The Flaming Sword in Serbia and Elsewhere

by M. A. Stobart

The priests then asked us if we would go with them to meet their Metropolitan (Bishop), who was to pass through Ovcharska. We walked together with all the monks to the tiny station on the railway, which ran from Ushitza to Stalatz, and, when the train stopped, we were introduced to, and talked with, the Bishop; also with two French doctors who were on their way from Ushitza to Nish. I hoped they might have some serum syringes, of which we were in need—much of our dispensary equipment having gone astray at Nish.

As the train was starting, the postman, with letters to be posted in the train, came leisurely along the line; when he saw that the train was moving, he gave a spurt, and dropped half the letters on the ground. He took no notice, but ran on and posted the others. We picked up those he had dropped, and ran after him and gave them to him. He could, with an effort, have put them in the box, but he calmly said, "Sutra" (to-morrow). I wasn't sure whether I envied him his philosophy; I hadn't time to think it out; I wanted to call on the man and woman who had given us lunch on our first visit. They were leaving Ovcharska and going to Chachak, and I wished to make sure of the legacy of their rooms in case of emergency weather in the winter; also I wanted to buy from them a sheep. I accomplished both missions, the latter at the cost of seventeen dinars. A dinar equals about sevenpence. Our sheep, therefore, cost us nine shillings and tenpence. It was destined for supper, and our timber friend said it must be roasted whole, according to custom. He made all the arrangements, and sent us word in the evening that we must come and watch it roasting. A fire had been lighted, in a shed, near our friend's house, as rain was still falling in torrents. The sheep was threaded on a stick, one end of the stick was made stationary, and the other end was held by a man, who turned it round and round, over the red ashes of the fire. It only took two hours to cook. When ready it was carried on the stick by two men, and a third held over it a big umbrella, to keep off the rain. We thus walked in procession to our own tents, where our cook—helped, I expect, by one of our friendly carriers—jointed and carved the poor animal. I can't say I enjoyed the feast: without the usual sceneries to disguise the horrors, it was too realistic.

Everything, however, was interesting and picturesque. It was difficult to imagine where the patients would come from; we seemed to be entirely surrounded by roadless mountains. But through the forests of beech, maple, and Turkey oak, narrow paths wound along, and up and down, the steep mountain sides, and the peasants brought their sick in wheelbarrows, or on stretchers made of branches, or along the main road, in ox-wagons.

The first patient was a boy who was terribly burnt, and already in a serious condition; he would certainly have died but for the help received.

The whole valley and hillsides were the property of the monks, and they asked us if we should like them to bless our dispensary work with an opening ceremony of prayer? We, of course, agreed gratefully.

The monk from our own near monastery, and the monk from the monastery of Sretenya, distant a two hours' climb up the mountains, together with the priest from Chachak, also the Prefect of the district, arrived next day at 2.30 p.m. A heavy shower of rain, as they arrived, made us take shelter in the mess tent. Our monk's pigs ran squawking past the tent doors, having been chased out of the kitchen by the cook. "Ah! my pigs," commented complacently our home monk. "Yes," I replied, also complacently, "and one day Gospodine Svesternik will come and ask, 'where are my pigs?' and," pointing to my central anatomy, "I shall reply, 'Here!'" That started conversation pleasantly, and then came tea. Serbian people like their tea weak, without milk, and with much sugar; and most of us liked it strong, with milk, and without sugar; so that gave us something not too difficult to talk about in the Serbian language. But that tower of Babel business was a confounded nuisance, and I was glad when the rain left off and we went out to the ceremony.

Outside the dispensary tent, a small table had been placed; upon it was a white cloth, and on this stood a silver candlestick holding the familiar long brown candle, with the Serbian arms marked upon it. The sexton now lighted the candle. Upon the table was also an old silver crucifix, with red beads let in (I should have loved to have that crucifix), and a bowl of water containing a sprig of the national plant—boziliac. The monk, on whose land we were stationed, put on a beautiful pale blue silk embroidered robe, and removed his tall black cap. The priest then took an incense vessel, filled with ashes, and swung it in front of us all in turn; prayers were then said by our monk, whilst untuneful responses were chanted by the other two. Then more incense swinging, and prayers, and sprinkling of the holy water from the plant, in all directions. Then our monk, holding the crucifix in one hand and the holy plant in the other, suddenly came and stood close in front of me. Good gracious! Evidently something was expected of me. For a minute I was frightened, but if in doubt in Serbia, kiss. I kissed the crucifix whilst he pressed the wet plant to my forehead. Evidently a good guess, for he passed on, and the act was repeated on the forehead of each one in turn. Finally our monk made a charming little speech about the benefits which the people would derive from the dispensary, and expressed his gratitude and appreciation. The other monk then took my hand and also spoke, with much feeling, of the gladness and gratitude which had filled their hearts at our coming to help their people, and the ceremony was over. They allowed me to take a photograph of them; but unfortunately this photo, with all photos taken during the first six months in Serbia, is now in the hands of the enemy.

The monks gave us pressing invitations to visit them in their mountain monasteries, and I had every intention of accepting their hospitality the next time I came to the dispensary. But I returned to camp on September 16th, the day following the benediction ceremony, and I never, alas! went again to my beloved Ovcharska.

The dispensaries were now all inaugurated, and the scheme, in full working order, was in every way fulfilling our highest hopes. The greatest, in fact the only, difficulty had been the delay in arrival of the dispensary medical equipment; this went wrong at Nish and elsewhere, and we had trouble to secure the necessary scales and serum syringes, etc. But miracles always happened at moments when things looked blackest, and by one means and another obstacles had been overcome.

The six new motor ambulances for the use of the six new dispensaries, only arrived on September 17th. They had arrived at Salonica without a note of authorisation for their delivery, and the port officials had refused to deliver them till weeks had been wasted in communication with London. And even on September 17th, the spare parts had not arrived. We had, therefore, been obliged to work the dispensaries, and to keep up communications, with the one camp ambulance that was left.