Tiadatha At Salonica

On the day the Royal Dudshires Set their foot in Salonica, Nobody seemed pleased to see them, No one worried much about them. M.L.O.s were apathetic, Not a bit enthusiastic, Like a hostess at a party When an uninvited guest comes. And the folk of Salonica Did not come to bid them welcome, Did not hang out flags of welcome, Did not cry, “’Tis well, O brothers, That ye come so far to see us.” (After all there was no reason Why on earth they should have done so.) But they stood and watched the Dudshires Marching through their ancient city, Slipping on their cobbled roadway, Giving “Eyes Left” to a Greek guard; Stood and watched them from their doorways, Watched them through their grimy windows, Not a bit enthusiastic.

Many sights saw Tiadatha As he marched through Salonica, Cretan gendarmes with their long boots And their breakfasts in their breeches, In their great black baggy breeches; Turkish ladies clad in trousers; Tattered hamals bending double With a load of fifty oil tins; Many little limping donkeys, Little overladen donkeys, As they crossed the Rue Egnatia (Where St. Paul in bygone ages Used to do his bit of shopping). Tiadatha thought of Kipling, Wondered if he’d ever been there, Thought “At least in Rue Egnatia East and West are met together.” There were trams and Turkish beggars, Mosques and minarets and churches, Turkish baths and dirty cafés, Picture palaces and kan-kans; Daimler cars and Leyland lorries Barging into buffalo wagons, French and English private soldiers Jostling seedy Eastern brigands.

On a hill near Lembet Village Came to rest the Royal Dudshires, And their tents sprang up like toadstools, All the camp was fixed by tea-time, All were settled down by tea-time.

There was nothing on that hillside, Not a tree or habitation, Save a little shanty standing Like a palm tree in a desert— The Canteen of Back (Orosdi). There it was that Tiadatha Tasted Greek beer for the first time, Made a frugal meal of walnuts, Figs and Turk’s delight and éclairs, Paid and found that he was living Miles and miles beyond his income; Found his little lunch had cost him More than if he’d been to Prince’s.

Rumour in these days was busy. They were going up to Serbia, They were going off to Egypt; Twenty thousand Greeks were ready (Rumour said) to down upon them, Scupper them within their flea-bags (Or, more pleasantly, intern them). Many hours spent Tiadatha Wondering what was going to happen.

All that happened was a blizzard, Not a private soldier blizzard With some Christmas cardy snowflakes, But a perfect Balkan teaser, Sergeant-Major of a blizzard, Made of supersleet and hailstones, Every bitter wind of heaven Massed together for the business.

As a shade is to a candle So is Uncle Time to trouble: Looking back we mostly find things Not so bad as once we thought them. Fifty Uncle Times, however, Could not shade for all who met it Memories of that Balkan blizzard.

And the wretched Tiadatha Groaned to find his bucket frozen, Boots and even tooth-brush frozen, Regularly every morning; Vainly tried to keep his feet warm, Crouching o’er a little oil-stove, Colder than New Zealand mutton, Colder than an ice-cream soda. And at intervals he murmured, “How I hate this beastly country.” And the sergeants and the corporals, And the luckless private soldiers, Murmured as the wind came sweeping, “How I hate this blinkin’ country.” Little then dreamed Tiadatha Of the times those words would tremble On the lips of countless soldiers In the Salonica Army, Both in winter and in summer: “How I hate this blinkin’ country.”

When the blizzard passed, the Dudshires Settled down to work in earnest: All day long obliging people Found them jobs to keep them going. Guards, fatigues and working parties, Roads to make and hills to dig on. All the livelong day the Dudshires Spent in digging up the Balkans, Toiling at redoubts and trenches, Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements, Finding when the things were finished Someone thought that they’d be better Ten yards higher up the hillside, Ten yards lower down the hillside.

Then came strenuous Brigade Days, Ruining expensive breeches, Creepy-crawling over crest lines, Picketing some height or other, Getting lost at four pip emma, Fed-up, far from home, and hungry.

So the weeks and months sped onward, Samey as suburban houses, Uneventful as a dud is, Till the winter turned to spring-time, Till the spring-time scattered flowers Like confetti on the hillsides.