Then he called again his batman, Called for Woggs the faithful batman, Whispered certain secret orders, And, upon the morning after, Found himself the proud possessor Of a dozen sheets of iron, Sheets of corrugated iron, And some bits of brand-new timber. Little recked my Tiadatha That a certain R.E. Captain Even then was musing darkly As to where the stuff had got to. So they roofed the little dug-out With the scraps of purloined timber, With the bits of stolen iron, Then they piled the roof with sandbags, Fondly hoping it would keep out Anyhow a dud or pipsqueak. Then the tireless Woggs got busy, Hung the walls with bits of sacking, Made a chair and made a table And some shelves from ration boxes, Even made a little washstand, With an old tin hat for basin, And a rather dicky bedstead, From a few odd wiring pickets And a roll of rabbit netting (Borrowed from the Sergeant-Major When that worthy wasn’t looking), Filled an old tin mug with flowers, Decked the walls with dreadful pictures From _La Vie_ and from _The Tatler_. “One thing more,” cried Tiadatha, “One thing even now is lacking. What about a little fireplace, What about it, O my batman?” Not a word spoke Woggs the batman, Save to murmur, “Very good, sir,” Went and pinched an empty oil drum, Spent the afternoon in hammering; Hammered till he woke the Colonel, Hammered till he woke the Major. Moved away a little farther, Till he’d got his job of work done, Then he fixed it in the dug-out, With some puddled mud he fixed it, Got a piece of tin for chimney, Dug some vine roots up for firewood, Eked them out with bits of charcoal Wangled from Headquarters’ cookhouse. And that night my Tiadatha, Wet and weary from the trenches, Found a cheery wood fire blazing, Found a most uncommon fug up. “It is well,” said Tiadatha, “It is well, my soldier servant, Well and truly have you served me. Take this tin of Craven Mixture, Take this tin of Royal Beauties, Take this tin of Cadbury’s chocolate. Also there is my rum ration, You are very welcome to it, And I’ll see the Sergeant-Major, Get you off parade to-morrow.” Then he drew his crazy chair up, Lit his pipe and stretched his legs out, Heaved a sigh of great contentment, Gazed into the flames in silence, Dreaming of his green-eyed Phyllis, And of Murray’s where he met her, Dreaming of his loved St. James’s, So forgot the war a little.