Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall

by Spike Milligan

  “There’s a fortune awaiting the man who can invent portable holes. Edgington says this with a strained voice as he hurls a shovel of mud. There is a pause, then I sing:”

  Oles…Portable ‘Oleeees

  They’d be useful to all the troops including the Poles.

  Yes we need ‘oless, portable ‘oles.

  I’m stuck for words, so Edgington continues:

  “It would save us all for havin’ to dig like bloody moles.”

  He’s stuck, I continue:

  “Shovelling lumps of mud Is very bad for me. When I started I was six foot one But now I’m four foot three.”

  The flow of the muse is interrupted by the dreaded Major Evan Jenkins. He walks with his torso bent forward at a ‘’ere’s me nose, me arse is following’ angle. He looks at the hole.

  “Why aren’t you digging under a camouflage net?” he said, his little beady eyes boring into our souls. The answer came very simple:

  “We ‘aven’t got one, sir.”

  “Send someone at once to Wagon Lines and draw one.”

  “Yes, sir,” says Fuller, but the inflection sounded like “You bastard.”

  “Bombardier Hart, take Monkey Truck and collect a scrim net.”

  Hart grins, he offs and soon we watch Monkey Truck pull away up the road. Jenkins is still trouble-hunting.

  “Have you a track plan?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Where is it?”

  Hurriedly I invented the track plan. “We keep to the edge of the drop and when we reach the road we turn right under the trees, sir.”

  “Mmmm,” was all he said.

  A track plan was this: so as not to leave new trails all over the landscape, we all kept to one path to draw less attention from Jerry observation planes. As the entire landscape was one great churned-up mud bath it didn’t matter where you walked or drove, as the water in the mud washed away all traces of a track, but to keep the peace we pretended. We watched him as he dutifully walked along the edge of the drop keeping to the ‘track plan’ that didn’t exist. He did stop and pause once and look back as though he didn’t believe me, then he walked on. Fuck him.

  We continue combined digging and moaning. By evening we have a large dank Command Post ready. First thing, the fire!!! After the addition of twigs and a tin full of Derv, whoooosh, it ignites and settles down to give a friendly warmth. We hide inside for a while as Ben Wenham fixes up the lights.

  “Lazy buggers,” he says, seeing us all huddled around the fire.

  “Lazy buggers,” explodes Edgington. “Where were you when the shit hit the fan?”

  Specialists are coming in with their gear. Signallers are setting up the No. 22 wireless set, connecting up the batteries. Mr Wright is duty officer, he ducks under our black-out curtain and surveys our efforts, “Very nice, ten out of ten.” Ernie Hart has come in with extra firewood. “And what nice gunner is going to help bring in the Yule log?” He throws the firewood in a corner.

  Yule log! My God! It would soon be December…The first away from home.

  “Out of the bloody way,” says Shapiro, who backs in with a drum of Don 5 Cable. Behind him comes Pinchbeck, they’ve been laying a line from the OP and are well covered in muck.

  “Where would you like it, me Lord?” says Shapiro.

  I point to a spot by the wireless. Pinchbeck is baring the two wires with his pliers, and with professional deftness connects the telephone and buzzes the OP. Shapiro watches, a cigarette between his lips. Pinchbeck buzzes again, a look of anxiousness on his face. If the line isn’t through, it means they have to traverse the whole bloody line again to find what’s wrong. Pinchbeck smiles.

  “Hello, OP? OK?…Yes, fine here…what? You’ll be bloody lucky.” He grins and hangs up. “Cheeky buggers, they want to know if tea will be served on the lawn.”

  “Who was it?” I said.

  “Jam-Jar.”

  “Tea on the lawn,” mocks Ernie Hart. “Where ‘e lives he ‘asn’t got a bloody lawn.”

  “That is a truth,” says Edgington pontifically, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s face it, like us he is a common or garden citizen.”

  “…and,” I added, “as we haven’t got a garden or a common, that’s why we’re in this bloody hole in the ground.”

  “Grub up,” a voice from outside speaks and enters by pushing a dixie of hot stew, followed by a hand then a body belonging to Bombardier Edwards. There is a mass exodus, but I am clutched by the arm.

  “You stay and make like you’re on duty,” says Bombardier Fuller.

  Bugger! I seek solace in a fag. Opposite me, Lt. Wright sits on a wooden box reading a book. It made little difference if he was sitting on a book reading a wooden box. It’s all very cushy, with the fire going, with headphones on I’m wrapped up with the music. A tap on the shoulder, turning I see Ernie Hart.

  “I come to release you from your bondage.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “It’s M & V again.”

  “They must run out of it one day!”

  The batmen and slave labour have built a very fine officers’ mess cum billet, they have laboured the long day to achieve it, ‘Woody’ (Jenkins’ Batman) tells us.

  “Next we’s goin’ to build a bloody ‘otel with hot worter.”

  NOVEMBER 20, 1943

  The morning of November 20 burst cheerily on us with an exciting cold downpour. Gad! It was good to be alive, the question was, were we? We are concluding the finishing touches on the Command Post, a sandbagged blast wall on the open side of the dug-out. There are many brilliant minds at work in the war, Radar, Infra-Red Telescopes, Mulberry Harbours, but no bugger has invented how to get wet mud into a sandbag. We are almost pouring it in. When we seal the sandbag the mixture starts to squeeze through the hessian like thin spaghetti! We fill them to bursting, yet when we lay another bag on top, it flattens like a wafer.

  “This isn’t a job,” moans one miserable Gunner. “This is a bloody sentence!”

  17 Battery tell us they have managed to fire twenty rounds in the afternoon.

  “The bloody fools,” says Alf Fildes, “if we all kept quiet Jerry would pack up and go home.”

  Gunner Birch is amusing his little mind by standing on the sandbag and giggling as it sprouts myriad growths of mud spaghetti.

  “‘Ere,” he says in a surprised voice, “it’s sexy.”

  “Sexy,” says Bombardier Fuller. “You must be bloody hard up for it if you get the Colin’ watchin’ that.”

  Across the road a Battery of 3.7s let off a salvo of gunfire. The noise is such that all conversation is silent, we start miming, and it gets out of hand; Edgington is caught in the middle of an involved mime standing on one leg and licking the back of his right hand.

  “I give up, what was it?” I said. “A one-legged man eating a toffee apple?”

  We are silenced again by the 3.7s. While we cavorted in the mud, in the bright sunlit days on the Dodecanese the British are losing the Greek Islands to the Germans. It’s all on the News, in slanted terms. “British troops are fighting a ‘skilful’ retreat on the Isle of Leros. HQ Middle East Command say ‘The more we delay them, the better it is for us.’” As we listen to this statement the faces of the Gunners break into wry disbelieving smiles, who are they kidding?

  “It must be for home consumption,” says Trew. “My mother would listen to that and think we were winnin’.”

  It was strange coming from him because it was a fact that when Trew had sent his first photo of himself in Italy to his family, they wrote back and asked if we were losing. Birch had sent his photo (taken by a street photographer) back to his sweetheart, and she wrote back asking who it was. The worst was Gunner Collins, his family sent his photo back marked ‘Not known at this address’. My mother, father and brother had sent me a photo intended to boost my morale, taken by a neighbour in Brentwood. When I saw it I thought they were all convalescing from rabies. They were all white-faced, with fi
xed false-teeth smiles and staring eyes. The explanation was it was taken by magnesium flash, badly printed, and the photographer, Mr Wheel had asked them to ‘Open your eyes wide’ to get a good expression. The result, dead people standing up.

  Deans, Nash and Fildes have done a great job on their bivvy. It now has a fireplace, and so in the evenings Harry and I go in for a warm. It was one evening with the rain running in rivers that we cooked up a tune, ‘The Rocamanfina Rhumba’. From somewhere I had obtained an ocarina, and with Edgington banging on a box of matches we gradually bring the tune to life. The lyrics were:

  The Rhumba

  Caramba!

  Roca-manfina Rhumba

  All the natives say

  It’s a snappy little number

  Caramba.

  Roca-mana-fina way.

  Rocamanfina Rhumba

  Rocamanfina way.

  It was in the charts for about three weeks, but it never became a hit. Jam-Jar Griffin comes in, he’s heard the music.

  “Is this where all the action is?” he says, his bulk blocking the entrance. What a waistline! just under his armpits. It seemed wider than his shoulders, when he ‘jitterbugged’ he appeared to be wearing a lifebelt under his jacket.

  “Bloody Jerry officer at the OP! said the war would last another two years!”

  “I think he’s right,” I said.

  “Oh,” says Griffin, “he’s right, but…it was the arrogant way he said it, as though he was personally making it last two years. I told him where to bloody well get off, I said we could finish the war tomorrow, we just keep it going so we could kill off as many of you bastards as we can.”

  “That’s no way to talk to an officer,” I said. “Under the Geneva Convention he could report you for swearing at a prisoner of war and you’d be fined 10/- and a week to pay.”

  Jam-Jar puffed up in anger. “Swearing at him? He’s lucky I didn’t fuck him.”

  Jam-Jar Griffin about to be run over by a jeep.

  I understood his feelings, being at the OP is no holiday, being mortared and shelled along with infantry attacks starts to build up a ‘hate’. Whenever I was at the OP and saw any of our dead or wounded I really felt burned up with rage. Having lost many friends in the fighting it’s very hard to take a passive view…Gunner Forest had just come in our tent and asked if anybody could ‘read a letter to him’. Edgington volunteered; the letter readdressed from his parents’ home.

  “Prepare yourself for a slight shock,” said Edgington. “From the Borough of Ealing. Rates overdue up to the month of July 1940. Three pounds eighteen shillings. If not paid within twenty days proceedings will be taken.”

  Forest rose, took the letter! “Fookin’ ‘ell. A fookin’ rates demand.”

  At six o’clock it’s as black as a nigger’s bum at midnight; still no news of any firing. Rain. Deans is in his cooking mood and about to hurl on to us a giant long flour-and-water pudding with curried cabbage inside. It’s christened the Mongoid Monster.

  “I think we’re bloody lucky, all this grub, steaming hot, tea, marmalade duff to follow, high-altitude chocolate ration…” Edgington stops to poke some grub between his dinner manglers. “Those poor bloody Infantry lads, up in the front…”

  “You’re telling me,” says Jam-Jar. “The last OP we could only get grub up by mules and they were lucky not to be eaten…Oh yer, it’s cushy back here, this—” he looked around the humble interior. “This is fucking luxury.”

  “I am going to stagger you,” I said. “Luxury? You don’t know what it means.”

  I was feeling in my pockets for a tin of Manikin Cheroots that my father had sent in advance of Christmas. With a great gesture I took the brown tin, opened it and let their eyes feast on it.

  “Corrrr. Cigars!!!” Edgington shouted, then putting on his cross-eyed Ritz Brothers look, he took one with old world flourish and with a new world flourish stuck it behind his ear. The aroma after dinner was that of a London Club after the Port, we all felt relaxed, so we continued with our Ocarina, Guitar and Matchbox concert, this time with others joining in on empty mugs and tins. We sang and yarned until eleven o’clock, mad midnight fools that we were! Harry Edgington is singing a song he wrote to his unborn child:

  Your mum and I

  We spent a lifetime apart

  And through the war years

  We knew our heartaches

  But that’s over now

  And you’ve made your bow

  To your mum and I.

  We are all very moved, but not the 3.7 Gunners behind us, who let fly a shattering barrage. That wound up the concert. Good nights. In my damp roadside bed, with traffic a few feet from my head, I fall asleep to the tyre marks on my head.

  NOVEMBER 21, 1943

  MY DIARY:

  SUNNY EARLY MORNING. RUSH TO HANG BLANKETS OUT TO DRY.

  ALF FILDES’ DIARY:

  Began sunny but developed into the usual rain.

  REGIMENTAL DIARY:

  At mid-day 19 battery reported 2 guns ready for action. Bombard fired. Little improvement in weather.

  MRS GRONKS’ DIARY:

  Cat died. Cancelled milk.

  My watch points the hour of…???? My watch has stopped. Bombardier Syd ‘Butcher’ Price, he knows about watches.

  Bombardier Syd ‘Butcher’ Price wearing whitewashed boots for locating in the dark.

  “You have to wind it up, you see,” he said.

  How silly of me. Down in our little valley there is a small stream where women of the village do laundry. I approach one who is only too glad to accept my chocolate ration to do it, her name is Maria. Everybody in Italy is called Maria, the men, the dogs, the trees.

  With two guns nearly ready for firing, we’re all back on duty. Monkey 2 truck takes a party up the line to see if it’s still there. I have a good look around the area, there must be a hundred artillery pieces packed into a half mile square, ah!! Bombardier Marsden is up with the rations! A mob are assembled around the tailboard of the 15-cwt truck. Marsden and Dai Poole used to run the Naafi issue, Dai was stone deaf. If you gave him a hundred lire note with twenty lire change to come, he would put it into the cash box and ignore you. Repeated requests for change were met with deaf indifference. He must have made a fortune. After the war I saw him once, at a Symphony Concert. A strange disease has shown itself: Diesel Dermatitis, it’s mostly among the drivers. Doug Kidgell has his face covered in a purple dye.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s called Gentian Violet.”

  “You look like a leper.”

  “Yes. I’ve got a beggin’ bowl in me cab,” he giggled. He was up from the Wagon Lines to help winch some of the guns into position. “We’re behind that village over there,” he pointed towards San Domenica. This was Coletti, where RHQ were now ensconced in comfort; the dream of every Gunner was to get a job at RHQ, usually in a house, and thus home from home. At this moment that skinny bugger Evan Jenkins was in charge at RHQ in the absence of Colonel Scorsbie, who had left to visit the Regimental training area and visit ‘the sick in Naples Hospital’.

  “Visit the sick?” said Kidgell. “Who does he think he is, Florence Nightingale?”

  “No,” I said, “he’s more like Florence Nightingoon, the Lady with the Lump.”

  Mick Ryan is calling: “Kidgell…never mind orl dat chattin’, come and help get dis bluddy gun on der platform.”

  “Comin’, Sarge,” says Kidgell, and waddles (yes waddles, the short arse) away.

  “Quack, quack,” I shout after him; he doesn’t turn, but raises two fingers behind his back. I’m laughing when a lorry passes and speckles me with mud. What’s this? I’m on duty starting at 11.30 through till 2.30 along with Birch. Loaded with my writing pad, old Life magazines and two Mars bars from my Naafi purchases, I set myself up in the Command Post. Lt. Pride is there, he has his boot off, trying to hammer down a nail with a stone.

  “We start firing at 0100, Bombardier,” he said.

 
“On one leg apparently.”

  “If needs be, Milligan, yes.”

  “I will not stand in the way of a one-legged order, sir,” I said.

  Bombardier Deans is doing various computations on the Artillery board with a pencil that I swear is half an inch long.

  “Who’s at the OP?” I asked.

  “Lt. Walker, Nash, Griffin and Bombardier Edwards. I don’t know which signallers.” He cringes and says, “You won’t report me for that, will ‘ee young master?”

  Trouble with wireless communication; surrounded by mountains, reception is down to strength 3, I put up the extension aerial, no go. We have to transmit by talking in little dots and dashes, a test of one’s ability to remember morse code. I had a Charlie on the other end from RHQ who sent this message, “…Reviset Sit Reps enrot via Don Her,” translation ‘Sit-Reps enroute via Don R’.

  The rest of the day was a plague of these ‘messages’. One I just could not understand: “Cptlevinact for Cptbentlymo”…days later it came through in part two orders, “Captain Levine to act for Captain Bentley, MO”—by which time it was too late for Captain Levine to act for Captain Bentley because he had fallen and fractured his bloody ankle. So! we had two MOs ill!! At last the biter bitten. Bentley has diagnosed his own illness as Malaria, only to have another doctor diagnose it correctly as Jaundice. Not to lose face Bentley insists that the Medical Report states he has Malaria and Jaundice.

  We have a brief spell of gunfire from A and D Sub, a total of ten rounds apiece, then “Stand Down.” Bombardier Begent from the Gun speaks on the intercom.

  “Hello, Command Post, we haven’t had any Overseas News today, could we hear it this evening?”

  “The reception’s bad, mate,” I said, “but the war’s still on. How are the lads?”

  “Pissed off. If it weren’t for Naafi up today we’d have deserted.”

  “Never mind, it’ll soon be Christmas.”

  “Christmas? What’s that?”