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

by Spike Milligan

  “Our King is sending us to Naples to get Syph,” cries Smudger Smith.

  “Hoorayyyy,” comes the mob’s reply.

  It was a dreary nightmare journey, along worn muddy secondary roads in transport that was also secondary, in turn we looked like secondary troops, it all fitted.

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1943

  At mid-day we pulled into the Piazza Dante, clogged with vehicles and people. Italians are screaming at each other—some are screaming at walls some are screaming at themselves. The city pulsated with life, some drunks were pulsating with death, the pavements were crammed with pedestrians who overflowed on to the street, Allied soldiers, civilians, all jostled together. There was that peculiar smell of Italian cigarettes permeating the air. As we jump from the truck, several pretty girls are touting for restaurants, “Nica-a-food-anda-wine” says one ravishing little beauty; as bait she handed us a plate of fishcakes; delicious! “Molto buono,” I said. We followed her to a side street into a Trattoria.

  “This bloody menu’s in Italian,” moaned Wenham. We put away a mountain of spaghetti, some set about with a knife and fork. “This isn’t a meal, it’s a bloody puzzle,” said Wenham.

  “You’re supposed to swallow it long,” I said.

  “And lassoo me guts?”

  “How do the Ities manage to eat this day after day?” said Griffin.

  “Like I told you, with a fork.”

  Alf Fildes has his head back at forty-five degrees, it was something to do with the wineglass he was draining. “Ahhhh, lovely stuff.”

  “Be forewarned, all you Lochinvars,” said Deans, “there’s pox galore out here, one good screw and yer prick will swell up like a marrow and yer balls drops off.”

  “Now, why doesn’t Thomas Cook put that in his brochures? All that ‘See Lovely Naples and Sorrento, cities of Love and Music’ crap!! He should be saying Round Trip to Naples and back to an old English Syphilitic Ward, £67 return.”

  We window shopped. Such luxury goods! Silk shirts, stockings, watches, suits, shoes.

  “How come back ‘ome we got bleeding cardboard boots and suits made out of Gunny sacks in our shops and the Ities got all this?” said Fildes.

  “Ah! but we have better tanks, aeroplanes and guns,” I said with a cheerful inane grin.

  Fildes is looking at a magnificent ladies’ kimono. “What’s Seta Pura mean?”

  “It means Pure Seta,” I said.

  It was stockings and knickers that seemed to be the main purchases, thousands of parcels were in transit to wives, girlfriends (and some boyfriends), the basic reason was the sexual thrill the squaddie had in buying them and waiting for that inevitable letter back saying, “When you come home you can put them on for me.” Alas, by the time they got home some bloody American had already taken them off. I bought a leather cigarette case for my leather cigarettes, it was real hide and I bore in mind that if boiled, Kidgell would eat it. Fildes buys a silk bedspread, hair-pins, and guess what? Silk stockings. We repair to the new Mecca of the British Army, the Army and Navy Club! This one time Universal Store, now adapted as a Naafi, staffed by pretty girls.

  FILDES’ DIARY:

  Lounge, music room with Iti Trio, cakes, sandwiches, hot dinners, tea and silk stockings, all at reasonable prices, everywhere an air of elite comfort.

  So, if blokes in crumpled battle dresses with their boots up on the table, cheeks bulging with doughnuts and jam dribbling down was elite comfort! Then luxury would be a Gunner eating a bully beef sandwich in evening dress, seated in a workman’s hut.

  There are some ugly girls serving, a red-faced Infantryman is looking at one and saying ecstatically, “Corrrrr, just look at ‘er.” There is a time for ugly women, and World War 2 was it. I have seen desperate soldiers as handsome as Greek Gods escorting women who looked like Arthur Mullard in drag.

  Waitress at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, fanning flies off soldier’s soup.

  British troops being driven insane at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, 1943. The soldier slumped at the end is almost ready.

  We ensconced ourselves in the Lounge and listened to the Iti trio. The violin-leader was a thin, febrile male, circa seventy-two, deepest eyes, they appeared like two holes drilled in his head with someone from behind looking through. Another old man with bald head and a curly white moustache (or was it a curly head and a bald moustache?) played piano, a huge stomach forced him away from the keyboard, he had to play arms stretched. One more big dinner and he’d never make it. On drums, a Gorgeous Italian Girl with shoulder-length raven black hair. They were grinding their way through a selection of ‘Touristic’ melodies, ‘Pistol Packing Mamma’, ‘In the Mood’, it was totally unbearable.

  “I suppose he thinks ‘e’s Glen Miller,” I said.

  “He sounds more like bloody Max Miller,” said Fildes.

  Jam-Jar Griffin and Spike Deans are approaching, they are excited, they’ve been buying silk stockings. It’s late afternoon, we’ve had tea, we go and visit the Duomo; this was an interesting vaulted shopping Arcade, high enough for pigeons to fly within it. It’s cruciform in shape; after four hours’ walking around, so were we. In a moment of petroleum-induced madness we all piled into a dying Fiat taxi, the driver could barely see over the bonnet, we thought he was standing in a hole in the floor and propelling the vehicle on foot.

  A quick drive around town, then he dumped us back at the Piazza Dante; there was a terrible argument over the fare. Who was going to pay it? Inside every Christian there is a Jew shouting to get out.

  “We better get to the billet before it gets dark,” said Deans, who was being mother.

  The billet was on the dock front, we knew when we got to it, it was the only building standing. “Fifth Army (British Contingent) Transit Camp. All intakes report to the Guard Commander.” We hawked our stuff off the truck and presented ourselves at the Guard Room.

  “Yes! What is it?” said an officious, chubby, red-faced, totally idiot RE Sergeant.

  “If he was in Germany Hitler would make ‘im a Gauleiter,” said Wenham.

  “A Gauleiter? He couldn’t make a cigarette lighter,” said Jam-Jar.

  Words didn’t count here. We each produced our 48-hour passes. The sweaty Sergeant took them all, walked to the window and squinted at them, he took three minutes to digest each one.

  “They’re all the same, Sarge,” I said kindly.

  “No, they’re not!” he snapped. “Numbers and names are all different.”

  The shit. He then proceeded to laboriously enter our names in a book. He wheezed as he almost etched our details on the paper. “‘Oo’s senior here?” he said.

  “You are,” I replied.

  “I’m senior NCO with this party,” interjected Deans.

  “You’ll be responsible then,” said the shit.

  “Responsible for what, Sarge?”

  “Never mind what, you’re responsible, understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Deans crisply. “Partyyyy shunnnn.”

  We all did nothing.

  “From the right Number.”

  “6-12- 1091—2 3/3,” we said.

  “Partyyy Quickkkkkk March!”

  We all hibbled-hobbled out of step from the room, before the startled gaze of the shit.

  A large warehouse with beds.

  “Aye,” said a dopey room orderly. “We not bin open long, you first lot we ‘ad today.”

  “What time’s dinner?” we chorused.

  “Ooo, seven o’clock till eight.”

  We tried the dinner from seven to eight. It was bloody terrible.

  “You going out after this?” said Jam-Jar.

  “I don’t think so,” said Fildes. “I’m shagged out walking.”

  “I’m shagged out eating that bloody food,” said Griffin. “I think I’ll have an early night.”

  “Yes,” I said, “why don’t you all try your silk stockings on?”

  The dopey room orderly is putting black-outs up at the wind
ows. One miserable yellow bulb cast a depressing gloom around the room. We are all in bed when the air-raid warning goes. We all sit up.

  “What are we supposed to do?” said Wenham.

  “We’re supposed to be frightened,” I said, “quick, put your silk stockings on!”

  There was no sound of planes, and I fell asleep not knowing or caring. Tomorrow I must buy some silk stockings.

  SUNRISE, NOVEMBER 28, 1943

  MY DIARY:

  DID THE SAME TODAY AS WE DID YESTERDAY. VERY COLD, BUT SUNNY. MUST BUY SOME SILK STOCKINGS.

  FILDES’ DIARY:

  Leave today at two o’clock.

  We all lay in bed long after breakfast, anything to avoid it. We drive back into Naples, and after half an hour in the Army and Navy Club, we are off. Driver Kit Masters says we should be back by about “I don’t know when.”

  “Forty-eight hours! we spent fourteen of them at the Transit Camp,” estimates Griffin, “and how long did we spend in Naples? Four bloody hours, it’s all balls, we had absolutely no time for perversions.”

  “We’ll do some on the way back,” I said kindly.

  On that cold bumpy muddy ride back there were no perversions other than a ‘Jimmy Riddle’ over the tailboard. We arrived at Teano, there’s a God Almighty hold up, long lines of trucks are ahead of us, the drivers outside banging their hands on their sides to keep warm.

  FILDES’ DIARY:

  We got out and picked oranges and looked at the appalling damage to the town. An old man even excreted in the street with no comment.

  I don’t understand! ORANGES in midwinter? What had Fildes been drinking? and, crapping in the street with ‘no comment’? I mean, what was the old man supposed to say? Ole!

  We are off again, soon the sound of the guns comes wafting. It’s pitch-black outside, it’s pitch-black inside, there’s no choice.

  “So that was Naples,” said Fildes, “I can’t believe it, all this switching from civilisation to war, it’s hard to get it together.”

  The luminous ends of the cigarette are dancing in the dark. One flies out the back as its usefulness ends. We arrive back ‘home’ at eight o’clock, shagged. We make for the cook-house; after a mess-tin of steaming M & V,* we turn in; it’s very cold tonight, I sleep in my battle dress. Outside the rata-clack-squeak of tanks going north. *M & V. Meat and Veg.

  NOVEMBER 29, 1943

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  My watch says 0500 hours.

  “Wakey, wakey my arsey, why don’t you fuckey wuckey offey?” is my clear language reply.

  Oh dear, it’s no use, it’s Sergeant King, he says, “You are goin’ hup the Ho-Pee—it’s only for twenty-four hours.”

  “That’s long enough to get killed,” I said.

  In Sherwood’s bren carrier I travel a fifteen-mile road to Sipichiano. At times we are in full view of Jerry. He doesn’t shell us. But you have that feeling that any minute he will and that’s like being shelled.

  “How come they picked you?” said Sherwood.

  “I wasn’t quick enough.”

  Whee-crashhh!

  “He’s spotted us!” shouts Sherwood.

  He drives off the road behind a deserted farmhouse. Whee Crash. Whee Crash. 88s! Is he going to drop one behind the farm? No, he just goes along the road. Five more rounds and then stop. Is he waiting for us to come out? Only one way to find out. Sherwood revs up and then rushes out on to the road. I cringe…nothing, soon we’re safe behind covering ground. The OP was manned by Bombardier Eddy Edwards, Signaller ‘My brain hurts’ Birch and a Lieutenant from 18 Battery whose name I can’t remember and a face that’s left an indelible blank on my mind. The trench was in low scrub on a forward slope, indispersed among the Infantry and to our right an OP from 74 Mediums which I, muggins, had to crawl to, linking them up to us by phone. At the bottom of their trench grinning upwards is L/Bombardier Ken Carter. Little did I know I was looking at the man who would one day produce Crossroads. Had I known I would have killed him there and then. During the night I spoke to him on the phone. I’d heard he was putting together a new show. “Yes, it’s a pantomime…Ali Baba.”

  “Same cast as Stand Easy?”

  “Bigger, much bigger…about a hundred.”

  “Hundred? Christ, who’s left to fire the guns?”

  “I want it to be really big, West End stuff, the lads must be fed up with all those skinny bloody six-handed ENSA shows.”

  “Think you’ll be allowed to do it?”

  “Yes, I’ve already spoken to Brigadier Rogers.”

  “Did he speak to you, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another class barrier has fallen! Headline! Bombardier addresses Brigadier and lives.”

  Our hushed conversation was terminated by Jerry artillery.

  “I suppose it’s to keep us awake,” said Bombardier Edwards.

  Squatting in a trench for hours is hell. The pain at the back of the knees is exquisite. After dark we stand up to stretch ourselves.

  “What we need are detachable legs Mark One,” I said. “A heater in the seat of the trousers, a lubrication-point at the back of each knee, hollow rubber feet that can be filled with hot water, an electrified nose-muff, and a collapsible Po.”

  “I agree with all that, Bombardier,” said the Lieutenant, “save for the last mentioned. I think a Po would make a man lose that wild sense of freedom that he has as he sprays the foliage of Italy with a deft hand and a flick of the wrist.”

  The shelling is big stuff, Jerry 155mm, it’s falling about 200 yards to our right where the Infantry have some Vickers machine guns. The phone emits a faint buzz. I snatch up the hand set.

  “OP,” I whisper.

  “Command Post here.” It’s Pedlar Palmer, God’s gift to ugly women. “Line OK?” he says.

  “Yes…clear.”

  “Anything happening?”

  “A bit of Jerry shelling, that’s OK, it’s Edwards’ breath that’s killing us.”

  “You bastard,” said Edwards. Palmer continues,

  “It’s all quiet back here, anything up your end?”

  “No, there’s nothing up my end.”

  “Dirty little bugger you.” He goes.

  The shelling stops.

  “The poor darlings must be tired,” says the Lieutenant.

  A burst of heavy German machine-gun fire. A bren-gun starts to answer back with its laboured chug, chug, chug. Why did the idiot want to fire back? It was only upsetting Jerry! Christmas was coming, we should be making paper chains and funny hats to hang on the officers. We open our vacuum tea tube. It’s now very tannic and burns the tongue but it’s hot. The front goes quiet, a gossamer-thin quilt of light starts to furnish the sky to our east, it grows almost imperceptibly; a lone, very strong crowing cockerel shrills the air.

  “Silly cunt,” said Birch.

  A soft lush pink mounts the heavens and I watched overawed as it turns almost crimson, then pales into the lucidity of daylight. Hello, who’s this approaching on his stomach?

  “Sorry I’m late,” it says, as it slithers into the trench.

  Ah, I recognise those brown teeth, it’s Thornton, my relief. What a relief!

  “Sherwood’s waiting behind the hill to take you back in his little Noddy car.”

  I collected my small pack and crawled back, always conscious that a bloody German might spot me and riddle my arse with metal, but no! I’m safe and riding back in the bren carrier.

  “It’s dodgy along here,” says Sherwood.

  “It’s your own bloody fault for coming in daylight.”

  “Couldn’t help it,” he said. “Thornton was late seeing the MO.”

  “Excuses, bloody excuses, this bloody army is made up of them.”

  “Keep moaning,” said Sherwood. “It’s the only way to promotion.”

  Heeemmm Bammmmm! Wheeem Bamm! It’s the same bloody 88mm from yesterday! Lucky he has only spotted us as we go round a hairpin bend out of view.

&nbs
p; “We’re not safe yet,” said Sherwood. “Those bloody things can fire round corners.”

  They couldn’t. What they could do was wait for you to reappear, and when we did, he was waiting. Wheeeem Bammm! Wheeem Bammm! He was getting too close, we’d have to take evasive action. Sherwood pulls the carrier off the road down a very steep gradient, it takes us out of view but puts us at a perilous angle. We wait, listening intently. We know what to do, it’s a terrible trick, you wait for a vehicle going in the opposite direction, and while Jerry is following him, you scoot out the other way. This we did, some poor bastard in a recce car came by and got the lot, and Whoosh! the khaki cowards were gone!

  Back safe and sound, I collected my breakfast, and join the G Truck bivvy. The fire was being rekindled by Vic Nash, fresh from his bed and looking like the spirit of dawn in his shirt, boots, half a fag, and coughing his lungs up.

  “They didn’t get you then?” was his cheery greeting.

  “No, but you’ll be glad to know they nearly did.”

  “You could go back again.”

  “No, they’ve stopped piece work.”

  “Ahhhhhhggggg.”

  Enter Edgington, a dixie in one hand, a tea mug in the other. His unlaced boots reveal a late dash from bed to cookhouse.

  “My God, you got to be quick,” he said.

  Now Fildes enters eating and walking. “Ahhh Milligan…you just been up the OP, what’s it like?”

  “Darkness is the best time to go.”

  “Oh fuck! we’re going up in an hour’s time. I’m taking Mr Walker and the relief party. How far is it?”

  “About fifteen miles.”

  A spark from the fire has shot out into Edgington’s tea.

  “Ah well,” he says philosophically, “it can only improve it.”

  “I am now going to kip, as is my just due,” I said.

  What had started as a clear day now became overcast, and I hurried to sleep to avoid it. During that sleep the big push for Monte Camino was moving to its starting lines. Three Divisions. But what’s this on my bed? A piece of Army form blank with a St Andrew’s cross on it. Was this an invitation to a game of noughts and crosses? No, there in a clear hand was the warning: “The Phantom Arsole strikes again.” What had started as a promising day now grew black with clouds. I slept the clock round; that is, I went to sleep in November and woke up in December.