On arrival at MalÇa we were told to bivouac in a field adjoining the road, just outside the village. It had rained all day, and we ate our supper in the rain, round a wood fire, which had been difficult to light. We sat on the shafts of the wagons, or on anything that presented itself as a seat above the soaking ground, and the night was so dark, that we took the substance of the seat on trust. In the middle of supper there was a sudden earthquake, and two of the nurses were shot from their seat, over the fire, to the other side. We found that they had, unawares, seated themselves on the back of a weary ox, who had apparently found the fire a trifle too hot, and had uprisen. It was not worth while, we were told, to put up tents, so again we slept in the cars, and we revelled in the luxury of seven hours of sleep. I always now, and for the next three months, slept in my day clothes, as the order to move generally came at night, and time spent in dressing could be better spent in hastening the preparations for departure. I learned, during this journey, to economise in dressing and in sleeping, as well as in eating.

Next morning (Monday, October 11th) I was up at four o'clock, and though the men had been told that we were to start at five, I found them all asleep, near the wagons, round their wood fires. No hay had been fetched, and this would mean a serious delay. I saw that the occasion required an exhibition of a little majorly wrath. So I sent for all the men, and, through the interpreter Vooitch, made them understand that a command must be obeyed. When I began speaking, I was not genuinely angry, and I only gave them the external fierce eye and a firm voice; but feelings quickly adapt themselves to contortions of the muscles, and I soon found that I was giving them the real thing, with excellent results. I had not the rifle butt or stick to back me up, but the men understood. But by the time that they had fetched the hay to take with us, for the oxen and horses, and had hauled a stuck wagon out of the mud, we were late. We did not start till 5.30, with the result that the Bakers' Column, which should have been behind us, was ahead of us—a terrible disgrace. But we caught them up, and I made them allow us to pass them, and we were never late again.

We reached Nish at 10 a.m., and found that the town was indeed beflagged in honour of the arrival of the Allies! We guessed that they would not arrive now, and for many weeks to come, those flags of welcome drooped metaphorically in our hearts, reproducing that indescribable feeling of mingled hope, disappointment, and humiliation that we felt as we rode through Nish that day.

We outspanned beside the Red Cross railway station, on a plain which was covered with encamped columns—cavalry, infantry, pioneers, engineers, bakers, etc.—all belonging to the Schumadia Division.

The President of the Red Cross, Doctor Soubotitch, who had visited the Stobart Hospital at Kragujevatz, at once sent a kind message, asking me and our secretary, J. G., to lunch with him and to meet the Commander of our division, Colonel Terzitch, and our P.M.O. The two latter were hurrying to leave by train for the north of Serbia. The secret was now revealed that our division, which was reckoned the best in the Serbian Army, had been ordered to the Danube front to meet the combined German and Austrian attack, which was now inevitable. We went with the President to the station to bid the Colonel and the Major God-speed. Our column was to follow during the day, when its turn for a train should come. Meanwhile, Doctor S. generously, from the Red Cross depÔt, filled some blanks in our medical and food stores; he also gave us some extra clothing for the soldiers.

He had suffered much since we had seen him at Kragujevatz. He had lost his only son, the only child, from typhoid; and his wife, distracted with grief, had died soon afterwards. His house was a house of ghosts. He showed us the room in which his wife had died, and the room in which his son had lived. But he could now, he said, face the future fearlessly, for he had nothing left to fear from death. The only living things which were left to him to love were two beautiful and well-bred ponies, which had belonged to his boy. These were capering playfully in the field, and came up to be petted when he called them. Were these also lost to him when Nish was captured by the enemy? In memory of his beloved, he had given all his fortune to a foundation for Serbian doctors, and was then living on his doctor's income. He will now have lost that too.

At the station we saw the first wounded arrive by train from Belgrade. We spoke to them, and they told us that it was true that Belgrade had been taken by the Germans. They also added that the German infantry were of an inferior class, but that the artillery was, as always, terribly strong.

The plain, which had been crowded on our arrival, was gradually discharging its convoys into the trains, which steamed north one after the other in quick succession. But on the Station platform, as the trains departed, there were no demonstrations, no bands, no singing of "Auld Lang Syne." In Serbia there was no need of fictitious aids to sentiment. The work was performed silently, almost automatically; war was no novelty in Serbia.

We might expect our turn to leave at any time after midnight. We placed corporals, in watches, at the station all through the night to warn us, but one, two, three o'clock came and there was no signal. We rested in the cars, and made ourselves hot coffee at 2.30 a.m., found that we should not be called for some hours, and slept till six. Still no call, so later I drove into Nish to pay my respects to the British Minister, Sir Charles Des Graz, whom I had met when he visited us at Kragujevatz, and I told him of my appointment with the Serbian Army. I found that he, too, was very human, with no artificial stiffness or convention. He was not shocked, but much interested on hearing that I was in command, and called his secretary from the next room and told him that I held rank equal to that of major. We discussed the political situation, and asked and answered questions of interest to us both. He asked, as though it were incredible, if it were true that the Bulgars had attacked on the front we had just left. They had not done so as yet. Sir Ralph Paget was still away, or I should have called also on him.

We were to leave in the next train after the Ambulance Column of which Major A. was in command; and at 5 p.m. some of us went to the station to watch their embarkation. This was prolonged, and we talked to two friendly French doctors who were with Major A. Eventually the train steamed out of the station, and I turned to go and see the stationmaster about our train, when, to my surprise, I saw the short, stout, French doctor standing on the platform, still talking animatedly with one of our doctors. "Didn't you mean to go with your column?" I asked surprised. He turned round and saw that the train had gone—without him. It was obviously his own fault, but that was not his opinion, and for a time it looked as though the fury of the coming war, was to be channelled in the rage of one French doctor against the Serbian nation. But I pointed out hurriedly, in passing, what luck it was for him, and for us, that he had been left behind, because now he could travel with us in our third-class carriages, instead of in the cattle truck which would have been his fate.

At that moment the stationmaster rushed up with worried face. "Would I," he asked, "be so very good as to let the Bakers' Column go before us, because the next train contained more trucks than we should need, and they were needed by the bakers?" Our column was already waiting to embark, drawn up in line outside the station, impatient to be off after so much delay; but, of course, I agreed to the stationmaster's request, and we made room for the bakers to pass. We spent the interval eating supper and pacifying the French doctor for the "insult" of having been left behind. By the time supper was finished, he was so far mollified that he was willing to restrict his vengeance to the person of the Major, and to let off the Serbian nation. So I had hopes that after a night's journey under the same pacifying influences, there would be hope even for the Major.

We had great difficulty in getting the cars on to the trucks, which were too small, and the horrible suggestion was made that the cars must be left behind and follow later. I knew what that would mean: we should never see them again, and we could not evacuate the wounded or carry the staff without them. So I insisted firmly that the barriers of the trucks must be removed, and that the trucks must be hacked into the necessary size. And the stationmaster, wearied and overworked, without time for sleep or food, was a marvel of patience and good temper. He let us do what we liked, and our chauffeurs, who were also marvels of resourcefulness, hammered and unscrewed and manipulated, in one way and another, so that before long the task was accomplished, and the cars were all safely on board. Then, as we were at last about to start, we heard shouts of horror, and looking towards the tail end of the long train, which had at the moment no one near it, we saw flames of fire leaping in the air—one of the trucks, containing one of our wagons and, alas! some petrol barrels, was blazing fiercely. At this last moment was our equipment to be destroyed and our work to be stopped? The hood of the wagon was burned and some of the soldiers' clothes, but the petrol was rescued before the fire reached it, the fire was soon extinguished, and no great harm was done.

We left at 7 p.m., and slept as best we could on the narrow wooden seats of the third-class carriages. Our destination had not been officially mentioned, and my instructions were to stay in the train until it stopped. But I knew that we were bound for Belgrade or Semendria. At 8.30 next morning, (Wednesday, October 13th) the train stopped at a station called Velika Plana (Big Hill), and we saw, to our surprise, that the Bakers' Column was outspanned on the platform. Nothing happened, and nobody came with orders, so I asked the engine driver if he had received orders to stop here. He said "Yes"; and he thought we had better disembark, as we were not going any farther. I asked the station commandant, and he said also that we must leave the train; no more trains were to run north; but he had no further orders for us. Something had evidently happened to cause a change in the plans, as Major A.'s column had passed through and gone on safely.

I then disembarked the column, left the interpreter with them, and rode to the town with the German-speaking dispenser, and an orderly, to see the officer in command of the military station. He knew nothing, and we were discussing what could best be done, when the telegraphic machine rapped out a message telling him to tell me to proceed at once, by road, to a place called Palanka. I was to communicate a similar order to the bakers. I returned to the column, who were waiting ready to leave, and while we were making the final arrangements, German Taubes dropped bombs upon the line close to us. But at 10.30 a.m. we left the station. From that moment, and until we reached Brindisi, three months later, on our return to England, we did not board another train.

We gave our French friend a front seat in one of the cars; his wrath against the Major was now modified to sarcasm; the Major's life was saved. And I should not like to swear that at the end of the day, when the doctor rejoined his unit, he did not express even gratitude to the Major for the opportunity that had been given him to "learn English."