CHAPTER XIVTHE FIRE

For a while my TiadathaRested on the slopes of Hortiach,Rested till he’d got his strength back.Then at Summer Hill he sojourned,Barren camp where no one lingersAny longer than he’s got to;Thence he went by easy stagesBack to join the Royal Dudshires.Found them up at Karasouli,Found so many faces missingThat at first his heart was lonely,But a few were still remaining,Still a few familiar faces,And they made him very welcome,With them Woggs his soldier servant.But although he made new comrades,Carried on without the old ones,Yet his heart was often lonely,Lonely for those missing faces.Thus they met another summer,Sweltered through another summer,Changing over every fortnightWith a neighbouring battalion.Smol and Macukovo saw them,Waggon Hill and Green Hill saw them,Dache, “P.N.,” and Kalinova,And the muddy Vardar River,And they did a so-called rest cureOn the side of shadeless Kirec.Then one day in blazing AugustTiadatha pinched a week-end,Touched his Colonel for a week-end,“Just to do a bit of shopping,”And buzzed down to SalonicaWith his very best pal, Percy,Put up at the Hotel Splendide,Taking Woggs, the soldier servant.After tea at Uncle Floca’s,After tea they did some shopping,Bought some Mess stores from Coppola’s,Bought some braces from Orosdi’s(Selfridge’s of Salonica),Took some watches for repairingAs requested by their sergeants,Had a shampoo and a haircut,Had their usual bath at Botton’s,Sauntered back towards the SplendideFor their evening gin and vermouth.They were met by Woggs the batman,Trusty Woggs the ever-ready,In a state of huge excitement:“Please, sir, half the town’s ablaze, sir;Started in the Turkish Quarter,May be here at any moment.”“Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha,Thinking very little of it,“Come as usual in the morning,”Went with Percy to the French ClubBent upon a pleasant evening.All things can be won by waiting,All things can be won by pushing,Even dinner at the French Club,Where our very generous AlliesLet us come and eat their rations.There they had a special dinner,Percy and my Tiadatha,Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook,With some passable Veuve Clicquot,Drier than Macaulay’s Essays,Cheering as a nigger rag-time,Followed by some fine old brandy,All produced by smiling Camille,Now apoilu, late of Prince’s.Then they wandered to the Tour BlancheFor the usual evening revel,Feeling very bright and merry,Found the doors were barred against them.Wandered on a little fartherTo the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety,Found the doors were barred against them,Found them housing homeless womenWith their baggage and their babies.“Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha,“True enough the town is blazing;This is going to be ‘some’ evening.”All the sky was glowing crimson,Clouds of smoke were welling upwards,And the sparks like golden raindropsPoured upon those wooden housesPacked like herrings in a barrel;And a mighty wind was blowing,Sweeping from the hills to seaward.Percy and my TiadathaDashed along the Rue Egnatia,Saw the fire was driving down itAs a bore drives down a river;Ruthless as an angry bison,Hungry as a famished tiger,Eating up the wooden houses,Eating up the shops and cafés.Falling beams and crashing shutters,All were gone in half a minute,Swallowed by that whirling furnace.Soon it burnt the Provost MarshalOut of his expensive office,Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos,Where a fitful fire-engine(All that Salonica boasted)Played upon the flames in trickles,Did about as much to quench themAs a mug of tepid waterDoes to quench the thirst of soldiersIn a boiling Balkan summer.“Going some,” said Tiadatha,“Better hop back to the Splendide,Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.”So they raced back to the Splendide,Found that Woggs had packed their kits upReady for a hasty exit,For already flames were lapping,Like the waves, against the Splendide.All along the Odos NikeClouds of smoke came welling faster,Thicker than a fog in London,And a million sparks were whirling,And the flames were sweeping nearer.Coughing, choking, nearly blinded,Tiadatha, Woggs and PercyStumbled through the smoky blackness,Tripping over bits of wreckage,Fought their way along the sea front,While the sparks came showering on themLike confetti at a wedding,And they got the wind up badly—Worse than on that April eveningWhen they went for Johnny Bulgar—Passed the old White Tower panting,Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless.In the Courtyard of the French ClubOn its side an urn reposes,Old and huge and most capacious,Dug up by our gallant AlliesFrom the heart of Macedonia,And it seemed to TiadathaJust the haven that they wanted,So he bade Woggs dump their kits in,Bade him scramble in and guard them,Then went back to do the heroWith a very breathless Percy.All the streets were wild confusion,Refugees were streaming Eastward,Pouring Eastward in their thousands,Some with loaded carts and donkeys,Some with gharries piled to heaven.Old men bleating, children screaming,Broken-hearted women sobbing,Wailing for their homes and treasures.All the streets were blocked and litteredWith all kinds of goods and chattels,Feather mattresses and tables,Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads,Looking glasses, jugs and bundles,Pillows, pots and pans and pictures.Percy and my TiadathaTook their stand at a street corner,Started running things in earnest,Cleared the houses of the people,Helped them get what things they could out,Made them leave the things they couldn’t.Chased and biffed the wandering looters,Kept the crowd back and the road clear,Got the women and the childrenOn the waiting motor lorries,Packed them off to refugee camps;And their hardest job of all wasParting one old Turkish ladyFrom the frowsty feather mattressThat they couldn’t load up with herOn the overflowing lorry.When the fire had reached their cornerThey would move on to the next one,Like a pair of organ grindersMade to move on by a footman,Giving ground, but giving slowly,Fighting out a rearguard action.And at every other cornerOf the doomed and burning citySlaved the likes of Tiadatha,Officers and private soldiers,Fighting fire instead of Bulgars.Many parts they played that evening,Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie,Till their eyes were red and burning,Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders,Till their clothes were scorched and blackened,Till their heads and feet and backs ached.And that night my TiadathaSaw some sights not good to look on.Many thousand hearts were broken,Many thousand people homeless.As the night wore on a damsel,Tearful and quite unattractive,Came beseeching Tiadatha,Begged and prayed him come and help her,Help her save some cherished treasures.Up some burning stairs she led them(Having roped in Percy also),Pointed to a clock and mirror,Hideous both and very heavy.Quick as lightning TiadathaPounced upon the gilt-framed mirror(Since it looked a little lighter),Left the massive clock for Percy;Down the stairs they crashed together,In their arms these precious treasuresOf this unattractive damsel.Out into the street they lugged them,Put them down upon the pavement,But she begged and prayed them followWhither she had left her motherAnd the rest of her belongings.So they left their job and followed,Followed like Quixotic idiots,Staggered with the clock and mirror,Which became extremely heavy;Through the burning streets they tottered,Past the weeping homeless outcasts,With the things upon their shoulders;Humped them till their backs were breaking,Till at last their souls revolted.“Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy,Firm, though quite polite about it,“Not another yard,” said Percy,“Not a step,” said Tiadatha.“Pas loin d’ici,” sobbed the maiden,Wept the unattractive damsel,“Only just a little farther,Just a very little farther.”On they went like two knight-errantsOut to serve their lovely lady,Till they reached the bit of gardenThat surrounds the old White Tower.There they found the maiden’s mother,Found her doddering old father,Felt most awfully sorry for them,Sorry they could do so little;Sheepishly received their blessing,Dumped the clock and dumped the mirror,Feeling very much like SinbadWhen at last he’d dumped the old manWho had ridden on his shoulders.“Nearly five,” said Tiadatha,“And the dawn will soon be breaking.Percy, I am sick and weary,And my eyes are full of cinders,And my tongue as dry as Aden—What about a rest, old sportsman?”As he spoke he cast about himFor a haven, for a refuge,Spied a T.B. in the harbour,Hailed the captain through the darkness.Came the answer through the darkness,“Come aboard and have some whisky,Come aboard, I’ll send a boat off.”Percy and my TiadathaSoon were settled in the T.B.,Drank the Captain’s old Scotch whisky,Munched his sandwiches and biscuits,Murmured as they drank together,“When in trouble, try the Navy,Bless their souls, the British Navy!”Then they watched the fire raging,Watched it burning from the harbour,Tossing like a fiery ocean;Watched the shops and cafés blazingAll along the stricken sea-front,Watched a flame that leapt to HeavenWrithing like a dancing Dervish,Watched a minaret uprisingWhite against the molten background,And bethought them of the watchesThey had taken for repairing,Made some rueful calculationsOf the cost of seven new ones.As the dawn came, Tiadatha,Cheered to see the M.T. engineSave the English Quay from ruin,Gazed on ravaged SalonicaWith its blackened, gutted buildings,Thought of cheery times he’d spent there,Thought of many noisy evenings,Murmured “No more teas at Floca’s,No more shopping at Orosdi’s,No more dinners at the Splendide,No more revels at the Odéon.”Murmured “Poor old Salonica,Dear old dirty Salonica,Salonica, finish Johnny.”

For a while my Tiadatha

Rested on the slopes of Hortiach,

Rested till he’d got his strength back.

Then at Summer Hill he sojourned,

Barren camp where no one lingers

Any longer than he’s got to;

Thence he went by easy stages

Back to join the Royal Dudshires.

Found them up at Karasouli,

Found so many faces missing

That at first his heart was lonely,

But a few were still remaining,

Still a few familiar faces,

And they made him very welcome,

With them Woggs his soldier servant.

But although he made new comrades,

Carried on without the old ones,

Yet his heart was often lonely,

Lonely for those missing faces.

Thus they met another summer,Sweltered through another summer,Changing over every fortnightWith a neighbouring battalion.Smol and Macukovo saw them,Waggon Hill and Green Hill saw them,Dache, “P.N.,” and Kalinova,And the muddy Vardar River,And they did a so-called rest cureOn the side of shadeless Kirec.

Thus they met another summer,

Sweltered through another summer,

Changing over every fortnight

With a neighbouring battalion.

Smol and Macukovo saw them,

Waggon Hill and Green Hill saw them,

Dache, “P.N.,” and Kalinova,

And the muddy Vardar River,

And they did a so-called rest cure

On the side of shadeless Kirec.

Then one day in blazing AugustTiadatha pinched a week-end,Touched his Colonel for a week-end,“Just to do a bit of shopping,”And buzzed down to SalonicaWith his very best pal, Percy,Put up at the Hotel Splendide,Taking Woggs, the soldier servant.

Then one day in blazing August

Tiadatha pinched a week-end,

Touched his Colonel for a week-end,

“Just to do a bit of shopping,”

And buzzed down to Salonica

With his very best pal, Percy,

Put up at the Hotel Splendide,

Taking Woggs, the soldier servant.

After tea at Uncle Floca’s,After tea they did some shopping,Bought some Mess stores from Coppola’s,Bought some braces from Orosdi’s(Selfridge’s of Salonica),Took some watches for repairingAs requested by their sergeants,Had a shampoo and a haircut,Had their usual bath at Botton’s,Sauntered back towards the SplendideFor their evening gin and vermouth.

After tea at Uncle Floca’s,

After tea they did some shopping,

Bought some Mess stores from Coppola’s,

Bought some braces from Orosdi’s

(Selfridge’s of Salonica),

Took some watches for repairing

As requested by their sergeants,

Had a shampoo and a haircut,

Had their usual bath at Botton’s,

Sauntered back towards the Splendide

For their evening gin and vermouth.

They were met by Woggs the batman,Trusty Woggs the ever-ready,In a state of huge excitement:“Please, sir, half the town’s ablaze, sir;Started in the Turkish Quarter,May be here at any moment.”

They were met by Woggs the batman,

Trusty Woggs the ever-ready,

In a state of huge excitement:

“Please, sir, half the town’s ablaze, sir;

Started in the Turkish Quarter,

May be here at any moment.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha,Thinking very little of it,“Come as usual in the morning,”Went with Percy to the French ClubBent upon a pleasant evening.

“Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha,

Thinking very little of it,

“Come as usual in the morning,”

Went with Percy to the French Club

Bent upon a pleasant evening.

All things can be won by waiting,All things can be won by pushing,Even dinner at the French Club,Where our very generous AlliesLet us come and eat their rations.There they had a special dinner,Percy and my Tiadatha,Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook,With some passable Veuve Clicquot,Drier than Macaulay’s Essays,Cheering as a nigger rag-time,Followed by some fine old brandy,All produced by smiling Camille,Now apoilu, late of Prince’s.

All things can be won by waiting,

All things can be won by pushing,

Even dinner at the French Club,

Where our very generous Allies

Let us come and eat their rations.

There they had a special dinner,

Percy and my Tiadatha,

Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook,

With some passable Veuve Clicquot,

Drier than Macaulay’s Essays,

Cheering as a nigger rag-time,

Followed by some fine old brandy,

All produced by smiling Camille,

Now apoilu, late of Prince’s.

Then they wandered to the Tour BlancheFor the usual evening revel,Feeling very bright and merry,Found the doors were barred against them.Wandered on a little fartherTo the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety,Found the doors were barred against them,Found them housing homeless womenWith their baggage and their babies.“Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha,“True enough the town is blazing;This is going to be ‘some’ evening.”

Then they wandered to the Tour Blanche

For the usual evening revel,

Feeling very bright and merry,

Found the doors were barred against them.

Wandered on a little farther

To the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety,

Found the doors were barred against them,

Found them housing homeless women

With their baggage and their babies.

“Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha,

“True enough the town is blazing;

This is going to be ‘some’ evening.”

All the sky was glowing crimson,Clouds of smoke were welling upwards,And the sparks like golden raindropsPoured upon those wooden housesPacked like herrings in a barrel;And a mighty wind was blowing,Sweeping from the hills to seaward.Percy and my TiadathaDashed along the Rue Egnatia,Saw the fire was driving down itAs a bore drives down a river;Ruthless as an angry bison,Hungry as a famished tiger,Eating up the wooden houses,Eating up the shops and cafés.Falling beams and crashing shutters,All were gone in half a minute,Swallowed by that whirling furnace.Soon it burnt the Provost MarshalOut of his expensive office,Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos,Where a fitful fire-engine(All that Salonica boasted)Played upon the flames in trickles,Did about as much to quench themAs a mug of tepid waterDoes to quench the thirst of soldiersIn a boiling Balkan summer.“Going some,” said Tiadatha,“Better hop back to the Splendide,Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.”

All the sky was glowing crimson,

Clouds of smoke were welling upwards,

And the sparks like golden raindrops

Poured upon those wooden houses

Packed like herrings in a barrel;

And a mighty wind was blowing,

Sweeping from the hills to seaward.

Percy and my Tiadatha

Dashed along the Rue Egnatia,

Saw the fire was driving down it

As a bore drives down a river;

Ruthless as an angry bison,

Hungry as a famished tiger,

Eating up the wooden houses,

Eating up the shops and cafés.

Falling beams and crashing shutters,

All were gone in half a minute,

Swallowed by that whirling furnace.

Soon it burnt the Provost Marshal

Out of his expensive office,

Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos,

Where a fitful fire-engine

(All that Salonica boasted)

Played upon the flames in trickles,

Did about as much to quench them

As a mug of tepid water

Does to quench the thirst of soldiers

In a boiling Balkan summer.

“Going some,” said Tiadatha,

“Better hop back to the Splendide,

Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.”

So they raced back to the Splendide,Found that Woggs had packed their kits upReady for a hasty exit,For already flames were lapping,Like the waves, against the Splendide.All along the Odos NikeClouds of smoke came welling faster,Thicker than a fog in London,And a million sparks were whirling,And the flames were sweeping nearer.Coughing, choking, nearly blinded,Tiadatha, Woggs and PercyStumbled through the smoky blackness,Tripping over bits of wreckage,Fought their way along the sea front,While the sparks came showering on themLike confetti at a wedding,And they got the wind up badly—Worse than on that April eveningWhen they went for Johnny Bulgar—Passed the old White Tower panting,Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless.

So they raced back to the Splendide,

Found that Woggs had packed their kits up

Ready for a hasty exit,

For already flames were lapping,

Like the waves, against the Splendide.

All along the Odos Nike

Clouds of smoke came welling faster,

Thicker than a fog in London,

And a million sparks were whirling,

And the flames were sweeping nearer.

Coughing, choking, nearly blinded,

Tiadatha, Woggs and Percy

Stumbled through the smoky blackness,

Tripping over bits of wreckage,

Fought their way along the sea front,

While the sparks came showering on them

Like confetti at a wedding,

And they got the wind up badly—

Worse than on that April evening

When they went for Johnny Bulgar—

Passed the old White Tower panting,

Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless.

In the Courtyard of the French ClubOn its side an urn reposes,Old and huge and most capacious,Dug up by our gallant AlliesFrom the heart of Macedonia,And it seemed to TiadathaJust the haven that they wanted,So he bade Woggs dump their kits in,Bade him scramble in and guard them,Then went back to do the heroWith a very breathless Percy.

In the Courtyard of the French Club

On its side an urn reposes,

Old and huge and most capacious,

Dug up by our gallant Allies

From the heart of Macedonia,

And it seemed to Tiadatha

Just the haven that they wanted,

So he bade Woggs dump their kits in,

Bade him scramble in and guard them,

Then went back to do the hero

With a very breathless Percy.

All the streets were wild confusion,Refugees were streaming Eastward,Pouring Eastward in their thousands,Some with loaded carts and donkeys,Some with gharries piled to heaven.Old men bleating, children screaming,Broken-hearted women sobbing,Wailing for their homes and treasures.All the streets were blocked and litteredWith all kinds of goods and chattels,Feather mattresses and tables,Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads,Looking glasses, jugs and bundles,Pillows, pots and pans and pictures.

All the streets were wild confusion,

Refugees were streaming Eastward,

Pouring Eastward in their thousands,

Some with loaded carts and donkeys,

Some with gharries piled to heaven.

Old men bleating, children screaming,

Broken-hearted women sobbing,

Wailing for their homes and treasures.

All the streets were blocked and littered

With all kinds of goods and chattels,

Feather mattresses and tables,

Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads,

Looking glasses, jugs and bundles,

Pillows, pots and pans and pictures.

Percy and my TiadathaTook their stand at a street corner,Started running things in earnest,Cleared the houses of the people,Helped them get what things they could out,Made them leave the things they couldn’t.Chased and biffed the wandering looters,Kept the crowd back and the road clear,Got the women and the childrenOn the waiting motor lorries,Packed them off to refugee camps;And their hardest job of all wasParting one old Turkish ladyFrom the frowsty feather mattressThat they couldn’t load up with herOn the overflowing lorry.When the fire had reached their cornerThey would move on to the next one,Like a pair of organ grindersMade to move on by a footman,Giving ground, but giving slowly,Fighting out a rearguard action.And at every other cornerOf the doomed and burning citySlaved the likes of Tiadatha,Officers and private soldiers,Fighting fire instead of Bulgars.Many parts they played that evening,Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie,Till their eyes were red and burning,Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders,Till their clothes were scorched and blackened,Till their heads and feet and backs ached.And that night my TiadathaSaw some sights not good to look on.Many thousand hearts were broken,Many thousand people homeless.

Percy and my Tiadatha

Took their stand at a street corner,

Started running things in earnest,

Cleared the houses of the people,

Helped them get what things they could out,

Made them leave the things they couldn’t.

Chased and biffed the wandering looters,

Kept the crowd back and the road clear,

Got the women and the children

On the waiting motor lorries,

Packed them off to refugee camps;

And their hardest job of all was

Parting one old Turkish lady

From the frowsty feather mattress

That they couldn’t load up with her

On the overflowing lorry.

When the fire had reached their corner

They would move on to the next one,

Like a pair of organ grinders

Made to move on by a footman,

Giving ground, but giving slowly,

Fighting out a rearguard action.

And at every other corner

Of the doomed and burning city

Slaved the likes of Tiadatha,

Officers and private soldiers,

Fighting fire instead of Bulgars.

Many parts they played that evening,

Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie,

Till their eyes were red and burning,

Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders,

Till their clothes were scorched and blackened,

Till their heads and feet and backs ached.

And that night my Tiadatha

Saw some sights not good to look on.

Many thousand hearts were broken,

Many thousand people homeless.

As the night wore on a damsel,Tearful and quite unattractive,Came beseeching Tiadatha,Begged and prayed him come and help her,Help her save some cherished treasures.Up some burning stairs she led them(Having roped in Percy also),Pointed to a clock and mirror,Hideous both and very heavy.Quick as lightning TiadathaPounced upon the gilt-framed mirror(Since it looked a little lighter),Left the massive clock for Percy;Down the stairs they crashed together,In their arms these precious treasuresOf this unattractive damsel.Out into the street they lugged them,Put them down upon the pavement,But she begged and prayed them followWhither she had left her motherAnd the rest of her belongings.So they left their job and followed,Followed like Quixotic idiots,Staggered with the clock and mirror,Which became extremely heavy;Through the burning streets they tottered,Past the weeping homeless outcasts,With the things upon their shoulders;Humped them till their backs were breaking,Till at last their souls revolted.“Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy,Firm, though quite polite about it,“Not another yard,” said Percy,“Not a step,” said Tiadatha.“Pas loin d’ici,” sobbed the maiden,Wept the unattractive damsel,“Only just a little farther,Just a very little farther.”On they went like two knight-errantsOut to serve their lovely lady,Till they reached the bit of gardenThat surrounds the old White Tower.There they found the maiden’s mother,Found her doddering old father,Felt most awfully sorry for them,Sorry they could do so little;Sheepishly received their blessing,Dumped the clock and dumped the mirror,Feeling very much like SinbadWhen at last he’d dumped the old manWho had ridden on his shoulders.“Nearly five,” said Tiadatha,“And the dawn will soon be breaking.Percy, I am sick and weary,And my eyes are full of cinders,And my tongue as dry as Aden—What about a rest, old sportsman?”As he spoke he cast about himFor a haven, for a refuge,Spied a T.B. in the harbour,Hailed the captain through the darkness.Came the answer through the darkness,“Come aboard and have some whisky,Come aboard, I’ll send a boat off.”

As the night wore on a damsel,

Tearful and quite unattractive,

Came beseeching Tiadatha,

Begged and prayed him come and help her,

Help her save some cherished treasures.

Up some burning stairs she led them

(Having roped in Percy also),

Pointed to a clock and mirror,

Hideous both and very heavy.

Quick as lightning Tiadatha

Pounced upon the gilt-framed mirror

(Since it looked a little lighter),

Left the massive clock for Percy;

Down the stairs they crashed together,

In their arms these precious treasures

Of this unattractive damsel.

Out into the street they lugged them,

Put them down upon the pavement,

But she begged and prayed them follow

Whither she had left her mother

And the rest of her belongings.

So they left their job and followed,

Followed like Quixotic idiots,

Staggered with the clock and mirror,

Which became extremely heavy;

Through the burning streets they tottered,

Past the weeping homeless outcasts,

With the things upon their shoulders;

Humped them till their backs were breaking,

Till at last their souls revolted.

“Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy,

Firm, though quite polite about it,

“Not another yard,” said Percy,

“Not a step,” said Tiadatha.

“Pas loin d’ici,” sobbed the maiden,

Wept the unattractive damsel,

“Only just a little farther,

Just a very little farther.”

On they went like two knight-errants

Out to serve their lovely lady,

Till they reached the bit of garden

That surrounds the old White Tower.

There they found the maiden’s mother,

Found her doddering old father,

Felt most awfully sorry for them,

Sorry they could do so little;

Sheepishly received their blessing,

Dumped the clock and dumped the mirror,

Feeling very much like Sinbad

When at last he’d dumped the old man

Who had ridden on his shoulders.

“Nearly five,” said Tiadatha,

“And the dawn will soon be breaking.

Percy, I am sick and weary,

And my eyes are full of cinders,

And my tongue as dry as Aden—

What about a rest, old sportsman?”

As he spoke he cast about him

For a haven, for a refuge,

Spied a T.B. in the harbour,

Hailed the captain through the darkness.

Came the answer through the darkness,

“Come aboard and have some whisky,

Come aboard, I’ll send a boat off.”

Percy and my TiadathaSoon were settled in the T.B.,Drank the Captain’s old Scotch whisky,Munched his sandwiches and biscuits,Murmured as they drank together,“When in trouble, try the Navy,Bless their souls, the British Navy!”Then they watched the fire raging,Watched it burning from the harbour,Tossing like a fiery ocean;Watched the shops and cafés blazingAll along the stricken sea-front,Watched a flame that leapt to HeavenWrithing like a dancing Dervish,Watched a minaret uprisingWhite against the molten background,And bethought them of the watchesThey had taken for repairing,Made some rueful calculationsOf the cost of seven new ones.

Percy and my Tiadatha

Soon were settled in the T.B.,

Drank the Captain’s old Scotch whisky,

Munched his sandwiches and biscuits,

Murmured as they drank together,

“When in trouble, try the Navy,

Bless their souls, the British Navy!”

Then they watched the fire raging,

Watched it burning from the harbour,

Tossing like a fiery ocean;

Watched the shops and cafés blazing

All along the stricken sea-front,

Watched a flame that leapt to Heaven

Writhing like a dancing Dervish,

Watched a minaret uprising

White against the molten background,

And bethought them of the watches

They had taken for repairing,

Made some rueful calculations

Of the cost of seven new ones.

As the dawn came, Tiadatha,Cheered to see the M.T. engineSave the English Quay from ruin,Gazed on ravaged SalonicaWith its blackened, gutted buildings,Thought of cheery times he’d spent there,Thought of many noisy evenings,Murmured “No more teas at Floca’s,No more shopping at Orosdi’s,No more dinners at the Splendide,No more revels at the Odéon.”Murmured “Poor old Salonica,Dear old dirty Salonica,Salonica, finish Johnny.”

As the dawn came, Tiadatha,

Cheered to see the M.T. engine

Save the English Quay from ruin,

Gazed on ravaged Salonica

With its blackened, gutted buildings,

Thought of cheery times he’d spent there,

Thought of many noisy evenings,

Murmured “No more teas at Floca’s,

No more shopping at Orosdi’s,

No more dinners at the Splendide,

No more revels at the Odéon.”

Murmured “Poor old Salonica,

Dear old dirty Salonica,

Salonica, finish Johnny.”

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