“Well,” said Arthur Tume philosophically, “Musso might ‘ave owed him money.”
There was a long pause, and then the surprised voice of Jack Shapiro chimes in.
“‘Ere…I never thought of Hitler ‘avin’ money…I mean…does he ever have to go into a shop and say ‘Ten Woodbines, and have you got change of a quid, and can I have a few shillings for the gas meter?’”
White says, “He has to ‘ave his barnet cut, and the barber can’t do it for nothin’…someone has to shack out for Hitler’s haircuts.”
“The German people pay for it,” said Bombardier Deans.
“The German people???” Edgington laughed. “Haircuts only cost a couple of bob, how do you divide two bob between ninety-five million Krauts.”
“They don’t,” continued Deans. “They take it in turns to pay.”
“I wonder who’s turn it is this week,” said White.
“They never know,” said Shapiro. “It’s a reign of terror, they never know who’s next to pay for Hitler’s haircut.” Here he stood and dramatised. “Suddenly, in the middle of the night, boom, boom, there’s a knock on the door…and that’s yer lot…the haircut payment squad are there.”
“I suppose all the Jews left in Germany pray for Hitler to go bald then,” said Milligan.
At two o’clock, we arrived at a house. Lt. Walker straightened his hat, and the reason why was soon revealed. A very pretty girl answered the door; from the truck I heard him speak in broken (broken? Shattered) Italian, he was full of smarmy smiling and head wagging, pulling out all the stops. Concluding, she bid him farewell and he lingered till the last view of her was obscured by the door.
“Very interesting, sir,” I said as he returned. “But—the piano.”
“Ah yes…the piano…we—er—have to collect that tomorrow,” he said, looking dreamily ahead…the dirty little devil.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1943
MY DIARY:
THE PAGE IS BLANK.
Why? Who knows? I usually made up my diary last thing at night, and I am almost sure what stopped me entering in it was an outbreak of Drooling my Spike Deans. I remember, it was late at night, we were in the garage billet, we had got our brazier going, two in fact, and several of us were seated around them, drinking our own brew-ups, and smoking.
Letter of the Day
Some of the lads were already in bed, among the leaders was Gunner White. He was sitting up, smoking a dog-end and clutching a brown mug. The calm was broken by the entrance of L/Bombardier Deans, Jam-Jar Griffin and a few more piss artists.
“Watch this,” said Deans, removed his hat and very carefully aimed it at a distant point, then threw it; it landed anywhere, so we all wondered what we had watched it for.
“What were you aiming at, cunt?” said White.
“I was not aiming it at anything,” said Deans, “it was just a display of joie de vivre.”
“Joie de fuckin’ vivre?” said White. “What’s that?”
“Means, my dearest heart, joy of living.”
“There’s no fuckin’ joy in livin’,” was the immediate reply. Deans sat at the foot of White’s bed.
“Darling,” he said, “have you missed me?”…then grabbing White’s feet through the blankets, said, “Who’s little feetiepoos are these, eh?…”
White squirmed uneasily. “Geroff,” he said.
Deans, still holding White’s feet through the blanket, knelt.
“Ohhhh, dearest is upset, has someone upset my dearest whose little white feet I am holding through the counter-pane?”
“Buggerorf,” giggled White.
Deans moved his hands up to White’s shins. “And whose little leggy poos are these, are they the ones my dearest has been dancing on all day on fields of daisies?”
Deans moves his hands up again to White’s thighs.
“Go on, bugger orf,” giggled White, who moved uneasily, but not enough to spill his tea, and in this, Deans knew he had White trapped. Nothing will make a gunner spill his Char, it was as predictable as the greedy monkey who couldn’t get his food-filled fist back through the bars.
“Darling has been lonely without her diddums to love her, hasn’t she?” Deans runs his hands Charles Boyer-like up the blankets on White’s thighs.
A small group of interested spectators have gathered around the scene, Deans starts to massage White’s thighs, with White himself laughing and saying, “Someone get the bugger off.”
“Bugger off? You want your darling, who brings you romance on an Italian farm, to bugger off?…Tsu, tsu, tsu,” then with a lightning move of the hand, Deans grabs White’s cobblers. A great yell from White, who tries to escape and the whole bed collapses sideways to the floor, exposing White naked from the waist down. Deans lets out a horrified gasp, and lunges forward, his quivering finger pointing at White’s Wedding Tackle.
“What’s this? Ohhhh, while I’ve been away my darling has been unfaithful to me.…”
There ended the romantic interlude.
I might say life wasn’t all gaiety and laughter. Alf Fildes’ diary of the time mentions:
Boy am I browned off with this God-forsaken army. We have been here a week and still no recreation or trip to Naples. I’ve had four hours in Naples while others have had days. Doug [Kidgell] is there with the Scammells and some chaps with the guns, lucky devils, but I suppose money won’t last long among those thieving bloody Italians, who are still charging four times the value of the goods. I’m sick and tired of this dragging war and dictatorship within this lousy tin-god ridden army. Give me peace or I’ll go mad soon. [Soon? He was late. We were already there. S.M.] And what does this army do to try and cheer us up while the Yanks live in luxury at base kidding themselves they are winning the war and sitting pretty. The whole system stinks!!!
There you have it. I wonder if Churchill knew all this?
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1943
Battery Orders: the following men have been chosen for GOS’s Parade. Santa Maria La Fosse.
Breakfast 0630 Parade 0730
Embuss 0745
Arrive 0815
Parade 0830
March Past.
Best battle dress. Lanyards will be worn. All webbing to be blancoed. Full FSMO less small and big pack. Rifles will not be carried.
As each one saw his name on the roll he gave a groan and slumped away like a broken man, the one word that destroyed, BLANCO!, it struck terror into all.
In a disbelieving voice Sergeant King reads, “Concert Party excused guard in lieu of Rehearsals!”
Morning Parade has gaps in the ranks. “It’s the Concert Party, sir,” comforts BSM Griffin.
“There’s SIXTY men missing,” says Major Jenkins. “What are they putting on…Aida?”
We have sent for Driver Kidgell in Naples. The Guns and the Scammells are at workshops being overhauled; he’s not being overhauled, no, he and his oily bloody mates are sitting on their fat arses saying ‘Phew’ as they exhaust themselves playing Pontoon, and only move for meals and selling petrol. Half of them are freezing to death as they’ve sold their blankets, some of them are already in the Mafia.
On the morning of December 22, his lordship Kidgell arrives in a stately three-tonner lorry, he’s waving from the window like Royalty and the subjects are returning it with certain signs from the waist down. He drives up to Edging-ton and I who are trying to make one cigarette do the job of twenty.
Short-arse Kidgell is preparing to leap from the cabin, for this he really needs a parachute.
“It’s an insult,” he said, “why didn’t they send the Rolls?”
“Rolls? You still bloody hungry,” I said. “Let me take the Royal Big Pack, and count the Royal Cigarettes.”
He’d done alright for fags in Naples. “I bought ‘em on the black market,” he said, as I unearthed ten packets.
Edgington is walking behind, holding up Kidgell’s overcoat like an ermine cape. Bombardier Deans spots the entourage, runs forward
with his groundsheet and throws it before the dwarf driver.
“‘Tis the Virgin Queen,” he chortles.
He’s timed his arrival well. Lunch.
“Where’s the cookhouse?” he said, forming a queue on his own. The sight of our well-prepared stage had impressed him. “Bloody marvellous,” said he, “can you eat it? Where’s the cookhouse?”
We watch as Kidgell devoured a third helping of duff as though he’d been adrift with Captain Bligh. Kidgell licks his knife. “My motto is, today I live, tomorrow I die.”
“Well, it won’t be from bloody starvation.”
Meanwhile, back at the stage, Sid Carter and a group of minions are performing miracles, using coloured crepe-paper and bunting; the stage looked splendidly seasonal, even front curtains on runners. ‘Manglewurzel’ Wenham had installed footlights.
“Watch this,” he said, and lowered the lights.
“Cor,” said appreciative Kidgell, “nearly as dim as you.”
“You bugger,” said Wenham.
The piano has arrived. It is an aged black upright. Edging-ton supervises the unloading as though it were a Bechstein, however it was to sound more like a Frankenstein. As he struck the first chord the response was like running an iron bar around the spoke of a bicycle.
“What bloody fool chose this?” gasped Edgington.
“I did,” said Lt. Walker. “Isn’t it satisfactory? I mean…it looked alright.”
“Oh, it looks alright, that’s all you can do, look at it.”
“Oh dear.” Lt. Walker was obviously distressed, after all, he was an officer, and here he was being told he was a musical ignoramus. “That piano has set me back to the tune of 800 lire.”
“Well, sir, that’s the only tune you’ll get out of it.”
That afternoon, armed with pliers, Edgington and I tuned the piano; as he tightened the first string, it snapped with the sound of a bullet ricocheting. BSM Griffin entered at the moment to see us flat on the floor.
Kidgell reads the piano manufacturer’s name. “Bertorelli. Milano.”
“Bertorelli? Don’t they make ice cream?”
“Yes,” said Edgington. “They mix it inside.”
By sheer effort we managed to tune the piano to a reasonable state. Getting the thing on the stage we dropped it.
“Oh, fuck nooo,” groaned a despairing Edgington.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” said Shapiro, our khaki Jew. “It can only make it better.”
The Concert
We had been overwhelmed with a mountain of jokes, ideas, etc., most of them too terrible to perform; some suggestions were impossible to perform—who in God’s name would tolerate Gunner Chalky White singing Ave Maria nude save for army boots?
“The best we can do is pick the least offensive,” I said.
“They’re all bloody offensive,” said Jam-Jar Griffin, who was ‘Manager’ for the Company.
Gunner White gives a soppy grin and says, “General Alexander says we must be on the offensive all the time.”
“You can’t sing Ave Maria in the nude, man. Some of the Iti farmers and their wives have been invited.”
“I’ve got a good voice,” said White.
“You’ve got a big prick as well,” I said.
“They don’t have to look at it.”
“How can they miss it.”
“Ities like good singing’.”
“Not with yer prick hanging out.”
Edgington, Fildes and I had ‘written’ a reasonably funny hillbilly act. We set about making beards by unravelling rope, and brushing it into shape. We used boot polish to blacken them.
“Behold!” says Jam-Jar Griffin, holding up four ragged shirts. It was just what we wanted for hillbilly costumes. Where did he get them?
“Pinched ‘em off a washing line, keep yer eyes open for four Ities naked from the waist up.”
Using miles of adhesive tape, Edgington and Fildes are affixing megaphones to the muzzles of our rifles to give them the appearance of blunderbusses. Sergeant Donaldson prepared blank ammunition by pulling the bullets from their cartridges like teeth.
“Be careful how you point, these will give a flash ten foot long.”
“Don’t worry, that bastard Jenkins will be in the front row, we’ll point ‘em at him, ha ha ha,” said Jam-Jar.
“A ten-foot-long flash could make some old lady very happy,” said Gunner White.
Jam-Jar Griffin is organising the traditional Army seating. “Brass hats in front, rabble at the back.”
He had the Battery office working overtime typing and duplicating programmes. The pre-Christian spirit was starting to pervade, and everyone seemed full of bonhomie or alcohol. After lunch a truck is going to Capua and some of us hitch a ride. Driver Sears parks his truck off the road, immobilises it; that is, he leaves it without a driver. Capua! of course. Hannibal and his hairies had knocked the shit out of the Romans just outside. He’d gone but the Romans were now in cafes, selling coffee in cups that looked suspiciously like thimbles with handles on.
“Ort ter bring our own bleedin’ mugs,” said Sears. “Thirty lire a bleedin’ cup?”
“Etta costa thirty lire because eet ees reala Braziliana Coffee,” said the proprietor.
He should have added, “Stolen from our beloved Allies.” However, it was worth it to see the pretty girls seated around. Those eyes! Iti girls must have the biggest in the world! To get a smile from one changed the shape of the day; it certainly changed the shape of your body. Helppppp!
The evening ended with a Gunners’ beauty contest. The first entrant was Bombardier Milligan wearing a towel and a bra made from two army socks. Deans announced me as ‘Miss Brockley of 1904, winner of last year’s never-been-shagged contest’. I am followed by Gunner Devine draped in a blanket, he is ‘Miss Various Veins of Liverpool, and other areas’. Devine turns to reveal a bare bum. “Miss Various Veins is wearing the peek-a-boo skirt with a view of Oscar Wilde.” Close behind comes lovely Gunner White in a gas cape. “Miss Conduct of Battersea is wearing the plunging knee-line.” White opens the gas cape, he is naked save for an army sock tied round his willy; he wins. Remarks and shouts came in profusion from the spectators, it went on till lights out. As I lay in bed I wondered if we were really going round the bend.
DECEMBER 24, 1943
Christmas Eve Parade
The night before Christmas Eve, after tea, we had all, as was our custom, traipsed across to the Battery office (comfortably ensconced on the top floor of a farm building) to read Part 2 Orders.
“Oh no…” says Gunner White, “Oh no, no, no, no.” He backs away as though he has seen Dracula. We are ALL to parade on the morrow, to be inspected by GOC 10 Corps.
“Oooo’s ‘ee?” said Gunner Forrest.
“‘Eeee,” I explained, “will either be David Niven or someone else.”
“‘Oooo’s David Niven?”
“David Niven,” I further explained, “is someone else.”
Edgington is reading further from Part 2 Orders. “Ohhhh Christ, listen to this, not only an Inspection BUT, we will March Past him.”
“That is a total waste of energy, why doesn’t he march past us?”
“Perhaps his legs are in REME,” suggests Edgington, doing a Ritz Brothers face, and doing a ridiculous sideways walk. “Come, men,” he says, “to La Belle Ballet de bianco.” He leaps a clumsy jete, sending up a muddy spray.
The morning of Christmas Eve, we awoke to find the dawn blowing but sunny. “Corr, it’s parky—” Tired men coming off guard, they rest their rifles against the wall, yawn, and fall on their beds. The Guard Commander, Syd Price, enters, his pipe wafting morning smoke-signals; he hurls his webbing on to the floor.
“Down, you buggers…” a change of tone as he sees us all abed. “Come on, you lazy bloody lot, it’s Christmas Eve, Father Christmas is on his way with a box of bianco for all good little gunnerkins.”
A wave of rude remarks. He chuckles. “You are all rude, nas
ty little gunners, and I’m never going to play mothers and fathers with you again.”
Sensational news, “Eggs for breakfast.”
A mighty unshaven rush. I race across the courtyard, Edgington close behind. “Trying to break the four-minute mile?”
“Yes and soon trying to break the six-minute boiled egg.”
It’s amazing, this spirit of Christmas. Everyone is cheery, there are smiles on the faces of miserable buggers. In a sing-song voice Gunner White recites ‘Christmas comes but once a year and when it does it brings good cheer’.
“Wrong,” says Gunner ‘Dirty Bugger’ Bailey. “It’s Father Christmas comes but once a year! and when he does his wife has Christmas Pudden Club fear!”
9.00.
We are on our transports heading towards Santa Maria La Fosse. We all sing:
Good King Wenceslas looks out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay all about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Tho’ the frost was cruee-ell
When a poor man came in sight
Playing with his Tooooo-oooo-llll.
We are dumped on a raised muddy road without the environs of Santa Maria la Fosse…there are Gunners everywhere. We line up next to the 74 Medium, we spot Ken Carter and Reg Bennett, who wave and point to their white webbing.
“Frost,” shouts Bennett.
“Stop all that talkin’,” shouts a Sergeant.
“It’s the only language we know,” I said.
“Can we do some mime?” pipes up a voice.
“Silence,” says the Sgt.
The GOC walked along the ranks, stopping every now and then and starting now and then. He stops now and then in front of me. I’m trying to stifle a laugh.
“What’s your name, Bombardier?”
“I think it’s Milligan, sir.”
He walked on till he was quite a way away from me.
“For Gord’s sake,” whispered a North Country voice in the ranks behind, “don’t upset ‘im, he could send us back to t’front.”