Snevce Way

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 was avga, 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 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, A leit motif through an opera— When they’d get their leave to Blighty, How they’d spend their leave to Blighty.

CHESTER, July 1918.