The station was dark and gloomy, the little gimcrack Turkish kiosk—like a bit of the White City—was filled with Red Cross stoves and beds. Two trains came in, but neither was for Kralievo; one was Red Cross and the other for Krusevatz. A lot of boys, in uniform, clambered on board and shouting out, "Sbogom Vrntze," were borne off into the night. Our spirits fell lower and lower. We thought of the friends we were leaving behind us, and of what we had before us. The reaction had set in, intensified by the gloom and cold of the station.
Hours later the train arrived. The only third-class carriage was filled to overflowing, people were standing on the platform and sitting on the steps. We tried the trucks. All were crammed so full that the doors could not be opened.
"You'd better go to-morrow," said the station-master.
"We're not going through that a second time," we said. "Can't we climb on to the roof?"
We scrambled up. There were other men there, lying in brown heaps. We made some of them move up a little, stowed our blankets and knapsacks, and sat amongst them.
"Are you all right?" shouted the station-master.
"Yes."
"Good-bye, then. Lie down when you come to the bridges, or you'll get your heads knocked off."
We lay down at once, taking no risks, not knowing when the bridges were coming. Luckily the wind was with us, and the night was warm. The engine showered sparks into the air, which fell little hot touches on to our faces and hands. Later a little rain fell.
Kralievo at three a.m. We did not know the town so Jo stormed the telegraph office. The officials tried to shut the door, but she got her foot into it.