Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who

by Spike Milligan

  “Where you taking me?”

  “Munchar.”

  “Munchar?”

  “Munchar. It’s a bombed village.”

  So it was. I was to relieve L/Bdr Wenham at the Command Post. He’d come up in strange splotches and was reporting sick. Munchar was a French Colonial Farming village now deserted. The whole village lay in the shadow of Djbel Munchar, a gigantic razor-backed rock, looking like a fossilized Dinosaur, cast by nature in grey-white granite, it reflected the colours of the day, pink at dawn, blazing white at noon, scarlet at sunset. By moonlight it looked awesome, like the hump of a colossal white killer whale, beyond it, waiting, lay the enemy.

  Djbel Munchar by Edgington

  I arrived about 9.30 a.m., the truck waited to take the ailing Wenham back, he was covered in dabs of some purple medicine. “It’s lurgi.” he grinned throwing his kit in the back. “You’ll like it here,” he said, “we’ve done fuck all for 3 days, and it’s been pissing down.”

  “Now the bad news?”

  “I’ve tested the set, the Dags are charged, the Don 5 is working, all you got to do is play with yourself and drink tea.”

  The billet was a bombed farm house, minus a roof, but the first floor kept off the rain. I entered the building. Inside was a room about 20 ft x 20, to the left a burnt staircase. Lying on the floor were two of the flowers of English manhood, Gunner Arthur Tume and Gunner Payne.

  “Hello Spike,” says Tume, “I’m just reading the Daily Mirror.”

  “You always were a daredevil.”

  “You’ll be glad to know that they’ve evacuated all our lads safely from Dunkirk.”

  “Thank God, one of them owes me money.”

  I dumped my kit in the corner. “Who’s on duty,” I said. “I am,” said Payne, “I’ve got my tin hat on.” He was cleaning his nails with a small hammer. “As you’re both lying down I think I can break the news, I am now Lance Bombardier Milligan.” Tume lowered his newspaper, “Oh Christ no.” The phone buzzed, “Hello,” said Payne, “19 Battery-all-action-packed Command Post. What? Yes, he’s arrived, and he says he’s a Lance Bombardier.” There was a howl of laughter from the other end and Payne hung up.

  The overcast sky was clearing and the sun shone. I reported to Lt Budden, who had one of the ‘rooms’.

  “Ah Gunner Milligan.”

  “It’s Bombardier Milligan now sir.”

  “Bombardier?” He turned and looked out the window. “Oh dear.” he said. “I’ll put you in the picture. We’re in support of the O.P.,” he laid out a map, and indicated the spot, “Lt Goldsmith and Bombardier Deans are up there, where the tea stain is, they’re pissed out of their minds. We are the carrying party for food, ammo, mail, fresh batteries, line testing and relief.”

  “Do we have to take the dog for a walk as well?” The floor was the bed, and while I was down there I did a rough pencil drawing that survived, though it’s so faint I’ve had to ink it over.

  Drawing—Inside Billet—Munchar

  I spent the morning exploring the house, burnt stairs (still strong enough to support one), to the First Floor, pitiful traces of happier days, a lady’s slipper, a burnt doll, some women’s magazines, a prayer book in French, and of all things, still hanging on the wall, a picture of M. Renaud. But lo! and behold in the room at the back was a piano, still playable but the floor adjacent had given way, so, I made no effort to play my attractive version of Chopsticks, which is not better than any other version, except I do it blindfolded standing on one leg with my trousers down. Oh I know it would mean nothing at a Chopin recital, but it had been well received in the NAAFI Canteen on Christmas Eve 1942, and who’s to say, during those long nights at the Carthusian Monastery in the Valedemosa, Chopin didn’t drop his trousers to compose the E Minor Nocturne? It was common knowledge that when he played in the relative minor of C, his legs overheated, atone time George Sands’ hands were a mass of burns. One afternoon the line-laying truck (Ma) halted by the door, and a long thing called Harry Edgington drew nigh, giving our special ‘choked scream’. I greeted him in my draws cellular. (I was counting my legs to see how near to Chopin I could get.) “And why,” he said, wriggling his ringers in the air, “are you in a state of dishabille?”

  “I’m practising to be Chopin’s legs.”

  “Good, I’m training to be George Sands’ teeth.” I told him about the piano, gleefully he ascended the blackened stairs as I dressed, I heard Edgington plunge into the keyboard, Big Fat Romantic chords G aug 9th + 11th + 13th—then, the music stopped, and started but now, very sad, I climbed the stairs and found him with the burnt doll propped on the music stand.

  “Blimey, this if sad,” he said taking the burnt doll in his hands. “It says the whole war. Ahh!” he said, “you’ve brought your trumpet, great, what is it? Honey Suckle?” I nodded. As I drew near the piano it became apparent, the sagging would not take our combined weight. So! There was the strange scene of Edgington and piano in the far corner and me in the doorway blowing a trumpet. We played a few of our favourite tunes. ‘What’s new’, ‘Have you met Miss Jones?’ A loud beeping from Ma Truck signalled the call for Edgington’s return. “Come on Paderewski!” came the irreverent voice of ‘Pedlar’ Palmer. “Hitler wants you to tune his piano!”

  Hitlergram No. 3369

  The scene:

  Midnight at Berchesgarten. In bed are A. Hitler, Eva Braun and her mother. The light goes on.

  HITLER:

  Vy is zat man saying mine name?

  EVA:

  Your fame is spreading darlink, zat man was in Africa !

  HITLER:

  Tell zat old boiler your mudder dat!

  HITLER’S MOTHER-IN-LAW:

  I heard you, you schwine! Zo zey know your name in Aftica, Russia, England, but you still have not given it to mein dear little Eva. (bursts into tears.)

  HITLER:

  Stop zat crying, or I promote you to Father-in-Law.

  Monkey 2 truck bumped and bounced away. Harry in the back, hat on sideways, posed eyes crossed, shouting—

  “I am Napoleon, I tell you I AM.”

  “You know Milligan,” said Lt Budden, “One of these days someone’s going to believe him.”

  “I believe him sir.”

  From the back room came the most terrifying tearing of wood, falling of masonry and the most God-awful crash, followed by swearing and twanging. The piano had fallen thru’ the floor into the Batman’s room, just missing Gunner Pill who was polishing his boots when the instrument arrived at his side.

  We rushed in to see him covered in dust, a gaping hole in the ceiling—the ruins of a French Colonial Piano on the floor.

  “Cor, bloody hell,” said the astonished Pill.

  “You never told me you were musical,” I said. Under the circumstances his reply was remarkably controlled, “Just missed my fuckin’ ‘ead!”

  It’s not often we had been detailed to:—

  “Clean up that mess of French Colonial Piano.”

  The area abounded with hot springs. To utilise this resource we dug a huge hole, dropped a canvas gun sheet in and diverted the waters thereto. One day, I observed a Gunner bathing in it when it rained, at which he rushed from the water to take shelter. Early one sunny morning, some fifty yards from the billet, skulking in the long grass was a canine-like creature, “Are there any wolves in Tunisia sir?” I asked Budden.

  “There are no wolves in Tunisia Milligan.” said Lt Budden looking at me very strangely. Through binoculars I saw it was a dog, a cross between an Alsatian and a Something Hairy. He was very thin, but then by God so was I. Every night I put some bully beef on a plate and left it out for him, and every night he would eat it, save for the nights I went out and ate it myself, I got hungry too. After a few days the dog had enough confidence to let us all touch him. He was nervous about coming into the house so I knocked up a kennel for him. I made it so nice, Gunner Tume asked if he could sleep in it and the dog sleep in his room. We named him Havelock Elli
s, don’t ask me why.

  Lt Budden enters from his room, his face almost obscured with shaving soap.

  “Is today the 26th or 27th,” he said.

  “It’s the 25th sir, you are at this moment shaving, your name is Lt Cecil Budden and—I know there are no wolves in Tunisia.” He peered at me. He had cut himself in several places, “Am I bleeding,” he said, “Yes sir,” I said “you are bleeding awful.” He walked vaguely round the room pouring blood and humming a Bach air, then exited. Between snatches of Bach he was speaking to Havelock, “There, did darling like that biscuit?” This was followed by growling, “Milligan, this dog is still half wild.”

  “Well only stroke the other half,” I said, “In any case your Bach is worse than his bite.”

  29 March

  Night. Loaded with supplies, I drove the Bren Carrier in torrential rain towards our O.P. on Frenchman’s Hill. Next to me, a sodden cigarette in his mouth sat Lt Budden. “I’m not looking forward to relieving Tony.” he said. I did not like driving at night because I suffered with night blindness. I kept walking into things, falling down holes and treading on sleeping comrades. I had trodden on Gunner Maunders so many times he asked me, should he change his name to Axminster, but, this night I didn’t tread on Gunner Maunders, no, I just drove straight into a Minefield. “Don’t worry’ I said ‘It’s one of ours.”

  “For God’s sake Milligan’ said Budden ‘You’ve only just been promoted.”

  “I’m sorry sir, a wolf ran across the road.”

  Using the massed cigarette lighters of the occupants, I backed out of the danger.

  “I see where I went wrong…I should have stayed a civilian.” With every one praying for Divine guidance we arrived at the foot of Frenchmans Hill. “ If this is his foot, he must be a big feller, ha ha ha ha ha ha,” I said. We loaded ourselves with rations and batteries and set off along a goat track. The rain had temporarily stopped, inviting Verey lights into the sky. We were all soaked to the skin and bloody miserable. “Someone up there doesn’t like us very much,” said Ernie Hart. “Someone down here doesn’t like him very much,” I said, “I think it’s on the cards that God is a German.”

  “Who ever he is, he’s got a weak bladder.”

  We stumbled and fell, sometimes we fell and stumbled which is exactly the same only the other way around (Eh?) We reached a swollen stream and crossed it on a narrow plank of wood, with Hart halfway across the plank started to wobble, but by using his superb balancing skill, he fell in.

  We toiled up the final slopes and eventually arrived at the O.P. trench covered with a tent and camouflaged with brush. We hammered on the tent pole.

  “Who’s there?” said a voice.

  “A band of Highly Trained Nymphomaniacs.”

  The tent flap flew open and an unshaven face that appeared to belong to Bombardier Deans appeared. “Ah. You must be the one that goes round frightening little children,” I said.

  We all squeezed into the tiny dugout. Hart, saturated, sat quietly steaming.

  “I see you brought your own water with you,” said Lt Goldsmith. He opened his new bottle of whisky, took a swig, passed the bottle saying “Anyone for gingivitis?” We sat cramped, passing the bottle to and fro, I was on the fro side and didn’t see much of it. We passed what little news we had, smoked our cigarettes, waited for the rain to stop but no, out into it we slithered, retracing our steps to the Bren, by midnight we were back at the G.P. billet with a very weary Lt Goldsmith and a pissed Bdr Deans who were welcomed back by a snarling ‘Havelock Ellis’.

  “Who does he belong to,” said Deans, “Himmler?”

  APRIL

  Mussolini-Gram

  April 1st

  The scene:

  Kitchen the Fascist H.Q. Via Veneto. Count Ciano, Claretta Petacci, they are eating Spaghetti. Mussolini has just been told of the Italian surrender.

  MUSSOLINI:

  Mamma mia! Dat-a Montgomery, he knocka-da shit outta my lov-ar-lee Ara-mee!

  CLARETTA PETACCI:

  Neveva-minda, coma to bed, Jig-a-Jig.

  MUSSOLINI:

  It’s dat-a-swine, Church-a-hill, it is alia his-a faulta! Wata-can I-a-do!

  PETACCI:

  Come-a-to-bed. Jig-a-Jig.

  COUNT CIANO:

  Hava some more-a Spaghetti!

  MUSSOLINI:

  Calla-da-Pope—musta pray for-a-my Army to knocka da shit outa da British. PETACCI: Coma-to-bed Jig-a-Jig.

  Air Raid Sirens

  MUSSOLINI:

  Quick-under da table.

  PETACCI:

  Itsa-aeasier-in-a-da-bed.

  The scene:

  A bomb explodes 12 miles away

  MUSSOLINI:

  Quick—give-a-me another Medal.

  COUNT CIANO:

  (crying) I want my Mamma.

  MUSSOLINI:

  Oh-shita!

  PETACCI:

  Jig-a-Jig!

  The war was now an accepted daily routine, we had “periods of utter boredom then bursts of sudden excitement,” as Colonel Grant had told us, from then on we went about saying “Hello Dick, are you in an ‘utter boredom period’?”

  “Oh no. I’m right in the middle of ‘Sudden burst of excitement’.”

  My own deranged friend Edgington wakes me up at dawn, saying “I’ve just come off guard and I’m having a sudden burst of excitement.” Of course, when it came to those sudden bursts Colonel Grant got his share. On April first he was bitten by an Arab Dog, and rushed back to England barking and foaming at the mouth, some say he’s still in Battersea Dogs Home.

  Colonel Grant:

  Let me out of this pen! I tell you I’m a Colonel in the Royal Artillery!

  Attendant:

  Sorry sir, according to our records you are a stray Arab dog, some seventy years old.

  April 4th

  The night of April 4th the rain was thundering down, we heard Havelock suddenly barking and snarling, there was a pistol shot. I doused the light, grabbed Tommy Gun, got out the back door, Jerry patrols were famous for throwing grenades into rooms. A long figure at the front door was saying “Pleese open ze door.” Someone said “It’s Charles Boyer!” It was the French farmer who owned the house, he had come back to ask us if we’d seen his dog, which was in fact Havelock Ellis who, in the dark had attacked him, and the Frenchman had shot him.

  We found Havelock in his kennel, a bullet in the head. God knows how he managed to get back, it’s the homing instinct, even if it’s only made from charge cases. We were all broken up about it. The Frenchman had brought us a bottle of wine. We drank it and cheered up a bit. Lt Goldsmith invited us all into his room, where he opened up his whisky. Alf Fildes got his guitar out, and I played ‘Parlez-moi d’amour’ on my trumpet. A strange evening, but then, weren’t they all? Next day we buried Havelock. I washed the blood off his face. We lined a large charge case with an old blanket, dug a respectably deep grave. Over it we mounted a board, and I wrote,

  Here lies the body

  of Havelock the Dog

  Shot in the head

  And dropped like a log.

  He was a very Good dog.

  April 1943

  I suppose he’s still there.

  April 6th 1943

  Battery Diary:

  Battery Commander to Sidi Mahmond O.P. as C.R.A. Dep for 71 Field Arty : Group.

  Munchar C.P. 08.00 hours. Pouring rain, and other things. Sgt ‘Georgie’ Dawson’s motorbike arrives which he drives straight into the room. “There’s going to be a big party tonight,” he grinned.

  “A party?” I said, “I can’t go, I haven’t a thing to wear!”

  “Good, it’s for nudists.” He proceeded to give details;

  Major Chater Jack, Gunner Woods, Gunner Tume, L/Bdr Milligan (oh shit), Bombardier Edwards, OPAck↓ and Bombardier Andrews from the recently arrived 54 Heavy Regiment.

  ≡ Observation Post Assistant.

  “He’s coming along for the experience,” said D
awson. He grinned evilly. It was deluging. The rain dripped in from every crack and seeped over the door sill.

  “The wireless truck will collect you at 19.00 hours.”

  “19.00?” I said. “That’s a pity, my watch only goes up to 12.” He passed a damp cigarette. “Ta,” I said. “I’ll have it valued later.” I donned my Gas Cape and with Dawson, prepared to dash from the cookhouse. “Right now!” yelled Dawson. Giving Red Indian War whoops we splashed across.

  “ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I’d left my bloody mess tins behind.”

  “Borrow mine,” says ‘Smudger’ Smith licking his tins clean.

  The room was a dark, damp, mess of muddy gunners, all chomping away at breakfast; all very gloomy.

  “Hands up those who haven’t been killed yet,” I said cheerily. The replies were “Get stuffed, Bollocks, and Up Yours,” a grand bunch of lads. “Good news men,” said a mud soaked creature, “Look,” he held open a Radio Times and pointed to this.

  DANCING CLUB

  Victor Silvester, well-known band-leader and dance expert, writes of his new series, ‘BBC Dancing Club’. It starts in the Forces programme on Wednesday.

  “Oh hooray,” I said, and grabbing Gunner Tume, I swept him into an ankle deep mud-waltz. “God you look lovely Gunner Tume!” I said.

  “Get stuffed.” he said breaking free.

  Hitlergram No. 361

  The scene:

  The Eagles Eyrie, in the bath are Hitler, Admiral Doenitz and Goebbels. Doenitz is playing with the German Navy.

  HITLER:

  Vat do zey mean, ‘Get stuffed’.

  GOEBBELS: