From where we sat sipping our cocoa, we could see the hurried coming and going of motors in the main square, and groups of bullock waggons and soldiers about the fence of the church.  A great street which split the village in two from top to bottom—­the old Turkish frontier—­was almost empty.  The corporal proposed to visit the military commandant in search of hay and bread.  So Jan dragged on his wet boots and set off with him down the hill, collecting Jo from the “Stobarts” on the way.

We crossed the rickety wooden bridge, passed between the alfresco encampments—­like travelling tinkers—­of waggoners and soldiers which lined the roads, up the great frontier street and so into the square.  All that now was SERBIA was concentrated in this little village.  Private houses had suddenly become ministries; cafes, headquarters; and shops, departmental offices.  The square was the central automobile station, and cars under repair or adjustment were in every corner.  Beneath the church paling a camp of waggoners had a large bonfire and were cooking a whole sheep on a spit.  Austrian prisoners with white, drawn faces were wandering about, staring with half unseeing eyes; a Serbian soldier was chewing a hard biscuit, and a prisoner crept up to him begging for a corner of the bread; the soldier broke off a piece and gave it to him.

About the gate of the commandant’s office were gathered Serbs and Austrians all waiting for bread.  We pushed our way in.  The hay was quickly arranged, but the bread was another matter.

“We have no bread,” said the commandant.

“But,” we objected, “all those men waiting outside.  They would not come here if you had no bread.”

The commandant pulled his moustache.

“We have bread only for soldiers.”

There was a sudden commotion outside.  The door was burst open; two soldiers entered dragging with them a man—­a peasant; his eyes were staring, his face blanched.  We then noticed that he was holding his shoulders in a curious manner, and realized that his arms were bound with his own belt.  The two soldiers pushed him into an inner room, but the officials were busy, so he was stood in a corner.

“What has he done?” we asked.

“We have only bread for soldiers,” repeated the commandant.  Bread was evidently the most important.

“We have a Government order.”

He scanned it, pounced upon the three franc phrase and offered us money.  We pointed out that bread was indicated to the value—­

“We have no bread for the English,” he said at last.

Jo once more made the nasty little speech which we had found so effective at Kralievo.  It worked like a charm.  An enormous sack filled with loaves was dragged out and from it he choose three.  We mentioned the man once more.  The commandant shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s going to be killed,” he said.  “Some soldiers looted his yard and he shot one.”