The night was saved from complete disaster by things called Sausages.
We ate in silence. “Pass the wine,” said Edge who, himself, has been passing wine for months. Sgt Dawson was occupied with a whisky bottle, trying to wean himself off food.
“After the war, I’m going back to my old job,” said Gunner Shipman.
“What old job?”
“Any old fucking job…”
Finally at about three in the morning the chilly night air drove us to our beds. An unforgettable day.
Bdr Deans clutching himself through his pocket
Last Day at Kerrata
June 6th 1943
My Diary:
Last day: We swam at first light, and wished we hadn’t. It was bloody cold. Edgington was cringing in the water, his teeth chattering, singing his latest hit:
It’s chilly,
On yer willy,
In the water
In Kerrata.
“Rubbish,” I said.
“Rubbish? If Cole Porter was writing this stuff they’d be lapping it up, it’s only my words against his.”
Why we should go mineral rock hunting escaped me. We searched the area.
“What’s a fossil?”
“The birth mark of a dead animal.”
“There must be gold around here.”
Soon our pockets were bulging, we would ask Budden’s advice, after all he was a university man, an officer, not only that he was also intelligent. When we arrived back he was not only a University man, an officer and intelligent, but dead asleep with his mouth open.
“Don’t wake him,” I said, “he might be dreaming of promotion.”
We carefully sorted the rock samples into the various categories that we knew — big and small.
General Anderson and senior officers wondering what to do now the Campaign is over
It was gone 3 when Budden arose, such was his condition that his first words were, “We must be ready by mid-day.”
We showed him the samples. “They’re rocks,” he said, we told him we knew that, and he said so did he.
“Aren’t they valuable sir?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
What a fine officer I thought, he could have lied and said “Yes, they are gold bearing of a high degree,” but no! he had fought back the temptation and deprived us of a fortune! We had final swims, and then set off to Ain Abessa.
EXTRACT FROM BATTERY ORDERS
by MAJOR F. CHATER JACK, D.S.O, M.C., R.A.
COMMANDING 19/56 HEAVY REGT, R.A.
FIELD. 11.6.43
INFORMATION
The Battery will be interested to learn that they hold the record for the greatest number of 7.2’ rounds per gun fired in 24 hours.
The figure is 220 on 23rd April ‘43 and these, as will be remembered, were on the targets involved in the fight for ‘LONGSTOP’: the Battery positions being then at TOUKABEUR.
The next highest figure is 134 r.p.g. fired by two other Btys of 56 Heavy Regt, during the final attack on 6th May ‘43 when the two Arm. Divs broke through to TUNIS and the Peninsula.
Third comes a figure of 80 r.p.g. also fired by 19 Bty on 24th Apl ‘43 during the final assault on and capture of ‘LONGSTOP’.
During the final battle of MEDJERDA Valley between 22nd April and 6th May, 19 Bty fired a total of 2340 rounds, the next highest of any 7.2’ Bty being 1564.
F. Chater Jack
Major, R.A.
COMMANDING 19/56 HEAVY REGT, R.A.
FIELD. 11.6.43 AGP
‘2340 rounds’? No wonder we were shagged out.
12 June 1943
Sgt Dawson and his pissy friends had spent all night at a café in Kerrata village on the booze. They arrived back at dawn, awoke me with a mug of tea loaded with whiskey, and, half awake I downed the lot; in ten minutes I was raving drunk, and had to be held down by Smudger Smith and 3 Gunners. Hitting me lightly with rifle butts, they carried me screaming to a distant tent.
“What’s all that shouting coming from the direction of Algiers?” said Major Chater Jack.
“It’s Bombardier Milligan sir,” said Dawson. “He’s running through some ideas for the band sir.”
“You sure he hasn’t caught them in a rat trap.”
“No sir — they’re outsize.”
Sgt Donaldson
Wed. 9th June 1943
Sitting outside his tent, swigging warm beer Sgt Frank Donaldson tells me the truth about the ‘battle’ at the El Aroussa Wagon Lines on Feb. 26/27. One morning, a large cloud of dust disappeared through the Wagon Lines, “What was that?” said Donaldson.
“Our Front Line,” was the reply. They received an order: “Fuck off as quick as you can,” but! BQMS Courtney told Donaldson, “Stay behind to defend the road.”
“There isn’t one,” said Donaldson.
“That’s not my fault,” said Courtney and departed. Donaldson and Co. noticed a stew simmering for lunch, they were about to partake when the convoy roared back again, snatched up the stew and disappeared yet a second time.
A Lieutenant wearing a ragged green beret arrived on a lady’s bicycle, and said he was from the Reconnaissance Corps. He suggested they climb a hill to see what the noise on the other side was. “They saw it, and to a man they shit . themselves.” There, forming up, were massed German Infantry and Tiger Tanks.↓
≡ He was mistaken, they were Mark III’s.
There was a hasty retreat to the foot of the hill. The Lt ordered everyone to stay put, and then buggered off. They heard tanks approaching, and there was further stomach trouble. Gnr Forrest pointed to a pile of rocks and abandoned pick handles.
“We’ll need them,” said Forrest.
“Wot for?” said Donaldson.
Said Forrest, “When tanks come, we chuck rocks at turret, and when bloke inside opens turret to see what noise is, we hit him on the head with pick handle…”
I could hear the screams of “Kamerad!” as the vicious pick handles bit deep into the four inch armour plate.
Lucky for Donaldson, Churchill Tanks of the North Irish Horse came on the scene and saved them for a worse fate -cold stew for dinner.
The Afrika Korps having lost North Africa try to play their way back to favour with the Führer
Chater Jack had cheerfully told the Mayor of Setif that he had ‘une belle Orchestra de Jazz’ so we found ourselves playing at ‘Thé Dansant’, where 500 Gunners tried to dance with 2 girls and an old French matron, with a face like Schnozzle Durante’s pulled inside out. The place, I recall, was the Salle de Fête. Edgington called it a Fête worse than death.
As I lay abed that night a voice was heard singing:
No rose in all the world,
Until you came…
It was full of tender meaning, the voice floated on the night air, in the silence of the giant Continent it seemed strange to hear that voice — a young English voice. The song continued and soared until it concluded on a high exquisite delicate falsetto. Silence settled on the land.
“Thank fuck, ‘e’s finished,” said a voice. It was one of those little cameos that lightened the darkness.
French Concert Party
Fri. 18th June 1943
Milligan? Band is to report to 74 Mediums, music playing, for the uses of.”
At 74 Mediums camp we were greeted by a humptey-backed Captain who appeared to be training for death.
“I’d like you to do your turn in the miggle of the show.”
“When?”
“The miggle of the show.” He definitely said. miggle — so! he couldn’t pronounce his D’s. “How woulg you like to be an-nounceg?”
I paused. “D Battery Dance Duo and Doug on Drums.”
Carefully he wrote it down.
Would we like drinks? OK. The stage consists of trestle tables covered with blankets. I am a trumpet player covered in battledress. A charabanc arrived with the Algiers Opera Company. First to alight was Soprano Mlle Beth Villion, she must
have been 15 stone, the charabanc rose 3 ft when she ‘ got off. “Cor,” said Harry, “there’s enough for all of us.” She was followed by a petite soprano, Mlle Garcia. “You’re mine, all mine,” says Doug clutching his parts, next came a crazed mop-headed French Algerian Pianist.
A tent had been erected for the ladies to change in. Gunner Liddle detected a hole in it…what he saw set his testicles revolving, Mlle Villion was sitting on a stool, naked, making up; Liddle a sporting man, spread the word. My god! the size! She could sit in one spot and still be several other places at the same time.
The concert started, and finally it was our turn. The Captain annunced “I have great pleasure in announcing G Gattery Gance plus Goug on Grums.” Got ‘im! We belted through our numbers, got a great reception, and then cleared for Mlle Garcia. During the interval a human being dressed up as a Gunner approached me. “You don’t know me . from Adam,” he said. I told him he must be better dressed.
The stranger was Gunner Snashall (Snatch) from the 8th Survey Regiment, he said he played the violin and could he sit in on the next session. OK, we said. It turned out that he was great, a real good Jazz violin player, though the fact that he appeared with a garland of wild flowers around his head was a bit disconcerting.
Gunner Snashall
Setif — Musicians resting!
Mlle Villion in a black silk dress was approaching, her bosoms going on ahead of her by ten seconds.
“You play zee jazz verre good, you naughty boy,” she said.
“Help! massage,” I said weakly.
We listened spell bound as she sang the Habanera from Carmen, her voice was pure silver. In the warm African night, it was an unforgettable experience, with the moon shining down on those lovely white boobs. She stopped the show, but then she was big enough to stop anything. The show over we waved the French artiste and her boobs good-bye. A letter from Snashall reminds me how the evening concluded:
I remember the French Ensa charabanc disappearing into the night, then afterwards, Harry, Al, Doug and in the back of a 3 tonner with a quarter moon, palm trees, you on guitar playing and us singing, “Come Rain…Come Shine…”
Birth of the 2 Agra Concert Party
19 June ‘43
Part two orders:
It has been decided to form a Concert Party. Anyone who has the ability to entertain will parade tomorrow at 1000 hrs, MAP REFERENCE 345-675.
This turned out to be a deserted field and a tree.
At ten o’clock trucks with the ‘Artistes’ appeared, the ‘Judges’ were Captain Graham Leahmann, L/Bdr Ken Carter↓ and a Regimental Padre who shall remain anonymous.
≡ Now Producer of ‘Crossroads’.
A man would step forward, click his heels, and say ‘Hi will now sing ‘Honley a Rose’’, burst into song, finish and salute. It must have puzzled, nay, baffled the Arabs; for what possible reason was that English Infidel doing a vigorous soft shoe shuffle in the middle of a field, gradually disappearing in a cloud of dust, finally coming to attention and saluting two men standing under a tree.
I’d seen many army auditions, I recall one at Hailsham. A crowd of soldiers had turned up ‘To find the Stardom’. It’s a fact that an idiot doesn’t know he’s an idiot, he may think he’s a great singer or dancer. The auditioning officer said, “First one please.” A squat Scot with a terrible squint and a Glaswegian accent stepped forward. “Rifleman MacToley.”
“What do you do.”
“I’m a musician, sir.”
“What do you play?”
“The spunes, sir.”
“What?”
“Spunes, like you eat yer dinna wi’.”
“Ah, yes. Do you have any music?”
“I canna read music, surr, I’m naturally gifted.”
Producing two spoons he started, “Ah should lak tae pay my tribute tae the late George Gershwin, by whistlin’ Rhapsody in Blue.” It was appalling! It had nothing to do with Rhapsody in Blue, he frequently dropped the spoons, with a cry of ‘Whoops, sorry sir’ and would then start all over again.
The auditions continued with soldiers who thought the world could be entertained by the walking on hands, the doing of cartwheels, press ups, somersaults and the standing on the head.
One idiot’s act consisted solely of falling flat on his back. “Is that all?” said the officer. “Yes sir, it takes it out of you.”
“Well take it out of here,” was the reply, but from the Auditions at map reference 345 675, in N. Africa came the best British Soldier Show of the war.
Captain Graham Leahmann
21st June 1943
It was a great day for Al Fildes. He won 195 francs on Nasrullah in the Derby. He felt good, and decided to buy the lads drinks. It cost him 200 francs.
22 June 1943
Ziama was a bay on the coast of North Africa. It was as unspoilt as at the beginning of time, so, the Army decided to fuck it up, and build a NAAFI and Rest Camp there. The beach was copper coloured, sunlight reflecting from the bottom gave the water a shimmering Caesar’s royal purple colour. Behind us were scrub covered hills, with Acacia trees where occasional troops of Barbary Apes could be seen, their little black faces peering down on their less fortunate brethren.
Water colour of beach and sea Ziamba, by Gunner Syd Carter
We had enjoyed a day of peace, sunshine and NAAFI. In the evening, without any warning — comes a cloud of red dust — travelling at 100 mph — it tries to blow the camp into the Med — but we find safety inside the lorries. We watch as tents are wrenched from the ground and blown out to sea, revealing the startled occupants still in bed. Staff wrestled to hold down the NAAFI marquee, flapping, like a giant eagle about to take off — a stream of cups, saucers, spoons and buns, shot out of the sides. The manager is yelling ‘Save the tea urns’. To add to it, monkeys are being blown through the camp — they seek refuge in trucks, huts, etc. The hessian wall of the latrines shoots skywards revealing a line of straining figures on poles, hanging on like grim death to the straining bar. This wind was the famous North Africa Sirocco. The sand was like a whip lash on the skin. We shelter in the driving cabs with the windows up. Men are running after their kit. It’s very dark — a monkey has bitten a gunner who tried to shoo him out of the back of his lorry. A fire has broken out on distant hills, the sky-line is aflame. “Has anyone phoned the fire brigade,” says Gunner Knott. “The number’s Bradford 999, it’s next to a mortician’s shop, I remember it caught fire one night and burnt all the stiffs, we were in the café next door eating eggs and chips.”
By midnight it had blown itself out, the camp was in a state. The NAAFI Sergeant was swearing. “The monkeys have eaten all the fuckin’ buns.”
“They’ll be dead in a week,” said Kidgell. He should know. Next day I’m floating on the waters when Lt Budden calls me from the shore. “Come in Gunner number 954024, your time is up.”
We were to pack up at once and report to L/Bdr Carter for duty with the new Concert Party. There was a lot of swearing from the lads. “What a bloody thing to do on the second day of our leave, they’ve got no respect for the dead.”
So back to Ain Abessa.
We returned at sunset. I wasn’t pissed, but there, on a trestle table was a seven foot hammer-headed shark.
Apparently the Major and Sgt ‘Max’ Muhleder set forth from Ziama in a rubber boat and started fishing with grenades. Suddenly a monster with eyes on oblique stalks shot up! “Shark! Row for your life Sergeant!!!” He already was. They got ashore, observed the monster still floating on top, and returned. Chater Jack with a loaded pistol just stops himself from saying ‘Hands up’. The creature was dead, and here it was, frying on a griddle and smelling delicious.
“Any chance of…”
“No, there fuckin’ isn’t,” says the Cook. “Ask the Major.”
From inside the Major’s tent I can hear straining of the type one only hears in the Gents at Leicester Square.
“Major Chater Jack sir?”
> “Milligan, can’t you see I’m busy,” more heavy straining, followed by a purple gasp. What was he doing??? Did he wear a secret appliance? There follows a creaking unoiled hinge sound, a gigantic heave, the unmistakable sound of a cork from a bottle, a great exhaling of breath followed by a pause, a swallowing sound then ‘Ahhhhhh, now what is it Milligan’ it was a different man speaking.
“It’s about your shark.”
“It hasn’t bitten you has it?”
I bargained for a slice of the shark in exchange for my next fruit cake. To duplicate the taste of a hammer-head shark, boil old newspapers in Sloan’s Liniment.
Suddenly came the Bad News. Major Chater Jack was being transferred to another regiment. Sadly he told us, “I’m leaving you all. I don’t want to, but it’s promotion, and you know what that means.”
“More lolly,” says a voice.
Sgt Griffin chirps up, “We’re sorry to see you go, sir and we wish you the best of luck,” or something like that. It didn’t matter, with his going the Battery was never the same again, we’d never been the same before, but now we were never going to be the same again.
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