THE SONG OF TIADATHA

RHYMES OF A
RED-CROSS MAN

By ROBERT W. SERVICE

Cloth. 4/6 net.

“It is the great merit of Mr. Service’s verses that they are literally alive with the stress and joy and agony and hardship that make up life out in the battle zone. He has never written better than in this book, and that is saying a great deal.”—Bookman.

T. Fisher Unwin Ld. London

THE SONG OF
TIADATHA

By Captain
OWEN RUTTER (‘KLIP-KLIP’)

T. FISHER UNWIN LTD.
LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE

(All rights reserved)

TO
COLONEL “BONNY” ROCKE, C.M.G.
WHO HAS TURNED MORE THAN ONE
TIRED ARTHUR INTO A SOLDIER
THIS SLIGHT RECORD OF ADVENTURE IS DEDICATED
IN MEMORY OF MANY DAYS (PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT)
SPENT UNDER HIS COMMAND IN WILTSHIRE AND
IN FRANCE, AND UPON THE BARREN
HILLS OF MACEDONIA

INTRODUCTION

The Song of Tiadatha first made its appearance in the columns of The Orient Weekly, and by the time two or three instalments had appeared requests came from every quarter asking that the fascinating story of “Tired Arthur” should be completed as soon as possible, and issued in book form for the further delight of its many admirers. This was easier asked for than complied with. All sorts of urgent messages were sent to the Author, insisting on the fame that was awaiting him, but he was extremely busy with his military duties up on the Doiran Front, and in the intervals of raiding the Bulgars his serio-comic muse did not flourish too easily.

But bit by bit the pleasing fabric of The Song of Tiadatha was built up, and we are happy to be able to present it at last in complete form. The Song of Tiadatha is unique in war literature. It tells a story which is common to very many members of the Salonica Army, and tells it in a fashion which is a most happy blend of descriptive realism, humour and sentiment. Longfellow’s metre has often been copied before, but I think never so well as this and certainly never with such happy results. Floating as gently along as Hiawatha in his canoe, we follow Tiadatha’s adventures from the day when he ceases to be a “nut” in St. James’s Street, joins up, and goes to France; we come with him to Macedonia, and accompany him as he does the hectic round of Salonica’s dubious amusements; watch him building his dug-out up on the Doiran Front; share his feverish activities during the nightmare experience of the Great Fire; attack the frowning Bulgar mountains in his company; and finally, with much good work well done, go back to England with him on leave—and look enviously on as he takes to his arms again his green-eyed Phyllis.

There is something in The Song of Tiadatha that all of us have experienced. That is one reason why it appeals so strongly to the B.S.F. But another reason is that The Song of Tiadatha is something absolutely our own. Nobody can appreciate it to the full who has not belonged to the great family of the B.S.F. And as you men of that Army have had trials which have been peculiarly your own, so it is right that you should have a pleasure in which nobody outside the family can fully participate.

H. C. OWEN.

Salonica,
January 1, 1919.

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE TO THE FIRST BRITISH EDITION

As Mr. H. C. Owen (the Editor of the Balkan News) says above, The Song of Tiadatha tells a story which is common to very many members of the Salonica Army; he says further that “nobody can appreciate it to the full who has not belonged to the great family of the B.S.F.” But we venture to think that it is a story which cannot properly be regarded as of local significance and interest merely. It typifies experiences which innumerable soldiers must, in their various ways, have undergone throughout the various theatres of the war. Thus The Song of Tiadatha may be regarded in a sense as a little epic of the Great War, and, though it may find special appreciation among the great family of the B.S.F., its qualities are such that it may be expected to find appreciation among the great family of readers generally, soldiers and civilians alike.

CONTENTS

THE SONG OF TIADATHA

CHAPTER I
THE JOINING OF TIADATHA

Should you question, should you ask me

Whence this song of Tiadatha?

Who on earth was Tiadatha?

I should answer, I should tell you,

He was what we call a filbert,

Youth of two and twenty summers.

You could see him any morning

In July of 1914,

Strolling slowly down St. James’s

From his comfy flat in Duke Street.

Little recked he of in those days,

Save of socks and ties and hair-wash,

Girls and motor-cars and suppers;

Little suppers at the Carlton,

Little teas at Rumpelmeyer’s,

Little week-ends down at Skindle’s;

Troc and Cri and Murray’s knew him,

And the Piccadilly grill-room,

And he used to dance at Ciro’s

With the fairies from the chorus.

There were many Tired Arthurs

In July of 1914.

Then came war, and Tiadatha

Read his papers every morning,

Read the posters on the hoardings,

Read “Your King and Country want you.”

“I must go,” said Tiadatha,

Toying with his devilled kidneys,

“Do my bit and join the Army.”

So he hunted up a great-aunt,

Who knew someone in the Service,

Found himself in time gazetted

To a temporary commission

In the 14th Royal Dudshires.

Straightway Tiadatha hied him

To the shop of Bope and Pradley,

Having seen their thrilling adverts.

In the Tube and in the Tatler.

Pradley sold him all he needed,

Bope a lot of things he didn’t,

Pressed upon him socks and puttees,

Haversacks and water-bottles.

Made him tunics for the winter,

Made him tunics for the summer,

And some very baggy breeches.

There he chose his cap of khaki,

Very light and very floppy

(Rather like a tam-o’-shanter),

And a supple chestnut Sam Browne,

Quite a pleasant thing in Sam Brownes,

Rather new but very supple.

Many pounds spent Tiadatha

On valises, baths and camp beds,

Spent on wash-hand stands and kit bags.

Macs and British warms and great-coats,

And a gent’s complete revolver.

Then he went to Piccadilly,

Mr. Wing, of Piccadilly,

Where he ordered ties and shirtings,

Cream and coffee ties and shirtings,

Ordered socks and underclothing,

Putting down the lot to Father.

Compass, torch and boots and glasses

All of these sought Tiadatha;

All day boys with loads were streaming

To and from the flat in Duke Street,

Like a chain of ants hard at it

Storing rations for the winter.

“One thing more,” cried Tiadatha,

“One thing more ere I am perfect.

I must have a sword to carry

In a jolly leather scabbard.”

So he called the son of Wilkin,

Wilkin’s son who dwelt in Pall Mall,

Bade him make a sword and scabbard.

And the mighty son of Wilkin

Made a sword for Tiadatha,

From the truest steel he made it,

Slim and slender as a maiden,

Sharper than a safety razor,

Sighed a little as he made it,

Knowing well that Tiadatha

Probably would never use it.

Then at last my Tiadatha

Sallied forth to join the Dudshires,

Dressed in khaki, quite a soldier,

Floppy cap and baggy breeches,

Round his waist the supple Sam Browne,

At his side the sword and scabbard,

Took salutes from private soldiers

And saluted Sergeant-Majors

(Who were very much embarrassed),

And reported at Headquarters

Of the 14th Royal Dudshires.

Shady waters of a river,

Feels when by some turn of fortune

He gets plopped into a cistern

At a comic dime museum,

Finds himself among strange fishes,

Finds his happy freedom vanished,

Even so felt Tiadatha

On the day he joined the Dudshires.

But he pulled himself together,

Found the Adjutant, saluted,

Saying briefly, “Please I’ve come, sir.”

Such was Tiadatha’s joining.

CHAPTER II
THE TRAINING OF TIADATHA

Two long months spent Tiadatha

On a Barrack Square in Dudshire

Learning how to be a soldier.

Laid aside the sword and scabbard

Fashioned by the son of Wilkin,

Only routed out on Sundays,

For the Church Parades on Sundays.

In their stead he bore a rifle,

Just a rifle and a bayonet,

Learnt to slope his arms by numbers

Learnt to order arms by numbers,

Learnt the rite of fixing bayonets,

Harkening to the Sergeant-Major,

Very gruff and fierce and warlike.

Then came P.T. with its press-ups,

Stretching slowly (on the hands down),

Slowly, slowly bending downwards;

After seven Tiadatha

Lay and gasped upon his tummy.

Then the muscle exercises,

Ghastly muscle exercises,

Standing with the blinking rifle

Two full minutes at the shoulder.

In those days too Tiadatha

Learnt the mysteries of “Form Fours,”

And evolved a simpler method,

Which he showed the Sergeant-Major.

“No, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major,

Looking very fierce and warlike,

“Mine’s the only way it’s done, sir,

Mine’s the way the Colonel wants it.”

“Narrow minds,” cried Tiadatha,

“Hidebound hearts,” he cried in dudgeon,

“Mine’s as good a way as his is,

Mine is better than the Colonel’s.

I shall tell him so to-morrow,

Tell him on parade to-morrow.”

On the morrow came the Colonel,

Came the Colonel of the Dudshires,

Stern and terrible in aspect,

With his usual morning liver;

Ran his eye along the front rank,

Ran his eye along the rear rank,

Till he came to Tiadatha.

“There’s an officer,” he shouted,

Bellowed forth in voice of thunder,

“Holding up his blasted rifle

Like a something something pitchfork.”

After which poor Tiadatha

Thought perhaps he wouldn’t mention

Forming fours and simpler methods.

Had you asked my Tiadatha

If he loved those days of training,

Loved the sloping arms by numbers,

Loved the musketry and marching,

And the press-ups and the shouting,

He would just have smiled and told you

That, until he joined the Army,

He had not the least conception

Life could be so damned unpleasant.

But it made him much less nut-like,

Made him straighter-backed and broader,

Clear of eye, with muscles on him

Like a strong man in a circus.

And in time he formed new friendships

With his brothers in the Dudshires.

They were drawn from many countries,

Many places and professions,

From the public schools of England,

From Ceylon and from Rhodesia,

Canada, the Coast and China;

Actors, business men and lawyers,

And a planter from Malacca

With a mighty thirst for whisky.

As a village shop in Dudshire

Has its wonderful collection,

Miscellaneous assortment

Of all things that you could think of,

And a lot of things you couldn’t—

Oranges and postal orders,

Bullseyes, buckets, belts and bacon,

Shoes and soap and writing-paper—

Even such a strange collection

Tiadatha found his brothers

In the 14th Royal Dudshires.

Yet they fitted in their places

Like the pieces of a puzzle,

Pieces of a jig-saw puzzle,

And they talked on common topics,

Motor-bikes and leave and press-ups.

So among them Tiadatha

Lived and laughed and learnt and grumbled,

Shared their tents and huts and billets,

Shared the mud and snow and sunshine,

Shared the long route marches with them,

And at night foregathered with them

Over port and whisky sodas.

Came a day when Tiadatha

Handed in at last his rifle,

And as a Platoon Commander,

Found out what commanders feel like

(Sort of super-idiot feeling)

When they shout “Right Turn” for “Left Turn,”

When they loudly bawl out “Eyes Left”

For a General on their right hand.

Daily too upon parade he

Looked at his platoon’s cap badges,

Saw its every button polished,

Learnt that private soldiers’ hair grows

Fast as cress upon a blanket.

Many hours he spent in drilling,

Spent in Foot and Kit inspections,

Spent in strenuous Brigade Days

On the windy downs of Dudshire,

Finding (as he’d long suspected)

That a subaltern’s existence

Isn’t quite all beer and skittles.

Such was Tiadatha’s training.

CHAPTER III
TIADATHA’S WOOING

During all the months of training,

Months of waiting down in Dudshire,

Often sighed my Tiadatha

For his haunts about St. James’s,

Missed his little flat in Duke Street,

Missed his morning devilled kidneys.

But at times he snatched a week-end

From the joys of bombs and bayonets,

Put his name down in the leave book

And went crashing up to London.

In the East they tell a legend

Of the crocodiles that dwell there,

Basking in the tropic sunshine

On the mudflats of the rivers.

Every night (so natives tell you)

All the crocodiles will vanish

To the palace of their rajah

Underneath the winding rivers;

There each crocodile his skin doffs,

Hangs it in the palace courtyard

And becomes a human being.

Even so my Tiadatha

Doffed his tunic for those week-ends,

Hung his soldier’s mental skin up,

Put off thoughts of bomb and bayonet,

Turning to the haunts that knew him

In July of 1914.

Thus fared he through months of waiting

Till at last there came the tidings:

“We go out to France in three weeks,

Final leave begins on Friday.”

So it chanced that Tiadatha

Spent his final leave in London,

And one night looked in at Murray’s

With a brother from the Dudshires.

“I have got to meet my sister,”

Said his brother from the Dudshires,