Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [13]
When we came out the night was filled with what sounded like relays of German bombers headed inland. There was remarkably little Ack Ack to deter them. Cloud was low and most of the antiaircraft batteries were further inland, grouped around strategic cities. After a quick drink in The Devonshire we ended up at the Forces Corner to finish off the evening. I started chatting up the birds, one especially, Betty Aspnel, a plain girl who made up for it with a sensational figure, man has to be satisfied with his lot, and man! this girl had the lot. I tried to create an atmosphere of Caviar and Champagne while eating beans on toast with tea. The things soldiers did to impress girls.
A gunner, with a tremendous Welsh accent, tried to make a girl believe he was an American millionaire who had thrown in his lot with the British Army. It was something to hear him say “Gee whizz baby, ain’t I lucky to have joined the little old British Army. Shucks, if I hadn’t I’d never have met you,” with a Cardiff accent. Harry wandered up to the piano and started to play a few tunes. One of the W.V.S. girls who was serving sidled up to the piano. She was the daughter of a retired Admiral in Cooden Road. She was tall and beautiful with a County School Accent. “Can you play ‘Foolish Things’?” Harry complied. At first she only hummed the tune, then started to sing. Christ! She sang a quarter tone flat the whole way through. I caught Harry’s eye…he was suffering. Always a gentleman, Harry, at the end of her effort said, “Lovely.” Encouraged, she said “Do you know ‘A Pair of Silver Wings’?” Harry did. At that moment he wished he had a pair. He had to sit through some seven songs, agonisingly sung, before he escaped. “She must have cloth ears,” said Harry as we walked home.
The bombers were still droning over. As we approached the billets we could see a glow in the northern sky. The sound of distant ack ack could be heard. “Someone’s copping it,” said the sentry as we walked into the drive. “Looks like it could be Redhill,” said Harry. But I had my doubts. He was the only man I knew who could get lost in his own street.
After the war, when I lived at Shepherds Hill, Highgate, he said he would show me a short cut to his house in St John’s Way, Archway. We walked for a hour that night, during which time we never got more than three hundred yards from my house. “I can’t understand it,” he said. “It’s the magnetic north, it must have changed during the war.” Whatever that was supposed to mean I’ll never know. We climbed into bed. “I’ve never heard so many bombers before,” said Harry. We lay in bed smoking for about quarter of an hour, then Smudger Smith came in. “Cor, it looks like the sky’s on fire over there.” We pulled on our trousers and climbed up on the roof. The sky was on fire. Other Gunners had joined us. We watched in silence for a while. “I fink it’s London,” said a cockney voice. “Could be,” said another.
George Vincent went down for his prismatic compass. The bearing showed the fire dead on the line to London. Mick Haymer, a Londoner, tried to phone his family, but was told there was ‘disruption’ on the line and all calls to London were blocked. We looked at the blaze and it seemed to be getting bigger. I think we all knew it was London. My mother, father and brother were there. I’m not sure how I felt. Helpless, I suppose. Bombardier Edser switched on the BBC Midnight News, but there was no mention of any raid. Lots of the lads from London (we were a London Regiment) found it hard to sleep that night. In the dark of our bedrooms there were attempts at reassurance.
“They’ve all got Anderson Shelters, they’re dead safe.”
“Yer, dead safe.”
“…and there’s all that anti-aircraft fire…that keeps ‘em up ‘igh.”
“…and there’s the Underground, nuffink could break them.”
The window near my bed faced north. As I lay there, I could see the glow of the fires. The bombers were still going. Some must have been on their way back as we heard cannon fire as night fighters got onto them. What a bloody mess. Men in bombers raining