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

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Ebook has 197 lines and 74905 words, and 4 pages

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 V?ry 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 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.

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 , 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 , 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.

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." 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 . 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 caf?s, 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 . There it was that Tiadatha Tasted Greek beer for the first time, Made a frugal meal of walnuts, Figs and Turk's delight and ?clairs, 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 to down upon them, Scupper them within their flea-bags . 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.

A DAY IN SALONIQUE

There are many famous highways, Many famous streets in history: Watling Street and Piccadilly, Sidney Street and Champs-Elys?e, 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 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 , 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.

After tea a bit more shopping, And perhaps a Picture Palace . 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 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 Od?on or Tour Blanche , 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, Andr?e, 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 ?clair, 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.

UP THE LINE

Often in those days of digging, Days of weary treks up country, Days of strenuous manoeuvres, 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 , 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 , 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.

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.

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 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 Couronn? Frowned upon their every movement As the mighty 535 did: Loomed above them like the Great Wheel At the Earl's Court Exhibition.

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