CHAPTER VII
Two Men Who Died
I. FIRST MAN. A SIMPLE SOLDIER
Near Krivolak, in the Vardar Valley, a road strikes westward, joining the railway with the plains lying beyond a wall of mountains. At first, it winds in tortuous fashion, following a streamlet’s rocky bed, and, ever rising, leads to a tableland where other roads are met, and signposts point the way to Monastir.
The Vardar Valley is a rift of gentle beauty in a wild, inhospitable land, the mother of many tributaries coming from east and west. It broadens on its journey to the sea, the plains adjoin and almost touch each other, like glowing pearls strung on a silver thread. One of these plains lies north of Krivolak, and here the valley of the winding stream and road sinks like a lovely child into its mother’s lap. The war had made it a Gehenna, where wagons creaked and jolted, and the once silent spaces echoed with moans of pain.
In the main valley, close to the railway station, some tents were grouped around a mast, and from the mast there waved a Red Cross flag. During the hours of darkness a lamp replaced the flag; both served as guide and landmark to the countryside, inviting all who needed help to this outpost of humanity.
Here were received convoys of sick and wounded, some to regain their health and strength, others to join their comrades in the graveyard which grew in size with each succeeding day. They arrived in a lamentable condition, bruised by rough travel in springless wagons, their wounds neglected, and too often gangrened. From them one learned how long the way had seemed, how from afar their eager, straining eyes had sought the fluttering flag or the red lamp, which marked the bourne where respite would be found after long days and nights of misery.
Amid the scores of human wrecks littering the Red Cross camp one man attracted my especial notice—a young Servian soldier. He lay at full length on a stretcher, and sometimes raised himself to a half-sitting posture, but soon fell back again exhausted by the effort. Both his legs had been shattered by shrapnel below the knees, a blanket concealed them mercifully, he did not know the worst. The surgeon whispered that it was a hopeless case, gangrene was far advanced, the long, well-coupled legs were doomed, only by amputation could his life be saved.
He thanked me for some cigarettes and smiled a boyish smile, showing a row of splendid teeth. His uniform was caked with mud and hung in rags, the muscles rippled on his arms and chest, which, though unwashed, were clean, nature had kept them so.