Read Ebook: The Song of Tiadatha by Rutter Owen Owen H Collinson Harry Collinson Author Of Introduction Etc

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 197 lines and 74905 words, and 4 pages

INTRODUCTION 7

THE SONG OF TIADATHA

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.

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 , 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.

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 , 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 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 That a subaltern's existence Isn't quite all beer and skittles. Such was Tiadatha's training.

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 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 , 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.

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 , 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" , 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.

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 Caesar, Fringed with trees all apple-laden, Apple-laden till the Dudshires Had a short fall-out beneath them.

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 , 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.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet