Soon my wounded Tiadatha Carefully labelled like a parcel Started on his journey Baseward, Fared upon that fearful journey, Burning head and aching shoulder, Fared upon a swaying _dhuli_ In an ambulance that shook him As you shake a medicine bottle, Seemed to shake his very soul out. Rocking like a tiny dinghy When a choppy sea is running. One night in the Clearing Station, Then by train to Salonica; And throughout that weary journey, In F.A. or Clearing Station, Came those everlasting questions Very dear to all the Ram Corps: “Unit, age and length of service?” “Rank and Christian name?” and what not, Till it seemed to Tiadatha That the whole Ram Corps was round him, Armed with note-books, armed with pencils, Perching everywhere about him, Sometimes perching on his tummy, Often climbing up the tent poles, Thirsting for these silly details, Reeling off these silly questions, “Unit, rank and length of service?” “Colour of your mother’s eyebrows?” “Christian names of all your sisters?” “Age of all your aunts and uncles?” So it seemed to Tiadatha, To my fevered Tiadatha, Till he dropped to sleep and left them, Those tormentors and their questions, Left them as a railway carriage, Gliding gently from the station, Leaves the crowd upon the platform. But at last the journey ended, Tiadatha came to anchor In a bed with snowy pillows, Bed with snowy sheets and pillows Cool and sweet as flowing water, Soothing as a summer’s evening, Comforting as cherry brandy On a chilly winter morning. He was tended by a sister, Soft of voice and very gentle, And she seemed to Tiadatha, After all those months of warfare, Like a little glimpse of England, Made him think of English roses, English lanes and English gardens; And he looked at her and loved her, Wondered vaguely what her name was, If she ever lost her temper, How she kept her hands so lovely, How on earth she put her cap on. Soon there came a solemn conclave Round the bed of Tiadatha, Which discussed if it should send him To the X-Rays or the Theatre (Ghastly irony “the Theatre”). Starved him for a day and sent him To the operating table. There the luckless Tiadatha Felt the world go slipping from him Used the most appalling language, Knew no more till all was over, Came to, feeling sick and sorry, Found himself a mass of bandage, Found himself a lump of aching, And beheld the shrapnel bullet He had stopped that April evening. Back they took him to his pillows, And his gentle, soft-voiced sister Laid her cool hand on his forehead, And a peace came stealing o’er him As a mist steals o’er the mountains.