There had been a time, when he was but three, his mother tucked him in and gave him his bottle. He’d come a long way since then.
The Morning After
My god! My head! Edgington’s head! Fildes’ head! Kidgell awoke me. “Who am I?” he said. There’s an inspection at 8.30 hours by Captain Leahmann, we had to ‘stand by your beds’, Edgington got as far as putting his vest on.
Then, exhausted, he just sat on his bed. Captain Leahmann said, “What is it?”
“It’s one of ours sir.”
“Why is it green?”
“It’s something to do with an abnormal fluid intake.”
He stopped at Kidgell, unshaven, two unseeing red eyes staring over the blanket top.
“Does his mother know?” he said. “Yes. It’s Spazolikons sir.”
“Spazolikons?”
“Yes sir, only he, being short, has got them low down.”
This was all done straight faced.
“Very good Bombardier, carry on,” said Leahmann and left the room. I heard him burst into convulsive laughter outside.
Corporal tickling the feet of a German prisoner to try and make him see the joke
Wed. 7 July 1943
Alf Fildes Diary:
Sorry to leave Bougie. 60 m to Djelli. Rehearsed in Glacier Cinema where we give show. Few civilians here. After short rehearsal we take a truck with band and posters to advertise show, funniest thing ever. Afternoon show fair, evening a wow! Standing room only. Crazy gang ad lib bits hilarious.
We packed up and set off to Djelli, 60 miles from Bougie. We drove along the spectacular Gulf of Bougie road, which hugged the coast. The scenery made mince-meat of tourists’ valhallas like Nice, Costa Blanca and Blackpool. We were billeted in rooms back stage. The matinee was not too well booked, but the evening shows were a sell-out, and, of course, the show was forever improving, more and more gags being fed in. It was tending to become a ‘Hellzapoppin’. In the show, Sergeant Hulland sang ‘Jerusalem’, and during this we took up positions behind the curtain, all joining in harmony. Just for fun, Ernie Evans pulled the curtain to reveal the ‘Holy Chorus’ standing in underpants, towels, with some holding beer mugs.
“If that’s the promised land, I don’t want to know,” said Carter.
“I’ve just heard that the invasion of Sicily started at three this morning,” said Al Fildes in the interval.
At the end of the show we announced the news. The audience cheered. At last things were going our way.
Unknown artist’s impression of the chaos during Ohsonovitchs’ act in Stand Easy
Friday 9th July 1943
Fildes’ Diary:
Success again! Crazy Gang looking’ half nuts in insane selection of dressing up gear. Spike on Harry’s shoulders, trombone case on head.
Edgington is 6 ft 3 — so with me on his shoulders it made loft 6, a trombone case on my head made us fifteen feet high. I am draped from waist downwards in a huge curtain that obscures Edgington — underneath is Kidgell holding a pole, with a boxing glove on, which shoots out hitting the bloke in front who is walking backwards spitting out ‘pretend teeth’.
Sunday 11th July
My Diary:
End of Tour. Packing up to return to unit.
We set off on a glorious sunny morning, loaded with local wines, cheese, fruits etc. Sprawled on top of the scenery is Edgington, his giant-saxophone wrapped in the Tricolore.
“Is it dead?” I said.
Driver Kidgell realizes it’s twenty minutes since breakfast.
“Got any dates?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes,” I said. “January the third 1895, and March the seventh 1923.”
Back at Ain Abessa mail is waiting. “What’s this? — Income Tax demand 1938-9?”
“Sir, it has been brought to our notice that in the year 1938/9 you received payments of money as a professional musician (see Sub. d. 3, para 9, section 76). Will you please remit immediately a list of payments received, dates and by whom the payments were made.” I send the following reply:
Date Place Band Leader Tune Payment
£ - s - d
1st Ja. “38 Scrabble
Rupture Appliances Ltd. Tom Danger Sweet Sue (2 chor.)
Little Dutch 0 - 10 - 1½
Annual Hernia Dance Time Bomb Tick-Toch Boom 0 - 14 - 3
May 6 ‘39 Dagenham District Rambles Club Eric Knotts. Honeysuckle Rose. 0 - 3 - 6
Aug. 23 ‘39 Leeds Cat Crematorium Social. Sir Henry Wood. God Save the King gratis
June 6 ‘40 Dunkirk Gen. Alexander. The Retreat gratis
Total £1 - 7 - 10½
July 1943
The heat; 115 degrees! The African sky, lost in the reflected glare of the sun, appears like a distant white mist. It is empty save for one lone kite circling high. Work has stopped for the day, I’m on my bed re-reading old news-papers, there is a picture of the Queen inspecting runner beans on a bombed site allotment in Bethnal Green, another of Dorothy Paget watching her horse Straight Deal training for the Derby, and a hundred year-old villager in Tadworth ringing the bell for Victory in Tunisia. Would it be more newsworthy if we saw the Queen, on Straight Deal, eating the runner beans while Dorothy Paget pulls the 100 year old villager’s Tadworth as he rings the bell for the start of the Derby, or the old man training 100 year old runner beans to climb up Dorothy Paget’s legs as the Queen pulls a rope attached to Straight Deal as it trains for the Victory in Tunis, or the Queen pulling Runner Beans as 100 year old Dorothy Paget inspects an old villager’s Victory bell for the Derby winner’s legs?
A tent is speaking. “I have a feeling, we should be home by Christmas.”
Christmas! I recalled my last one in England in 1942.
An OP on the coast of Bewhill. It was very cold, and I peered into the black of the English Channel — the bastards; they were only 20 miles away. Possibly, at that very moment Hitler was chasing Eva Braun with a sprig of holly. “Kom mein darlink — let us do it under zer miseltoe — It is Christmas. I’ll be Ping Crosby, dreaming on a white mattress.”
General Montgomery wondering why he is surrounded by Chinese generals — as he neither drinks nor smokes
The telephone buzzed.
“OP,” I answered. There was stifled laughter from the other end, then a voice disguised as a ruptured Etonian said, “Hell-o, who is that.”
“Gunner Milligan sir — who is that sir.”
“It’s Lt Shagadog.” A burst of hysterical laughter then — click. It rang again. “If that’s Lt Shagadog he can piss off.”
“This is Captain Martin — have you been drinking Milligan?”
At which moment there was a terrific explosion from the mined field to my right — “What was that, man?”
“I don’t know sir.”
“Go and see what it was.” How do you go and look for a bang that’s finished?
I ran down the hill — the grass in the mine field is on fire. A police constable on a bike said, “Ello, wot’s this then?”
I pointed. “I think a mine went off.” He shone his torch.
A butcher’s van arrived pulling a fire appliance — the Bexhill ARP Fire Brigade — a lot of little old men in pyjamas fell off it and started pulling a hose towards the fire.
“Put it out — ‘urry — afore the bloody Germans see it --—”
Just in time, we stop them walking into the mine field.
“We’ll have to use high pressure,” said one who was doing nothing, and was therefore in charge, “Where’s the nearest fire hydrant?”
The policeman thought and said, “Sea Road a mile away.”
“Hoses won’t reach that far — ahh,” he held one finger in the air — “Get the suction end in the sea lads.” Two little men throw their hose over the cliff. The tide’s out. “We must hurry,” shouted the leader, “before it goes out.”
It started to rain, and the fire fizzled out. I returned to the OP to the sound of a midget voice playing at high speed.
>
My God! Captain Martin! I grabbed the phone.
“Where the hell have you been, I’ve missed six rounds.”
Did he mean boxing or drinks? I explained the story.
“Be more careful in future,” was his final command.
Peace settled on the land.
“Is anyone in the Sentry Box.” It was an old lady.
“What is it, madam, this is a military area, civilians aren’t allowed here.”
“I am a military,” she said, “the WVS Reserve. Are those men on the cliff looking for my dog?”
“No.”
The dog THE DOG!!! of course!!!
“Do you live near the mine field?” I said.
“Right behind it…when the Germans come we’ll have a lovely view of them going up…I’ve put gran’s chair near the window.”
The news could have been broken to her less painfully.
Next morning a policeman arrived, unwrapped a bit of newspaper revealing a tail, a leg and a collar.
“Is this your dog?” he said.
General Alexander showing troops how to play a concertina when you haven’t got one
Tuesday 10th August 1943
My diary:
Since the Concert Party terminated, there had been unending demands from all Regiments for its return, so lucky lucky lucky, we start re-rehearsing. We are to do two more shows then fini. It’s much the same as the old show except a few changes. Beryl Southby, a girlfriend in Norwood, sent a new tune ‘Happy Go Lucky’ which we used for the finale.
Fri. 13 August 1943
Al Fildes’ Diary:
Show a wow: During this all the Battery were away on a Calibration shoot out to sea near Rest Camp. From Ain Abessa we can see the gunflashes at night. Feels as if the war is coming close again. I don’t like it.
Sat. 14 August
My Diary:
Last night of show, Party on stage afterwards.
This was a send up with everyone doing everyone else’s Jet. It went on until 2 a.m. and the wine flowed like water; towards the end of the evening it tasted like it.
Sun. 15 August 1943
I don’t believe it! The whole Band are on guard, with me as guard commander! What a shambles we looked on parade. Edgington 6 foot 3, next to him Doug Kidgell 5 foot 6. Edgington had forgotten his gaiters and to do up his boot laces. The Battery returned during the guard mounting, and the cat-calls were too much to bear.
On August the 18th, our life of semi torpor and lotus eating came to an abrupt end. Suddenly, we were overwhelmed by a training programme that seemed intent on destroying us before the Germans did. It started with 20 mile route marches in full FSMO, through raging torrents, down thorn covered ravines, and up cactus covered cliffs. I left camp every morning a youth of 23, and came back at night looking like a seventy year old charlady. Even when you threw yourself on your bed, your legs went on marching.
“When this war’s over I’m never going to stand up again.” said Kidgell.
Chinese defecating into a German tank just to show which side he’s on
The programme reached its climax with a week on the Artillery ranges at Chateaux Dun in the most god-forsaken inhospitable countryside I’d ever seen. The ground was covered with loose hard rocks, so uneven, one sprained an ankle a day, and I only had two. We were issued with new No 19 and No 22 wireless sets which had to be carried on our backs. I watched as Major Jenkins led Edgington and Bombardier Trew up a sixty degree slope of crumbling rock, Edgington humping two batteries weighing a hundred pounds and Trew with a wireless on his back. In the broiling sun I don’t know how they did it. I was link man between the OP and the Gun, both ½ a mile away, I had to spend 48 hours on my own in utter loneliness without sight or sound of human habitation. At night I was terrified by strange sniffing sounds and for protection did that childlike thing, put my head under the blanket. Finally, on September the 4th it was all over. The Regiment left, leaving behind a small party of ‘cleaner uppers’, of which I was put in charge. We had to collect all the rubbish and bury it. We took our time. By the evening we’d finished and drove back.
It was a warm, dark night, the air caressing, the palm trees appear as velvet cut outs, the meadows of heaven are chorusing stars. The glow of Edgington’s cigarette bounced in the dark corner of the lorry. No-one spoke, which was rare ‘ for us. We really were shagged out. It’s 2100 hrs, the lorry : gradually slowed to a halt. “Ain Abessa centre of the Universe,” said Driver Shipman. “All change.” Did he mean ; underwear? Edgington jumped down from the tail board like a lad of twenty and hit the ground like a man of ninety. That 5 night we slept like dead men. Even a thunder storm in the night didn’t wake us.
Sept. 5th 1943
Battery Diary:
All light vehicles left for Phillipville staging at Ain Milia.
This means we lost Al Fildes. We said goodbye, “see you somewhere some time.” He gave us a thumbs up and a smile as he drove off with the convoy. It was all happening. We were given no rest. Intensive signal training. We had to learn new Signalling Codes, we had to adopt the American phonetics. A used to be Ack, it was now Able, B used to be Beer, it was now Baker and so on. We were told to replace all our old kit, for most of us that meant everything, our KD’s were so threadbare the Arabs refused to steal them, my underwear on a line looked like distress signals from shipwrecked tramps.
Condition of L/Bdr Milligan’s kit at end of Tunis Campaign
8th September 1943
Italy have surrendered!
An Italian soldier, having been captured, takes up the culinary art in hopes of opening a Trattoria in London
9th September 1943
5th Army lands at Salerno; there is heavy fighting. 8th Army lands in the South unopposed.
The days that followed were all focused on the wireless news about Salerno, it was obvious that it was pretty tricky going, with the 8th Army hurrying up the coast to link up with the 5th.
On the 13th of September Alexander signalled Churchill, “I consider situation critical,” of course I didn’t know that at the time, no, I had to buy Alexander’s Biography in 1973 to find out and by then it was too late for me to worry. It was a near thing! All our vehicles are being waterproofed, it looks like a beach landing.
“Oh yes, waterproof the bloody vehicles, what about us?” says Gunner White, “it doesn’t matter if we drown.”
10th September 1943
Loading party return from Phillipville, where they have been loading vehicles onto cargo ships, we’re all puzzled, if we were waterproofing vehicles why are they on cargo ships????
“Somewhere, Harry,” I said, “there is a lunatic. Every day he’s taken from Colney Hatch, locked in a room with a phone at the War Office, he phones through a series of orders and these are transmitted directly to us.”
Edgington nodded his head and laughed. “It’s something like that,” he said.
Now dear reader, a blank appears in my memory, all there is in my diary is the word PISSED. This happened between Sept. l0th and the 11th. But I recall arriving back in a lorry with Edgington to Ain Abessa to discover the Camp deserted.
“They’ve deserted without us,” said Edgington jumping down.
“Wait! an oil lamp glows in yon Nissen hut,” I said.
A figure filled the doorway. It was Bdr Fuller. “Where’s everybody?” I said.
“They’ve gone to secret destination 397,” says Fuller donning his crash helmet.
He gave us 15 minutes to pack any gear we had left in the Nissen hut. We were all a bit dazed by the change of events, here we were looking forward to a good night’s sleep, and now we were off to somewhere.
“This is an outrage,” said Edgington as he strained, lifted and hurled his kit onto the lorry.
“It’s also an inrage,” I said, carefully mixing my kit with his.
“We’ve got to catch up with the main convoy,” said Fuller, “they’re 10 hours ahead.”
“Australia’s only 8.”
“Let’s chase that — it’s nearer.”
“Hurry up,” shouts Fuller, “we’re keeping Adolf waiting.”
“Fuck ‘im,” said a voice under some strain.
“Right away.” Edgington slams the tailboard, and bangs on the side.
Off we drive in exactly the same direction from which we had come. With a rolled blanket for a pillow, I fell into a deep sleep. I awoke with a start, we appeared to be driving over a field of corrugated iron, the vibrations moved us about like chess pieces. Edgington, still asleep, passed me on his way to the tailboard, the quality of the vibrations changed and Edgington passed me again. Through the back of the lorry I saw a late moon, it bounced like a ping pong ball as the lorry jolted. Edgington was going towards the tailboard again, he was awake. “Wot’s the time?” he yawned. I held up my wrist-watch waiting for a shaft of moonlight.
“Well…what’s the time?”
“I’m waiting for the moon.”
“You can tell the time by the moon?”
“It’s exactly 0400.”
“What is?”
“The moon.”
We slept fitfully on, at intervals we heard trucks going the other way. While we slept the Anglo American 5th Army were locked in a grim slaughtering battle. It was touch and go, with Kesselring throwing everything in to hurl the Allies back into the sea. If he did, it would be a devastating blow, especially for Churchill who conceived the idea of attacking the soft underbelly of Europe, though troops in the beach head would be saying, “soft underbelly, my arse!”
Memoires 03 (1976) - Monty, His Part in my Victory Page 7
