We arrived at an open space and halted for lunch. Water had to be
fetched. It trickled from a wooden spout out of the hill and before our
cooking pot was filled we were surrounded by thirsty soldiers, who were
consigning us to the hottest of places for our slowness. Cutting
displayed a hitherto buried talent for building fires. We unpacked the
food and soon a gorgeous curry was bubbling in an empty biscuit tin with
Angelo, Sir Ralph Paget's chef, at the spoon. A leviathan motor car
lurched by containing all that was left of the Stobart unit. Another
monster passed, piled with Russian nurses and doctors. A face was
peeping out at the back, eyes rolled upwards, moustaches bristling. Was
it? Yes, it was--"Quel Pays"--but he did not recognize us.
[Illustration: THE FLIGHT OF SERBIA.]
The baking ovens appeared again, and we felt we had stayed long enough.
Some of our party were very fagged after their various adventures since
leaving Nish, so they climbed on to the carriages wherever there was a
downhill.
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