An old woman had been killed, they
said. We turned into the main street and plunged into a large crowd. The
pavement had been torn up, and people were grubbing in the mud; pieces
of charred wood were passed from hand to hand.
"That's a bit of propeller," said one. "No; it's a bit of the frame,"
said another. A girl proudly held up a large piece of map scorched all
round the edges.
"And the men?" we asked.
"Nemachke (Germans)," answered the crowd; "both dead; one here, one over
there," pointing to the middle of the road.
We came into the Stobarts' camp, pitched up on the hill behind the
Kragujevatz pleasure ground.
"Did you see the aeroplanes?" they cried, running towards us.
"No," we answered; "but we saw the shrapnel."
"One was hit--it was wonderful. They were flying just over here, and a
shrapnel burst quite close; and then one saw a thin stream of smoke come
from the plane; then a little flicker. It seemed to fall so slowly. Then
it burst into flames and came down like a great comet.
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