The Furies (33 page)

Gabriel suddenly recalled the patterned Ottoman couch in Potiorek's dressing room. And lying – dying – on the couch he could clearly see the Archduke in his bloodstained tunic, calling out for his wife…

‘Why of all things,' Gabriel quietly asked, ‘did you take that with you?'

‘As a permanent reminder,' Potiorek quickly replied, as if he had always expected to be asked the question, ‘of the Archduke's final moments.'

There was silence as Gabriel absorbed Potiorek's reply, but before he could think of a suitable response, the waiter returned with the bottle of Zweigelt and three glasses.

‘Good health, gentlemen,' the chief said, raising his glass in the air once the wine had been poured.

‘
Prost
,' replied Gabriel and Potiorek almost simultaneously, and there was a gentle clink of crystal as the three men toasted their meeting. Gabriel drank some of the heavy red wine, which was pleasantly warm and smooth on his tongue. Potiorek drained half of his glass in one quick swallow, before replacing it on the table and turning towards Gabriel with a sigh.

‘You see, Captain, I carry a heavy burden over the Archduke's death. Of course, I still feel that fate dealt me a harsh hand, and that it was an unlikely set of circumstances that led to his assassination. Ultimately, however, I must accept that the final responsibility lay with me: I invited him to Sarajevo and he was under my protection. That protection failed, and I will have to live with the consequences of that for the rest of my life. And believe me, Captain, when I say that living with that knowledge is like a life sentence.'

Potiorek's openness was surprising, thought Gabriel: he had expected the general to be more defensive. This should be a good opportunity to ask some hard questions. He glanced across at the chief and saw his mentor lean back in his chair, giving Gabriel a subtle nod.

‘And what about the failure of the invasion of Serbia,' Gabriel continued. ‘Do you accept responsibility for that, too?'

A thin smile appeared. ‘It looks bad, doesn't it, Captain? Three invasions and all of them repulsed. But we now know that our plans had been given away by Colonel Redl. The Russians knew all our troop dispositions and logistics, where we would strike, in what strength and order. They gave all this information to the Serbs. Should I be blamed for such a disadvantage?'

‘But we had known about Redl's treason for some time, so why weren't the plans for war changed?'

‘Because there was not enough time. Once it was clear that Russia would support Serbia, our best hope of victory lay in a quick pre-emptive strike against the Serbs.'

‘Maybe
too
quick,' Gabriel said. ‘You pushed our troops forward so quickly that we badly over-extended our supply lines. Then, when our exhausted soldiers were attacked, they had insufficient ammunition to defend themselves.'

Potiorek shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘The Serbs appeared to be on the verge of total collapse and my judgement was that one final push would finish them off. But then – as luck would have it – the French resupplied them with ammunition and…well, you know the rest.'

‘I saw General Appel die from typhus,' Gabriel said quietly. ‘He was in the bed next to me when I was in hospital.'

Potiorek nodded. ‘Poor Michael.'

‘Many others died from typhus.'

‘You cannot blame me for those deaths, Captain.' Gabriel heard the edge in Potiorek's voice.

‘But what about the atrocities on the Serbian population? I saw civilians executed, women hanged like…like…' Gabriel could not find words to describe what he had seen.

For several seconds Potiorek said nothing. ‘There were a number of unfortunate incidents where the actions of Serbian civilians caused the deaths of Austrian soldiers,' Potiorek said, a steely edge to his voice. ‘Incidents where Serbs were found hiding arms and ammunition, or supplying food to the Chetniks, or giving away our positions. And where there was proof of such infractions,' he shrugged, ‘well, Captain, military law is harsh, but that has long been the nature of warfare.'

‘And the orders you issued prior to the first offensive, that no mercy or kindness was to be extended to the Serbian population? Was that not an incitement to the men to commit the brutalities and excesses I witnessed?'

‘I knew well before this war began that this would be a total war, one country against another, one people against another,' Potiorek replied. ‘It was always going to be bloody and brutal. The assassination of the Archduke was designed to goad us into a war. The Serbs are responsible for that. My orders were appropriate for the nature of the conflict—'

‘Appropriate?' Gabriel said, feeling his shoulders tighten in anger. He suddenly realised he had raised his voice and the room had grown quiet, and, glancing away from Potiorek, he saw the other patrons staring at him. He turned back to Potiorek, trying to keep his voice level as he spoke. ‘How can it be appropriate to hang a woman, to allow her children to watch their mother strangle on the end of a rope—'

‘The issue is not as simple as you might think.' Potiorek's voice was soft but his eyes were cold and hard. ‘Both of you' – he glanced across at the chief – ‘are medical men, guided by your Hippocratic oath, which binds you to behave with kindness and compassion. But the job of a soldier is to win at all costs and too strong a sense of compassion can be fatal. If you take your foot off your opponent's throat, he will come back at you and kill you. No, Captain, my orders were consistent with the compassion of war.'

He paused, waiting for a response, but Gabriel – sickened by his fluent justification – could not think of a suitable reply.

‘It is easy to assume, Captain,' Potiorek continued, his fingertips steepled below his chin, ‘that I am some sort of demon, or madman, or incompetent. But I assure you I am none of these. I have been told that there will be a military commission when the war is over – whenever that will be – and that this commission will examine the reasons for our military failures. I have been told that I will have to give an account of all my actions, which will then be made part of a public record. The Viennese newspapers have speculated over my mental health since the Archduke's death. I have read reports that either I must be mad – in which case I ought to be in an asylum – or if sane then I am criminally culpable and should face the hangman.'

He said these last words very matter-of-factly, his face betraying no emotion as he paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Well, I believe that I deserve neither course of action. When the time comes, however, I will happily face that commission, and I will tell them exactly what I've told you today. And I will leave it in the hands of my peers, and my God, and will accept whatever they find, whatever they decide.'

Reaching across for his half-empty glass, Potiorek picked it up and drained it in one long swallow before setting it back on the table. ‘Now, gentlemen, I have said as much as I am prepared to say.'

He pushed his chair back – it scraped noisily on the tiled café floor – and quickly stood up, slipping a hand inside his jacket pocket to pull out a fifty-krone note at the same time. But the chief – who had stood up at the same time – reached across and placed a hand on Potiorek's forearm.

‘Oh please, Herr General, we invited you—'

Potiorek shrugged the hand away. ‘No. I insist.' He placed the note next to the wine bottle and shook hands with the chief. Then he turned to Gabriel. ‘I apologise for what you must have suffered, Captain. I hope you come through the rest of the war unscathed.' He held his hand out.

Gabriel looked at the hand for a moment and then at Potiorek's face. And then he stood, took hold of the hand and shook it.

Potiorek clicked his heels together before bowing his head at both men and turning towards the entrance to the café. With the eyes of the other customers following him, he walked between the tables. The door to the café swung open for a moment as he disappeared into the chill November afternoon; there was a sudden increase in noise as the customers' heads drew together again and began an excited whispering.

‘Sweet mercy,' Gabriel said. ‘That was unexpected.'

‘You did well in getting him to admit his mistakes.' The chief sat down again. ‘He is finished now, of course, a sad shell of what he used to be.'

‘I almost didn't recognise him,' Gabriel said, settling himself into his chair.

‘Chopping wood. And
gardening
!' The chief shook his head in disbelief. ‘Who would have thought it?'

‘And in Klagenfurt of all places.'

‘Actually, that I
can
understand.'

Gabriel frowned. ‘What do you mean?'

‘His desire to return to his hometown; to where his brother lives.' The chief smiled. ‘My family come from Graz, and I intend to retire there after all this is over.'

‘I can't imagine you retiring, Chief.'

‘Oh I won't give up work completely. In fact I've been promised an emeritus teaching position at the university hospital in Graz. You'll have to come and visit me there, after the war has ended – assuming we both survive it of course.'

Gabriel grew thoughtful at the chief's last comment. When he had been ill with typhus he had accepted the possibility of his death. But as he thought of Elspeth again, he suddenly realised he very much wanted to stay alive.

‘Chief, before you leave I must tell you about the most amazing woman I met during my time in Serbia…'

After re-joining the column of refugees, Elspeth continued walking on the valley road towards Krusevac. She knew that she looked different from everybody else – a lone woman, dressed in a damp, mud-stained uniform jacket and skirt, tartan patches on her sleeves – and she attracted curious stares from some of the refugees; a few even tried to talk to her. But finding their Serbian dialect almost impossible to follow, all she could do was shrug her shoulders, smile apologetically and shake her head to let them know she could not understand them.

As she carried on walking, Elspeth continued to scan the column for a familiar face, for somebody – anybody – that she might know. But there was nobody in the crowd of refugees that she recognised, and she felt an emptiness rise within her as the wrench of separation from her comrades brought on the first pangs of loneliness. But she knew better than to let herself wallow in self-pity, and so she pushed the feeling away and steeled herself to focus only on her goal: getting to Krusevac.

A sudden low rumble rolled along the valley road and, along with everyone else in the column, Elspeth stopped and turned. On the distant northern horizon the grey hulls of clouds flickered with the light of shell bursts reflected from the ground below; the explosions were louder than yesterday, telling her the pursuing German troops were close on their heels, trying to stop the fleeing Serb army from escaping south. A child started to cry and the mother hushed the frightened infant as the line of refugees began to move again, a little more urgently now, a little more desperately.

By mid-morning the ice on the road had melted and it was muddy underfoot as Elspeth plodded along, placing one booted foot after another into the mush, trying to work out how far she had yet to go. She knew it was a distance of fifty miles from Kragujevac to Krusevac, and yesterday they had passed Cuprija, which was about halfway between the two. If she could walk three miles each hour, she thought, she should be able to get to Krusevac in eight hours – hopefully before darkness fell. This thought spurred her on, and so she pushed herself to walk faster, continuing at this pace to ensure she reached Krusevac in good time. In the early afternoon she stopped for a few minutes to eat the bread and goats cheese that Milo had given her. But sitting by herself at the side of the road, she quickly felt a chill breeze cut through her thin jacket and so she finished her meal and began to walk again. Now she really missed her rain-cape and coat as the wind increased, whistling along the valley and whipping her skirt about her legs. She held the collar of her jacket closed at the throat and tried not to think too far ahead, but with no food left and dressed as she was, she knew she would be in trouble if she did not reach Krusevac before nightfall.

The road began to descend from the hills, dropping from the higher slopes onto flatter terrain near the valley floor. It was still muddy from all the previous days' heavy rain, but it was also wider and straighter, which allowed her to make faster headway; well, as fast as her tired legs would allow her. In the late afternoon – and still with no sign they were anywhere near Krusevac – she saw that the light had begun to fade, and many of the refugees were stopping to set up overnight camps. The smoky yellow glow of campfires began to spring up by the roadside and soon she could smell roast maize and meat – probably horsemeat, she knew, but any meat was better than none. She was exhausted and would have loved nothing better than to stop and rest, maybe try to beg some food from the other refugees. But already it was colder – she could see the breath in front of her face – and, knowing that the temperature would drop even faster as darkness fell, she ignored the ache in her legs and forced herself to keep moving, to use the emptier roads to make faster progress.

And then several rectangular dark shapes appeared on the distant road ahead. As she carried on walking the objects grew larger and she saw that they were vehicles, four drab-green army lorries parked on either side of the road. She stopped for a moment and squinted through the deepening gloom: were they Serbian? German? Austrian? Bulgarian? It was impossible to tell at this distance and so she walked forward again, slower now, more cautiously. The sides of the vehicles were covered in mud-splatter, but on one of the cab doors she saw two brighter colours; a stripe of red and one of white. For a split second her heart hammered in her throat: that was the Austrian flag wasn't it? But looking more closely between the red and white stripes she saw a strip of dark blue overlaid with a double-headed eagle and sighed with relief: it was the Serbian emblem – thank goodness!

Hurrying forward once again, she saw that the vehicles were positioned on either side of a junction between the main route south, and a smaller spur road that led away in an easterly direction. There were two signposts at this junction: one on the main route which read ‘Pristina 102 km', and another on the smaller spur which read ‘Krusevac 1 km'.

Only one kilometre to go! Her heart soared at the thought of Sylvia and the others waiting for her in Krusevac. As she arrived at the junction, she saw four artillery pieces dug into shallow depressions on either side of the road, and counted about a dozen Serbian soldiers working on the guns; a Serbian officer – a captain dressed in a heavy greatcoat – stood prominently amongst them. He looked cold, the collar of his coat raised beneath his officer's cap, his breath a veil of white mist in the chill air as he barked orders to the soldiers who were man-hauling the artillery pieces up onto the road. Then he appeared to realise he was being watched and scrambled up the side of the depression towards her.

‘
Ko ste vi
?' he asked.

‘
Skotski Hirurg
,' Elspeth replied.

‘
Ah. Skotska dama
.' He smiled and nodded at the tartan epaulettes on her jacket. ‘
Iz Kragujevacke bolnice?
' he asked her: from the hospital in Kragujevac?

‘
Da
,' she nodded her head. ‘
Idem u Krusevac
.' I go to Krusevac. ‘
Idem u bolnicu Czar Lazar
.' To the Czar Lazar Hospital.

But he frowned and shook his head.

‘
Ne
.' He shook his head again. ‘
Nemci su zauzeli Krusevac
.'

She flinched, knowing enough Serbian to understand his meaning: that the Germans had captured Krusevac.

‘
Krusevac je evakuisan
,' he continued.

Krusevac evacuated? Her pulse quickened. ‘
Gde su evakuisani
?' Evacuated to where? she asked

‘
U
Pristinu
.'

Pristina
? Dear Lord – that was a hundred kilometres south of here.

‘
Svi su evakuisani u Pristinu
,' he continued: everybody has been evacuated to Pristina. ‘
Skotske damé su isto evakuisane u Pristinu
.' The Scottish women have also been evacuated to Pristina.

She had missed them again, and for the first time that day she felt herself slump with exhaustion, the hot prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes. She blinked – just managing to hold the tears back – and saw him look at her with concern as he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘
Ne brini
te
,' he said gently: don't worry. ‘
Mi idemo u Pristinu. Mozete ici s nama
.' We are going to Pristina. We can take you with us.

***

The captain's name was Babov, and as his squad of men continued their work of hauling the artillery pieces one-by-one up onto the road, he told Elspeth that they were part of the Serbian rear-guard, tasked with keeping the road open for the evacuation from Krusevac. It had begun the day before, when it was obvious that the Germans were about to take the city, and that morning he had personally seen an ambulance and two ox wagons containing women dressed in the same uniform as Elspeth pass through the junction on their way south to Pristina. Krusevac had fallen only that afternoon, and now his orders were to dismantle his guns and follow the evacuees south to the plains of Kosovo, where he would receive further instructions. He told her that she was lucky to have found him, as they planned to leave within the hour and would drive to Pristina throughout the night.

It had grown considerably colder since dusk had fallen, and as Elspeth stood and watched the soldiers finish coupling the cannons to the backs of the lorries, she began to shiver. Babov must have noticed because he climbed inside one of the vehicles, and after rummaging around he clambered out again holding an army greatcoat. There was a small hole in the chest pocket and obvious bloodstaining on the lining, but Elspeth quickly overcame her squeamishness and put the coat on: it was either that or freeze. As soon as the last gun had been coupled to the lorry, Babov called his squad to attention and announced Elspeth's presence, saying she was one of the famed Scottish women surgeons from Kragujevac and would be travelling with them to Pristina. From the smiles of respect the soldiers gave Elspeth it was obvious to her that they had heard good things about the women's hospital. She asked if anyone needed her medical attention, but all the men shook their heads. Babov told her that apart from the previous owner of the greatcoat, everyone had managed to avoid injury.

Babov barked a final order to the soldiers, who clambered inside the lorries, and then he pointed Elspeth towards the cab of the lead vehicle. She climbed up and sat next to the driver, watching as starting handles were cranked, engines fired into life, and headlights threw beams of yellowy light onto the road ahead. The captain climbed in next to Elspeth and then the driver pushed the accelerator and the lorry lurched forward.

It was very slow going on the unlit track, which was rutted with potholes and strewn with debris; broken or abandoned carts and wagons, discarded clothes or furniture, an occasional dead ox or horse. For much of the time the convoy travelled only a little faster than walking pace, but sitting between the driver and Babov, luxuriating in the warm fug of the cab, Elspeth was relieved to be with this group of men, happy to be out of the cold and able to rest her weary legs. Behind her was a canvas partition, and through this she could hear the camaraderie of the soldiers in the rear of the vehicle: their conversation, their laughter, the smell of tobacco smoke from their pipes and cheroots. A hand holding a hunk of maize bread suddenly appeared through the canvas and Babov reached up to take the loaf; he broke it into three portions, giving one to the driver, another to Elspeth, and keeping the third for himself. Only now did Elspeth realise how famished she was, and with water from a canteen she savoured the bread, its sour-bitter flavour. She chewed thoughtfully as she stared at the contours of the road ahead, which were revealed in the dancing headlights as the lorry swayed and rolled on the uneven surface.

After this frugal meal, and now comfortably warm and safe in the company of the soldiers, Elspeth rested her head back against the seat. And as soon as she did so, an irresistible urge to close her eyes came over her and she immediately fell asleep, only vaguely aware when the hard-sprung vehicle jolted as it swerved to avoid obstacles on the road. She woke only once during the night – when the lorries stopped to change drivers and refuel the tanks from jerry cans – but she was fully awake as the dawn broke, the early-morning sunlight dazzling through the side window of the cab, the road ahead a shimmer of white from sunlight reflected over the frost.

With daylight they made much quicker progress, but within an hour the sun had disappeared behind a gathering bank of red-tinged snow clouds. By now they had left the hills and mountains of Serbia well behind and were in more open territory; Babov told her that they were on the plains of Kosovo, not far from Pristina. Another hour later and cottages and farms began to appear on either side of the road, and then, like a mirage in the desert, on the horizon Elspeth saw a jumble of grey and white shapes. She quickly realised it was a vast encampment, a landscape composed of army bivouacs and marquees, and also green-coloured civilian tents and temporary shelters made from blue tarpaulins and white canvas sheeting. As their lorry drew nearer and the encampment grew larger, Elspeth peered through the grime-stained window and saw hundreds of black specks scattered between the tents that she realised were people – a great many people. Dear Lord, she thought: how on earth am I going to find my fellow Scottish women in all of this?

Arriving at the edge of the encampment, Elspeth saw a checkpoint manned by half a dozen Serbian guards who were directing the flow of traffic. Their lorry came to a halt and as Babov climbed down and began to speak to the officer in charge, a faint rumble of thunder could be heard from the Serbian hills behind them. The guards at the checkpoint stopped talking and turned towards the noise, which Elspeth knew was the sound of German artillery.

Babov climbed back into the cab and the lorry started up again; the driver now followed a route that led directly towards the encampment, before turning off onto a deeply rutted track that ran through the middle of the camp. The vehicle rose and sank on the uneven surface, almost as if it were a ship sailing through the throng of people. And in this vast sea of humanity Elspeth saw grannies dressed from head to toe in black, mothers wrapped in woollen shawls holding their babies close to their chests, younger women and girls wearing brightly coloured headscarves, men in grey overcoats and hats, smaller children – oblivious to the unfolding disaster – happily playing in the mud, all of these people milling together outside tents and campfires, or standing in small circles, or squatting on the muddy ground. There were also groups of soldiers warming their hands in front of open braziers, rifles slung over their shoulders, empty packing cases of ammunition stacked nearby. Scattered between the people, she saw animals: stray dogs scavenging for food, ponies, horses, donkeys and of course the ubiquitous Serbian oxen, most of them yoked to their wagons. There were also the vehicles, the carts and lorries – even an occasional bus and black taxicab – that had brought them all here. Underneath all of these people and animals and vehicles Elspeth saw mud, a thickly glutinous sludge that appeared to stick to everything and everyone.