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diff --git a/old/67937-0.txt b/old/67937-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 07077ac..0000000 --- a/old/67937-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4007 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Song of Tiadatha, by Owen Rutter - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Song of Tiadatha - -Author: Owen Rutter - -Contributor: H. C. Owen - -Release Date: April 26, 2022 [eBook #67937] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONG OF TIADATHA *** - - - - - - -THE SONG OF TIADATHA - - - - - RHYMES OF A RED-CROSS MAN - - BY ROBERT W. SERVICE - - _Cloth._ =4/6= _net_. - - “It is the great merit of Mr. Service’s verses that they - are literally alive with the stress and joy and agony and - hardship that make up life out in the battle zone. He has - never written better than in this book, and that is saying - a great deal.”—BOOKMAN. - - T. FISHER UNWIN LD. LONDON - - - - - THE SONG OF - TIADATHA - - By CAPTAIN - OWEN RUTTER (‘KLIP-KLIP’) - - T. FISHER UNWIN LTD. - LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE - - _First impression published in Salonica,_ _January 20, 1919_ - _Second impression published in Salonica,_ _February 4, 1919_ - _First issue in Great Britain_ _1920_ - _Second Impression_ _1920_ - _Third Impression_ _1920_ - - (_All rights reserved_) - - - - - TO - - COLONEL “BONNY” ROCKE, C.M.G. - WHO HAS TURNED MORE THAN ONE - TIRED ARTHUR INTO A SOLDIER - THIS SLIGHT RECORD OF ADVENTURE IS DEDICATED - IN MEMORY OF MANY DAYS (PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT) - SPENT UNDER HIS COMMAND IN WILTSHIRE AND - IN FRANCE, AND UPON THE BARREN - HILLS OF MACEDONIA - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -THE SONG OF TIADATHA first made its appearance in the columns of _The -Orient Weekly_, and by the time two or three instalments had appeared -requests came from every quarter asking that the fascinating story of -“Tired Arthur” should be completed as soon as possible, and issued in -book form for the further delight of its many admirers. This was easier -asked for than complied with. All sorts of urgent messages were sent -to the Author, insisting on the fame that was awaiting him, but he was -extremely busy with his military duties up on the Doiran Front, and -in the intervals of raiding the Bulgars his serio-comic muse did not -flourish too easily. - -But bit by bit the pleasing fabric of THE SONG OF TIADATHA was built up, -and we are happy to be able to present it at last in complete form. THE -SONG OF TIADATHA is unique in war literature. It tells a story which -is common to very many members of the Salonica Army, and tells it in -a fashion which is a most happy blend of descriptive realism, humour -and sentiment. Longfellow’s metre has often been copied before, but I -think never so well as this and certainly never with such happy results. -Floating as gently along as Hiawatha in his canoe, we follow Tiadatha’s -adventures from the day when he ceases to be a “nut” in St. James’s -Street, joins up, and goes to France; we come with him to Macedonia, -and accompany him as he does the hectic round of Salonica’s dubious -amusements; watch him building his dug-out up on the Doiran Front; share -his feverish activities during the nightmare experience of the Great -Fire; attack the frowning Bulgar mountains in his company; and finally, -with much good work well done, go back to England with him on leave—and -look enviously on as he takes to his arms again his green-eyed Phyllis. - -There is something in THE SONG OF TIADATHA that all of us have -experienced. That is one reason why it appeals so strongly to the B.S.F. -But another reason is that THE SONG OF TIADATHA is something absolutely -our own. Nobody can appreciate it to the full who has not belonged to the -great family of the B.S.F. And as you men of that Army have had trials -which have been peculiarly your own, so it is right that you should have -a pleasure in which nobody outside the family can fully participate. - - H. C. OWEN. - - SALONICA, - _January 1, 1919_. - - -PUBLISHERS’ NOTE TO THE FIRST BRITISH EDITION - -As Mr. H. C. Owen (the Editor of the _Balkan News_) says above, THE -SONG OF TIADATHA tells a story which is common to very many members of -the Salonica Army; he says further that “nobody can appreciate it to -the full who has not belonged to the great family of the B.S.F.” But we -venture to think that it is a story which cannot properly be regarded -as of local significance and interest merely. It typifies experiences -which innumerable soldiers must, in their various ways, have undergone -throughout the various theatres of the war. Thus THE SONG OF TIADATHA may -be regarded in a sense as a little epic of the Great War, and, though it -may find special appreciation among the great family of the B.S.F., its -qualities are such that it may be expected to find appreciation among the -great family of readers generally, soldiers and civilians alike. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - INTRODUCTION 7 - - I. THE JOINING OF TIADATHA 13 - - II. THE TRAINING OF TIADATHA 18 - - III. TIADATHA’S WOOING 23 - - IV. TIADATHA’S DEPARTURE 29 - - V. TIADATHA IN FRANCE 35 - - VI. TIADATHA’S JOURNEY 42 - - VII. TIADATHA AT SALONICA 47 - - VIII. A DAY IN SALONIQUE 53 - - IX. UP THE LINE 60 - - X. CARRYING ON 66 - - XI. TIADATHA’S DUG-OUT 73 - - XII. TIADATHA’S BATTLE 80 - - XIII. TIADATHA IN HOSPITAL 88 - - XIV. THE FIRE 96 - - XV. SNEVCE WAY 108 - - XVI. A STUNT AT DAWN 116 - - XVII. LEAVE TO ENGLAND 123 - - XVIII. HOME AT LAST 132 - - - - -THE SONG OF TIADATHA - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE JOINING OF TIADATHA - - - Should you question, should you ask me - Whence this song of Tiadatha? - Who on earth was Tiadatha? - I should answer, I should tell you, - He was what we call a filbert, - Youth of two and twenty summers. - You could see him any morning - In July of 1914, - Strolling slowly down St. James’s - From his comfy flat in Duke Street. - Little recked he of in those days, - Save of socks and ties and hair-wash, - Girls and motor-cars and suppers; - Little suppers at the Carlton, - Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s, - Little week-ends down at Skindle’s; - Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him, - And the Piccadilly grill-room, - And he used to dance at Ciro’s - With the fairies from the chorus. - There were many Tired Arthurs - In July of 1914. - - Then came war, and Tiadatha - Read his papers every morning, - Read the posters on the hoardings, - Read “Your King and Country want you.” - “I must go,” said Tiadatha, - Toying with his devilled kidneys, - “Do my bit and join the Army.” - So he hunted up a great-aunt, - Who knew someone in the Service, - Found himself in time gazetted - To a temporary commission - In the 14th Royal Dudshires. - - Straightway Tiadatha hied him - To the shop of Bope and Pradley, - Having seen their thrilling adverts. - In the Tube and in the _Tatler_. - Pradley sold him all he needed, - Bope a lot of things he didn’t, - Pressed upon him socks and puttees, - Haversacks and water-bottles. - Made him tunics for the winter, - Made him tunics for the summer, - And some very baggy breeches. - There he chose his cap of khaki, - Very light and very floppy - (Rather like a tam-o’-shanter), - And a supple chestnut Sam Browne, - Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes, - Rather new but very supple. - - Many pounds spent Tiadatha - On valises, baths and camp beds, - Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags. - Macs and British warms and great-coats, - And a gent’s complete revolver. - Then he went to Piccadilly, - Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly, - Where he ordered ties and shirtings, - Cream and coffee ties and shirtings, - Ordered socks and underclothing, - Putting down the lot to Father. - Compass, torch and boots and glasses - All of these sought Tiadatha; - All day boys with loads were streaming - To and from the flat in Duke Street, - Like a chain of ants hard at it - Storing rations for the winter. - - “One thing more,” cried Tiadatha, - “One thing more ere I am perfect. - I must have a sword to carry - In a jolly leather scabbard.” - So he called the son of Wilkin, - Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall, - Bade him make a sword and scabbard. - And the mighty son of Wilkin - Made a sword for Tiadatha, - From the truest steel he made it, - Slim and slender as a maiden, - Sharper than a safety razor, - Sighed a little as he made it, - Knowing well that Tiadatha - Probably would never use it. - - Then at last my Tiadatha - Sallied forth to join the Dudshires, - Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier, - Floppy cap and baggy breeches, - Round his waist the supple Sam Browne, - At his side the sword and scabbard, - Took salutes from private soldiers - And saluted Sergeant-Majors - (Who were very much embarrassed), - And reported at Headquarters - Of the 14th Royal Dudshires. - Shady waters of a river, - Feels when by some turn of fortune - He gets plopped into a cistern - At a comic dime museum, - Finds himself among strange fishes, - Finds his happy freedom vanished, - Even so felt Tiadatha - On the day he joined the Dudshires. - But he pulled himself together, - Found the Adjutant, saluted, - Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.” - Such was Tiadatha’s joining. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE TRAINING OF TIADATHA - - - Two long months spent Tiadatha - On a Barrack Square in Dudshire - Learning how to be a soldier. - Laid aside the sword and scabbard - Fashioned by the son of Wilkin, - Only routed out on Sundays, - For the Church Parades on Sundays. - In their stead he bore a rifle, - Just a rifle and a bayonet, - Learnt to slope his arms by numbers - Learnt to order arms by numbers, - Learnt the rite of fixing bayonets, - Harkening to the Sergeant-Major, - Very gruff and fierce and warlike. - - Then came P.T. with its press-ups, - Stretching slowly (on the hands down), - Slowly, slowly bending downwards; - After seven Tiadatha - Lay and gasped upon his tummy. - Then the muscle exercises, - Ghastly muscle exercises, - Standing with the blinking rifle - Two full minutes at the shoulder. - - In those days too Tiadatha - Learnt the mysteries of “Form Fours,” - And evolved a simpler method, - Which he showed the Sergeant-Major. - “No, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major, - Looking very fierce and warlike, - “Mine’s the only way it’s done, sir, - Mine’s the way the Colonel wants it.” - “Narrow minds,” cried Tiadatha, - “Hidebound hearts,” he cried in dudgeon, - “Mine’s as good a way as his is, - Mine is better than the Colonel’s. - I shall tell him so to-morrow, - Tell him on parade to-morrow.” - - On the morrow came the Colonel, - Came the Colonel of the Dudshires, - Stern and terrible in aspect, - With his usual morning liver; - Ran his eye along the front rank, - Ran his eye along the rear rank, - Till he came to Tiadatha. - “There’s an officer,” he shouted, - Bellowed forth in voice of thunder, - “Holding up his blasted rifle - Like a something something pitchfork.” - After which poor Tiadatha - Thought perhaps he wouldn’t mention - Forming fours and simpler methods. - - Had you asked my Tiadatha - If he loved those days of training, - Loved the sloping arms by numbers, - Loved the musketry and marching, - And the press-ups and the shouting, - He would just have smiled and told you - That, until he joined the Army, - He had not the least conception - Life could be so damned unpleasant. - But it made him much less nut-like, - Made him straighter-backed and broader, - Clear of eye, with muscles on him - Like a strong man in a circus. - - And in time he formed new friendships - With his brothers in the Dudshires. - They were drawn from many countries, - Many places and professions, - From the public schools of England, - From Ceylon and from Rhodesia, - Canada, the Coast and China; - Actors, business men and lawyers, - And a planter from Malacca - With a mighty thirst for whisky. - As a village shop in Dudshire - Has its wonderful collection, - Miscellaneous assortment - Of all things that you could think of, - And a lot of things you couldn’t— - Oranges and postal orders, - Bullseyes, buckets, belts and bacon, - Shoes and soap and writing-paper— - Even such a strange collection - Tiadatha found his brothers - In the 14th Royal Dudshires. - Yet they fitted in their places - Like the pieces of a puzzle, - Pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, - And they talked on common topics, - Motor-bikes and leave and press-ups. - So among them Tiadatha - Lived and laughed and learnt and grumbled, - Shared their tents and huts and billets, - Shared the mud and snow and sunshine, - Shared the long route marches with them, - And at night foregathered with them - Over port and whisky sodas. - - Came a day when Tiadatha - Handed in at last his rifle, - And as a Platoon Commander, - Found out what commanders feel like - (Sort of super-idiot feeling) - When they shout “Right Turn” for “Left Turn,” - When they loudly bawl out “Eyes Left” - For a General on their right hand. - Daily too upon parade he - Looked at his platoon’s cap badges, - Saw its every button polished, - Learnt that private soldiers’ hair grows - Fast as cress upon a blanket. - Many hours he spent in drilling, - Spent in Foot and Kit inspections, - Spent in strenuous Brigade Days - On the windy downs of Dudshire, - Finding (as he’d long suspected) - That a subaltern’s existence - Isn’t quite all beer and skittles. - Such was Tiadatha’s training. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -TIADATHA’S WOOING - - - During all the months of training, - Months of waiting down in Dudshire, - Often sighed my Tiadatha - For his haunts about St. James’s, - Missed his little flat in Duke Street, - Missed his morning devilled kidneys. - But at times he snatched a week-end - From the joys of bombs and bayonets, - Put his name down in the leave book - And went crashing up to London. - - In the East they tell a legend - Of the crocodiles that dwell there, - Basking in the tropic sunshine - On the mudflats of the rivers. - Every night (so natives tell you) - All the crocodiles will vanish - To the palace of their rajah - Underneath the winding rivers; - There each crocodile his skin doffs, - Hangs it in the palace courtyard - And becomes a human being. - - Even so my Tiadatha - Doffed his tunic for those week-ends, - Hung his soldier’s mental skin up, - Put off thoughts of bomb and bayonet, - Turning to the haunts that knew him - In July of 1914. - - Thus fared he through months of waiting - Till at last there came the tidings: - “We go out to France in three weeks, - Final leave begins on Friday.” - So it chanced that Tiadatha - Spent his final leave in London, - And one night looked in at Murray’s - With a brother from the Dudshires. - “I have got to meet my sister,” - Said his brother from the Dudshires, - “Meet my little sister Phyllis, - Come and dance a fox-trot with her.” - - Rather bored felt Tiadatha, - Thinking how he’d asked to supper - Cloe Goldilocks of Daly’s, - Bored until he saw this Phyllis, - Heard his friend say, “Here’s my sister; - Phyllis, this is Tiadatha.” - - Fair was she and slim and slender, - Like an April day her eyes were, - Green and grey as days in April. - And her mouth curved like a rose leaf, - And her smile was like the sunshine - Playing on the Thames at Chelsea - Early on a summer morning. - Slim and slender as his sword was. - - Tiadatha looked and wondered, - Found her different from the others, - Asked her if she’d dance the next one, - Vowed he’d dodge the gilt-haired Cloe; - Then the band struck up a rag-time, - Noisy, thrilling, banging rag-time, - And he steered her through the mazes - Of that crowded floor at Murray’s. - In and out among the couples - Tightly in his arms he bore her - (Very careful not to bump her), - Dipping, whirling, swinging, swaying, - To the rhythm of the music, - To that syncopated music - Of the darkie band at Murray’s. - - Then they supped and danced a fox-trot, - Careless, fascinating fox-trot, - Danced a waltz, another rag-time; - Till the darkie band departed, - Till the waiters all grew restive - Phyllis danced with Tiadatha. - Brother Bill had hied him homewards - Rather peevish, very sleepy, - Saying “See her home to Sloane Street,” - To the joy of Tiadatha. - - So he put her in a taxi, - Saying to the driver gently, - “No, old top, not straight to Sloane Street,” - Hopped in too and looked at Phyllis, - Found his heart was working faster - Than a Lewis gun in action. - - Very lovely was the morning - As they drove down Piccadilly, - Pink and grey like parrots’ feathers; - And the watered streets were gleaming - Still and silent in the sunlight, - None abroad and nothing stirring - Save a sparrow in the Green Park, - Save a reveller returning; - Save a loaded wagon bearing - Brussels sprouts to Covent Garden. - - “Phyllis, dear,” said Tiadatha, - “No one ever danced like you do, - No one ever smiled like you do, - No one ever made my heart beat - In the way that you have made it. - Fate is cruel to let me find you - On this last of final leave days.” - - Phyllis sighed and whispered softly, - “Better to have found each other - Even for a little hour. - All the same, I hate you going; - I shall miss you, Tiadatha.” - - “Some day I will come back, Phyllis, - We will dance again together. - Will you be my partner always, - Will you wait, my lovely Phyllis?” - Not a word she answered, only - Moved her hand in his a little, - And straightway my Tiadatha - Took her in his arms and kissed her. - - * * * * * - - “’Ere we are, sir,” said the driver. - “Bin ’ere this last twenty minutes,” - Growled the driver of the taxi, - Rather anxious for his breakfast. - So they parted; Tiadatha - Watched the front door close behind her, - Gave the driver half-a-sovereign, - Strolled back slowly to St. James! - - Thus was Tiadatha’s wooing, - Thus he parted from his Phyllis. - You will say ’twas not idyllic, - Wooing in a London taxi, - Parting on a London pavement. - Yet romance is where your heart is - Idylls what you like to make them. - Anyone can be romantic - In a punt beneath the willows; - Anyone can be romantic - In a woodland dell at sunset. - But if punt and dell are absent - And you want to tell your Phyllis, - Want to tell her how you love her, - Be a man like Tiadatha, - Take her in your arms and tell her - Even in a London taxi. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -TIADATHA’S DEPARTURE - - - On a day in late September, - In September 1915, - Marched the 14th Royal Dudshires - For the last time past their General, - Ere they sailed to fight the Germans. - After which my Tiadatha - Sorted out the things he needed, - All the things he thought he needed, - For a life on active service, - Active service in the trenches. - - “Thirty-five pounds, Tiadatha,” - Said his Company Commander, - Sitting on a mighty bundle, - “Not another ounce, remember.” - “Thirty-five pounds,” said the T.O. - “Not another ounce, remember, - Or I put the whole darned lot off.” - All day long he heard their warnings, - In his dreams he heard their warnings, - “Thirty-five pounds, Tiadatha.” - - Ruefully he left behind him - Presents from his fond relations— - Cooking stoves and writing cases, - Body shields and balaclavas, - Medicine chests and many mittens, - Also twenty-seven mufflers - Knitted by some loving cousins, - And a vast supply of Horlick’s. - - Even then it looked too bulky, - That valise of Tiadatha’s, - Very big and fat and bulging, - Though he’d only crammed inside it - Just the barest necessaries - For a life on active service— - And a pair of silk pyjamas, - Just one pair of pink pyjamas, - Souvenirs of Piccadilly. - - Then he helped his batman raise it, - Watched his batman stagger with it - To the laden limbered wagon. - “Much too heavy,” said the T.O. - Pointing an accusing finger. - “Did I not say thirty-five pounds? - This is over sixty-seven.” - - So they took it round the corner - (Tiadatha and his batman), - And with superhuman efforts - Tightened up the straps a little, - Hoisted it upon the limber - When the T.O. wasn’t looking. - - On the next day Tiadatha - Got his gent.’s complete equipment, - Messed about with straps and buckles, - Set upon it his revolver, - Ammunition-pouch and compass, - Stuffed the pack to overflowing, - With some little things he couldn’t, - Really couldn’t leave behind him. - Not a man in all the Dudshires - Had a pack like Tiadatha’s; - When he put it on he tottered - As a very strong man totters - Carrying a grand piano, - As a railway porter totters - Humping trunks of Yankee travellers. - “This is War,” said Tiadatha, - As he went on the parade ground - For his final march in England. - - Very cheerful were the Dudshires - As they swung along the high road, - Marching to the railway station, - Off to do a job for England, - Singing all the songs of those days, - Playing “Keep the Home Fires Burning” - On their fourpenny mouth-organs. - And the simple folk of Dudshire - Turned out in their scores to see them, - Smiling through their tears they watched them. - Standing in the cottage doorways, - Waving from the cottage windows. - As he sang each soldier wondered - How long it would be, before he - Saw again those smiling faces, - Little knowing how he’d miss them, - Sigh for all those smiling faces, - For the sunny downs of Dudshire, - For the mellow ale of Dudshire, - In the days that were to follow. - Then they reached the railway station, - Journeyed down by train to Folkestone, - And embarked upon their transport - For the land of war and trenches. - - Should you ask me of their sailing, - Ask me if the bands were playing, - Buglers blowing, bagpipes wailing, - Sirens tooting, people cheering, - If the Quay were thronged with watchers - Waving to their sons and husbands, - Blowing kisses to their sweethearts, - And the soldiers on the troopship - Lining all along the taffrail, - Singing loudly “Rule Britannia” - (You have very likely heard it, - _The Departure of the Troopship_, - On some gramophone or other), - I should make reply and tell you. - There was not a band or bugle, - Not a single watcher waving, - Not a single soldier singing - On the night that Tiadatha - Sailed for France upon a troopship. - Silently they left the station, - Silently embarked at midnight, - No one talking, no one smoking, - Not a sound except the tramping - Of the men along the gangway, - And the gurgling water-bottles, - And the rattle of equipment. - - Like a shadow lay the transport, - Like a ghost she cast her moorings, - And with her destroyer escort - Steamed away into the darkness. - - “Better thus,” mused Tiadatha, - As he watched the inky outline - Of the cliffs of England fading, - Thinking of his green-eyed Phyllis, - Thinking hard of Piccadilly, - Thinking of his loves and longings - Set within the four-mile radius. - “Better thus,” thought Tiadatha, - Went below and had a whisky - With his Company Commander, - Made a pillow of his life-belt, - Fell into a troubled slumber - Till the shores of France were sighted. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -TIADATHA IN FRANCE - - - Tiadatha had a notion, - All the Dudshires had a notion - That in France they’d drop for ever - Musketry and long route marches, - Drop the sloping arms by numbers, - Drop the everlasting press-ups, - As a steamer drops her pilot - When she reaches open waters. - Yet the Dudshires’ recollection - Of those days in France is mainly - One big blur of mingled P.T., - Arm drill, long straight roads and marches. - - Many miles my Tiadatha - Tramped along those endless highways. - Endless as a winter’s evening, - Straighter than the wife of Cæsar, - Fringed with trees all apple-laden, - Apple-laden till the Dudshires - Had a short fall-out beneath them. - - Many villages they came to, - Villages as like as marbles, - With a little church, a duck pond, - And a local pub, which furnished - Nothing in the world but _vin rouge_ - (“Two _vins_, please, Miss,” called the Dudshires), - Beer as thin as tissue paper, - And (sometimes) a drop of cognac: - There were bars in which the soldiers - Slept on straw and ate and grumbled, - Shaved and smoked and wrote their letters— - Tiadatha censored hundreds. - There were cottages that straggled - (Like some weary soldiers marching) - Down a very muddy main street; - In those cottages dwelt old men, - Women, children and some cripples, - But no men with able bodies, - Not a slacker, not a shirker. - - Here it was that Tiadatha - Slept upon the chilly stone floor, - Or (if fate were feeling kinder) - On a mighty feather mattress, - Ate his dinner in the kitchen, - Drinking down great draughts of cider, - Talking in his very vile French - To Madame, his kindly hostess, - Wrinkled as a russet apple. - By the fire he wrote his letters, - Wrote and told his green-eyed Phyllis - How he missed her every minute, - Thanked her for the cake she’d sent him, - Hinted that he’d like another. - - Little dreamed my Tiadatha - How he’d miss the cottage kitchen, - Miss the long French loaves and butter, - And his kindly wrinkled hostess, - In the days that were to follow. - - After several weeks of wandering, - From one village to another, - From one billet to another, - Came a sojourn in the trenches - Just to see what trenches feel like. - - On the day that Tiadatha - Sallied forth into the trenches, - Wondrously was he accoutred. - On his head a cap with ear-flaps - (Very like a third-rate footpad’s), - On his feet a pair of waders, - Reaching upwards to his tummy. - Many bags of tricks he carried, - Compass, map case and revolver, - Respirator, two trench daggers, - And his pack was great with torches, - Tommy’s cookers, iron rations, - And a box of ear defenders, - Present from his Aunt Matilda. - - As they saw him in the distance, - Bearing down upon their billets, - His platoon turned out in wonder, - Watched the apparition coming, - Speculated who it might be, - Freely making bets about it, - Till they found it was none other - Than their own platoon commander. - - Then he trudged off to the trenches, - Followed many muddy C.T.s, - Till at last he reached a dug-out, - And “reported for instruction” - To the hero who commanded - That small sector of the trenches. - This stout hero and his fellows - Made my Tiadatha welcome, - Straightway plying him with whisky, - Saying, “Won’t you take your kit off? - All you’ll need up here’s a Sam Browne.” - - Then his host expounded to him - Many mysteries of warfare, - And the routine of the trenches, - All the habits of the Boche cove. - All the Boche’s beastly habits, - When he crumped, and when he didn’t, - How you got retaliation; - Spoke of Véry lights and whizzbangs, - Lewis guns and working parties, - Of his leave, due Friday fortnight, - Of the foibles of his Colonel, - Of the rats that he had captured - With some cheese upon a bayonet. - - Then they took him round their trenches, - Round their muddy maze of trenches, - Rather like an aggravated - Rabbit warren with the roof off, - Worse to find one’s way about in - Than the dark and windy subways - Of the Piccadilly tube are. - - In the day and night that followed - Many things learnt Tiadatha - Of the subtleties of trench-craft. - Learnt of crumps and duds and shrapnel, - And enjoyed himself immensely, - Little knowing how he’d loathe crumps - When he got to know them better. - - There are very many trials - That a soldier can get used to: - Senior officers and bully, - Dug-outs, mules and ration biscuits, - Even standing-to in trenches - At some God-forsaken hour - On a cold and rainy morning, - But a crump is one of those things - That you never quite get used to, - And the longer that you know them, - Usually the less you like them. - Crumps are like the gilt-haired fairies - (Very swift and rather thrilling) - Tiadatha played about with - In the days he was a filbert— - Quite amusing when you meet them - Once or twice or even three times, - Who become a little trying - When they all turn up to supper - Regularly every evening. - - But in those days Tiadatha - Didn’t mind the crumps a little. - Laughed to hear them rustling over - All the time that he was shaving, - Laughed to see a couple bursting - In a traverse near his dug-out, - As he laughed at Cloe’s sallies - On the day when first he met her - In her dressing-room at Daly’s. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -TIADATHA’S JOURNEY - - - As the Dudshires were preparing - For a winter in the trenches, - Just as they were getting settled - In their sector of the trenches, - Came an order for their moving - To an unknown destination— - Sudden as a German flare-light - To a midnight working party, - Unexpected as a kidney - To a quartermaster-sergeant. - There were many speculations - As to what was going to happen, - Many arguments about it, - Many wagers laid about it, - Many strange unholy rumours. - - In the mighty British Army - Rumour is the only issue - That arrives at units larger - Than it leaves the Base Supply Park. - Up it comes without an indent - (Possibly in lieu of lime-juice), - Heaven only knows its maker; - Like a toy balloon it swells up, - Gently growing big and bigger; - At the Dump the Mr. Knowalls - Have a blow to make it fatter, - Pass it on to Transport drivers, - Who in their turn puff their hardest, - Make it change its shape a little, - Hand it over with the rations. - Then the minions of the Q.M. - Do their little bit to help it, - After which the Sergeant-Major - Takes a lusty breath to fix it, - Sends it up into the trenches - As a full-blown Army rumour. - - Fast and thick as flying fishes - Rise and dive in the Pacific, - Rumours came and went in those days. - Sending off the whole battalion - On a mission to the Aztecs, - As town guard of Buenos Ayres, - Or to fight beside the Russians, - Or to sail for Salonica. - And the last seemed most fantastic, - Tiadatha laughed the loudest, - Laying 9 to 2 against it. - - After several days of waiting, - Being issued out with goatskins, - Issued out with leather jerkins - (Fuel to the rumour-mongers), - Came a very trying night march - To a dreary railway station. - - As they neared the railway station - Rose before my Tiadatha - Visions of a Pullman carriage, - Or at least a third-class smoker, - And he called to mind the adage, - “Third-class riding’s always better, - Better far than first-class walking.” - Bitterly the Dudshires grumbled, - When they found their third-class riding - Was to be in old horse-boxes, - Squashed like figs and not so comfy: - Thirty-nine at first were crammed in, - Then another and another, - Then a pile of army blankets, - Then their overcoats in bundles. - - Tiadatha and his brothers - Found themselves another horse-box, - Got a little straw and spread it, - Wrapped themselves up in their great-coats, - Fell asleep with straw for mattress, - Someone else’s boots for pillow. - - Tiadatha often shuddered - Thinking of the days that followed, - Of the days and nights that followed, - As that God-forsaken troop train - Rocked upon its journey southward. - All his life will he remember - Turning out for tea at midnight - In some dimly-lighted station, - Shaving in acute discomfort, - Washing when he got a chance to, - Hotting up his ration bacon - On a wobbly Tommy’s cooker, - Passing by the weary hours - Playing little games of vingty, - Losing one by one his chattels - In the straw about the horse-box, - In the straw that buried all things, - In the straw that clung to all things. - - At Marseilles at last they halted, - And straightway my Tiadatha, - Having stretched his legs a little, - Found himself and all the Dudshires - Packed aboard a British cruiser; - Not a chance to see the beauties - Of that very ancient seaport, - Not a chance to stop to dinner, - Not a chance to try his hand at - Crime-committing after dinner. - - Soon, however, Tiadatha - Loathed the very thought of dinner - At Marseilles or in the Ward Room, - As that cruiser started rolling - Through the heaving Gulf of Lyons. - But there followed days of sunshine, - Sea and sky as blue as Reckitt’s, - When he wished he’d joined the Navy, - Wished he’d gone and been a sailor, - When his only care was wondering - If he’d have another sherry. - What a periscope would look like, - Where on earth he’d left his life-belt, - Wondering still where they were bound for, - Egypt, Serbia, or Mespot: - Till at last all bets were settled, - All the speculations answered, - As one day my Tiadatha - Came on deck and saw before him - Salonica, white and lovely, - Gleaming in the morning sunlight. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -TIADATHA AT SALONICA - - - On the day the Royal Dudshires - Set their foot in Salonica, - Nobody seemed pleased to see them, - No one worried much about them. - M.L.O.s were apathetic, - Not a bit enthusiastic, - Like a hostess at a party - When an uninvited guest comes. - And the folk of Salonica - Did not come to bid them welcome, - Did not hang out flags of welcome, - Did not cry, “’Tis well, O brothers, - That ye come so far to see us.” - (After all there was no reason - Why on earth they should have done so.) - But they stood and watched the Dudshires - Marching through their ancient city, - Slipping on their cobbled roadway, - Giving “Eyes Left” to a Greek guard; - Stood and watched them from their doorways, - Watched them through their grimy windows, - Not a bit enthusiastic. - - Many sights saw Tiadatha - As he marched through Salonica, - Cretan gendarmes with their long boots - And their breakfasts in their breeches, - In their great black baggy breeches; - Turkish ladies clad in trousers; - Tattered hamals bending double - With a load of fifty oil tins; - Many little limping donkeys, - Little overladen donkeys, - As they crossed the Rue Egnatia - (Where St. Paul in bygone ages - Used to do his bit of shopping). - Tiadatha thought of Kipling, - Wondered if he’d ever been there, - Thought “At least in Rue Egnatia - East and West are met together.” - There were trams and Turkish beggars, - Mosques and minarets and churches, - Turkish baths and dirty cafés, - Picture palaces and kan-kans; - Daimler cars and Leyland lorries - Barging into buffalo wagons, - French and English private soldiers - Jostling seedy Eastern brigands. - - On a hill near Lembet Village - Came to rest the Royal Dudshires, - And their tents sprang up like toadstools, - All the camp was fixed by tea-time, - All were settled down by tea-time. - - There was nothing on that hillside, - Not a tree or habitation, - Save a little shanty standing - Like a palm tree in a desert— - The Canteen of Back (Orosdi). - There it was that Tiadatha - Tasted Greek beer for the first time, - Made a frugal meal of walnuts, - Figs and Turk’s delight and éclairs, - Paid and found that he was living - Miles and miles beyond his income; - Found his little lunch had cost him - More than if he’d been to Prince’s. - - Rumour in these days was busy. - They were going up to Serbia, - They were going off to Egypt; - Twenty thousand Greeks were ready - (Rumour said) to down upon them, - Scupper them within their flea-bags - (Or, more pleasantly, intern them). - Many hours spent Tiadatha - Wondering what was going to happen. - - All that happened was a blizzard, - Not a private soldier blizzard - With some Christmas cardy snowflakes, - But a perfect Balkan teaser, - Sergeant-Major of a blizzard, - Made of supersleet and hailstones, - Every bitter wind of heaven - Massed together for the business. - - As a shade is to a candle - So is Uncle Time to trouble: - Looking back we mostly find things - Not so bad as once we thought them. - Fifty Uncle Times, however, - Could not shade for all who met it - Memories of that Balkan blizzard. - - And the wretched Tiadatha - Groaned to find his bucket frozen, - Boots and even tooth-brush frozen, - Regularly every morning; - Vainly tried to keep his feet warm, - Crouching o’er a little oil-stove, - Colder than New Zealand mutton, - Colder than an ice-cream soda. - And at intervals he murmured, - “How I hate this beastly country.” - And the sergeants and the corporals, - And the luckless private soldiers, - Murmured as the wind came sweeping, - “How I hate this blinkin’ country.” - Little then dreamed Tiadatha - Of the times those words would tremble - On the lips of countless soldiers - In the Salonica Army, - Both in winter and in summer: - “How I hate this blinkin’ country.” - - When the blizzard passed, the Dudshires - Settled down to work in earnest: - All day long obliging people - Found them jobs to keep them going. - Guards, fatigues and working parties, - Roads to make and hills to dig on. - All the livelong day the Dudshires - Spent in digging up the Balkans, - Toiling at redoubts and trenches, - Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements, - Finding when the things were finished - Someone thought that they’d be better - Ten yards higher up the hillside, - Ten yards lower down the hillside. - - Then came strenuous Brigade Days, - Ruining expensive breeches, - Creepy-crawling over crest lines, - Picketing some height or other, - Getting lost at four pip emma, - Fed-up, far from home, and hungry. - - So the weeks and months sped onward, - Samey as suburban houses, - Uneventful as a dud is, - Till the winter turned to spring-time, - Till the spring-time scattered flowers - Like confetti on the hillsides. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -A DAY IN SALONIQUE - - - There are many famous highways, - Many famous streets in history: - Watling Street and Piccadilly, - Sidney Street and Champs-Elysée, - And the Appian Way and Wall Street, - But the Lembet Road will ever - Take a place in fame beside them, - While a single British soldier - Lives to tell of Salonica. - Mud and slush and bumps in winter, - Bumps and dust and flies in summer. - Still, it’s filled out since we found it, - Since we got to work upon it, - As a skinny baby fills out - After being fed on Benger’s. - - There it was that Tiadatha - Learnt the gentle art of wangling - Lifts in cars and motor lorries - Down to Piccadilly Circus, - In the days before the Bulgar - Strolled into the Struma Valley. - - He would spend the morning shopping, - Buying sundry brands of whisky - (Mostly made by local effort) - At the most prodigious prices; - In his hob-nailed boots he slithered - Up and down Rue Venizelos, - Buying mullet by the oke, - Buying tangerines and chestnuts. - Shopkeepers would see him coming, - Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha, - Plenty money, Tiadatha.” - - After lunch at the Olympus - (Prices higher than the mountain), - Off he sped to Baths of Botton, - Tasted once again the pleasures - Of a bath you can lie down in. - Though the soap was green and hardy, - Though the towels weren’t all they might be, - Even though the place was dirty, - It was better than a bucket. - Good and hot he made the water, - Lay and splashed for half-an-hour, - Whistling snatches of a rag-time. - - Then of course he tea’d at Floca’s - Cosmopolitan as Shepheard’s, - Ever full to overflowing. - In those days there came to Floca’s - Officers of many armies, - Officers of many navies, - Mufti-wallahs of all nations. - Came the Greeks (with swords beside them), - Gold and scarlet as a sunset, - Came the Italians with their grey cloaks, - French with caps like skies in summer, - Came the Serbs and came the Russians, - Came the English, Jocks and Irish, - Admirals, snotties and Commanders, - Colonels, Generals and Captains, - And a few bold bad Lieutenants - Poodle-faking with some sisters. - Here they met and fed together, - Drank their mastic, tea or absinthe, - Talked their own peculiar language, - Twenty tongues and yet one language: - When they wanted their _addition_, - Wanted their perspiring waiter, - They just clapped their hands together, - Loudly clapped their hands together, - Two or three or even four times. - And in good time came the waiter, - Dodging round the crowded tables, - As a cycling newsboy dodges - In and out of London traffic, - Added tip into the total, - Just for fear they should forget it. - - After tea a bit more shopping, - And perhaps a Picture Palace - (Fifteen suicides and murders - In the space of half-an-hour). - Then he dined at Bastasini’s, - Dined at the expensive Roma, - With his very best pal Percy; - Drank some pretty nasty bubbly, - Sat and watched the other diners - Wrestling with their macaroni, - Watched a livery Greek major - (More and more and more impatient - For the omelette he had ordered) - Break a plate upon the table, - Dash one on the floor in pieces, - Then another and another, - Till the room was in an uproar, - Till he’d got the whole staff round him. - “Stout old heart,” cheered Tiadatha, - “Go it, Steve,” cheered Tiadatha, - “That’s the only way to do it - If you’re really in a hurry.” - - After dinner off they sallied - To the Odéon or Tour Blanche - (Where you never paid but pushed past), - Crowded in the nearest stage-box, - Or if it was locked climbed over. - - Had you asked my Tiadatha - If the show was very thrilling, - If the lovely ladies sang him - Haunting songs of joy and sadness, - He’d have told you in a minute - That he hadn’t time to notice. - He was always much too busy - Shouting “Un, deux, trois” with Frenchmen, - Drinking lager beer with Serbians, - Swapping caps with ice-cream merchants, - Helping several rowdy Russkis - To lasso the band conductor, - Having special little Ententes - With a boxful of the Navy; - Much too busy ragging Bertha, - Andrée, Denisette or Dolly, - Much too busy dodging Zizi, - When she clamoured “Champagne cider.” - And when A.P.M.s came prowling, - He would disappear sedately - With a beer mug in one pocket, - And a tin tray in the other, - Finish up a noisy evening - With a game of “Ring-a-roses,” - Then jolt campwards in a gharry - To valise and well-earned slumber. - - * * * * * - - Do not fear my Tiadatha - Gently sliding to Avernus, - Losing all the pleasant manners - Taught him by his lady mother, - Do not fear one day to find him - Clapping hands at Rumpelmeyer’s - For another chocolate éclair, - Breaking plates and things at Prince’s - When his lunch is long in coming, - Looting beer mugs at the Palace - Or lassoing the conductor— - He must do as Salonique does, - For there’s nothing else to do there. - - Some there are find Salonica - Dirty, dull and evil-smelling. - Bored to tears, they sometimes ask you - What on earth there is to do there. - But I make reply and tell them - Salonica’s what you make it. - London can be just as boring - As a dug-out in the trenches, - Or a dug-out in the trenches - Can be merrier than Murray’s— - If you’ve got the right coves in it, - Got a little drop of whisky, - Other climes and other morals: - When you go to Salonica, - Be an idiot for an evening, - Make a noise with Tiadatha, - Drink your beer and pinch the glasses, - Raid the band and rag the fairies, - Dance a fox-trot with a Frenchman, - Get a little mild amusement - Even out of Salonica. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -UP THE LINE - - - Often in those days of digging, - Days of weary treks up country, - Days of strenuous manœuvres, - Came the listless private soldiers, - Came the corporals and the sergeants, - Spoke a work with Tiadatha, - Saying, “What about this war, sir? - Do you think we’ll ever find it, - Ever see a Boche or Bulgar, - Ever show ’em what we’re made of?” - “Never fear,” said Tiadatha, - Speaking with prophetic insight. - “There is time enough for fighting, - Time enough for Boche and Bulgar; - Though it may be long in coming, - Yet you’ll get your share of fighting, - Get your bellyful of fighting - Ere you’ve finished with the Balkans.” - - As a band of shipwrecked sailors, - Cast upon a desert island, - Strain their eyes in weary watching - For a sail on the horizon, - Even so the Royal Dudshires - Watched and waited for the order - That would send them to the trenches, - Take them from their desert island, - From their daily round of digging. - And at times there came a rumour, - Like a speck on the horizon. - Eagerly the Dudshires hailed it, - Thought that it was going to save them, - But it always came to nothing. - - So they sweltered through the summer, - Through the arid Balkan summer, - And the sun beat down upon them, - Hot as towels a Yankee barber - Claps upon you when he’s shaved you. - They would rise at godless hours, - Working in the dawn and evening, - And throughout the blazing daytime - Lie inside their scorching bivvies - On a barren Balkan hillside - (Innocent of shade or cover - As a very bald man’s head is), - Lie and curse the tepid water, - Curse the flies and the mosquitoes, - Till at last there came the order, - Secret order for their moving - To the front line and the trenches, - And in under twenty minutes - Every soldier knew about it. - - All was bustle and excitement, - Packing up and getting ready, - And the T.O. and the Q.M. - Swore their lives were not worth living, - Swore they’d need at least another - Fifty mules to move the regiment. - And straightway my Tiadatha - Went and got his kit together, - Did his utmost to reduce it, - Threw away a pair of bedsocks, - And a tie his aunt had sent him, - Sighed to leave his bed behind him, - Wrought by Private Woggs, his batman, - Wrought from bits of ration boxes, - And a scrap of wire netting. - - Then at last one summer evening, - In July of 1916, - Tiadatha and the Dudshires - Started on their journey northward, - On their journey to the trenches; - Every night at dusk they started, - Marched with full packs through the darkness - (No one talking, no one smoking), - Plodded onward through the darkness, - And, perhaps at two ac emma, - Reached a barren piece of waste land, - Found their mules and fetched their blankets, - Dossed down with the stars for ceiling, - Snatched a little sleep till daylight. - All the day they lay and simmered, - Stuck a blanket up for shelter, - Spent the sultry morning thinking - Of the things they would have given - For a long sweet draught of cold beer, - Bass or Worthington or Allsopp, - In a long cool lager beer mug. - Sighed, and drank some tepid water, - Ate some squishy-squashy bully, - Moist and warm and very nasty. - - For five nights and days the Dudshires - Fared upon their journey northward, - On the sixth they reached the front line - And relieved a French battalion, - In a pelting, pouring rainstorm. - - As the guide led Tiadatha - On towards his destination, - To the section of the front line - He was ordered to take over, - Soon he found that all was different - From the warfare he had known - In the line near Bray and Albert. - He had pictured deep-dug trenches, - He had pictured winding C.T.s - Saps and mines and concrete dug-outs, - Belts of wire as broad as rivers, - Bulgar posts within a bomb’s throw. - But he found instead of trenches - Little scratchings on the hill-tops, - Outposts scattered on the hill-tops, - Reached by little winding pathways, - Strands of wire forlornly dangling, - Limp and spiritless and sketchy, - As a stricken banjo’s strings are, - And instead of concrete dug-outs - Leaky shelters made of oak-leaves - Perched behind the barren hill-tops. - - There it was that Tiadatha - Found at length a French lieutenant, - Picked up scraps of information, - Talking in his very vile French, - Learnt the methods of patrolling, - Learnt the habits of the Bulgar, - Learnt that he was three miles distant, - Learnt of 535 his stronghold, - Crawling with O. Pips and field-guns. - Then they left the dim-lit _abri_, - Staggered out into the darkness, - Through the pelting, pouring rainstorm, - Silently relieved the sentries, - Posted all the Dudshire sentries, - Whispered to them what their job was, - What the number of their group was, - Where the groups on right and left were. - Then the gallant French lieutenant - Gathered all his men together, - Left his little bits of trenches - To the rain and Tiadatha. - - ITEA, - _January 18, 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -CARRYING ON - - - There are very many lessons - Taught you by the British Army, - And when you have boiled the lot down - Only two things really matter. - When you’ve learnt them you’re a soldier, - Till you have you’re still a duffer; - First to know your left from right hand, - Next to find your way in darkness— - Both are passing hard to master. - After nearly two years’ training - Tiadatha could be trusted - Not to go and bawl out “Eyes Right” - To a guard upon his left hand, - But to find his way in darkness - Was a very different pigeon. - - If you lose your way in London - You can always ask a policeman, - You can always hail a taxi, - But there were no taxis plying - From Baraka to Sidemli, - No policeman’s measured footfall - ’Twixt Les Batignolles and Clichy. - Round about these pleasant places - Nightly Tiadatha staggered, - Visiting his lonely outposts, - Taking out a digging party, - Leading out patrols to Dautli. - Up and down the hills he stumbled, - Crossing little winding _dere_, - Falling into rocky gullies, - Falling into blackberry bushes, - Into unexpected shell holes, - Took wrong turnings in the darkness - (Hardly ever took the right one), - Lost his bearings far more often - Than a woman loses hankies. - On patrol the Pitons knew him, - Bekerli and Green Hill knew him, - And the minaret that rises - From the ruins of Sidemli; - Marching homewards in the daylight - Often he would stop to rest there, - Stop to gather fruit for dinner - From the plum trees in the village; - And one day he drove some Bulgars - From a little unnamed _piton_, - Drove them off in wild confusion, - Brought their rifles back in triumph, - Brought a cap and water-bottle, - Brought some cheese they’d left behind them. - And the General named the _piton_, - Called it after Tiadatha, - Called it Tiadatha’s Piton. - - Then one night the Royal Dudshires - Moved a little farther forward, - Pinched some hills and sat upon them; - Hurriedly they dug them trenches, - Put up rolls of concertina; - And one afternoon in August - (In the midst of crumps and shrapnel) - Put to flight three thousand Bulgars - Who had sallied forth to meet them. - - Several weeks my Tiadatha - Lived on sundry little hill-tops, - Changing over every fortnight, - Sleeping in a sketchy bivvy, - Sleeping with his boots and clothes on. - Just as he was getting settled, - Had his trenches nearly finished, - Promptly the battalion shifted, - Marched for one night to the eastward, - Then passed by the boundary pillar, - Passed the Serbian boundary pillar - On the road that leads to Doiran, - Once again relieved their Allies, - In the line that looked o’er Doiran, - In the line where Grand Couronné - Frowned upon their every movement - As the mighty 535 did: - Loomed above them like the Great Wheel - At the Earl’s Court Exhibition. - - There my tireless Tiadatha - Came one dark October evening, - Found a certain Captain Siomme, - Sitting in a dim-lit dug-out, - Pledged with him eternal friendship - In a loving-cup of _vin rouge_. - Then said gallant Captain Siomme, - “I will show you all the trenches, - All the wire beyond the trenches, - Show you where it wants repairing, - Show you also where the gaps are.” - Silently they crept towards it, - Siomme and my Tiadatha: - “_Silence!_” said the gallant Siomme, - Lifting up a warning finger, - Pursing up his lips in warning, - “_Sérieux, fort sérieux_, sir, - _Silence, silence_, Tiadatha”— - Didn’t see the barbed wire coming - Didn’t see it in the darkness, - Into his own wire went crashing, - Dragging Tiadatha with him, - And straightway forgot his warnings. - Terrible the oaths he uttered, - Cursing loudly in the French tongue, - Crept out of the jangling barbed wire, - Extricated Tiadatha. - Thereupon a Bulgar sentry, - Wakened from his pleasant slumbers, - Feeling rather bored about it, - Heaved a bomb at Captain Siomme, - Heaved a bomb at Tiadatha, - As a householder in London, - Wakened from his pleasant slumber - By a tomcat on the house tiles, - Opens wide his bedroom window, - Heaves a boot jack at the noises. - Then a zealous Dudshire sentry - Swiftly flung a bomb in answer, - Followed it with five rounds rapid, - Thinking that there was a war on. - Then the Bulgars sent a light up, - And another and another, - Made the darkness light as Bond Street - On an afternoon in winter. - Siomme and my Tiadatha - Lay and grovelled on their tummies, - Still as any startled tortoise. - After that the German gunners - Put a dozen salvoes over, - And the English field-guns opened, - Feeling sure there was a war on. - Bits of bombs and crumps and shrapnel - Made the autumn evening hideous, - Groups stood to, machine-guns rattled, - All the telephones got busy, - And supports turned out in dudgeon. - - As a prairie fire is started - By a match or cigarette end, - So a mighty strafe was started - All because the gallant Siomme - Fell into his own defences. - - Swiftly as it came, it faded, - And the night regained its stillness, - Gunners settled down to slumber, - Sentries settled down to watching, - Telephones at last subsided, - And fed-up supports departed - To their dug-outs in the trenches. - - Siomme and my Tiadatha - Found their way back in the darkness - To the Company Headquarters, - Pledged once more eternal friendship - In another mug of _vin rouge_, - Afterwards in one of whisky, - Then wired in “relief completed.” - After which the gallant Captain - And his officers and privates - Straggled off into the darkness - To wherever they were going. - - LONDON, - _February 18, 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -TIADATHA’S DUG-OUT - - - Very lovely is Kyoto - In the days of cherry blossom; - Very lovely is the splendour - Of the snow-wrapped Rocky Mountains; - Lovely are the coral islands - Strung like jade in the Pacific, - And the palm trees of Malaya, - Black against an orange sunset. - Lovely are the long white breakers - On the beach at Honolulu. - Even as the Thames Embankment - On a misty day in autumn. - Gib. at dawn, Hong Kong at evening, - Lights of Rio in the darkness, - And the Golden Gate of ’Frisco, - All of these are very lovely, - Yet I know a sight still fairer, - Doiran red and grey and yellow, - Clustered on the Serbian hillside, - Gleaming in the morning sunlight, - Ever gazing, like Narcissus, - Down upon its own reflection - In the lake that laps its houses— - Lovely when you first behold it, - It becomes a trifle boring - When week after week it greets you - Every morning as the dawn breaks, - And the cry “Stand down” is given - When the sun comes stealing gently - Sure as Fate above the hill-tops, - And the Bulgar starts his sniping. - Thus my Tiadatha saw it - Every morning as the dawn broke, - Through the livelong Serbian winter, - Saw its church and battered houses, - Saw the Bulgars’ lines before it, - Snow-capped Beles to the Eastward, - Grand Couronné to the Westward. - - All those winter months the Dudshires - Picked and dug the Serbian hillside. - Left their mark on Macedonia - Like a tripper on a tree trunk, - Slaved their souls out making trenches, - Slaved their souls out making dug-outs, - That they might be somewhat safer - From the beastly little pipsqueaks, - From the most unpleasant whizzbangs, - From the great big five-point-niners, - And the crumps the eight-inch how. sends. - - Then one day quoth Tiadatha, - “I am sick of leafy bowers, - I am sick of bivvy shelters; - They are too darned cold for one thing, - Much too narrow for another. - I will also make a dug-out, - Make myself a home to live in, - Furnish it unto my liking, - Coax perhaps a little comfort - Even out of Macedonia.” - - So he called for Woggs, his batman, - Bade him fetch a pick and shovel, - Doffed his tunic, tie and collar, - Set to work with Woggs in earnest. - All day long they picked and shovelled, - Pausing only when a crump came, - Pausing only for a pipsqueak, - Till poor Tiadatha’s back ached, - Till his hands were badly blistered, - And he wearied of the labour. - Called in four stout private soldiers, - Set them too upon the digging, - Helped to fill and tie the sandbags, - Helped to get them in position, - Leaving spaces for a window - And a little narrow doorway. - - Then he called again his batman, - Called for Woggs the faithful batman, - Whispered certain secret orders, - And, upon the morning after, - Found himself the proud possessor - Of a dozen sheets of iron, - Sheets of corrugated iron, - And some bits of brand-new timber. - Little recked my Tiadatha - That a certain R.E. Captain - Even then was musing darkly - As to where the stuff had got to. - - So they roofed the little dug-out - With the scraps of purloined timber, - With the bits of stolen iron, - Then they piled the roof with sandbags, - Fondly hoping it would keep out - Anyhow a dud or pipsqueak. - - Then the tireless Woggs got busy, - Hung the walls with bits of sacking, - Made a chair and made a table - And some shelves from ration boxes, - Even made a little washstand, - With an old tin hat for basin, - And a rather dicky bedstead, - From a few odd wiring pickets - And a roll of rabbit netting - (Borrowed from the Sergeant-Major - When that worthy wasn’t looking), - Filled an old tin mug with flowers, - Decked the walls with dreadful pictures - From _La Vie_ and from _The Tatler_. - - “One thing more,” cried Tiadatha, - “One thing even now is lacking. - What about a little fireplace, - What about it, O my batman?” - Not a word spoke Woggs the batman, - Save to murmur, “Very good, sir,” - Went and pinched an empty oil drum, - Spent the afternoon in hammering; - Hammered till he woke the Colonel, - Hammered till he woke the Major. - Moved away a little farther, - Till he’d got his job of work done, - Then he fixed it in the dug-out, - With some puddled mud he fixed it, - Got a piece of tin for chimney, - Dug some vine roots up for firewood, - Eked them out with bits of charcoal - Wangled from Headquarters’ cookhouse. - - And that night my Tiadatha, - Wet and weary from the trenches, - Found a cheery wood fire blazing, - Found a most uncommon fug up. - “It is well,” said Tiadatha, - “It is well, my soldier servant, - Well and truly have you served me. - Take this tin of Craven Mixture, - Take this tin of Royal Beauties, - Take this tin of Cadbury’s chocolate. - Also there is my rum ration, - You are very welcome to it, - And I’ll see the Sergeant-Major, - Get you off parade to-morrow.” - - Then he drew his crazy chair up, - Lit his pipe and stretched his legs out, - Heaved a sigh of great contentment, - Gazed into the flames in silence, - Dreaming of his green-eyed Phyllis, - And of Murray’s where he met her, - Dreaming of his loved St. James’s, - So forgot the war a little. - - Tiadatha’d learnt the lesson - Which is learnt by every traveller, - That wherever you may wander - You should never be uncomfy - Any longer than you’ve got to, - Never play the Spartan hero - When there isn’t any need to. - If you set your mind upon it, - You can always coax some comfort - Out of life and barren hillsides, - Coax it as you’d coax a fiver - From a very mean old uncle. - - MELIDEN, N. WALES, - _March 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -TIADATHA’S BATTLE - - - Many stunts did Tiadatha - In the line in front of Doiran. - He would often go patrolling - Right up to the Bulgar trenches; - Sometimes he would bring a board back - With a Bulgar notice on it - Asking him and all the Dudshires - To surrender and be matey. - Down the steep Patte d’Oie he stumbled, - Up and down the winding Jumeaux, - Drawing bombs from Bulgar sentries, - Drawing everlasting star-shells; - He would take a Lewis gun out, - Strafe a post or working party, - Raid a trench of Johnny Bulgar’s, - Blow up several concrete dug-outs, - Bring some prisoners home to breakfast. - Every day the German gunners - Shelled his line with crumps and shrapnel, - And for months the Royal Dudshires - Never moved behind their field-guns. - - Winter passed with mud and blizzards, - Spring-time brought the sun and flowers, - Also rumours of advancing, - Rumours of attacks in earnest. - Tiadatha heard the story - From his batman, who had got it - Off the driver of a lorry, - Who had gleaned it from a waiter - In a Salonica café. - - There were mighty preparations, - Practising attacks and what not; - Guns sprang up in every corner, - Sprang up in the night like mushrooms. - Dumps like lucky dips were dotted - In most unexpected places, - Carefully covered with tarpaulins, - Camouflaged with leaves and branches; - Airmen all day long were busy - Taking photographs of trenches, - And the Staff wrote reams of orders, - Reams and reams and reams of orders, - And some more when those were finished. - - On the days before the battle - All the British guns were firing, - Cutting wire and pounding trenches - And O.P.s and gun emplacements; - Earth and stones went splashing skywards, - Just as water in a river - Splashes when you throw a rock in. - - Four days long the guns had thundered, - When one starlit April evening - Came the Dudshires’ mighty battle. - Not a man in all the Dudshires, - None who lived to see the daylight, - Ever could forget that evening, - Least of all my Tiadatha. - - Very clear it was and starlight, - And a nightingale was singing - Somewhere in among the bushes; - Many of the soldiers heard it - In the little lulls of firing, - Heard its silver notes go throbbing - Out into the April evening. - - Watch on wrist stood Tiadatha, - Gazing anxious at the minutes - As the starting time came nearer. - He was clad in Tommy’s tunic, - Tommy’s breeches and equipment, - In his hands he bore a rifle, - On his head a shrapnel helmet. - Then at last he gave the signal, - And his men filed out behind him. - Through the gaps they wound like serpents, - Into No Man’s Land they sallied, - Through the din of bursting shrapnel, - Through the bursting high explosives. - Down the steep Patte d’Oie he led them, - Down that steep and rocky gully, - Rocky as a Cornish headland, - Steeper than a traveller’s story: - There the dread trench mortar barrage - Swept upon them like a hailstorm, - Storm with stones as big as footballs, - Stones alive with death and torture. - Through that blinding storm he led them, - Up the farther side he led them— - All that were not killed or wounded. - There upon the flashing hillside - Tiadatha crouched and waited, - Waited for the Zero hour, - When the barrage would be lengthened, - Lifted from the front line trenches. - - As the moment came he leapt up, - Gave a shout to all the Dudshires, - And the Dudshires rose and followed, - Charged beside my Tiadatha— - All who were not killed or wounded. - Through the broken wire they scrambled, - Some men cursing, some men shouting, - Some men muttering little prayers, - Some in grim and deadly silence. - - They were met by bombs and bullets, - Heard the Bulgars in their trenches, - Heard them crying: “Come on, Johnny, - Come on, come on, English Johnny.” - And three times the Royal Dudshires - Swept upon the Bulgar trenches, - Every time the line was thinner, - Every time its heart was steadfast. - And the third time Tiadatha, - With a little band behind him, - Leapt into the battered trenches, - Got to work with bomb and bayonet, - In his heart the lust of battle; - Then felt something hit his shoulder, - Felt his shoulder wet and burning, - Found he’d stopped a shrapnel bullet, - Set his teeth and staggered onwards, - Led his party round a traverse, - Bombed a dug-out full of Bulgars, - Bombed until his bombs were finished, - Carried on with German stink-bombs - That the Bulgar’d left behind him. - - On and on the little party - Pushed along the Bulgar trenches, - Till there came a deadly sickness - Stealing over Tiadatha, - And he knew his strength was failing, - Knew that he could get no farther, - So he shouted to his corporal, - “Take them on and do your damnedest.” - Flopped down in the trench and fainted. - - Then came Woggs, the soldier servant, - Trusty Woggs, the ever-ready, - And produced a flask of brandy, - Poured it down my Tiadatha. - “Curse you, Woggs,” said Tiadatha, - “Go on with your section leader. - Every man of you’ll be wanted, - I’ll crawl back and get my wound dressed, - Then I’ll come again and find you.” - - Painfully and very slowly, - Somehow Tiadatha stumbled - Back towards the dressing station, - Back through crumps and bursting shrapnel, - Met two crawling wounded privates, - And they helped and helped each other, - Till at last my Tiadatha - Found himself upon a stretcher - In the crowded dressing station. - There they tended him and dressed him, - ’Midst the groaning of the wounded, - ’Midst the raving of the battle, - And the padre, bending over, - Murmured, “Well done, Tiadatha, - Anything that I can get you?” - And my Tiadatha answered, - Smiling through his pain he answered, - “All I want’s some beer, old Padre, - Just one bottle very quickly.” - - * * * * * - - Had you been there when the dawn broke, - Had you looked from out the trenches, - You’d have seen that Serbian hillside, - Seen the aftermath of battle. - Seen the scattered picks and shovels, - Seen the scraps of stray equipment. - Here and there a lonely rifle, - Or a Lewis gun all twisted. - Seen the little heaps of khaki - Lying huddled on the hillside, - Huddled by the Bulgar trenches - Very still and very silent, - Nothing stirring, nothing moving, - Save a very gallant doctor - And his band of stretcher bearers - Working fearless in the open, - Giving water to the dying, - Bringing in those broken soldiers. - You’d have seen the sunlight streaming, - And perhaps you would have wondered - How the sun could still be shining, - How the birds could still be singing, - While so many British soldiers - Lay so still upon the hillside. - - EATON HALL, CHESTER, - _May 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -TIADATHA IN HOSPITAL - - - Soon my wounded Tiadatha - Carefully labelled like a parcel - Started on his journey Baseward, - Fared upon that fearful journey, - Burning head and aching shoulder, - Fared upon a swaying _dhuli_ - In an ambulance that shook him - As you shake a medicine bottle, - Seemed to shake his very soul out. - Rocking like a tiny dinghy - When a choppy sea is running. - One night in the Clearing Station, - Then by train to Salonica; - And throughout that weary journey, - In F.A. or Clearing Station, - Came those everlasting questions - Very dear to all the Ram Corps: - “Unit, age and length of service?” - “Rank and Christian name?” and what not, - Till it seemed to Tiadatha - That the whole Ram Corps was round him, - Armed with note-books, armed with pencils, - Perching everywhere about him, - Sometimes perching on his tummy, - Often climbing up the tent poles, - Thirsting for these silly details, - Reeling off these silly questions, - “Unit, rank and length of service?” - “Colour of your mother’s eyebrows?” - “Christian names of all your sisters?” - “Age of all your aunts and uncles?” - So it seemed to Tiadatha, - To my fevered Tiadatha, - Till he dropped to sleep and left them, - Those tormentors and their questions, - Left them as a railway carriage, - Gliding gently from the station, - Leaves the crowd upon the platform. - - But at last the journey ended, - Tiadatha came to anchor - In a bed with snowy pillows, - Bed with snowy sheets and pillows - Cool and sweet as flowing water, - Soothing as a summer’s evening, - Comforting as cherry brandy - On a chilly winter morning. - He was tended by a sister, - Soft of voice and very gentle, - And she seemed to Tiadatha, - After all those months of warfare, - Like a little glimpse of England, - Made him think of English roses, - English lanes and English gardens; - And he looked at her and loved her, - Wondered vaguely what her name was, - If she ever lost her temper, - How she kept her hands so lovely, - How on earth she put her cap on. - - Soon there came a solemn conclave - Round the bed of Tiadatha, - Which discussed if it should send him - To the X-Rays or the Theatre - (Ghastly irony “the Theatre”). - Starved him for a day and sent him - To the operating table. - There the luckless Tiadatha - Felt the world go slipping from him - Used the most appalling language, - Knew no more till all was over, - Came to, feeling sick and sorry, - Found himself a mass of bandage, - Found himself a lump of aching, - And beheld the shrapnel bullet - He had stopped that April evening. - Back they took him to his pillows, - And his gentle, soft-voiced sister - Laid her cool hand on his forehead, - And a peace came stealing o’er him - As a mist steals o’er the mountains. - - Very soon my Tiadatha - Got to know the faces near him, - Got to know his brother patients; - They exchanged some lurid details - Of their wounds and operations, - Finding that a touch of shrapnel - Always makes the whole world kindred. - And he soon got fit to grumble, - Grouse and grumble at his diet, - Groused that it was mostly liquid, - Yet without a drop of whisky; - As an exile in the tropics - Pines to smell an English primrose, - So poor thirsty Tiadatha - Pined to smell a Scotch-and-Soda. - - Gradually came convalescence, - Days made up of little trials, - Days made up of little pleasures, - Days of unaccustomed idling, - Pleasant days of doing nothing; - Every morning after breakfast - He would lie back on his pillows, - Read his _Balkan News_ in comfort, - Spend his day in eating, sleeping, - Killing flies and reading novels, - Writing to his green-eyed Phyllis, - Taking very nasty medicine, - Listening to another’s snoring; - And sometimes a Dudshire brother - Came and saw him for a minute, - Brought some scandal from the trenches, - Did my Tiadatha’s heart good. - - Then at last there came a morning - When his smiling sister told him, - “Yes, you _may_ get up this morning, - Walk about a bit this morning.” - In his good time, Tiadatha - Washed and shaved and got some clothes on, - Tried to walk about a little, - Felt as though the bones were missing - From his knees and from his ankles, - Tottered as a baby totters - Staggering from chair to table, - Called his sympathetic sister, - Found her arm was very helpful. - - Slowly like a tide his strength came, - Like a rising tide his strength came, - Like a rising wind his spirits. - And he sat out in the sunshine, - Pottered round the wards and compounds - Chatting to a wounded Tommy, - Chatting to a Dudshire brother, - Wrote more letters, read more novels, - Played the gramophone for ages, - Played a game of bridge and poker, - Went for picnics with his sister, - Sometimes by the sandy seashore, - Sometimes on a shady hillside, - Recking little of the matron. - - Then one afternoon the General - Came into the ward to see him, - Pinned a ribbon on his tunic, - Pinned the M.C. ribbon on him, - Saying, “Well done, Tiadatha, - May you have long life to wear it!” - Whereupon my Tiadatha - Very nearly asked the General - What on earth he’d done to get it, - Done to earn that precious ribbon, - Having hazy recollections - Of that most unpleasant evening. - But was very bucked about it, - Sent a cable to his mother, - Sent one to his green-eyed Phyllis, - Held a little celebration - At the French Club on the quiet, - Did himself so very proudly - That his temperature went soaring - In the morning like a skylark. - - * * * * * - - Hospital, like work and whisky, - Is a taste to be acquired, - But it soon becomes a habit, - Very soon becomes a habit. - That was why my Tiadatha - Felt so very loth to leave it, - Loth to leave his bed and pillows, - Loth to leave those kindly people, - Cheery V.A.D.s and sisters, - Who had fed and dressed and nursed him - Just as if he’d been a baby; - And his heart was very heavy, - Fuller than a well-filled wine-glass, - As he thought of those brave people, - Brave as any soldier hero, - Working through the Balkan summer, - Working through the Balkan winter, - Working harder far than he did, - All for him and such as he was. - But at last the time of parting - Came, relentless as to-morrow, - And a sad-faced Tiadatha - Set off on a bumpy journey - To the wooded slopes of Hortiach, - Said good-bye to those good comrades, - To those V.A.D.s and sisters, - To those little scraps of England. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -THE FIRE - - - For a while my Tiadatha - Rested on the slopes of Hortiach, - Rested till he’d got his strength back. - Then at Summer Hill he sojourned, - Barren camp where no one lingers - Any longer than he’s got to; - Thence he went by easy stages - Back to join the Royal Dudshires. - Found them up at Karasouli, - Found so many faces missing - That at first his heart was lonely, - But a few were still remaining, - Still a few familiar faces, - And they made him very welcome, - With them Woggs his soldier servant. - But although he made new comrades, - Carried on without the old ones, - Yet his heart was often lonely, - Lonely for those missing faces. - - Thus they met another summer, - Sweltered through another summer, - Changing over every fortnight - With a neighbouring battalion. - Smol and Macukovo saw them, - Waggon Hill and Green Hill saw them, - Dache, “P.N.,” and Kalinova, - And the muddy Vardar River, - And they did a so-called rest cure - On the side of shadeless Kirec. - - Then one day in blazing August - Tiadatha pinched a week-end, - Touched his Colonel for a week-end, - “Just to do a bit of shopping,” - And buzzed down to Salonica - With his very best pal, Percy, - Put up at the Hotel Splendide, - Taking Woggs, the soldier servant. - - After tea at Uncle Floca’s, - After tea they did some shopping, - Bought some Mess stores from Coppola’s, - Bought some braces from Orosdi’s - (Selfridge’s of Salonica), - Took some watches for repairing - As requested by their sergeants, - Had a shampoo and a haircut, - Had their usual bath at Botton’s, - Sauntered back towards the Splendide - For their evening gin and vermouth. - - They were met by Woggs the batman, - Trusty Woggs the ever-ready, - In a state of huge excitement: - “Please, sir, half the town’s ablaze, sir; - Started in the Turkish Quarter, - May be here at any moment.” - - “Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha, - Thinking very little of it, - “Come as usual in the morning,” - Went with Percy to the French Club - Bent upon a pleasant evening. - - All things can be won by waiting, - All things can be won by pushing, - Even dinner at the French Club, - Where our very generous Allies - Let us come and eat their rations. - There they had a special dinner, - Percy and my Tiadatha, - Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook, - With some passable Veuve Clicquot, - Drier than Macaulay’s Essays, - Cheering as a nigger rag-time, - Followed by some fine old brandy, - All produced by smiling Camille, - Now a _poilu_, late of Prince’s. - - Then they wandered to the Tour Blanche - For the usual evening revel, - Feeling very bright and merry, - Found the doors were barred against them. - Wandered on a little farther - To the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety, - Found the doors were barred against them, - Found them housing homeless women - With their baggage and their babies. - “Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha, - “True enough the town is blazing; - This is going to be ‘some’ evening.” - - All the sky was glowing crimson, - Clouds of smoke were welling upwards, - And the sparks like golden raindrops - Poured upon those wooden houses - Packed like herrings in a barrel; - And a mighty wind was blowing, - Sweeping from the hills to seaward. - Percy and my Tiadatha - Dashed along the Rue Egnatia, - Saw the fire was driving down it - As a bore drives down a river; - Ruthless as an angry bison, - Hungry as a famished tiger, - Eating up the wooden houses, - Eating up the shops and cafés. - Falling beams and crashing shutters, - All were gone in half a minute, - Swallowed by that whirling furnace. - Soon it burnt the Provost Marshal - Out of his expensive office, - Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos, - Where a fitful fire-engine - (All that Salonica boasted) - Played upon the flames in trickles, - Did about as much to quench them - As a mug of tepid water - Does to quench the thirst of soldiers - In a boiling Balkan summer. - “Going some,” said Tiadatha, - “Better hop back to the Splendide, - Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.” - - So they raced back to the Splendide, - Found that Woggs had packed their kits up - Ready for a hasty exit, - For already flames were lapping, - Like the waves, against the Splendide. - All along the Odos Nike - Clouds of smoke came welling faster, - Thicker than a fog in London, - And a million sparks were whirling, - And the flames were sweeping nearer. - Coughing, choking, nearly blinded, - Tiadatha, Woggs and Percy - Stumbled through the smoky blackness, - Tripping over bits of wreckage, - Fought their way along the sea front, - While the sparks came showering on them - Like confetti at a wedding, - And they got the wind up badly— - Worse than on that April evening - When they went for Johnny Bulgar— - Passed the old White Tower panting, - Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless. - - In the Courtyard of the French Club - On its side an urn reposes, - Old and huge and most capacious, - Dug up by our gallant Allies - From the heart of Macedonia, - And it seemed to Tiadatha - Just the haven that they wanted, - So he bade Woggs dump their kits in, - Bade him scramble in and guard them, - Then went back to do the hero - With a very breathless Percy. - - All the streets were wild confusion, - Refugees were streaming Eastward, - Pouring Eastward in their thousands, - Some with loaded carts and donkeys, - Some with gharries piled to heaven. - Old men bleating, children screaming, - Broken-hearted women sobbing, - Wailing for their homes and treasures. - All the streets were blocked and littered - With all kinds of goods and chattels, - Feather mattresses and tables, - Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads, - Looking glasses, jugs and bundles, - Pillows, pots and pans and pictures. - - Percy and my Tiadatha - Took their stand at a street corner, - Started running things in earnest, - Cleared the houses of the people, - Helped them get what things they could out, - Made them leave the things they couldn’t. - Chased and biffed the wandering looters, - Kept the crowd back and the road clear, - Got the women and the children - On the waiting motor lorries, - Packed them off to refugee camps; - And their hardest job of all was - Parting one old Turkish lady - From the frowsty feather mattress - That they couldn’t load up with her - On the overflowing lorry. - When the fire had reached their corner - They would move on to the next one, - Like a pair of organ grinders - Made to move on by a footman, - Giving ground, but giving slowly, - Fighting out a rearguard action. - And at every other corner - Of the doomed and burning city - Slaved the likes of Tiadatha, - Officers and private soldiers, - Fighting fire instead of Bulgars. - Many parts they played that evening, - Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie, - Till their eyes were red and burning, - Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders, - Till their clothes were scorched and blackened, - Till their heads and feet and backs ached. - And that night my Tiadatha - Saw some sights not good to look on. - Many thousand hearts were broken, - Many thousand people homeless. - - As the night wore on a damsel, - Tearful and quite unattractive, - Came beseeching Tiadatha, - Begged and prayed him come and help her, - Help her save some cherished treasures. - Up some burning stairs she led them - (Having roped in Percy also), - Pointed to a clock and mirror, - Hideous both and very heavy. - Quick as lightning Tiadatha - Pounced upon the gilt-framed mirror - (Since it looked a little lighter), - Left the massive clock for Percy; - Down the stairs they crashed together, - In their arms these precious treasures - Of this unattractive damsel. - Out into the street they lugged them, - Put them down upon the pavement, - But she begged and prayed them follow - Whither she had left her mother - And the rest of her belongings. - So they left their job and followed, - Followed like Quixotic idiots, - Staggered with the clock and mirror, - Which became extremely heavy; - Through the burning streets they tottered, - Past the weeping homeless outcasts, - With the things upon their shoulders; - Humped them till their backs were breaking, - Till at last their souls revolted. - “Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy, - Firm, though quite polite about it, - “Not another yard,” said Percy, - “Not a step,” said Tiadatha. - “_Pas loin d’ici_,” sobbed the maiden, - Wept the unattractive damsel, - “Only just a little farther, - Just a very little farther.” - On they went like two knight-errants - Out to serve their lovely lady, - Till they reached the bit of garden - That surrounds the old White Tower. - There they found the maiden’s mother, - Found her doddering old father, - Felt most awfully sorry for them, - Sorry they could do so little; - Sheepishly received their blessing, - Dumped the clock and dumped the mirror, - Feeling very much like Sinbad - When at last he’d dumped the old man - Who had ridden on his shoulders. - “Nearly five,” said Tiadatha, - “And the dawn will soon be breaking. - Percy, I am sick and weary, - And my eyes are full of cinders, - And my tongue as dry as Aden— - What about a rest, old sportsman?” - As he spoke he cast about him - For a haven, for a refuge, - Spied a T.B. in the harbour, - Hailed the captain through the darkness. - Came the answer through the darkness, - “Come aboard and have some whisky, - Come aboard, I’ll send a boat off.” - - Percy and my Tiadatha - Soon were settled in the T.B., - Drank the Captain’s old Scotch whisky, - Munched his sandwiches and biscuits, - Murmured as they drank together, - “When in trouble, try the Navy, - Bless their souls, the British Navy!” - Then they watched the fire raging, - Watched it burning from the harbour, - Tossing like a fiery ocean; - Watched the shops and cafés blazing - All along the stricken sea-front, - Watched a flame that leapt to Heaven - Writhing like a dancing Dervish, - Watched a minaret uprising - White against the molten background, - And bethought them of the watches - They had taken for repairing, - Made some rueful calculations - Of the cost of seven new ones. - - As the dawn came, Tiadatha, - Cheered to see the M.T. engine - Save the English Quay from ruin, - Gazed on ravaged Salonica - With its blackened, gutted buildings, - Thought of cheery times he’d spent there, - Thought of many noisy evenings, - Murmured “No more teas at Floca’s, - No more shopping at Orosdi’s, - No more dinners at the Splendide, - No more revels at the Odéon.” - Murmured “Poor old Salonica, - Dear old dirty Salonica, - Salonica, finish Johnny.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -SNEVCE WAY - - - Some days after Salonica - Had been burnt and devastated, - Tiadatha and the Dudshires - Trekked across the hills to Snevce, - To the Doya Tepe sector. - Settled in Popovo village - In the ruins of Surlovo, - Giving thanks to the Italians - For the huts they’d left behind them, - Huts with well-planked walls and ceilings, - Roofed with red tiles from the village, - Fitted out with chairs and tables, - Beds and doors and real glass windows. - Very restful, very soothing, - After the eternal sandbags - And the corrugated iron - Of the dug-outs they’d been used to— - Just like moving to the Carlton - Out of rather third-rate lodgings. - - Very soon my Tiadatha, - Now become a swanking captain, - Found the Doya Tepe sector - Was indeed the silver lining - To the cloud of Macedonia, - And one clear September morning, - On a hill above Popovo, - High above Popovo village, - Gazed upon the scene before him, - Thought it very good to look on. - - Down below along the foothills, - Ran the line of Dudshire trenches, - And the wire wound like a ribbon, - Like a long brown crinkled ribbon, - Up and down the wooded hillsides, - Up and down the wooded gullies. - There was blue smoke curling upwards - From a company headquarters, - And he saw some soldiers bathing - In a pool beside the village— - From below the voices reached him, - Clear as bells their voices reached him - In the honey-coloured sunshine. - And beyond the line of trenches, - Just beyond the wooded foothills - Lay the smiling open valley, - Varied as a landscape target, - Threaded by the Hodza Suju, - By the sandy Hodza river, - Bright as mackerel in the sunshine, - Brighter than a string of opals; - White against the emerald background, - Ruined villages were dotted - With their vineyards and their orchards: - Brest and Nikolic and Palmis, - Bulamac and Akindzali. - There were woods and shady copses - And a line of tidy poplars, - Here a mill with tangled creepers, - There a disused Turkish fountain, - And the long straight line of railway, - With a few old trucks upon it, - Where in happier days the trains ran - Up and down the Struma valley, - To and from Constantinople. - - And five miles across the valley - Rose the Belashitza Mountains, - Rose the Beles grim and lofty, - Mighty boundary of Bulgaria. - And below along the foothills - Ran the trenches of the Bulgar, - While a little to the westward - Lay the great round Lake of Doiran, - Gleaming like a polished mirror. - - It was very fair to look on, - Fair to gaze on from a distance, - Yet it struck a note of sadness - In the heart of Tiadatha. - Not a head of sheep or cattle - In that green and pleasant valley, - Not a single vineyard tended, - Not a single orchard tended, - Not a sign of habitation - In a single battered village, - Save sometimes the smoke uprising - From the cookhouse of an outpost. - Yet the scene was fair to look on, - Very like a landscape target, - And the Generals when they saw it - Crowed with joy and beamed with pleasure— - “What a place for open warfare, - What a place for raids!” they chirruped, - Safely perched upon the hill-tops. - - Tiadatha sat and pondered, - Pondered long upon the hillside, - Heaved a sigh of satisfaction - When he thought that he was sitting - Well in view of all the Bulgars, - Knowing that they could not reach him - With their field-guns on the Beles. - - As for fourteen months the Dudshires - Hadn’t moved behind their field-guns - Save for concentrated training, - They were charmed with Doya Tepe, - Found it like the open country - After being in a tunnel. - Quite a pleasant spot for warfare, - Really rather like the Picnic, - Like the Salonica Picnic, - They had read of in the papers. - - Still they had their job of watching, - Watching for a raiding party, - Guarding all their miles of frontage, - Every night on sentry duty - Or patrolling in the valley, - Digging trenches in the daytime, - Or fatigues and wiring parties. - But the crumps were far less frequent - And the gunners far less busy, - And it really was a blessing - To walk upright in the open, - Caring not for pipsqueak merchants, - Caring not for hidden snipers. - - Sometimes Captain Tiadatha - Rode along his front line trenches, - Spent a useful morning shooting - Half a mile beyond the trenches, - Brought down several brace of partridge - And a hare or two for dinner. - Soon too he became acquainted - With the small hotel at Snevce - (Foremost pub in Macedonia), - Where the food was quite delightful - And the liquor even better; - Where he spent some pleasant evenings - Very cheery, noisy evenings, - With a band of rowdy cronies - From his own and other units. - Soon he found his way to Kukus - (Having made some generous allies - Who owned kite balloons and tenders), - To that quaint and dirty village, - Rising phœnix-like from ruins, - Learnt the Greek for eggs was _avga_, - Haggled with the Kukus robbers - For a melon or a cabbage, - Or an oke of tomatoes, - Bought some mats or bits of copper. - Watched the local comitadji, - With their lady wives and daughters, - In the glory of their war-paint, - In their native Balkan costume, - All the colours of the rainbow, - Riding in upon their donkeys, - On their clumsy bullock wagons, - Bringing in their goods to market. - - Thus the summer slipped to autumn, - Thus the autumn turned to winter, - And the winter found the Dudshires - Still in Doya Tepe sector. - And their days rolled on as usual, - Varied by a free excursion, - By a morning raiding party, - To “maintain offensive spirit.” - And they got up sports and concerts, - Keeping for the most part cheerful; - Yet for all their songs and laughter, - In each heart there lay a shadow, - And in mess and hut and cookhouse, - In the transport lines and trenches, - Talk turned ever on one topic— - When they’d get their leave to Blighty, - How they’d spend it when they got it. - And they passed the weary weeks by, - Officers and private soldiers, - Sighing for the leave they wanted, - Leave that was so long in coming, - Sighing that it came no nearer. - Day and night they talked about it, - Had one theme of conversation, - And that solitary topic - Ran through all their conversation, - Like a pattern through a fabric, - A _leit motif_ through an opera— - When they’d get their leave to Blighty, - How they’d spend their leave to Blighty. - - CHESTER, - _July 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -A STUNT AT DAWN - - - In the month of bleak November - Said the Colonel of the Dudshires, - Heart athirst for blood and battle, - “We must have another outing, - Do another stunt one morning, - Raid that wood across the valley, - Twist the Bulgars’ tails a little, - Bring some prisoners back to breakfast.” - - Picture then my Tiadatha - Sitting in his draughty dug-out - At one-thirty in the morning, - Gulping tea and crunching bacon - In an effort at a breakfast; - Picture him in Tommy’s tunic, - Very oldest boots and breeches, - Girt with rifle and equipment - Kindly lent him for the occasion - By his Quartermaster-Sergeant, - Feeling rather apprehensive, - Feeling very far from happy, - As he’d often felt on Sports days - Ere he’d started for the hurdles. - - To the fountain in the village, - In the little ruined village, - Came the Dudshire raiding party - And assembled in the starlight. - Through the wire they wound in silence - Like a mighty caterpillar - (Silent save for Tiadatha - Strafing someone else for talking), - Bayonets gleaming in the starlight, - Water-bottles gurgling softly - As they clumped along the pathway, - Clumped along towards Hodza River; - At the ford they crossed the river - Splashing like a hippo bathing, - Gasping as it reached their tummies; - But it did not damp their ardour, - Damped their feet but not their ardour, - And they staggered on in silence - Now well into Bulgar country. - - As they skirted round an outpost - Tiadatha’s heart grew fearful - Of inevitable star-shells, - Véry lights that seemed as certain - As a howl is from a baby - When he wakes up in the night-time: - Felt his heart go pitter-patter, - Knowing well how all depended - On their getting past unnoticed; - But because a gale was blowing, - Or because the group was dreaming - Of its fairies in Sofia, - Not a sound came from the outpost, - Not a rifle shot nor star-shell - While the vanguard of the Dudshires - Led the party through the darkness - As a tug escorts a liner. - - Drawing near their dim objective - In the greyness of the morning, - They deployed and at the signal, - At the order of their Colonel, - Charged upon the Bulgar stronghold - As the pearly dawn was breaking. - - ’Twould have made your heart beat faster, - ’Twould have set your blood a-tingle, - Had you seen the Royal Dudshires, - Seen that line of gallant Dudshires, - Shake itself and charge like soldiers, - Go bald-headed for the Bulgars. - Had you heard the Dudshires yelling - Loud as rooters at a ball game - When they charged across the open, - In their hearts that funny feeling, - Only brought about by three things— - Love or rum or lust of battle. - - And by this time Johnny Bulgar - Was awake and taking notice, - Sitting up and taking notice, - Potting at the charging Dudshires - As they came across the open. - From behind the trees they potted, - Potted from behind the bushes, - Made the puddles look like fountains - In the greyness of the morning. - But the Dudshires, nothing daunted, - Kept their line and never wavered, - At their head my Tiadatha. - Closer still they came and closer - Till the Bulgars saw their bayonets - Gleaming silver in the morning, - Found that they could wait no longer, - Through the wood they turned and legged it, - On their heels the panting Dudshires - Led by breathless Tiadatha. - - You’d have cheered your very soul out - Had you spotted Tiadatha - Rounding up a band of prisoners, - Setting off with Woggs his batman - On a separate expedition - After one more pet of Ferdie’s - Who was hurriedly departing. - Hard and fast he chased that Bulgar, - Vainly loosing off his rifle - (Finding that it wasn’t loaded), - Vainly trying to remember - What “Surrender” was in Bulgar. - Wind was weak though spirit willing - And he never caught his quarry, - For in spite of his equipment, - Fancy boots and overcoating, - Johnny legged it like a good ’un, - Faster than a fighting woodcock, - Swifter than a homing pigeon, - Leaving Woggs and Tiadatha - Cursing loudly in the distance, - With the slender consolation - That they’d bagged a Bulgar rifle - As memento of the picnic. - - Thus they got their job of work done, - Cleared the wood of Johnny Bulgar, - Picked up all he’d left behind him, - Even to his bits of breakfast, - And beheld with satisfaction - (Crumps were getting rather busy) - Three red lights go soaring upwards, - Signal for them all to hop it. - - Then without unseemly hurry, - Turkish cigarette in one hand - And a biscuit in the other, - Having passed his irksome rifle - On to Woggs the ever-suffering, - Tiadatha led his party - Back across the open country, - Led them back across the river - While the zealous German gunners - Sprinkled all the plain with shrapnel, - Heaved a pious thanks to get them - Back into the lines of safety. - Back in safety with their tails up, - Spent a pleasant twenty minutes - Watching prisoner birds arriving, - Dribbling back in pairs and bunches. - One especially he noticed, - Tunic destitute of buttons - As a ration joint of suet - (Gone as souvenirs to Dudshire), - Who yet clutched a set of buttons, - Set of universal buttons, - Given to him as exchanges - By his cheerful Dudshire captors. - Pockets bulging fat with Woodbines, - Woodbines that in Balkan trenches - Are as scarce as lumps of sugar - On an English breakfast table, - Proof of Tommy’s pleasant manners - Towards the cove he’d tried to scupper, - Done his very best to scupper - Early that November morning. - - Then my gleeful Tiadatha - Bade Woggs go and fetch his Kodak, - Photographed the Bulgar prisoner, - Took him with the Sergeant-Major - And without the Sergeant-Major, - Cheered him up and pinched his cap badge - As a souvenir for Phyllis, - Gave him half a tin of bully. - Then he made a second breakfast, - Made a mighty second breakfast, - Strolled into his little dug-out - That he almost said good-bye to - When he left it in the morning, - Bathed and got the grime of war off, - Laid him down and slept till evening - As befitted a world’s worker. - - CHESTER, - _July 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -LEAVE TO ENGLAND - - - On a certain winter’s morning, - Early on in 1918, - Tiadatha had the tidings - Sudden as a tropic sunrise, - Unbelievable as winning - Something in a comic raffle, - That he’d got his leave to England; - And although the snow was falling - On that Balkan winter’s morning, - All the world seemed full of sunshine, - All the world seemed bright and golden, - And he felt as effervescing - As a fizzing glass of bubbly, - Felt as though a lovely fairy, - Ever cold and stony-hearted, - Finally had come and kissed him. - - So my joyous Tiadatha - Made some frenzied preparations, - Got some odds and ends together, - Said good-bye to everybody, - Said good-bye to Woggs his batman, - Trusty Woggs the ever-ready, - Wishing he was coming also, - Wishing everyone was coming. - Started on that blessed journey, - On that wonderful adventure, - “To proceed on leave to England,” - And one grey and misty morning - Steamed away from Salonica - From Constantinople station - With some other lucky blighters. - - And it didn’t seem to matter - That the carriage floor was filthy, - That the seats were void of cushions, - That the window glass was broken. - It was quite enough to know that - They were leaving Salonica, - Quaint old dirty Salonica, - And the mud of Macedonia - And the everlasting hillsides, - After what seemed countless ages— - Quite enough for Tiadatha - To see Salonica fading, - Growing fainter in the distance. - - All day long the leave train jolted, - All night long it rocked and jolted, - Crawling on through Greece to Bralo, - Halting only at Larissa. - And the R.T.O., Larissa, - Very kind and very courteous, - Welcomed Tiadatha’s party, - Took them over to his billet, - Gave them steaming tea at midnight, - Like the whitest brand of white man. - Then at seven in the morning - They detrained at Bralo station, - Bleary-eyed, unshaved and grimy. - Went by lorry to the Rest Camp, - Bathed and shaved and had some breakfast, - Felt just like a piece of silver - When it’s made to shine with Goddard’s - After being badly tarnished. - - On they went from Bralo Rest Camp, - On they went by motor lorry - Up the road across the mountains, - Up the road that twirled and twisted - Like a pirouetting dancer. - As they reached the mountain summit, - Started downwards to Itea, - Very lovely was the picture - Spread before my Tiadatha. - Rugged hills and deep-cleft valleys, - Here and there a golden village, - Far below, the olive gardens, - And beyond them, blue as turquoise, - Lay the sunny Gulf of Corinth. - And all Tiadatha’s comrades - Murmured “Oh, by Jove, how lovely!” - “Take it all,” said Tiadatha, - “Take it all and more beside it. - I would give you every mountain, - Every olive grove and village, - And the whole damn Gulf of Corinth, - For a glimpse of England’s coastline, - For a glimpse of Piccadilly.” - - Soon they reached Itea village, - Put up at the local Rest Camp, - At the ever-present Rest Camp. - Spent three warm and sunny days there, - And my happy Tiadatha - Quickly found a kindred spirit, - Found a red tabbed gunner captain, - Wandered with him round the village - That lay sleepy in the sunlight, - Yet awake to pouch the drachmae - Of the passing British soldier. - And they rowed out to an island, - Lay and watched the sea for ages - Underneath a cloudless heaven, - With a pleasant sense of freedom, - Sense of having slipped the handcuffs - Of the army for a little. - Did a bit of tripperising, - Went to see the sights of Delphi, - Delphi in its ancient splendour, - In the ruins of its splendour, - Standing high upon the hillside, - Looking on the Gulf of Corinth. - Wandered round and saw the Oracle, - Wandered round and saw the Stadium, - Where of old the Greeks ran races; - Toed the mark and ran a hundred, - To the wonder of some Frenchmen, - Who were also tripperising. - - Then one afternoon the leave boat - Steamed into the tiny harbour, - And at dawn the morning after - Bore rejoicing Tiadatha - And his party off to Taranto. - Every time the steamer’s screw turned, - Every single knot she covered, - Tiadatha felt his heart thrill, - Felt his England drawing nearer, - Felt St. James’s drawing nearer, - And the things he loved so well there. - And they dodged the lurking U-boats - That were hanging round like footpads, - Came to anchor at Taranto, - In Taranto’s crowded harbour, - Where the seaplanes skim like seagulls - O’er the surface of the water. - Disembarked and found the Rest Camp, - Yet another Army Rest Camp, - Sumptuous to Tiadatha - After those of Macedonia, - Which had usually consisted - Of a dozen flapping bell tents, - Pitched upon a windy hillside. - - And they found Taranto crowded, - Crawling with expensive Generals - Waiting for their turn with others. - Vanished were their hopes of Rapide, - Hopes of going on by Rapide, - Seeing Rome and seeing Paris. - “Never mind,” said Tiadatha, - To the red-tabbed gunner captain, - “Every day we hang about here, - Every day the journey’s lengthened, - Means a day of warfare over, - Means the end a little nearer.” - So they sojourned at the Rest Camp, - Loafed about and wrote some letters, - Patronised the bar when open, - Quaffing Bass again with gusto, - And at six o’clock one evening - Started on the daily troop train, - Started on their journey Northwards. - - Very wisely Tiadatha - And his friend the gunner captain - Went and bagged a carriage early, - Went and bagged a first-class carriage - That had still some cushions in it - And some glass left in the windows, - Chalked up “Captain Tiadatha - And three officers” upon it, - Got two merchants who were going - One night only on the journey, - After which they shared the carriage - Tiadatha and the gunner. - - Early every day they halted, - Washed in buckets by the trainside, - Shaved and strolled about a little, - Sometimes snatched a hurried breakfast - At the buffet of a station. - Spent the long, long days in reading, - Pulling mutual friends to pieces, - Talking over raids and battles, - Talking over all their leave plans, - Ate their very sketchy luncheons, - Ate their very uncouth dinners, - Cleaned their plates with bits of paper, - Cleaned their knives and forks with paper, - Living in acute discomfort, - Pigging as they’d seldom pigged it, - Turning out sometimes at Rest Camps - Just to stretch their legs a little, - Have a bath and get some dinner. - Every night they got a fug up, - Got a most uncommon fug up, - Boarded up the broken windows, - Lighted quite a dozen candles. - All along the rack they stuck them, - Stuck them on the greasy arm-rests, - Got the carriage warm and cosy, - Then unrolled their fat valises, - Slept beneath a pile of blankets - Soundly as a pair of kittens. - Thus nine days and nights they travelled, - All through Italy they travelled, - Found at Havre their troopship waiting, - Sailed at dusk upon the troopship, - Sailed all night without adventure. - - As the dawn broke Tiadatha - Saw the coast of England rising - Through the misty winter’s morning, - Felt his heart go beating wildly - As when lover meets his mistress, - Longed to kiss his lovely England, - Take her in his arms and kiss her, - As a son might kiss his mother. - Got ashore and humped his kit off, - Then went streaking up to London - Making for his loved St. James’s. - - B.E.F., FRANCE, - _August 1918_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -HOME AT LAST - - - Waterloo the same as ever - With its old familiar noises, - Hustle, bustle and excitement, - Hurrying feet and anxious faces, - People staggering with parcels, - People pushing for their luggage, - And the whistling of the engines, - And the rattling of the milk cans, - And the shouting of the newsboys— - Thus it greeted Tiadatha - Very much the same as ever, - Though he found a dearth of porters, - Found it hard to get a porter, - Harder still to get a taxi. - - Who can tell of that first journey, - That first taxi drive in London, - Of the exile from the trenches, - Of the wanderer returning— - Almost every street and building - Bringing back a recollection - Like a long-forgotten perfume? - - As a soldier to the canteen - After his parade is over, - Even so sped Tiadatha - Straightway to his club in Pall Mall. - And the porter in the hallway, - White and very old retainer, - Imperturbable as marble, - Changeless as a ration biscuit, - Gave his usual morning greeting - Just as if it were but two days - Since he’d seen my Tiadatha, - Not two weary years and over. - And it seemed to Tiadatha - That somehow the porter’s greeting - Bridged those weary years of exile, - Helped him pick the threads of life up, - Feel he’d been away but two days - Not two weary years and over. - - After lunch he doffed his khaki, - Dived into a suit of mufti, - Felt his leave had really started - As he sauntered to St. James’s, - Bound for Jermyn Street and Hammam’s. - Had a Turkish bath at Hammam’s, - Came out feeling clean and happy, - Spotless as a British cruiser - On a sunny Sunday morning, - Fresh as any London pavement - After summer rains have washed it, - Hair well brushed and very sleeky. - Hat at just the proper angle, - Suit of grey and gloves of buckskin, - Socks as soothing as a moonbeam, - And a tie of Dudshire colours. - - And the sights and smells of London - All seemed good to Tiadatha, - Every shop he saw allured him, - Every face he passed was lovely. - So he wandered for a little - And inhaled his well-loved London, - Let it steal upon his senses - As a Chinaman with hashish. - “Life again” thought Tiadatha, - Rumpelmeyer’s instead of Floca’s, - Hammam’s baths instead of Botton’s, - And the Club instead of Rest Camps. - For three little weeks I’ve got them, - Swapped the Skating Rink for Murray’s - Swapped the Tour Blanche for the Empire. - Swapped the Luxe Hotel for Carlton, - And the shops of Rue Egnatia - For the Burlington and Bond Street, - And old Salonica’s cobbles - For the pavement of St. James’s. - - Then he hied him to his tailor - (Who was very pleased to see him), - Tried on slacks and tried on tunics - And a pair of wondrous breeches, - And a pleasant suit of mufti - That were ready waiting for him. - Then to Mr. Wing he hastened, - Mr. Wing of Piccadilly - (Who was just as pleased to see him), - Rioted in ties and hankies, - Shirts and gloves and silk pyjamas, - Socks of many shades and colours, - Put the whole lot down to Father, - Recking little of the future. - - After that he hailed a taxi, - Bade the driver make for Sloane Street - And the home of green-eyed Phyllis; - Found his heart was beating faster - Than a Lewis gun in action - As he knocked upon the front door. - - She was still the same as ever, - Tiadatha’s green-eyed Phyllis, - Still as sweet and slim and slender, - Slim and slender as his sword was. - And her eyes were still like April, - Green and grey as days in April, - And her mouth still curved like roses, - And her smile was still like sunshine - Playing on the Thames at Chelsea - Early on a summer morning. - Still the same yet somehow different, - Somehow deeper, somehow truer, - Tested by those years of waiting, - By those two long years of waiting, - Less of girl and more of woman, - And her eyes were very tender - As she kissed my Tiadatha. - - And that night they dined at Prince’s, - Tiadatha very happy - Sitting at his wonted table - In black tie and dinner jacket, - Gleaming shirt and glossy collar; - Phyllis radiant, very lovely, - In a frock of grey and silver, - Soft and clinging as a shadow, - Pearly as the mists of morning, - Touched with violet like a sunrise - (Who am I to tell you of it?) - With some tiny silver tassels - Hanging down like shafts of moonlight. - And her eyes like stars were shining, - Like stars on a frosty evening, - As she talked to Tiadatha. - - And the glinting dinner table - And the shaded lights and music, - And the buzz of conversation - Of the gay and laughing people - Were like wine to Tiadatha. - And he raised his glass of bubbly - Looking towards his green-eyed Phyllis. - “Here’s a toast,” quoth Tiadatha, - “Here’s to the two things I love most— - London Town in peace and war time, - Coupled with the name of Phyllis. - This is better than the Splendide, - This is better than the French Club, - Better than a farewell dinner - In a dug-out in the trenches, - London Town in peace and war time, - Nothing in the world to touch you— - Damn the air-raids, damn the coupons, - Damn the lack of meat and sugar. - Two long years I’ve waited for you, - After two long years I’ve got you, - London and my green-eyed Phyllis.” - - So they lingered over dinner - As a lover reads a letter - Lest the end should come too quickly. - Then he bore her to the Gaiety, - And the joyous Tiadatha - In his comfy green stall nestling, - Hooted with infectious laughter - Like a schoolboy at a panto, - Clapped the songs and jokes and dances - As he’d never done in peace time. - Happy still when it was over, - Thinking of the dance and Murray’s— - Sped there in a wangled taxi, - All too soon fetched up at Murray’s. - Murray’s just the same as ever, - Murray’s with the same old fug up, - Like an aggravated hothouse, - Just the same appalling prices - For a jug of Murray’s Mixture. - Many well-remembered faces - Round the little close-packed tables - With their many-coloured night-lights. - Same old floor that gleamed like honey, - Same old priceless band of niggers - Playing rag-time, playing fox-trots - As no other band could play them. - - And they danced and danced together, - Phyllis and my Tiadatha, - As upon that summer evening - When at first they met each other— - Till the nigger band departed, - Till the waiters all grew restive, - Phyllis danced with Tiadatha. - - Happy days are short as kisses - Snatched when someone else is coming, - Happy days end always quickly - But in war time even quicker - Than they used to do in peace time. - Bitterly my Tiadatha - Cursed the fate that sent him homewards - Ere the pearly dawn was breaking, - Ere the workmen’s trains were running. - But he knew Fate is remorseless, - Knew that Dora is remorseless - As the chucker out at Murray’s. - So by dint of shoving, pushing, - Begging, bribing and cajoling, - He induced a taxi-driver, - Most elusive, very lordly, - To unbend enough to take them - (At a price) as far as Sloane Street. - - In that hard-won London taxi, - Speeding down dim Piccadilly - On its way to darkened Sloane Street - I will leave my Tiadatha - On his first sweet night in England— - Leave him feeling very happy, - Drugged with a divine contentment, - Feeling life was paying interest - On the days he had invested - In those dreary Balkan trenches. - Leave him with the things he’d ached for - In those two long years of exile, - Leave him to his well-loved London - And the arms of green-eyed Phyllis. - - * * * * * - - Should you question, should you ask me - What became of Tiadatha; - Ask me if he married Phyllis, - If he found another fairy, - Found one even more alluring, - Eyes of brown or blue or violet; - If he sailed for Salonica - Still an unrepentant bachelor; - Should you ask me of his doings - After those three weeks were ended, - One mad rush and wild excitement; - If he got a cushy staff job - With a lot of tabs about it, - Or if he became a major - Or the Colonel of the Dudshires, - I should make reply and answer— - “Who am I that I should tell you? - I have brought my Tiadatha - Back again to where he started - (Just as if he had been travelling - On a kind of Inner Circle), - Safe and sound and still light-hearted, - Still the same yet somehow different. - You remember how I found him - In July of 1914 - Toying with his devilled kidneys - At his little flat in Duke Street; - Very tired and very nut-like, - What we used to call a “filbert.” - I have told you of his training, - I have told you of his troubles, - Of his trials and his travels, - Of some happenings that befell him. - I have tried to picture to you - How he lived and laughed and battled - Out in France and Salonica, - How he changed from nut to soldier - As a sword is tried and tempered - When it passes through the furnace, - How he learnt (with many like him) - Something of the things that matter, - Life and Death and high endeavour. - How he learnt (with many like him) - That you cannot love your country - Till you’ve left it far behind you - (Just as no one loved his sugar - Till the beastly stuff was rationed); - That you cannot know its pleasures, - Cannot love its charms and comforts, - Till you’ve sampled several others. - - “In this war the Hun has brought us, - Some have learnt to make returns out, - Some have learnt to write out orders. - Some have learnt the way to kill Huns, - Some to lead the men that kill them, - Some have learnt to cope with bully, - Learnt to shave with army razors, - Learnt to make the best of blizzards, - Mud and slush and blazing sunshine, - Learnt to coax a little comfort - Out of bivvies, barns and dug-outs, - Learnt of things they never dreamed of - In July of 1914. - - “And they all have learnt this lesson, - Learnt as well this common lesson, - Learnt to hold a little dearer - All the things they took for granted - In July of 1914— - Whether it be Scottish Highlands, - Hills of Wales or banks of Ireland, - Or the swelling downs of Dudshire, - Or the pavement of St. James’s— - Even so my Tiadatha. - - “So I leave him and salute him - Back in his beloved London, - Knowing that the war has one thing - (If no others) to its credit— - It has made a nut a soldier, - Made a silk purse from a sow’s ear, - Made a man of Tiadatha - And made men of hundreds like him. - - “And the world has cause to thank us - For that band of so-called filberts, - For those products of St. James’s, - Light of heart and much enduring, - Straight and debonair and dauntless, - Grousing at their small discomforts, - Smiling in the face of danger. - Who have faced their great adventure, - Crossed through No Man’s Land to meet it, - Lightly as they’d cross St. James’s. - Eyes and heart still full of laughter, - Till the world had cause to wonder, - Till the world had cause to thank us - For the likes of Tiadatha.” - - CENDRESSELLES, - _September 1918_. - - -THE END - - _Printed in Great Britain by_ - UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONG OF TIADATHA *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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