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

by Spike Milligan

  Lt. Wright calls the few remaining signallers together. “Look,” he sounds uneasy, “they need a signal replacement up at Tac HQ…any volunteers?…”

  There is an embarrassing silence, I can’t stand it.

  “I’ll go, sir,” I heard myself say; I was the only NCO there, I had to say it, example and all that. “So, Mr Fildes, you have come to take me for a nice little ride.”

  Alf Fildes smirks. His eyes tell a different story.

  JANUARY 20, 1944

  Going to Dimiano OP

  I get into the jeep next to Alf and we set off; he didn’t say much until we got through Lauro and then on to the railway track, now denuded of rails and used as a communications road. It was a lovely day, sunny. Suddenly Alf said, “This is beautiful! Sunshine—birds singing, I could do with more of this.”

  He told me the OP and the Major’s HQ were both in ‘dodgy’ positions. Hart had been up the OP, and it had finished him—Jerry was ramming everything on to them. It all sounded grim, and I wondered what my lot would be.

  The sounds of Artillery faded as small arms, automatic weapons and mortars increased. We were passing a steady stream of ambulances; one I notice had shrapnel holes in the sides.

  Recce scout car coming out of smoke being laid to obscure pontoon bridge over the Garigliano.

  We turned off the railway embankment on to a country ‘road’, really a cart track; a one-mile sign read ‘Castle-forte 5 kilometer’.

  “How’s Jenkins been behaving?” I said.

  Fildes smirked. “He sends everyone up the OP except himself. I think he’s shit scared, that or balmy.”

  I didn’t fancy being in any way mixed up with Jenkins, he was humourless. I didn’t understand him at all, no one did; God help me, I was soon to find out what a lunatic he was. I was already tired having been awake for two nights, and the piles were giving me hell. We approached the ferry bridge over the Garigliano. Jerry was lobbing occasional shells into the smoke that was being used to obscure the crossing. From the smoke loomed the Pontoon Ferry bearing its load of wounded. Some looked pleased to be out of it. Others looked stunned, others with morphia were just staring up from their stretchers.

  “Any more for the Woolwich Ferry?” says a cheerful cockney voice. We and several other vehicles move forward, among them a truck loaded with ammunition—a few more Jerry shells land in the river. By the sound they are close, can’t see for smoke—we stop. Through the smoke, a figure with outstretched arms to stop us going off the end as apparently had happened earlier. A jeep driver, thinking it was a continuous bridge, roared off the end, surfaced swearing. “Where’s the rest of the bloody bridge?” More shells. We are moving.

  Pontoon bridge over the Garigliano during a lull in the shelling. Men with ugly faces were told to look away from the camera.

  We pull off the other side; to our left looms Mount Dimiano.

  “That’s what all the trouble’s about,” says Fildes, “our OP’s on there somewhere.”

  Off the road to our right is a cluster of farmhouses, some shelled, some intact.

  “This is it,” says Fildes, as we turn right into them.

  We pull up in front of the centremost one. A two-storeyed affair—all around are dead Jerries. MG bullets are whistling overhead as we duck and run inside.

  It was a large room. On a makeshift table was a 22 Set. There was Jenkins. Laying down at the far end of the room, ‘Flash’ Gordon, Birch, Fuller, Howard, Badgy Ballard, Dipper Dai—all looked as gloomy as hell.

  “It isn’t the war,” said Birch, “it’s Jenkins.”

  “Milligan—you can get on the set right away,” says Jenkins.

  I took over from Fuller; immediately, Jenkins sends RHQ a series of pointless messages. “It’s very stuffy in the room.”

  “There are eight ORs, two NCOs and myself.”

  “Thornton coming back.”

  “The Germans are shelling us.”

  “The Germans have stopped shelling us.”

  I don’t exactly know what his job was supposed to be. The people who were taking the stick were Lt. Budden and party, who were being ‘stonked’ unmercifully. In the room, save for a direct hit, we were comparatively safe. From the time I arrived (about 4 pm) the bastard kept me on the set all night, a total of seventeen hours with the headphones on. It was my third night without sleep, just the noise of the interference was enough to drive you potty. To get a break I said, “Do you think, sir, under the Articles of War, I could be relieved, so I can relieve myself?” Even then he said, “Well, hurry up.” I felt like saying, “I will piss as fast as I can, sir—would you like someone to time me in case I loiter?”

  Outside a young Lieutenant was talking to a Sergeant. “…Then why didn’t they stay inside. I mean those inside didn’t get killed.” I presume he was referring to the unburied dead who lay without the walls. It was dark. A stream of MG bullets whined over the roof, God knows what he was aiming for—there was nothing behind us.

  Overhead, stars shone. Back in Major Jenkins’ Salon for the Morose, I went back on the set. At that moment a terrific explosion shook the farm; it was a Jerry 155mm shell, and he continued to carry out harassing fire throughout the night. I think it was the road to the ferrybridge he was after, but he moved around a bit. I continued to relay our lunatic’s messages. “The Germans have started shelling us”, “There’s an interval of two minutes between each round”, this his most unbelievable one. “Every time we transmit a message—he shells us.”

  The idiot was implying that Jerry had a device that made it possible to locate the position of a wireless set by its transmission. Of course, there was absolutely no truth in his statement—when we didn’t transmit Jerry shelled us—so how did he become a Major? Mens’ lives were in his hands. Like all lunatics he had unending energy—as dawn came he got worse. I was almost numb with fatigue, and my piles had started to bleed. I should never have volunteered. One of the lads makes breakfast—while I’m eating it Jenkins tells me, “Bombardier, I want you to take Gordon, Howard, Birch and Ballard to the OP with fresh batteries and a 22 set.” Great, all I have to do is carry a 50lb battery to the top of a mountain, anything else? Like how about a mile run before in medieval armour?

  Ballard apparently knows the way. At 9.00 we put on Arctic Packs and strap on one battery each. We set off single file on the road towards Castleforte, which sits in the near distance on a hillside full of Germans. We turn left off the road into a field; we pass a Sherman Tank, a neat hole punched in the turret; a tank man is removing kit from inside. Laying on a groundsheet is the mangled figure of one of the crew.

  “What a mess,” says the Tankman in the same tones as though there was mud on the carpet.

  I grinned at him and passed on. Above us the battle was going on full belt; coming towards us is Thornton, dear old 35-year old Thornton; he looks tired, he has no hat, and is smoking a pipe.

  “Hello, what’s on?”

  He explains he’s been sent back. “I’m too old for that lark. I kept fallin’ asleep.”

  I asked him the best way up. He reaffirms, “You got up a stone-lined gully; when it ends start climbing the hill, it’s all stepped for olive trees. Of course,” he added, “if you’re in the gully and they start mortaring, you’ve had it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “that’s cheered us up no end.”

  He bid us farewell and we went forward, we reached the gully. In a ravine to the left were Infantry all dug into the side; they were either ‘resting’ or in reserve. So far so good. We reach the end of the stone gully and start climbing the stepped mountain—each step is six foot high, so it’s a stiff climb. CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP!, mortars. We hit the ground. CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP—they stop. Why? Can they see us? We get up and go on, CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP—he can see us! We hit the deck. A rain of them fall around us. I cling to the ground. The mortars rain down on us. I’ll have a fag, that’s what. I am holding a packet of Woodbines, then there is a noise like thunder. It’s right on my hea
d, there’s a high-pitched whistle in my ears, at first I black out and then I see red, I am strangely dazed. I was on my front, now I’m on my back, the red was opening my eyes straight into the sun. I know if we stay here we’ll all die…I start to scramble down the hill. There’s shouting, I can’t recall anything clearly. Next I was at the bottom of the mountain, next I’m speaking to Major Jenkins, I am crying, I don’t know why, he’s saying, “Get that wound dressed.”

  I said, “What wound?”

  I had been hit on the side of my right leg.

  “Why did you come back?” He is shouting at me and threatening me, I can’t remember what I am saying. He’s saying, “You could find your way back but you couldn’t find your way to the OP,” next I’m sitting in an ambulance and shaking, an orderly puts a blanket round my shoulders, I’m crying again, why why why? Next I’m in a forward dressing station, an orderly gives me a bowl of hot very sweet tea, “Swallow these,” he says, two small white pills. I can’t hold the bowl for shaking, he takes it from me and helps me drink it. All around are wounded, he has rolled up my trouser leg. He’s putting a sticking plaster on the wound, he’s telling me it’s only a small one. I don’t really care if it’s big or small, why am I crying? Why can’t I stop? I’m getting lots of sympathy, what I want is an explanation. I’m feeling drowsy, and I must have started to sway because next I’m on a stretcher. I feel lovely, what were in those tablets…that’s the stuff for me, who wants food? I don’t know how long I’m there, I wake up. I’m still on the stretcher, I’m not drowsy, but I start to shiver. I sit up. They put a label on me. They get me to my feet and help me to an ambulance. I can see really badly wounded men, their bandages soaked through with blood, plasma is being dripped into them.

  When we get to one of the Red Cross trucks, an Italian woman, all in black, young, beautiful, is holding a dead baby and weeping; someone says the child has been killed by a shell splinter. The relatives are standing by looking out of place in their ragged peasants’ clothing amid all the uniforms. An older woman gives her a plate of home-made biscuits, of no possible use, just a desperate gesture of love. She sits in front with the driver. I’m in the back. We all sit on seats facing each other, not one face can I remember. Suddenly we are passing through our artillery lines as the guns fire. I jump at each explosion, then, a gesture I will never forget, a young soldier next to me with his right arm in a bloody sling put his arm around my shoulder and tried to comfort me. “There, there, you’ll be alright mate.”

  Wounded coming across the bridge, January 20, 1944. I was to come across the same bridge the next day.

  We arrived at a camp. I was put into a tent on a bunk bed. An orderly gave me four tablets and more hot tea; in a few seconds they put me out like a light. I had finished being a useful soldier. I’ve had it. Here is ‘Dipper’ Dye’s version, though it differs a lot from mine. However!

  All this time Jerry was belting away at us, so even getting the rope across the river was no mean feat by whoever had managed it. Once on the other bank of the river there was still a good march to the base of ‘Damiano’, and Bombardier Milligan and I were given the job of carrying a large coil of telephone wire attached to a drum which took two men to carry by holding a pole through the centre of the drum. What with packs on our back, carrying tommy gun and the wire and the state of the terrain, I was beginning to wish I was back at base with my gun-towing Scammell and Doug Kidgell, who was my co-driver. Spike and I trudged on until we were nearing ‘Damiano’, and at the foot of the hill we came to a gully. Suddenly mortar shelling became really violent and I dived for cover in a cranny at the side of the hill. Spike fell to the ground and seemed very badly shellshocked and affected, especially in his backside area.*

  ≡ Piles!

  I helped him to his feet and carried him to the best of my ability to the First Aid Post, where I left him.

  [Thank you, Dipper!]

  I wake up, it’s very early, am I now stark raving mad? I can distinctly hear a brass band, right outside the tent, they are playing ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ at an incredible speed. I get up, look outside. There in a circle stand a collection of GIs, all playing this tune; they are in a strange collection of garments, some in overcoats with bare legs and boots, some in pyjamas, others in underpants, unlaced boots and sweaters, an extraordinary mixture.

  I looked at my watch. It was 0645. This I discovered was the American Reveille; the tune finished, the men doubled back to their beds. But where was I? It was a large hospital tent, full of bunk beds with sleeping soldiers. I was the only one awake, and was still fully dressed save my battle-dress jacket. For the first time I felt my right leg aching. I sat on the side of my bed, took the plaster off my leg to look at the wound. It was a wound about two inches long and about a quarter of an inch deep, as though I had been slashed with a razor blade. Today you can only see the scar if I get sunburnt. It wasn’t hindering me, so what was I here for? I lit up a cigarette. It was one of my five remaining Woodbines, now very crushed. Two RAMC Orderlies enter the tent, young lads, they go around the beds looking at the labels; they woke some of the men up, gave them tablets. They arrived at me. I asked them where I was. They told me it was 144 CCS, I was labelled ‘Battle Fatigue’. I was to see a psychiatrist that evening. Meantime there was a mess tent where I could get breakfast. I told them I didn’t have my small kit. “Don’t worry, lad, they’ve got knives and forks there.”

  Lad? So I was Lad now. It was a wretched time. No small kit, no towel, no soap, no friends. It’s amazing what small simple things really make up our life-support system, all I wanted was for some cold water on my face. I went across to the American Camp and from a GI (of all things smoking a cigar) I scrounged a towel. He was more than generous, he took me to his Quarter Master, who gave me two brand-new khaki-coloured towels, soap, and a razor. I’m afraid I was still in a terribly emotional state, and I started to cry ‘Thanks’ but apparently they were aware that the Camp next to them were Battle Fatigue cases.

  I wandered through a mess of tents till I found the Ablutions. It was still only 7.30, but the place was full; there was the terrible silence of a mass of people who don’t know each other. I washed in silence, and the cold water made me feel a little fresher. The seat of my trousers are all sticky. Oh God, what a mess, blood, the curse of the Milligans is still working. What I really want is a bath. I’m given two different-sized pills. I ask what they are, the orderly says, “I don’t know, chum.” (I’m Chum now.) He knows alright, but it was early days for tranquillisers. “Take them after breakfast.” I have absolutely no recollection of eating breakfast, I think that I took the tablets right away; next thing it was evening time, I’m very dopey.

  “You got to see the ‘Trick Cyclist’,” says the young orderly. I had no idea what ‘Trick Cyclist’ meant. I asked. Psychiatrist? That was for lunatics. Was I one? I was to find out. In a small officer-type tent, behind an Army folding-table covered with a grey blanket sits a stern, or rather attempting to look stern, officer. He is a Captain. Middle aged, a small, almost pencil-thin, moustache. He asks me all those utterly boring questions, name, religion, etc…He asks me what happened. I tell him as much as I can recall. He is telling me that it takes 100,000 shells before one soldier is killed, he ends with (and in a louder voice than before), “You are going to get better. Understand?” Yes, I understand. I’m back in my tent, still a bit airy-fairy in the head. I’ve never had mind drugs before.

  I get an evening meal. There’s no lighting in the hospital tents, the orderlies come round with a Tilly Lamp, and I get more knock-out pills. Next morning, ‘Roll Out The Barrel’; it’s a great place for Battle Fatigue, a week here and it would be ‘Roll out the Battle Fatigue’. I am to be sent back to the Regiment. I suppose they know what they are doing. Time was to prove that they didn’t.

  How I got back to the Battery I don’t know, this was a time of my life that I was very demoralised. I was not really me any more.

  JANUARY 27, 1944

/>   Back to the Mob

  The Battery are still at Lauro in the same position.

  The first things I notice are the graves of those who died on the night of the fire. BSM Griffin is pottering around the graves tidying them up, they have white crosses, and the names written on them.

  Grave of gunner killed at Lauro.

  The tradition of putting the deceased’s steel helmet on the cross still persists. One suspects that it happened at Thermopylae. I am so miserable, the spring that made me Spike Milligan has gone. I’m a zombie. Anyone can do or say anything to me. I hear that those who had been with me on the OP fiasco had all been given seven days’ leave. Why not me? As soon as our guns start to fire, I start to jump. I try to control it, I run to my dug-out and stay there. I suddenly realise that I’m stammering. What a bloody mess! The Major thinks I’m a coward, perhaps I am? If so why didn’t I run from the line the first day in action in North Africa? I am aware that the date is January 27. A whole week? Where have I been? I’m on duty in the Command Post and I really shouldn’t be. I manage to stop crying, but I am now stammering very badly, so I can’t be of any use passing wireless messages or Fire Orders; I just copy down Sit-reps. Then they put me on the Telephone Exchange.

  To add to my misery I am ‘Court Martialled’ by the Major. I am marched into his tent by Sgt. Daddy Wilson, and I’m told I had been due for a second stripe but owing to my unreliable conduct I am to relinquish my stripe. I suppose in World War 1 the bastard would have had me shot. Mind you, he had had it in for me for a long time. I didn’t represent the type of empty-minded soldier he wanted. I had been a morale-booster to the boys, organising dances and concerts, and always trying to keep a happy atmosphere, something he couldn’t do. Now he was letting me have it. So I was Gunner Milligan, wow, what a world-shaker. All this despite the fact the discharge certificate from the 144 CCS had stated that “This man must be rested behind the lines for a period to stabilise his condition.” I was also taking some pills that they had given me. I suppose they were early tranquillisers, all they did was make me into a zombie. I am by now completely demoralised. All the laughing had stopped.