Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [19]
At the new position we were to live under canvas. “It’s very simple,” said Sergeant Dawson. He was talking about the erection of a marquee. “I’ve been camping a lot in my time, I’ll show you.” Thirty Signallers drove to the R.A.O.C. Depot at Reigate in a three-ton truck. We were shown a great piece of rolled canvas, six foot by ten foot by five foot. From it hung numerous lengths of trailing ropes. In picking the thing up it was impossible not to stand on them. We lifted. It must have weighed three to four hundredweight, and it all seemed to be on my side. It was but a few yards to the truck, but somehow we found it impossible to get there. The lump was moved in much the confused way that ants carry a twig; there was a fair bit of going round in a circle, three paces backward—a little bit sideways then lots of going round and round again. Straining around the edge were about twenty gunners, while underneath, taking the weight on their heads were ten more. There was frequent swearing, unending strings of instructions, but progress, none. The far side of the lump had started to unfold, so the carriers on that side were lost to sight and carrying blind. The whole thing was becoming absurd. The lump was coming to pieces as we continually trod on trailing ropes. Those on the outside were getting tired, and the lump was getting lower and lower as the men underneath wilted.
Finally it collapsed with seventeen gunners underneath. The second attempt started. This time we just dragged the thing by its trailing edges and forced it into the lorry like stuffing a chicken. The lump now seemed much larger. We crawled on top of it and moved off. On arrival, we dragged what was now a long, uncontrolled canvas mess through the woods to the site. Sergeant Dawson was waiting. “What in the bloody hell have you done?” Bombardier Hart explained: “We fucked it up, Sarge.”
“We’ll never win this bloody war,” said Dawson as he circled the canvas monster. “Open it full length and try to fold it double on its side,” he said. With a lot of twisting and untwirling we finally got it like he wanted. “Now,” he said, “where are the poles?” A hush fell on the multitude. “Poles, Sarge? Poles?”
“Poles!…Bloody Poles!!!”
Ten of us were sent back for them. By careful planning we returned in time to finish work for the day. Next morning the nonsense continued. “First, three men take the head of the pole each, right, now crawl under the canvas towards where the roof is, right?” Muffled cries of ‘right’. So far, so good. “Now, when you get to the roof seam we’ll prod the outside where there is a hole for the pole to go in.” Muffled Ayes. Underneath, the lumps, Gunners Cordon, Balfour and White, made their way to the holes. Two made it, but the third lump stayed still: it was Flash Cordon. “What’s up now?” shouted Dawson. “I’ve dropped me money,” said Flash. We stood idly by as the lump moved hither and thither. Finally Dawson, patience exhausted, said, “We can’t wait, we’re pulling the tent up, and you’ll have to bloody well go with it.” We were all given a rope each, eight men held the base of the two poles. “All together, heave.” Marvellous! We got it up in one go, and had it down the other side on top of us. “You bloody idiots,” yelled Sergeant Dawson. All the time Gunner Cordon’s lump groped back and forth swearing the air blue. It came to the point when the marquee was at least standing upright, but covered in mud with a dozen gaping holes.