Thus the summer slipped to autumn, Thus the autumn turned to winter, And the winter found the Dudshires Still in Doya Tepe sector. And their days rolled on as usual, Varied by a free excursion, By a morning raiding party, To “maintain offensive spirit.” And they got up sports and concerts, Keeping for the most part cheerful; Yet for all their songs and laughter, In each heart there lay a shadow, And in mess and hut and cookhouse, In the transport lines and trenches, Talk turned ever on one topic— When they’d get their leave to Blighty, How they’d spend it when they got it. And they passed the weary weeks by, Officers and private soldiers, Sighing for the leave they wanted, Leave that was so long in coming, Sighing that it came no nearer. Day and night they talked about it, Had one theme of conversation, And that solitary topic Ran through all their conversation, Like a pattern through a fabric, A _leit motif_ through an opera— When they’d get their leave to Blighty, How they’d spend their leave to Blighty. CHESTER, _July 1918_. CHAPTER XVI A STUNT AT DAWN In the month of bleak November Said the Colonel of the Dudshires, Heart athirst for blood and battle, “We must have another outing, Do another stunt one morning, Raid that wood across the valley, Twist the Bulgars’ tails a little, Bring some prisoners back to breakfast.” Picture then my Tiadatha Sitting in his draughty dug-out At one-thirty in the morning, Gulping tea and crunching bacon In an effort at a breakfast; Picture him in Tommy’s tunic, Very oldest boots and breeches, Girt with rifle and equipment Kindly lent him for the occasion By his Quartermaster-Sergeant, Feeling rather apprehensive, Feeling very far from happy, As he’d often felt on Sports days Ere he’d started for the hurdles. To the fountain in the village, In the little ruined village, Came the Dudshire raiding party And assembled in the starlight. Through the wire they wound in silence Like a mighty caterpillar (Silent save for Tiadatha Strafing someone else for talking), Bayonets gleaming in the starlight, Water-bottles gurgling softly As they clumped along the pathway, Clumped along towards Hodza River; At the ford they crossed the river Splashing like a hippo bathing, Gasping as it reached their tummies; But it did not damp their ardour, Damped their feet but not their ardour, And they staggered on in silence Now well into Bulgar country.