CHAPTER IITHE TRAINING OF TIADATHA
Two long months spent TiadathaOn a Barrack Square in DudshireLearning how to be a soldier.Laid aside the sword and scabbardFashioned 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 numbersLearnt 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 TiadathaLay and gasped upon his tummy.Then the muscle exercises,Ghastly muscle exercises,Standing with the blinking rifleTwo full minutes at the shoulder.In those days too TiadathaLearnt 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 rifleLike a something something pitchfork.”After which poor TiadathaThought perhaps he wouldn’t mentionForming fours and simpler methods.Had you asked my TiadathaIf 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 youThat, until he joined the Army,He had not the least conceptionLife 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 himLike a strong man in a circus.And in time he formed new friendshipsWith 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 MalaccaWith a mighty thirst for whisky.As a village shop in DudshireHas its wonderful collection,Miscellaneous assortmentOf 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 collectionTiadatha found his brothersIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.Yet they fitted in their placesLike 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 TiadathaLived 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 themOver port and whisky sodas.Came a day when TiadathaHanded 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 heLooked at his platoon’s cap badges,Saw its every button polished,Learnt that private soldiers’ hair growsFast as cress upon a blanket.Many hours he spent in drilling,Spent in Foot and Kit inspections,Spent in strenuous Brigade DaysOn the windy downs of Dudshire,Finding (as he’d long suspected)That a subaltern’s existenceIsn’t quite all beer and skittles.Such was Tiadatha’s training.
Two long months spent TiadathaOn a Barrack Square in DudshireLearning how to be a soldier.Laid aside the sword and scabbardFashioned 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 numbersLearnt 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 TiadathaLay and gasped upon his tummy.Then the muscle exercises,Ghastly muscle exercises,Standing with the blinking rifleTwo full minutes at the shoulder.In those days too TiadathaLearnt 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 rifleLike a something something pitchfork.”After which poor TiadathaThought perhaps he wouldn’t mentionForming fours and simpler methods.Had you asked my TiadathaIf 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 youThat, until he joined the Army,He had not the least conceptionLife 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 himLike a strong man in a circus.And in time he formed new friendshipsWith 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 MalaccaWith a mighty thirst for whisky.As a village shop in DudshireHas its wonderful collection,Miscellaneous assortmentOf 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 collectionTiadatha found his brothersIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.Yet they fitted in their placesLike 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 TiadathaLived 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 themOver port and whisky sodas.Came a day when TiadathaHanded 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 heLooked at his platoon’s cap badges,Saw its every button polished,Learnt that private soldiers’ hair growsFast as cress upon a blanket.Many hours he spent in drilling,Spent in Foot and Kit inspections,Spent in strenuous Brigade DaysOn the windy downs of Dudshire,Finding (as he’d long suspected)That a subaltern’s existenceIsn’t quite all beer and skittles.Such was Tiadatha’s training.
Two long months spent TiadathaOn a Barrack Square in DudshireLearning how to be a soldier.Laid aside the sword and scabbardFashioned 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 numbersLearnt to order arms by numbers,Learnt the rite of fixing bayonets,Harkening to the Sergeant-Major,Very gruff and fierce and warlike.
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 TiadathaLay and gasped upon his tummy.Then the muscle exercises,Ghastly muscle exercises,Standing with the blinking rifleTwo full minutes at the shoulder.
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 TiadathaLearnt 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.”
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 rifleLike a something something pitchfork.”After which poor TiadathaThought perhaps he wouldn’t mentionForming fours and simpler methods.
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 TiadathaIf 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 youThat, until he joined the Army,He had not the least conceptionLife 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 himLike a strong man in a circus.
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 friendshipsWith 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 MalaccaWith a mighty thirst for whisky.As a village shop in DudshireHas its wonderful collection,Miscellaneous assortmentOf 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 collectionTiadatha found his brothersIn the 14th Royal Dudshires.Yet they fitted in their placesLike 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 TiadathaLived 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 themOver port and whisky sodas.
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 TiadathaHanded 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 heLooked at his platoon’s cap badges,Saw its every button polished,Learnt that private soldiers’ hair growsFast as cress upon a blanket.Many hours he spent in drilling,Spent in Foot and Kit inspections,Spent in strenuous Brigade DaysOn the windy downs of Dudshire,Finding (as he’d long suspected)That a subaltern’s existenceIsn’t quite all beer and skittles.Such was Tiadatha’s training.
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.