The Austrian prisoners were very sad at our going.
The station was dark and gloomy, the little gimcrack Turkish kiosk--like
a bit of the White City--was filled with Red Cross stoves and beds. Two
trains came in, but neither was for Kralievo; one was Red Cross and the
other for Krusevatz. A lot of boys, in uniform, clambered on board and
shouting out, "Sbogom Vrntze," were borne off into the night. Our
spirits fell lower and lower. We thought of the friends we were leaving
behind us, and of what we had before us. The reaction had set in,
intensified by the gloom and cold of the station.
Hours later the train arrived. The only third-class carriage was filled
to overflowing, people were standing on the platform and sitting on the
steps. We tried the trucks. All were crammed so full that the doors
could not be opened.
"You'd better go to-morrow," said the station-master.
"We're not going through that a second time," we said. "Can't we climb
on to the roof?"
We scrambled up. There were other men there, lying in brown heaps.
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