We left Blatzi at 10.30 a.m. on Thursday, November 11th, for Tulari, half-way to Kurshumlya. The road was less bad, and shortly after passing the Nish turning, we were temporarily cheered by an officer who, as he rode past, told us that he had heard that the Allies had taken Nish; but, of course, it was not true. We arrived at Tulari, at 1.30, in pelting rain and sleet. The fields were all under water, and we were lucky to secure rooms in two of the few small houses of which the village was composed. We were kept busy with wounded and evacuations and burials. Major A.'s column arrived a little later, and one of the French doctors had supper with us. He told us that the other doctor was mislaid: he had ridden in advance, and had evidently lost the convoy. He turned up, in a starved condition, two days later.

We left Tulari at 2 p.m. on November 12th for Barbatovatza, and the order said that we were to go via Choongula. But the first 200 yards of road were, fortunately, so bad with mud and holes that, though the cars tried, as in duty bound, they could not get through it, and I was obliged to let them separate from the rest of the column, and go via Kurshumlya along the main road. And the road followed by the column was throughout so bad that it would have been impossible, even for our wonderful cars and chauffeurs; the authorities, when they ordered us to take this track, must have forgotten that we had cars with us, for there was no attempt at road, and the way lay over ploughed fields, and the mud was often up to the axles of the wagon wheels. The oxen had heavy labour all the time, and in many places we had to outspan oxen and, with their help, drag the wagons one after the other out of deep bogs.

There were so few other columns going our way, and the firing line was so near to us, that I wondered if I had, after all, made a mistake in taking this route. But I had acted according to instructions. The way for some distance ran along a high plateau, parallel with the road on which we had travelled from Blatzi. On our left was another plateau, and all around, and in the distance, were mountains which were now snow-capped. Blatzi village seemed to be ablaze, and the hills between us and it were red with the fire of cannons, and reeking with shrapnel smoke. But the view was magnificent: dead, yellow leaves of the scrub of Turkey oak—not the common oak, nothing was ever common—made a gorgeous show of colour against the dark blue mountains.

At 4.30 p.m. the daylight vanished. There were no roads, but tracks led in all directions, over ploughed fields, and through woods, and it was difficult in the darkness to know which to take. But, by good luck, we steered straight, and at 10 p.m. I saw with joy the fires of bivouacked columns, and knew that we were near our goal; and, to my intense relief, the cars containing the British Staff arrived an hour later.

We encamped under trees by the roadside. At one o'clock, when I was about to go to bed in the car, an officer came up. He was very excited, and asked why in the name of—I think he said Heaven—we had encamped in this place? He had been told, he said, to put his guns here, in position for a big battle that was to be fought early in the morning against the Germans. I told him that we, too, were here by order. That must, he said, be a mistake. So I showed him my order paper, and he shrugged his shoulders and went away. Major A. was encamped on the other side of the road, and I went across. I heard sounds like small guns being fired in quick succession. I tracked them to their source, inside a tent, and found the Major, the two French doctors, and one or two other officers, all asleep. I woke the Major, told him what the Captain had said, and asked him if he thought that the Captain had known what he was talking about. The unshaved Major sat up in bed, much interested, and suggested that I should send a line of enquiry to Headquarters Staff, who were lodged in the school-house near; and he asked me to let him know the result. I went, with Vooitch, to the buildings in which the P.M.O. was supposed to be, and I asked the guard, who was walking up and down outside, if the Staff were there. He said, "Yes." "Were they asleep?" "Yes." So I said "Thank you," and came away, and went to bed. If they were sleeping there couldn't be any hurry for us; all must be well, and I took a four hours' rest. But it was sometimes a little difficult on such occasions. For I was, above all things, anxious to avoid giving the impression that we were nervous. We were not; but, at the same time, I must not, for the sake of my own pride, expose the column to unnecessary risk.

In the morning I had a talk with our P.M.O. He had now, he said, lost everything. His house and possessions in Arangelovatz had been taken by the Germans, and, worse still, in Kragujevatz, not only his house and property, but his wife and five children were in the Germans' hands. I knew that the pessimism of both the P.M.O. and of Major A., with whom I also talked that morning, was only too well grounded, and I felt half ashamed to be able to talk cheerfully, whilst I was only suffering vicariously; but I always argued with them, that France and England were big nations, and that they would not have intervened, and have sent troops to Salonika to help Serbia, if they had not meant to aid effectually; their prestige was at stake, and they would never allow Serbia to be expunged.

On the other hand, all Serbians realised that England had not yet begun to understand the groundwork of Serbian politics. Even admitting that England felt now goodwill towards Serbia, it was a goodwill which was accidental, and due to extraneous circumstances, rather than to appreciation of the motives which had actuated Serbia in taking the field against superior enemies. And nothing in all history is more wonderful than the way in which the Serbian people have, during centuries, struggled, then suffered passively when struggle was useless, then struggled again for their ideal; for an ideal which must have been sub-conscious in the minds of a people who had lived for centuries scattered amongst their tyrannical conquerors—the ideal of race freedom.

The Serbian people could, at a price, have bought exemption from this present annihilation, but at a price which would have killed for ever, hope of the eventual freedom, not only of the four million Serbian and Montenegrin Slavs, but of the seven million Slavs, now living in a neighbouring and hostile State.

All Serbians also realised that England still had only a superficial acquaintance with the Serbian character, and was still in the habit of judging them by the unfortunate act which had first brought their nation to the knowledge of the British public. Of that act they had heard only through newspaper comments circulated by their enemies: the extenuating circumstances had never been learned.

But England had not only exaggerated the shortcomings of the Serbians, she had also exaggerated the virtues of the Bulgarians, and probably never believed till the latter crossed the Serbian frontier, that which every Serbian peasant had known from the beginning of the war—namely, that the ambitions of the German Ferdinand were not based upon the ideals of a democratic people, but upon the designs of a Prince who was in sympathy with the military autocracy of the Central Empires. Every Serbian knew that between Bulgo-German autocracy, and Serbian democracy, there could be no affinity. England would, they knew, discover this in time, but meanwhile Serbia was being sacrificed.

The confidence with which Serbians believed that when England understood the ideal for which Serbia was struggling, she would extend, not only the little finger, but the whole hand, of fellowship, moved me almost more than their sufferings. And if, as a nation, we do not fulfil the expectation that we, who have won our own freedom, shall help the Serbians to win theirs, we can never look a democratic country in the face again.

But the continuous retreating could not fail to have a depressing influence on everybody, except those who were commanders, and this morning at Barbovatz we had an illustration of the different spirit which actuates respectively a defeated or a victorious soldier. One of the ambulance men came up and suggested that the big brown tent which had been brought for hospital purposes, should now be abandoned. It filled two wagons on the treks; the oxen were growing weak with the continuous journeying; corn was never now obtainable, and hay only in insufficient quantities, with the result that the roads were already strewn with the dead bodies of oxen and of horses. The man said, and truly, that we did not use this tent now—there was never time to put it up—and the other tents were large enough. But it belonged to the Serbian hospital equipment, and I would not abandon it till we were compelled. "What you say is all very well," I said, "while we are retreating, but when we, in our turn, pursue——" "Ah!" interrupted the man eagerly, "I will carry it on my own back then."

We had a momentary gleam of hope that afternoon, from a rumour that the German troops had withdrawn from our front, and had gone, it was thought, to meet the Russians, who were believed to be advancing from Negotina, through Rumania. The Austrians, without the Germans, would be manageable. But this, like all other rumours of good news, was false. It served, however, as a temporary tonic to the spirits. It is always easier to bear disaster than the fear of disaster. Disaster has a bracing influence, but fear paralyses action, and I came to the conclusion that these rumours served a useful purpose.

We left next morning, November 14th, at five o'clock, for Spantzi, only a two hours' trek. We found a dry field for the camp, and a farmhouse for kitchen. The guns were very near and noisy that day.