The Sunday telegram. [volume] (Clarksburg, W. Va.) 1914-1927, 1916-09-10
THIRD BAN MEMS
LOT IS PATHETIC
Aged Serbs Who Once Were
Heroes Are Too Old to
Fight Any More.

Serbs. Besides those who rest for
eternity in alien soil, on the sunlit
slopes Of the island OF Vido, some
500 living Serbs remain here. The
war goes on without them. They
are the third ban" men, too old or
too badly manned ever to fight again.
Many Of them are Ill even now,
and the two hospital tents at Potamo
under the supervision OF Miss Emily
Simmons OF New York, an English
trained nurse sent out by the Ameri-
can Red Cross. are generally full.
Just now, out of the 500 third ban
men in camp. there are 113 In the
hospital. The remainder are in
charge Of two English Quakcrs, act
ing for the British Serbian relief com
mlttee.
Heroes No More.
Those who are well enough work
at trivial tasks TO fill their empty
days-they who have been heroes.
They carve Gains of white olive-wood,
or weave baskets to sell to tourists
anything to keep the fingers busy and
dull the dreams OF what is passing
over there, behind tho Albanian
hills. in what was once Serbia. Save
what has come to them from the
American Red Cross or the British
Serbian relief, they have nothing.
They staggered through Albania leav-
ing by the roadside all their meagre
possessionB-even ut the last their
useless guns, for which there was no
more ammunition. Here and there
one or two have kept their torn and
mud-stalned blankets. One, through
all the vicissitudes Of that hideous
retreat, chung to n deep, long-handled
saucepan, n mountain heirloom Of
other ages.
And now the saucepan has come
into its own. A miraculous metamor-
phosls Is In progress Over the oval
bowl bends the gray head Of what
seems an old. old man. He is fifty
six-but he looks seventy. His two
sons are dead; his brother and his
brothers three sons; his sisters hus-
band and her son-all are dead.
the Adriatic, on the road from
Kragujevatz to Durazzo. He alone
remains third ban man, his fight
ing done, his family come to nm end,
and of what was once his home only
an antique saucepan. He is string
ing cord OF twisted horsehalr across
the hollow bowl to the far end Of
the wooden handle. On the ground
beside him lies an olive wand bent
in the shape OF an arc, its tips con-
nected by another string of woven
horsehair.
When Task is Over.
The old mans task is completed.
Mumbling to himself. he picks up the
and balances 1t on his knee.
In his right hand the improvised bow
sweeps across the solitary string with
a tone. vibrant and low. The fingers
of his left hand grip the handle and.
pressing the cord, vary the tone in
a scale of half a dozen notes.
Gently the old man draws his bow,
experimenting with his new-made in
strument. Around him gather the
others in the tent. one by one draw
Ing near the unaccustomed sound. "A
Gulsa! A gulsa!" they cry, delighted,
closer.
"Aye!" he replies. proudly. fond
ling the transformed saucepan. "A
gulsa". And in n half voice he be-
gins to sing. accompanying the words
with the few primeval notes of his
gusla. At first 1t is the
chant, five centuries old, OF the fugi-
tive Serbs after their defeat on the
plains OF Kossovo-the chant that is
called THE Bloody Night;
Beloved. my beloved!
VIII It end Mt last, this tragic night
At whose dawn you must go to bat
tle?"
Many Bloody Nights.
But there have been so many
bloody nights since then. so much
that is now to be added to the an
cient legend. The old man abandons
the song centuries old and raising
his voice, he begins the narrative OF
another defeat. a recenter and more
poignant trial of the soul of Serbia.
Heroes, do you remember. he
begins, monotonously: and step by
step he traces across the mountains
of Albania the blood stained path
way of retreat He named each pass.
each bridge, each brook and heighth.
He recalls the names Of those who
died fighting and Of those who fell
OF hunger and exhaustion BY the way.
And those who listen. as the nara
tive proceeds remind the singer Of
an incident forgotten. At once II is
Incorporated in the Improvisation.
Hour upon hour the chant con-
tinues, and the gusla means Its hum
med accompaniment.
Prince Alexander.
Sometimes at twilight, at the edge
Of the crowd that surrounds the bard,
bending over his TRANSPORTED sauce
pan. a short. wiry youth stands. half
lost in the shadows. His dark eyes
CLEAN in the Candle-light; his eager.
mobile face reflects the exaltation OF
somber harmonies and sublime words.
Silent, he too listens TO the heroic
story Of his race. his nervous hands
opening and shutting, his counte-
nance glorified by stronger. inner
flame. UnobtrusIvely he slips from
the circle at last. unmarked. and
strides off into the dusk.
II is Prince Alexander of Serbia
The last of the Kara Georgevitches-
or BLACK Georges.