It was 8.30 p.m. when we marched into Medua. We were not allowed to take the ponies through the village, which was crowded with soldiers and refugees, and amongst these we had to jostle our way. I left the party, and the ponies, and went to find Admiral Trowbridge, who was in charge of the port. I found him sitting at a table in a tiny room, about five feet square, in a cottage on the quay. I sent in my name, and when I entered the room he said: "Good God! Mrs. Stobart, why are you so late? I have been expecting you all day. The last British boat has just gone." I explained that the Germans had a trick of dropping bombs on parties who were starting to catch boats, and that Albanian peasants didn't always play the game, etc. But here we were now, and what should we do? "Well," he said, "there is a small Italian boat, already overcrowded, leaving to-night, in half an hour's time, and I have been spending a very uncomfortable day telling 3,000 people that I can't find them room on a boat which only holds 300. But, of course, you shall have places." He then amused me, for he warned me that travelling by this boat involved grave risks; to-day, all day long, submarines from below, and bombs from Taubes above, had been trying to destroy her, and had fallen within five yards of her. Medua had also been attacked, and all the Admiral's windows were smashed. The sea outside the harbour was thick with submarines, and——. "But is there any alternative way of getting home?" "No. This is probably the last chance, except by that terrible march to Durazzo. And by that route, the rivers are swift, deep, and bridgeless, and can only be crossed by swimming. It would be almost better to fall into the hands of the Austrians than to face all that." "Very well, then," I answered, "do not let us waste time." He then sent for Commander Kerr, and told him to see us on board at once. The latter was an old friend, for he had visited our Kragujevatz camp, and we had also met him on the trek, two days out from Petch, when he had, like most people, grown his beard, and I did not at first recognise him. But I recognised him now, and shall always be grateful to him, and to the Admiral, for the successful exertions they made during that next half hour, to get us on board. My only regret was that I had not time to send a line of thanks by the returning soldiers, to the officer who had lent the ponies, and enabled us to catch this steamer. We bade a hurried farewell to our own soldiers, who cried, although we gave them our little stock of beans, and rice, and mealie meal. We had no tinned foods left.

We were hustled into a little boat, which was hailed with difficulty, to take us to the steamer, and we had no time to drink the coffee which the commander's men had kindly prepared for us. But though we were hungry, when we stepped on board, and heard that no food, not even tea or coffee, was available on the boat, none of these trifles could trouble us now, for now we were on our way home; home—a word that had during three months been banished from our minds.

There were no berths or places downstairs; the boat was crowded with refugees, and with Serbian wounded officers, and some families, on their way to France and Switzerland; but the night was fine, and the sea smooth, and we sat on deck all night, in life-belts. We were accompanied by two torpedo boats, and we reached Brindisi without adventure, at noon on Christmas Day.

We had promised ourselves a Christmas dinner at a good restaurant or hotel, but we were greeted, in the harbour, with the news that the Brindisians were afraid of typhus, and that we should not be allowed to land, until just before the train left for Rome in the evening. We had had no food since the night before last, and we spent Christmas Day, close to the first town we had seen for three months which was not in process of evacuation, gazing at the big houses, in which greedy people were probably overeating themselves with good things. The British Consul could not come on board. He had sprained his ankle—a Christmas Day sprain with which we had every sympathy. I sent him a message, and the Vice-Consul arrived, full of abstract kindness, but the non-landing rule was inexorable. He stayed with us to take me and our treasurer, at 6 p.m., to see the Consul and to make money arrangements for the journey to London. The rest of the party must wait at the station. In the station restaurant the most tempting-looking food was flauntingly displayed. Might the staff not enter this Land of Promise while I saw the Consul? No; admission was forbidden to all who had come from overseas; but a kindly English resident in Brindisi, who made it his work to look after refugees, undertook to bring food, from the restaurant, to our starving ones on the station platform, and, bless him, he worked nobly for them whilst I went to see the Consul.

There were no cabs, and we three walked to the Consul's house. I thought we should never get there. On the way we passed a shop, the most glorious shop I had ever seen. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was full of real hams, and tongues, and sausages. "Oh! I must go in here and buy some food for the unit for the journey," I cried to the Vice-Consul, overcome by the desire to see and touch and make sure of real food. "Better not now; it will do on the way back," he answered indifferently, and we left the shop behind. I turned round to locate it in my memory, for even though it was closed, I should not leave Brindisi till I had secured some of those good things.

We reached the Consul's house at seven o'clock, and went into the drawing-room with the Vice-Consul. The door of the dining-room was partly open, and I saw the sprained ankle laid out all over the side-board. I have never felt so hungry in my life. The Consul greeted us kindly. He was walking about; the ankle only confined him to the house. "How do you do, Mrs. Stobart? Would you like a biscuit?" I hoped at first that he was joking, but he was not. "Oh, yes," I answered, ready to cry with disappointment, "we're starving." Then he brought a tin of biscuits and some port wine. That was better. He gave us the biscuit tin to take with us, and he very kindly told the Vice-Consul to arrange for supper for us all in the train. As to money, we could have as much as we wanted; he had plenty. He gave us the sum for which we asked, sealed in an envelope; it was not worth while, he said, for us to count it. He was sure it was all right. I knew I ought to have counted it, but there was not much time to spare to catch our train; and when we opened the envelope, later, we found he had given us a thousand lire too much. Had it been a thousand lire too little, I should not have liked to write and tell him.

My anxiety now was to obtain a railway pass. As it was Christmas Day, the Consul said he couldn't get an official pass. The Prefect couldn't be found; his ankle was more seriously sprained; we should have to take our chance. We should get to Bari, two hours distant, safely, and if we had trouble there, we must telegraph to the Consulate. Not a very encouraging prospect, especially as the Vice-Consul told us that another party had been kept for two days at Bari.

But now for that sausage shop. The V.-C. came with us, in a cab, and we found the shop. It was crammed full of things we had not seen for nine months. On the counter was a lovely-looking Italian sausage. I asked the shopman to cut a slice, and to let me taste it. It was an absurdly thin slice, and I soon asked for another; and then I looked for J. G. He was busy browsing all round the shop, on bits of cheese, and figs, and dates, but he gave immediate attention to the slice of sausage I offered him. I don't know what the V.-C. must have thought of us, but my thought was that everybody ought to be made to starve sometimes, just to know what it feels like; they wouldn't then ask starving people to look in at sausage shops on their way back. But the V.-C. was delaying his own Christmas dinner for our sakes, and he nobly insisted on coming with us to the station. He saw us into the train, which left at 8.37 p.m., and he gave us lovely parcels of supper for the journey; supper number two for the others, who had now eaten well, and drunk red Italian wine, and were very happy. We reached Bari three hours later. I went to see the Station Commandant; he was charming, and made no trouble about the railway passport, and he gave us, free of cost, compartments to ourselves in the train leaving at 11.30 for Rome, through Central Italy. We reached Rome at 6 p.m. on Sunday, December 26th, and at the Station Hotel Restaurant, we had our first good sit-down, hot meal. We shall never forget that dinner.

At Rome station, and everywhere on the journey, we were stared at, as though we were a menagerie. People crowded round us in quaintest fashion. We did not realise it, but perhaps our clothes looked weather-worn.

From Rome we were, at last, able to send telegrams home to our friends, who had heard no news of us for three months. At this station again, directly we arrived, I went to see the Station Commandant, and asked him to expedite us farther. "Yes, by all means; first or second class?" "First, of course." And we reached Pisa at 6 a.m. on Monday, December 27th; Spezzia at 8. At Culoz we changed, at 11 p.m., for Paris, and arrived there at 8.30 a.m., December 28th. Here I had a little difficulty, and was sent from one department, in one end of Paris, to another department, at the other end of the town, all the morning, to obtain the railway pass. Amongst other offices to which I was directed, was that of the "Intelligence Anglaise." But when I arrived there, I found neither the one nor the other. Finally, I went to the War Office, and I saw the Minister of War, who was very courteous, and, though I had to wait a long time, I eventually took away the necessary papers. We all drove from the Gare de Lyons to the Gare du Nord, for Boulogne, only to be told that the boats from Boulogne had been discontinued three weeks ago, and that we had better make for some other port. That was a blow; but as the pass had just been made out by the War Office, for Boulogne, I assumed that a military boat would take us across, and that we had better risk it.

We left for Boulogne at 1.15 on Tuesday, December 28th. The train was horribly slow, and we did not reach Boulogne till 11 p.m. I thought we might possibly have trouble here, about the pass, as we were nearing the land of white chalk and red tape. I inquired at once, as usual, at the station, for the Commandant, found his office, and, to my surprise and joy, was greeted by "Hulloa! Mrs. Stobart, I am glad to see you." An old friend, of whom I had lost sight for some years. He was in charge of the Transport Service, and I knew that the way would now be smooth. He gave us supper in the excellent Red Cross restaurant; found rooms for us at a good hotel (no easy job, as the town was crowded), and facilitated in every way our departure for London, next day, by military boat. We reached Charing Cross on the evening of Wednesday, December 29th, after an absence in the Balkans of nine months—having travelled free of railway cost, through Serbia, Montenegro, Albania, Italy, France and England.

Our telegrams from Rome must have misfired. There was no one at the station to meet us. Were they all dead? Or—but evidently London had not yet been evacuated. Indeed, as we drove through the streets, we wondered if peace had been declared. What a contrast! Here, thousands of sleek and well-dressed people, jostling each other for places in the music-halls; and out there, thousands of people, hungry, thirsty, and in rags, jostling each other to escape every conceivable form of horror. But we were, thank God, at home again. We had done nothing wonderful—women are not allowed to do wonderful things—but we were content to feel that we had contributed our tiny share towards the relief of suffering, and we had, perhaps, made it easier for other women to do more in future times.