The New Major
His name was Evan Jenkins. His physique? He didn’t have one. The nearest description? Tut-an-Khamen with the bandages off. His neck measurement would be 11 inches, including shoulders. When a strong wind blew he had to hold his head to stop it from snapping off. His Adams apple stuck out like a third knee and when he swallowed, it disappeared down the front of his shirt and made him look pregnant. His arms must have been sent from Auschwitz; they were for all the world like two pieces of string with knots tied where the elbows were. His legs were like one of Gandhi’s split in two. His eyes were so close together that to look left or right one of them appeared to cross the bridge of his nose. He had a pair of outsize ears which attracted flies. It got him the nickname Jumbo, but despite his comic appearance he was a real bastard; he had us taking our bootlaces out and ironing them so that they were ‘nice and flat’. He made us use tooth-paste on our webbing to make it ‘Nice and White’ while our teeth went black. At night he’d sit in his tent and play ‘Whistling Rufus’ on a clarinet, and every morning he could be heard gargling with TCP then spitting it back into the bottle, the mean sod.
He insisted on giving us cultural lectures. A sergeant, who shall remain nameless, said “H’eyes front! now then, today the Major will be talking about” — (here he referred to a piece of paper) — “Keats, and I don’t suppose ne of you higgerant bastards knows what a Keat is.”
Edgington and I decide to get our tent as far away from Jumbo as possible, so we found a distant Wadi over which we rigged up a canvas cover. Efforts to sabotage Jumbo were partially successful, we managed to impregnate the reed of is clarinet with soap, and he gave his batman hell over it. But it was by the Battery Cook Ronnie May that real revenge was wrought. May had collected dried goats shit, pounded it into a flour, mixed it with real flour and mashed potatoes, this mixture appeared on Jumbo’s plate as rissoles, which he ate and asked for more, “Now he really is full of hit,” said May.
The sky was blackening. It was going to rain.
“We could do with it,” says Edge.
“Do what with it?”
“For a start you can accept it.” The heavens opened a rain deluged down.
The Concise Oxford Dictionary says:
— WADI: Dried u water course. Filling quickly in rainy season.
We didn’t have the Oxford Dictionary, but we found how remarkably accurate it was as we and our belongings floated out on a wall of water; all around were yells and shouts as tents were flattened.
“My bloody fags are down there,” said a drenched, mud reddened Edgington as he dove into the raging waters. Waist deep we ran among the flood grabbing kit and throwing it to high ground. It ceased as suddenly as it started.
“Why did it stop — 15 minutes more would have seen us to fucking Portsmouth.”
Sgt ‘Griff’ Griffin, one of the great characters of the Battery. He is here seen wearing either long shorts or short long trousers
23 June 1943
With trees spaced its length, the road to Set curved hither and thither — we were at a thither part.
“Are those Poplar trees?” said Kidgell.
“Very,” I said. We were bumping our way to the first rehearsal of the Concert Party.
We had been ‘talent-spotted’ the night of the French ENSA do by L/Bdr Bennett — he had told L/Bdr Carter, “You must hear these lads.”
Outside the Municipal Theatre, there are posters advertising:
GRAND CONCERT. 2 AGRA CONCERT PART PRESENTS THE JOLLY ROGERS IN STAND EASY, IN AID OF THE ROYAL ARTILLERY BENEVOLENT FUND.
It’s thirty two years since then, and so far no benevolence has reached us. The stage was alive with scruffy Gunners hanging up scenery; tuning the piano with a pair of pliers is the MD Gunner Sabin. Edgington confronts him.
“Are you a trained piano tuner?”
“No, that’s why I’m in Africa.”
Ken Carter is on stage. “Up here,” he said, and led us back stage. “These are your dressing rooms.”
“We don’t need ‘em. We come ready dressed,” I said.
First Night of the Concert
July 28 1943
Diary of Driver A. Fildes:
First night excited but OK:
We heard that the French ENSA concert party had one over a cliff on their way back to Algiers and had been in dock for three weeks, I prayed Mlle Villion’s boobs were alright.
The Opening Night was attended by top brass and high ranking local French officials whose sole purpose in life was neither to laugh at, nor applaud anything. Back stage was alive with last minute crises.
Carter is hurrying in all directions, his hair falling out in handfuls, Lance Bombardier Reg Bennett is saying ‘Fuck Show Business’ over and over again. We four are being made up; blue eye shadow, rouge, lipstick, powder…Kidgell looks up, “Give us a kiss,” he said. I nearly did.
“It looks a good programme,” said Edgington, “not a spoon player in it.”
Fildes comes in. “The theatre’s packed.”
“Well for Christ sake unpack it — we’re due to start in 10 minutes,” I said. 1
A vast Gunner, in a vaster vest and shorts, is calling down! the corridors ‘Beginners please’, and spitting out grape pips.
The pit band strikes up a tune which I recognised as ‘The King’ though I doubt if the Queen would; there follows a strangled version of the Royal Artillery March Past that suggests Gunners are cripples. The curtain rose, crashed down and rose again, the whole cast appear singing ‘Kiss the Blues Goodbye’.
The show was away…
L/Bdr Reg Bennett who discovered our band during French Concert party
Programme of Concert
When our turn came I announced “Now! from the fabulous star studded 56 Heavy Regiment! the 19 Battery Jazz Quartet!” We started by my putting my trumpet through the curtains, beginning on a low C then dinging up to play ‘Softly as in a Morning Sunrise’…very loudly…Then Kidgell sings ‘Tangerine’, we feature ‘Snatch’ on violin in ‘Stardust’, we round off with Nagasaki (Back in Nagasaki: where the fellers chew tobacco and the women wiggy-waggy-woo).
You can’t describe a show, you have to be there at that time with that audience, that’s what made it come alive. Come alive it did; troop audiences went into hysterics at the antics, and we got the sort of applause that would usually only be heard at a Promenade Concert.
A pencilled note at the foot of Part II Orders read: All ranks from now on will walk on their hands to keep their boots Clean for parade.
The village of’ MacDonald. We used to pass it on our way to Setif of an evening. Every wog — man or boy — we ever saw there, had red hair!!
2nd July 1943
After a week of success at Setif, the Concert Party were to go on tour. “I can’t believe it,” said Edgington, “I must rearrange my socks.”
“It’s true,” I said, “Bougie, Djelli, Phillipville and who lows — maybe Broadway!”
“All on the coast,” said Kidgell. “We can swim every day!” The Major calls me in and pep-talks me. “Bombardier Milligan, you and 19 Battery band hold the honour of the regiment when you are on the stage, I want you all to present a soldierly appearance, play in a smart military manner, keep your bugle straight, and salute at the finish. Try and play some stirring numbers, like ‘Whistling Rufus’. Remember you are playing for your King and Country.”
“Yes sir, I will, and if ever I play a wrong note, I will immediately think of Hitler.”
“Good man Milligan.”
Mon. 3rd July ‘43
Dead on ten o’clock, three lorries containing the Concert Party set off for Bougie, some 60 kilometers away. We drove through the Kerrata Gorge, onto the Gulf of Bougie Coast Road heading West. It was scarifying. To our left were cliffs, and to our right a sheer 200 foot drop into the sea. I spotted dolphins pursuing a school of flying fish that kept breaking the surface and gliding up to fifty yards to escape; but the most exciting momen
t was when we were nearing Bougie. A huge Manta Ray broke the surface and came down with a colossal splash, it repeated this several times. “His old woman must be after him,” says Shashall. We pass a company of 2/4 Hampshires marching like the clappers and covered in sweat, the only sympathy they got were cries of ‘It’ll be over by Christmas’. We drove in white sunlight, a light breeze coming from the coast. Bougie was a French Colonial town, now being used as Naval base. The show was at the Municipal Theatre, modern-horror architecture, but cool inside. We have access to magnificent bathing, a curving bay shut off from the world by low hills, trees and Bougainvilleas which ran down to the beach, as we did. But wait! there on the beach are several WRENS, all brown and beautiful in bathing costumes. Why oh why, at the sight of a female does the male of the species automatically indulge in exhausting horse play? Wrestling, running, jumping, sparring, hitting, leaping acrobatics, even attempted murders? I mean by the time the Wrens noticed us, we were too shagged out to do anything about it. Bennett was different…he had started to dig about thirty yards away from the nearest Wren, he was actually trying to tunnel and come up beside her, he might have but for the great running feet of Gunner Carpenter who suddenly appeared to disappear into the ground, burying Gunner Bennett alive.
In the theatre props room, we had found a selection of plaster arms and legs with which we swam, holding them above the waves at arms’ length.
Fifty yards from the shore was a rock shelf just below the surface, and, to the lads, I appeared to be walking on the water. “There’s only one other bloke done this,” I said and awaited a thunderbolt from heaven. Instead, Edgington swims up and prepares one of his Captain Webb plunge dives, arms above head, palms touching, he is waiting for the Wrens to look. As they do I whip his drawers down, he lets out a high female scream, and, hands over his willy, falls into the water in the foetus position — that is foetus firstus. The Wrens have had enough, they leave. We shout after them in mock rage, “You dirty little devils, we know why you joined the Navy,” says Kidgell, “one day you’ll come crawling back on your hands and knees.”
“She’ll still be taller than you, short arse,” says Harry.
Ken Carter is lying half-in, half-out of the Mediterranean, the waves lapping up his shorts. “It’s lovely,” he coos.
“From where I’m standin’, it looks bloody ‘orrible,” says Kidgell. There is a loud yell from Edgington who comes galloping from the sea. “I bin stung,” he is shouting, and points to a red mark on his arm.
“It suits you,” I said.
It must have been the only jelly fish in a thousand miles but Edgington finds it. This was not the finish, in minutes three, it stung him again, surely a world’s record. He got a stick and went thrashing at the sea in a foaming rage. “I’ll give it bloody jelly fish,” he was shouting when it stung him from behind for the third time.
We rehearsed the show in the cool of the evening, but Ken Carter was a stickler for perfection, so that it was midnight when we finished. We were all dog tired, and barked ourselves to sleep. We were billeted in a huge concrete school, in three floors, occupying what was a classroom with a running balcony overlooking the sea. At night the sea breezes afforded us a cool night’s sleep. That’s all we could afford.
Sunday, 4th July
Like all Catholics I asked God’s forgiveness for missing Mass. Douggan, devout RC confronted me. “Did you miss Mass?”
“Not really,” I said.
“You know it’s a mortal sin?”
“Yes, but I don’t feel any different. I mean if they’re going to make sins into grades, then God should have made feelings to go with them, that is, if I commit a mortal sin, I should get a pain in the leg or something, otherwise it doesn’t have any effect. Don’t worry though, I’ll do what all good lapsed Catholics do, relent on my death bed.”
“How do you know,” continued Douggan, putting his prayer book back in his big pack, “that it’s not your death bed you are laying on now?”
“I don’t know, in any case, it’s not mine, it’s Kidgell’s. He’ll be very angry if I die on it, he’s a Protestant.”
The Rev. J.W.J. Steele, 1st Army Thanksgiving Service, blessing the microphone
We spent the day on the beach, much the same as yesterday, we got very badly sun burnt. Kidgell’s nose looked like a piece of shredded wheat, children screamed when they saw him.
“Cor, that sun’s hot,” he said.
“Well you shouldn’t touch it,” I said.
Edgington had found an old French brass baritone saxophone. He became obsessed with the idea that it was a sign from heaven and that he was to become ‘a second Harry Carney’.↓
≡ Harry Carney: Duke Ellington’s Baritone Sax player.
He took the instrument down to the beach and played it waist deep in water. He seemed quite happy, and after making a series of noises on it he announced, “I’ve just played ‘I Got a gal in Kalamazoo’.”
“You sure she’s not in Whipsnade?” said a surfacing head.
“I don’t think you’re going to become a second Harry Carney mate,” I said, “a fifteenth or sixteenth maybe, but a second…”
When not in use, Edgington used most of the instrument is a clothes horse and the bell as an ash tray or spittoon. We rehearsed in the evening, and now had Gunner Douggan on double bass; this gave the band a wonderful life. He played a rock-steady two-in-a-bar while reminding me I was a Catholic. After rehearsal we took ourselves to an Arab café for dinner, and ordered eggs and chips. We stood on our balcony. It was midnight, and the moon-lit Mediterranean appeared like burnished black steel, from out to sea came the sound of heavy guns. “Sounds like a Naval Engagement.”
“I hope they’re both very happy,” I said.
Edgington blew a few smoke rings that remained suspended in the still air, slowly he passed his finger through one, bisecting it. Then we all went to bed for a night of traditional sleeping.
Col. Stirling, D.S.O., showing how to stop a vehicle when the brakes have failed
Navy Dance Bougie
6th July 1943
The Navy are holding a dance tomorrow, and they want you to play.”
“How much?” said my Jewish side.
“Sweet FA but all the booze you want.”
“OK.”
“Admiral Cunningham’s coming.”
The ‘do’ was in the huge, school dining hall. The Navy, with a flair for such occasions, put up coloured bunting. We had finished our show by 9.00; the dance started at 10.00.
The top of the piano was lined with whiskey and gin.
“They’re for you,” said a snotty.
“I told you we should have joined the bloody Navy,” said Kidgell.
By 10.30, the hall was packed with dancers, the heat of the African night was unforgettable, it was like a gigantic Sauna bath. We were getting through the grog. By 11.30 our KD’s were black with sweat; still we drove the jazz along. Edgington went into a trance.
“What key are you in?”
“Bb.”
“I’d better come up ½ a tone and join you.”
We’d start a number but he’d have to wait a few bars to realize what it was. “Go on,” he’d say, “I’ll catch you up.” The Wrens looked unbearably attractive in white uniforms and with tanned limbs. Oh the heat! the heat! the limbs! the limbs! By 1.30 I was stoned and making announcements like “Schel-tage you’re parlis for — ha! ha! ha! yes!”
“We’re out of fags,” they’re saying behind me.
“OK.” I approached Admiral Cunningham who was, despite the ¾ tempo, dancing in 5/4.
“Excuse me sir,” I said.
“It’s not an ‘Excuse me’, soldier.”
“Excuse me sailor then, I wonder if you’ve got any fags.”
He was about to have me flogged but, realizing I was the life and soul of the party, produced a packet of ships’ Woodbines.
British officer in N. Africa explaining to a Chinaman that he is lost and should
be in Chungking
British officer telling a civilian that he is nowhere near Surbiton
Someone had turned the light out to cool the place — shafts of moonlight lit up the interior.
By 2.00 several WRENS had been molested, several men had been molested, all the booze had been drunk, red whiskey-filled faces staggered past, some with. partners, sailors were dancing together. At 0230 hrs I’ve had enough because there was no more. Leaving Harry, Doug and Al still playing, I pushed through the sweating bodies up the stairs, along the long stone verandah to the classroom where we slept. I’d lost my mozzy net so I emptied my pallaisse and got inside.
Later
THUD! GROAN! It had to be someone with a big head hitting a stone floor. Harry! of course! it was time for his accident, I got up, forgetting I was in a mattress and crashed to the floor. I pushed my feet through the bottom, and made for what was a huge drunken semi-conscious groaning figure — Sgt Hulland and Kidgell appeared, both naked. We stood round the slumped creature.
“It’s Harry,” said Kidgell. “He’s shit himself.”
We dragged him by his lovely legs towards the shower at the end of the corridor.
“Orrgggg Arwagflff,” said the dragee. Standing him on his head, we slid the body from the trousers and reversed same for his shirt; we propped the dead shit-covered body under the shower and turned it on. He slept there all night. I heard a groaning thing approaching. It was 4.30 a.m.
“Let me in,” it said.
“There’s no door,” I told it. It walked in, fell onto the bed, which splintered. We heard the head go thud for the second time, and he slept like an angel with a baby smile on his fizz.