Daughters of War (12 page)

Tom rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble that reminded him he had not washed or shaved for two days. He longed with all his heart to get away from these killing fields but unless he went on with Max the only alternative was to try to make his own way back to Belgrade. From Salonika, he told himself, he should be able to get a boat which would take him to Italy or France – and surely, if there was no news of Leo there, he would be justified in calling off the search.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on our way.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Max said. ‘It seems there is still fighting around the town of Bitola, which is on our route. We’ll have to hope that we can get around it somehow.’

As they drove south the country grew wilder and more mountainous. There was snow on the higher slopes and the road followed river valleys full of the sound of rushing water. Everywhere there was evidence of the fighting and from several miles outside Bitola they could hear the boom of artillery and the sky ahead was lit up by flashes.

‘This is crazy,’ Tom said. ‘We can’t drive through that.’

‘I know,’ Max responded. ‘I’m planning on finding the battlefield HQ, which must be well back from the firing line. They may be able to tell us a way round. If not, we’ll have to sit it out until the fighting is over. Seems like the Serbs are making pretty short work of the Turkish forces, so it shouldn’t be too long.’

They had gone just over another mile when, on the outskirts of a small village, they were waved to a standstill by a group of raggedly dressed men carrying rifles. A bearded man jerked open the driver’s door and said something in what Tom presumed was Serbian. Max replied in German but the man shook his head angrily and gestured them out of the car. Max produced his press card and waved it under his nose, but he brushed it aside and repeated the gesture. When neither Tom nor Max moved, he shouted a command to the rest of his band and they found themselves at the centre of a ring of rifles.

‘Better do as the man says,’ Max muttered, and climbed out. ‘Maybe there is someone in charge who speaks German.’

Tom got out and as he did so the bearded man climbed into the driving seat and revved the engine.

‘Hey, now, whoa!’ Max yelled, jumping in front of the vehicle, but the man just laughed and drove at him, forcing him to leap aside. In numb horror, Tom watched as the car disappeared up the village street.

‘You can’t do that!’ Max yelled. ‘That’s theft! What are we supposed to do? Walk to Salonika? At least let us have our bags . . .’

The remaining men grinned and gestured with their guns towards the road that led through the village.

‘Maybe they want us to follow him,’ Tom suggested, with faint hope.

‘Guess there’s nothing else we can do,’ Max agreed.

They trudged down the village street, followed by the men, but there was no sign of the car. Tom guessed it had been hidden in one of the dilapidated barns attached to the houses. It was only a small place and they quickly reached the far end of the street, from where the road stretched ahead of them towards the sound of the guns.

Max turned towards the gang. ‘Look here, fellers, we have to be somewhere. It’s important. I’ll pay for the car. Look, see?’ He produced his wallet and waved it at them. One of them snatched it and riffled through the notes, chuckling. Then he pocketed the money, threw the empty wallet back to Max and waved his rifle towards the open road. Tom saw Max’s hand go to the pocket where he carried his revolver. He grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t be a fool, Max! Do you want to get us both shot?’

The man who had taken the money advanced and pushed the muzzle of his rifle into Max’s stomach. Tom tugged at his arm.

‘It’s no use, Max. Look at them. They won’t think twice about shooting us. We don’t have a choice. Just walk away.’

Slowly they turned and began to trudge down the road. Tom’s spine crept as if slimy creatures were running up and down it and he expected at any moment to feel a bullet strike him in the back but he plodded on, pulling Max with him, and when he eventually dared to look behind him the road was empty.

‘Well, now what?’ Tom asked.

Max was muttering to himself. ‘Sons of bitches! My car and my money. And all our gear. Fuck it! They’ve even got my sodding typewriter!’

For the first time it struck Tom that he had nothing but the clothes he stood up in and the satchel in which he carried his drawing materials, which was hanging from his shoulder. He felt in his pocket and was relieved to find his wallet and his passport. He looked at Max and saw that the confident swagger had disappeared, leaving him grey-faced and wild-eyed.

‘What do we do now?’ Max demanded, echoing Tom’s question.

‘Keep walking, I suppose. Eventually we must reach the rear echelons of the army. Then we can ask for help.’

They trudged on. It had been raining intermittently all day but now the rain seemed to have become one more hostile force in an inimical world. Icy cold, it slanted into their faces and soaked their clothes. Tom, not sure what to expect when they left Belgrade, had dressed as he would have done for a day’s shooting on the moors. He was glad of his good boots but had neglected to put on gaiters and he could feel the mud and water from the roadway soaking into his trouser legs, while the rain dripped off the back of his deerstalker and ran down inside his collar. Before long, the moisture had even penetrated the cape of his tweed Inverness coat and he could feel his shirt chill and damp against his skin. His nose had dried up but now his sinuses were clogged with catarrh and his throat was so painful he could hardly bear to swallow. Every time he took a breath there was a sharp pain in his chest. But at least he was used to long tramps in the rain, which Max obviously was not.

‘I’m a city guy,’ he protested. ‘I’ve never walked more than a couple of blocks in my life. These boots are killing me.’

‘Stop!’ Tom said abruptly. ‘Listen.’

‘Listen to what?’

‘There it is again. Hear it?’

Faintly, through the relentless hiss of the rain, came a sound that sent a chill of horror through Tom’s already icy body. A high, thin wailing, so shrill and attenuated that it was almost beyond the range of his ears, but insistent and unceasing.

‘It’s the wind,’ Max said.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Tom replied, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s coming from over there, behind that wall.’

He crossed to a broken stone wall at the side of the road and looked over, then turned away and flung his hand over his eyes.

‘What is it?’ Max demanded.

‘Look!’ was all Tom could say. He forced himself to lower his hand. Lying on the ground just beyond the wall was a girl, hardly more than a child, legs splayed obscenely apart, her body ripped from crotch to navel. All round her the sodden ground was stained dark with her blood and yet, incredibly, she still lived and uttered that terrible, unworldly cry.

Tom climbed over the wall and knelt beside her. Behind him he could hear Max repeating over and over again ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ He found the child’s hand and gripped it and the wailing stopped, although her eyes remained closed.

‘What do we do? What do we do?’ Max demanded.

‘What can we do?’ Tom said. ‘God knows where the nearest hospital is, and she would be dead before we got her there.’ He was remembering a day when he was about twelve years old. His father had taken him out shooting and they had come across a young fox which had somehow escaped from the hounds, its belly ripped open and its intestines dragging. Tom had knelt by it, weeping, and his father had handed him his shotgun and said brusquely, ‘Put the poor creature out of its misery.’

Tom reached behind him with his free hand. ‘Give me your revolver.’

‘What?’

‘Give me your gun.’

He did not look round, but felt the butt of the revolver placed in his hand. His eyes were blinded by tears but he found the child’s temple and put the muzzle against it. ‘Don’t be afraid, little one,’ he whispered in English. ‘Your suffering will be over in a moment.’

He pulled the trigger and felt the small body convulse once and lie still. Words came unbidden to his lips. ‘Dear God, gentle Jesus, who wipes away all tears from our eyes, take her and be merciful to her.’

He got to his feet and looked round. Max was vomiting against the wall a few feet away. Tom waited until the paroxysm had passed and then said, ‘We can’t leave her like this, but we’ve nothing to dig a grave with. Help me.’

He began pulling loose stones from the wall and piling them round the child’s body. After a moment Max joined him and together they created a rough cairn which covered her from view. Max found a couple of pieces of broken branch from a tree brought down by the bombardment and tied them together with a piece of string from his pocket to form a cross, which he wedged in the top. Then they turned away and trudged on down the road.

It was almost dark by the time they reached the Serbian encampment. A sentry took them to the commanding officer’s tent, where they told their story. Max demanded to know who was responsible.

‘For the theft of your car?
Č
etniks
, almost certainly. They operate almost without control in this area and your car would be a valuable prize.’

‘And for the child?’

‘Who can say? Retreating Turks, Albanian irregulars. There have been atrocities on all sides.’

‘Not Serbs.’

‘No, not Serbs.’ He spoke firmly but Tom wondered how he could be so sure.

They were given food and invited to sit round the campfire with the colonel and some of his officers. Tom could not eat, though he craved drink like a man in the desert. He had not stopped shivering since they found the child but his face burned and his head was swimming.

‘Tom,’ Max said, ‘I admire what you did today. I couldn’t have done it myself. How come you were able to?’

‘I suppose,’ Tom said through chattering teeth, ‘it comes from having what you called “a privileged upbringing”.’

He put down his mug, felt himself sway and lost consciousness.

Nine

Luke Pavel swore as the ox-cart in which he was riding lurched into a pothole and the wounded man behind him moaned in pain. It was two and a half days since the train of carts carrying the wounded had left Chataldzha and they would be lucky to reach Lozengrad before dark the day after tomorrow. By that time, the man would probably be dead, along with several others. Now they were stuck again. Luke had lost count of how many times he had made the journey now, but each time the road seemed to be worse and the weather colder. He swung himself down and joined the driver, who was tugging at the heads of the oxen and yelling encouragement to them as they strained to drag the cart out of the mire. Eventually the cart jolted free and they plodded onwards. Luke climbed aboard again and looked back along the line – twelve carts, each with its cargo of wounded. There should, he thought for the hundredth time, be a better and faster way of moving them.

The driver gave a shout and pointed ahead with his ox-goad. They were approaching a junction with the road from Adrianople and far away in that direction Luke could dimly make out a cluster of moving figures. The air was heavy with moisture and the distances were shrouded in mist, making it difficult to see how many there were. He reached under his seat for his rifle.

‘
Č
etniks?
’

The driver shrugged. ‘Maybe. Probably not.’

Three mounted figures detached themselves from the group and cantered towards them and as they drew closer Luke was relieved to see that they were in Bulgarian uniform. The ox driver called to his team and they stood still.

The leading rider called out, ‘Are you bound for Lozengrad?’

‘Yes,’ Luke shouted in reply, but his eyes were not on the rider. Behind him, out of the mist, appeared a motor car, so caked in mud that it was impossible to make out its type or colour, but a rare enough sight to suggest that it carried someone extremely important.

The rider drew rein beside them. ‘My name is Lieutenant Radic. And you are?’

‘Lucas Pavlovitch.’ Luke used the name his father had borne before his grandfather anglicized it. ‘I’m a medical orderly, in charge of this convoy of wounded.’

‘And I am charged with escorting two important guests to Lozengrad but I am anxious to get back to my unit at Adrianople. If you are going there perhaps I can leave them with you?’

The car had stopped a few yards away, and Luke’s reply died in his throat as the occupants descended. A general or a visiting dignitary would have been surprising enough, but two women . . . ! Two young women, moreover. He heard the driver beside him grunt as if he had received a blow in the stomach.

The lieutenant was saying, ‘These are two ladies who have volunteered to nurse our wounded. They are going to join some others, who we believe are in Lozengrad. Do you know anything about them?’

Luke forced himself to concentrate. ‘Yes, there is a new hospital run by women.’

The lieutenant looked relieved. ‘Then that must be it.’ He turned to the women, who had arrived at his side, and said something in a language Luke did not understand. They both nodded and one of them, the dark-haired one, smiled up at him and said something else, in the same language. Nonplussed, he jumped down from the cart and replied in the local dialect of Macedonian Slav.

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’ Then, seeing the look of incomprehension on her face, he reverted to his native tongue. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I can get by in Bulgarian but apart from that I only speak English.’

Her companion, a tall, chestnut-haired girl who had her arm in a sling, had come to stand beside her and he saw a look of amazement on both their faces.

‘You’re English!’ the second girl exclaimed incredulously. ‘So are we!’

‘No, I’m a New Zealander,’ he corrected. ‘But what the heck are two English girls doing in this God-forsaken neck of the woods?’