Watch on wrist stood Tiadatha, Gazing anxious at the minutes As the starting time came nearer. He was clad in Tommy’s tunic, Tommy’s breeches and equipment, In his hands he bore a rifle, On his head a shrapnel helmet. Then at last he gave the signal, And his men filed out behind him. Through the gaps they wound like serpents, Into No Man’s Land they sallied, Through the din of bursting shrapnel, Through the bursting high explosives. Down the steep Patte d’Oie he led them, Down that steep and rocky gully, Rocky as a Cornish headland, Steeper than a traveller’s story: There the dread trench mortar barrage Swept upon them like a hailstorm, Storm with stones as big as footballs, Stones alive with death and torture. Through that blinding storm he led them, Up the farther side he led them— All that were not killed or wounded. There upon the flashing hillside Tiadatha crouched and waited, Waited for the Zero hour, When the barrage would be lengthened, Lifted from the front line trenches. As the moment came he leapt up, Gave a shout to all the Dudshires, And the Dudshires rose and followed, Charged beside my Tiadatha— All who were not killed or wounded. Through the broken wire they scrambled, Some men cursing, some men shouting, Some men muttering little prayers, Some in grim and deadly silence. They were met by bombs and bullets, Heard the Bulgars in their trenches, Heard them crying: “Come on, Johnny, Come on, come on, English Johnny.” And three times the Royal Dudshires Swept upon the Bulgar trenches, Every time the line was thinner, Every time its heart was steadfast. And the third time Tiadatha, With a little band behind him, Leapt into the battered trenches, Got to work with bomb and bayonet, In his heart the lust of battle; Then felt something hit his shoulder, Felt his shoulder wet and burning, Found he’d stopped a shrapnel bullet, Set his teeth and staggered onwards, Led his party round a traverse, Bombed a dug-out full of Bulgars, Bombed until his bombs were finished, Carried on with German stink-bombs That the Bulgar’d left behind him. On and on the little party Pushed along the Bulgar trenches, Till there came a deadly sickness Stealing over Tiadatha, And he knew his strength was failing, Knew that he could get no farther, So he shouted to his corporal, “Take them on and do your damnedest.” Flopped down in the trench and fainted.