The Training Of Tiadatha

Two long months spent Tiadatha On a Barrack Square in Dudshire Learning how to be a soldier. Laid aside the sword and scabbard Fashioned by the son of Wilkin, Only routed out on Sundays, For the Church Parades on Sundays. In their stead he bore a rifle, Just a rifle and a bayonet, Learnt to slope his arms by numbers Learnt to order arms by numbers, Learnt the rite of fixing bayonets, Harkening to the Sergeant-Major, Very gruff and fierce and warlike.

Then came P.T. with its press-ups, Stretching slowly (on the hands down), Slowly, slowly bending downwards; After seven Tiadatha Lay and gasped upon his tummy. Then the muscle exercises, Ghastly muscle exercises, Standing with the blinking rifle Two full minutes at the shoulder.

In those days too Tiadatha Learnt the mysteries of “Form Fours,” And evolved a simpler method, Which he showed the Sergeant-Major. “No, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major, Looking very fierce and warlike, “Mine’s the only way it’s done, sir, Mine’s the way the Colonel wants it.” “Narrow minds,” cried Tiadatha, “Hidebound hearts,” he cried in dudgeon, “Mine’s as good a way as his is, Mine is better than the Colonel’s. I shall tell him so to-morrow, Tell him on parade to-morrow.”

On the morrow came the Colonel, Came the Colonel of the Dudshires, Stern and terrible in aspect, With his usual morning liver; Ran his eye along the front rank, Ran his eye along the rear rank, Till he came to Tiadatha. “There’s an officer,” he shouted, Bellowed forth in voice of thunder, “Holding up his blasted rifle Like a something something pitchfork.” After which poor Tiadatha Thought perhaps he wouldn’t mention Forming fours and simpler methods.

Had you asked my Tiadatha If he loved those days of training, Loved the sloping arms by numbers, Loved the musketry and marching, And the press-ups and the shouting, He would just have smiled and told you That, until he joined the Army, He had not the least conception Life could be so damned unpleasant. But it made him much less nut-like, Made him straighter-backed and broader, Clear of eye, with muscles on him Like a strong man in a circus.

And in time he formed new friendships With his brothers in the Dudshires. They were drawn from many countries, Many places and professions, From the public schools of England, From Ceylon and from Rhodesia, Canada, the Coast and China; Actors, business men and lawyers, And a planter from Malacca With a mighty thirst for whisky. As a village shop in Dudshire Has its wonderful collection, Miscellaneous assortment Of all things that you could think of, And a lot of things you couldn’t— Oranges and postal orders, Bullseyes, buckets, belts and bacon, Shoes and soap and writing-paper— Even such a strange collection Tiadatha found his brothers In the 14th Royal Dudshires. Yet they fitted in their places Like the pieces of a puzzle, Pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, And they talked on common topics, Motor-bikes and leave and press-ups. So among them Tiadatha Lived and laughed and learnt and grumbled, Shared their tents and huts and billets, Shared the mud and snow and sunshine, Shared the long route marches with them, And at night foregathered with them Over port and whisky sodas.

Came a day when Tiadatha Handed in at last his rifle, And as a Platoon Commander, Found out what commanders feel like (Sort of super-idiot feeling) When they shout “Right Turn” for “Left Turn,” When they loudly bawl out “Eyes Left” For a General on their right hand. Daily too upon parade he Looked at his platoon’s cap badges, Saw its every button polished, Learnt that private soldiers’ hair grows Fast as cress upon a blanket. Many hours he spent in drilling, Spent in Foot and Kit inspections, Spent in strenuous Brigade Days On the windy downs of Dudshire, Finding (as he’d long suspected) That a subaltern’s existence Isn’t quite all beer and skittles. Such was Tiadatha’s training.