CHAPTER XIV

THE FIRE

For a while my Tiadatha Rested on the slopes of Hortiach, Rested till he’d got his strength back. Then at Summer Hill he sojourned, Barren camp where no one lingers Any longer than he’s got to; Thence he went by easy stages Back to join the Royal Dudshires. Found them up at Karasouli, Found so many faces missing That at first his heart was lonely, But a few were still remaining, Still a few familiar faces, And they made him very welcome, With them Woggs his soldier servant. But although he made new comrades, Carried on without the old ones, Yet his heart was often lonely, Lonely for those missing faces.

Thus they met another summer, Sweltered through another summer, Changing over every fortnight With a neighbouring battalion. Smol and Macukovo saw them, Waggon Hill and Green Hill saw them, Dache, “P.N.,” and Kalinova, And the muddy Vardar River, And they did a so-called rest cure On the side of shadeless Kirec.

Then one day in blazing August Tiadatha pinched a week-end, Touched his Colonel for a week-end, “Just to do a bit of shopping,” And buzzed down to Salonica With his very best pal, Percy, Put up at the Hotel Splendide, Taking Woggs, the soldier servant.

After tea at Uncle Floca’s, After tea they did some shopping, Bought some Mess stores from Coppola’s, Bought some braces from Orosdi’s (Selfridge’s of Salonica), Took some watches for repairing As requested by their sergeants, Had a shampoo and a haircut, Had their usual bath at Botton’s, Sauntered back towards the Splendide For their evening gin and vermouth.

They were met by Woggs the batman, Trusty Woggs the ever-ready, In a state of huge excitement: “Please, sir, half the town’s ablaze, sir; Started in the Turkish Quarter, May be here at any moment.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Tiadatha, Thinking very little of it, “Come as usual in the morning,” Went with Percy to the French Club Bent upon a pleasant evening.

All things can be won by waiting, All things can be won by pushing, Even dinner at the French Club, Where our very generous Allies Let us come and eat their rations. There they had a special dinner, Percy and my Tiadatha, Cooked as only Frenchmen can cook, With some passable Veuve Clicquot, Drier than Macaulay’s Essays, Cheering as a nigger rag-time, Followed by some fine old brandy, All produced by smiling Camille, Now a _poilu_, late of Prince’s.

Then they wandered to the Tour Blanche For the usual evening revel, Feeling very bright and merry, Found the doors were barred against them. Wandered on a little farther To the Leicester Lounge and Gaiety, Found the doors were barred against them, Found them housing homeless women With their baggage and their babies. “Woggs was right,” said Tiadatha, “True enough the town is blazing; This is going to be ‘some’ evening.”

All the sky was glowing crimson, Clouds of smoke were welling upwards, And the sparks like golden raindrops Poured upon those wooden houses Packed like herrings in a barrel; And a mighty wind was blowing, Sweeping from the hills to seaward. Percy and my Tiadatha Dashed along the Rue Egnatia, Saw the fire was driving down it As a bore drives down a river; Ruthless as an angry bison, Hungry as a famished tiger, Eating up the wooden houses, Eating up the shops and cafés. Falling beams and crashing shutters, All were gone in half a minute, Swallowed by that whirling furnace. Soon it burnt the Provost Marshal Out of his expensive office, Soon it reached the Rue Venizelos, Where a fitful fire-engine (All that Salonica boasted) Played upon the flames in trickles, Did about as much to quench them As a mug of tepid water Does to quench the thirst of soldiers In a boiling Balkan summer. “Going some,” said Tiadatha, “Better hop back to the Splendide, Heaven and earth aren’t going to stop it.”

So they raced back to the Splendide, Found that Woggs had packed their kits up Ready for a hasty exit, For already flames were lapping, Like the waves, against the Splendide. All along the Odos Nike Clouds of smoke came welling faster, Thicker than a fog in London, And a million sparks were whirling, And the flames were sweeping nearer. Coughing, choking, nearly blinded, Tiadatha, Woggs and Percy Stumbled through the smoky blackness, Tripping over bits of wreckage, Fought their way along the sea front, While the sparks came showering on them Like confetti at a wedding, And they got the wind up badly— Worse than on that April evening When they went for Johnny Bulgar— Passed the old White Tower panting, Reached the French Club Courtyard breathless.

In the Courtyard of the French Club On its side an urn reposes, Old and huge and most capacious, Dug up by our gallant Allies From the heart of Macedonia, And it seemed to Tiadatha Just the haven that they wanted, So he bade Woggs dump their kits in, Bade him scramble in and guard them, Then went back to do the hero With a very breathless Percy.

All the streets were wild confusion, Refugees were streaming Eastward, Pouring Eastward in their thousands, Some with loaded carts and donkeys, Some with gharries piled to heaven. Old men bleating, children screaming, Broken-hearted women sobbing, Wailing for their homes and treasures. All the streets were blocked and littered With all kinds of goods and chattels, Feather mattresses and tables, Chairs and clocks and iron bedsteads, Looking glasses, jugs and bundles, Pillows, pots and pans and pictures.

Percy and my Tiadatha Took their stand at a street corner, Started running things in earnest, Cleared the houses of the people, Helped them get what things they could out, Made them leave the things they couldn’t. Chased and biffed the wandering looters, Kept the crowd back and the road clear, Got the women and the children On the waiting motor lorries, Packed them off to refugee camps; And their hardest job of all was Parting one old Turkish lady From the frowsty feather mattress That they couldn’t load up with her On the overflowing lorry. When the fire had reached their corner They would move on to the next one, Like a pair of organ grinders Made to move on by a footman, Giving ground, but giving slowly, Fighting out a rearguard action. And at every other corner Of the doomed and burning city Slaved the likes of Tiadatha, Officers and private soldiers, Fighting fire instead of Bulgars. Many parts they played that evening, Fireman, policeman, knight and coolie, Till their eyes were red and burning, Choc-a-bloc with grit and cinders, Till their clothes were scorched and blackened, Till their heads and feet and backs ached. And that night my Tiadatha Saw some sights not good to look on. Many thousand hearts were broken, Many thousand people homeless.

As the night wore on a damsel, Tearful and quite unattractive, Came beseeching Tiadatha, Begged and prayed him come and help her, Help her save some cherished treasures. Up some burning stairs she led them (Having roped in Percy also), Pointed to a clock and mirror, Hideous both and very heavy. Quick as lightning Tiadatha Pounced upon the gilt-framed mirror (Since it looked a little lighter), Left the massive clock for Percy; Down the stairs they crashed together, In their arms these precious treasures Of this unattractive damsel. Out into the street they lugged them, Put them down upon the pavement, But she begged and prayed them follow Whither she had left her mother And the rest of her belongings. So they left their job and followed, Followed like Quixotic idiots, Staggered with the clock and mirror, Which became extremely heavy; Through the burning streets they tottered, Past the weeping homeless outcasts, With the things upon their shoulders; Humped them till their backs were breaking, Till at last their souls revolted. “Finish, Mademoiselle,” said Percy, Firm, though quite polite about it, “Not another yard,” said Percy, “Not a step,” said Tiadatha. “_Pas loin d’ici_,” sobbed the maiden, Wept the unattractive damsel, “Only just a little farther, Just a very little farther.” On they went like two knight-errants Out to serve their lovely lady, Till they reached the bit of garden 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.”