Carrying On

There are very many lessons Taught you by the British Army, And when you have boiled the lot down Only two things really matter. When you’ve learnt them you’re a soldier, Till you have you’re still a duffer; First to know your left from right hand, Next to find your way in darkness— Both are passing hard to master. After nearly two years’ training Tiadatha could be trusted Not to go and bawl out “Eyes Right” To a guard upon his left hand, But to find his way in darkness Was a very different pigeon.

If you lose your way in London You can always ask a policeman, You can always hail a taxi, But there were no taxis plying From Baraka to Sidemli, No policeman’s measured footfall ’Twixt Les Batignolles and Clichy. Round about these pleasant places Nightly Tiadatha staggered, Visiting his lonely outposts, Taking out a digging party, Leading out patrols to Dautli. Up and down the hills he stumbled, Crossing little winding dere, Falling into rocky gullies, Falling into blackberry bushes, Into unexpected shell holes, Took wrong turnings in the darkness (Hardly ever took the right one), Lost his bearings far more often Than a woman loses hankies. On patrol the Pitons knew him, Bekerli and Green Hill knew him, And the minaret that rises From the ruins of Sidemli; Marching homewards in the daylight Often he would stop to rest there, Stop to gather fruit for dinner From the plum trees in the village; And one day he drove some Bulgars From a little unnamed piton, Drove them off in wild confusion, Brought their rifles back in triumph, Brought a cap and water-bottle, Brought some cheese they’d left behind them. And the General named the piton, Called it after Tiadatha, Called it Tiadatha’s Piton.

Then one night the Royal Dudshires Moved a little farther forward, Pinched some hills and sat upon them; Hurriedly they dug them trenches, Put up rolls of concertina; And one afternoon in August (In the midst of crumps and shrapnel) Put to flight three thousand Bulgars Who had sallied forth to meet them.

Several weeks my Tiadatha Lived on sundry little hill-tops, Changing over every fortnight, Sleeping in a sketchy bivvy, Sleeping with his boots and clothes on. Just as he was getting settled, Had his trenches nearly finished, Promptly the battalion shifted, Marched for one night to the eastward, Then passed by the boundary pillar, Passed the Serbian boundary pillar On the road that leads to Doiran, Once again relieved their Allies, In the line that looked o’er Doiran, In the line where Grand Couronné Frowned upon their every movement As the mighty 535 did: Loomed above them like the Great Wheel At the Earl’s Court Exhibition.

There my tireless Tiadatha Came one dark October evening, Found a certain Captain Siomme, Sitting in a dim-lit dug-out, Pledged with him eternal friendship In a loving-cup of vin rouge. Then said gallant Captain Siomme, “I will show you all the trenches, All the wire beyond the trenches, Show you where it wants repairing, Show you also where the gaps are.” Silently they crept towards it, Siomme and my Tiadatha: “Silence!” said the gallant Siomme, Lifting up a warning finger, Pursing up his lips in warning, “Sérieux, fort sérieux, sir, Silence, silence, Tiadatha”— Didn’t see the barbed wire coming Didn’t see it in the darkness, Into his own wire went crashing, Dragging Tiadatha with him, And straightway forgot his warnings. Terrible the oaths he uttered, Cursing loudly in the French tongue, Crept out of the jangling barbed wire, Extricated Tiadatha. Thereupon a Bulgar sentry, Wakened from his pleasant slumbers, Feeling rather bored about it, Heaved a bomb at Captain Siomme, Heaved a bomb at Tiadatha, As a householder in London, Wakened from his pleasant slumber By a tomcat on the house tiles, Opens wide his bedroom window, Heaves a boot jack at the noises. Then a zealous Dudshire sentry Swiftly flung a bomb in answer, Followed it with five rounds rapid, Thinking that there was a war on. Then the Bulgars sent a light up, And another and another, Made the darkness light as Bond Street On an afternoon in winter. Siomme and my Tiadatha Lay and grovelled on their tummies, Still as any startled tortoise. After that the German gunners Put a dozen salvoes over, And the English field-guns opened, Feeling sure there was a war on. Bits of bombs and crumps and shrapnel Made the autumn evening hideous, Groups stood to, machine-guns rattled, All the telephones got busy, And supports turned out in dudgeon.

As a prairie fire is started By a match or cigarette end, So a mighty strafe was started All because the gallant Siomme Fell into his own defences.

Swiftly as it came, it faded, And the night regained its stillness, Gunners settled down to slumber, Sentries settled down to watching, Telephones at last subsided, And fed-up supports departed To their dug-outs in the trenches.

Siomme and my Tiadatha Found their way back in the darkness To the Company Headquarters, Pledged once more eternal friendship In another mug of vin rouge, Afterwards in one of whisky, Then wired in “relief completed.” After which the gallant Captain And his officers and privates Straggled off into the darkness To wherever they were going.

LONDON, February 18, 1918.