Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [21]
Ablutions were primitive. We crossed the road into Bexhill Cemetery. By the grave of a ‘Mrs K. Loughborough, died 23 September 1899. Not Dead just Sleeping’ was a tap. That was it. There are few finer sights than a duty signaller scrubbing his dirty laundry on the marble slab of Mrs Loughborough’s last resting place. “‘Not Dead just Sleeping’?” said Chalky White as he read her inscription. “She’s not kidding anyone but her bloody self,” he said as he wrung his socks out on her.
In the evenings after dark, one or two of our favourite birds would visit us and bring fish and chips; once in we bolted the door.
As the days of 1940 came to an end, Dunkirk was sliding into history. The war was spreading; there seemed very little in the way of victories, there were constant reversals in Libya and Greece. On my birthday, April 16th, 1941, London had its worst raid yet. But cheering news—May 14th was the first anniversary of—wait for it—The Home Guard!
Gunner Edgington about to make his famous last-minute leap at Mill Wood Rubbish Tip from the flaming club truth
IN BILLETS AGAIN
After a winter under canvas it was good news that we were to be billeted in Turkey Road Girls’ School. It was for us a paradise—large clean rooms—white walls, ideal for nails—parquet floors, a large ballroom, showers, a well-equipped gymnasium (which we pretended not to see) and finally a brand new upright piano, on which Harry could play the bloody awful Warsaw Concerto. From here we ran our own dances. Captain Martin registered 19 Battery as a Limited Company and sold shares to sister Regiments. At this new billet we received morning visits from a W.V.S. Canteen Van. A very dolly married woman took a fancy to me and one night, after a dance, she took me home. Strange aftermath: a week later I thumbed a lift to Eastbourne, a civvy car: inside I could smell her perfume.
“My wife works for the W.V.S.,” said the driver.
“Really?” I said.
It was all sex in those days it was that or the ‘flicks’ and flicks cost money. There was a lovely busty bird called Beryl, who had hot pants for me.
During the interval of our first dance at Turkey Road I took her to the lorry park, into the back of a fifteen hundredweight truck. We were going through our third encore when the truck drove off. Apart from the jolting it must have been the best ride we’ve ever had. It stopped at Hastings. Through the flap I saw our chauffeur was Sergeant ‘Boner’ Hughes who hated my guts (I don’t know why, he’d never seen them). He backed the truck up an alley and left it while he went into The White Lion for a drink with his bird who was barmaid. Slipping into the driving seat I drove it back, and arrived in time to play the second half of the dance. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” asked Edgington, sweating at the piano. “I, Harry, have been having it off in the back of a lorry, and I got carried away.”
U Battery band playing at Turkey Road School, 1941
7.2 GUNS AND THE TIGER SCHEME
Our 9.2 guns were past it. Every time they fired, bits fell off.
In place of bolts and nuts were bent nails and chicken wire. Gunners on leave would rummage through their sheds for screws, pinions, etc. The end came when elastic bands, which held the gun-sight together, were no longer obtainable. The Major wrote away, asking for a new gun for Christmas. One day they arrived. Dozens of them! 7.2 gun howitzers. Huge things towed behind Giant Schamell lorries.
At once we were put into vigorous training to familiarize us with the new toys. For weeks the area rang to the clang of breech-blocks, shouted orders, grunts of the sweating ammunition numbers. The guns threw a 280 pound projectile 17,800 yards, so you weren’t safe any where except at 18,000 yards. Momentum was mounting, we were getting new field telephones, wireless trucks, wireless sets, tummy guns, Tannoy loudspeakers that linked Command Post to the guns. The war effort was moving