Should you question, should you ask me What became of Tiadatha; Ask me if he married Phyllis, If he found another fairy, Found one even more alluring, Eyes of brown or blue or violet; If he sailed for Salonica Still an unrepentant bachelor; Should you ask me of his doings After those three weeks were ended, One mad rush and wild excitement; If he got a cushy staff job With a lot of tabs about it, Or if he became a major Or the Colonel of the Dudshires, I should make reply and answer— “Who am I that I should tell you? I have brought my Tiadatha Back again to where he started (Just as if he had been travelling On a kind of Inner Circle), Safe and sound and still light-hearted, Still the same yet somehow different. You remember how I found him In July of 1914 Toying with his devilled kidneys At his little flat in Duke Street; Very tired and very nut-like, What we used to call a “filbert.” I have told you of his training, I have told you of his troubles, Of his trials and his travels, Of some happenings that befell him. I have tried to picture to you How he lived and laughed and battled Out in France and Salonica, How he changed from nut to soldier As a sword is tried and tempered When it passes through the furnace, How he learnt (with many like him) Something of the things that matter, Life and Death and high endeavour. How he learnt (with many like him) That you cannot love your country Till you’ve left it far behind you (Just as no one loved his sugar Till the beastly stuff was rationed); That you cannot know its pleasures, Cannot love its charms and comforts, Till you’ve sampled several others. “In this war the Hun has brought us, Some have learnt to make returns out, Some have learnt to write out orders. Some have learnt the way to kill Huns, Some to lead the men that kill them, Some have learnt to cope with bully, Learnt to shave with army razors, Learnt to make the best of blizzards, Mud and slush and blazing sunshine, Learnt to coax a little comfort Out of bivvies, barns and dug-outs, Learnt of things they never dreamed of In July of 1914. “And they all have learnt this lesson, Learnt as well this common lesson, Learnt to hold a little dearer All the things they took for granted In July of 1914— Whether it be Scottish Highlands, Hills of Wales or banks of Ireland, Or the swelling downs of Dudshire, Or the pavement of St. James’s— Even so my Tiadatha. “So I leave him and salute him Back in his beloved London, Knowing that the war has one thing (If no others) to its credit— It has made a nut a soldier, Made a silk purse from a sow’s ear, Made a man of Tiadatha And made men of hundreds like him.