Zey are having zer breakfast, and he is vishing zem ‘get stuffed’ wiz zer food.
HITLER:
So, we have broken an nudder of zere codes; now, what is zer ‘Bollocks’ and ‘Up yours’?
GOEBBELS:
I do not know Führer.
HITLER:
(foaming at the mouth) Vhy don’t you know, you little crippled creep !
The scene:
He smashes the bath water with his fists and hits Doenitz below the plimsoll line
ADMIRAL DOENITZ:
Ach-mein bollocks!!
HITLER:
Vonderschoen ! anudder British Code has been broken ! I promote you from Admiral Doenitz to Field Marshal Goering !
The scene:
A knock on the door in Nazi
HITLER:
Who is zat!
VOICE:
Martin Bormann, I have zer message for you.
HITLER:
Slide it under the door.
The scene:
Sound of Bormann grunting
BORMANN:
It won’t go under.
HITLER:
Vy not?
BORMANN:
It’s in mein head.
The scene:
Hitler goes into a fury, bites his sponge to pieces, stops when he notices Goebbels doing something which will surely drive him blind
HITLER:
Stop zat! Or I’ll never go to zer pictures wiz you again.
The scene:
A wafer thin head covered in blood comes straining under the door
MARTIN BORMANN:
I haff done it mein Führer!
“What can you do?” lamented Shit-house Orderly Liddel, “this bloody rain has flooded the Karzis, there’s Richards↓ floating everywhere.”
≡ Richards = Richard the Third = Turd. Cockney rhyming slang.
Gunner Liddell inspecting the flooded latrines
We all had our troubles. Liddel was a dedicated Latrine Orderly, his twenty-seaters were immaculate, the squatting pole sandpapered to a fine degree, not once was there complaints of splinters. It wasn’t the subject I’d choose for breakfast but there you are.
“So, we’re going to a party,” said Gnr Payne.
“Yes, it’s somewhere on Sidi Mahomed.”
“That’ll be easy to find in the bloody dark.”
“Don’t worry. A Wog with a white stick is leading us.”
“What’s for breakfast.”
“Powdered eggs.”
“Christ knows how chickens lay ‘em.” I eased into Tume’s chair as he dashed off for his breakfast.
“Are you on this thing tonight?” asked Gunner Payne.
“Yes I’m going with Major Chater Jack on this thing.”
“Did he ask for you?”
“No I asked for him on this thing.”
My Diary:
6th April on this thing. Howling gale, intermittent rain. Gnr Tume, Bdr Andrews from 54 Heavy RA left at dusk. ‘Chater’ in high spirits (Johnnie Walker), asks me how ‘Highland Laddie’ goes.
Me:
It goes Dum-de dum-dum-dum with intermittent rain.
Major Chater Jack:
Thank you, I can manage on my own now.
We moved off at dusk into the approaching darkness, the noise of the wind making conversation difficult. I switched on the set, the red contact and the working light came alive. I donned headphones, tuned into battery network, the interference was appalling, the voice of Shapiro at the Command Post barely audible, so I went on to morse-key. The night was pitch black, the mud a foot deep with the differential constantly coming in contact with rocks. I tuned in B.B.C. News, passed spare headphones into the cab. “Very bad reception,” shouted Chater. “Yes sir, shall I write and complain?”
He said something, but was drowned out by the elements, “At once sir!” I said smartly. Two miles on we reached Sidi Mahmoud and started up hill. Driver Robinson puts his stamp on the evening, he lands us in a minefield. “Sorry sir,” his squeaky voice was saying. “I didn’t know what Achtung Minen meant.”
“It means instant bloody death man!” explained Chater Jack with remarkable control. Hanging over the tailboard I directed him back on our tracks and my face was spattered with yellow mud. “You’ve got mud on your face, ha ha ha ha,” said Bdr Edwards who was not noted for his wit. “It’s not mud,” I explained, “this is what happens when the shit hits the fan.”
“How does it go again ?” called Chater. I re-sang the opening bars with intermittent rain.
“Doesn’t he know any other tunes,” said Edwards.
“Any others’? Christ, he doesn’t know this one, he only brings me along as an amenuensis.”
“Amenuensis?”
“It’s what Eric Fenby was to Delius.”
“The dirty sod,” said Edwards who was not noted for his wit.
When we arrived at the O.P., the rain stopped but the war didn’t. Chater Jack ensconced himself in a splendidly roofed O.P., on the forward slopes on Sidi Mahmoud, reached by a communication trench. There to meet him were three artillery officers from 71 Field Artillery Group, holding maps. The truck was 50 yards behind the O.P. To avoid detection, we had to run the wireless remote control to the O.P. while I stayed on the truck to relay the orders. Meanwhile Tume and Andrews dug a trench.
Midnight, the wind almost a gale. In the back of the truck we sipped tea and played twilight pontoon, me with headphones listening on the Infantry network. A silent attack was to go in and take their objectives by 04.00, we were standing by if they called for fire. At 03.50 hrs. on our right, an Artillery barrage was to support the 78 Div. attack on the Munchar-Medjez-el-Bab front. As the hour came I thought of those young men going forward into darkness towards death or mutilation. At 03.50 the sky sang with flashing lights, a thunder of iron artillery rolled through the night, my wireless came alive with urgent voices, “Hello Baker Charlie 2, we’re pinned down by mortars at Wog-Dog Farm,” every call was a life and death affair, and here I was in comparative safety.
“Hello Milligan?” it was Chater Jack. “Yes sir—it goes Da-da-die—”
“No, no! I want to speak to ‘Sunray’.”↓
≡ Sunray: Code name for Battery Captain.
I moved the dial towards our own net, as I did the opening bars of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue filled my headphones, it was too much, I burst into tears. “What’s the matter,” said Driver Robinson.
“It’s a piece of music.”
“Must be fucking ‘orrible to make you cry.”
The music soared, the barrage raged on, turning the night red, green, orange, purple…Gunner Tume relieved me on the set. “There’s tea in the O.P.” he said.
I stumbled along the communication trench, the wind had dropped, I looked up, the sky was clearing.
In the dim light of the O.P. Chater Jack and three Officers were sipping tea. I saluted. To a man they ignored me. Two signallers squatting on the floor clutching telephones, writing messages and handing them to the officers who, to a man ignored them. Gunner Woods, slaving over a hot primus, filled my mug. The officers were talking, “I don’t like hybrid strains,” one was saying. “Too much like having a queer in the garden. Ha ha ha.”
“What a crowd of bloody fools,” I thought. “You should have come earlier,” whispered Woods, “they were on about the price of tennis shoes.” Chater was passing his whisky flask around.
A whole band of bloody fools
Suddenly, at 04.59 the Barrage stopped. The ‘phone buzzed. “For you sir,” said a buck-toothed Signaller. “Hello?” said Chater, “Right.” He put the ‘phone down. “Gentlemen, the North Irish Horse are going in,” he looked at his watch. “Dead on time,” he grinned.
“How’s the attack going sir,” I ventured.
“I haven’t had one yet Milligan,” he ventured. The junior officers laughed—they had to. They peered thru’ the slits into the night, where a myriad permutations of muzzle-flashes told their story. Woods grinn
ed at the sight of officers staring into the darkness with binoculars. “They’re our leaders,” he whispered, tapping his head. Dawn was emerging from our right, which was a good arrangement. Soon the battle panorama was revealed; in front, a large valley, on the far slopes, tanks of the North Irish Horse were fighting their way up Djbel Kachbia. To our left the and Hamps. were attacking the slopes of Djbel Mahdi. “We’ve got to get the set out of the truck,” says Tume hurriedly, “it’s got to pick up something.”
“Oh shit!”
“It could be that.”
We unloaded the set. Blast! The remote control cable wouldn’t reach the slit trench. “Oh shit II.” So we had to leave it on open ground, then, the bad news, a series of 88’s burst around us, we moved at considerable speed into a trench and huddled in the bottom, I let out a yell as a piece of red hot shrapnel fell on to my hand.
“There’s bloody luck!” said Tume, “hit by the enemy and no blood.”
“My Blighty one and it didn’t work,” I moaned.
Bombardier Andrews was sweating and pulling at his lower lip—I don’t know why, it looked long enough.
“How long does this go on,” he said.
“Until the war is finished,” I said.
“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Tume, seeing that Andrews was frightened. “Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes an hour, it depends which German’s on duty.” The wireless came to life, bravely Tume crawled out and put the headphones on—bravely I watched him do it. Luckily the shelling stopped. The battle was moving away. Sgt Dawson had arrived, he dismounted and let off. “Ah, that’s better,” he said. “Only for you,” I said running clear. “Come back you coward,” he shouted. “It’s one of ours.”
The rest of the day was a bore save for sudden rushes to hide from ME log’s and periodic visits to watch the Battle. We dined well on hot stew brought in vacuum containers. By sunset the battle had left us behind, we packed up and returned to Munchar.
A gunner piddling against the gunwheel watched his comrades
* * *
Divertissement Sept. 1973
As I sit in a suite on the 13th Floor of the Euro-building in Madrid, writing this volume, I reflect on that time 30 years ago, and the emotional analysis of those khaki days, have left such a deeply etched impression, that the whole spectrum actually re-inhabits my being with such remarkable freshness that the weight of the nostalgia is almost too much to bear, feelings that I had incurred in those days, towards people, incidents, nature, which I thought of as almost trivial, were really Of Titanic proportions, and ones, that I now realize were to stay fresh, and become more poignant as the years passed, and the desire to experience them all once again, be they good, bad or indifferent, became a haunting spectre that suddenly, during the course of a day, takes you unawares, a particular word, a scent, a colour, or song could trigger it off. It could be at, say, Ronnie Scott’s Club with a companion. Without warning someone plays a tune, and immediately, the surroundings and the companion become total strangers, and you long for those yester-ghosts to snatch you and rush you back to that magic day it happened. I used to scoff at my father’s looking forward to his annual World War I reunions, but now I know, you have to have them! In fact I was instrumental in getting our own D Battery reunions started, and lo and behold, the attendance increases every year.
Despite the friendships I have made since the war, it is always those early ones that have weight, understanding, confidence and mutual experience that I cling to. Though my best friend Harry Edgington has emigrated to New Zealand, we are closer than ever, I know that a particular tune will automatically make him think of the time we played it together, and the same applies to me. Our correspondence is prodigious, his letters fill 3 Boxfiles, likewise recorded tapes, in which he sends his latest compositions, asking my opinions. He sends me tapes that send me into gales of laughter and yet all these occasions are not really happy, and yet I welcome them, they give a most soul warming effect, it savours of satisfaction, and yet is emotionally inconclusive, it has become, like cocaine, addictive. Is it because with the future unknown, the present traumatic, that we find the past so secure?
* * *
April 8 1943: This way to another battle
At Sunset we drove to a rendezvous with Captain Rand, Bdr Edwards, Gunner Maunders in a Bren driven by Bdr Sherwood, it was dark when we met, “We’ll sleep here tonight,” said diminutive Captain Rand in a voice like Minnie Mouse. We slept fitfully by the roadside as trucks, tanks, etc. rumbled back and forth but inches from our heads.
April 8 1943: Djbel Mahdi
Up at first light, drove in the wake of a hurried Jerry retreat along the floor of a hot dust-choked valley, we passed still burning vehicles—some ours, some theirs. A few carbonised bodies—‘brew ups’ as Tank men called it. We stopped to pin-point our position, to my left, lying face down was the body of an Italian not long dead, the blood on his neck still oozing, lovingly, I removed his watch.↓ The Bren stopped at the foot of Djbel Mahdi.
≡ I gave it to my father, and it’s still in my mother’s possession.
The 2/4 Hamps were still digging in when we arrived. I followed Capt. Rand and Bdr Edwards uphill, unreeling the remote control from the wireless. Fuck! it didn’t reach. Rand and Edwards dropped on their bellies just below the crest. I had to run back, fix them a telephone that reached back to the remote control, so they shouted fire orders to me by telephone, and I passed them on by wireless. We didn’t have time to dig in, and Christ! a German ‘Stonk’ hit us—it was a rain of shells. To stay where I was meant death, so I ran to an Infantry Officers’ fox-hole. “Any room for one more?” I said.
“Sorry old boy, this is a one-man trench.”
I dived in head first as fresh shells landed.
“Well now it’s a bloody two-man trench.” I tell you! They are willing to let you die rather than move over! The shelling stopped. I got out and returned to duty—more shells—I found a small depression in the lee of some rocks.
“Where are you,” shouted a voice.
“I’m in a depression,” I said.
“Aren’t we all,” was the reply.
So far we hadn’t passed any fire orders, it was very hot, I asked Maunders on the wireless if he had any water. Yes. I started to run down to get some. A fresh mortar barrage. I lay face down, sweating. It stopped. An infantry man stopped by me, God knows where he came from.
God:
He came from the 2/4 Hampshire my son.
Me:
Ta.
The soldier delighted in telling me, “It’s no good hiding there, he’ll get you no matter what, if you haven’t got a trench, any minute now he should start his mortars, he dropped some this morning just where you’re lying.” All this got my back up (which by now was down by my ankles), “Why don’t you fuck off and join the German Army?” I thought he was going to shoot me but he cleared off. I was learning the strange quality of the human race. His kick was to find somebody who looked scared, and try and make him terrified. I suppose he liked feeling little girls’ bicycle saddles as well. A Hampshire private popped his head up from a funk hole. “If they attack, do you think we can hold ‘em?”
“Yes,” I said confidently, “there’s a barrage going down at 2.”
“Oh good,” he said.
I got some water from Maunders, then dashed up to my remote control in time to pass fire orders. It was 13.59 hours. At 14.00 the barrage went over followed by the infantry attack. From the crest I watched the P.B.I, going forward, down the slopes of Djbel Mahdi, across the valley and up the slope opposite. Men fell sideways and lay still, no one stopped, they reached the German F.D.L’.s, from the distance it looked comic. Men jumping out of holes with hands up, men running behind trees, leaping out of windows; it took about an hour. By 3 o’clock we had taken the position, but Jerry counter-attacked, we shelled him, and broke up the attack. Around a hill comes a British Officer, clowning at the head of about 50 PoW’s from the 1/755 Gren
adier Rgt, the young officer was Goose-stepping and shouting in Cod German “Zis is our last Territorial demand in Africa.” Be-him a stiff, bitter-faced Afrika Korp Oberlieutenant marched with all the military dignity he could muster, none of his men looked like the master-race. As they passed, our lads stood up in their fox-holes farting, and giving Nazi salutes; recalling the ritual of ancient conquerors riding on a palanquin and parading their prisoners of war behind them. Here there were shouts of “you square-head bastards” and “I bet we could beat you at fucking football as well.” Behind us across the valley Churchill tanks were attacking a low hill, up the valley came a squadron of FW log’s. We all let fly, we were feeling good, suddenly the leader burst into flames. Bdr Sherwood shouted “Look Spike, look!” The plane left the formation, went on its back in a slow death agony, then raced to the hills opposite and exploded. “Woah-ho!↓ Mahomed” we yelled.
≡ 1st Army battle cry.
“That’s for my brother,” said a bitter Irish voice. We were not out of mortar range but we kept getting small ‘Stonks’↓ of 88 mm’s landing behind the crest.
≡ Concentrations of Artillery fire.
I suddenly heard a scream. “I can’t stand it any longer, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” A young infantry lad came past, his face buried in his hands, accompanied by two old sweats. “There, there, lad,” one was saying, as they led him away. Poor bastard, sitting in a hole in the ground, just waiting, hoping the next batch of shells won’t get you. That night I slept fitfully in my shallow hole.
Jerry Straffing April 1943—from ditch near Djebel Munchar
Trauma
I was smoking a cigarette when the mortar bomb hit me, when I regained consciousness I was lying on my side, my left shoulder and arm were lying 20 feet away, my lung was protruding from my chest, flies were swarming on it, my sight faded, even tho’ I knew my eyes were open I couldn’t see, talk or move. I hear the voices of stretcher bearers. Thank God, if they hurried I might have a chance. “There’s one here,” said a voice. Another voice replied, “No, he’s dead, get the wounded ones first, bring him later.”
Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who Page 11
