We were up at 3.30 the next morning, Friday, December 3rd, to pack the ponies and get ready to start at daybreak. We must now leave our much-loved and faithful cars behind; we gave them to the Prefect, with instructions that he must burn them if the enemy arrived. We should badly miss their sleeping accommodation, but for me personally it was one anxiety the less. Possessions are at the root of all anxiety.

At 6.30 a.m. our reduced column, with its deformed carts, set out through the narrow streets of Petch, to be swallowed up in the great mountains; these already seemed ashamed of what they had in store for us, and were hiding behind thick mists of cloud and rain. Nothing was visible except the endless stream of two-wheeled carts, oxen, horses and soldiers, behind us and ahead of us. The road that day was not worse than usual, and we encamped at dark in a tiny but dry field, behind a farmhouse in which Headquarters Staff were spending the night. The P.M.O. came and had a talk with us, and said we were to move on at one next morning. That was the last time we saw or heard of Headquarters Staff till we reached Scutari.

We departed soon after 1 a.m., December 4th, and in a quarter of an hour, we arrived at a block, which, in the darkness, seemed to be composed of all the carts and oxen and soldiers of the universe—apparently on an open plain. It was too dark to see what lay ahead, blocking progress, and no one knew anything, except that movement was impossible. So we lit fires and sat around them till daylight at 6.30, when we had coffee, and moved with the multitude, a few hundred yards. But we were at once again hopelessly blocked. Then suddenly appeared, for a few minutes, our old friend, the cheery Artillery Major, who had just performed the heartrending task of destroying his three batteries. What were our little discomforts, in comparison with the grief which this keen officer and patriot must have suffered, in the destruction of his beloved guns—the last defences of his country?

We took advantage of the halt to send the drivers for hay for the oxen and horses, and we outspanned for two hours. The snow was now melting under a hot sun, and making a miry slush, which was not warming for the feet; but by the time we had procured hay, it was daylight, and as we could then see that there was no road, there seemed to be no object in waiting, so we wriggled out of the chaos of other columns, and took a track of our own—an awful track over rocks, and scrub, and amazing mud, but in the right direction; and at night we bivouacked on the slopes of a wood, overlooking plains and mountains which lay in the direction of Macedonia.

We could see the shrapnel fire, and hear the mountain guns close to us all the evening. In deep ravines in the track in front of us, lay dead horses and oxen and broken carts. At daybreak I took an excursion, on foot, with Vooitch, to inspect the route ahead of us, and it seemed impossible that carts could travel on it; the spaces between the maze of ravines, twelve feet deep, were, in places, only two or three feet broad. And, indeed, no carts were now visible, only pack ponies, and oxen with blankets strapped upon them. I was wondering what was to happen; but I had determined to make the start with carts, as I had received no order to leave them behind, when a message came from an officer in charge of the way, to say that we were to abandon wheels, and continue as best we could, with any ponies we might have had the prevision to buy at Petch. How thankful we were that we had bought some; we could otherwise have carried no food or blankets. Our oxen were now reduced to thirty-two. They could carry nothing, but they must, of course, go with us, and be saved if possible.

There was no time for sentiment; we were obliged to harden our hearts, and burn or otherwise destroy the carts.

The abandonment of carts, meant the abandonment of our beautiful hospital material and camp equipment; all our treasures must be left upon the ground. But I determined to save the instruments, and to carry them with us at whatever trouble they might cost us; they were valuable and belonged to the Serbian equipment. But, to my horror, the man in charge of them, had taken upon himself to loot the box, and had already begun distributing the knives, and other useful implements, amongst his friends. I was just in time to save them. I wrathfully made the man return the instruments. I then took them out of their box, which was heavy, and placed them in my own brown canvas rug bag, to be carried with my personal goods, instead of something else, which I left behind. But, notwithstanding this precaution, they were, to my great disappointment, stolen on the way.

We were now about to start upon a more difficult and uncomfortable phase of the journey, and the men would need heartening. At daybreak I called them together, and as I stood on a tree stump, at the edge of the wood, facing the plain and the mountains of Macedonia, the men came up and grouped themselves, in the grey light, in a half circle. "Dobrdan!" ("Good morning!") "Maika, dobrdan, dobrdan!" The sun rose blood-red over the mountains as I spoke. We must now, I said, be prepared to meet discomforts and difficulties; but though we were abandoning much, we could, and we must, take with us, goodwill and a courageous spirit; these would be of more use to Serbia, than the ointments and bandages which we were leaving behind. And now, if any man wanted to turn homewards, and risk being shot by the Germans, the Austrians, the Bulgars, or the Arnauts, he had better go now, at once, and save us from the trouble of feeding him over the mountains. Those who wanted to stay, and be loyal to their column, their Army, and their nation, could put up their hands. And every hand went up, with a shout of loyalty, and determination to keep together to the end.

Our British chauffeurs, William and Jordan, also the Serbian Ilia, and Vooitch, now adapted themselves finely to the new task of packing loads for the ponies' packs. We had only been able to procure one pack saddle, and all the other loads, containing food and blankets, we tied to the horses' backs, with string and cord, which we had brought with us. At 11.30 a.m. we turned our backs on the ruins of our column—burnt and broken carts, beds, tents, personal clothes, and, worst of all, surgical boxes and hospital equipment. Our bivouac looked as though burglars had been interrupted in looting operations, and in their flight, had left the ground strewn with the spoils. Good-bye to our hospitable field-kitchen and all its useful appurtenances; good-bye to tents and beds and the last relics of comfort; good-bye to all hope of hospital work; and, worst of all, good-bye to all hope of rescue for Serbia.

For now, all hope of help from the Allies had vanished, and the intensity of the tragedy to the Serbian nation was revealed. The journey which we were then about to take—on foot—over the mountains of Montenegro, and Albania, to the coast, is now, for thousands of human beings, a memory of mental and physical suffering, which will cause life henceforth to be seen through darkened spectacles.