The situation was growing more and more serious. We had retreated forty miles in the last two days, evidently not without reason, as the Germans had entered Jagodina, at noon, on the day we had passed through at 2.30 a.m. and, as there were other columns behind us, that did not leave a large margin of safety. I was always aware that delay caused by mistake in taking the wrong road, or by dalliance with accidents, would be fatal; but neither in our column, nor in any column that I saw during three months of retreat, was there ever anything but calmness and apparent unconcern. Had there at any time been panic, the narrow defiles would have been catacombed with dead, in addition to the thousands who perished from other causes.

But remarkable indeed was the dignity and orderliness with which, from start to finish, the retreat of the Serbian Army was conducted. And the silence! Hour after hour, day and night after day and night, week after week, thousands upon thousands of soldiers, trudging wearily beside their slow-paced oxen, or with their regiments of infantry, or driving their gun-carriages, or, as cavalry, riding their horses—in silence. No laughter, no singing, no talking; the silence of a funeral procession, which indeed it was; a silence only broken by the cries of the drivers to their oxen: "Svetko! Belia! Napred! Desno! Levo!" ("Svetko! Belia! Forward! To the right! To the left!") and the ceaseless rumbling of wagon wheels, which sounded like the breaking of an angry sea on a distant pebble beach. I have, since my return, re-read accounts of the retreat of Napoleon's army from Moscow, and though we were spared some of the horrors they endured, there were two features in our Serbian retreat, which were happily absent in the other. For the retreat in which we took part was the retreat, not only of the Serbian Army, but of the Serbian nation. This meant that thousands of women, children, and old men, driven from their homes by the advancing enemy, were, in ever-increasing numbers, as we progressed southwards, adding to the difficulties of the safe retreat of the Army, by mixing with the columns of artillery, cavalry, infantry, engineers, field hospitals, and swelling the procession.

Wagons filled with household treasures, beds, blankets, chairs, frying-pans, even geese, slung head downwards at the back of the cart, or balancing themselves with curious dignity, upon the uneven surfaces of indiscriminate luggage; a look of pained astonishment on their faces, at their rude removal from their own comfortable pastures.

Or, more frequent and more painful still, wagons filled with little children; the oxen, weary and hungry, led by women, also weary, hungry, and foot-sore. I saw one woman, dragging by the rope, two tired oxen drawing a wagon, in which were eight small children. I saw a tiny boy leading two tiny calves, which were drawing a tiny cart containing a tiny baby, who was strapped to the cart. I saw a woman, evidently not wealthy enough to possess a cart and oxen of her own, carrying her two babies, one on her back, and one in front; and, in one of the crushes which frequently occurred, the baby on her back, was knocked off by the horns of a passing ox.

We wondered, at Shanatz, why we were on that side of the river, with no bridge near us, when all the other columns were travelling towards Krushievatz on the other side. We received no orders all that day, and I wondered more and more, for there was always the possibility that the order might have gone astray. But at 3 a.m. on Saturday, November 6th, the order came to start at once for KupÇi, beyond Krushievatz, via the pontoon bridge, which we had left on our way here.

It was still dark when we reached the bridge. A lengthy convoy of artillery was crossing, and behind them again were endless other convoys. We halted, and it seemed likely that hours would pass before we should get a chance of butting in. But, to my joy, I found that the artillery column was under the command of my Varvarin Major. He saw us, and at once came up and said that he would arrange for us to cross the bridge immediately after his guns. We had not more than an hour to wait. A short, steep bank of mud, and we were up on the approach road to the bridge. I was told to dismount, and, following close upon the guns, and followed by our own Red Cross wagons, I led my horse across the pontoon. Dawn was breaking, and I was glad, for my eyes would surely never again see such a sight. Purple mountains, wrapped in white mists, and crowned with soft pink clouds; the broad grey river, rushing wildly to its fate; and a bridge of boats. Upon the bridge, dimly visible in the growing light, soldiers, leading wagons which were carrying cannons and heavy guns—motives of murder and destruction dominant—closely followed by women leading Red Cross wagons—the cross of Christianity waving in the breeze.

On the other side of the bridge, refugees, streaming along the road from Stalatz to Krushievatz, converged with the stream of columns and refugees who crossed the bridge, and made confusion even more confounded than before. But I found my friend, the Major, waiting for me on the other side. He had seen his column safely across, and now he would, he said, ride with us to Krushievatz, to show us the road out of the town. He did this, and then rode off to place his battery for a rearguard action.

The town was a solid mass of convoys and fugitives, and it was anxious work steering the column safely through, intact. The road leading through the town was broader than usual, and the wagons of refugees and of columns were jammed together three abreast in hopeless tangle. "Many oxen were come about us; lean bulls of Basan closed us in on every side."

Later, the Headquarters Staff overtook us, and I rode for a while beside our Divisional Commander. He told me quietly, as though he were talking of the death of a distant relative, that Nish had been taken by the Bulgars; those flags of welcome which we had seen, were now welcoming our enemies. Where, we asked each other, were the French and the English? But not a word of bitterness passed his lips; "there was doubtless some good reason," was his only comment. And I could only say what I always said, "Never mind, we shall get it all back one day," but I sometimes almost wished, for the first time in my life, that I was not English.

We arrived at KupÇi at 3 p.m. The noise of the guns was continuous, and in the afternoon we also heard violent explosions—the destruction of the powder factory, before the entrance of the Germans, who took possession in the evening.

The river RaÇina ran close beside our bivouac, and after dark we had time for another bathe. The artillery major had tea with us; he was a cheery philosopher, and no one could have guessed the feelings that were gnawing at his heart, whilst we exchanged experiences and joked about minor incidents of the trek. One of the cars had broken down during the day (the raybestos band had given way), as we came through Krushievatz, and we had had difficulty in commandeering animals to drag it. Eventually we secured four cows; but after a few miles, the owner came and took them away, and we had been obliged to readjust our oxen transport arrangements on the road, not an easy matter, in the crush of convoys, all clamouring to push on. But the sick car was safely steered into camp, and the chauffeurs, by working at it till 10 p.m., put things straight again.

Amongst the refugees who swarmed along the road, were thousands of Austrian prisoners. They were under orders to evacuate themselves from place to place, according to instructions from the various military stations, to which they must report every evening; but they were without guards. They were mostly Serbian-Austrian soldiers, and their one dread was that they might fall into the hands of their former rulers. But their plight was now pitiable. Food for everyone was getting more and more difficult to procure, even for money; for prisoners without means, it was almost unprocurable. They had to rely on scanty bread rations. Half a dozen of these prisoners straggled into our camp at KupÇi, and their eager gratitude when we gave them some food—which we could ill spare—was horrible to witness.