That surrounds the old White Tower. There they found the maiden’s mother, Found her doddering old father, Felt most awfully sorry for them, Sorry they could do so little; Sheepishly received their blessing, Dumped the clock and dumped the mirror, Feeling very much like Sinbad When at last he’d dumped the old man Who had ridden on his shoulders. “Nearly five,” said Tiadatha, “And the dawn will soon be breaking. Percy, I am sick and weary, And my eyes are full of cinders, And my tongue as dry as Aden— What about a rest, old sportsman?” As he spoke he cast about him For a haven, for a refuge, Spied a T.B. in the harbour, Hailed the captain through the darkness. Came the answer through the darkness, “Come aboard and have some whisky, Come aboard, I’ll send a boat off.” Percy and my Tiadatha Soon were settled in the T.B., Drank the Captain’s old Scotch whisky, Munched his sandwiches and biscuits, Murmured as they drank together, “When in trouble, try the Navy, Bless their souls, the British Navy!” Then they watched the fire raging, Watched it burning from the harbour, Tossing like a fiery ocean; Watched the shops and cafés blazing All along the stricken sea-front, Watched a flame that leapt to Heaven Writhing like a dancing Dervish, Watched a minaret uprising White against the molten background, And bethought them of the watches They had taken for repairing, Made some rueful calculations Of the cost of seven new ones. As the dawn came, Tiadatha, Cheered to see the M.T. engine Save the English Quay from ruin, Gazed on ravaged Salonica With its blackened, gutted buildings, Thought of cheery times he’d spent there, Thought of many noisy evenings, Murmured “No more teas at Floca’s, No more shopping at Orosdi’s, No more dinners at the Splendide, No more revels at the Odéon.” Murmured “Poor old Salonica, Dear old dirty Salonica, Salonica, finish Johnny.” CHAPTER XV SNEVCE WAY Some days after Salonica Had been burnt and devastated, Tiadatha and the Dudshires Trekked across the hills to Snevce, To the Doya Tepe sector. Settled in Popovo village In the ruins of Surlovo, Giving thanks to the Italians For the huts they’d left behind them, Huts with well-planked walls and ceilings, Roofed with red tiles from the village, Fitted out with chairs and tables, Beds and doors and real glass windows. Very restful, very soothing, After the eternal sandbags And the corrugated iron Of the dug-outs they’d been used to— Just like moving to the Carlton Out of rather third-rate lodgings.