didn’t work.

We got to Mitrovitza at night with no broken bones and bounced down a road lined with indistinct white Turkish houses on one side and a muddy-looking stream reflecting dim lights on the other. One final jolt, we jumped over a drain and snapped a trace bar, but it was too late; we had arrived.

The Hotel Bristol was fully booked—why are there so many hotels in Serbia called Bristol?—but we were welcomed by a clueless maid at the Kossovo, and we had to sign a paper stating who we were. Then we went down to the restaurant, where we had an amazing beefsteak, and after that, it was back to bed, which turned out to be a nightmare, as we spent the entire night reliving our exhausting journey, waking up completely drained.

The first impression of a town visited by moonlight is often hard to shake off the next morning; it’s like catching a glimpse of a beautiful girl in a theater lobby, and that magic may never be recreated. This was true for Mitrovitza, which during the day appeared to be just a boring, typical Turkish town. The Prefect was grumpy and made us take a long, unnecessary walk to the station, a mile and a half away. Sitting on the road wasPage 177 the dirtiest beggar we had seen so far. As we approached her, she sang our praises, bowing and kissing the ground; but she only made us feel disgusted, and when we didn’t give her anything, she began to curse us until we were out of sight. The main imports at the station seemed to be cannons and corn; the only exports were millstones, which looked and almost tasted as good as Serbian bread. We handled our business without any issues, and on our way back, the beggar praised us again until we passed by, then shouted even louder curses after us.

We arrived at a small café where soft, tinkling music played.

Jan: "I wonder what that is?"

Jo: "That sounds weird: should we check it out?"

Jan: "I don't know, maybe they wouldn't like us."

Jo: "Come on. Let's check it out anyway."

And up we went. In a large room was a deep window seat, and in the window was the strangest little Turkish dwarf imaginable. The little dwarf was sitting cross-legged and playing a stringed instrument. His head was enormous, his back was curved like a bow, and his arm holding the pick was bent into an S shape, curving around his instrument as if it had been shaped to fit. He was a natural performer, playing little tunes and trills that made your heart dance. There were three soldiers at tables,Pg 178 and soon one jumped onto the floor and started to dance, followed by a woman; the little man's music became wild and faster; another man jumped in, another woman joined, and soon all four were stomping and dancing until the floor shook beneath them. We gave the little man a franc for his performance, and his broad face nearly split from his attempt to show silent gratitude.

We were no longer royalty; we were just boring, ordinary people, and at the station, we had to go through endless formalities, like having our passes checked, during which all passengers were kept locked in the waiting room. But finally, we were allowed to take our seats on the train, and off we went.

We crossed the Kossovo plain where ancient Serbian culture was crushed by the advance of the Turks, and where Serbia has drawn all its legends and heroes; possibly the most unromantic-looking place in all of Europe, except maybe Waterloo. Here, far to the left, was Mahmud's tomb: Mahmud the great victor, who was stabbed the day before the battle, dying as he witnessed his armies winning. History has no sharper romance. The hero Serge, accompanied by two loyal servants, rode into the Turkish camp, demanding to meet with the Muslim general, who thought he was coming as a traitor. In front of the Divan, the hero jumped off his horse, drew his sword, and stabbed Mahmud where he sat, surrounded by his armies. Before the astonished guards could recover from their shock, Serge was back on his powerful horse, charging out of the camp and cutting down anyone who tried to block his way. Mahmud did not die right away, and his doctors killed a camel and placed him inside the still-warm animal; when it had cooled, they killed another one, allowing the Muslim leader to stay alive until the Serbian forces had been defeated. He and the Serbian Czar were buried on the same field—one dead in victory, the other in defeat.Pg 179

We slowly rolled over the vast plain that changed the course of history, because who knows what could have emerged from a strong Byzantine culture? The farms featured sturdy houses with large, well-kept yards, enclosed by tall and protective walls. We arrived at stations where awkward teenagers, wearing poorly made European clothes, slouched around and stared at the girls in "this style, 14/6" dresses. Signs of culture!

Why are bowler hats, rubber collars, and bad teeth so closely tied to "Education Bills" and "Factory Acts"? Why should the Serbian farmer have to trade his beautifulPg 180 outfit for plastic cuffs, losing his artistic flair for a fake tie? This is the progress of civilization, folks, and must not be stopped.

Coming back to Serbia from Montenegro felt like going from a warm bath to a cool one. It’s impossible not to remember that the Lords of Serbia retreated to Montenegro, leaving the peasantry behind, because every peasant in the black mountains is a noble and carries themselves with nobility; meanwhile, Karageorge was just a pig farmer. There’s a warmth in Montenegro—except for Podgorica—that isn’t as obvious in Serbia; a hospitality that’s harder to come by in Serbia. The Montenegrin peasant is like a big child, looking at the diverse world with unspoiled eyes from the thirteenth century; centuries of Turkish oppression have dulled the Serb’s sharpness, and by the time the war broke out, Teutonic culture was finishing the job.

We walked under the shadow of Shar Dagh, the tallest peak on the peninsula, standing six thousand feet above the plain, rising sharply to a point for everyone to admire, a true mountain.

We arrived in Uskub at sunset, found a hotel, and went out to eat. The restaurant was empty, but through a slightly open door, we could hear music playing. The walls of the restaurant were unnecessarily decorated with food paintings thatPage 181 almost ruined our appetite; but one huge panel of a roasted pig in a Lohengrin-style chariot riding over a purple sea made us laugh.

In the beer hall, a tinkling mandolin orchestra was playing, and a woman without a voice sang a popular song—one thought of the women on the Rieka River—a tired girl in faded tights did some simple contortions between the tables and, looking bored, collected her share of pennies—we thought of the cheerful fool of Scutari. Was it worth it, we asked each other, this superficial culture we had come back to? Not bothering to answer the question, we went back to our hotel and to bed.

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Uskub has a distinct aroma. On one side, there's a charming little French town, complete with neatly arranged poplars in traditional Latin style. On the other side, there's a rundown, sprawling Turkish village that ends at a rocky hill topped by the old fortress known as the Grad.

The area around Uskub is like a massive cemetery, with small, rounded hills dotted with gravestones resembling almonds on a drunken cake. Uskub has some unusual old streets. You can unexpectedly find half-buried mosques with grass sprouting from their crumbling domes, serving as a refuge only for chickens; some abandoned baths, and in the middle of it all, its outer walls resembling a prison with prison windows—there's the old caravanserai.

We sneaked to its entrance and through a small gap saw glimpses of a charming courtyard. The gate was locked, and we asked a small shoemaker—

"Who has the key?"

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"It’s now a leather tannery," he replied, and pointed us to a shoemaker on a different street. This area was packed with shoemakers, and we searched from shop to shop for the key. It felt like playing "Hunt the slipper." Finally, we found it hidden in the second waistcoat of a careless guy wearing a fez.

How happy the merchant from back in the day must have felt when he entered the courtyard after a long journey! The courtyard was large and square, with a fountain in the center, blue pillars, and red arches. There were layers of little rooms built around it; the more expensive ones had windows, while the cheaper ones did not, and each door was marked by the smoke of a thousand fires that had burned inside. Beneath them were cubby holes for the merchants’ goods, and behind it all was a big dark stable for the animals. Once locked in the caravanserai, one was safe from thieves, revolutions, and the outside world. Lying in the doorway, as if thrown there by some gigantic ogre in a fit of anger, were two massive marble vases and two strange carved stone figures. Who made these figures? It’s a mystery—Turkey doesn’t carve. The old caravanserai no longer protects the weary traveler; it only fixes his boots because it has been transformed from a sanctuary into a shoemakers' workshop, and the leather workers of Uskub cure their hides there. So, despite its beauty, we didn’t linger long,Pg 184 as we've always found a bad smell more powerful than a beautiful view.

Why don’t towns seem tragic when their bricks exude tragedy? Why is it that industrial suffering is the only way the cries of the oppressed are allowed to take visible form and earn the respect of Realist artists? Uskub embodies the entire issue of the Balkans and Macedonia. Its brightly painted streets are filled with Serbs, Bulgarians, and Turks, each disliking the dominance of the others, with Bulgarians hating Serbs even more than Turks because Serbs are in control. It’s a puzzle for those seeking understanding how much of this hatred is about national identity and how much is political. If you were to take away these jealous, land-hungry leaders from the peasant populations, how much resentment would still exist between them? The kind of intense civilization imposed on these countries—one that has propelled one class into the twentieth century while leaving others in their primitive state—seems to always yield the worst outcomes. Nations can only stumble toward knowledge and wealth, as politics can be as harmful to the simple as "drinks" can be to the savage.

Can the problem ever be solved? Can Serbia, with half of its men gone, stand up to its jealous neighbors? The idea of creating many small states based on republican principles seems unrealistic, but it actually seems like the best option, especially if the threat from Turkey were gone. There's little doubt that Turkey, rearmed by Germany, could make another attempt to reclaim its lost territory under conditions that are very different from those during the Balkan conflict. Macedonia, Albania, and what is now European Turkey could each be self-governing under the protection of the Alliance—why not?—and Serbia could be allowed to expand northward into areas that are entirely Serbian in both nationality and sentiment.

We walked through the pottery market, where the orange clay pots were glowing in the sun, and came across an old house with an amazing ultramarine courtyard that drew us in to take a look. Above the door, it read Old Serb Café Jansie Han. After we sketched there, we went into the inn for coffee and sat at tables made of thick slabs of marble, smooth only on the surface. The innkeeper mentioned it was built during the reign of Czar Duchan. If that were true, you'd think the place had never been painted since then. But there was a cozy feeling about it, and we returned several times after. Nearby, there was a small church with a beautiful carved screen and a painting of Elijah ascending to heavenPg 186 in a chariot pulled by a pink horse, with the driver bumping along on a separate cloud that served as the box. We watched the sunset from one of the lopsided hills, sitting on a gravestone next to an old Turkish shepherd, who seemed to find great comfort in our company.

The surrounding mountains mirrored the pink hues of the sun in large, flat shapes.

The muezzin called from the numerous minarets, and dusk was upon us. Uskub, romantic, dirty, and unhealthy Uskub, was soon covered in fog; a sight of unusual beauty.

One thought of the terrible winter it had gone through, when dead and dying were scattered throughout the streets. Typhus, relapsing fever, and typhoid had taken hold of the town. Lady Paget's team, while dealing with the crisis, had suffered greatly, as their hospital was located in the unhealthy part of the city. For a while, an English unit controlled the citadel. Before they arrived, it was a Serbian hospital, and the staff discarded all the dirty, stained dressings over the cliff, where they tumbled down to the road. The peasants would collect these contaminated scraps and turn them into padded quilts. It’s no surprise that illness spread! In the summer, Lady Paget's hospital moved to a large barracks on the hill. ThePage 187 pathways were made of Turkish tombstones, which were commonly used in Uskub for road construction.

The hospital staff was heartbroken by the recent passing of Mr. Chichester, who, like us, had just returned from a trip in the western mountains, where he contracted paratyphoid and lived only a few days.

One of the doctors had been in Albania on a vaccination mission. In Durazzo, he was welcomed by Essad Pacha, who was thrilled to hear him play the piano and to see the hammers working inside. Like Helen's children, "he wanted to see the wheels go round." The piano and stacks of sheet music must have been a reminder of the Prince and Princess of Wied and their unfortunate efforts at being Mpret and Mpretess—or is it Mpretitza or Mpretina? The music still had her name on it and was definitely not a gift for Essad.

The English influence was evident in Uskub. Prices were steep. One Turk tried to sell us a cheap silver piece for fifteen dinars, and Jan chuckled, saying it was clear the English had left their mark. Unfazed, the man pointed to a similar item, claiming he would sell that one for five dinars.

What made us feel like we had wandered enough? Was it the terrible movie that took us through an hour and a half ofPg 188 melodrama without us understanding the plot, or was it that the big copper tray we bought made us feel responsible?

At this uncertain moment, Lady Paget held a staff meeting. We had lunch there, and some of the truth came out after the meeting.

The Bulgars were definitely coming for us, and in a day or two, we would see what happened.

That settled it. We went to the prefect's office to get our pass. First, we were led into a room with a man in khaki, who had an accent that gave away his American roots. He was involved in something sanitary and worked for the American commission, so we tried again. This time, the porter took us to a landing, exchanged a few words at a doorway, and left us standing there. While he was lingering nearby, Jo decided to try one of her two tricks: she exclaimed the word "Ridiculous" with enthusiasm, which is sure to shock a foreigner. The other trick is a classic. If someone is bothering you, just look at their shoes with a pained look. They’ll quickly take off—shoes and all.

The talisman worked, the pass was handled quickly, and we just had to spend our time in the shops again. We resisted the temptations of an old man with fifty knives strapped to his belt,Pg 189 who reminded Jo of a terrifying nightmare from her childhood.

In her dream, a grandfather with a basket showed up selling things. Suddenly, when his coat blew open, it revealed not a body, but a working sewing machine in great condition. In her panic, Jo fell out of bed.

We sat drinking beer outside a café decorated with pink-flowering bushes in green boxes. One of the old ladies who cook sausages in the shade of the cafés brought us a plate each—quirky little hard things—and we bought cakes and nougat from passing Peter Piemen.

The station platform felt like the final act of a show. Everyone we encountered on our travels hurried over and shook our hands.

First, a Belgian doctor from Dr. Lilias Hamilton's unit in Podgoritza told us that Mrs. G. was also in town and that the others would be arriving shortly. Then we ran into a young staff officer from Uzhitze, known for his bravery. The train arrived, and we stumbled toward it in the dark. There was a crowd of women struggling with heavy bags at the steps. Jan rushed forward to help one of them. She turned around, and it was a sister from Dechani. The rest of the group turned around as well. It was the entire Russian mission from Dechani.Page 190

We walked down the hallway and bumped into two men. We both started to apologize.

"Hey," we said, "how did you get here?" They were two Americans we had met in Salonika.

We took our seats and exited the train through the other door. As we walked past the compartment, we saw a familiar face. It was the little French courier.

"Which country," he said, jumping up. "And what about the Bulgarians?"

"OMG," said Jan. "Let's step outside and get some fresh air."

The only people missing to finish the scene were the Sirdar and Dr. Clemow.

A doctor who had just arrived from Salonika asked us to take care of four English orderlies who, new to the country, were heading to the Red Cross mission at Vrntze. With them were two neat, short-skirted, heavy-booted Belgian nurses who were going to a Serbian field hospital.

The train moved slowly. Sometimes it was necessary to hold our breath to see if we were actually moving. It was always possible that the BulgariansPg 191 had blown up a bridge or something. One could picture a worried driver, his eyes focused on the tracks ahead, watching out for Bulgarian bandits.

The travelers were restless. Our little French courier stood in the corridor, staring intently at the dark night; his posture clearly expressing his thoughts about the Balkans.

Later, we all fell asleep. A terrifying braying noise woke us up.

No, not Bulgars—just the band. Same band, same station, same time, same terrible incompetence.

So the princess had nothing to do with it!

Trainloads filled with ragged soldiers passed us—open trucks packed with them, the tops of carriages covered with sleeping men, some were hanging onto the steps and the buffers.

Nish station had lost its quiet vibe. Everyone was bustling around, doing everything all wrong. The four orderlies and the two Belgian nurses didn’t have their passports. Someone had taken them. They were eventually found in the station-master's office, and since the group didn’t know where to go, we suggested they join us at the rest-house.

The first person we met there was Dr. Clemow.

"Do you have the Sirdar with you?" we asked.

Pg 192

He said that he had brought Paul, the young Montenegrin interpreter, with him. The English troops in Montenegro had been called back, and he had come to Nish to try to cancel the order for his unit.

The town was at its liveliest. The clouds hadn't yet cast a shadow over the market. Peasants poured in, unaware of the Bulgars, not realizing that in just a few weeks they would be fleeing, starving, and dying. A Chinese vendor of paper trinkets had come to town, and all the pretty girls were wearing his silly items pinned to their headscarves. One girl was so beautiful and adorned that we took her picture, much to the delight of her boyfriend, who stepped aside to give us a good view.

A man was selling honey in the comb, accompanied by his bees, which must have followed him for miles. They showed their discontent with his selling their honey by stinging him and most of the buyers.

No one seemed to know when the train was leaving. The station master and the porters all had different stories. In the end, we decided to take a chance on seven o'clock in the evening, and the four orderlies and us, copper tray and all, said goodbye to the Belgian sisters, who had cut off their hair, and walked over to the station. The train arrived two hoursPg 193 late and stood ready to depart, guarded by scruffy people with guns.

"You can't go in yet," one of them said, blocking our path.

"Why?"

"Don't know."

The instinct to be free-spirited kicked in; we waited for our chance, slipped between two soldiers, and got comfy. A few officials glanced our way but said nothing; another one showed up and told us we couldn't stay there, then moved on. An old woman came with a broom and cleaned up. We sat on our feet to stay out of the way, someone sprayed white disinfectant on the floor, and we were left alone.

The train left at eleven, rolled up to a siding, and sat there until four. We discovered that the four Red Cross workers had only nine shillings among them. Three of them had stood the entire journey from Salonika because, during a moment of interest in the scenery, their seats had been taken by a large Serbian officer, his wife, and daughter. The fourth, a porter from Folkestone, had made himself comfortable on the floor, saying he "wasn’t going to concern himself with any views."

They had new uniforms, yellow raincoats, white duffel bags, and amazing cooking gear,Pg 194 which could be taken apart and used for a thousand different things.

In the chilly morning, we arrived at Stalatch, just too late for the Vrntze train. Fortunately, the station café was open.

The four Englishmen ordered beefsteak but got long, lean, tasteless sausages instead. They asked for tea and were served black Turkish coffee in tiny cups half-filled with grounds. We inquired about the trains and were told we should take the one the next day. We argued and managed to get the promise of a luggage train that would be passing by soon.

Why is it that in Serbia they always say, "You can't," as a rule, but then under pressure they admit, "Somehow you can"? In Montenegro, they say, "Certainly you can," but then sometimes they discover that "Somehow you can't."

At last, the luggage train arrived. We sat on the step, swinging our legs and looking down at the countryside below us.

We were once again delayed at Krusevatz and confronted the officials. They assured us that they would arrange a special carriage for us when the next luggage train arrived, sometime that evening.

Nothing to do but grab lunch and kill some time. We watched the mountain batteries go by on their way to the Bulgarian border. One or two largePg 195 cannons were being pulled by oxen. Many of the horses looked miserable and half-starved.

The Englishmen set up a campfire by the railroad. Soon, tea was brewing; we drank it and snacked on walnuts, watched by groups of patient Serbian soldiers.

We traveled with the district treasurer, a charming guy who loved sharing stories about his mischievous childhood at a Jesuit school. The priests had stuck by him until he mixed red paint with the holy water, leading one of the priests to see his entire congregation marked on the forehead with damning crosses, just like criminals of old. That was the end of his school days. He introduced us to an officer tasked with hunting for spies, a restless man who was always checking under the seats with his feet. Maybe it was just cramp! The four Englishmen, excited that their long journey was almost over, broke into song. The Serbs gathered around, listening to melodies that were so different from their own sad tunes, and soon asked us to translate. We weren't sure if the nuances of "Didn't want to do it," or "The little gray home in the west," came through in the translations, as they looked confused.

Pg 196

Arriving at Vrntze, we found no carriages waiting for us. The station-master in Krusevatz had promised to make a call, but, as usual, he hadn't. We had to break the news to our English friends, who had naturally become tired and down after their songs, and tell them that we had a three-kilometer walk ahead of us. One of us should stay behind to watch the bags. Carriages were called for, but they would take a while to arrive.

They were! We got to the village—no carriages. We were restless. The spy searcher came out of the café—where he and the "Bad Boy's Diary" guy had arrived—and made people run around. They said the carriages had already left. We disagreed, so they called the coachman awake.

We took the three men to the hospital and went back to sit in the café with our new friends and met many old ones. The local pharmacy cheered and promised us a gift of waterproof fabric to celebrate our return. We had spent Easter morning in his shop eating chocolate eggs and drinking tea spiked with brandy, while the choir came in and sang lovely Easter songs to us.

An hour passed, the café closed, and our friends vanished. We went to meet the carriages from the station; finally, they arrived, with Mr. Owen half asleep among the bags.

Pg 197

It was late at night when we got to the hospital, weighed down by our two bags and the copper tray.

The night nurse, a kitten, and a fluffy little puppy greeted us.

Pg 198

Hospital work again. It felt so odd. A sad-faced little Serbian woman, widowed by typhus, was interpreting for the out-patients while Jo was away; but she was all alone in the world and didn’t want to leave—so Jo, missing her beloved out-patients, had to make the best of it and take on other tasks. The Serbian young man who had been added to the staff as secretary was seriously ill with typhoid fever, which he had caught in Kragujevatz. The typhus barrack was a children's hospital, housing little orphans selected from the out-patients, along with a few women.

In the early days when we first arrived in Vrntze, there were several overcrowded Serbian hospitals and one Greek hospital. They were just cafés and large villas, unsanitary, stuffy, and overwhelmed. The windows were always closed, and through the huge sheets of glass, you could dimly see a jumbled crowd of beds in the thick blue tobacco smoke. Often, two men shared one bed, covered with their dirty greatcoats, while typhus patients and wounded men slept side by side. One man lay unconscious for several days in the window, his feet stuck in his dinner plate. Eventually, he died, with his feet still in the food. Mr. Berry took over a hydropathic facility that had been completed just before the first Balkan War. This became the central hospital, where the staff stayed and the most serious surgical cases were treated. In the basement, an operating room was set up, along with bathrooms, disinfecting rooms, a laundry, and an engine room, where flimsy German machinery intermittently provided us with electric light and hot water. The village school on the hill opposite was cleaned up and turned into a convalescent home by a sculptor, a singer, a painter, and a judge from the Royal Horse Show. This led to many muddy sit-downs since it was located at the top of a slippery hill.

Other large buildings were gradually added, treated with sulfur, and cleaned until we had six hospitals, one of which operated for a while in partnership with the Red Cross unit.

Typhus hadn't hit the village hard, but the old barracks were filled with cases that emerged several days after each group of wounded arrived.

The Red Cross unit tackled the typhus barracks.Page 200 Mr. Berry, noticing that surgery was a lower priority for now, and having received a group of Austrian prisoners affected by typhus, constructed some barracks not far from the school. Since glass was unavailable, they used thin muslin for the windows.

The first step Mr. Berry took to avoid bad air when setting up his main surgical ward was to break all the top panes of the windows with a broom, earning him the nickname the Window Breaker. Whenever the wind blew through the chilly corridors and glass rattled down from the frames, people would say, “Mr. Berry is at it again.”

Our unit and the Red Cross operated a quarantine hospital together. It used to be the state café and was located in the park of the resort. Nearby were the sulfur baths. We removed the cramped little wooden dressing rooms, much to the delight of the bath attendant, who had a striking resemblance to Tolstoy, and with the leftover materials, we built a large shed outside to accommodate the wounded.

In the early days, they arrived in large groups from other hospitals, sad septic cases whose lives were devastated due to lack of proper care. We placed their clothes in bags for future disinfection, and the men, somewhat confused, were bathed, shaved, and sent to what we called the "clearing-house."Page 201 Those who developed typhus went to the barracks, while the others were assigned to the different hospitals in the village.

The clothes were first treated with sulfur to get rid of the lice, and then, before Dr. Boyle's disinfector was available, boiled. This was crucial because typhus spreads through infected lice. Even after forty-eight hours of sulfur treatment, the nits weren’t eliminated. One day, the sulfur room was opened after just twenty-four hours. Live lice were found gathered around the tops of the bags. Jan put some in a bottle. They immediately fought each other fiercely, rolling and scrambling together like a rugby scrum, and kept fighting for at least twelve hours, proving that the scientific writer who claims that the louse is a fragile creature and only lives a few hours off a host doesn’t know much about the Serbian variety.

The town, when we got there, was filled with a mix of unpleasant smells, which the authorities seemed to take pride in. We cleaned up the streets by running a small artificial river down the gutter. Mr. Berry had the police chief fired and set up a sort of sanitation watchdog committee. We took control of the local, very outdated sewage system—a field where all the town's waste was channeled.

The slaughterhouse was found. It was an old wooden shed built at the lower end of the stream that flowed through the village, draining the typhus barracks, the baths, and all the hospitals along the way. The shed itself was old and filled with pests. The walls were layered with years of blood, yet the meat was always hung against them after being rinsed in the dirty water. Mr. Berry decided to build a new one: some of the money was raised through Mr. Blease by the Liverpool Liberal Club; the rest Mr. Berry paid himself. Right away, the state started to argue with the local government about who owned the proposed facility. So the smells went away, and the town engineer was furious, saying he would "make everything right" when we left.

Luckily, one of the main leaders in the town had lived in America and understood the importance of cleanliness. Mr. Berry was offered an honorary Colonel title, but he declined, saying he would rather be appointed as the sanitation officer for the town.

Spring arrived without any fighting. A major offensive was expected and had even been ordered, but we later heard that the army refused to move forward. The workload became much lighter. Very few men were completely helpless. The hospitals, which were still clearing out and whose patients were coming to us, sent only the fittest. Most of the beds were brought outside underPage 203 the trees after the morning dressings were done, and the men lounged around gossiping and smoking when they could get tobacco. Outside visitors were uncommon. Serbian ladies don't usually visit hospitals with cigarettes and sweets, and it's unusual to find a Serbian woman working as a nurse.

The report states that many jumped into it with enthusiasm during the first Balkan War, but after four years, which ended with typhus, their excitement had faded. It's not right to blame them. Nursing from morning until night in a foul Serbian hospital with all the windows shut takes more than dedication and absolute disregard for life. Three Serbian women came every afternoon to sew pillowcases and sheets, and one of them dedicated even more time to teach the patients reading and writing.

But the town was bustling in the summer with well-dressed women, and the village priest never once came to our hospitals. When they heard about the English missions and their efforts, peasants started coming down from the mountains, and under Dr. Helen Boyle, the out-patient department became a busy place in the mornings.

Many of these unfortunate people had never seen a doctor in their lives. Serbia, even in peacetime, hadn't produced many medical professionals, and those who were available didn't have the time to care for the poor for free.

Pg 204

The percentage of people with the illness was huge. Every family closes their windows and doors for the winter and diligently spits, causing the disease to spread.

Diphtheria patients often rode and walked for ten hours while waiting in the courtyard, and those severely affected by typhus staggered along in the scorching spring sun.

One cheerful old man with typhus arrived in the afternoon with a high fever, and Jo made him comfortable in the courtyard with his head resting on a sink until Mrs. Berry came in to help take him into the barracks. He seemed pretty content, but very concerned about his blind beggar brother and his two half-blind children, whose vision had been damaged by smallpox.

For the latter, nothing could be done.

Another time she made two boys wait to see if Mrs. Berry could take them into her typhus barracks. One had scarlet fever, and the other was a young, starving clerk with advanced tuberculosis, thirty-six hours away from home.

Afraid to get their hopes up and unsure if there would be space for them, Jo told them they were going to have some really strong medicine that could only be given two hours after a dose of hot milk and biscuits (the medicine was just Page 205 bovril). By this point, Mrs. Berry showed up and managed to fit the boys in.

However, we were instructed to clear the hospitals, as the wounded were expected.

"What could be done with the scarlet fever boy?" Finally, an idea struck: "The Mortuary," created by the Horse Show Judge with such pride. The mortuary that we had all visited to appreciate as a piece of art.

But the scarlet fever boy didn’t seem to see it that way, because he escaped during the night, and we’ve never seen him since.

Diphtheria was so widespread that when the Red Cross received a patient, they brought in the entire family for a few days, giving them vaccinations, cleaning them up, and having them gargle. They also visited the nearby villages, identifying and treating typhus and other contagious cases, effectively stopping the spread of infection. Their most dedicated matron, Miss Caldwell, had already cared for patients in Cettinje during the Balkan Wars, and we’ve mentioned how she managed the Montenegrins.

Often, the patients arrived in ox-drawn carts. Too sick to be lifted out, they had to be examined and treated in the carts. Dr. Boyle became quite agile at jumping in and out of these vehicles equipped with a stethoscope, spoons, bowls, and bandages. We built up a group of "regulars" who came in daily for treatment—foul feet, infected glands, eczema, and so on.

Pg 206

One elderly woman with a bad leg was wrapped up with boracic ointment and told to come back in two days. She returned. Jo unwrapped the bandage. All the old lady's fleas had swarmed to the boracic, making it look like flypaper. After that, we used Vermigeli.

All wore brightly woven belts, sometimes two or three, each about a yard and a half long, tightly wrapped around their bodies, making their waists wider than their hips. One girl had bruises from the pattern showing on her skin, and many men were struggling with the issues caused by tight lacing.

The village priest collected belts as payment from the peasants when he married them. He sent us a message letting us know he had some for sale, so we all went to his house together. His daughter, who looked like a cowgirl, welcomed us, showed us a basket full of belts, and we bought a lot. After that, he raised the price.

Jo went on night shift for the first time.

A strange experience this, starting work at 7:30 PM and finishing at 7 AM—having breakfast while others are having dinner; hearing their happy laughter as they head off to bed; then facing a weird loneliness and the annoying ticking of a clock. One tiptoes around the large ward. Breathing is such a noisy thing.Pg 207 Someone groans, "Nurse, I can’t sleep." This man hasn't been prescribed morphine. Silence is broken again only by the sound of breathing, distant dog howls from the darkness, or the hoot of an owl. The old frostbite patient coughs; he coughs again persistently. Both ask for hot milk. So off to the big kitchen, some mice scurry away, and the puppy wakes up thinking it’s time to play. A woman calls out loudly, "Nurse." After grabbing the milk, the nurse hurriedly crosses the courtyard and along the corridor to the small rooms with the puppy tugging at her skirt. The woman wants water; she’s woken the other women—they want water. When silence returns to the ward, one instinctively notices the bright colors of the two big blue windows at the far end, the long rows of beds fading into the darkness, the dim light of the lantern on the table illuminating the cheap clock and a few flowers. The intensity of light on this clock is only matched by the intensity of one's thoughts on the clock. The minute hand drags on as if it's tired from the day's work. A groan marks the quarters and calls for water or milk mark the half hours. At last, it’s one o'clock. Time for a midnight meal. Eggs and cocoa are quickly eaten without much appetite in the kitchen, but it breaks the monotony. Back to the ward again, one ofPg 208 the patients is very restless, in great pain. Poor guy, he has had a long and difficult time, fifteen months in bed all because of early neglect.

".sister," he says, ".sister," and holds out a handkerchief full of coins. "Tell the doctor to take me down to the operating room and either fix me or don't let me wake up."

Between four and five, there's more activity in the ward. Groans turn into yawns. The blue in the windows fades to grey. Roosters are crowing now nearby, then faintly, like an echo. Suddenly, the world is busy with tasks: washing, brushing, combing, cleaning, taking temperatures, serving breakfast, giving out medicines, making some beds, and preparing reports—all fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle—until finally the day nurses arrive to take over. While yawning at the daylight, one eats reheated dinner while the others have breakfast.

After being away for seven weeks, it was natural to miss many old friends in the ward. Some had gone home, while others had returned to the army. Old Number 13, the king of the ward, was still around. He had a dark brown face and white hair, and he got furious if anyone dared to call him a gypsy.

"I’m a decent farmer," he said, "and I own seventeen pigs, a horse, five sheep, a wife, and two kids."

He loved to talk about his wedding. It was heldPg 209 in the traditional Serbian style. He went with his mother and a gun to the bride's house, where she was waiting alone, her parents carefully staying out of sight. They took the woman away, and she was treated with great respect as a guest in her future father-in-law's home.

"Father" showed up the next morning. Rakia was served, and dad formally shared how many pigs he could give them for taking care of his daughter.

Number 13 wanted to know everything: how old Jo was, how much she got paid?

"What, you don't get paid?" he said in shock. "Then the English are amazing! In Serbia, our women wouldn't do that."

Poor little John Willie still left a blank, even though he had died long before. His name wasn’t John Willie, but it sounded pretty close, so we just called him John Willie. He loved the name and told his dad about it.

They sat together all afternoon, holding hands and occasionally saying, "Dgonn Oolie," while laughing.

Jan once brought back some terrible sun hats from a spring visit to Kragujevatz.

They were the discarded quirks of fashion from six years ago and had made their way from the Rue de la Paix to this little Serbian shop that was selling them as actual clothing. JoPg 210 tried them on, and one of the nurses laughed so hard that she fell all the way downstairs.

Finding them too impossible to deal with, Jo handed them over to the ward, where they were eagerly grabbed up.

The ugliest was a huge sailor hat, the crown almost as wide as the brim, but the opening for the head would have fit a doll. Still, John Willie loved that hat and was always seen, a small, round-backed figure, slowly wandering in a long blue dressing gown, blue fuzzy boots, and the gigantic hat sitting on top of his sadly drooping head.

One day, poor little John Willie became really sick. His parents came and sat there silently staring at him for two nights while he struggled to breathe. His friend the Velika Dete (big child), who used to be a fierce comitaj, was moved away from the "Malo Dete" to make more space, and he pouted while the Austrian prisoner orderlies ran back and forth with water for his forehead, milk, and everything that a poor dying boy might need. Old Number 13 wandered around shaking his head, as he had been in the hospital a long time and had seen many people die.

A man with bent knees (he mentioned that he had been scrunching them up all winter in the cold) was placed in JohnPg 211 Willie's spot. The Velika Dete returned, but he refused to talk to "Bent Knees" for weeks.

By now, the Austrian prisoners were highly skilled and served as excellent orderlies in the ward. A former waiter from the Carlton was very adept at maneuvering down the ward: a tray balanced high on his outstretched fingers, filled with dressing bowls and pots packed with forceps, scissors, and various other tools.

His main skill was sprinkling iodoform powder on frostbitten toes—a reminder of the sugar shaker.

Our housemaid was a leather tanner, whom Jo's baby magpie thought was its parent, as he fed it at times every morning. A Czech in typhus clothing spent his days down in the disinfecting, operating rooms, and bathrooms. He had been a supervisor in a factory and earned extra money by writing love stories for the newspapers. A butcher worked in the kitchens. Once a week, he turned into an artist, slaughtering a sheep according to the best Prague standards.

All our prisoners, around forty in total, relied on the English hospitals as their only chance of survival, because in other places, sixty percent had died from typhus.

The Serbs, while not holding any grudges, were unable to do much for them. We saw the living quarters of somePg 212 men working on the road. These were designated quarters and meant to be clean. Each room had an outside door. There was space for six men on the floor and just enough hay to fill one pillow. They had no rugs, and the Serbs couldn't provide any. The winter cold must have been severe.

We had returned to this small world after wandering for seven weeks, and almost immediately Jan had left for Kragujevatz with a broken motor.

While he was away, Jo received letters from England and Paris that made her realize things were quite chaotic, and we needed to go home. We had left England planning to stay in Serbia for three months, but it had nearly been nine.

Pg 213

October 2. Got a message from Kragujevatz saying that the engine cover is ready and that we need to go pick it up for installation. We cleaned and oiled the car, and at two, we drove it down the hill, but it wouldn’t start. Discovered two spark plugs were cracked and the magneto was really weak. By the time we got it all sorted, it was too late. Four a.m. tomorrow morning.

October 3. We started in the dark—Mr. Berry, Sister Hammond, Sava, I, and a female relative of some minister who wanted to go to Kralievo. The motor was acting up because it's hard to get the right spare parts. Three young owls were sitting in the middle of the road, startled by our headlights; we hit one, and the other two flew away. Sava and I stopped and worked on the old car for about an hour, changing all the spark plugs again, after which it ran better. We reached Kralievo without any problems, where we dropped off the female relative. From Kralievo, we crossed the Morava, which was prettyPg 214 flood-prone and had washed out the road a bit. The road went straight through the Shumadia region, where the first uprisings of the Serbian people against their Turkish oppressors began. We passed the old Serbian cemetery. I never pass by without going in. These quirky old tombstones, all painted in an era when pure decoration had a religious significance, along with these tattered red, white, and black banners, give such a lively feel to death; the swords, pistols, and medals carved into the stones seem almost to proclaim their glory to heaven. On one side of each tombstone is the name of the deceased, preceded by the inscription, "Here lies the slave of God." Do slaves love their masters?

When we passed this road in the winter, black funeral flags hung from almost every hut, and even now the rags still flap in the breeze. A Serbian boy, dressed in dirty cotton clothes, shouted at us, waving his arms. We slowed down and stopped.

"Bombe," he shouted. "Airplane. Pet," he held up five fingers, "and one got shot down. Look at the shrapnel."

He pointed. We saw a peaceful early autumn landscape, the blue sky lightly dotted with thin horizontal streaks of clouds. No scene could have been imagined as less warlike.

"See over there," he shouted again.

Straining our eyes, we could barely see, betweenPage 215 the lowest layer of clouds, a group of small, round white clouds drifting.

"Shrapnel," Sava said, pointing.

"They hit one," Mr. Berry said.

I let off the clutch, and we sped off again. Bang! A tire popped.

Motor driving in Serbia isn't just a job; it's a form of art. We were on yet another of these top-notch Serbian roads. Soon, we reached a long downhill stretch.

"That's the spot," Mr. Berry told Sister Hammond, "where we spent the night last winter when the car got stuck in the mud. Right there, under that tree."

We made our way down the hill and soon found ourselves in the gypsy surroundings of Kragujevatz.

A man stopped us and raised a hand.

"Bomb," he said.

We got out. In the soft ground next to the road was a clean hole, about four inches wide. Looking down, we could see the steel handle of the unexploded bomb. Next, we walked past a broken fence, and in the garden behind it, a crowd was searching for remnants. They said an elderly woman had been killed. We turned onto the main street and joined a large crowd. The pavement had been ripped up, and people were digging in thePage 216 mud; pieces of burnt wood were being passed around.

"That's a piece of the propeller," said one. "No; it's a part of the frame," said another. A girl proudly held up a large piece of a map that was charred around the edges.

"And what about the men?" we asked.

"Nemachke (Germans)," the crowd responded; "both dead; one here, one over there," pointing to the middle of the road.

We arrived at the Stobarts' camp, set up on the hill behind the Kragujevatz amusement park.

"Did you see the airplanes?" they shouted, rushing towards us.

"No," we replied; "but we saw the shrapnel."

"One got hit—it was amazing. They were flying right over here, and a shrapnel explosion happened really close by; then we saw a thin stream of smoke coming from the plane; then a small flicker. It looked like it was falling so slowly. Then it erupted into flames and came crashing down like a giant comet."

"Damn!" we said, "if only that machine had been working properly yesterday."

We drove our car down to the arsenal, and I left Sava to take it apart and get it opened up, since there had been a slight knock in the crankcase. The wreckage of the smashed airplane was piled upPg 217 in the yard, and the way it had crumpled without breaking showed how well-made the machinery was. Some of the French experts insisted that the guns hadn't hit it, arguing that one of its own bombs had exploded. But one of the engineers reached into a large hole beneath the crankcase and pulled out a piece of shrapnel. I thought that would settle the debate, but the Frenchmen remained unconvinced. They claimed the shells were exploding fifty meters too low. Fifteen bombs had fallen around the arsenal, and one man, a non-commissioned officer, had been killed.

Met Hardinge and Mawson: they both saw the airplane crash, and were not fifty yards from where it landed.

Walked back to the Stobarts' camp for lunch. A French plane had come over from Belgrade too late; now it was rising slowly into the air and took off. Saw the two dead pilots; both had clearly been killed instantly, as they were charred, not blistered.

Colonel Phillips, former Governor of Scutari and British military attaché, met up with the Italian attaché. A bomb had just dropped right before the colonel's house, barely missing his servant. The Italian was in a room across from the Crown Prince's palace; he thought the falling machine was going to smash through the roof, but it landed in the street less than ten yards away. The camp was in a rush to pack up, as Mrs. Stobart had just decided to set up a "flying field ambulance."

Mr. Berry and I were assigned a tent.

October 4th. I woke up to a sound that was like someone hitting a board with a mallet. I ran outside and spotted the airplane through little clouds of shrapnel; it was flying really high and looked like a tiny speck. Smoke was rolling in from one part of the town, and we thought a big fire was starting, but it was put out. Another airplane came later. The guns started firing long before it was visible. It dropped two bombs over the powder factory and two in the town. Mrs. Stobart ordered everyone to leave the camp, but no one moved except for the patients, who were taken a mile away and left in a woods. A long line of townspeople kept running past, escaping the danger. The airplane dropped two more bombs in the town and flew right over the camp. It felt strange staring up at the plane, wondering if another bomb might be silently falling toward us.

I went down to the arsenal to check on the car, while Mr. Berry and Miss Hammond headed off to look at the anti-aircraft guns. Mrs. Stobart had asked me to go out on the Rudnik road to check on a car that had broken down and promised to send a driver to pick me up. Before we could leave, we heard that another airplane was being reported. Soon, we could hear the guns starting up. Hardinge showed up, and we kept an eye out for the plane. We saw the airplane heading straight for us; everyone rushed to the cellars, but I wanted to stay outside for as long as I could. Hardinge was with me. Suddenly, I lost sight of the plane. I ran farther out to look for it, and then there was a loud bang, followed by a huge column of smoke just outside the arsenal. There was another explosion behind the rifle shops and another one behind the boiler sheds. Now the airplane was right overhead. I heard a sound like tearing silk and dropped flat on the ground, shouting to Hardinge—

"Lie flat, damn you!"

It felt like ages before it exploded. Dust and debris flew all over the place; the windows all shattered and flew into the yard. I searched for Hardinge, but he was fine. I thought I would be scared, but I was so worried about Hardinge that I didn't have time to think about myself.

We heard a high-pitched cry, "Oh—h! oh—h!"

I rushed ahead, shouting to Hardinge, "A man’s hurt!" He replied, "Is he?" The dust wasPage 220 so thick that I couldn't see at first, but as it settled, I discovered a worker lying on his back and elbows, his knees pulled up as if he were tied up; his head was swaying back and forth, and he was letting out gasping cries. I asked him, "Where? Where?" and he put a hand on his stomach.

The man had been hit right below the ribs by a large piece of shrapnel, and blood was oozing from the wound, so I pressed his shirt into it and ran back to the office. Mrs. Stobart's car had been brought by a woman and a young guy named Boon, who both had taken cover in the cellar; so I dug up the girl, whose name I can’t remember, hoping she knew "first aid." Together we rushed back to the man, leaving Boon to call for the ambulance. "We need bandages," we shouted. "We don’t have any," replied the few Serbs who had gathered around; "the first aid station has been destroyed." We stuffed our handkerchiefs into the wound, along with a cotton-wool arm pad that was brought, then we removed the man's own puttees and used them to bandage him. While we were doing this, someone shouted—

"Planes returning."

Immediately, every Serb and Austrian ran away. The girl, Hardinge, and I were left alone. It was a false alarm. As the crowd came back, a large man appeared, who was crying.

"Oh, my poor brother! Oh, my poor brother!Page 221 What have they done to you? Why has this terrible thing happened to you?"

As we finished tying him up, Hardinge said, "Is lying down any good?"

I replied, "If this poor guy had been lying down, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt."

There was no stretcher, so we lifted the wounded man onto a blanket and into the ambulance that Boon had just brought. The girl and her brother climbed in. I took the driver's seat. Boon revved the engine and positioned himself next to me. Driving was a tough decision. Should I speed to the hospital, or drive slowly to minimize the wounded man’s pain? The road was terrible: it used to have stone pavement, but many of the stones were missing, and it was in such bad shape that although several bombs had fallen on the streets, you couldn't tell the bomb craters from the regular potholes. Finally, I decided that since it wasn't a fracture, I would go as fast as I could. Above the noise of the engine, I could hear the brother crying and the wounded man intermittently begging, "Water, water."

"I think he's leaving," said the girl through the curtains.

At last we got to the hospital. We laid thePage 222 man on the ground, and the doctors did everything they could. But it was pointless; the shell fragment had sliced right under his heart. In ten minutes, he was dead. I turned to his brother and, placing both hands on his shoulders, said—

"Your poor brother was hit too badly. We couldn't save him."

He stared at me for a moment, confused. Then he turned and threw himself down onto the body, crying more intensely than before.

I went to the ambulance and returned it to its spot.

The airplane returning from the arsenal had dropped three unnecessary bombs on the camp itself. One landed in the Serbian hospital yard and killed an Austrian prisoner; another landed in the far corner of the camp field but didn’t explode. The third one narrowly missed the room where the two dead German pilots were lying, crashed into the Stobarts’ storeroom, and destroyed the last jar of marmalade they had. It was a terrible mess. If it had fallen three yards to the left, it would have killed the head cook, who was just on the other side of the wall.

I went back to the arsenal. None of the bombsPage 223 had hit any critical areas; almost all had landed in open spaces, though one exploded on the roof of the woodshed, just a few yards from the petrol store. Two cans of petrol had been punctured by shrapnel, and Austrian prisoners were quickly pumping them out. Almost half the work at the arsenal was done by Austrian prisoners. Another bomb had fallen in the horseshoe storage area, and inside, horseshoes were scattered everywhere, some even lodged in the beams like giant staples. I hadn’t realized before how powerful the bombs were. Sava said he was standing in a doorway when a bomb exploded nearby; a piece whizzed past his nose and knocked down the name board above him. When he turned back to continue working, the aide had disappeared and never returned.

I met Dr. Churchin. He is one of the best Serbs I've encountered, a philosopher. He was overseeing the English units in Kragujevatz and did it excellently, showing a level of dedication to his work that's quite rare. He told me that I had been nominated as an honorary captain, but I have the feeling that it's an honor I can't accept due to national law.

We drove in the afternoon toward Rudnik to check on the one that had broken down. I quickly realized that there was nothing we could do right there, so I told them to keep moving slowly to the camp. Later in the evening, I went to the Government motor school, where I ran into my old friend Ristich and Colonel Derrock; both of these men are excellent Serbs—fun, enthusiastic, and warm-hearted.

October 5th. Since our car wasn’t finished, Mr. Berry and Sister Hammond took a car borrowed from Colonel Derrock and went back to Vrntze. I was going to stay until all the repairs on ours were done. There was another scare of airplanes, and the whole town cleared out, with families heading to the countryside; but the planes never showed up. I went down to the arsenal and continued with the repairs. Dr. May lent me her camera, and I took some photos. Mrs. Stobart left with her "flying field force," taking nearly all the men and almost all the cars with her: if the hospital gets many serious cases, I figured they’d be really short-handed.

In the night, the two German pilots were buried without military honors. The Serbs claimed they were assassins and deserved nothing. Still, Kragujevatz is an arsenal.

October 6th. Another airplane scare; the town cleared out again. Dr. MacLaren and I hurried to the anti-aircraft guns, hoping to snap some photos, but nothing happened. I got thePage 225 Rudnik car running by taking apart Mr. McBlack's useless car. In the evening, two sisters left for Uskub. One of the sisters went to grab her bag, and I thought I’d take a shortcut to help her. I walked between the tents, striding along, when—plop! I found myself swimming in a deep tank of water. The sister heard me fall and ran back to the camp shouting—

"Help, help! The stranger is drowning in the bathwater sewage tank."

I climbed out and quickly ran to my tent, where nice people brought me a rubber bath and hot water. I also received some refugee pajamas, which I wore for the rest of the evening. My clothes were taken to the kitchen and hung over the big stove.

October 7th. I went to the arsenal wearing borrowed refugee clothes that were way too big. I messed with the car until it finally started working. By lunchtime, the clothes were dry. We managed to leave by three, with Hardinge coming along. Night fell before we got home. Our car is a real pain in the dark; the lights, which are electric and powered by the magneto, only shine when we’re going full speed, which is impossible on these roads. I was just bragging to Hardinge that I had never hit anything except an owl, when I ran into a cow. Figures came out of the darkness cursing; we cursed back for letting the animal wander off, and then more figures appeared on our side cursing too. The motor was pushed back, the cow got up and walked away, and we continued on. I found Jo on the night shift. We had some supper, set up a bed for Hardinge, and I went to bed myself.

Pg 227

Up until now, Vrntze had been unaffected by the war; the ladies were strolling the streets just like always and were pressuring Gaschitch, the commandant, to shut down one of our hospitals so it could be turned into a boarding house. The chemist and Jan had a funny chat about Nicholas I's uncle. Apparently, he was a famous poet.

"Sir," said the chemist earnestly, "I assure you that he was one of the greatest poets to ever live. If Serbian were spoken as widely as English, he would be held in the same regard as Shakespeare, if not higher. The depth of his philosophy, sir, is astounding and incredibly profound. There are passages in his poetry that I have studied for weeks and still haven't been able to fully grasp."

The real reason is that the great poet translated an old German philosophy work into Pg 228 Serbian, and it's very likely that he didn't fully grasp the original text himself.

We received more letters asking us to come back. Our studios in Paris and everything we had worked on for the last eight years felt at risk of being sold off. So, Jan went to see the Chief again. He requested that we stay until at least the first group of injured arrived, since none of the others had any experience with the receiving procedures or the disinfection process. We moved our beds and belongings to the school, which Jo was going to turn into a recovery hospital.

By the way, one of our doctors had a strange prophetic experience. She was told that she would one day go to a foreign country with an S in its name. She would be quite safe in her first job, but she would be offered a position in a large grey building, from which, if she accepted, she might not escape alive. In any case, she would be fleeing for her life, and she and all her companions would endure great hardships and sleep on dirty straw in terrible places. She was offered a job at the Farmers' hospital in Belgrade. She turned it down. It's a big grey building, and we just heard that Belgrade was being heavily bombed, and everyone had to evacuate. Rumors spoke of fierce German attacks on Shabatz and Obrenovatz.

The next day, Serbian refugees arrived fromPg 229 Belgrade itself: they said the town was on fire and that intense fighting was happening in the streets. Posheravatz was empty, and a major battle was going on around its outskirts. There were reports that the King of Bulgaria had stepped down and that the Germans at Chabatz had been defeated, leaving 8,000 prisoners in Serbian custody. Neuhat came to Jan in high spirits.

"We've captured a German major," he said, "and he claims there’s never been a soldier like the Serb. He’s fought the English, French, and Russians, but he says our troops are the most impressive of all."

"Really sensible guy," said Jan. "I’d say the same if I were in his shoes."

Major Gaschitch told Dr. Berry that if the Serbian army fell back, we needed to fall back with them. Blease and Jan jumped into action, adding rope handles to the packing cases and labeling them for specific uses. One of our female doctors was appreciated in the morning. In the outpatient department, a conversation came up about marriage. A Serbian patient said—

"I can get married whenever I want. Ugh! In Serbia, you can get two girls for a penny and three widows for half a penny."

Everyone was now running around with maps, frantically explaining the situation to each otherPg 230, all giving different accounts. Major Gaschitch had identified Novi Bazar as our likely refuge, and Mr. Berry borrowed our map to check for a direct road over Gotch mountain, suggesting that Jan could get a horse and ride over to investigate. Unfortunately, only a fourth-class road was indicated, and heaven knows what that could mean: lots of countryside and you can pretty much figure it out yourself. A woman was brought in claiming she had a bullet wound in her chest; it happened during the week-long marriage celebration. The girl was brought in by her father while the groom had rushed off to the church to pray. The wound resembled a dagger stab.

The new slaughterhouse was a great structure. The walls were almost done, and they were putting together the roof. One of the Austrian prisoners had found a knack for stone carving, and Miss Dickenson was creating a frieze for the door and on either side. There was a significant ceremony—while we were gone—at the foundation, and Mr. Berry gave a speech in Serbian. The disinfector had also arrived and was quickly set up and ready to go.

The news got better. The Austrians were now driven out of Belgrade with huge losses, and the entire stretch of the Danube and the Sava hadPg 231 been taken back by the Serbs. Blease and Jan wondered if it was necessary to continue with the rope handles. Our first wounded man arrived in the evening, a non-commissioned officer, with a slightly injured thumb. He had come by train, asked in town which hospital was the most comfortable, and walked over. We explained that we weren’t focused on thumbs, but needed to accommodate him for the night; this meant dealing with the whole process of washing, shaving, and disinfecting his clothes.

We heard that the French and English had arrived in Nish with 70,000 troops, and they were welcomed with immense enthusiasm; however, it was important to note that Belgrade wasn't entirely free of Austrians—they still controlled half the city, and the "Swobs" were struggling at Chabatz. "Swobs" in Serbian refers to anyone from a Germanic country, while in Austria it’s a derogatory term meaning "German." One of our "Czech" orderlies said to Jo, sadly—

"I never imagined that I would be called a 'Swob.'"

Next day, we received a warning that two hundred seriously injured patients were expected, so everyone was in a hurry. The bathrooms needed cleaning, the disinfecting room andPage 232 bags had to be prepared, and the wards were cleared as much as possible.

The wounded didn’t show up, and the next day they still didn’t arrive. The chemist said that all the Austrians had been pushed back, but that the Bulgarians had finally launched an attack. Mr. Berry thought the news was pretty serious and told us that Gaschitch had said we needed to be ready to move with just twenty-four hours' notice; so we went back to working on the boxes. The next day, we received news that the Bulgarians had pulled back and claimed that the Serbs had attacked them first, that the Powers had declared war on Bulgaria, and that the Russians had bombarded Varna.

At last, we received word that the injured were finally on their way. We rushed into our disinfecting outfits—looking like big pants—and scissors were handed out to all the helpers. It was dark by the time the first truckload arrived.

The changing room was a large room with a white stone floor, featuring four long plank beds covered with waterproof fabric; the bathroom was at the back. The first wounded man was brought in through the window on a stretcher, a crumpled, brown mass of pain, groaning. We carefully laid him on the bed while the doctor looked for the wound. As she examined him, a second patient was handed in. There was no need to examine this one; his bloody head bandage and swollen blue eyelids clearly showed where his injury was. We removed the clothes as gently as possible from the poor guys. Those who were too injured to go to the bathroom were cleaned where they lay. One orderly used soap and razors to shave every hair from each, while several others used clippers on the tangled hair. Outside, one electric lamp cast strong light and deep shadows, creating a scene reminiscent of a Rembrandt painting, illuminating the white-clad figures of the assistants pulling out stretchers, the large square back of the ambulance, and highlighting a rose bush in the garden that had one white rose.

The injured were unbelievably dirty, and their clothes were in terrible condition, all stiff with blood. Jo took charge of the bags of clothes, making sure that no man's clothes got mixed up with anyone else's. The men all looked dazed, each soldier seemed to be thinking the same thing. "This wasn't the plan at all, I wasn't supposed to get hurt. Why am I here?" One could suddenly feel the brutal absurdity of modern warfare; it felt like if the people who started this war could be made to spend three months in a war hospital, dealing with and undressing their messy consequences, they would have a very different perspective on the glory and honor of battle.

Pg 234

Each man had attached a talisman to his belt for protection against danger—small brass or lead figures or medals, purchased from the village priest.

There was some confusion at first because almost everyone was new to their jobs; the barbers were carrying stretchers when they should’ve been cutting hair; the clippers were scrubbing instead of doing their actual work; but still, it was impressively quick. The motor raced back to the station, and by the time it got back, its first load had been bathed, shaved, dressed in fresh pajamas, and either lying in bed in the ward or waiting their turn outside the operating room.

Mr. Berry was hard at work: there were several cases with gunshot wounds to the brain, one to the lungs, one to the heart, and one to the spine; this last one was paralyzed.

Some injured people arrived in carriages; it was very challenging to transfer them onto the stretchers without causing them extra pain, due to the shape of the "fiacres." Eventually, everyone was taken through.

Do not think we're heartless if we rubbed our hands and said, "What great cases!" because emotional pity can be separated from professional satisfaction, and if these cases had to happen, we were glad that the serious ones came to us and didn't go to a Serbian hospital.

Pg 235

The next day, we sorted through the clothes. Every uniform had to be taken out of its bag, counted, checked for money or food, and then repacked. They were crawling with bugs, but we wore waterproof overalls that were supposed to keep them away. More operations were underway. One of the guys had been hit in the back of the head and was completely blind. The kid who got shot in the lungs prayed for a cigarette and an apple, convinced they would help him. We sorted more clothes. One guy had a pocket full of scissors—clearly a regimental barber; another's pockets were stuffed with onions; a third had a half-eaten apple, as if the fight had caught him right in the middle of his dessert. The guy with the head injury wanted his wallet. We couldn’t find it; after asking a lot of questions, we discovered that the kid with lung issues had taken it. Another patient said he had lost thirty-six francs, so we had to dig through his package—the smelliest of them all—and finally found the money hidden in the lining of his coat, along with a watch. Jan returned them to him, wound up the watch, and set the time. The thankful owner said that the watch was just for show and that he couldn’t read it.

The French were never in Nish at all—it was all lies; but Austrian planes had bombed it and killed several people. The Bulgarian comitaj cut the line at Vranja but had been badly beaten in aPg 236 battle near Zaichar. The flight over Gotch turned into a joke, and Jo was asked to do a caricature of it.

Suddenly, a refugee arrived, the hostess of the guesthouse in Nish. She was extremely worried about her fifteen trunks, which she had to leave behind and that contained all her family keepsakes and miniatures. She hoped that the panic would only last a few days. The Bulgarians had taken over Veles, which was bad news. Another refugee woman from Belgrade came in. More patients. Forty-nine for the "Merkur" hospital. There was a lot of running around, but eventually, everyone was settled into their beds.

A Serbian comitaj girl came in the afternoon, looking for a female doctor. She was a strong, almost fierce-looking woman. She mentioned there had been six of her group, but one had been killed. The reports of the bombardment of Varna turned out to be false, but they claimed that all the Bulgarians in Vrnja had been surrounded. Major Gaschitch also said that if Serbia could hold out until the 10th, something amazing was going to happen.

Our visitors had a pretty tough time. One of them walked into the little sitting room of the hospital. She opened the door and immediately recoiled in shock. There was a man inside wearing nothing but a large pair of mustaches. She ran away. Mr. Berry, having nowhere else to check on a stray patient, had taken over the room at a bad moment. More wounded were expected, so we got ready, and they arrived five hours later than we had anticipated. They came in carriages and climbed down easily. We asked, "Where are the wounded?" "Belgrade." "When?" "Three months ago." Not a single serious case among them, and we had heard that the poorly equipped hospitals in Krusevatz were overwhelmed with horrific cases. We were furious. A lot more wounded showed up at the "State" café. None were seriously injured, and after the examination, one man had no wound to show at all, nor shock, nor anything. He had simply run away. There were several hand cases, some scorched with powder, showing that the poor guys had shot themselves to get out of it. One man refused to have his hair cut because he said he was in mourning for his brother, and his hat was decorated with a crown of black lace. Meanwhile, some serious cases arrived at the main hospital; one man had seemingly been shot through his entire body, the bullet entering at his shoulder and exiting near his hip. A small boy sat scratching himself. Jo asked him, "Why are you scratching?" He replied with a shout of silly glee, "I have lice, I have lice," and scratched again.

The disinfectant was working overtime, and we were inundated with clothes from all the other hospitals. Another alert went out about incoming wounded, but they never showed up. Instead, an English clergyman arrived from Krag. We heard that Uskub had fallen and that Lady Paget, along with her entire staff, had been captured. The next day, the wounded finally arrived, many more than anticipated. Jan started showing clear signs of inflammatory rheumatism coming on, so he went to bed for a couple of days with salicylate.

The Serbian authorities were starting to lose it. In the morning, they declared that the "State" would be turned into a hospital for officers and kicked all the patients out; by the afternoon, they changed their minds and brought the patients back—who had been spread out among the other hospitals. This kept us occupied but did nothing productive. In the evening, another group of wounded arrived.

Nearly all the reports from the previous week were now admitted to be false. A Serbian minister had been dying in the town, and the uplifting stories were created to keep him in good spirits. Now that he's dead, the truth has come out. The Austrians and Germans were advancing on all sides, with the Serbs offering no resistance since Belgrade. The Bulgarians had taken over the entire line south of Nish. The French and English were struggling to advance. The Farmers' unit made their way into the town, having no transportation arranged for them from the station. The Scottish women were already there, having arrived at night; they had to sleep twelve or fifteen in a room. The next day, a small group of wounded Allies arrived.

Sir Ralph Paget arrived in a rush. Unit leaders emerged from every direction, and a quick meeting took place.

Mr. Berry called a meeting at two. He said Paget had announced that the game was over; that all unit members should have the option to go home, and that he (Paget) was heading to Kralievo to arrange transports. Jan got to work on the map and decided that the best route out would be to Novi Bazar, and then by tracks to Berane. There were villages marked in the mountains that didn’t seem as high as those near Ipek, and also, the road, if there was one, would be at least two days shorter.

Sir Ralph returned the next day and, knowing we had just come back from Montenegro, asked Jan a lot of questions about the road and other details. Sir Ralph's latest decision was that all men of military age—except doctors—should try to cross the mountains into Montenegro. He couldn’t say if any transportation would be available or if there would be a way to escape from Montenegro, so he advised against any women moving, as they would be safer where they were than facing the risks of the mountains. They wouldn’t be in the same danger as the orderlies, who were likely to be interned. Dr. Holmes decided to come with us, saying he wouldn't be treating Germans and that he might be useful to the retreating Serbian army. Ellis also said he would join us and bring his car, which would help us at least part of the way. Sir Ralph asked Jan to lead the group of the English Red Cross, and we returned to our rooms to repack, since Jo had already made arrangements for internment. Mr. Blease chose to come with us. No one knew what dangers lay ahead or where the Austrians and Germans were, and many doubted if we could make it through. The season was getting late, and snow was expected daily. Some imaginative people spoke of "brigands" and "wolves," but we didn’t think those were significant concerns. The main issues were whether we could find shelter each night and whether we could carry enough food to sustain us in case we couldn’t find any, which seemed quite likely.

We received an order for bread from the Serbian authorities through Gaschitch. We were heading intoPg 241 a region that no one really understood, and our friends said goodbye, many thinking we’d be back in a few days. The Austrian prisoners were really down about our departure.

The station was dark and dreary, and the small, cheap Turkish kiosk—like a piece of the White City—was filled with Red Cross stoves and beds. Two trains arrived, but neither was heading to Kralievo; one was for the Red Cross and the other for Krusevatz. A bunch of guys in uniforms climbed aboard, shouting "Goodbye, Vrntze," as they were taken off into the night. Our spirits sank lower and lower. We thought of the friends we were leaving behind and what lay ahead of us. The reality set in, intensified by the gloom and chill of the station.

Hours later, the train arrived. The only third-class carriage was packed to the brim, with people standing on the platform and sitting on the steps. We checked the freight cars. All were so overflowing that the doors couldn't be opened.

"You should go tomorrow," said the station master.

"We're not doing that again," we said. "Can't we just get up on the roof?"

We hurried up. There were other men there, lying in brown piles. We made some of them shift a bit, packed away our blankets and backpacks, and sat among them.

Pg 242 "Are you okay?" yelled the station-master.

"Yep."

"Goodbye, then. Lay down when you reach the bridges, or you'll get your heads knocked off."

We laid down immediately, taking no chances, unaware of when the bridges were approaching. Fortunately, the wind was on our side, and the night was warm. The engine sent sparks flying into the air, which landed as slight hot touches on our faces and hands. Later, a little rain started to fall.

Kralievo at three a.m. We didn’t know the town, so Jo charged into the telegraph office. The officials tried to close the door, but she managed to wedge her foot in it.

"When I ask you a polite question, you could respond," she said.

"You can get shelter next door," one person said grumpily.

We tried next door. It was packed, and the heat inside was unbearable. We noticed a door on the opposite wall and opened it—back into the telegraph office. There were people already sleeping there, so without asking for permission, we dropped our bags and lay down on the floor. The officials said nothing.

After a while, two French generals (or something like that) came in. They were denied entry just like we were, but they ignored it, unpacked their blankets, and lay down under the big central table. With them was a wife who sat sadly in a chair. The room became so stuffy when the door was closed that she wished it were open; but when the door was open, the draft was so bad that she immediately wished it were closed. Unfortunately, she got confused: the Serbian word for open is very similar to the word for shut, and she mixed them up. There was a lot of confusion. Just as the officials were starting to get used to her mistakes, she corrected herself. More confusion. An English girl walked in, pushed the papers aside on the big table, and began to make cocoa on a Primus stove she had brought with her. The officials looked at each other helplessly. Jan recognized her as one of the Stobart unit from Krag: she had gotten separated from her group but was now rejoining them.

Pg 244

We woke up at 7 a.m. A damp, chilly fog hung low over the valley, piercing our skin and making us shiver. The railway was crowded, but trains kept arriving, open trucks filled with men whose breath formed clouds of steam and whose clothes sparkled with dew. We stepped out of the station into thick black mud that felt like "pease pudding," as if the Thames shoreline had been churned up by all the traffic. Standing knee-deep in the mud were tired oxen and horses hitched to all kinds of carts, their wheels sunk almost to the axles in the muck. Across the mud, surrounded by unstable red brick walls, the District Civil Hospital looked pale in the morning light, and we made our way toward it, splashing as we walked.

We arrived at the lodge: an English girl was working on a kitchen stove. She looked at us.

"Hello!"

Page 245

"We just came 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 Serbian servant girl. Jo did not come back. Jan went to the hospital to look for her.

Crowds of men were at the door, wearing tattered and dirty uniforms, bandages on their arms, feet, or foreheads, all stained with dirt and blood. Some men were crouched on the ground, while others were leaning against the house, fast asleep. Somehow we made our way through them. The passage was overcrowded, and men were sprawled on the stone stairs, asleep. The smell was awful. Beyond a swinging glass door, Scottish women were rushing back and forth, wrapping bandages around the men as they entered and sending them out the other side of the building. The Serbs waited with the quiet endurance of the East, their long, thin faces drawn with hunger, pain, and exhaustion. Occasionally, one of the men stirred in his sleep and groaned. A group of "Stobarts" had found a place upstairs in a bedroom with wooden plank beds; among them, we found some old friends.

Leaving them, we headed into the village to find something to eat, trudging back through the mud. Soldiers, farmers, women, children, horse-drawn carts, and ox wagons were all bustling around, while broken-down and abandoned cars sat in the middle of the road. In the large round central square, the chaos was even worse, with animals, carts, and makeshift camps for refugees all jammed together in the marketplace.Page 246

White-bearded officers in grey-green uniforms were waving their arms at white-bearded civilians outside the Café de Paris. A car came speeding up, let out three men in Russian uniforms, and drove away. A small, chubby man was trying desperately to get a staff officer's attention and grabbed his arm; the staff officer shook him off in annoyance. Soldiers were hanging around against the walls, looking in through the dirty windows....

Within, the large dark room was packed. Opening the door felt like rounding a corner on a coastal cliff. Almost everyone at the tables was male: officers, merchants, clerks, all speaking in excited, tense tones. We found three seats. Nobody had any food or drink. Three men joined the table next to us. They showed off two loaves of bread to the others and seemed to think they had pulled off something really clever. We were starving.

Suddenly, half the café stood up and hurried to a small counter that was almost hidden in the dim light at the far end. "You can get coffee there," someone said. Blease, who could make his way out more easily, went to check it out. After a short while, he returned, saying that he had found aPg 247 waiter. A man came by selling apples, and we bought some. Finally, the waiter arrived.

"Café au lait," we said.

"And bread," we said, as he turned away.

"Nema," he replied, looking back.

"Alright, eggs then."

"Nema."

"What do you have?"

"All we have is meat."

"No potatoes?"

"No."

We had a kind of Serbian stew, the meat so tough that you had to saw the pieces apart with a knife and swallow them whole. While we were dealing with this, a soldier leaned against our table and stared at our plates with a longing look. Jo noticed him. She gathered up all our leftovers; how much misery we could have eased if we had enough money back then in Serbia.

We paid our bill with a ten dinar note. The waiter handled it for a moment.

"Haven't you got any money?" he asked.

"That's money."

"Silver, I mean."

"Nope."

He paused for a moment. Then he walked away, flipping the note over in his hands. After a bit, he came back and gave us our change.

Pg 248

The day went by in a strange kind of haze; there was no clear order to what we were doing. The town felt charged, with everyone’s actions appearing exaggerated; the eager ones hurried along, driven by a kind of fear, while the slow ones lagged behind, their feet dragging in a sense of hopelessness. At one point, we found ourselves scrambling up some steps to the mayor's office, looking for bread. By a window on the far side of the room stood a man with a pale face, reddish eyes from sleeplessness, and light hair: Churchin. We rushed over to him.

"What are you doing here?" he said sadly.

We clarified.

"I don't think you can get any transport," he said, "but I'll check later to see if I can help."

We thanked him. "But whether we have transport or not, we are going." Jan showed him the bread order. He read it and pointed to the Nachanlik.

The Nachanlik read our order, frowned, and handed it over to another guy, an officer. The officer glanced at the order, gave us a moody look from head to toe, and then pushed the paper back to us.

"We only have bread for the soldiers."

"But—we're an English Mission."

"Only for soldiers here. We have nothing to do with English Missions."

Pg 249

Fearing that we had arrived at the wrong place, we left.

At another time, we were climbing up the back stairs to what used to be the temporary lodgings of the English legation. But it was empty and deserted; Sir Ralph Paget hadn't arrived yet.

There were bakeries, but they were all closed and watched over by soldiers. Jan saw some bread in a window. He walked into the grimy café, which was packed with soldiers, some sitting on the floor and some at the tables.

"Whose bread is this?" he asked.

"Ours."

"Can you sell me a loaf of bread?"

"We won't sell anything."

We bought some apples from a guy with a Roman scale, and chewed on them as we walked.

At the hospital, the "Stobarts" were getting ready to leave. A car was coming for them in the afternoon. We heard that Dr. May and the Krag crew were at Studenitza, an old monastery, halfway along the road to Rashka. In the flat fields behind the station, there was another group of "Stobarts," the dispensary from Lapovo. A Miss H—— was in trouble because thieves had reached under the tent flaps during the night and stolen her favorite boots.

Page 250

"There are boxes full of boots on the train," someone said, trying to comfort.

"But those are men's boots," said another.

Part of the morning we spent sitting by the Ebar River, watching the bridge and wondering if Ellis would arrive in his car. Ten times we thought we saw it, and each time we were mistaken.

The French planes arrived, hovering over the town in search of a flat spot, and finally swooping down onto the marshy land where the "Stobarts" were set up. They landed, splashing through the shallow puddles and spraying water everywhere. As each plane touched down, it lined up and was secured. Behind them was a row of cannons; Serbian engineers were busy dismantling their sighting devices, destroying the breech blocks, and chiseling the linings. Some of the cannons were Turkish. All morning, amid the sounds of the town, the shouting of ox drivers, the rumble of motor cars, and the steady tap, tap of the engineers’ hammers, the faint booming of battle at Mladnovatch could be heard, not even fifteen miles away.

After lunch, we went back to the café. It was crowded again, and we had to wait for a table. Just as we sat down, a woman with a tense, worried face approached us, grabbed Jo by the arm, and said eagerly—

"Are you really going to Montenegro?"

"Yeah," Jo replied. "If we can make it there."

"Could you give me just a bit of advice, ma'am? You see, we don't know what to do. My husband—he's an old man, and he's Austro-Serb. If the enemy catches him, they'll hang him."

"I'm afraid he will have to walk," Jo said.

"But he's so old," the woman said, tears in her eyes; "he's fifty."

"We'll have to walk ourselves," Jo said. "Make him a backpack for his food. Give him warm clothes. It’s his only chance to be safe. And," she added, "the sooner he leaves, the better, because soon all the food on the road will be gone, and he’ll starve."

The woman thanked us. "I’ll make him go right away," she said, and rushed out, nervously wringing her hands.

A Russian woman was sitting at her table with a thin-faced man.

"You’re going to Montenegro?" she said.

We agreed.

"I’m going too. I'm a good athlete. I’ve walked fifty kilometers in a single day."

We examined her tightly corseted figure, her somewhat swollen face, and we had already noticed her slim high-heeled shoes.

Pg 252

"I'll go with you, okay?"

The little man interrupted. "Why do you say stuff like that, Olga? You know you can't walk a mile."

We mentioned that we were going to march across the Austrian front, and that no one could tell us exactly where the Austrians were; that our safety depended, to some extent, on our speed, and that if one person fell behind, it meant failure for everyone. The little man pulled her away.

In the afternoon, a wave of deep sadness hit us, but we pushed it aside. We headed to the hospital for tea, bringing along a tin of cocoa and some condensed milk, which the people were short on. We also had biscuits and treacle, the treacle we had taken from the railway, where a helpful guard had said he couldn't give permission to take it but could look the other way. We heard the story of Kragujevatz, of the camp, and how all the buildings were overflowing. There were more air raids, and then a sudden order to evacuate. All the wounded who could crawl were pulled from their beds and sent out into the street by the authorities; if they couldn't walk, they had to crawl. A few Serbian and Austrian doctors were left to care for those too ill to leave, along with some Swedish and Dutch nurses, with the Netherlands flag flying above the hospitals. Dr. Churchin seemed to be the guiding force of the Missions, tirelessly working on their behalf.Pg 253

We heard that Colonel Milhaelovitch was in charge of the bread supply. He lived somewhere at the back of the big yellow schoolhouse at the end of the street. After tea, we trudged down to find him, got permission from a guard, and climbed up some stone stairs. Jan spotted someone he knew from the Nish ministry, asked him a question, and was led ... straight into the Ministry of War. They all seemed really flustered about something, chaos was everywhere, but somehow, someone took the time to check on the order.

"Nachanlik," he said.

"We've already been there."

"Alright, go there again and say we sent you, and that they need to give you bread."

We were exhausted by this. Jo went to the plank bed that the Stobarts had promised her, while Jan and Blease headed to the tents where Sir Ralph's men were taking shelter.

All the streets were lined with still bullock carts, where men were sleeping, and even in the mud between the wheels lay the tired soldiers. The two splashed through the marsh and found the tents.

Rogerson and Willett were present; Willett looked shabby. Another Englishman named Hamilton,Page 254 had an umbrella he claimed he would bring back with him to England. Also, there were two Austro-Serb boys who had been working as interpreters.

West and Mawson weren't there. Rogerson said that Sir Ralph had sent them with Mrs. M——to check out the road and conditions in Mitrovitza; no one 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; he could only doze. Around eleven o'clock, Cutting came in with Owen, Watmough, Hilder, and Elmer. They had just come from Vrnjatchka Banja with Dr. Holmes. Someone had told them that we had ditched them and headed to Rashka on our own; they were relieved to find us still there. After that, we lay awake discussing the details. None of them had realized how tough the road would be and the likely shortage of food, although the Red Cross men had brought a case of emergency rations with them. Jan shared his idea for the route; someone mentioned that there was some corned beef and rice in a Red Cross train on the siding.

Intermittently during the quiet, you could still hear the sound of the guns.

The next morning at breakfast, Dr. Holmes walked in. He thought we had left, so he had arranged for himself and the sister he was with to get seats in a Government vehicle heading to Mitrovitza. We all trudged across the soggy grass to the siding where the supplies were stored. Families were camping out in the empty freight cars on the tracks, and some had turned them into cozy little homes. We located the freight car and, after some effort, managed to pull out twelve cans of corned beef, a case of condensed milk, one of treacle, and two cans of sugar. We emptied a kit bag and filled it with rice.

The hospital was more crowded than ever. The Scottish nurses were working as fast as they could, and each man got a couple of tough ship's biscuits from a large sack after his wounds were treated. He quickly scarfed down the hard biscuits and lay down; within a minute, he was asleep, and the hospital grounds were scattered with the sleeping men. Occasionally, sergeants would come in, wake up the sleepers, organize them into groups, and march them off.

The Stobarts met us, looking anxious. There was no bread, and they couldn’t get any. Jan took their order, and we promised to see what we could do. As we walked past the station, we saw crowds of men pushing through, and from the middle came sounds of distress, with sticks raining down.

"Good Lord, what's that?" we exclaimed.

We dove into the crowd. Some of the menPg 256 and boys were angrily chewing on pieces of biscuit they held in their hands. The crowd surged more violently, and the sticks were used with more force; soon the crowd fell back, growling. The ground they left behind was covered in crumbs of crushed biscuit, and the soldiers pushed the crowd even further back, swinging their sticks and shouting curses. A bread sack being unloaded from a wagon had burst, and the hungry crowd had swooped in ... that was it. As we pulled back, we saw the lucky ones still fiercely gnawing on the hard bits they had grabbed.

We took our passes to the mayor again. He greeted us with anger.

"I told you yesterday," he said.

"The War Office sent us," Jan said sweetly, "and said that you have to give us bread."

"I don’t have any bread," said the mayor. "You need to go to Colonel Milhaelovitch."

We trudged back to the yellow school. There was no guard, and a strange sense of sadness seemed to fill the air. We asked someone hanging around for the colonel's office. He pointed. We climbed another set of stairs and found two large rooms; they were empty. Town papers were scattered on the floor, and one table was flipped over.

A man was lounging inside. "Where's the colonel?" we asked.

Pg 257

"Trust me, I swear," he said, rolling a cigarette.

"Well, check it out," said Jan.

He relaxed for a bit and then came back with another one.

"The colonel has evacuated," said the other; "he naturally went with the Ministry of War to Rashka last night."

We rushed back to the mayor, furious.

"You knew this," we shouted at him angrily.

He shrugged.

"Where can we find bread?"

He picked up the passes and glanced at them. His face brightened.

"This one," he said, turning to another, "says—Give them bread worth three francs. We'll give them three francs."

"No, you won't," we said; "you'll give us bread. You can't leave these English sisters to starve."

After some complaining, he said we could check with the "first army." We had him write us an order, and we also got him to provide a clerk to go with us. He gave us a ragged old man whose toes were poking out of his boots.

We presented both orders to the "first army." It immediately refused. We threatened them with the War Office and the mayor. After somePg 258 hesitation, it sent us back across town to the "magazine" office.

At the magazine office, we were more clever. We submitted our small request for three simple loaves. He first said "Nema," but then admitted that there was bread and that we could have it. We then revealed the request for the other loaves.

"No way," he exclaimed, "you can't take all that bread."

We pointed out that it wasn't much for an entire mission. He still refused. So Jo got up and gave a little speech. It was a harsh little speech, but they deserved it, because we had discovered that they had bread.

She pointed out that the English Missions had been working in Serbia for a year now, for free; that even if we didn't get any transport, we were going to get to England, and it wouldn't look good in the English papers if we wrote an honest account of our experiences, saying that they had let the English Missions starve. The threat of negative publicity changed his mind. He reluctantly agreed to give us ten loaves in addition to our own to last for two days. Not wanting to leave them behind or send someone 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 with us for a while, looking up at the sky and crying—

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"What a time 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 next day. Two large trucks had arrived to transport the two groups of the "Stobarts." They were loading things up, and we asked them to take our holdall as far as Rashka because we were still skeptical about the ox carts. We had started to get into the habit of not believing anything until it was actually there.

An Englishman burst in, his face red with anger and cursing. He was the supplier from Krag who had been left at Lapovo to bring in the supplies.

"What's wrong?" we cried.

"Brought my engine from Lapovo with the hospital supplies," he said angrily. "Left it out there on the road. Came in here to tell you about it; and when I go back, the damn thing isn’t there. Found all the supplies in a terrible bullock cart. The people said that a Serb officer came by, dumped all our stuff out, and took off with the engine. * * *."

There was nothing we could do, so we kept packing. An airplane was spotted in the distance; everyone looked at it.

"Taube," someone said.

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The Taube flew slowly around, looking over the town. It passed directly above us. Everyone looked up, wondering if it was going to "bomb," since we were right across from the railway station. But it just flew over and went away. As it left, guns fired at it, and many Serbs shot their rifles. We often wonder where all the shell fragments go, because it seems like nobody ever gets hit by them, even when they're exploding right overhead.

The engine made a few grunting noises, and everyone got on board. The driver engaged the clutch, and there was a ripping sound from underneath, but the engine wouldn't start. One of the drivers got down, checked it out, and said it wouldn't be able to run that day, so they immediately started taking it apart. The airplane returned twice, flying back and forth without any issues.

It’s hard to describe the vibe in the town: it felt like being in the presence of high-voltage electricity. Even during the day, soldiers in tattered clothes—but with brightly colored blankets and backpacks—were sleeping in the hedges and gutters. There were faint rumors that Romania and Greece had finally joined in; many took these claims at face value, and you could find little pockets of celebration amidst the widespread pessimism. We personally had doubts about the reports. Sir Ralph’s ox carts—in a chat with Churchin—turned out to be possibly just two; but Jan received a letter in the evening saying there would be ten carts available for us the next morning. Six were for us and four for the "Stobarts," and we were instructed to bring the Indian tents along.

We went back to the tents early to get a good start the next day. Rogerson and Willett were organizing their clothes. Hamilton had decided that since he couldn't walk, he would go back to Vrntze with the Red Cross supplies that Paget was sending to the hospital. As we were settling in for the night, Dr. Holmes arrived. He hadn’t gotten a seat in the car but was planning to go the next day. Later, two muddy figures came in. They were West and Mawson.

We questioned them excitedly, and even though they were exhausted, they answered as much as they could.

The road was navigable. They had hardly slept for four days, Mitrovitza was already packed with refugees, and there were no rooms available. On the way back, the engine was running poorly; the mud was terrible. Then they ran out of petrol. They flagged down a large car that was loaded with petrol and ammunition and requested some. They got a little, and just as they were about to leave, the large car suddenly caught fire: someone had foolishly struck a match to check if the petrol valve was turned off. Huge flames shot upPg 262 into the sky, and it took a while before the car was burnt down enough to get past it.

West said that it was a truly amazing picture.

A bit further along, a tire had popped, and they had to drive back on the rims. They enthusiastically embraced Jan's suggestion of taking the Novi Bazar route, confident that once they reached Mitrovitza, it would be a long time before they could leave, and they were uncertain about finding a place to stay there.

Again, we could hear the guns in the night, and news had come in that Krag had been taken and that the German cavalry were heading toward Kralievo.

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The men were up before 3:30 to take down the tents, having slept very little. Breakfast was ready and waiting at 5:30 in the big hospital bedroom; however, the women ate it by themselves.

Jo headed out to the camp, eager to find out what had happened. She encountered a grumpy group. For two hours, they had been struggling in the dark with the tents and waiting for the carts and a police officer, as all the troublemakers from the town were gathering to steal our leftovers.

At last, the carts were discovered parked outside the hospital in a line—ten little carts without springs, being managed by a clueless corporal who had gotten his orders wrong. He also refused to budge, insisting he "had his orders."

The tireless Churchin was found and sent off with a warning. When he got to the camp, we discovered a woman and some household luggage in one of the carts. He claimed she was his wife and objected to us putting anything intoPg 264 that cart. We told him he would just have to deal with it, and he got moody; every time an extra package was added to a cart, he complained it would fall apart. The tents were definitely heavy, but we were instructed to take them. Once the carts were loaded to the brim, they moved slowly through the mud and stopped at the hospital. We were significantly overloaded. Our group included Mawson, West, Cutting, Rogerson, Willett, Blease, Angelo, Whatmough, Elmer, Owen, and Hilder—the last four being our friends from the railway trip from Nish. We were thirteen in total. Joining us temporarily were two little Austro-Serbian boys. The other four carriages had a doctor and three members of the Stobart unit, two "Scottish Women," their orderly, and a Russian medical student who had been a political prisoner.

Leaving the town was a slow process since it was being evacuated. Our little group moved along at a crawl. Most of us walked. Jo drove with two of the Stobarts, keeping an eye on the crowd of people weaving in and out among the ox carts from her vantage point. The road was blocked by some huge mobile baking ovens. Hundreds of boys, big seventeen-year-olds with guns and smaller limping kids aged thirteen to sixteen, draped in colorful blankets over their shoulders, were trudging along in single file. Their faces were pale, and their noses were red; sergeants were prodding the lagging ones forward with a ramrod. One of them said—

"I haven't eaten anything for three days—give me bread." We didn't have any bread, but we found some Petit-Beurre biscuits and left him flipping them over and over.

The whole town was buzzing: cars, surrounded by swearing, edged their way through the packed streets; whips were cracking, men were fighting, but everyone had their eyes on the road to Rashka, which we realized would be as crowded as rush hour on the Tube. The boys passed us, then we passed them. They passed us again. Hundreds of Austrian prisoners were being rushed along, goodness knows where. Neat young clerks, suitcase in hand, pushed their way through the crowd. Young staff officers were walking, bumped by beggars. Jo called out to an old man driving a cart full of modern furniture, his face etched with lines of misery—

"Where are you heading?"

"Don't know," he replied, staring blankly ahead.

Wounded men were everywhere, stumbling and limping along, because no one wanted to be captured. Some had ship's biscuit, which they tried to soften in the dirty ditch water, while othersPg 266 were drinking from the puddles like dogs. Sometimes a motor vehicle far ahead got stuck in the mud, and we had to wait often half an hour until it could be coaxed to move. Gypsies passed by, better mounted and dressed worse than others, some of them almost naked. Many soldiers had walked out of their opankies and their feet were wrapped in rags. Why in this country of terrible mud was the opankie invented? It’s a sole turned up at the edges and held on by a series of straps and decorative braids that are useless in mud or wet, which seeps through in all directions.

We reached a clearing and stopped for lunch. Someone had to go get water. It flowed from a wooden spout on the hill, and before our cooking pot was filled, we were surrounded by thirsty soldiers who were sending us to the worst places for being slow. Cutting revealed a hidden talent for starting fires. We unpacked the food, and soon a delicious curry was simmering in an empty biscuit tin, with Angelo, Sir Ralph Paget's chef, stirring it. A giant car rolled by, carrying the remnants of the Stobart unit. Another vehicle passed, crammed with Russian nurses and doctors. A face was peeking out from the back, eyes rolled up, moustache bristling. Was it? Yes, it was—"Quel Pays"—but he didn’t recognize us.

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The baking ovens showed up again, and we felt we'd been there long enough. Some people in our group were really worn out from their various adventures since leaving Nish, so they climbed into the carriages whenever we went downhill. The road twisted up a narrow, rocky valley with a muddy stream flowing through it. The trees on our side of the river were still green, while the other bank was bright orange, deep red, and all the colors of a Serbian autumn. The road, filled with moving people, was like another river, flowing just a bit more slowly than the Ebar itself. For us, from now on, autumn will always have a dark side. These trees seemed to have dressed in their brightest colors to mock the dreary processions. Every now and then, we spotted an ox sitting by the roadside, exhausted and abandoned by its owner as worthless.

Dusk fell, bringing a sense of gloom; the travelers on the winding road looked like mere shadows. Coat collars were turned up and hands were shoved into pockets. Small campfires started to flicker here and there on the hillsides. We reached a large open area where several fires blazed, respectfully surrounding a French aircraft section. Across from us was a high peak topped by a Turkish castle. We wanted to stop there, but the corporal insisted we had to keep going, as he wanted to get food for the horses. After passing the castle, the dusk became much darker and thePage 268 road became narrower and muddier. Although campfires glimmered from every flat space, the endless stream of refugees seemed to multiply. The darkness only added to the tragic mystery of their escape. The bullock carts rolled by, crowded with soldiers.

A horse collapsed, and the owner yanked off the saddle, tossed it into a cart, and cursed as he stumbled off into the darkness. The carts following didn’t notice the poor horse and drove right over it, the wheels lifting as they rolled across its body. We shouted to the owner, but he was gone, so we diverted one or two of the carts and made them go around. But we couldn’t stay there all night. The horse was too exhausted and too badly hurt by the cruel passage to move, so Jan reluctantly pulled out his "automatic" and, standing clear of its hooves, shot it twice in the head. It shuddered, raised two hooves, flailed in the air, and then collapsed.

On we went, trudging mile after mile through the mud, but we didn't see a single house or a place to set up camp. Eventually, the corporal gave up looking for hay, and we were left with the challenge of spending the night on a narrow road flanked by cliffs on one side, under which flowed the Ebar, and on the other by a nearly vertical bank. The night was pitch black, the mud was a foot deep, and aPg 269 stream crossed the road. The carriages lined up in single file, and we discussed where to sleep while Cutting cooked bovril on a temperamental Primus stove. Our drivers had to sleep on the carts. The women also had carts to sleep in, and the Scottish women offered Jo a spot in their already crowded carriage. The men managed to fit into the remaining carts, while Jo, Jan, and Blease found a ledge below the road. It was quite muddy, but they spread out a mackintosh sheet and rolled up on it in their rugs.

No sooner had they really settled in and started sleeping than a voice said, "You need to get up: an officer says the carriages have to move on—the King is coming." It was West. We sat up. Between us and the dim lights of the carts, the dark shadows of the crowds passed endlessly.

"I'll go talk to them," Jo said; she rolled out of her blanket, struggled with her boots, and stumbled into the darkness, where a mounted officer was giving orders. Shouts echoed, lights waved, horses whinnied, splashing their hooves in the puddles as they were pulled around chaotically, and our poor little carts were moving ahead into the gloom. Jo told him they were a Red Cross group—that the carts were small, and couldn’t they stay where they were? The officer looked over the little carts, gave a courteous nod, and replied, "Yes, they can stay."

But the corporal didn’t listen to Jo’s orders. He was from a country that views women and cattle the same way, and the carts kept rolling on. With some effort, Jo located the ledge again where Jan was sitting with the rugs, talking to the scenery in an unflattering way.

Blease showed up, and the three of us picked up our stuff and headed off to find the missing carriages, which were half a mile down the road. Jan tossed his luggage onto someone and gave the corporal a good slap on the ears, calling him a "gloop." Right away, the corporal felt that "this was someone he could really relate to," and from that moment on, he became a loyal follower, paying close attention to our every wish and occasionally humbly laying walnuts in front of us.

A guy approached Jan.

"I think that guy is drunk," he said. "I mentioned that your carts could stay."

"Who are you?" Jan asked.

"I used to be the conductor of the Crown Prince's orchestra," he said; "now I'm the traffic supervisor. It's tough. I had a horse, a cheerful little brown horse, but he wore out and I had to leave him behind on the road." There were tears in thePage 271 man's voice. "He was a good horse, but it was too much for him. Now I have to walk."

"I shot your horse," Jan said. "They were driving over its body."

"He was a good horse," the man said again, "a good horse, and now I have to walk. Well, goodbye, you can rest here."

He splashed around in the mud.

Our new sleeping spot was even worse: the mud was deeper, and the road was narrower. Jo tried to avoid the mud and headed for the side of the road, but the ground shifted beneath her, and some grumbled swears came out. She wasn't walking on grass but on a bunch of sleeping boys, and she almost stepped on someone's face. We settled back down on our raincoat sheet but couldn’t sleep. Some soldiers were firing guns and tossing bombs into the river all night. Nearby was Owen, who coughed for a couple of hours, then decided the place was too wet and ended up lying in a cart on Whatmough's face.

It rained, Jo was restless, and Jan complained. The raincoat was too small for us, and we got totally soaked. It's a weird feeling—the rain tapping on your face when you're trying to sleep. By the time you're used to the steady rhythm of the tiny drops—splash, a big drop falls from a tree. Water gathers in the folds of your hat or blanket, and then suddenly spills down your neck.

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At four in the morning, the corporal quietly approached to ask if we could move on since the horses were cold and hungry. Glad to comply, even though it was dark, we rolled up our damp bundles and placed them in the wagons with the sleeping people, who woke up, bleary-eyed and confused by the sudden movement of their uncomfortable beds. Whatmough, who believed that the bombs and gunfire from the night before were spent Austrian shells passing over the hill, said—

"That's the first time I've ever liked someone sleeping on my face."

One of the Stobart nurses, who had used the leftover hay as a pillow, had been awake all night trying to keep a hungry horse from munching on her hair along with the hay. With determination, she put on a Balaklava helmet and trudged along all day in it, even when the sun came out later. Blease also started the chilly dawn in a Balaklava, wrapped in a rug made from bits of various colored wool scarves. Jan used Jo's white mackintosh apron for protection from the rain, tied around his head with a piece of string and trailing behind with a bunch of tapes and fasteners.

Under his khaki greatcoat, which was about a foot longer, he wore a white jaconet hospital coat. Jo had on a pair of spacious ski boots into which she had fitted two pairs of stockings; one pair had been knitted for her by a Serbian girl, and they were so thick and stiff that no suspender could keep them up, so they bunched up over the boots. One of our drivers, an old man with a witch-like face, had a dark red cloak with a pointed hood; and West, having lost his hat, put on a Serbian soldier's cap, which he was taking with him as a keepsake. His arm was hurting him. It was very red and swollen, and no one knew what was wrong with it.

We traveled for about an hour, then everything on the road came to a halt—something was in the way. Half an hour went by, and nothing changed. Drivers several miles back were talking, waving their arms, and cursing; so Jan stepped up as the traffic director, and after a while, with a little maneuvering here and there, the issue was resolved and we could move on. Still, we couldn't find any hay stations, and we were also starving since we hadn't eaten breakfast. We passed a mound where thousands of Austrian prisoners were waking up in the early light. Another hill was filled with boys. Still no station. Then we spotted some haystacks being dismantled by various drivers. Our ten coachmen rushed to the stacks and returned with loads of hay, which they packed into the carts. In just five minutes, the haystacks were gone.

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"Better not leave that good hay for the Swobs," said the corporal, as he urged the horses on. We passed a dressing station. It was like a camp of ox carts with a red cross flag flying overhead. Injured soldiers were sitting and lying on the grass everywhere, while doctors and nurses rushed back and forth with bandages and gauze.

Water was hard to come by. Finally, we stopped at the top of a hill in a strong wind. The water we got from a stream looked dirty, but we boiled it thoroughly in a biscuit tin, and Angelo once again made an amazing curry filled with bully beef while we stomped our toes on the ground to stay warm. A wounded soldier was brought up by a friend. He hadn't received care for days, and we did our best to help him.

A carriage went by carrying two small boxes, with a policeman on each side. Even though the boxes were tiny, the carriage looked so heavy that the horses could barely pull it, and two well-dressed men riding on the carriage often had to get out and push. We speculated whether the boxes were filled with gold. The dreary line of starving boys shuffled by again; some were crying, some were helping others, and one had an English jam tin hanging around his neck. Sir Ralph Paget showed up in a motor car, loaded with packages and threePg 275 other people. We stopped him, and he told Jan that at Novi Bazar he couldn’t find any information about the path Jan suggested, and added that he advised us to go to Mitrovitza. The Scottish women were to drop the idea of a dressing station in Novi Bazar and stop at Rashka. The Serbs told him there was a good chance of Uskub being retaken, in which case we could all travel comfortably to Salonika by train. Otherwise, there were three routes out of the country from Mitrovitza, which he thought was better than relying on just one road, if it even existed.

Jan told him that the carriages were buckling under the weight of the tents, with two of the axle struts having broken; he suggested that if we didn't get rid of the tents, some of the carriages probably wouldn’t make it to Rashka. Sir Ralph told him to do whatever he thought was best.

So we threw the two heavy tops and the long bamboo poles over the side, keeping the sides.

"Oh, what are you doing with our tents?" asked one of the Scottish nurses.

This was complicated! We understood that the tents belonged to Sir Ralph.

All the men insisted they were Sir Ralph's tents, claiming they had seen them at Nish. The "Scottish Woman" said she recognized the tents and that theyPage 276 had cost £50 each. The men from Nish continued to assert ownership of the tents, arguing that war is war and they had abandoned thousands of pounds' worth of supplies, tents, and even motor cars.

"And it was really extravagant of you," she said.

Jan pointed out that if we didn't leave the tents, we would soon have to get rid of both the tents and the carts, which would be even more wasteful.

She slowly felt better, and we drove off into the sunshine. Before we turned the corner, we could see a lively crowd of soldiers, peasants, and boys hurrying to the tents with their pocket knives. Maybe, as shelter, they saved many lives on the cold nights ahead.

More and more tired oxen could be seen lying by the roadside. A huge cart drove over one. We all jumped in our seats, shocked—but the old ox was fine, still chewing its cud. Over the cliff lay the wrecked remains of a cart—its owners were skinning the dead horse. A peasant with his head down led his cart past us. Pulling it was one ox—its partner was in the cart, lifting its head spasmodically—finished. A lot of carts passed us loaded with furniture, bathtubs, and luggage. A well-dressed family was having a picnic by the roadside, sitting on deck chairs. Colonel P—— and Admiral T—— drove by in a shabby little red car. They stopped and told us they were heading to Rashka. It was nice to see English faces again. A familiar figure went by. It was the brave young officer from Uzhitze. We gave a ride to a tired lieutenant, who laughed as we trudged through the mud.

"Ah, English and sports," he said.

Crowds gathered around a man who was carrying a whole sheep on a spit over his shoulder and chopping off pieces for buyers. On a hillside, a woman was handing out rakia. We thought she was selling it, but we were told that it was a funeral and she was giving rakia to anyone who wanted it. Starving Austrian prisoners hurried for a glass and weren’t turned away. The Crown Prince passed by, tipping his hat to fifty kilometers of his people. This time, we weren't going to be caught by the dark, so we stopped near a village at three-thirty. The sides of the two tents provided good shelter for us. They were set up, looking like two long cardhouses, and we used bits of canvas for flooring, which was essential since it was so wet. We quickly made our fires using extra tent pegs, and the rice bag was taken out again. A groaning soldier with a bloodstained bandage askedPg 278 us for help. His arm hadn’t been treated for a while. The doctor who was with us initially thought it was best not to touch it; but eventually agreed to check his wound, which was bleeding heavily.

She ripped up a towel and wrapped it tightly around him. He said he was heading to Studenitza, which was a long day's walk, even though he was almost passing out.

On the hill across from us, there was a large camp of boys. As it got darker, everything faded away except for the glow of the fires. It resembled an old battleship with its lights blazing. We slept, and the women were pretty comfortable, but the men were cramped.

Heavy rain started pouring in and soaked through the tops of the card houses.

"Now I understand what the men go through in the trenches," said a very young girl when she woke up in a pool of water.

"Looks like you don't—they'd call this clover," said a tired voice.

Looking our strangest, we trudged off into the gloom and wet of the next morning, leaping over streams of water that rushed down the roads. West's arm was in worse shape, Willett was getting over a bad chill, and Mawson hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week—everyone was longing for a house.

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"Dobra Dan," said a voice. It was the friend of the injured man we had treated on the first day.

"Where's your friend?" we asked.

"I lost him," he said.

We climbed for three hours and then stopped, stuck. A military vehicle was trapped in the mud, and the wheels were spinning uselessly, so we helped to dig it out. Everyone inside was calling for breakfast, and when we finally found a muddy area, Whatmough and Cutting threw themselves on an old tree trunk and chopped it up for firewood.

We always had "company" during these picnic meals; hungry soldiers, just a bunch of ragged folks held together by bones, surrounded us and discovered the joys of curry and cocoa for the first time.

As we turned the corner and saw the town, a long line of temporary camps spread out beyond the river to our left. Beyond them was a flat plain with a large tent marked by a red cross. High above the town stood a grey hill with a white Turkish blockhouse on it, since although we were in what had always been Serbia, Rashka was just on the border. We pulled into a narrow street and soon came to a halt where two cars were blocking the road.

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The Commandant from Kragujevatz, who had promised transportation to all English hospitals, was standing on the road. He looked really flustered and anxious that we might ask him for something. We assured him we didn't want anything except bread, since neither we nor our drivers had had any bread for three days. The colonel shrugged and made a face.

"You might be able to get it at the hospital."

Another officer, wearing a long black coat, laughed. He took a hard biscuit out of each pocket, looked at them with affection, and then pushed them back in.

"I've got mine anyway," he said. "Bread costs ten shillings a loaf if you can find it."

Annoyed by the colonel's attitude, Jo started to take a stand and became straightforward. He immediately responded with charm.

He looked disappointed with our plan (which we still believed in) to go to Novi Bazar before Mitrovitza to check if there really wasn't a route there.

"Impossible," he said; "the bridges are out between Rashka and Novi Bazar, and there's no way to get through the mountains from there."

We recalled that the country was under Turkish rule three years earlier and figured that the Serbs probably hadn't had the chance to take advantage of new and isolated routes yet. Everywhere in the streets, we saw familiar faces, like the head medical officer and the chief of the military. Page 281

Our personal carts left under the charge of the corporal, who was looking for bread from the Government, since all the bakeries were permanently closed.

The Scottish sisters hadn't found a safe place, and messengers kept returning, saying this location was full and that one had no space.

Colonel G—— became even less pleasant. It felt like there was no organization at all in the town. Finally, once it was dark, someone mentioned that a room had been set up for us in the hospital. The cars moved off slowly, and we told the rest of our vehicles to follow since Colonel G—— said we might find bread at that same place. We stumbled after them through pitch-black streets, so uneven that we couldn't tell if we were in the ditch or on the road; we lost all sense of direction and just tried to keep sight of the flickering lights from the carts. Jo eventually climbed into one, and the carts rolled over a wooden bridge and began to ascend a steep hill. We suddenly arrived at a large wooden house, and our carts plunged into a deep ditch. Jo jumped off just in time to prevent hers from tipping over. Crowds of injured Serbians were gathered at the base of a rickety outdoor staircase. Above was a dressing station and a dark, smelly room with no beds, which would serve as the sisters' home. Since we couldn't find any bread, we stepped back out into the darkness. We didn't know where our carts had gone, but someone said that if we headed "that" way, we would find them. We continued uphill, losing our way in a cornfield. Ahead of us were hundreds of campfires. At the first one, we asked if they had seen the English. They shrugged their shoulders in response. We asked at the next one; same result. We had the dreadful thought that we would have to check every campfire to find our people, but fortunately, we almost stumbled over Mawson, who had been getting water. We were going completely in the wrong direction, and if it hadn't been for this fortunate encounter, we might have wandered for hours.

A good fire was burning in front of the tents. An Austrian prisoner was chopping wood for us in exchange for a meal. He came from a large camp nearby where fires were also burning. Dr. Holmes and a sister came through the smoke; they had finally gotten a cart and a horse. Along with them was an Austrian man fleeing for his life. He had lived in Serbia for years, had Serbian ancestry and sympathies, but if the Austrians caught him, he would be hanged. We wondered if he was the husband of the frantic woman in Kralievo, but we didn’t ask.

One went to bed early these nights. The menPg 283 set up two card tables while Jo was generously given a real camp bed in a corner of the Stobarts' kitchen, where their men also slept along with West, whose arm was getting worse.

Pg 284

We woke up to figure out where we were. The small camp we had noticed to our left when we entered the town was now far to our right. The flat plain—where was that large tent with the red cross painted on it—had been our sleeping spot, with the tent behind us; to our right was the brown hill topped by the old Turkish blockhouse; and in front of us, a cut maize field with its solid red stubble sloped directly down to the river, beyond which lay the village crowded on the opposite slope up to a white church. Right below us on the river's edge were the roofs of the "Stobarts'" shelter and the Scottish women's hospital. Poplar trees in their full autumn splendor towered from the valley, their tops filled with the blackest crows, cawing discordantly at dawn. Our fire had gone out, but the Austrian had left enough wood, so we quickly started another; however, we discovered that while making his curries, Angelo had melted all the solder from the empty biscuit tins, and not one would hold water. So, there was a rushed transfer of biscuits from a whole one. Pg 285

From where we were sitting with our cocoa, we could see the rush of cars in the main square and groups of bullock wagons and soldiers around the church fence. A big street that divided the village in half—the old Turkish border—was nearly empty. The corporal suggested we check in with the military commandant to look for hay and bread. So, Jan put on his wet boots and headed down the hill with him, picking up Jo from the "Stobarts" on the way.

We crossed the shaky wooden bridge, passed between the outdoor camps—like wandering peddlers—of truck drivers and soldiers that lined the roads, up the main street and into the square. Everything that now represented SERBIA was concentrated in this small village. Private homes had suddenly become ministries; cafés turned into headquarters; and shops were now departmental offices. The square served as the main auto station, with cars being fixed or adjusted in every corner. Underneath the church fence, a group of truck drivers had a large bonfire and were roasting a whole sheep on a spit. Austrian prisoners with pale, drawn faces wandered around, staring blankly; a Serbian soldier was chewing on a hard biscuit, and a prisoner crept up to him, asking for a piece of bread; the soldier broke off a piece and gave it to him.

About the gate of the commandant's office were gathered Serbs and Austrians, all waiting for bread. We pushed our way in. The hay was quickly arranged, but the bread was another story.

"We don't have any bread," said the commandant.

"But," we argued, "all those guys waiting outside. They wouldn't be here if you didn’t have any bread."

The commander tugged his mustache.

"We only have bread for soldiers."

There was a sudden noise outside. The door burst open; two soldiers came in, dragging a man—a peasant. His eyes were wide, and his face was pale. We then noticed that he was holding his shoulders strangely and realized that his arms were tied with his own belt. The two soldiers shoved him into an inner room, but the officials were busy, so he was left standing in a corner.

"What did he do?" we asked.

"We only have bread for the soldiers," the commandant repeated. Clearly, bread was the priority.

"We have a government order."

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He looked it over, seized the three franc phrase, and offered us money. We pointed out that bread was marked at that price—

"We don't have any bread for the English," he said finally.

Jo once again delivered the unpleasant little speech that we had found so effective in Kralievo. It worked like a charm. A huge sack filled with bread loaves was pulled out, and he selected three from it. We brought up the man again. The commandant shrugged his shoulders.

"He's going to get killed," he said. "Some soldiers raided his yard and he shot one."

He then asked the corporal if he would prefer flour instead of bread. The corporal agreed, adding that if that were the case, they would definitely get a little more.

"Of course, you won't," said the commander.

We sent the corporal back to camp with the loaves and, after a bit of effort, found the house where Colonel P—— and Admiral T—— were staying. It was a charming little cottage, and both were having breakfast. They welcomed us and generously offered us their extra eggs, even though eggs were hard to come by. The admiral had a large map—of course, made by Austria—and we searched it for our route. The paths were clearly marked, with houses at convenient intervals. ItPg 288 seemed like a much better route than the Ipek pass, both in terms of shelter and distance.

"But," we said, "Sir Ralph thinks we should head to Mitrovitza, because the Serbs say Uskub will fall in a few days."

"I should leave the country as soon as you can," said one.

"It’s very unlikely that Uskub can fall," said the other. But they promised to give us the most definite information they were allowed to share if we returned for tea, by which time the airplane reconnaissance should have come in.

We returned to the camp with the news.

Colonel G—— approached and tried to erase the impression he had left the night before. He insisted that Uskub would definitely fall within the week and that it would be foolish for us to head to Novi Bazar, which we could never reach because the bridge had been washed away.

All the hills behind were packed with Austrian prisoners. They had been given one loaf of bread for every three men, and they said it had to last them three days. They had no idea where they were headed. Blease walked through their lines and eventually found an old servant—a Hungarian. He was a stoic.

"One lives until one is dead," he said.

The hospital was busy with injured people:Pg 289 nurses and doctors both working hard. The "Stobarts" were taking a break and had set up a campfire outside their little hut. We prepared lunch, carelessly destroying another biscuit tin. While we were eating, a Serb approached.

"I'm starving," he said.

We gave him some curry and rice. He gobbled it up.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm going back to commando."

We pointed to his hand, which was wrapped in filthy cloth.

"But?"

"It's better to return hurt than to starve to death."

We also held a court of justice. A driver complained that one of the Englishmen had given him a pair of boots and that the corporal had taken them.

"Corporal!!"

He came in grinning. We shared the complaint.

"Sure, the guy had a pair of boots," he said, "but he doesn't have them anymore. Now they're mine; I’ve taken them."

"But they were given to him."