CHAPTER XVSNEVCE WAY

Some days after SalonicaHad been burnt and devastated,Tiadatha and the DudshiresTrekked across the hills to Snevce,To the Doya Tepe sector.Settled in Popovo villageIn the ruins of Surlovo,Giving thanks to the ItaliansFor the huts they’d left behind them,Huts with well-planked walls and ceilings,Roofed with red tiles from the village,Fitted out with chairs and tables,Beds and doors and real glass windows.Very restful, very soothing,After the eternal sandbagsAnd the corrugated ironOf the dug-outs they’d been used to—Just like moving to the CarltonOut of rather third-rate lodgings.Very soon my Tiadatha,Now become a swanking captain,Found the Doya Tepe sectorWas indeed the silver liningTo the cloud of Macedonia,And one clear September morning,On a hill above Popovo,High above Popovo village,Gazed upon the scene before him,Thought it very good to look on.Down below along the foothills,Ran the line of Dudshire trenches,And the wire wound like a ribbon,Like a long brown crinkled ribbon,Up and down the wooded hillsides,Up and down the wooded gullies.There was blue smoke curling upwardsFrom a company headquarters,And he saw some soldiers bathingIn a pool beside the village—From below the voices reached him,Clear as bells their voices reached himIn the honey-coloured sunshine.And beyond the line of trenches,Just beyond the wooded foothillsLay the smiling open valley,Varied as a landscape target,Threaded by the Hodza Suju,By the sandy Hodza river,Bright as mackerel in the sunshine,Brighter than a string of opals;White against the emerald background,Ruined villages were dottedWith their vineyards and their orchards:Brest and Nikolic and Palmis,Bulamac and Akindzali.There were woods and shady copsesAnd a line of tidy poplars,Here a mill with tangled creepers,There a disused Turkish fountain,And the long straight line of railway,With a few old trucks upon it,Where in happier days the trains ranUp and down the Struma valley,To and from Constantinople.And five miles across the valleyRose the Belashitza Mountains,Rose the Beles grim and lofty,Mighty boundary of Bulgaria.And below along the foothillsRan the trenches of the Bulgar,While a little to the westwardLay the great round Lake of Doiran,Gleaming like a polished mirror.It was very fair to look on,Fair to gaze on from a distance,Yet it struck a note of sadnessIn the heart of Tiadatha.Not a head of sheep or cattleIn that green and pleasant valley,Not a single vineyard tended,Not a single orchard tended,Not a sign of habitationIn a single battered village,Save sometimes the smoke uprisingFrom the cookhouse of an outpost.Yet the scene was fair to look on,Very like a landscape target,And the Generals when they saw itCrowed with joy and beamed with pleasure—“What a place for open warfare,What a place for raids!” they chirruped,Safely perched upon the hill-tops.Tiadatha sat and pondered,Pondered long upon the hillside,Heaved a sigh of satisfactionWhen he thought that he was sittingWell in view of all the Bulgars,Knowing that they could not reach himWith their field-guns on the Beles.As for fourteen months the DudshiresHadn’t moved behind their field-gunsSave for concentrated training,They were charmed with Doya Tepe,Found it like the open countryAfter being in a tunnel.Quite a pleasant spot for warfare,Really rather like the Picnic,Like the Salonica Picnic,They had read of in the papers.Still they had their job of watching,Watching for a raiding party,Guarding all their miles of frontage,Every night on sentry dutyOr patrolling in the valley,Digging trenches in the daytime,Or fatigues and wiring parties.But the crumps were far less frequentAnd the gunners far less busy,And it really was a blessingTo walk upright in the open,Caring not for pipsqueak merchants,Caring not for hidden snipers.Sometimes Captain TiadathaRode along his front line trenches,Spent a useful morning shootingHalf a mile beyond the trenches,Brought down several brace of partridgeAnd a hare or two for dinner.Soon too he became acquaintedWith the small hotel at Snevce(Foremost pub in Macedonia),Where the food was quite delightfulAnd the liquor even better;Where he spent some pleasant eveningsVery cheery, noisy evenings,With a band of rowdy croniesFrom his own and other units.Soon he found his way to Kukus(Having made some generous alliesWho owned kite balloons and tenders),To that quaint and dirty village,Rising phœnix-like from ruins,Learnt the Greek for eggs wasavga,Haggled with the Kukus robbersFor a melon or a cabbage,Or an oke of tomatoes,Bought some mats or bits of copper.Watched the local comitadji,With their lady wives and daughters,In the glory of their war-paint,In their native Balkan costume,All the colours of the rainbow,Riding in upon their donkeys,On their clumsy bullock wagons,Bringing in their goods to market.Thus the summer slipped to autumn,Thus the autumn turned to winter,And the winter found the DudshiresStill in Doya Tepe sector.And their days rolled on as usual,Varied by a free excursion,By a morning raiding party,To “maintain offensive spirit.”And they got up sports and concerts,Keeping for the most part cheerful;Yet for all their songs and laughter,In each heart there lay a shadow,And in mess and hut and cookhouse,In the transport lines and trenches,Talk turned ever on one topic—When they’d get their leave to Blighty,How they’d spend it when they got it.And they passed the weary weeks by,Officers and private soldiers,Sighing for the leave they wanted,Leave that was so long in coming,Sighing that it came no nearer.Day and night they talked about it,Had one theme of conversation,And that solitary topicRan through all their conversation,Like a pattern through a fabric,Aleit motifthrough an opera—When they’d get their leave to Blighty,How they’d spend their leave to Blighty.Chester,July 1918.

Some days after Salonica

Had been burnt and devastated,

Tiadatha and the Dudshires

Trekked across the hills to Snevce,

To the Doya Tepe sector.

Settled in Popovo village

In the ruins of Surlovo,

Giving thanks to the Italians

For the huts they’d left behind them,

Huts with well-planked walls and ceilings,

Roofed with red tiles from the village,

Fitted out with chairs and tables,

Beds and doors and real glass windows.

Very restful, very soothing,

After the eternal sandbags

And the corrugated iron

Of the dug-outs they’d been used to—

Just like moving to the Carlton

Out of rather third-rate lodgings.

Very soon my Tiadatha,Now become a swanking captain,Found the Doya Tepe sectorWas indeed the silver liningTo the cloud of Macedonia,And one clear September morning,On a hill above Popovo,High above Popovo village,Gazed upon the scene before him,Thought it very good to look on.

Very soon my Tiadatha,

Now become a swanking captain,

Found the Doya Tepe sector

Was indeed the silver lining

To the cloud of Macedonia,

And one clear September morning,

On a hill above Popovo,

High above Popovo village,

Gazed upon the scene before him,

Thought it very good to look on.

Down below along the foothills,Ran the line of Dudshire trenches,And the wire wound like a ribbon,Like a long brown crinkled ribbon,Up and down the wooded hillsides,Up and down the wooded gullies.There was blue smoke curling upwardsFrom a company headquarters,And he saw some soldiers bathingIn a pool beside the village—From below the voices reached him,Clear as bells their voices reached himIn the honey-coloured sunshine.And beyond the line of trenches,Just beyond the wooded foothillsLay the smiling open valley,Varied as a landscape target,Threaded by the Hodza Suju,By the sandy Hodza river,Bright as mackerel in the sunshine,Brighter than a string of opals;White against the emerald background,Ruined villages were dottedWith their vineyards and their orchards:Brest and Nikolic and Palmis,Bulamac and Akindzali.There were woods and shady copsesAnd a line of tidy poplars,Here a mill with tangled creepers,There a disused Turkish fountain,And the long straight line of railway,With a few old trucks upon it,Where in happier days the trains ranUp and down the Struma valley,To and from Constantinople.

Down below along the foothills,

Ran the line of Dudshire trenches,

And the wire wound like a ribbon,

Like a long brown crinkled ribbon,

Up and down the wooded hillsides,

Up and down the wooded gullies.

There was blue smoke curling upwards

From a company headquarters,

And he saw some soldiers bathing

In a pool beside the village—

From below the voices reached him,

Clear as bells their voices reached him

In the honey-coloured sunshine.

And beyond the line of trenches,

Just beyond the wooded foothills

Lay the smiling open valley,

Varied as a landscape target,

Threaded by the Hodza Suju,

By the sandy Hodza river,

Bright as mackerel in the sunshine,

Brighter than a string of opals;

White against the emerald background,

Ruined villages were dotted

With their vineyards and their orchards:

Brest and Nikolic and Palmis,

Bulamac and Akindzali.

There were woods and shady copses

And a line of tidy poplars,

Here a mill with tangled creepers,

There a disused Turkish fountain,

And the long straight line of railway,

With a few old trucks upon it,

Where in happier days the trains ran

Up and down the Struma valley,

To and from Constantinople.

And five miles across the valleyRose the Belashitza Mountains,Rose the Beles grim and lofty,Mighty boundary of Bulgaria.And below along the foothillsRan the trenches of the Bulgar,While a little to the westwardLay the great round Lake of Doiran,Gleaming like a polished mirror.

And five miles across the valley

Rose the Belashitza Mountains,

Rose the Beles grim and lofty,

Mighty boundary of Bulgaria.

And below along the foothills

Ran the trenches of the Bulgar,

While a little to the westward

Lay the great round Lake of Doiran,

Gleaming like a polished mirror.

It was very fair to look on,Fair to gaze on from a distance,Yet it struck a note of sadnessIn the heart of Tiadatha.Not a head of sheep or cattleIn that green and pleasant valley,Not a single vineyard tended,Not a single orchard tended,Not a sign of habitationIn a single battered village,Save sometimes the smoke uprisingFrom the cookhouse of an outpost.Yet the scene was fair to look on,Very like a landscape target,And the Generals when they saw itCrowed with joy and beamed with pleasure—“What a place for open warfare,What a place for raids!” they chirruped,Safely perched upon the hill-tops.

It was very fair to look on,

Fair to gaze on from a distance,

Yet it struck a note of sadness

In the heart of Tiadatha.

Not a head of sheep or cattle

In that green and pleasant valley,

Not a single vineyard tended,

Not a single orchard tended,

Not a sign of habitation

In a single battered village,

Save sometimes the smoke uprising

From the cookhouse of an outpost.

Yet the scene was fair to look on,

Very like a landscape target,

And the Generals when they saw it

Crowed with joy and beamed with pleasure—

“What a place for open warfare,

What a place for raids!” they chirruped,

Safely perched upon the hill-tops.

Tiadatha sat and pondered,Pondered long upon the hillside,Heaved a sigh of satisfactionWhen he thought that he was sittingWell in view of all the Bulgars,Knowing that they could not reach himWith their field-guns on the Beles.

Tiadatha sat and pondered,

Pondered long upon the hillside,

Heaved a sigh of satisfaction

When he thought that he was sitting

Well in view of all the Bulgars,

Knowing that they could not reach him

With their field-guns on the Beles.

As for fourteen months the DudshiresHadn’t moved behind their field-gunsSave for concentrated training,They were charmed with Doya Tepe,Found it like the open countryAfter being in a tunnel.Quite a pleasant spot for warfare,Really rather like the Picnic,Like the Salonica Picnic,They had read of in the papers.

As for fourteen months the Dudshires

Hadn’t moved behind their field-guns

Save for concentrated training,

They were charmed with Doya Tepe,

Found it like the open country

After being in a tunnel.

Quite a pleasant spot for warfare,

Really rather like the Picnic,

Like the Salonica Picnic,

They had read of in the papers.

Still they had their job of watching,Watching for a raiding party,Guarding all their miles of frontage,Every night on sentry dutyOr patrolling in the valley,Digging trenches in the daytime,Or fatigues and wiring parties.But the crumps were far less frequentAnd the gunners far less busy,And it really was a blessingTo walk upright in the open,Caring not for pipsqueak merchants,Caring not for hidden snipers.

Still they had their job of watching,

Watching for a raiding party,

Guarding all their miles of frontage,

Every night on sentry duty

Or patrolling in the valley,

Digging trenches in the daytime,

Or fatigues and wiring parties.

But the crumps were far less frequent

And the gunners far less busy,

And it really was a blessing

To walk upright in the open,

Caring not for pipsqueak merchants,

Caring not for hidden snipers.

Sometimes Captain TiadathaRode along his front line trenches,Spent a useful morning shootingHalf a mile beyond the trenches,Brought down several brace of partridgeAnd a hare or two for dinner.Soon too he became acquaintedWith the small hotel at Snevce(Foremost pub in Macedonia),Where the food was quite delightfulAnd the liquor even better;Where he spent some pleasant eveningsVery cheery, noisy evenings,With a band of rowdy croniesFrom his own and other units.Soon he found his way to Kukus(Having made some generous alliesWho owned kite balloons and tenders),To that quaint and dirty village,Rising phœnix-like from ruins,Learnt the Greek for eggs wasavga,Haggled with the Kukus robbersFor a melon or a cabbage,Or an oke of tomatoes,Bought some mats or bits of copper.Watched the local comitadji,With their lady wives and daughters,In the glory of their war-paint,In their native Balkan costume,All the colours of the rainbow,Riding in upon their donkeys,On their clumsy bullock wagons,Bringing in their goods to market.

Sometimes Captain Tiadatha

Rode along his front line trenches,

Spent a useful morning shooting

Half a mile beyond the trenches,

Brought down several brace of partridge

And a hare or two for dinner.

Soon too he became acquainted

With the small hotel at Snevce

(Foremost pub in Macedonia),

Where the food was quite delightful

And the liquor even better;

Where he spent some pleasant evenings

Very cheery, noisy evenings,

With a band of rowdy cronies

From his own and other units.

Soon he found his way to Kukus

(Having made some generous allies

Who owned kite balloons and tenders),

To that quaint and dirty village,

Rising phœnix-like from ruins,

Learnt the Greek for eggs wasavga,

Haggled with the Kukus robbers

For a melon or a cabbage,

Or an oke of tomatoes,

Bought some mats or bits of copper.

Watched the local comitadji,

With their lady wives and daughters,

In the glory of their war-paint,

In their native Balkan costume,

All the colours of the rainbow,

Riding in upon their donkeys,

On their clumsy bullock wagons,

Bringing in their goods to market.

Thus the summer slipped to autumn,Thus the autumn turned to winter,And the winter found the DudshiresStill in Doya Tepe sector.And their days rolled on as usual,Varied by a free excursion,By a morning raiding party,To “maintain offensive spirit.”And they got up sports and concerts,Keeping for the most part cheerful;Yet for all their songs and laughter,In each heart there lay a shadow,And in mess and hut and cookhouse,In the transport lines and trenches,Talk turned ever on one topic—When they’d get their leave to Blighty,How they’d spend it when they got it.And they passed the weary weeks by,Officers and private soldiers,Sighing for the leave they wanted,Leave that was so long in coming,Sighing that it came no nearer.Day and night they talked about it,Had one theme of conversation,And that solitary topicRan through all their conversation,Like a pattern through a fabric,Aleit motifthrough an opera—When they’d get their leave to Blighty,How they’d spend their leave to Blighty.

Thus the summer slipped to autumn,

Thus the autumn turned to winter,

And the winter found the Dudshires

Still in Doya Tepe sector.

And their days rolled on as usual,

Varied by a free excursion,

By a morning raiding party,

To “maintain offensive spirit.”

And they got up sports and concerts,

Keeping for the most part cheerful;

Yet for all their songs and laughter,

In each heart there lay a shadow,

And in mess and hut and cookhouse,

In the transport lines and trenches,

Talk turned ever on one topic—

When they’d get their leave to Blighty,

How they’d spend it when they got it.

And they passed the weary weeks by,

Officers and private soldiers,

Sighing for the leave they wanted,

Leave that was so long in coming,

Sighing that it came no nearer.

Day and night they talked about it,

Had one theme of conversation,

And that solitary topic

Ran through all their conversation,

Like a pattern through a fabric,

Aleit motifthrough an opera—

When they’d get their leave to Blighty,

How they’d spend their leave to Blighty.

Chester,July 1918.

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