And the wretched Tiadatha Groaned to find his bucket frozen, Boots and even tooth-brush frozen, Regularly every morning; Vainly tried to keep his feet warm, Crouching o’er a little oil-stove, Colder than New Zealand mutton, Colder than an ice-cream soda. And at intervals he murmured, “How I hate this beastly country.” And the sergeants and the corporals, And the luckless private soldiers, Murmured as the wind came sweeping, “How I hate this blinkin’ country.” Little then dreamed Tiadatha Of the times those words would tremble On the lips of countless soldiers In the Salonica Army, Both in winter and in summer: “How I hate this blinkin’ country.” When the blizzard passed, the Dudshires Settled down to work in earnest: All day long obliging people Found them jobs to keep them going. Guards, fatigues and working parties, Roads to make and hills to dig on. All the livelong day the Dudshires Spent in digging up the Balkans, Toiling at redoubts and trenches, Dug-outs, Lewis gun emplacements, Finding when the things were finished Someone thought that they’d be better Ten yards higher up the hillside, Ten yards lower down the hillside. Then came strenuous Brigade Days, Ruining expensive breeches, Creepy-crawling over crest lines, Picketing some height or other, Getting lost at four pip emma, Fed-up, far from home, and hungry. So the weeks and months sped onward, Samey as suburban houses, Uneventful as a dud is, Till the winter turned to spring-time, Till the spring-time scattered flowers Like confetti on the hillsides. CHAPTER VIII A DAY IN SALONIQUE There are many famous highways, Many famous streets in history: Watling Street and Piccadilly, Sidney Street and Champs-Elysée, And the Appian Way and Wall Street, But the Lembet Road will ever Take a place in fame beside them, While a single British soldier Lives to tell of Salonica. Mud and slush and bumps in winter, Bumps and dust and flies in summer. Still, it’s filled out since we found it, Since we got to work upon it, As a skinny baby fills out After being fed on Benger’s. There it was that Tiadatha Learnt the gentle art of wangling Lifts in cars and motor lorries Down to Piccadilly Circus, In the days before the Bulgar Strolled into the Struma Valley. He would spend the morning shopping, Buying sundry brands of whisky (Mostly made by local effort) At the most prodigious prices; In his hob-nailed boots he slithered Up and down Rue Venizelos, Buying mullet by the oke, Buying tangerines and chestnuts. Shopkeepers would see him coming, Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha, Plenty money, Tiadatha.”