CHAPTER XVIA STUNT AT DAWN

In the month of bleak NovemberSaid the Colonel of the Dudshires,Heart athirst for blood and battle,“We must have another outing,Do another stunt one morning,Raid that wood across the valley,Twist the Bulgars’ tails a little,Bring some prisoners back to breakfast.”Picture then my TiadathaSitting in his draughty dug-outAt one-thirty in the morning,Gulping tea and crunching baconIn an effort at a breakfast;Picture him in Tommy’s tunic,Very oldest boots and breeches,Girt with rifle and equipmentKindly lent him for the occasionBy his Quartermaster-Sergeant,Feeling rather apprehensive,Feeling very far from happy,As he’d often felt on Sports daysEre he’d started for the hurdles.To the fountain in the village,In the little ruined village,Came the Dudshire raiding partyAnd assembled in the starlight.Through the wire they wound in silenceLike a mighty caterpillar(Silent save for TiadathaStrafing someone else for talking),Bayonets gleaming in the starlight,Water-bottles gurgling softlyAs they clumped along the pathway,Clumped along towards Hodza River;At the ford they crossed the riverSplashing like a hippo bathing,Gasping as it reached their tummies;But it did not damp their ardour,Damped their feet but not their ardour,And they staggered on in silenceNow well into Bulgar country.As they skirted round an outpostTiadatha’s heart grew fearfulOf inevitable star-shells,Véry lights that seemed as certainAs a howl is from a babyWhen he wakes up in the night-time:Felt his heart go pitter-patter,Knowing well how all dependedOn their getting past unnoticed;But because a gale was blowing,Or because the group was dreamingOf its fairies in Sofia,Not a sound came from the outpost,Not a rifle shot nor star-shellWhile the vanguard of the DudshiresLed the party through the darknessAs a tug escorts a liner.Drawing near their dim objectiveIn the greyness of the morning,They deployed and at the signal,At the order of their Colonel,Charged upon the Bulgar strongholdAs the pearly dawn was breaking.’Twould have made your heart beat faster,’Twould have set your blood a-tingle,Had you seen the Royal Dudshires,Seen that line of gallant Dudshires,Shake itself and charge like soldiers,Go bald-headed for the Bulgars.Had you heard the Dudshires yellingLoud as rooters at a ball gameWhen they charged across the open,In their hearts that funny feeling,Only brought about by three things—Love or rum or lust of battle.And by this time Johnny BulgarWas awake and taking notice,Sitting up and taking notice,Potting at the charging DudshiresAs they came across the open.From behind the trees they potted,Potted from behind the bushes,Made the puddles look like fountainsIn the greyness of the morning.But the Dudshires, nothing daunted,Kept their line and never wavered,At their head my Tiadatha.Closer still they came and closerTill the Bulgars saw their bayonetsGleaming silver in the morning,Found that they could wait no longer,Through the wood they turned and legged it,On their heels the panting DudshiresLed by breathless Tiadatha.You’d have cheered your very soul outHad you spotted TiadathaRounding up a band of prisoners,Setting off with Woggs his batmanOn a separate expeditionAfter one more pet of Ferdie’sWho was hurriedly departing.Hard and fast he chased that Bulgar,Vainly loosing off his rifle(Finding that it wasn’t loaded),Vainly trying to rememberWhat “Surrender” was in Bulgar.Wind was weak though spirit willingAnd he never caught his quarry,For in spite of his equipment,Fancy boots and overcoating,Johnny legged it like a good ’un,Faster than a fighting woodcock,Swifter than a homing pigeon,Leaving Woggs and TiadathaCursing loudly in the distance,With the slender consolationThat they’d bagged a Bulgar rifleAs memento of the picnic.Thus they got their job of work done,Cleared the wood of Johnny Bulgar,Picked up all he’d left behind him,Even to his bits of breakfast,And beheld with satisfaction(Crumps were getting rather busy)Three red lights go soaring upwards,Signal for them all to hop it.Then without unseemly hurry,Turkish cigarette in one handAnd a biscuit in the other,Having passed his irksome rifleOn to Woggs the ever-suffering,Tiadatha led his partyBack across the open country,Led them back across the riverWhile the zealous German gunnersSprinkled all the plain with shrapnel,Heaved a pious thanks to get themBack into the lines of safety.Back in safety with their tails up,Spent a pleasant twenty minutesWatching prisoner birds arriving,Dribbling back in pairs and bunches.One especially he noticed,Tunic destitute of buttonsAs a ration joint of suet(Gone as souvenirs to Dudshire),Who yet clutched a set of buttons,Set of universal buttons,Given to him as exchangesBy his cheerful Dudshire captors.Pockets bulging fat with Woodbines,Woodbines that in Balkan trenchesAre as scarce as lumps of sugarOn an English breakfast table,Proof of Tommy’s pleasant mannersTowards the cove he’d tried to scupper,Done his very best to scupperEarly that November morning.Then my gleeful TiadathaBade Woggs go and fetch his Kodak,Photographed the Bulgar prisoner,Took him with the Sergeant-MajorAnd without the Sergeant-Major,Cheered him up and pinched his cap badgeAs a souvenir for Phyllis,Gave him half a tin of bully.Then he made a second breakfast,Made a mighty second breakfast,Strolled into his little dug-outThat he almost said good-bye toWhen he left it in the morning,Bathed and got the grime of war off,Laid him down and slept till eveningAs befitted a world’s worker.Chester,July 1918.

In the month of bleak November

Said the Colonel of the Dudshires,

Heart athirst for blood and battle,

“We must have another outing,

Do another stunt one morning,

Raid that wood across the valley,

Twist the Bulgars’ tails a little,

Bring some prisoners back to breakfast.”

Picture then my TiadathaSitting in his draughty dug-outAt one-thirty in the morning,Gulping tea and crunching baconIn an effort at a breakfast;Picture him in Tommy’s tunic,Very oldest boots and breeches,Girt with rifle and equipmentKindly lent him for the occasionBy his Quartermaster-Sergeant,Feeling rather apprehensive,Feeling very far from happy,As he’d often felt on Sports daysEre he’d started for the hurdles.

Picture then my Tiadatha

Sitting in his draughty dug-out

At one-thirty in the morning,

Gulping tea and crunching bacon

In an effort at a breakfast;

Picture him in Tommy’s tunic,

Very oldest boots and breeches,

Girt with rifle and equipment

Kindly lent him for the occasion

By his Quartermaster-Sergeant,

Feeling rather apprehensive,

Feeling very far from happy,

As he’d often felt on Sports days

Ere he’d started for the hurdles.

To the fountain in the village,In the little ruined village,Came the Dudshire raiding partyAnd assembled in the starlight.Through the wire they wound in silenceLike a mighty caterpillar(Silent save for TiadathaStrafing someone else for talking),Bayonets gleaming in the starlight,Water-bottles gurgling softlyAs they clumped along the pathway,Clumped along towards Hodza River;At the ford they crossed the riverSplashing like a hippo bathing,Gasping as it reached their tummies;But it did not damp their ardour,Damped their feet but not their ardour,And they staggered on in silenceNow well into Bulgar country.

To the fountain in the village,

In the little ruined village,

Came the Dudshire raiding party

And assembled in the starlight.

Through the wire they wound in silence

Like a mighty caterpillar

(Silent save for Tiadatha

Strafing someone else for talking),

Bayonets gleaming in the starlight,

Water-bottles gurgling softly

As they clumped along the pathway,

Clumped along towards Hodza River;

At the ford they crossed the river

Splashing like a hippo bathing,

Gasping as it reached their tummies;

But it did not damp their ardour,

Damped their feet but not their ardour,

And they staggered on in silence

Now well into Bulgar country.

As they skirted round an outpostTiadatha’s heart grew fearfulOf inevitable star-shells,Véry lights that seemed as certainAs a howl is from a babyWhen he wakes up in the night-time:Felt his heart go pitter-patter,Knowing well how all dependedOn their getting past unnoticed;But because a gale was blowing,Or because the group was dreamingOf its fairies in Sofia,Not a sound came from the outpost,Not a rifle shot nor star-shellWhile the vanguard of the DudshiresLed the party through the darknessAs a tug escorts a liner.

As they skirted round an outpost

Tiadatha’s heart grew fearful

Of inevitable star-shells,

Véry lights that seemed as certain

As a howl is from a baby

When he wakes up in the night-time:

Felt his heart go pitter-patter,

Knowing well how all depended

On their getting past unnoticed;

But because a gale was blowing,

Or because the group was dreaming

Of its fairies in Sofia,

Not a sound came from the outpost,

Not a rifle shot nor star-shell

While the vanguard of the Dudshires

Led the party through the darkness

As a tug escorts a liner.

Drawing near their dim objectiveIn the greyness of the morning,They deployed and at the signal,At the order of their Colonel,Charged upon the Bulgar strongholdAs the pearly dawn was breaking.

Drawing near their dim objective

In the greyness of the morning,

They deployed and at the signal,

At the order of their Colonel,

Charged upon the Bulgar stronghold

As the pearly dawn was breaking.

’Twould have made your heart beat faster,’Twould have set your blood a-tingle,Had you seen the Royal Dudshires,Seen that line of gallant Dudshires,Shake itself and charge like soldiers,Go bald-headed for the Bulgars.Had you heard the Dudshires yellingLoud as rooters at a ball gameWhen they charged across the open,In their hearts that funny feeling,Only brought about by three things—Love or rum or lust of battle.

’Twould have made your heart beat faster,

’Twould have set your blood a-tingle,

Had you seen the Royal Dudshires,

Seen that line of gallant Dudshires,

Shake itself and charge like soldiers,

Go bald-headed for the Bulgars.

Had you heard the Dudshires yelling

Loud as rooters at a ball game

When they charged across the open,

In their hearts that funny feeling,

Only brought about by three things—

Love or rum or lust of battle.

And by this time Johnny BulgarWas awake and taking notice,Sitting up and taking notice,Potting at the charging DudshiresAs they came across the open.From behind the trees they potted,Potted from behind the bushes,Made the puddles look like fountainsIn the greyness of the morning.But the Dudshires, nothing daunted,Kept their line and never wavered,At their head my Tiadatha.Closer still they came and closerTill the Bulgars saw their bayonetsGleaming silver in the morning,Found that they could wait no longer,Through the wood they turned and legged it,On their heels the panting DudshiresLed by breathless Tiadatha.

And by this time Johnny Bulgar

Was awake and taking notice,

Sitting up and taking notice,

Potting at the charging Dudshires

As they came across the open.

From behind the trees they potted,

Potted from behind the bushes,

Made the puddles look like fountains

In the greyness of the morning.

But the Dudshires, nothing daunted,

Kept their line and never wavered,

At their head my Tiadatha.

Closer still they came and closer

Till the Bulgars saw their bayonets

Gleaming silver in the morning,

Found that they could wait no longer,

Through the wood they turned and legged it,

On their heels the panting Dudshires

Led by breathless Tiadatha.

You’d have cheered your very soul outHad you spotted TiadathaRounding up a band of prisoners,Setting off with Woggs his batmanOn a separate expeditionAfter one more pet of Ferdie’sWho was hurriedly departing.Hard and fast he chased that Bulgar,Vainly loosing off his rifle(Finding that it wasn’t loaded),Vainly trying to rememberWhat “Surrender” was in Bulgar.Wind was weak though spirit willingAnd he never caught his quarry,For in spite of his equipment,Fancy boots and overcoating,Johnny legged it like a good ’un,Faster than a fighting woodcock,Swifter than a homing pigeon,Leaving Woggs and TiadathaCursing loudly in the distance,With the slender consolationThat they’d bagged a Bulgar rifleAs memento of the picnic.

You’d have cheered your very soul out

Had you spotted Tiadatha

Rounding up a band of prisoners,

Setting off with Woggs his batman

On a separate expedition

After one more pet of Ferdie’s

Who was hurriedly departing.

Hard and fast he chased that Bulgar,

Vainly loosing off his rifle

(Finding that it wasn’t loaded),

Vainly trying to remember

What “Surrender” was in Bulgar.

Wind was weak though spirit willing

And he never caught his quarry,

For in spite of his equipment,

Fancy boots and overcoating,

Johnny legged it like a good ’un,

Faster than a fighting woodcock,

Swifter than a homing pigeon,

Leaving Woggs and Tiadatha

Cursing loudly in the distance,

With the slender consolation

That they’d bagged a Bulgar rifle

As memento of the picnic.

Thus they got their job of work done,Cleared the wood of Johnny Bulgar,Picked up all he’d left behind him,Even to his bits of breakfast,And beheld with satisfaction(Crumps were getting rather busy)Three red lights go soaring upwards,Signal for them all to hop it.

Thus they got their job of work done,

Cleared the wood of Johnny Bulgar,

Picked up all he’d left behind him,

Even to his bits of breakfast,

And beheld with satisfaction

(Crumps were getting rather busy)

Three red lights go soaring upwards,

Signal for them all to hop it.

Then without unseemly hurry,Turkish cigarette in one handAnd a biscuit in the other,Having passed his irksome rifleOn to Woggs the ever-suffering,Tiadatha led his partyBack across the open country,Led them back across the riverWhile the zealous German gunnersSprinkled all the plain with shrapnel,Heaved a pious thanks to get themBack into the lines of safety.Back in safety with their tails up,Spent a pleasant twenty minutesWatching prisoner birds arriving,Dribbling back in pairs and bunches.One especially he noticed,Tunic destitute of buttonsAs a ration joint of suet(Gone as souvenirs to Dudshire),Who yet clutched a set of buttons,Set of universal buttons,Given to him as exchangesBy his cheerful Dudshire captors.Pockets bulging fat with Woodbines,Woodbines that in Balkan trenchesAre as scarce as lumps of sugarOn an English breakfast table,Proof of Tommy’s pleasant mannersTowards the cove he’d tried to scupper,Done his very best to scupperEarly that November morning.

Then without unseemly hurry,

Turkish cigarette in one hand

And a biscuit in the other,

Having passed his irksome rifle

On to Woggs the ever-suffering,

Tiadatha led his party

Back across the open country,

Led them back across the river

While the zealous German gunners

Sprinkled all the plain with shrapnel,

Heaved a pious thanks to get them

Back into the lines of safety.

Back in safety with their tails up,

Spent a pleasant twenty minutes

Watching prisoner birds arriving,

Dribbling back in pairs and bunches.

One especially he noticed,

Tunic destitute of buttons

As a ration joint of suet

(Gone as souvenirs to Dudshire),

Who yet clutched a set of buttons,

Set of universal buttons,

Given to him as exchanges

By his cheerful Dudshire captors.

Pockets bulging fat with Woodbines,

Woodbines that in Balkan trenches

Are as scarce as lumps of sugar

On an English breakfast table,

Proof of Tommy’s pleasant manners

Towards the cove he’d tried to scupper,

Done his very best to scupper

Early that November morning.

Then my gleeful TiadathaBade Woggs go and fetch his Kodak,Photographed the Bulgar prisoner,Took him with the Sergeant-MajorAnd without the Sergeant-Major,Cheered him up and pinched his cap badgeAs a souvenir for Phyllis,Gave him half a tin of bully.Then he made a second breakfast,Made a mighty second breakfast,Strolled into his little dug-outThat he almost said good-bye toWhen he left it in the morning,Bathed and got the grime of war off,Laid him down and slept till eveningAs befitted a world’s worker.

Then my gleeful Tiadatha

Bade Woggs go and fetch his Kodak,

Photographed the Bulgar prisoner,

Took him with the Sergeant-Major

And without the Sergeant-Major,

Cheered him up and pinched his cap badge

As a souvenir for Phyllis,

Gave him half a tin of bully.

Then he made a second breakfast,

Made a mighty second breakfast,

Strolled into his little dug-out

That he almost said good-bye to

When he left it in the morning,

Bathed and got the grime of war off,

Laid him down and slept till evening

As befitted a world’s worker.

Chester,July 1918.

Back to Index Next