On Sunday, October 31st, the order to leave for Voliovtza came at 10.30 a.m. On the road, Major A. and one of the French doctors, who were both riding, joined us, and we pitched our respective camps on either side of the road, just outside Jagodina. While we were pitching our tents, a German aeroplane dropped bombs within a few yards of Major A.'s camp. No harm was done, though in Jagodina many were injured, and six people were killed, including the brother of one of our men, by bombs dropped a few minutes later by this same aeroplane.

Major A.'s mother and sister were living at Jagodina, having fled there from Belgrade, from the Austrians, some months earlier. The Major was now much troubled, because it seemed that they must remain in the town. Where, he asked, could they go? If they went south, they ran grave risk of being captured by the Bulgars. If they stayed in Jagodina, they would, it is true, be taken by the Germans, but they preferred the Germans, as the lesser, they said, of two evils.

This time we were able to pitch our bivouac on dry ground, on short, sheep-eaten grass by the roadside; and we received at once some wounded. But it was discomforting to find that the number of our patients was in inverse ratio to our losses in the field. This evening we only had a dozen, and they walked in. They told us that the severely wounded were being left upon the field; the enemy would give no time for collecting them, and they were, as usual, firing on the ambulance parties. Only those men, therefore, came for treatment who could move themselves. Also wagons for transport, usually commandeered from the local peasants, had now all been taken away by the refugees for their own uses. Fighting was continuous, and the thought of the wounded lying untended on the field, was nearly unbearable. I knew that fierce battles had been raging near us, and yet there were only a few wounded in our dispensary tent. I spoke next morning about this condition of affairs to Major A., but he said, and I knew that it was true, that the P.M.O. was doing all that was possible. I was for the moment, however, sorely tempted to go with our own ambulance cars to the battle-field and pick up as many wounded as we could, but I remembered in time, that I had been entrusted with the command of a column which had its own deputed work, and that such command had, for the first time, been entrusted to a woman; it would be a dereliction of my responsibilities if, for any purpose, I neglected these to take upon myself somebody else's responsibilities. I resisted the temptation, but with a sore heart.

The French doctors and Major A. spent the morning with us, the former and we trying to assure the Major that the situation must change for the better before long. He, however, was convinced, and rightly so, that his country was doomed. In the afternoon J. G. and I went over to his (the Major's) camp and had coffee in an arbour, placed in a vineyard of American vines; these were of a light green colour, and looked beautiful against the purple mists upon the mountains. They had been imported as a check to the vine pest, the phylloxera.

On Tuesday, November 2nd, the situation looked desperate. It had never looked so black. Even rumours as to the arrival of the Allies, were now less frequent, though poor old King Peter, remembering, no doubt, how a year ago he had, by his presence at the front, inspired his troops to further effort, drove that afternoon past our camp to the trenches, saluting us as he drove past, and told the men that if they would only stick to it bravely for a few more days, help would be forthcoming. But it was obvious to us all that the Serbian Army, with its inferiority of artillery, might check, but it could not stem the tide of the enemy's advance. The big guns now roared and thundered mercilessly, louder and nearer, almost continuously day and night. I could never understand why, being so near, the enemy did not make a dash and cut off our retreat. It might be expected any minute, and the tenacious defence that was made by this Serbian Army, in the face of terrific odds, was indeed worthy of admiration.

The Germans had taken Kragujevatz; this town had, whilst we were there, seemed to us like a second home, and now it was, together with its inhabitants, who had been so friendly to us, in the enemy's hands; all our wealth of hospital material and equipment was being fingered by Germans, and German soldiers were bivouacked within our much-loved tents upon the racecourse; and—and this was the saddest thought of all—the fine arsenal was now being used to fashion German munitions to be used against our Serbian friends. The Germans were also at Milanovatz, and our dispensary headquarters at Rudnik would be in their possession.

From our present position we could watch the battles raging on the near hills; these were ablaze with fire from shell and shrapnel. We were already, as Major A. pointed out, surrounded on three sides. Could we—that is, could the Army—possibly escape?

The Major thought it was impossible, but the French doctors were as usual delightfully optimistic. They had, with me, confidence in the Serbian État-major, which had formerly done excellently against the Turks, the Bulgars, and the Austrians; and they were not likely to fail us now. They must have some way of escape up their sleeve; the retreat was being conducted in such a dignified fashion, it was clear that the control was in capable hands. But faith was a useful companion.

Then came a sudden influx of severely wounded—96 that day up to 10.30 p.m., and with a bound, up went the spirits of the doctors and the nurses. But it was piteous to see these wounded. We knew that most of them must die, for there was no time for them to rest anywhere; they were evacuated from station to station. After we had treated them they must, according to our instructions, continue, in the ox-wagons which had brought them, to Treshnitza—14 kilometres distant. Two officers were in a pitiful condition—their brains were bulging through their skulls, and they had also been shot in the stomach. They must die in the carts.

At sunset I climbed a small hill with Major A., and on three sides we saw the battle—many battles—raging. White smoke, and black smoke, and flashes of fire, were belching forth, with thunders, and roaring, and occasional silences, which were worse than the noises, for in the silence you could feel the agony of the wounded—the passing of the dead. On the fourth side, and just below us, was a sight which would, a few years ago, have been no less remarkable. By the side of the road, along which were passing at that moment, guns damaged in the action which we had just been watching, the various columns of an army in retreat, and refugees in flight, we saw a small white camp. Moving in and out, quietly, and leisurely, amongst the tents, were some women, who seemed to have no concern with the tumult that was raging all around them. One of them was cooking supper over an open wood fire. She was apparently joking with the Serbian cook-orderly and threatening to hit him on the head with the frying-pan. An ox-wagon stopped in front of—ah! yes!—that was a Red Cross flag. Immediately, a woman in a long white coat, and two women in white aprons, stepped out from the tent nearest the road. The white-coated woman climbed up on the wheel of the wagon, and stooped down to examine a mangled form, which was immediately taken out, placed upon a stretcher, and carried into the tent. And we realised that the picture formed a tiny fragment of the European mosaic of war; it was a scene in the routine of the First Serbian-English Field Hospital.

That evening we ate supper in the open, round the fire, but it was difficult to take our eyes off the absorbing scenes that were being enacted all around us. Occasionally an extra loud and startling outburst of cannon-roar, quite close to us, made us jump; but no one took any further notice, and we went on with our supper. After supper we received a message that we were to hold ourselves in readiness to depart at any moment, and we accordingly packed our hospital tent. But the wounded continued to arrive. For this we were always thankful, and the doctors and nurses now attended them in the open, by the light of hurricane lanterns; our acetylene gas lamp was packed. But then came a further order that we were not to move until the morning, so we put up the hospital tent again, for it was raining, and shelter for the wounded must be provided.