We gave our French friend a front seat in one of the cars; his wrath against the Major was now modified to sarcasm; the Major's life was saved. And I should not like to swear that at the end of the day, when the doctor rejoined his unit, he did not express even gratitude to the Major for the opportunity that had been given him to "learn English."
CHAPTER XXI
We reached Palanka, a clean, cheery little town, at 1.30 p.m. We drew up in the square, in the middle of the town, and I rode on to see the officer at the military station, to ask for orders. He knew nothing, so I went on to the central telephone station, rang up Headquarters Staff, who were, I discovered, at Michaelovatz, and talked to our P.M.O., who told me to put up our hospital in a field near the railway station, and to arrange to send a motor-ambulance at six to-morrow morning, to Michaelovatz to bring back wounded. That looked like business, and greatly cheered the doctors and nurses, who were getting restless for want of work. We pitched the camp before dusk, and had a peaceful night.
At six the next morning (Thursday, October 14th) I drove with one car, and Dr. Payne with another, to Headquarters—a run of three-quarters of an hour. Colonel Terzitch and our P.M.O. and our artist friend were finishing coffee. They gave us some, and showed us two German prisoners who had just come in. Fighting had begun, and it seemed that though our one division of 25,000 men was confronted with 100,000 Germans and Austrians under von Mackensen, with their biggest artillery, we were holding our own fairly well. Wounded were coming along the road in ox-carts from the battle-field, and along the road were also streams of fugitives flying from the bombarded villages.
The P.M.O. came with me in the car to choose a site for our hospital, nearer to Michaelovatz and the front, than Palanka. We found a camping-place opposite a wood, near Aranya, twenty minutes' run from Palanka. I then went back to the latter town to bring out the column, and we were on the site, the southern side of a sheltering wood, by two o'clock. Tents were pitched before dusk, and immediately streams of wounded began arriving, and continued to come all through the night, and the next day and night. They drove up, in rough, springless ox-wagons, from the battle-field, were removed by the ambulance men, and placed inside our hospital tent. The doctors received them, diagnosed them, and treated them; the nurses dressed their wounds; the cook gave them food and drink (popara and bread, and tea or coffee; and, in the middle of the day, soup or stew); the chauffeurs then drove those who were fit to travel, to the nearest evacuation hospital in Palanka, and the others (fifty) spent the night in our tents, and were transported next day.
Rain fell all day and all night; the mud was horrible, and the wind unpleasantly cold; fugitives, in increasing numbers, streamed along the road; and the thunder of the guns was continuous. But I never heard anyone say anything about the guns; no one gave a thought to anything but work. There were that day one hundred wounded to be tended.
To our relief a courier from Kragujevatz arrived with the spare parts of the motors, and some benzine, and we took the opportunity of sending back by him some tents, which we could spare, to lighten the wagons; also we regretfully parted from one nurse and one orderly. They were both satisfactory in every way, but it was desirable to economise space in the cars, as we were likely to be continuously on the move, and there was likelihood that their services might now be much needed in the hospital at Kragujevatz, or at Lapovo.
On Saturday afternoon, October 16th, a mounted orderly from Headquarters brought, in the usual white, square envelope, the order to move on to Barchinatz. We left at 3.15, and arrived at 7 p.m., pitched our tents, in the dark and the rain, and had supper at nine. We heard, to our intense satisfaction, that the Germans had been beaten back, and that the French and English were fighting the Bulgars. But our joy did not last long. On Sunday, October 17th, the mounted orderly arrived; he brought with him the order to evacuate the camp; I signed the envelope, and he left. Then, as usual on these occasions, I took out the sectional map, provided by Headquarters, to see the direction and the distance of the place to which the column must be moved. Hitherto the direction had been northerly, and that meant, of course, that we were advancing, and approaching the enemy's country. That was good, and the officers and we had sometimes joked about the restaurants we should patronise when we reached Vienna or Buda-Pesth. But now, to my dismay, the map showed that Dobrido, the village to which we were to move, was in a southerly direction. This meant retreat. We hoped, of course, that this was only a temporary check; but from the moment of that first retreat, we never advanced again. But, it must be remembered, to the everlasting credit of the Serbian Army, that though the retreat continued for nearly three months, the Army did not content itself with retreating, but fought rearguard actions all the time. Military experts will appreciate the wear and tear to body and mind entailed in such a performance. We, of course, also, throughout that time, put up our hospital tents, and received and evacuated the wounded. Colonel Terzitch looked in on his way to new Headquarters; he was as cheery as usual. He said that we were making a slight retreat, because one of our regiments, composed of elderly soldiers, with poor guns, had given way. He thought all would soon be well again.