Many stunts did Tiadatha
In the line in front of Doiran.
He would often go patrolling
Right up to the Bulgar trenches;
Sometimes he would bring a board back
With a Bulgar notice on it
Asking him and all the Dudshires
To surrender and be matey.
Down the steep Patte d’Oie he stumbled,
Up and down the winding Jumeaux,
Drawing bombs from Bulgar sentries,
Drawing everlasting star-shells;
He would take a Lewis gun out,
Strafe a post or working party,
Raid a trench of Johnny Bulgar’s,
Blow up several concrete dug-outs,
Bring some prisoners home to breakfast.
Every day the German gunners
Shelled his line with crumps and shrapnel,
And for months the Royal Dudshires
Never moved behind their field-guns.
Winter passed with mud and blizzards,
Spring-time brought the sun and flowers,
Also rumours of advancing,
Rumours of attacks in earnest.
Tiadatha heard the story
From his batman, who had got it
Off the driver of a lorry,
Who had gleaned it from a waiter
In a Salonica café.
There were mighty preparations,
Practising attacks and what not;
Guns sprang up in every corner,
Sprang up in the night like mushrooms.
Dumps like lucky dips were dotted
In most unexpected places,
Carefully covered with tarpaulins,
Camouflaged with leaves and branches;
Airmen all day long were busy
Taking photographs of trenches,
And the Staff wrote reams of orders,
Reams and reams and reams of orders,
And some more when those were finished.
On the days before the battle
All the British guns were firing,
Cutting wire and pounding trenches
And O.P.s and gun emplacements;
Earth and stones went splashing skywards,
Just as water in a river
Splashes when you throw a rock in.
Four days long the guns had thundered,
When one starlit April evening
Came the Dudshires’ mighty battle.
Not a man in all the Dudshires,
None who lived to see the daylight,
Ever could forget that evening,
Least of all my Tiadatha.
Very clear it was and starlight,
And a nightingale was singing
Somewhere in among the bushes;
Many of the soldiers heard it
In the little lulls of firing,
Heard its silver notes go throbbing
Out into the April evening.
Watch on wrist stood Tiadatha,
Gazing anxious at the minutes
As the starting time came nearer.
He was clad in Tommy’s tunic,
Tommy’s breeches and equipment,
In his hands he bore a rifle,
On his head a shrapnel helmet.
Then at last he gave the signal,
And his men filed out behind him.
Through the gaps they wound like serpents,
Into No Man’s Land they sallied,
Through the din of bursting shrapnel,
Through the bursting high explosives.
Down the steep Patte d’Oie he led them,
Down that steep and rocky gully,
Rocky as a Cornish headland,
Steeper than a traveller’s story:
There the dread trench mortar barrage
Swept upon them like a hailstorm,
Storm with stones as big as footballs,
Stones alive with death and torture.
Through that blinding storm he led them,
Up the farther side he led them—
All that were not killed or wounded.
There upon the flashing hillside
Tiadatha crouched and waited,
Waited for the Zero hour,
When the barrage would be lengthened,
Lifted from the front line trenches.
As the moment came he leapt up,
Gave a shout to all the Dudshires,
And the Dudshires rose and followed,
Charged beside my Tiadatha—
All who were not killed or wounded.
Through the broken wire they scrambled,
Some men cursing, some men shouting,
Some men muttering little prayers,
Some in grim and deadly silence.
They were met by bombs and bullets,
Heard the Bulgars in their trenches,
Heard them crying: “Come on, Johnny,
Come on, come on, English Johnny.”
And three times the Royal Dudshires
Swept upon the Bulgar trenches,
Every time the line was thinner,
Every time its heart was steadfast.
And the third time Tiadatha,
With a little band behind him,
Leapt into the battered trenches,
Got to work with bomb and bayonet,
In his heart the lust of battle;
Then felt something hit his shoulder,
Felt his shoulder wet and burning,
Found he’d stopped a shrapnel bullet,
Set his teeth and staggered onwards,
Led his party round a traverse,
Bombed a dug-out full of Bulgars,
Bombed until his bombs were finished,
Carried on with German stink-bombs
That the Bulgar’d left behind him.
On and on the little party
Pushed along the Bulgar trenches,
Till there came a deadly sickness
Stealing over Tiadatha,
And he knew his strength was failing,
Knew that he could get no farther,
So he shouted to his corporal,
“Take them on and do your damnedest.”
Flopped down in the trench and fainted.
Then came Woggs, the soldier servant,
Trusty Woggs, the ever-ready,
And produced a flask of brandy,
Poured it down my Tiadatha.
“Curse you, Woggs,” said Tiadatha,
“Go on with your section leader.
Every man of you’ll be wanted,
I’ll crawl back and get my wound dressed,
Then I’ll come again and find you.”
Painfully and very slowly,
Somehow Tiadatha stumbled
Back towards the dressing station,
Back through crumps and bursting shrapnel,
Met two crawling wounded privates,
And they helped and helped each other,
Till at last my Tiadatha
Found himself upon a stretcher
In the crowded dressing station.
There they tended him and dressed him,
’Midst the groaning of the wounded,
’Midst the raving of the battle,
And the padre, bending over,
Murmured, “Well done, Tiadatha,
Anything that I can get you?”
And my Tiadatha answered,
Smiling through his pain he answered,
“All I want’s some beer, old Padre,
Just one bottle very quickly.”
Had you been there when the dawn broke,
Had you looked from out the trenches,
You’d have seen that Serbian hillside,
Seen the aftermath of battle.
Seen the scattered picks and shovels,
Seen the scraps of stray equipment.
Here and there a lonely rifle,
Or a Lewis gun all twisted.
Seen the little heaps of khaki
Lying huddled on the hillside,
Huddled by the Bulgar trenches
Very still and very silent,
Nothing stirring, nothing moving,
Save a very gallant doctor
And his band of stretcher bearers
Working fearless in the open,
Giving water to the dying,
Bringing in those broken soldiers.
You’d have seen the sunlight streaming,
And perhaps you would have wondered
How the sun could still be shining,
How the birds could still be singing,
While so many British soldiers
Lay so still upon the hillside.
Eaton Hall, Chester,
May 1918.