CHAPTER VTIADATHA IN FRANCE

Tiadatha had a notion,All the Dudshires had a notionThat in France they’d drop for everMusketry and long route marches,Drop the sloping arms by numbers,Drop the everlasting press-ups,As a steamer drops her pilotWhen she reaches open waters.Yet the Dudshires’ recollectionOf those days in France is mainlyOne big blur of mingled P.T.,Arm drill, long straight roads and marches.Many miles my TiadathaTramped 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 DudshiresHad 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 furnishedNothing in the world butvin rouge(“Twovins, please, Miss,” called the Dudshires),Beer as thin as tissue paper,And (sometimes) a drop of cognac:There were bars in which the soldiersSlept 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 TiadathaSlept 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 FrenchTo Madame, his kindly hostess,Wrinkled as a russet apple.By the fire he wrote his letters,Wrote and told his green-eyed PhyllisHow he missed her every minute,Thanked her for the cake she’d sent him,Hinted that he’d like another.Little dreamed my TiadathaHow 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 trenchesJust to see what trenches feel like.On the day that TiadathaSallied 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 otherThan 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 commandedThat small sector of the trenches.This stout hero and his fellowsMade 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 himMany 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 capturedWith some cheese upon a bayonet.Then they took him round their trenches,Round their muddy maze of trenches,Rather like an aggravatedRabbit warren with the roof off,Worse to find one’s way about inThan the dark and windy subwaysOf the Piccadilly tube are.In the day and night that followedMany things learnt TiadathaOf the subtleties of trench-craft.Learnt of crumps and duds and shrapnel,And enjoyed himself immensely,Little knowing how he’d loathe crumpsWhen he got to know them better.There are very many trialsThat a soldier can get used to:Senior officers and bully,Dug-outs, mules and ration biscuits,Even standing-to in trenchesAt some God-forsaken hourOn a cold and rainy morning,But a crump is one of those thingsThat 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 withIn the days he was a filbert—Quite amusing when you meet themOnce or twice or even three times,Who become a little tryingWhen they all turn up to supperRegularly every evening.But in those days TiadathaDidn’t mind the crumps a little.Laughed to hear them rustling overAll the time that he was shaving,Laughed to see a couple burstingIn a traverse near his dug-out,As he laughed at Cloe’s salliesOn the day when first he met herIn her dressing-room at Daly’s.

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 TiadathaTramped 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 DudshiresHad a short fall-out beneath them.

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 furnishedNothing in the world butvin rouge(“Twovins, please, Miss,” called the Dudshires),Beer as thin as tissue paper,And (sometimes) a drop of cognac:There were bars in which the soldiersSlept 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.

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 butvin rouge

(“Twovins, 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 TiadathaSlept 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 FrenchTo Madame, his kindly hostess,Wrinkled as a russet apple.By the fire he wrote his letters,Wrote and told his green-eyed PhyllisHow he missed her every minute,Thanked her for the cake she’d sent him,Hinted that he’d like another.

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 TiadathaHow 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.

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 trenchesJust to see what trenches feel like.

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 TiadathaSallied 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.

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 otherThan their own platoon commander.

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 commandedThat small sector of the trenches.This stout hero and his fellowsMade 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 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 himMany 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 capturedWith some cheese upon a bayonet.

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 aggravatedRabbit warren with the roof off,Worse to find one’s way about inThan the dark and windy subwaysOf the Piccadilly tube are.

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 followedMany things learnt TiadathaOf the subtleties of trench-craft.Learnt of crumps and duds and shrapnel,And enjoyed himself immensely,Little knowing how he’d loathe crumpsWhen he got to know them better.

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 trialsThat a soldier can get used to:Senior officers and bully,Dug-outs, mules and ration biscuits,Even standing-to in trenchesAt some God-forsaken hourOn a cold and rainy morning,But a crump is one of those thingsThat 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 withIn the days he was a filbert—Quite amusing when you meet themOnce or twice or even three times,Who become a little tryingWhen they all turn up to supperRegularly every evening.

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 TiadathaDidn’t mind the crumps a little.Laughed to hear them rustling overAll the time that he was shaving,Laughed to see a couple burstingIn a traverse near his dug-out,As he laughed at Cloe’s salliesOn the day when first he met herIn her dressing-room at Daly’s.

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.

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