Again the Serbian Minister is quoted:—
‘When the typhus calamity was overcome, the Scottish women reorganised themselves as tent hospitals and offered to go as near as possible to the army at the front. Their camp in the town of Valjevo—which suffered most of all from the Austrian invasion—might have stood in the middle of England. In Lazarevatz, shortly before the new Austro-German offensive, they formed a surgical hospital almost out of nothing, in the devastated shops and the village inns, and they accomplished the nursing of hundreds of wounded who poured in from the battle-field. When it became obvious that the Serbian army could not resist the combined Austrians, Germans, Magyars, and Bulgarians, who were about four times their numbers, the main care of the Serbian military authorities was what to do with the hospitals full of wounded, and whom to leave with the wounded soldiers, who refused to be left to fall into the hands of the cruel enemy. Then the Scottish women declared that they were not going to leave their patients, and that they would stay with them, whatever the conditions, and whatever might be expected from the enemy. They remained with the Serbian wounded as long as they could be of use to them.
To Mrs. Simson.
‘Krushieevatz, Nov. 6, 1915.
‘We are in the very centre of the storm, and it just feels exactly like having the rain pouring down, and the wind beating in gusts, and not being able to see for the water in one’s eyes, and just holding on and saying, “It cannot last, it is so bad.” These poor little people, you cannot imagine anything more miserable than they are. Remember, they have been fighting for years for their independence, and now it all seems to end. The whole country is overrun. Germans, Austrians, Bulgars, and all that is left is this western Morava Valley, and the country a little south of it. And their big Allies—from here it looks as if they are never going to move. I went into Craijuvo yesterday, in the car, to see about Dr. MacGregor’s unit. The road was crowded with refugees pouring away, all their goods piled on their rickety ox-wagons, little children on the top, and then bands of soldiers, stragglers from the army. These men were forming up again, as we passed back later on. The hospitals are packed with wounded. We decided we must stand by our hospitals; it was too awful leaving badly wounded men with no proper care. Sir Ralph eventually agreed, and we gave everybody in the units the choice of going or staying. We have about 115 people in the Scottish unit, and twenty have gone. Mr. Smith brings up the rear-guard to-day, with one or two laggards and a wounded English soldier we have had charge of. Two of our units are here. Dr. MacGregor has trekked for Novi Bazaar. It is the starting-place for Montenegro. We all managed wonderfully in our first “evacuations,” and saved practically everything, but now it is hopeless. The bridges are down, and the trucks standing anyhow on sidings, and, worst of all, the people have begun looting. I don’t wonder. There’ll be famine, as well as cold, in this corner of the world soon, and then the distant prospect of 150,000 British troops at Salonika won’t help much.
‘The beloved British troops,—the thought of them always cheers. But not the thought of the idiots at the top who had not enough gumption to know this must happen. Anybody, even us women, could have told them that the Germans must try and break through to the help of the Turks.
‘We have got a nice building here for a hospital, and Dr. Holloway is helping in the military hospital. I believe there are about 1000 wounded in the place. I can’t write a very interesting letter, Amy dear, because at the bottom of my heart I don’t believe it will ever reach you. I don’t see them managing the Montenegrin passes at this time of year! There is a persistent rumour that the French have retaken Skopiro, and if that is true perhaps the Salonika route will be open soon.
‘Some day, I’ll tell you all the exciting things that have been happening, and all the funny things too! For there have been funny things, in the middle of all the sadness. The guns are booming away, and the country looking so lovely in the sunlight. I wonder if Serbia is a particularly beautiful country, or whether it looks so lovely because of the tragedy of this war, just as bed seems particularly delightful when the night bell goes!’
‘Serbian Military Hospital,
‘Krushieevatz, Nov. 30, 1915.‘We have been here about a month. It was dreadfully sad work leaving our beautiful little hospital at Krushieevatz. Here, we are working in the Serbian military hospital, and living in it also. You can imagine that we have plenty to do, when you hear we have 900 wounded. The prisoners are brought in every day, sometimes thousands, and go on to the north, leaving the sick. The Director has put the sanitation and the laundry into our hands also.
‘We have had a hard frost for four days now, and snowstorms. My warm things did not arrive—I suppose they are safe at Salonika. Fortunately last year’s uniform was still in existence, and I wear three pairs of stockings, with my high boots. We have all cut our skirts short, for Serbian mud is awful. It is a lovely land, and the views round here are very cheering. One sunset I shall never forget—a glorious sky, and the hills deep blue against it. In the foreground the camp fires, and the prisoners round them in the fading light.’
With the invasion came the question of evacuation. At one time it was possible the whole of the British unit might escape via Montenegro. Sir Ralph Paget, realising that the equipment could not be saved, allowed any of the hospital unit who wished to remain with their wounded. Two parties went with the retreating Serbs, and their story and the extraordinary hardships they endured has been told elsewhere.
Those left at Krushieevatz were in Dr. Inglis’ opinion the fortunate units. For three months they tended the Serbian wounded under foreign occupation. The unit with Dr. Inglis kept to their work, and when necessary confronted the Austro-German officers with all the audacity of their leader and the Scottish thistle combined.
Their hospital accommodation was designed for 400 beds. When we went up there were 900 patients. During the greatest part of the pressure the number rose to 1200. Patients were placed in the corridors—at first one man to one bed, but later two beds together, and three men in them. Then there were no more bedsteads, and mattresses were placed on the floor. We filled up the outhouses. The magazine in full blast was a sight, once seen, never to be forgotten.