Page:Diary of a Prisoner in World War I by Josef Šrámek.pdf/57

 When will my turn come? Tomorrow? The next day?

There is a ferry today, but only for the sick! Indescribable scenes take place at the raft. People rush like mad, push each other, fight. Serbians beat them with sticks and gun butts. Many people are beaten and kicked to death, then thrown into the river.

Everyone is trying to save himself from death by hunger. Our platoon's turn should be tomorrow. We got 3 spoons of flour each today and set out to look for places to sleep in the thorns. We picked some grass and lay down. Around us bullets from Albanian guns fly.

Not our turn yet. Rafts are still ferrying the sick, who number more than the healthy. The night was freezing; many people got frostbite and had to be supported to warm up. The Arnauts give a piece of broj in exchange for boots. I gave them my blanket for a piece. People walk around like mad. They bite leaves, grass, tree bark. Tomorrow, rumor says, we will go for sure.

Christmas Eve day—how sad and miserable. I fast because the sergeant stole our rations. In the morning I was already by the raft when the order came: there were enough people already, and I had to go back. The Italians will celebrate the holidays and will not ferry.