Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [11]
“Madam, every last penny will be repaid,” said Harris. He took her vile hand, kissed it, passing on his hereditary .gingivitis. Somewhere on the steppes of Russia squadrons of Red tanks were advancing on all fronts. But England too was in there somewhere.
Hastings had had the pleasure of sounding their sirens about fifty times—Eastbourne about forty, but Bexhill sulked unrecognised. Then it came.
A Wednesday night, late in March 1940, the band was doing a gig at a private house in Pevensey Drive. A well heeled ex-army major was throwing a house party on the occasion of his daughter’s coming-of-age. It had the cobwebs of a dying empire: men wore slightly dated evening dress, and there was one joker from the Blues with Cavalry spurs; the ladies were in gowns of chiffon that seemed straight from the wardrobe of Private Lives. It was pretty horsey, but not outrageously so, though I’m glad to say the moment we played a 6/8 they all did ‘cocking of the legs’↓ and shouted ‘Och Ayes’.
≡ An English version of the Highland Fling, see page 100.
As a parting gift our host gave us each a fiver. We stood stunned. “I’m sorry,” said Kidgell, “we haven’t any change sir.” He waved us off. Outside, in the dark, we loaded our gear on to the fifteen hundredweight truck. Looking up I saw the night was alive with stars. In the Eastern sky I could make out Saturn, Pegasus, Castor and Pollux. I could hear the distant sound of sea washing the pebbled beaches of Pevensey. The Romans must have heard it once. We drove back in silence until Alf Fildes spoke. “Five pounds? He’ll ask for it back when he sobers up!” It was gone one o’clock when we rolled ourselves in our blankets for the ‘big black’ (as Kidgell called sleep): we drifted off talking about the gig.
“Did you see that twit trying to do the Big Apple—what about that bird with the big Bristols!—I must of had six doubles—Five pounds!——Cor! Wish we had more gigs like that! For Christ’s sake don’t tell Martin, he’ll confiscate it! Lovely piano—Here! you got lost in the middle eight of ‘Undecided’—I don’t know what happened—I thought I was playing ‘Hot and Anxious’…” gradually the talk faded—silence—night; but the time for Bexhill’s siren was nigh! Somewhere in the wee wee hours a voice, “Everybody on parade at the double!” The voice of Sergeant Dawson bellowed us awake. The local air-raid sirens were going. At last! Bexhill had come into the war! In the dark we stumbled into our clothes: “Steel helmets, gas capes and respirators on!” roared a voice.
“Oh, Christ!” said Devine, “we’re going to be bombed and gassed.”
“Thank God! I couldn’t stand this all again.”
“Come on,” urged Dawson, “don’t fuck about.” My Mickey Mouse watch↓ said 3.30 a.m.! Christ!
≡ I won this by entering a colouring contest in Mickey Mouse Weekly! I put my age down as eleven and won a prize.
We were trooped into the Naffi Hut, faceless in gas masks, cocooned in gas capes, the epitome of Military Efficiency. Nobody knew who was who. What must have been the B.S.M. held up the nominal roll board and was calling the names out when he realised he couldn’t be heard. He raised the gas mask and started to re-call the roll: we answered but likewise, in turn, we couldn’t lie heard. Captain Martin, who’d had enough, took off his mask: “All take your masks off or we’ll be here all bloody night.”
The roll was called.
“Right! gas masks on again!