“That’s because the weather’s better ‘ere,” says Fildes, “if you’re killed when sun tanned you don’t look too bad. Mind you,” he said, “up North on the Russian front, the cold preserves the body so good, they post ‘em back to the elatives.”
A repeat performance by Major Chater Jack who made his debut in ‘Adolf Hitler: My part in his Downfall’
May 12th 1943
Bright. sunny. Warm. Breeze:
Some Gunners go with Chater Jack to see the results of our counter battery work. A conducted tour of shell holes?? Not for me! We bagged a scout car, Fildes, White, Devine and me (not Edgington, he was kneeling in his tent pointing to it and saying “Down boy”). We stopped outside Tunis, to dust ourselves, then plunged into the streets; at an outdoor café an Iti POW trio played Neapolitan songs, then go round with the hat, “It’s yer own bloody fault for losin’,” shouts White.
On this day I met a girl in the street. “Good morning, would you like me to take you home to have some food?” she aid. Food? She took me home to 16 Rue de Lyon, and I met her (wait for it) family! “Vive l’Armèe Premier” they said, which is no substitute for sex. The girl was Daisy Setbon, 17, Jewish-French, about 5 foot 5, olive skinned, with raven shoulder-length hair. She showed us the sights of Tunis; mostly consisting of drunken British soldiers kipping in the gutter.
I wrote to her for 10 years after the war, when suddenly her letters stopped. All inquiries brought no response. Of course! Plunger Bailey! So! the waiting game had paid off.
That evening we were given a dinner at the Setbon’s home as Alf Fildes notes in his diary, “Had swell meal of spaghetti and beans topped with best red Italian wine.”
Our truck is missing! We follow a trail of wine and dog ends and find it in the middle of a square; standing in the driver’s seat is another square, Gnr White. A truck full of Tunisians were taking it in turns to wear his hat.
STALIN:
Comrade what kind of a warski is this? Here we are dying by the million and your lot are laying about pissedski in Tunis.
CHURCHILL:
You can’t stop ‘emski. If I report them, their mothers write to their MP’s and they report me to the Kingski.
14 The Tunis Love-in
Tunis 13 May
The screwing had started. Young Lochinvars, prematurely aged with all night poking, were coming in at first light, paler than the dawn, collapsing on their beds and groaning ‘Lovely’. The Great ‘Plunger’ Bailey decided that degrees of prowess should be recorded. A black-board was hung on his lorry.
BATTERY SHAGS AS PER MAY 1943 women
involved nbr of
times REMARKS
Gunner James 1 6 Tres Bon
Lance/Bdr King 1 1 Brewers Droop
Gunner Forrest 1 1 Death through natural causes
Gunner ‘Plunger’ Bailey 4 20 Resting
Edgington’s face darkens. “How can a man face the woman he loves after all this shagging?”
Said White, “He could say, ‘Darlin’ I’ve been keeping in training for you, it’s been hard work but worth the sacrifice, for, when it came to my darlin’s turn, I’d be fit and ready for her.’”
Edgington retaliated, “You’re throwing your love lives away,” he said, lying back in his tent, his socks adrift on his feet, and bent over at the ends. “Oh no, when I go to the Marriage Bed, I go pure as the driven snow,” which was some statement coming from a long white creature with fore-arms and knees burnt brown, wearing a vest which just covered his willy, 2 sticking plasters on his inoculated arm, a hair cut that made his head look like a coconut and all of this covered with a fine layer of Tunisian dust. Picture the scene. Suddenly, at the mouth of the tent appears Betty Grable, she sees Edgington. “Darling,” she says, slowly. He stands up, the pimples on his bare bum showing purple in the half light, he takes her in his arms, and slowly they start ‘ to dance out of the tent across the dusty plain in a cloud of dust, his socks slipping off, and the tail of his vest flapping in the breeze.
A British soldier with an incredible weapon
Letters from Home
13 May 1943
Back home, brother Desmond, filled with post-public patriotism, joined the Air Cadets, he and a gaggle of pimply Freds were given instruction in a cardboard cockpit, “one of us sits inside, another holds a model of a Stuka, and we shoot it down.” When my brother’s turn came, he would give forth with the entire sound effects of the film ‘Hell’s Angels’, which would end up with him crashing to the ground dying. Then, raising himself on one elbow, he would shout ‘Gott Strafe England’. It was all very praiseworthy and a complete waste of bloody time.
My mother took up leather work at night classes. From then on, I received parcels of leather thongs ‘in case I needed them’. Leather gloves with six fingers, leather belts ‘in case I needed them’, a pair of leather garters, leather pay book cover ‘to keep it dry’, leather prayer-book cover, then a ‘spare leather prayer-book cover, in case the first got damaged in the fighting’. I received the Lord’s prayer engraved on a leather medallion ‘it will protect you’, it didn’t. The inside became covered in verdigris and turned my chest green. Were other mothers doing this? I didn’t see other men in the regiment with green chests wearing initialled leather garters, and gloves with six fingers?
My father was at the RAOC depot, he wore six guns and was teaching his men how to stop paratroops with a ‘quick draw’. His way of stopping Hitler would be to invite him to a game of Poker — then, at a crucial stage, call him ‘Ein cheat’.
He had been a wonderful father, and sometimes, a wonderful mother but kept you on a permanent high. Returning from having seen Richard Dix in ‘Cimmaron’, he’d kick our front door open, flatten against the wall, and say, “Cover me while I switch the hall light on.”
I remember watching the spectacular blaze of Crystal Palace from my bedroom window. Father observed it through binoculars, finally he lowered them. “Navajo!” he said.
Hitler, having lost at poker to Milligan’s father, wondering what he could sell to raise the money
NAZI NEWS FLASH
The scene:
The old Bar-Auschwitz.
Two guns blaze — Hitler falls dead — an amazed look on his face — Captain Milligan blows smoke from his guns, SS men step aside in fear, he backs out of the door, there is the sound of screeching brakes as he is knocked over by a dust cart.
14 May 1943. Afternoon to 15 May
My Diary:
Try to get watches off Iti POW’s.
I approached Iti POW.
“You got Tick Tock,” I said and did a superb mime of a watch. He took off his boots. “No. No — Tick Tock — watch…”
I got one for forty stale ‘V’ cigarettes. They must have killed him within the week; I hope so, the watch didn’t work. We got back to camp late, woke the sentry up and said “Good night!”
“Hi’ paratrooper!”
May 15th 1943
Off to Tunis again! The Arab drains! “Corrr Christtt,” said Edgington, “they’re worse than Maunders’ feet.”
“True!” I said, “it takes a thousand years of Arab culture to build up a pong like this, sniff it all up, tourists pay for this.”
“How do they know which one’s theirs,” said Devine observing women in purdah.
“Easy, outside every wog house there’s a weighing machine, and the husbands just check. ‘Ah it’s darling 16 stone 3 lbs.’”
“They must have stamina, having twenty wives,” said Devine.
“They don’t do ‘em all in one go.”
“Ah! but it must be a temptation, I mean, say you have it away with two, you doze off and you wake up at, say, 3 o’clock, you get up for a glass of water and well, it would be silly to go back to sleep when there’s another eighteen of ‘em crawling up the wall. That’s why the men wear those long night shirts in the day time, they got to be ready.”
Approaching are Gunners Musslewhite, Roberts and Wilson, riding donkey
s and stoned: days later they were found in Sousse with no recollection of anything. Up before Major Chater Jack, the answer to his question, “What’s your excuse?” was ‘Pissed sir’.
“Such honesty cannot go unrewarded,” said Chater Jack, “case dismissed.”
Oudna
13 May 1943
History of the Regiment says we moved to OUDNA, I won’t argue. I was to drive the Major. “I chose you Milligan because you’ve never driven me before, and it’s time I had another accident.” It was a brief journey. Oudna was a must for suicides, a barren plain, bisected by a Roman Aqueduct, observing the ruins Gunner Collins remarked, “Cor, Jerry didn’t ‘arf bomb that.” He was never commissioned. We arrived in a great cloud of dust which improved the place. Each soldier’s features were obliterated. I could, however, tell many by the shape of their boots.
Boot Recognition Chart
May 15 1943
Edgington was standing outside my bivvy as I lay within. To an observer it would appear he’s talking to a tent. As I was asleep, that’s exactly what it was. L/Bdr Trew rushes up. “Leave is starting!” Great! The band were given from after parade on Friday to Monday, midday. “This is more like it,” said Al Fildes, “wars should be fought like this. We challenge the enemy to a holiday, those who get the best one, win.”
Hitlergram No. 6140823
HITLER:
Right! I challenge you! — I will take three months at zer Eagles Nest; Berchtesgarten!
MILLIGAN:
A week at Mrs Terrible’s Boarding house, Herne Bay.
HITLER:
A month at The Schlöss Heidelberg on zer blue Rhine.
MILLIGAN:
Ten days at Butlins, Clacton.
HITLER:
Three months in zer Grosse Schoener Schoenbrunn Palace, Vienna!
MILLIGAN:
nights at the YMCA, Croydon. HITLER:
Six months…you hear Six Months in Gracie Fields Villa, Capri! ! ! !
MILLIGAN:
Checkmate!
HITLER:
I don’t accept cheques mate, you vill haff to pay cash.
16 May 1943
My Diary:
Off to Tunis POW camp to scrounge.
We entered the camp. Revenge is sweet, but not fattening. Lt Mostyn’s Jewish soul was bent on revenge, he relieved Germans of their watches.
“I’ll see that these ‘gifts’ are rewarded,” he said. “This will get you extra rations,” and handed them a chit declaring, “This is an anti-Semitic bastard, knock the shit out of him.”
Edgington discovered a Field Kitchen and a Portable Brothel. “Terrible!” said White, “the kitchen’s full, the brothel’s empty.” Rummaging, they found Knackebrot,↓ ersatz Kaffee and a selection of German cigarettes.
≡ Jerry Crispbread.
Hitlergram No. 96133a
HITLER:
Mein Gott, zey are smoking our Fags! Zat is terrible.
EVA BRAUN:
I know. I’ve smoked zem.
HITLER:
To get our Fags to Tunisia ve had to go through Allied Air Raids on zer Factories! bombs on zer Railways! zer boats to Afrika are torpedoed and zer fags end up being smoked by zat Huddersfield Schit Gunner White!
EVA BRAUN:
It’s not right and it’s not fair.
HITLER:
Vot isn’t.
EVA BRAUN:
Zer left leg of a Joe Louis.
HITLER:
I don’t vish to know zat, kindly leave zer bunker.
Oudna Idyll
2.20 p.m.
I lay in my tent, the heat was terrific, flies and minute dive bombing insects were at large, on the outside of the mosquito net they hung, waiting…occasionally displaced them with jets of cigarette smoke. Why should suffer alone. In the next tent was Gunner White.
“Wot you doin’?” I said.
“I’m laying on me back smokin’ a Woodbine with me left hand, and scratching me balls with me right.”
“Say hello while you’re there.”
“I was thinkin’,” he said, “at this time back in England on a Saturday afternoon, you know what I’d be doing?”
“No.”
“I’d be in my bedroom, layin’ on me bed, smoking a Woodbine with me left hand and scratching me balls etc. Wot’d you be doin’?”
“I’d mow the grass in the garden and my father would sit in a deck chair and encourage me with cries of ‘It does you good lad’, and I’d say to him ‘why don’t you do it then?’ and he’d say ‘Because it doesn’t do me good, I’ve tried it’.”
“This is a waste of bloody time, my life is going past, time is on the march and here I am on me back in bloody Oudna doing sweet FA. This isn’t living! This is…this is…” he fumbled for a word, couldn’t find it and settled for ‘fucking terrible…what I need in life is variation, something different
“Right, try smoking with your right hand and scratching your balls with your left.”
In his tent Edgington starts a tune. “Lada da da de de’ which emerged as ‘Red Sails in the Sunset, Way out on the Sea…” I joined in harmony, this was taken up by Gunner White and in the next tent to Edge, Gunner Tume. One by one the entire tented camp joined in. I got up. I was the only person visible; from the sea of tents the great chorus ‘Oh carry my loved-ed oneeee, home safeleeeee to meeee’ soared over the sunbaked plain. No one would have believed it. I didn’t.
British sergeant selling his lorry to an Arab
Oudna: More Letters from Home
A parcel from home! 2/3rds of which are Holy Medals of St Patrick and St Therese. I only need St Andrew and I’ve got the set, if I had worn every one sent me I’d have weighed 20 stone. Had I died, men searching for my identity disc might have said, “Christ he is St Patrick.” Lt Walker wants to talk to me about the parcel. “Major Chater Jack has asked me to broach a delicate subject,” he said, “once in Bexhill, you gave him a slice of your mother’s fruit cake which, as you know, he enjoyed full well.”
“That is so sir.”
“Well Milligan, he says that he had mentioned at the time, that if ever you had another cake like it, he was willing to sample a reasonable slice.”
“I don’t remember that sir.”
“Well he does. Now, there was a delivery of mail yester-day, and he noticed that one parcel was for you, and on the label it said that among the contents was a fruit cake.”
“That is so sir.”
“He says at Toukebour, you had received a cake, and shared it among the Command Post staff. He said he was on duty at the time, but not actually in the command post, and when he heard of the cake he came as quickly as he could but it had all been eaten.”
“I remember that sir.”
“So does he; what I’m coming to Milligan is that he would look on you in a kindly light if you were to give him a slice of the cake which is at this moment in your tent.”
“We’ve eaten the lot sir.”
“You’re a bloody guts Milligan.”
“Yes sir.”
I wrote and told my mother, and lo! she sent him a whole cake, but this never stopped him cadging mine.
“You see,” said Edgington, “he’s just a normal human being like us, he likes his grub.”
“His grub?” I said.
We had a morning of morse code training and equipment maintenance. Then came lunch: I ate a slice of ‘Spotted Dick’ pudding before I realized half the spots were dead flies.
Bombardier Marsden had a lottery. At the end of the day the one who presented most fly corpses won, and it was usually Sanitary Orderly Liddle. How did he do it?
“Look,” he explained, “when you work with shit, you can’t lose.”
We asked him for a percentage, arguing that it was our visits to his establishment which helped to attract the flies.
With the temperature at 100 degrees, I caught the sort of cold one could only catch on a freezing London night while bathing naked in the Thames.
&
nbsp; “Got a cold mate?” says Edgington.
“Yed, I’d god a kode.”
“How did you get that?”
“Badin’ naged id der tembes od a freezin nide in London.”
“What’s wrong with you now?” says the M O.
“A kode sir.”
“In this weather?”
“Yed.”
“That’s like breaking your leg when you’re asleep.”
“That’s something else I wanted to see you about…”
British tank coming up the mad towards a German soldier — a brilliant picture
“Come and have a look at this,” says Smudger Smith. He leads us across the plain to a Cactus grove. There, hidden among the vegetation, is a Stuka, brand spanking new.
“I wonder how much it’s worth,” says White.
We swarmed over it, took turns to fiddle with the controls, the engine suddenly gave a tremendous cough.
“What did you do then,” said Smudge.
“I pressed a large red button,” said White.
“For Christ sake don’t do it again.”
But White did do it again, didn’t he? And the bloody engine started and there we were with this throbbing monster and Pilot Officer White screaming, “How do you switch the bloody thing off?”
“Don’t waste it,” I shouted. “Bomb the Cookhouse!”
It wouldn’t stop, we stood around chucking rocks at the propeller. They bounced off and nearly killed us. It was still ticking over when we were visited by Major Chater Jack. He was furious and kept asking questions, all of which were obliterated by the roar of the engine.
Memoires 03 (1976) - Monty, His Part in my Victory Page 2
