Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who

by Spike Milligan

  Me:

  I’m glad it’s not me.

  B-Smythe:

  That’s a selfish view.

  Me:

  Selfish Sir ? All I said was I’m glad it wasn’t me that died.

  B-Smythe:

  That’s not something to be glad about!

  Thornton:

  I think—

  Me:

  Sir! You want me to say ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t me that got killed’?

  B-Smythe:

  It’s better than being not sorry. Someone’s got to get killed in wars.

  Me:

  Well, someone was, it’s just that it wasn’t me.

  Thornton:

  I think—

  B-Smythe:

  I still say your attitude to death was selfish.

  Me:

  Look sir, mother went thru’ a lot of pain to have me, I was a 12 lb. baby, 11 lbs. was my head, me father spent a fortune for a Sergeant on my education, some days it was up to threepence a day, I’m not throwing all that away. My father still goes round with a begging bowl.

  Thornton:

  I think—

  B-Smythe:

  I still say your attitude to death was selfish.

  Milligan:

  Shellfish?

  Thornton:

  I think—

  Me:

  Sell? What do you think?

  Thornton:

  …Oh Christ—I’ve forgotten.

  Me:

  Well be a good boy, go outside and get killed to cheer up Lt Smythe.

  Off duty at 06.00 hours, went straight to bed and I think I died.

  Trauma

  “Panzers!” hissed a voice. I could hear the bogies screeching on the iron tracks, suddenly it loomed above me, the track pinioned me and crushed my feet. I felt the bones snap, it was coming up my thighs, I screamed blood, the monster was pushing my stomach up into the chest cavity. I could feel my intestines being forced up my throat, the blood was being squeezed up into my head, my skull burst under the pressure, my eyes were hanging on my chest, I was vomiting my intestines…

  April 14. Wednesday. 1943

  Midday, guns didn’t wake me but Lunch did. In daylight our newly painted green and yellow guns stood out dangerously against the chalk white surroundings, but, by ingenious draping with dark and light grey blankets they blended in splendidly. “It would have . been better if we’d painted the bloody rocks yellow and green,” said crazed voices who had to wait all day to get their blankets back and then rise at dawn to give them up again. Our O.P. was in a dodgy position on Djbel Chaouach being under mortar fire, hence the small sign by the O.P. trench. “For sale—no reasonable offer refused, owner forced to sell, apply Fear and Co.”

  At short notice I was rushing up to Chaouach O.P. to collect some dead batteries, idiot driver Cyril Bennett parks wireless truck in full view of Jerry, mortared to hell before we drove to safety.

  “Why did they shoot at us,” said Driver Bennett, “they could see we wasn’t armed.” Today that driver is Anthony Barber M.P. Another parcel from home! Fruit cake, holy medals, and soapy cigarettes. I divided the cake among the poor of the parish, we ate the lot in 20 minutes, it was a question of getting as much down you as soon as you could before the word got round. Chater Jack had got wind of it and entered the C.P. to find men with cheeks bulging.

  “What are you eating?” he said, his voice slightly strained. Lt Beauman-Smythe said “Wegge eaghting schom of Milligan’s Chake Suh,” sending out a stream of air borne crumbs in the Major’s face. Chater Jack scanned the cake flecked maw. “Any left?” he said hopefully but with dignity. I held up the empty tin. Chater Jack paused, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Next time Milligan…” he never concluded the statement, like a Napoleon at Waterloo he turned, and left.

  15 April 1943

  Hooray! I discovered a hand hewn room in the face of a cliff below our Command Post. Safety at last! I moved in. I awoke at 3 a.m. to the patter of tiny feet, I was crawling alive with fleas. I suppose delousing by the light of a candle could be considered ‘non essential war work’.

  0600: On duty again, a mass of bites and scratches.

  “What in Christ’s wrong with your face?” said Gunner Thornton.

  “Nothing wrong with it,” I said thru’ a thousand blotches. “It’s the new Helena Rubenstein Gunners Dawn-Kiss make up, it will soon be the rage of the ist Army.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Stage One Leprosy.” Let me describe Thornton, 36, old for a Gunner, but young for an Englishman, 5 foot 11 inches, about 11 stone, the removal of his boots brought him down to 8 stone. A handsom-ish face in the Gregory Peck mould but obviously there wasn’t room in the mould for him. Blue eyes with an honest frank look, even honest Jim, he smoked a briar pipe that only rested when he washed or slept, he never laughed out loud, primarily because his teeth shot out, he had a habit of scratching the back of his left hand whenever he was thinking, that’s why he never scratched the back of his left hand. The phone buzzed. “Command Post Answerin’,” I said. It was the O.P. “Action Stations, Moving Target, Range 11,500!…Angle of sight 45°! H.E. 119! Charge 4, Fire!” The guns burst into shuddering iron monsters, just as the dawn in all its majesty was coming up like thunder, but I couldn’t have cared a fuck less. I returned to my rocky room with a tin of D.D.T. put in fresh straw. Later that day, I arranged to allow Gnr Shapiro to move in with me during air attacks, at 2 fags a raid.

  A Bath-time an raid

  Through the hot afternoon we lay in our cool stone bower playing battleships. Suddenly an air raid explodes on the area, “a fags!” I said. Guns were going off in all directions, the sky a mass of explosions, shouts and yells, sounds of men running like the clappers. “It must be hell out there,” said Shapiro calmly. We looked at each other, the thought of all that shit flying about outside, with everybody crashing into each other was too much, we cried with laughter. I loaded my captured German rifle and loosed off a few rounds at a plane. It was one of ours. “Never mind,” said Shapiro. “You tried.” Our safe arbour soon became known, the next air raid there was a thunder of approaching boots, and 20 gunners dived into my tiny hideaway, “Two fags a time!” I shouted from underneath.

  Meanwhile with Tito in Jugoslavia

  The scene:

  A British Military Mission Drinking Club. It is made from packing cases. Inside, beside a hand crank gramophone, two British Officers are drinking ‘Buggery-and-Pissed-out-of-your-Mind Champagne’.

  RANDOLPH CHURCHILL:

  When I grow up I’m going to sue everybody for a living.

  EVELYN WAUGH:

  I’m braver than you.

  RANDOLPH:

  No you’re not, my daddy’s Winston Churchill.

  WAUGH:

  He’s a silly poo!

  RANDOLPH:

  Step outside and say that.

  Waugh goes outside.

  RANDOLPH:

  That’s got rid of him!

  WAUGH:

  (distant) He’s not out here!

  WAUGH:

  (returns having just buggered a shepherd) Ah! that’s better! I’m braver than you, I wear a woolly outer garment. I’m braver than anyone!. When a German plane comes over I never take cover, you know why?

  RANDOLPH:

  Yes, you’re a cunt.

  WAUGH:

  Don’t talk to me like that! When you write your Dad’s biography, I want to help you spell Dardanelles!

  The scene:

  Enter Tito.

  TITO:

  Haven’t you two Herberts cleaned up this Naafi yet?

  RANDOLPH:

  Sorry sir, but we’re waiting for SAS to parachute in Brooms.

  The scene:

  A bottle of Champagne explodes, all lay on the floor and shout ‘I’m braver than you are’ while Waugh buggers the lino.

  Friday, April 16th

  April the 16th. My birthday. I’m 25 years old. I requested the guns to fire a 21
gun salute, they said “Happy Birthday, piss off.” My family had sent me birthday card and another 3 holy medals, I now had 103—I used them as currency with the Arabs.

  There was bitter bloody fighting on Djbel Tanngouch, Heidous and Djbel Ang, all of them changing hands several times througkout the terrible day. In support of them, we fired continuously, the Gunners were out on their feet, but knew their lot was easy compared with the P.B.I, so they never complained. There was, however, an occasional cry of “Fuck this for a livin’.” Lt Tony Goldsmith at the O.P. did some deadly accurate shooting, and remained stoically calm through the most blistering mortaring. In between shoots he would phone command post.

  “Hello Milligan, I’m going to have a nap, would they turn the volume down on the guns.” He has eight days of his young life left.

  Something had held up our rations, rumour hath that:

  The rail link to the front was bombed.

  The rations were bombed

  The Arabs stole it and were bombed.

  Whatever, we were put on hard tack for 4 days. It was the first time in the war we had felt peckish. One night Fildes, myself and Hart were told to drive to a deserted farm at Chassart-Teffaha and pick up Lt Tony Goldsmith and Co. We were told, “Watch out for Jerry Patrols.” It was midnight when we arrived, the white-washed walls of the deserted farm showed blue in the moonlight. The engine stopped, the silence that followed was very eerie; we were in a quiet valley, the sound of guns blocked by the surrounding mountains.

  “Christ it’s quiet,” said Fildes.

  “BANGGG.” I said. “Is that better?”

  “Don’t take the piss Milligan or from now on I’ll play in F-sharp.”

  “Steady, Driver Fildes, you are a-speakin’ to one of His Majesty’s Non-commissioned H’officers of two months’ standing and four years layin’ down .”

  “Christ, it is quiet,” says Gnr Birch.

  “I’ll sing a song then.”

  Very softly I commenced ‘Oh God our Hope in Ages Past’ and ever so gently the lads joined in. We did one chorus.

  “Well, that has passed,” I said looking at my watch, “one minute three seconds of World War II in a most peaceful, harmonious manner.”

  “I’ve got a pain in my balls,” said Driver Bennett.

  “So have I,” I said, “his name is Lt Joe Mostyn.”

  “Is it safe to smoke here?” said Gnr Pool.

  “No! no matter where you smoke it’s dangerous, it destroys the lungs and stunts the growth.”

  “I’ve smoked 40 fags a day since I was 16 and I’m 6 foot 2 inches.”

  “But if you ‘adn’t smoked you’d have been 18 foot 3 inches.”

  “That’s a lot of balls.”

  “True, if you’re 18 foot 3 inches you might need a lot of balls.”

  “Where is Lt Goldsmith, it’s nearly half past one.”

  “Are you missing him darling,” I said.

  We had got out of the truck, it was getting chilly, we got back in the truck; we had a cigarette, then, asphyxiated by the smoke, we all got out of the truck, where it was chilly.

  “Two o’clock, where the bloody hell is he?”

  “You’re in charge Bombardier Milligan, do somethin’.”

  “Stand-at-ease!” I said, “Now, men, I suggest we get out our blankets, and kip down in the farmhouse in homage to our King.”

  “Ow did you get a stripe.”

  “I put the wrong jacket on.”

  We laid out on the stone floor.

  “Supposin’ Goldsmith turns up.”

  “He can lay on the floor as well, there’s no class distinction down here,” I said.

  “Christ I feel ‘ungry.”

  “So do I,” I said.

  “I’d love a good dinner now.”

  “So would I,” I said.

  Driver Bennett says “You know what I’d like now…a large steak, wiv chips, big long golden ones, fried tomatoes.”

  “Turn it up!”

  “Turn it up,” I said.

  “…wiv onions, crispy fried…”

  “Wiv onions, crispy fried,” I said.

  “Shut up, you’ll drive us all bloody mad.”

  “No! I want to hear his dinner, carry on.”

  “Carry on,” I said.

  “Then beans, big heap of beans.”

  “Stop it! Stop that grub talk,” shouts Fildes. “It’s torture.”

  “It’s torture.” I said.

  There was a second pause, pregnant with rumbling stomachs and gastric juices looking for food.

  “Eggs, 3 big fresh farm eggs fried in butter…”

  “Stop it! or I’ll thud you up the cobblers.”

  The menu stopped, but after 10 minutes a misery laden voice said, “You sod, I can’t get to sleep thinkin’ about it.”

  “I don’t think we should go on kipping here,” said Alf Fildes, “They’ll all be waiting for us to report back.”

  “O.K. lads,” I say. “Alf’s right, back on the truck.”

  “What a bloody life; this isn’t war, it’s silly buggers. Right now Churchill will be lying in bed, swiggin’ brandy, smoking cigars,” Driver Cyril puts on his boots. “Ere, my feet ‘ave swelled.”

  “No, they haven’t, cunt, they’re my boots.”

  Things righted, we drove off. It was 3.30-ish. “Where the bloody hell have you been Bombardier?” says ashen-faced Beauman-Smythe.

  “We’ve been waiting for Lt Goldsmith sir in the prone position.”

  “That was p hours ago!”

  “He didn’t show up sir, and I’m sorry I wasn’t killed.”

  He grinned. “Er—I’m sorry I shouted at you, it’s not getting much sleep makes me niggley, you’d better get some sleep, you have to go on again at 06.00 hours.”

  “Oh lovely, in 40 minutes’ time.”

  The fighting continued, confusion existed as to who, what and where, only those lonely men crouching in holes on the rocky Djbels knew the score. A note in the diary of Driver Alf Fildes says simply “Slept with trousers on for a change,” showing the careless rapture of the time. The duties were pretty heavy, guns firing almost non-stop in the day and Harrssing Fire at night.

  Saturday April 17th

  I’m 25 and one day old and I smoke soapy cigarettes. Gunner Edgington is out on M2 Truck, laying a line to the O.P. They stop for tea, it was infusing to a nicety when down came a black bird to peck off his nose in the shape of half a dozen M.E’.s all taking it in turns to bomb, and straff. As one man, our brave lads, pop-eyed with fear and nicotine stained shirt tails, are on the truck which goes from nought to sixty miles an hour in three seconds. Edging-ton, showing the phlegm of his Island race, runs bad for the tea, he is overtaking the truck when the M.E’.s let him have bullets thru’ the seams of his trousers, at which moment Edgington removes tin hat and places it over the tea .Save shrapnel pitted mudguards and flattened tyres they escaped unharmed, questioned later about his heroic action, he replied, “I didn’t want any bits to get in.”

  Sunday 18 April

  Weather getting very warm, all stripped to the waist. Gunner Woods and Driver Tibbs digging trenches.

  Woods:

  foot 2 inches. How far you down? Tibbs:

  foot 3 inches. Three feet. Woods:

  foot 2 inches. That’s no good you want to go down 8 feet. Tibbs:

  foot 3 inches. How the bloody hell am I going to get out? Woods:

  foot 2 inches. Dig another hole coming up.

  It’s a dark night, a heavy dew; the order rings from the Tannoy Speaker. “Fire.” Daddy Wilson echoes “Fire!” A colossal roar, gunners lean away to avoid the blast, some with hands over ears, the earth shakes, the momentum of the crew carried them automatically to put another shell in, to discover the great gun was missing. They stood, nit-like, poised for action. “The bloody thing’s gone.”

  It had indeed, bouncing backwards, over a cliff and crashing 50 feet below, just missing the tent of a sleeping Gunner Secombe of
321 Bty, 132 Field Regt. Like the Nazarene, the Sergeant, carrying an oil lamp was given to going among 25 Pounder gunners “and he sayeth ‘Blessed are they that have seen 7.2?’—‘What colour was it?’ And he hitteth them.”

  Sunday 18th April 1943

  Visited by a suspect Irish Catholic Priest. I was sitting in the Command Post drawing naked women on a message pad when he parted the canvas curtain.

  “Are dere any Catlicks in here?”

  I stood up. “Yes, father, I am, and so are these nude women I’ve drawn.”

  He was about 5 foot 4 inches, and painfully thin, his little pink neck thrust out the top of his Battle dress jacket like a ventriloquist’s dummy, his neck not touching the collar, I don’t think his body was in touch with his B.D. either. When he sat down I nearly had hysterics, the neck disappeared down the jacket, the collar coming up under his nose. He had bright blue eyes, which blinked very slowly like an owl, he sat there with a huge grin on his pink face, he looked at me and grinned, he looked at Lt Beauman-Smythe and grinned, finally he looked at Bdr Deans and grinned.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Father?” said Lt Beauman-Smythe.

  “Er—no tank you, I had one at the 5th Mediums, and annuder before dat at 155 Field, and annuder with the 6th Anti-Tank, and before dat…”

  “Would you like a tot of whisky?” interjected Beauman-Smythe.

  “Oh, now, dat would be nice,” he said and took his hat off.

  “He’s going to stay,” I thought. Beauman-Smythe drew from his buttock pocket (it used to be his hip but his braces had stretched), and poured a measure into the silver cup. “Now dis is nice, dis is verry nice,” said the little priest, he sniffed it, “Ah, dat smells real nice,” then, my God!!! in a flash he THREW it down his throat. Beauman-Smythe was so stunned all he could say was “Are you all right Father?”

  “Well,” he said, getting to his feet, “I better be going.” Yes, you better, I thought. We stood up, he left. Beauman-Smythe was thunderstruck, “Are all Catholic priests like him,” he said. “No sir, some are much taller,” I said.