“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. CHAPTER V TIADATHA IN FRANCE Tiadatha had a notion, All the Dudshires had a notion That in France they’d drop for ever Musketry and long route marches, Drop the sloping arms by numbers, Drop the everlasting press-ups, As a steamer drops her pilot When she reaches open waters. Yet the Dudshires’ recollection Of those days in France is mainly One big blur of mingled P.T., Arm drill, long straight roads and marches. Many miles my Tiadatha Tramped along those endless highways. Endless as a winter’s evening, Straighter than the wife of Cæsar, Fringed with trees all apple-laden, Apple-laden till the Dudshires Had a short fall-out beneath them. Many villages they came to, Villages as like as marbles, With a little church, a duck pond, And a local pub, which furnished Nothing in the world but _vin rouge_ (“Two _vins_, please, Miss,” called the Dudshires), Beer as thin as tissue paper, And (sometimes) a drop of cognac: There were bars in which the soldiers Slept on straw and ate and grumbled, Shaved and smoked and wrote their letters— Tiadatha censored hundreds. There were cottages that straggled (Like some weary soldiers marching) Down a very muddy main street; In those cottages dwelt old men, Women, children and some cripples, But no men with able bodies, Not a slacker, not a shirker. Here it was that Tiadatha Slept upon the chilly stone floor, Or (if fate were feeling kinder) On a mighty feather mattress, Ate his dinner in the kitchen, Drinking down great draughts of cider, Talking in his very vile French To Madame, his kindly hostess, Wrinkled as a russet apple. By the fire he wrote his letters, Wrote and told his green-eyed Phyllis How he missed her every minute, Thanked her for the cake she’d sent him, Hinted that he’d like another. Little dreamed my Tiadatha How he’d miss the cottage kitchen, Miss the long French loaves and butter, And his kindly wrinkled hostess, In the days that were to follow. After several weeks of wandering, From one village to another, From one billet to another, Came a sojourn in the trenches Just to see what trenches feel like.