The next dispensary to be started was at Lapovo, an important railway junction on the Belgrade-Nish line. On Sunday, July 18th, at 5 a.m., Colonel Guentchitch, the head of the Army Medical Service, accompanied me and one of our doctors to Lapovo to choose the site. The day was, as usual, a feast day, and we stopped on the way, at an artillery encampment, to watch the soldiers dancing the kolo. One soldier stood playing the fiddle, whilst fifty or sixty others were holding hands, and dancing, quite silently, in a circle round him. How could even their enemies have painted these simple-minded, clean-living peasant soldiers, as fierce, fighting-loving savages?

A suitable camping-ground was found adjoining and above the railway, on either side of a long one-storied building which was not yet completed; this could later be used as hospital with eighty beds.

The doctor of the reserve hospital in Lapovo, two miles from the station, invited us to lunch under the trees, in the field of the church compound. A requiem service was being held, and the church was full of peasant women. Upon the floor were many trays of food—the favourite cakes and fruits and flowers of the dead. When the service was over, the women picked up the trays and came outside and handed the food to their friends. They then carried the remainder of the food home; they could not take it to the dead in the cemetery, because the men had been killed in battle.

These requiem services for the dead, are held first after forty-two days from death, in accordance with the old belief that the soul takes six weeks to reach Heaven; then after six months, and again at the anniversary of death.

The women wore tartan skirts, very full; short, loose bodices, of a different colour to the skirt, generally a plain colour, and kerchiefs which completely covered their hair, and were either brilliantly coloured, or else were in black to denote mourning. The men often wore long white tunics, over white trousers, which were tucked into long, knitted, coloured stockings; and opantsi or soft leather sandals.

A funeral peasant party came to the church whilst we were lunching in the field. A man in shirt sleeves walked in front, carrying a tray with the funeral food of the deceased. Next followed a man carrying a cross, and a wreath bearing the name of the dead; then friends with flags; then the coffin, carried by men. On the shoulders of each bearer was pinned a towel, or kerchief, which fluttered in the breeze. Next came the women in gay colours; black as mourning, except in the head kerchief, is thought to be a bad omen.

Owing to delay in the arrival of the unit, the camp at Lapovo was not established till July 28th. Even then the dispensary tents and stores had not come; but some horribly ancient bell-tents turned up from somewhere, and with these and with stores from our Kragujevatz hospital, we began work.

The Doctors Milanovitch and Stoyanovitch met us at the Lapovo Station, and, with the courtesy usual with Serbian officers and officials, offered help, and gave us coffee and cakes under the trees in the garden of the station restaurant. The local Prefect also visited us; he was beautifully dressed in the peasant costume. The day was hot, and he wore no coat, but a soft white shirt, and embroidered waistcoat, brown frieze trousers, tucked into embroidered socks, and leather sandals. He invited us to his Slava feast next day at noon.

The first night was made a little uncomfortable by a violent thunderstorm. The rain treated the tents with the disdain which they deserved, and came straight through, wetting beds and blankets. Next day, therefore, we encamped in the unfinished building, and though there was no floor, and there were no windows, it seemed luxury to have a roof overhead.

Dr. Cockburn, a Canadian doctor, at once won the sympathies of the peasants, who came in hundreds to the dispensary. The first patient, however, gave her much amusement. He was a Serbian officer; he asked to see the doctor, and when she said that she was the doctor, he ran away, and he never came back.

On Sunday evening we were all invited to supper with Dr. Stoyanovitch. He was in charge of a hospital to which were attached field ambulances, for work at the front. We supped out of doors behind the hospital building, in a large yard, and other guests were officers, the apothecary, a medical student, in addition to Dr. Stoyanovitch and Dr. Milanovitch and his wife. At the back of the yard, which was well shaded with trees, were rows of hooded ox-carts; I was surprised to hear that these were for ambulance purposes. I little knew how familiar I should later become with this form of transport for wounded.

The Serbians have a delightful sense of humour, and before we had sat down to the meal, we were all laughing and joking about our places at the table. It is the custom for women to sit at one end and men at the other, but I couldn't allow such a dull arrangement, and I suggested to our host that we had better intermix, and that I intended anyhow to sit next him. He laughed, and said that as we might all be suffragettes he would do as we told him. So we had a "general post" for places, and fine fun. The night was cool, and lovely, and the moon rose dramatically over the trees. During supper, music was provided; a young man, a barber, sat near and played the mandoline beautifully. I asked how he had learnt to play so well, and our host said that all barbers played the mandoline well. It annoyed me not to be able to see the connection between barberism and the mandoline, but I haven't seen it yet.

After supper, soldiers were called to entertain us by singing, and by dancing the kolo, and as usual the kolo infection spread, and soon we were all hand-in-hand, jigging and prancing in the moonlight. Finally, when we said that we must leave, the soldiers all shouted "Shivela Engleska!" (Long live England!); we all sang the Serbian and the English National Anthems; I thanked the soldiers, through the officers, for their entertainment, and expressed our pleasure at the comradeship between the Serbian and English nations, and thus ended an interesting evening. I haven't mixed much in military circles in England, but I wondered whether it would have been possible in our country, for officers and men to consort so freely together. This camaraderie was interesting, and if it does not lead to lack of discipline in the field, the relationship is ideal. I came to the conclusion that in the German, the British, and the Serbian Armies respectively, three degrees of discipline are represented, and that of these the German is too severe, and the Serbian perhaps a trifle too lax.

The next day, before returning to camp, I went with our treasurer, John Greenhalgh, and the chauffeur, the Rev. J. Little, to the Slava lunch of the Prefect of Lapovo. The table was laid in the yard, at the back of the one-storied house. Two other houses, belonging respectively to our host's brother and to his mother, were within the same enclosure, in accordance with the old custom of Zadruga, which still prevails to a limited extent. The priest was performing the inauguration ceremony in the two other houses, and we waited, sitting at our table, for our turn. Our host's old aunt, a picturesque old lady, sat with us. On the white-clothed table was the usual big brown candle, and a bread cake ornamented with imitation sheaves and covered with a cloth. The wife and a young son and daughter were preparing the meal. During summer the kitchen was in an outer shed.

The priest was a long time in the other houses, and to keep us quiet, we were given beer and cognac, which we pretended to drink, and bread cake. Our host was dressed in his yesterday's costume and looked beautiful with his clean, white, soft shirt, no horrid stiff collar or artificial cuffs. He could only talk Serbian, and we had no interpreter, but our treasurer, an excellent linguist, and I, had by now learnt a little Serbian, and conversation didn't flag. But we were glad when the priest came. He said prayers at the table, then took a bowl of incense and swung it under our faces; the Prefect next lit the big candle, and the priest said more prayers, and took the loaf and cut it, without severing it, into four parts, and he and the Prefect turned it round and round in their four hands, whilst the priest again said prayers. They then turned the loaf upside down, and each in turn three times kissed the side turned towards him. The priest then broke the loaf in half, put it together again, and replaced it on the table. A portion of the bread was then cut and handed to us all. That was the finish. After that our meal proper was served. On Slava days the host and hostess are not allowed to sit down with their guests; so they waited on us, and ate afterwards. Soup, stewed beef and vegetables, stewed chicken, stewed pork, apple pastry, cakes and wine, were the excellent mÉnu, and finally coffee and pears, and again coffee.

On Slava days anybody is allowed to claim hospitality, and while we were lunching, we saw women, and children, and gipsies go to the kitchen and sit outside, waiting for the food which could not be refused. Slava feast used to last a week, and was a time of ruination, but now it only lasts for two days in the country districts, and for one day in the towns, and as a rule only invited guests come to be fed.

The dispensary was, as usual, a huge success. Later, when war was renewed, the building—then finished—was made into a hospital, and the wards were filled with wounded. But Lapovo station was singled out for attack by the enemy, and, at the order of the authorities, the unit eventually evacuated the place just before the town was taken.