A Stunt At Dawn

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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.