Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall
Page 21
“What do you mean ‘back to front’?…make up yer bloody mind.”
Ahh! the Royal Artillery Band are striking up. Boom, bang, crash, ta ra ra ra bimmm, the Bass Drummer is so short we can’t see his head above the drum, just a pair of legs hanging underneath.
“19 Batteryyyyyyy……………Attennnnnn……shun! Riiiiiiiiighttttt…turn! Kweekkkkkkk MMMMarchhhhh!”
We swing along the road in the direction of the town and past the saluting base, which appears to be a gunner in the crouching position covered with a blanket. On it stand the GOC and the OC2 AGRA. As we swing past them, there is a subtle waft of whisky.
“Eyeeeeessssssss Right,” roars the command.
We stamp along in fine style, we don’t know where we’re headed, but we are marching as if we do. The step is getting ragged as the band goes out of earshot, the rhythmic marching becomes a great mass of overlapping steps that sound like we’re in an echo chamber. We reach the outskirts of town and are dismissed.
“Now then,” commenced BSM Griffin, “there’s two hours to see around the town, the lorries will be back ‘ere to pick us up at—” he looked at his wrist, realised he’d forgotten his watch but went on “—at 1500 hours. Any late ‘uns will have to walk back. Right, disssss…misssss.”
We repair to a cafe. Ernie Hart points to a sign saying ‘English soldiers welcome’, in chalk someone had added ‘and their MONEY’. It’s the same semi-gloomy interior, a grubby Iti and a mountainous wife.
“Quatro cafe and Quatro Cognac,” I signalled.
We sit at a circular iron-topped table that I seized like a steering wheel and started to make motor-car sounds.
“I’m driving this bar to a better area,” I said, crouching over the table. “Brrrrrr Parp Parp.”
Italians at other tables are looking at me and smiling, the British don’t usually behave like this. We stayed there till we were stoned. We are all decidedly happy as the lorries tumble-dry us back to the farm, where we arrive dead on the stroke of one. Those who aren’t dead we carry back to their beds. By six o’clock, after plenty of tea, we were sobering up. All talk is of Christmas. Those who had parcels from home were feeling them, smelling them, tearing little holes and peeping in.
Spike Deans had over the pre-Christmas months been keeping a supply of wine and Marsala in which G and T truck had all paid in so much per week; he, for some reason, had added sugar to the wines, and at this very moment was calling the faithful, “G Truck and T Truck members this way to intestinal trouble.”
He had the bottles uncorked, and we presented our mugs for the seasonal cheer. By eight o’clock we were all very merry again; we went to the gun-teams’ billets and sang carols. Well-meaning insults were hurled from the windows above. Back in our billet, we went to bed and continued consuming the last of the wine.
There was something grim about going to bed in a coal-bunker on Christmas Eve. As I got in, I remember all those child Christmasses when my mother and my grandmother tucked me up in bed, my face red with excitement at the coming of Father Christmas, the magnitude to the child mind of new toys on the morrow, the trying-to-get-to-sleep-so-as-to-wake-up-early feeling. There was no joy ever quite like that. I tried not to think of all those happy yester-Christmasses, but in the dark they came flooding back to me. I had always wanted toy soldiers, now I was one myself. The billet was mouse quiet. Were they all thinking like me? Outside, a cold wind was playing the trees. Christmas. Somewhere in the rest of this fucked-up world there were still children wide awake. Someone had started snoring, so he had escaped from his nostalgia. Christmas Eve, God, it was quiet, or was I just making it seem that way? No good, I couldn’t sleep. I lit up a cigarette. Christmas Eve. What was Mum doing? Dad? Desmond? The Christmas tree at 50 Riseldine Road; we always had a small one in the front room, we bought it from Wheelers at Honor Oak Park. Dad would always buy a bottle of sweet Sherry, a bottle of Port, three bottles of Brown Ale and two large ones of Lemonade, all from Lovibonds, the off-licence on Brockley Rise. All the bottles were saved, as Desmond would take them and get a few pennies on the empties. The Trifle!!! I remember that, I enjoyed it even more than the chicken (we couldn’t afford turkey)…all that custard, that cream. At some hour during those kaleidoscope memories, sleep must have taken me. Away to the north of us, our sister Batteries were sending out a Christmas message of death and having the compliment returned by an equally unseasonal enemy.
CHRISTMAS DAY, DECEMBER 25, 1943
ALF FILDES’ DIARY:
Sgt.-Major Griffin and Sgts. wake us with tea and rum and we’re off!
MY DIARY:
LATE REVEILLE, DON’T HAVE TO GET UP. BSM AND SGTS. BRING US TEA AND RUM IN BED.
It was all too much. “Give us a kiss, Sarge,” I said as Mick Ryan filled my battered tea mug.
“You’ll kiss me arse,” he says. An unbearable thought.
All around, smiling gunners are sitting up like old ladies in Geriatric Wards, grinning. “Merry Christmas,” they say to each other. We linger over the Rum-laden tea.
“There’s a carol service at RHQ, at 11.00, if anybody wants to go.”
Why not? It’s Christmas, the season of goodwill? Nobody went. A Regimental Parson in a barn merrily sang ‘The First Noel’, all by himself. Fried Eggs and Bacon for breakkers! Wow!!!
The morning was spent fiddling around with the stage and props. All seemed set; we then concentrated on thinking about Christmas dinner.
Soldier and Italians trampling on a German soldier in back of lorry.
“I will eat mine very, very slowly. I want it to last as long as possible,” said Gunner White.
“They say there’s tinned turkey on the menu,” I said.
“How do you know?” said Kidgell, his stomach revolving at the thought.
“I heard a rumour.”
“Look, mate,” said Kidgell, “I don’t want a rumour of a turkey, I want a real bloody one, parson’s nose and all.” So saying, he ran off to practise eating.
A detail of layabouts had been rounded up and a long makeshift table laid out in an adjacent barn. It consisted of long planks resting on trestles, blankets for tablecloths; someone with a soul had stuck thorn-leaves into some tins to resemble holly. BSM Griffin’s voice rings on the air.
“Come and get it!”
We take off like sprinters and collide as we try to squeeze through the door. Thundering ahead is Kidgell, his legs barely touching the ground; pounding behind him is Gunner White, his tongue dragging along the floor. The cry goes up, “For God’s sake stop Kidgell before he gets there or we’ll get bugger all.”
Like a jig-saw puzzle we all fit into place around the table. We sat on an assortment of chairs, stools, tins, logs. We are served, as is the tradition of the Royal Artillery, by the Officers and Sergeants. Lieutenant Walker is the wine waiter; himself having partaken of several pre-lunch drinks he is missing the glasses by a substantial amount. Gunner Musclewhite has a lap full of white Chianti, and Gunner Bailey is getting red wine among his greens. The Sergeants are ladelling out tinned turkey, pork, beef, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots and gravy. None of our ‘waiters’ are quite sober and there is an overlap at the end of the dinner when Sgt. Ryan is pouring custard over the turkey. As the wine takes effect, the chatter and laughter increase. For duff we have Christmas pudding and custard.
“‘Urry up, you buggers,” said Sgt. ‘Daddy’ Wilson, “we’re waitin’ to ‘ave ours.”
There seemed endless helpings and unlimited supplies of red and white wine, but it was a long way from the Dickensian Christmas around a log fire in the parlour, with Grandma and Grandpa present. However, when you are pissed, all that nostalgia goes out the window. Gunner Smudger Smith stands on his chair and sings ‘Bang away Lulu’.
Bang away Lulu,
Bang away Lulu,
Bang away, good and strong,
What you gonna do
When you want a blow through
And yer Lulu’s dead an’ gorn.
’Daddy’ Wilson, eldest member of the battery, aged 93
We gave the Sergeants and the Officers a cheer and in that order. We left the table lookin like Genghis Khan’s horse-men had galloped over it. I felt as though they’d galloped over me. There was aught but sleep it all off. We washed our mess-tins in the three separate troughs—WASH, RINSE, DISINFECT, for those interested in detail—these were made from oil drums sawn in half and filled with the requisite liquid. In fact there was to be a ‘Quickie’ in the concert where ‘Brutarse’ stabs Julius Geezer, then proceeds to Wash, Rinse and Disinfect the murder weapon.
Those who had thoughts of getting into Naples were frustrated, as the city was declared out of bounds due to typhus. “Merry Typhus,” some of them were saying. The great moment is drawing nigh, the Concert! The audience are arriving early, most of them with bottles of beer stuffed in their coats. The programmes they are reading were as below:
* * *
PROGRAMME OF CONCERT
Introduction: Spike Milligan and Erbs (Session No. 1).
Joe Slater (vocalist, tenor): “As Time Goes By’.
Sgt. King, normally known as Ross King: “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God’.
THE ROYAL HORSE HILLBILLIES (otherwise Milligan, Edgington, Fildes, Kidgell and White).
George Shipman (baritone): “Shipmates o’ Mine’.
Webster: Scotland for ever.
THE GREATEST ITEM EVER. ALLINSCRAP: Man Mountain Deans (142lb including tin hat & Small Arms) versus The Barnsley Basher (Rollicking Robinson, 156 ½ lb including truck, less tools) Referee: The Younger Griff.
Community Singing: All the old favourites, led by Spike.
BSM Griffin (The Ancient Griff): “The Great Mystery’.
Douglas Kidgell: Songs you all know and hate.
Reg Griffin, assisted by Ken Deans (Spike No. 2).
L/Bdr. A. Smythe, otherwise known as Smudger Smiff.
Sgt. Lawrence: “Air-burst by Guinness’. 13a. Doug mad act.
Duke Edgington at the piano.
Bags of Back-Chat from Joe Kearns.
Spike Milligan and the Erbs once again.
Leslie Spence.
Command Post Follies.
Scene 1—the only one!!! Same as before! In the Field.
Cast in order of appearance.
Gunner and overworked Ack: Lt. R. D. Walker, RA
Sergeant: Gnr. V. Nash
1st Subaltern GFC 1: L/Bdr. Milligan T.
2nd Subaltern GFO 2: Bdr. Deans K.
Battery Captain: Gnr. Edgington H.
Battery Commander: L/Bdr. Griffin R.
Two Signallers: (Gnr. J. White)
(Gnr J. Kearns)
FINALE—The Whole Shower. “Jogging along to the Regimental Gallop’ (tune of ‘Whistling Rufus”).
FINIS
Note: Blokes attending Concert will be searched at door for hand grenades, bad fruit or packets of ‘Veees’. If M & V is thrown, please retain tin for salvage.
* * *
The Show
The ‘artistes’ are hidden from view behind a screen of blankets that have run the length of the hall. Behind it all the secrets of showbiz are poised to hurl on an unsuspecting audience. The building reverberates to the buzz of conversation. We open with a chord behind the curtains, then I shout:
“Ladies and Gentlemen! the 19 Battery Christmas Show!” The Band swings into ‘We’re the Boys from Battery D’, then switch to our two ocarinas for the Rocamanfina Rhumba. In the absence of a good finish the band all shout HOI! Curtain down, we dash off to change. We hear Gunner Joe Slater in his strangled tenor singing As Time Goes By. Edgington is left behind to accompany him on piano. We keep an ear on the song:
Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date
Songs full of passion
Jealousy and hate…
Joe Slater, out of his tiny mind with bullshit
“I should be singing this,” said Kidgell, as he stuck his stringy beard on.
“Harry will have to be quick,” said Fildes. “He’s only got ‘The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God’ to change in.”
Edgington rushes in while Slater is still taking his applause. “Where’s me beard?” he gabbled. We help him into his gear and soon he looks like Zeke MacCoy of Coon County. Sgt. King is on and getting a hard time from the lads.
“He was worshipped by the ranks.”
“Was he fuck!’” came an authoritative cockney voice from the back.
“You’re on,” says Jam-Jar.
Fildes, White and Kidgell set themselves up on the stage. Edgington and I wait in the wings.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Royal Horse Hillbillies.”
Boos, etc. Curtain up. The scene, three hillbillies, seated, drinking Racoon Juice and ‘Barr’s Sweat’ from our rum-ration jugs. Gales of uncontrollable laughter. Why? Gunner White is showing a pair of testicles hanging in full view from under his nightshirt. Fildes is paring his toenails with a jack-knife; in his hands he holds a dozen three-inch bolts that he drops as his toenails are pared. Kidgell swigs his ‘Racoon’s Piss’, spits, and from the back of the hall comes a Danggggggggg! as BSM Griffin hits an empty 25-pounder shell-case. BANGGG! BANGGG! Edgington and I let off our blank cartridge muskets. We had never tried them before, so loud was the explosion that a great gasp of ‘Corrr bloody hell’ ran through the audience. At the same time two tin plates dislodged from the roof and covered us in a patina of rust.
“Don’t fire any more,” said a terrified Sloggit, who was working the curtains.
Enter Edgington and Milligan.
Kidgell:
“War yew tew bin?” (SPIT AND DANGGGGGG).
Spike:
“We dun just kilt a barrrr” (SPIT AND DANG).
Edgington:
“Beegest Barrrr I ever seed” (SPIT…LONG PAUSE SMALL TING!!!).
Spike:
“That barr, when I seed him he dun growl, so Ahhh growls back, he leans ter the laift, so Ahh leans to the laift, he scratches his balls, so Ahh scratch ma balls…then that barrrrr dun a shit, and I said Barrrr yew got me there…I dun that when I fust seed yew…”
A few more gags like that, then we all sing ‘Ah Like Mountain Music’, Fildes on the guitar, me and Edgington on ocarinas, Kidgell on the ‘Racoon’s Piss’ Jar. The music was interspersed with rhythmic spits and distant Dangsssss!!! in tempo, and we went off a treat.
“Gunner Shipman will now sing ‘Shipmate of Mine’,” announces Jam-Jar. “‘Ees never seen a bleedin’ ship,” heckles a voice.
The curtain goes back to reveal Edgington at the piano in bare feet, dressed as a hillbilly. Shipman has a pleasant baritone voice inaudible in the low register; he insists on walking about as he sings, causing numerous clink-clanks from the stage. His song is frequently interrupted by hissed whispers from the wings, “Keep still.” He stops in mid song to ask the voice what it is saying. “Keep still, the floor’s squeaking when you walk about.” He then continues except that his last position was on the extreme right of the stage, so we have a spectacle of a piano one side, an empty stage, and a singing gunner on the extreme right. He is well received.
Jock Webster follows with a series of hoary old Scottish jokes. “Is anything worn under the kilt? Nai man! everything’s in perfect working order,” etc. etc.
To the great mock fight ‘twixt Deans and Robinson. They appeared in Long Johns and plimsolls. They had been rehearsing this mock fight for a week, but it was all pointless, as in the first few moments Deans took a right hander to the chin that had him groggy, and from then on Robinson had to nurse him along. The crowd barracks, “Kill ‘im…call a priest…send ‘im ‘ome…” The ‘fight’ went t
he whole distance and they were given an ovation, especially Deans who now had blood running down his chin. His parting remark, “You want blood, you bastards, well, you got it.”
Next, I and the mob in community singing. American officers were baffled by songs like:
I painted her,
I painted her,
Up her belly and down her back
In every hole and every crack
I painted her,
I painted her,
I painted her old tomater over and over again.
It’s BSM Griffin now, and he’s had quite a skinful and does a conjuring act that to this day neither I nor anyone else understands. He doesn’t even remember it; he sat hidden under a blanket pushing cards out through the slit asking, “What is it?” A member of the audience would identify it: “Ace of Spades.” He would take it back inside the blanket and from his obscurity say, “So it is.” I think he got booed off, and seemed well pleased with it.
Kidgell next, his old favourites, ‘Sweet Mystery of Life’, ‘Drigo’s Serenade’. He has a very good voice.
“He ought to have had it trained,” said Edgington.
“To run errands,” added Fildes.
Kidgell had announced himself, “I will sing songs you all know and love.”
Voices of horror from the back. “Ohhhh Nooo.”
When Doug had finished the same voice said, “I didn’t love or know any of ‘em.”
Behind the stage Sid Carter has opened a few bottles of wine to celebrate the show going well.
“We should wait till the end really,” he said, “but with this mob there might not be any bloody end.”
Edgington is at the piano playing his own tunes with that grim bloody look on his face, as if he expected a shot to ring out from the audience. One of the notes went dead on him and he brought forth laughter whenever he came to the missing note, as he stood up and sang the note himself. Next, from Liverpool, we have a real ‘Scouse’, Joe Kearns. He tells lots of Liverpudlian jokes like “My owd man’s got a glass eye, one night he swallowed it, he went to see the doctor, doctor said drop ‘em, bend down, and he sees this glass eye lookin’ at him out the back and he says, ‘Wot’s the matter, don’t you trust me?’”