On the day that Tiadatha Sallied forth into the trenches, Wondrously was he accoutred. On his head a cap with ear-flaps (Very like a third-rate footpad’s), On his feet a pair of waders, Reaching upwards to his tummy. Many bags of tricks he carried, Compass, map case and revolver, Respirator, two trench daggers, And his pack was great with torches, Tommy’s cookers, iron rations, And a box of ear defenders, Present from his Aunt Matilda. As they saw him in the distance, Bearing down upon their billets, His platoon turned out in wonder, Watched the apparition coming, Speculated who it might be, Freely making bets about it, Till they found it was none other Than their own platoon commander. Then he trudged off to the trenches, Followed many muddy C.T.s, Till at last he reached a dug-out, And “reported for instruction” To the hero who commanded That small sector of the trenches. This stout hero and his fellows Made my Tiadatha welcome, Straightway plying him with whisky, Saying, “Won’t you take your kit off? All you’ll need up here’s a Sam Browne.” Then his host expounded to him Many mysteries of warfare, And the routine of the trenches, All the habits of the Boche cove. All the Boche’s beastly habits, When he crumped, and when he didn’t, How you got retaliation; Spoke of Véry lights and whizzbangs, Lewis guns and working parties, Of his leave, due Friday fortnight, Of the foibles of his Colonel, Of the rats that he had captured With some cheese upon a bayonet. Then they took him round their trenches, Round their muddy maze of trenches, Rather like an aggravated Rabbit warren with the roof off, Worse to find one’s way about in Than the dark and windy subways Of the Piccadilly tube are. In the day and night that followed Many things learnt Tiadatha Of the subtleties of trench-craft. Learnt of crumps and duds and shrapnel, And enjoyed himself immensely, Little knowing how he’d loathe crumps When he got to know them better. There are very many trials That a soldier can get used to: Senior officers and bully, Dug-outs, mules and ration biscuits, Even standing-to in trenches At some God-forsaken hour On a cold and rainy morning, But a crump is one of those things That you never quite get used to, And the longer that you know them, Usually the less you like them. Crumps are like the gilt-haired fairies (Very swift and rather thrilling) Tiadatha played about with In the days he was a filbert— Quite amusing when you meet them Once or twice or even three times, Who become a little trying When they all turn up to supper Regularly every evening.