CHAPTER VIITIADATHA AT SALONICA
On the day the Royal DudshiresSet 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 partyWhen an uninvited guest comes.And the folk of SalonicaDid 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 reasonWhy on earth they should have done so.)But they stood and watched the DudshiresMarching 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 TiadathaAs he marched through Salonica,Cretan gendarmes with their long bootsAnd their breakfasts in their breeches,In their great black baggy breeches;Turkish ladies clad in trousers;Tattered hamals bending doubleWith a load of fifty oil tins;Many little limping donkeys,Little overladen donkeys,As they crossed the Rue Egnatia(Where St. Paul in bygone agesUsed to do his bit of shopping).Tiadatha thought of Kipling,Wondered if he’d ever been there,Thought “At least in Rue EgnatiaEast 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 lorriesBarging into buffalo wagons,French and English private soldiersJostling seedy Eastern brigands.On a hill near Lembet VillageCame 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 standingLike a palm tree in a desert—The Canteen of Back (Orosdi).There it was that TiadathaTasted 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 livingMiles and miles beyond his income;Found his little lunch had cost himMore 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 TiadathaWondering what was going to happen.All that happened was a blizzard,Not a private soldier blizzardWith some Christmas cardy snowflakes,But a perfect Balkan teaser,Sergeant-Major of a blizzard,Made of supersleet and hailstones,Every bitter wind of heavenMassed together for the business.As a shade is to a candleSo is Uncle Time to trouble:Looking back we mostly find thingsNot so bad as once we thought them.Fifty Uncle Times, however,Could not shade for all who met itMemories of that Balkan blizzard.And the wretched TiadathaGroaned 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 TiadathaOf the times those words would trembleOn the lips of countless soldiersIn the Salonica Army,Both in winter and in summer:“How I hate this blinkin’ country.”When the blizzard passed, the DudshiresSettled down to work in earnest:All day long obliging peopleFound them jobs to keep them going.Guards, fatigues and working parties,Roads to make and hills to dig on.All the livelong day the DudshiresSpent in digging up the Balkans,Toiling at redoubts and trenches,Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements,Finding when the things were finishedSomeone thought that they’d be betterTen 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 flowersLike confetti on the hillsides.
On the day the Royal DudshiresSet 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 partyWhen an uninvited guest comes.And the folk of SalonicaDid 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 reasonWhy on earth they should have done so.)But they stood and watched the DudshiresMarching 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 TiadathaAs he marched through Salonica,Cretan gendarmes with their long bootsAnd their breakfasts in their breeches,In their great black baggy breeches;Turkish ladies clad in trousers;Tattered hamals bending doubleWith a load of fifty oil tins;Many little limping donkeys,Little overladen donkeys,As they crossed the Rue Egnatia(Where St. Paul in bygone agesUsed to do his bit of shopping).Tiadatha thought of Kipling,Wondered if he’d ever been there,Thought “At least in Rue EgnatiaEast 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 lorriesBarging into buffalo wagons,French and English private soldiersJostling seedy Eastern brigands.On a hill near Lembet VillageCame 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 standingLike a palm tree in a desert—The Canteen of Back (Orosdi).There it was that TiadathaTasted 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 livingMiles and miles beyond his income;Found his little lunch had cost himMore 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 TiadathaWondering what was going to happen.All that happened was a blizzard,Not a private soldier blizzardWith some Christmas cardy snowflakes,But a perfect Balkan teaser,Sergeant-Major of a blizzard,Made of supersleet and hailstones,Every bitter wind of heavenMassed together for the business.As a shade is to a candleSo is Uncle Time to trouble:Looking back we mostly find thingsNot so bad as once we thought them.Fifty Uncle Times, however,Could not shade for all who met itMemories of that Balkan blizzard.And the wretched TiadathaGroaned 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 TiadathaOf the times those words would trembleOn the lips of countless soldiersIn the Salonica Army,Both in winter and in summer:“How I hate this blinkin’ country.”When the blizzard passed, the DudshiresSettled down to work in earnest:All day long obliging peopleFound them jobs to keep them going.Guards, fatigues and working parties,Roads to make and hills to dig on.All the livelong day the DudshiresSpent in digging up the Balkans,Toiling at redoubts and trenches,Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements,Finding when the things were finishedSomeone thought that they’d be betterTen 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 flowersLike confetti on the hillsides.
On the day the Royal DudshiresSet 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 partyWhen an uninvited guest comes.And the folk of SalonicaDid 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 reasonWhy on earth they should have done so.)But they stood and watched the DudshiresMarching 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.
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 TiadathaAs he marched through Salonica,Cretan gendarmes with their long bootsAnd their breakfasts in their breeches,In their great black baggy breeches;Turkish ladies clad in trousers;Tattered hamals bending doubleWith a load of fifty oil tins;Many little limping donkeys,Little overladen donkeys,As they crossed the Rue Egnatia(Where St. Paul in bygone agesUsed to do his bit of shopping).Tiadatha thought of Kipling,Wondered if he’d ever been there,Thought “At least in Rue EgnatiaEast 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 lorriesBarging into buffalo wagons,French and English private soldiersJostling seedy Eastern brigands.
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 VillageCame 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.
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 standingLike a palm tree in a desert—The Canteen of Back (Orosdi).There it was that TiadathaTasted 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 livingMiles and miles beyond his income;Found his little lunch had cost himMore than if he’d been to Prince’s.
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 TiadathaWondering what was going to happen.
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 blizzardWith some Christmas cardy snowflakes,But a perfect Balkan teaser,Sergeant-Major of a blizzard,Made of supersleet and hailstones,Every bitter wind of heavenMassed together for the business.
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 candleSo is Uncle Time to trouble:Looking back we mostly find thingsNot so bad as once we thought them.Fifty Uncle Times, however,Could not shade for all who met itMemories of that Balkan blizzard.
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 TiadathaGroaned 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 TiadathaOf the times those words would trembleOn the lips of countless soldiersIn the Salonica Army,Both in winter and in summer:“How I hate this blinkin’ country.”
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 DudshiresSettled down to work in earnest:All day long obliging peopleFound them jobs to keep them going.Guards, fatigues and working parties,Roads to make and hills to dig on.All the livelong day the DudshiresSpent in digging up the Balkans,Toiling at redoubts and trenches,Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements,Finding when the things were finishedSomeone thought that they’d be betterTen yards higher up the hillside,Ten yards lower down the hillside.
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.
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 flowersLike confetti on the hillsides.
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.