Up The Line

Often in those days of digging, Days of weary treks up country, Days of strenuous manœuvres, Came the listless private soldiers, Came the corporals and the sergeants, Spoke a work with Tiadatha, Saying, “What about this war, sir? Do you think we’ll ever find it, Ever see a Boche or Bulgar, Ever show ’em what we’re made of?” “Never fear,” said Tiadatha, Speaking with prophetic insight. “There is time enough for fighting, Time enough for Boche and Bulgar; Though it may be long in coming, Yet you’ll get your share of fighting, Get your bellyful of fighting Ere you’ve finished with the Balkans.”

As a band of shipwrecked sailors, Cast upon a desert island, Strain their eyes in weary watching For a sail on the horizon, Even so the Royal Dudshires Watched and waited for the order That would send them to the trenches, Take them from their desert island, From their daily round of digging. And at times there came a rumour, Like a speck on the horizon. Eagerly the Dudshires hailed it, Thought that it was going to save them, But it always came to nothing.

So they sweltered through the summer, Through the arid Balkan summer, And the sun beat down upon them, Hot as towels a Yankee barber Claps upon you when he’s shaved you. They would rise at godless hours, Working in the dawn and evening, And throughout the blazing daytime Lie inside their scorching bivvies On a barren Balkan hillside (Innocent of shade or cover As a very bald man’s head is), Lie and curse the tepid water, Curse the flies and the mosquitoes, Till at last there came the order, Secret order for their moving To the front line and the trenches, And in under twenty minutes Every soldier knew about it.

All was bustle and excitement, Packing up and getting ready, And the T.O. and the Q.M. Swore their lives were not worth living, Swore they’d need at least another Fifty mules to move the regiment. And straightway my Tiadatha Went and got his kit together, Did his utmost to reduce it, Threw away a pair of bedsocks, And a tie his aunt had sent him, Sighed to leave his bed behind him, Wrought by Private Woggs, his batman, Wrought from bits of ration boxes, And a scrap of wire netting.

Then at last one summer evening, In July of 1916, Tiadatha and the Dudshires Started on their journey northward, On their journey to the trenches; Every night at dusk they started, Marched with full packs through the darkness (No one talking, no one smoking), Plodded onward through the darkness, And, perhaps at two ac emma, Reached a barren piece of waste land, Found their mules and fetched their blankets, Dossed down with the stars for ceiling, Snatched a little sleep till daylight. All the day they lay and simmered, Stuck a blanket up for shelter, Spent the sultry morning thinking Of the things they would have given For a long sweet draught of cold beer, Bass or Worthington or Allsopp, In a long cool lager beer mug. Sighed, and drank some tepid water, Ate some squishy-squashy bully, Moist and warm and very nasty.

For five nights and days the Dudshires Fared upon their journey northward, On the sixth they reached the front line And relieved a French battalion, In a pelting, pouring rainstorm.

As the guide led Tiadatha On towards his destination, To the section of the front line He was ordered to take over, Soon he found that all was different From the warfare he had known In the line near Bray and Albert. He had pictured deep-dug trenches, He had pictured winding C.T.s Saps and mines and concrete dug-outs, Belts of wire as broad as rivers, Bulgar posts within a bomb’s throw. But he found instead of trenches Little scratchings on the hill-tops, Outposts scattered on the hill-tops, Reached by little winding pathways, Strands of wire forlornly dangling, Limp and spiritless and sketchy, As a stricken banjo’s strings are, And instead of concrete dug-outs Leaky shelters made of oak-leaves Perched behind the barren hill-tops.

There it was that Tiadatha Found at length a French lieutenant, Picked up scraps of information, Talking in his very vile French, Learnt the methods of patrolling, Learnt the habits of the Bulgar, Learnt that he was three miles distant, Learnt of 535 his stronghold, Crawling with O. Pips and field-guns. Then they left the dim-lit abri, Staggered out into the darkness, Through the pelting, pouring rainstorm, Silently relieved the sentries, Posted all the Dudshire sentries, Whispered to them what their job was, What the number of their group was, Where the groups on right and left were. Then the gallant French lieutenant Gathered all his men together, Left his little bits of trenches To the rain and Tiadatha.

ITEA, January 18, 1918.