On a day in late September,
In September 1915,
Marched the 14th Royal Dudshires
For the last time past their General,
Ere they sailed to fight the Germans.
After which my Tiadatha
Sorted out the things he needed,
All the things he thought he needed,
For a life on active service,
Active service in the trenches.
“Thirty-five pounds, Tiadatha,”
Said his Company Commander,
Sitting on a mighty bundle,
“Not another ounce, remember.”
“Thirty-five pounds,” said the T.O.
“Not another ounce, remember,
Or I put the whole darned lot off.”
All day long he heard their warnings,
In his dreams he heard their warnings,
“Thirty-five pounds, Tiadatha.”
Ruefully he left behind him
Presents from his fond relations—
Cooking stoves and writing cases,
Body shields and balaclavas,
Medicine chests and many mittens,
Also twenty-seven mufflers
Knitted by some loving cousins,
And a vast supply of Horlick’s.
Even then it looked too bulky,
That valise of Tiadatha’s,
Very big and fat and bulging,
Though he’d only crammed inside it
Just the barest necessaries
For a life on active service—
And a pair of silk pyjamas,
Just one pair of pink pyjamas,
Souvenirs of Piccadilly.
Then he helped his batman raise it,
Watched his batman stagger with it
To the laden limbered wagon.
“Much too heavy,” said the T.O.
Pointing an accusing finger.
“Did I not say thirty-five pounds?
This is over sixty-seven.”
So they took it round the corner
(Tiadatha and his batman),
And with superhuman efforts
Tightened up the straps a little,
Hoisted it upon the limber
When the T.O. wasn’t looking.
On the next day Tiadatha
Got his gent.’s complete equipment,
Messed about with straps and buckles,
Set upon it his revolver,
Ammunition-pouch and compass,
Stuffed the pack to overflowing,
With some little things he couldn’t,
Really couldn’t leave behind him.
Not a man in all the Dudshires
Had a pack like Tiadatha’s;
When he put it on he tottered
As a very strong man totters
Carrying a grand piano,
As a railway porter totters
Humping trunks of Yankee travellers.
“This is War,” said Tiadatha,
As he went on the parade ground
For his final march in England.
Very cheerful were the Dudshires
As they swung along the high road,
Marching to the railway station,
Off to do a job for England,
Singing all the songs of those days,
Playing “Keep the Home Fires Burning”
On their fourpenny mouth-organs.
And the simple folk of Dudshire
Turned out in their scores to see them,
Smiling through their tears they watched them.
Standing in the cottage doorways,
Waving from the cottage windows.
As he sang each soldier wondered
How long it would be, before he
Saw again those smiling faces,
Little knowing how he’d miss them,
Sigh for all those smiling faces,
For the sunny downs of Dudshire,
For the mellow ale of Dudshire,
In the days that were to follow.
Then they reached the railway station,
Journeyed down by train to Folkestone,
And embarked upon their transport
For the land of war and trenches.
Should you ask me of their sailing,
Ask me if the bands were playing,
Buglers blowing, bagpipes wailing,
Sirens tooting, people cheering,
If the Quay were thronged with watchers
Waving to their sons and husbands,
Blowing kisses to their sweethearts,
And the soldiers on the troopship
Lining all along the taffrail,
Singing loudly “Rule Britannia”
(You have very likely heard it,
The Departure of the Troopship,
On some gramophone or other),
I should make reply and tell you.
There was not a band or bugle,
Not a single watcher waving,
Not a single soldier singing
On the night that Tiadatha
Sailed for France upon a troopship.
Silently they left the station,
Silently embarked at midnight,
No one talking, no one smoking,
Not a sound except the tramping
Of the men along the gangway,
And the gurgling water-bottles,
And the rattle of equipment.
Like a shadow lay the transport,
Like a ghost she cast her moorings,
And with her destroyer escort
Steamed away into the darkness.
“Better thus,” mused Tiadatha,
As he watched the inky outline
Of the cliffs of England fading,
Thinking of his green-eyed Phyllis,
Thinking hard of Piccadilly,
Thinking of his loves and longings
Set within the four-mile radius.
“Better thus,” thought Tiadatha,
Went below and had a whisky
With his Company Commander,
Made a pillow of his life-belt,
Fell into a troubled slumber
Till the shores of France were sighted.