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

by Spike Milligan

  After him the Band are on again. We play a favourite of ours, ‘Tangerine’, and what in those days was a red-hot number, ‘Watch the Birdie’. We didn’t go that well because the boys had heard us so many times at dances. The Finale was a send-up of Major ‘Jumbo’ Jenkins in Command Post Follies, in which we took the piss out of him in no uncertain fashion. He was fuming, but put a fixed grin on his silly face. We conclude with the cast singing ‘Jogging Along to the Regimental Gallop’ to the tune of Jenkins’ own favourite, ‘Whistling Rufus’, and by God, we got a mighty ovation at the end.

  The officers came backstage to congratulate us, and with consummate skill drink all our grog. We all got pretty tanked up; long after everyone had gone to bed Harry and I sat on the stage drinking and re-running the show. It had been a great night.

  “Now what?” said Edgington.

  Now what indeed.

  BOXING DAY, DECEMBER 26, 1943

  News of Amalfi

  As if Christmas had not been wonderful enough—out of the line, dry beds, good grub, visits to Naples with free Venereal Disease!—we get more good news. It was like hearing you’d won the Irish Sweepstake, the moment you’d just discovered Gold in your garden. We were in bed after our first concert when down the line came the message. The following personnel will proceed on four days’ leave to the Amalfi AGRA Rest Camp, and lo! it’s the Concert Party.

  “Amalfi?” says Edgington, rearranging his cigarettes for the night. “What is an Amalfi?” says White.

  “It sounds like a high-powered Iti motor car,” says Edgington.

  But I, I, know-all/well-educated-Milligan tell them, “It’s an Italian village that lies along the Divine Coast, south of Naples and south-east of Catford, 6,000 miles south-east of Catford I’m glad to say.”

  Amalfi? There must be some mistake!!! Gunners don’t go to the Divine Coast, they only go to the karzi; but folks, it was all true!

  9.30, MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943

  We were loaded on to our three-tonner, like merry cattle. We were all in cracking spirits; it was December 27, a crisp sunny morning, though Edgington is overcast, cloudy with rain on high ground.

  “I had a drop too much last night,” he said. “It was a mere thousand feet,” he said, imitating W. C. Fields.

  I continued in the same voice, “That’s perfectly true, my dear, he was making love to Grace on a clifftop when suddenly he went over the side, that’s how he fell from Grace.” Groans!

  From the back we were watching the column of military traffic going up the line, and in between the pitiful civilian transport. There were loads of pretty girls who came under fire from the tailboard. The cries ranged from “I can do you a power of good, me dear,” to the less poetic “Me give you ten inches of pork sword, darlin’.” It’s strange none of the soldiers in Shakespeare talked like this. If Shakespeare had been in the army he would have sounded more like ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more—cor, look at those knockers—or fill this wall up with our English dead—grab “old of this, darlin’.” We’re travelling south down route six, along the line of a Roman Road.

  “It’s not the Via Appia,” said Edgington, “but I have—ha, ha—never been ‘appier.” Groans. He pretends to hurl himself out of the lorry.

  The roads were really a series of holes joined together; we spent the time yoyoing between the floor and the roof of the lorry. Sometimes to ease the jolting we hung on to the roof supports with feet off the floor, making monkey faces and scratching under the arms, all clever stuff. Edgington is demonstrating how he can hang by his insteps. We hit a bump, he goes straight down on his nut.

  A few songs to alleviate the boredom.

  I’ll never forget the day I joined the Army on the spree,

  To be a greasy gunner in the Royal Artillery.

  For my heart is aching and a-breaking,

  To be in Civvy Street once more.

  Oh you ought to see the drivers on a Friday night

  A-polishing up their harness in the pale moonlight,

  For there’s going to be inspection in the morning

  And the Battery Sergeant Major will be there,

  He’ll be there—he’ll be there, In the little harness room across the square.

  And when they’re filing out for water I’ll be shagging the Colonel’s daughter

  In the little harness room across the square!

  I’d come a long way since I was Altar Boy at St Saviour’s Church, Brockley Rise. We are going through Capua at a speed that would have left Hannibal and his lads a long way behind. Driver Wilson has put a spurt on and we are being shook to buggery. I clasp my legs.

  “Ohhhhh.”

  “What’s up?” says Edgington.

  “Nothing—just practising.”

  On, on through Santa Maria, Afrigola, the outskirts of Naples. At the Piazza Dante we get out to stretch our legs and have a slash; we are besieged by Neapolitan Street-Urchins, ‘Scunazziti’, who sell everything from cigarettes to sisters. How could they ever lead normal lives after this? The square is a mass of lorries, jeeps and trucks, large numbers of soldiers drunk and otherwise are either arriving or leaving. The Americans are bumptious. They have a great sense of humour, if you’re about five.

  “Come on, you lot, we’re leavin’,” Driver Wilson is yelling above the noise.

  On to Amalfi! It’s still a nice clear day but cold, the sun shines and bounces off the Gulf of Napoli. To our left looms Mount Vesuvius; white smoke drifts lazily from its crater.

  “I wonder who’s workin’ the boiler room,” says Griffin.

  Jam-Jar Griffin! He was big, gawky, dark-haired, brown eyes, six foot, when unshaven always looked like the villain in the Mickey Mouse comics. I never saw him down, in fact he was far too often up, a great morale-booster. He had a huge pipe in which he never seemed to have any baccy. With the greatest guffaw I’d heard, which you could even hear above the guns, he was one of the real characters and therefore invaluable in the run of human affairs.

  Jam-Jar Griffin begging for tobacco on the Amalfi seafront.

  We had been four hours on the truck, and travel boredom had set in. Lots of the lads were squatted on the floor, trying to doze, and only a few occasional words were heard.

  “Bloody lost, ain’t we?” says Vic Nash. “Are we lost?” he shouts through the canvas to the driver.

  “No, we’re not bloody lost,” is the reply. “Stop moanin’ or I’ll go into reverse.”

  “Is Amalfi in Italy,” says Spike Deans, and looks at me.

  “It is in Italy and we must be nearly there.” As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO.

  We all perk up, and the view from the back of the lorry starts to get beautiful, with the sea on the left and mountains to our right. We have many hairy moments trying to negotiate the numerous bends with loony Italian drivers coming the other way. Snuggled along this coast were small fishing villages that looked like those over-syrupy buildings in Disney cartoons, yet they were real. The war had been kind to this coast; the only sign of destruction was our lorry.

  “Oh Christ, how much longer? Five bloody hours, you can fly from London to Moscow in that time.”

  A small squad of unshaven Carabinieri come marching along the narrow road; they are broken up by the passing of our lorry. They reform and continue marching smartly out of step.

  The lorry is stopping! AMALFI! Cheers! We pull up on the seafront, opposite is a large barrack-like building. A freshly-painted white sign says ‘2 AGRA Rest Camp’. The whole village is built on steps that ascend up the mountains; the buildings are a mixture of white, sky blue, pink and deep blue; down the centre of the village runs a stream. I could see the odd lady doing her laundry in it and several small boys doing other things in it. The whole place has architectutal maturity; there are numerous creepers and vines growing in profusion on the walls and balconies. In summer it must be a riot of flowers, ri
ght now it’s a riot of gunners, there is a scramble as we dash for the best beds (if any); a Bombardier, all Base Depot smartness personified, says, “Follow me, 19 Battery Personnel.”

  ALF FILDES’ DIARY:

  …Great! Tablecloths, writing and leisure room, laundry facilities, barbers and SPRING BEDS! in the dormitories. No Roll-Calls! Breakfast from 7-30 to 8.30.

  We were on the third floor in a dormitory of about thirty beds. No pictures, no curtains, no chairs, just beds. Edging-ton is testing his by his usual method, ten paces back, a run, then hurl yourself on.

  “Seems alright,” he said.

  A ‘resident’ says that the grub here was ‘not so good’, but there were ‘plenty of cafes in the town’. We dump our kit and make for outside. There is a great echoing thumping sound as we ‘last one down’s an idiot’ down the stone steps.

  The town sloped up the hill from the waterfront. Running along the flanking hills were the remains of fortified walls and crumbling turrets, an echo of the days when the Moors raided the coast. What was unusual was a large Basilica almost on the beach and, more wondrous, sculptures by Michelangelo; an even more important work of art was a sign with the magic words ‘Eggs and chips’. I remember so well that sheer magnificence of smelling food being prepared continental-style, be it only eggs and chips! Through the Amalfi cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us!

  “I’d forgotten what it was like to feel happy,” said Edging-ton, as he poked his victuals in.

  We had wandered around Amalfi, bought postcards, walked up and down the seafront, tried to chat the Signorinas, no dice. I thought perhaps when I said ‘Me Roman Catholic’ it might break the ice, but no. I tried “Me Protestant, me Jewish.” Nothing.

  Chalky White looms up from behind the sea wall.

  “I been sunbathin’,” he is saying. “What sadist sent us to the seaside in December?”

  It’s late evening, nightlife consists of going to bed. We troop back to the leisure room to play darts. Dinner is bully beef stew, it’s not bad, but somehow eating bully beef in Amalfi is like ordering beans on toast at Maxim’s. We are restless, so decide to go for a stroll. It’s dark, in the distance we can hear Ack-Ack, God knows where from. It’s a reminder of what we have to go back to. We walked up the steps that ran alongside the stream, and ascended slowly until we reach a cafe. We entered a small room full of soldiers drinking. Alf and I sat down and ordered a couple of brandies; the room was blue with cigarette smoke. A fat-bottomed girl was carrying the drinks to the table, and those whose bottom brushed them seemed well favoured. One drunk was singing self-indulgent songs, ‘My Mother’s Birthday’ or some such crap. Ah! the fat bottom is approaching us, she has a lovely plump smiling face, with brown eyes as large as walnuts and glistening like oiled olives. She smiles, places our glasses before us. “Signore,” she utters. “Corrrrr,” we utter.

  “Lets go,” said Alf. We picked our way down the steps, no sound save the cascading water running down to the sea. Most of the lads were in bed except! Edgington, he’s writing Peg one of his letters. That could mean a three-hour stint ending with swollen balls. I just fell into the bed. Springs! Marvellous. Black out. Zzzzzzz.

  DECEMBER 28, 1943

  I am roused in the early hours, bitten to death, my bed alive with bugs. I am worried about getting typhus. I report it to the duty Bombardier, he’s nonplussed.

  “Why you and no one else?” he says.

  “Yes, why me and no one else,”. I said. With my clothes off I looked like I’d been sandpapered. I reported to the MO, a 45-year-old Base Depot drunk recovering from last night’s piss-up. With eyes like smoked glass windows he examines me and says with authority, “You have been bitten by something.”

  “Have I?” I said.

  “Have you had a typhus injection?”

  “Yes,” I said very quickly.

  “Good,” he said. He wrote me a prescription for a bottle of camomile mixture.

  “Have a good shower,” said the Orderly, “then rub this on.”

  I retired to the showers. They’re ice cold, aren’t they!, my screams ring through the building. Covered in pink liquid I dress and join the lads in the rest room. Alf Fildes and I decide to look around the shops; he has already been around and been accosted by two girls who called him ‘Hello Baby’. I thought he looked older. My face a mass of red blotches, Fildes and I appraised the goods in the windows.

  “What bloody prices,” he moaned.

  I was flat broke and living on money borrowed from Edgington, who in turn was living on money borrowed from Vic Nash. It did not deter me from going into the shops just to chat up the shopgirls, all of whom look ravishingly beautiful. We returned to the billets for lunch, an indifferent affair of stew, potatoes, bread, rice pudding, and tea. It tasted best if you mixed the lot together. Still it went down, and you could hear the crash.

  “Now what?” says Edgington as we wash our dixies.

  “The Ballet? The Opera? Or pontoon al fresco?”

  “We’re only here for four days, we must act quickly.”

  “Alright, Hamlet in four seconds!”

  The billet notice-board recommended a visit to Ravello. This was at the top of the hill directly above Amalfi, so the gang of us set off, Spike Deans, Harry Edgington, Jam-Jar Griffin, Geo. Shipman, Alf Fildes, Reg Bennett and Ken Carter.

  “They say it’s very nice up there,” says Ken Carter.

  “It’s a long way to the top,” says the Billet Bombardier.

  We start walking. The afternoon was bright, with slight haze out to sea. As we ascended I observed profusions of semi-tropical plants growing from the slopes; there were even small Alpine-type flowers growing amid rocks; gradually the view unfolded on to the sea and the Divine Coast; it was superb.

  “They say that when an Amalfian dies and goes to heaven, it’s just another day to them,” spoke Spike Deans.

  “Wot if he goes to hell?” guffaws Jam-Jar.

  “Well, you’d be able to welcome ‘em in, tell ‘em one of your scrappy jokes and they’d know the bloody hell we’ve bin suffering from with you!” says Edgington.

  Jam-Jar reacts. “Listen, pudden! Where I come from they think I’m in the Noel Coward class.”

  There is an explosion of disbelieving laughter. He tries to retain his dignity by shouting above it.

  “I’ve sung in D’Oyly Carte.”

  “You never even sung in a fuckin’ dustcart,” says Gunner Nash.

  More howling laughter. There was nothing so funny as a disorientated Jam-Jar. He realised he was on a losing wicket so joined in the laughter.

  “Wot do I care,” he roared. “You can’t help if it you’re a lot of ignorant buggers.”

  Soldier pouring sweat out of his boots.

  We made it by mid-afternoon. Ravello was magic. It had called the great from many countries, Mozart, Wagner, Greta Garbo, the Duke of Windsor, and Lance-Bombardier Milligan. Ravello was the seat of the Princes of Rufulo. In the centre of the town was the Piazza, with its Cinquecento Chieasa. Inside, one is overwhelmed at the artistry, from the chased silver keyholes in the doors to the magnificent marble-sculptured pulpit turned into lace by the artisan, with the images of the Rufolo family entwined in the facade. A beautiful bust of the Matriarch of the Rufolos (blast! I can’t remember her name, was it Rita?, it must be in the Yellow Pages).

  The peace inside was shattering. George Shipman, to our amazement, played three Purcell pieces on the organ, we had no idea he could play! Neither did he. The music soared as only an organ can. I sat in what had been the Ducal Pew, and gazed at the complex of marble that made up the altar. Like all worked marble of its day it was a masterpiece. The vaulted ceilings, however, were free of decoration, just plain whitewash which caught the light and gave the interior the effect of sunshine through gauze.

  Duomo interior, Ravello.

  Work it out yourself.

  We felt like a
cup of tea. In the Piazza we entered a little cafe. They made us a pot of brown water with some very nice Italian pastries.

  The place is almost deserted save for a few waiters suffering touristic withdrawal symptoms.

  “Beforrrrr warrr, come many a peoples, many, many peoples, English, plenty English, English very rich,” said our waiter looking at me.

  I stood up and sang ‘God Save the King’, at the same time pulling out the empty linings of my trouser pockets. He understood, and soon he too displayed his empty pockets. We sat him down and he had tea and cakes with us. It was Ken Carter who was flush with money.

  “As it appears that 19 Battery are skint, we of the 74 Mediums will pay.”

  At these words Edgington and I took off our hats, prostrated ourselves on the pavement and kissed his boots. He tried to shoo us off, but we stuck to him like leeches, grovelling to him and shouting ‘Thank ‘ee young master’ in a Sussex brogue.

  Now what? The place to see, apparently, was the Gardens of the Palace, listed as Belvedere del Cimbrone. Even though it wasn’t the flowering season, the gardens were a sheer delight to the eye—shrubs, bushes, trees all placed with the utmost precision to create an atmosphere of relaxation and tranquility. A central ornate marble fountain played watery tunes from its moulded lead faucets, surmounted by stone Cherubim. It was so planned as to avoid any view of the sea until one arrived at the tiled terrace, which was reached through a small replica of a Roman Triumphal Arc, alas now stripped of its marble!

  “See?, we’re not the only ones who’ve lost our marbles,” said Edgington.

  It was sunset. Standing on an abutment of the Villa Cimbrone, we were looking out on to a sea that lay like polished jade. Away to our left, about to be swallowed in an autumn mist, was the sweep of the Salerno coast running away into the distance like an unfinished song. I stood long, next to Harry Edgington. There was no noise, no trains, motor cars, motor bikes, barking dogs. It was a moment that was being indelibly etched in my mind for life. I felt part of past history. Wagner had stood on this spot, what went through his head? From what I hear it was “Vitch Italian Bird can I make vid zer screw tonight?”