Unable to control himself, Chater Jack drew his Webley pistol, emptied it at the throbbing monster, and drove off.
Oudna Left to right: Gunners White, Milligan, Fildes J. Jnr., Fildes Snr. Note Ack-Ack shells bursting overhead
16 May ‘43
“Good morning, Bombardier Milligan,” said Syd Price, fiddling with a camera.
“What do you want?”
“I wish to take a photograph of the Oudna landscape.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I know,” said Price, “therefore, would you and a few like silly buggers care to pose in the foreground to relieve the monotony?”
The result is the only picture ever taken of Oudna to prove there’s no such place. If you are wondering why I’m playing the trumpet, so am I.
“There’s a battle scheme starting at 0600 hrs tomorrow.”
We were divided into opposing sides, Ack and Beer — by mid-day thunder flashes kept exploding everywhere, referees would rush up, chalk you with a white cross and say ‘you’re dead’. I asked Lt Budden permission to throw a thunder flash under our vehicle so that we could play cards.
“Let’s have lunch first.” He pointed to a cool conglomerate of date palms.
Halt — in German
A crowd of black-faced lunatics jumped us from behind bushes.
“You’re all prisoners of Ack Army.”
Says Budden, “We are Ack Army.”
The attackers lowered their rifles, grinned sheepishly and retreated.
“I thought we were Beer Army sir,” I said.
“We don’t want everybody to know,” said Mr Budden.
A referee roars up. “You’re all casualties,” he said, and marked us with white and red chalk. “Sign here,” said the referee, “three dead and two wounded.”
Dutifully Budden signed, the Sgt saluted, mounted his bike, kicked the starter which failed, he kicked again, then several agains, the starter kept sticking, suddenly, when he wasn’t ready, it shot back. With a scream he clutched his shin, and well he might, he’d broken it. He lay on the grass, and we radioed up an ambulance.
“Which one is hurt?” said a soppy RAMC orderly.
“I think it’s the one on the ground screaming,” said Budden.
As they put him on the stretcher, I marked him with red chalk.
“You bastard,” he said.
We returned to base at the prescribed hour, where dusty and weary, the Battery took tea.
“We must never go to war again,” said Gnr Devine, “we’ve lost the knack.”
The great Edgington gave forth: “Ohhhh,” it says, “Ohhhhhh,” the sound was from his trembling tent. “I’m ill. I and my tent are very, very ill.”
He was sweating, steaming, shivering and groaning, a versatile man. He thought me strange for contracting a cold in this climate, now he’d gone one better, he’d got pneumonia. No! he’d gone two better, it was double pneumonia. We waved as they took him off to dock in a lorry, one man in an empty three tonner, the army were like that. Dutifully we rifled his tent for fags.
GENERAL WAR DIRECTIVE No. 13694
HITLER:
Hear zat? one of zer British Army and his tent is ill, let us attack now while zey are under strength!
I decided that we should climb the Roman Aqueduct, so Gunners Forrest, Devine and Milligan set off. We walked briskly across the dusty flat, the morning young, with a touch of pre-dawn coolness still in the air. “You never know what you might find at the top,” said Forrest.
The Aqueduct was built of giant stone blocks, no mortar or cement, miraculous. When I tell Forrest and Devine they get the shits, “It’ll fall over,” they said running clear. “That’s it,” I said, “it’s been standing two thousand years ‘and now it’s going to fall over.”
We walked around the Aqueduct and came to a low feature. Forrest scrambled up it. “There, we’ve climbed it. Let’s all go home.”
I was not put off, I led an assault up the ruins till we were a good fifty feet up, close behind, moaning, was Forrest. “If I wanted to be this high,” he said, “I’d have joined the ‘air force.”
OUDNA
“I can’t turn round!” said Devine.
“You’re not missing anything,” I said.
“It’s no good,” said Devine, “I’m bloody stuck, it’s all your fault.”
He was stuck. He stayed stuck for an hour. Despite all my implorings he wouldn’t budge. The sun was starting to set and so apparently was Devine.
“For Christ sake,” I pleaded. “Do something.”
“I think I already have,” he said.
Night was surging across the land. Exasperated; Forrest shouts “Helppp…someone fetch a ladder!”
“A ladder? Round here, you idiot?” I said.
“Alright, clever dick. What else can you shout? ‘Fetch a 3 piece suite’?”
An American plane flew over.
“Help, fetch a ladder,” I shouted.
Suddenly. Idea!
“Forrest, take yer trousers off,” I said.
“What?”
“Tie ‘em together as a rope.”
“I am not wearin’ underpants,” says Forrest.
“Living dangerously eh?”
We knotted our trousers together, gradually we managed the descent. Devine’s view from underneath must have been something.
“You’ve got moles on yer balls,” he said.
“A sign of beauty,” says Forrest.
“It is a beauty,” said Devine.
Our descent was being observed by Major Chater Jack, he passed his binoculars to his batman. “I don’t know if my eyes re playing tricks, but there appear to be 3 men climbing the aqueduct with no trousers on.”
“You’re right zur — they’re not going to do it up there!”
There the adventure ended.
Next morning, Chater Jack said, in passing, “There’s no need to climb that Aqueduct again, Milligan, the water own here is perfectly safe.”
Sgt Mick Ryan. No 1 on ‘A’ Subsection Gun; still wanted by the police
Victory Parade
20th May
There’s to be a Victory Parade!” Vigorous activity followed the announcement, some of it productive. ‘A’ subsection gun was chosen for the occasion, men swarmed over the piece, the result was a masterpiece of spit and polish, the 7 point 2 looked beautiful. “My God, we’ll never be able to fire that again,” said Sgt Ryan, “we’ll have to get permission from the Pope.”
May 20 1943
The ‘Beauteous Artillery Piece’ is limbered up and driven under wraps to Tunis. The Parade! Not since Armistice Day, Poona, had I seen the like; on the saluting base were Generals galore! Alexander, Eisenhower, Anderson, Giraud, Admiral Cunningham, Mr Macmillan.
Past the rostrum marched an incredible mixture of soldiers, Camel Corps, Spahis, Americans, Scots, the Irish, The Guards, Goumiers, Greeks, Poles, Czechs, Gurkhas, Rajputs, tanks, armoured cars, in the van came the Free French with that exciting sound of Bugles and Drums, all followed by a small black dog. Pity I didn’t have a camera. I’d have taken a picture of myself.
Tunis Victory Parade march past Derbyshire Yeomanry. Our battery’s gun m left hand corner. Note 1st Army shield.
General Eisenhower saluting
General Eisenhower not saluting
Order to Move No. 163897639.
We were to make a new camp on the hills at the back of Hamam Lif, a seaside town just outside Tunis. “It’s a sort of Brighton with camels,” says Tume. Our convoy took us through Tunis and out of the other side, at Hammam Lif we turned off the coast road and climbed the winding back road into the semi wooded hills of Djbel bou Kournime. There, on a plateau, we dispersed the vehicles and made camp. It had been whispered that Jerry indulged in ‘drag’ activities. Now…“What would I do, if I had women’s clothes in my big pack, and the enemy were closing in. Put ‘em on? No! Bury ‘em.” I started to prod the ground, finding a soft surface I dug down and lo
! there, just below the surface: One brown dress, one pair of old fashioned bloomers, one padded bra, brown silk stockings. I reported the find to Chater Jack.
MAJOR CHATER JACK:
I can’t believe it, Milligan.
MILLIGAN:
It’s true sir.
MAJOR CHATER JACK:
You mean they dress up as women?
MILLIGAN:
Someone had to sir.
MAJOR:
I’d heard rumours.
MILLIGAN:
Yes they’re very loud sir, on a quiet night you can hear screams.
He handed the ‘evidence’ over to the Psychological Warfare Department who arrived and questioned me. A strange long-haired Corporal with a degree in Psychiatry; and BO said, “Why were you looking for women’s clothes?”
I told him it was my day off.
“Do you always look for women’s clothes on your day off?”
“Oh yes.”
“Why?” .
“It’s an inexpensive hobby, with hours of innocent fun. You see, I come from a large family, all girls.”
I could see his programmed psychiatric mind ticking on its predictable way.
“Did you like dressing up?”
“I loved it!”
“Have you told anybody else this?”
“My wife.”
“What does your wife do?”
“She’s in the Irish Guards.”
He gave me a terrible look and departed. I suppose right now he’s sitting behind a desk giving poor bastards tranquillizers and women’s underwear.
Hitlergram No. 136
HITLER:
Who has been giffing mein Afrika Korps zer drag clothes!
HIMMLER:
It vos me meiner Führer.
HITLER:
You dumb kopf!! You silly Nana, vy zer poofs do ve have in zer army!
HIMMLER:
Nix poofs, zese are drag artists, zey are training to keep up zer morale of zer boys.
HITLER:
Vot I hear zer boys have all be up zer drag artists, how can mein Afrika Korps make shoot bang fire fight vit zer sore arses.
HIMMLER:
Zey like it mein Führer.
HITLER:
Like it? Zey must stop it!!! No more zer brown hatting until zer final victory. Give zer order. Stop all zer Browning!
Carthage
22-23-24 May
Our long weekend leave was about to start. Friday till Monday! Where to spend it?
“Edgington,” I said, as I shaved with a thousand year old blade, my face a sea of cuts, “All my born days I’ve wanted to see the ruins of Carthage.”
“I think you’ve only got a pint of blood left,” says Edgington.
“I must hurry.”
“What’s a Carthage?” said Doug Kidgell.
“A great archaeological site.”
“Oh?” said Kidgell, “Why we goin’, you got friends there?”
“It’s to improve my education.”
“Can’t we go to the pictures?” said Kidgell. “There’s Bing Crosby in ‘The Road to Bali’ in Tunis.”
That evening, excited as schoolboys we drove off along the Tunis-Bizerta road, it was as though the war didn’t exist, eventually we pull up on a sandy beach for the night.
There was no moon, but the sky was a pincushion of stars. Great swathes of astral light blinked at us across space. We; made a fire, glowing scarlet in cobalt black darkness, showers of popping sparks jettisoning into the night air. Tins of steak and kidney pud were in boiling water, with small bubbles rising to the surface.
“Ready soon,” said Doug, poking the fire, the only poke he would have for a long time.
Fildes and Edgington were making up their beds in the lorry. Edgington singing while Fildes spoke to himself. It was interesting to hear;
“A cigarette that bears lipstick traces”—
“I think I’ll put three blankets on top” —
“An air line ticket to romantic places!” —
“It’s going to get chilly later” —
“A fair-ground’s painted swings” —
“Better keep my socks on tonight”
“These foolish things” —
“Where’s that bloody pillow?”
“Remind me of you.”
Kidgell in the driving cab is finishing off an ‘I love you for ever’ letter.
“You don’t write many, Milligan.”
“I let ‘em all worry.”
“What about your folks?”
“Well they worry about me all the time. Before the war hey worried if I went to the toilet, even if I was in the garden they’d shout out ‘Are you alright son?’ They’d wake me up in the middle of the night and say ‘Are you alright?’ they’re natural worriers. My father would wake up at 3 in the morning and worry about his job, and my mother would worry about him worrying about his job.”
“They sound a mite strange mate.” :
“A mite? They’re insane! Every night, when my father comes home from work, he gets his pistol from under the stairs then shouts ‘Hitler! if you’re in this house, com out with your hands up.’ Let me tell you, Kidgell, I’m bloody worried about them.”
German general repairing Scottish officer’s bagpipes under fire.
We sat around the fire, opening the tins with a Jack knife.
“Army cooks don’t like tinned food,” says Kidgell.
“Why not?”
“They can’t sod it up in tins. They like fresh stuff they can burn the Jesus out of. The motto of the Army Catering Corp is, ‘Help wipe the smile off a soldier’s face.’”
“Got him!” said a triumphant Edgington, smashing a mosquito on his wrist, sending his marmalade pudding flying into the fire. “Bugger,” he said, trying to retrieve it with a stick.
In a food frenzy he dashes to the lorry, returns at speed with rifle and bayonet. A heroic sight, as he lunged time an time again to retrieve the blackened duff. “Don’t forget — thrust — turn — withdraw,” said Kidgell.
“Gentlemen, a surprise!” I produced a small bottle of Schnapps. “It fell off the back of a Major Chater Jack.”
“That is a spoil of war,” said Edgington, striking a dramatic finger-pointing pose.
“Well, it’s not going to spoil mine,” I said, pouring out the white liquid.
Alf sipped and grasped his throat. “Christ! If they drink this, they are the master race.”
It was fiery stuff.
“It’ll kill us,” said Edgington.
He spat a mouthful on the fire, it exploded in a sheet of flame.
“See? When you go to the bog, for Christ’s sake don’t strike a match.”
We mellowed. Harry got hiccups.
Edg: “I wonder — hic — what’s going to hick — happen to — us next —”
He didn’t have long to wait for the answer — a spark shot out of the fire and burnt him.
We sat close to the fire. The smoke kept the mossies away — an occasional brave one would die under hand as it landed.
“Silly sods. I wouldn’t risk my life to pass on malaria,” said Fildes. “I think I’ll turn in.”
Through the night a 3 ton lorry, with a mosquito net across the back, was home to four lads from London, who slept sounder and safer than those in bomb ridden London. It seemed all wrong, but it was alright by me.
Scottish soldiers surrendering their underwear to the enemy
A letter told of my eccentric father’s career as a Captain. He had decided that the RAOC Depot at Reigate was wide open to paratroops. He took it upon himself to make a life-like raid on the Depot. He briefed a dozen NCO’s. They chose mid-day. The officers are in the Mess, having a pre-lunch pissup — the men are queueing in the mess hall. Suddenly the cookhouse staff are surrounded by men with black faces and tommy guns. Their leader is speaking in a strange patois. “‘Ands up, Schnell, git against that bleedin’ wall, Englander please.” In the Officers Mess from behind
the bar arose 5 men with blackened faces, one wearing a German helmet, and holding a machine pistol, “Last orders pliss undt hands up.” It was my father. The officers were then locked in an office where it was simple to phone police. A constable arrived, and my father then explained the whole scheme. The Colonel said:
“You’re a bloody fool,” and had him posted to RAOC, Elstree.
We were up at first light and away through Tunis on the Carthage road.
“Let’s play some party games,” I said, “I make up the first line and you have to rhyme the next, ‘There was a young gunner called Harry’ ”
KIDGELL:
Told the MO he wanted to marry,
EDG:
The MO said Oh?
ALF:
Is it Bexhill Flo?
ME:
He said No, it’s old Calcutta Carrie.
The blue Mediterranean flanked the road, we were as free as we would ever be in our lives. We pulled up at a lonely beach, plunged into the azure waters, with Edgington as base man we repeatedly tried balancing on each other. We got as far as 3, then collapsed with great artificial screams and dramatic plunges into the briny. One of us would sub-merge and sing a song and from the rising bubbles you had to guess what tune it was. Life was golden, and we were the assayers. Evening; we made camp by a sandy verge. We ate and talked. At 9.30 we bedded down. ‘Good nights’ were exchanged. At midnight we were still talking.
“This is marvellous, isn’t it?” says Edgington, “I don’t like going to sleep ‘cause I’ll miss it.”
DOUG:
Holidays in Africa, cor.
EDGE:
You gone quiet Al!
AL:
I was thinking of Lily.
ME:
You dirty little devil, sleep with your hands on top of the blankets.