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$Unique_ID{how04539}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{True Stories Of The Great War
IX - Wolves Living On Carcasses In Mountain Passes}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Gordon-Smith, Gordon}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{serbian
}
$Date{1917}
$Log{}
Title: True Stories Of The Great War
Book: With The Serbian Stoics In Exile - Under The German Yoke
Author: Gordon-Smith, Gordon
Date: 1917
IX - Wolves Living On Carcasses In Mountain Passes
In the mountains just before Puka I discovered the first trace of
wolves. The carcasses of dead horses, which were now numbered by scores,
showed signs of having been torn by them. A part of the French aviation
corps, which was preceding us, got lost in the snow and darkness, and had to
spend the night in the open without protection. A dozen were frostbitten,
but no fatal casualties. After six days we finally reached the Drina again,
a swiftly flowing stream.
Thence the march to Scutari may be summed up in the word mud - mud of
the deepest and most tenacious kind, sometimes only reaching to the ankles,
sometimes to the knees, but it was always there.
The twenty-five miles between the Drina ferry and Scutari represents
physical effort of no mean order. It was the finish for scores of
unfortunate pack horses. During the last two days they got practically no
food. On these days we found dead horses every hundred yards. When at last,
at 4 in the afternoon, we came in sight of the towers and minarets of
Scutaria every one heaved a sigh of relief. The streets presented a
wonderful sight, being thronged with Serbian soldiers, mixed with French
aviators, men of the French and Serbian medical staff and scores of the Red
Cross unit - British, French, Russian and Greek.
Scutari's normal population of 40,000 had been increased by 100,000
Serbian and other refugees. Food was running scarce, and there were
practically no accommodations. The unfortunate diplomatic corps was
scattered all over in such lodgings as could be found for it. The
headquarters staff took possession of the Hotel De la Ville. I learned the
Danube division, which had entered Albania by Montenegro, had performed the
miracle of saving part of its field artillery.
. . . . . . .
The fate of Serbia was worse than that of Belgium, for to King Albert's
subjects there always remained France, England and Holland as havens of
refuge. For King Peter's people there was none. On the one hand, the
inhospitable mountains of Montenegro offered a barrier which the starving
people were powerless to cross. On the other was the desolation of the
snow-capped peaks of Albania, with a population sullenly hostile to Serbia
and everything Serbian.
But even if they had been willing to welcome them with open arms they
could not have helped them, as the mountaineers of Albania live themselves
all their lives on the ragged edge of starvation. The catastrophe,
therefore, was beyond human aid, and Serbia had to drink the cup of
bitterness to the dregs and witness the foundering of all that was left of
her manhood and national wealth. It was the death agony of one of the
bravest nations in Europe, of a people who had for five long years fought
four victorious wars for its national existence, and at last succumbed to a
combination of forces three times stronger than itself.