Waterloo the same as ever
With its old familiar noises,
Hustle, bustle and excitement,
Hurrying feet and anxious faces,
People staggering with parcels,
People pushing for their luggage,
And the whistling of the engines,
And the rattling of the milk cans,
And the shouting of the newsboys—
Thus it greeted Tiadatha
Very much the same as ever,
Though he found a dearth of porters,
Found it hard to get a porter,
Harder still to get a taxi.
Who can tell of that first journey,
That first taxi drive in London,
Of the exile from the trenches,
Of the wanderer returning—
Almost every street and building
Bringing back a recollection
Like a long-forgotten perfume?
As a soldier to the canteen
After his parade is over,
Even so sped Tiadatha
Straightway to his club in Pall Mall.
And the porter in the hallway,
White and very old retainer,
Imperturbable as marble,
Changeless as a ration biscuit,
Gave his usual morning greeting
Just as if it were but two days
Since he’d seen my Tiadatha,
Not two weary years and over.
And it seemed to Tiadatha
That somehow the porter’s greeting
Bridged those weary years of exile,
Helped him pick the threads of life up,
Feel he’d been away but two days
Not two weary years and over.
After lunch he doffed his khaki,
Dived into a suit of mufti,
Felt his leave had really started
As he sauntered to St. James’s,
Bound for Jermyn Street and Hammam’s.
Had a Turkish bath at Hammam’s,
Came out feeling clean and happy,
Spotless as a British cruiser
On a sunny Sunday morning,
Fresh as any London pavement
After summer rains have washed it,
Hair well brushed and very sleeky.
Hat at just the proper angle,
Suit of grey and gloves of buckskin,
Socks as soothing as a moonbeam,
And a tie of Dudshire colours.
And the sights and smells of London
All seemed good to Tiadatha,
Every shop he saw allured him,
Every face he passed was lovely.
So he wandered for a little
And inhaled his well-loved London,
Let it steal upon his senses
As a Chinaman with hashish.
“Life again” thought Tiadatha,
Rumpelmeyer’s instead of Floca’s,
Hammam’s baths instead of Botton’s,
And the Club instead of Rest Camps.
For three little weeks I’ve got them,
Swapped the Skating Rink for Murray’s
Swapped the Tour Blanche for the Empire.
Swapped the Luxe Hotel for Carlton,
And the shops of Rue Egnatia
For the Burlington and Bond Street,
And old Salonica’s cobbles
For the pavement of St. James’s.
Then he hied him to his tailor
(Who was very pleased to see him),
Tried on slacks and tried on tunics
And a pair of wondrous breeches,
And a pleasant suit of mufti
That were ready waiting for him.
Then to Mr. Wing he hastened,
Mr. Wing of Piccadilly
(Who was just as pleased to see him),
Rioted in ties and hankies,
Shirts and gloves and silk pyjamas,
Socks of many shades and colours,
Put the whole lot down to Father,
Recking little of the future.
After that he hailed a taxi,
Bade the driver make for Sloane Street
And the home of green-eyed Phyllis;
Found his heart was beating faster
Than a Lewis gun in action
As he knocked upon the front door.
She was still the same as ever,
Tiadatha’s green-eyed Phyllis,
Still as sweet and slim and slender,
Slim and slender as his sword was.
And her eyes were still like April,
Green and grey as days in April,
And her mouth still curved like roses,
And her smile was still like sunshine
Playing on the Thames at Chelsea
Early on a summer morning.
Still the same yet somehow different,
Somehow deeper, somehow truer,
Tested by those years of waiting,
By those two long years of waiting,
Less of girl and more of woman,
And her eyes were very tender
As she kissed my Tiadatha.
And that night they dined at Prince’s,
Tiadatha very happy
Sitting at his wonted table
In black tie and dinner jacket,
Gleaming shirt and glossy collar;
Phyllis radiant, very lovely,
In a frock of grey and silver,
Soft and clinging as a shadow,
Pearly as the mists of morning,
Touched with violet like a sunrise
(Who am I to tell you of it?)
With some tiny silver tassels
Hanging down like shafts of moonlight.
And her eyes like stars were shining,
Like stars on a frosty evening,
As she talked to Tiadatha.
And the glinting dinner table
And the shaded lights and music,
And the buzz of conversation
Of the gay and laughing people
Were like wine to Tiadatha.
And he raised his glass of bubbly
Looking towards his green-eyed Phyllis.
“Here’s a toast,” quoth Tiadatha,
“Here’s to the two things I love most—
London Town in peace and war time,
Coupled with the name of Phyllis.
This is better than the Splendide,
This is better than the French Club,
Better than a farewell dinner
In a dug-out in the trenches,
London Town in peace and war time,
Nothing in the world to touch you—
Damn the air-raids, damn the coupons,
Damn the lack of meat and sugar.
Two long years I’ve waited for you,
After two long years I’ve got you,
London and my green-eyed Phyllis.”
So they lingered over dinner
As a lover reads a letter
Lest the end should come too quickly.
Then he bore her to the Gaiety,
And the joyous Tiadatha
In his comfy green stall nestling,
Hooted with infectious laughter
Like a schoolboy at a panto,
Clapped the songs and jokes and dances
As he’d never done in peace time.
Happy still when it was over,
Thinking of the dance and Murray’s—
Sped there in a wangled taxi,
All too soon fetched up at Murray’s.
Murray’s just the same as ever,
Murray’s with the same old fug up,
Like an aggravated hothouse,
Just the same appalling prices
For a jug of Murray’s Mixture.
Many well-remembered faces
Round the little close-packed tables
With their many-coloured night-lights.
Same old floor that gleamed like honey,
Same old priceless band of niggers
Playing rag-time, playing fox-trots
As no other band could play them.
And they danced and danced together,
Phyllis and my Tiadatha,
As upon that summer evening
When at first they met each other—
Till the nigger band departed,
Till the waiters all grew restive,
Phyllis danced with Tiadatha.
Happy days are short as kisses
Snatched when someone else is coming,
Happy days end always quickly
But in war time even quicker
Than they used to do in peace time.
Bitterly my Tiadatha
Cursed the fate that sent him homewards
Ere the pearly dawn was breaking,
Ere the workmen’s trains were running.
But he knew Fate is remorseless,
Knew that Dora is remorseless
As the chucker out at Murray’s.
So by dint of shoving, pushing,
Begging, bribing and cajoling,
He induced a taxi-driver,
Most elusive, very lordly,
To unbend enough to take them
(At a price) as far as Sloane Street.
In that hard-won London taxi,
Speeding down dim Piccadilly
On its way to darkened Sloane Street
I will leave my Tiadatha
On his first sweet night in England—
Leave him feeling very happy,
Drugged with a divine contentment,
Feeling life was paying interest
On the days he had invested
In those dreary Balkan trenches.
Leave him with the things he’d ached for
In those two long years of exile,
Leave him to his well-loved London
And the arms of green-eyed Phyllis.
Should you question, should you ask me
What became of Tiadatha;
Ask me if he married Phyllis,
If he found another fairy,
Found one even more alluring,
Eyes of brown or blue or violet;
If he sailed for Salonica
Still an unrepentant bachelor;
Should you ask me of his doings
After those three weeks were ended,
One mad rush and wild excitement;
If he got a cushy staff job
With a lot of tabs about it,
Or if he became a major
Or the Colonel of the Dudshires,
I should make reply and answer—
“Who am I that I should tell you?
I have brought my Tiadatha
Back again to where he started
(Just as if he had been travelling
On a kind of Inner Circle),
Safe and sound and still light-hearted,
Still the same yet somehow different.
You remember how I found him
In July of 1914
Toying with his devilled kidneys
At his little flat in Duke Street;
Very tired and very nut-like,
What we used to call a “filbert.”
I have told you of his training,
I have told you of his troubles,
Of his trials and his travels,
Of some happenings that befell him.
I have tried to picture to you
How he lived and laughed and battled
Out in France and Salonica,
How he changed from nut to soldier
As a sword is tried and tempered
When it passes through the furnace,
How he learnt (with many like him)
Something of the things that matter,
Life and Death and high endeavour.
How he learnt (with many like him)
That you cannot love your country
Till you’ve left it far behind you
(Just as no one loved his sugar
Till the beastly stuff was rationed);
That you cannot know its pleasures,
Cannot love its charms and comforts,
Till you’ve sampled several others.
“In this war the Hun has brought us,
Some have learnt to make returns out,
Some have learnt to write out orders.
Some have learnt the way to kill Huns,
Some to lead the men that kill them,
Some have learnt to cope with bully,
Learnt to shave with army razors,
Learnt to make the best of blizzards,
Mud and slush and blazing sunshine,
Learnt to coax a little comfort
Out of bivvies, barns and dug-outs,
Learnt of things they never dreamed of
In July of 1914.
“And they all have learnt this lesson,
Learnt as well this common lesson,
Learnt to hold a little dearer
All the things they took for granted
In July of 1914—
Whether it be Scottish Highlands,
Hills of Wales or banks of Ireland,
Or the swelling downs of Dudshire,
Or the pavement of St. James’s—
Even so my Tiadatha.
“So I leave him and salute him
Back in his beloved London,
Knowing that the war has one thing
(If no others) to its credit—
It has made a nut a soldier,
Made a silk purse from a sow’s ear,
Made a man of Tiadatha
And made men of hundreds like him.
“And the world has cause to thank us
For that band of so-called filberts,
For those products of St. James’s,
Light of heart and much enduring,
Straight and debonair and dauntless,
Grousing at their small discomforts,
Smiling in the face of danger.
Who have faced their great adventure,
Crossed through No Man’s Land to meet it,
Lightly as they’d cross St. James’s.
Eyes and heart still full of laughter,
Till the world had cause to wonder,
Till the world had cause to thank us
For the likes of Tiadatha.”
Cendresselles,
September 1918.
THE END
Printed in Great Britain by
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON