Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [22]
Monty, sprang a giant Southern Command scheme, code name ‘Tiger’. One autumn dawn the sky was a mass of grey sponges: this undoubtedly would be the day. It was. Off we went. One hour after off we went we stopped wenting. We were in the middle of a Rain Forest that appeared to be in the Mato Grosso.
“Dismount,” came the waterlogged order. Soggy officers were called to the O.C.’s car. They stood in a squelching semi-circle, holding maps. Chaterjack whipped through the map references and all that Khaki Jazz. Our officer was Tony Goldsmith.
“We’ve got to set up an O.P. at Map Reference 8975-4564↓ in half an hour. Synchronise watches.”
≡ Somewhere on the South Downs.
None of us had one. “Very well,” said Goldsmith. “I’ll synchronise watches.” Goldsmith’s map reading left something to be desired, like someone to read it for him. Using his method, we had arrived at a hundred-year old deserted chalk quarry. How can people be so heartless as to desert a hundred-year-old chalk quarry? We were two hundred feet below sea level. We got out. Goldsmith consulted his map.
“There must be something wrong,” he said, looking intelligent at two hundred feet below sea level. “According to my calculations we should be on top of a hill, looking down a valley.”
Gunner Milligan said, “But we aren’t on top of a hill looking down a valley, are we sir?”
“No, we’re not, Milligan. How shrewd of you to notice. This could mean promotion for you, or death. I suggest we retrace our steps to the main road. Does anybody know where it is?”
“I think I do sir,” said Driver Wenham.
We boarded the truck, and set off somewhere. “Send a message to H.Q.,” said Goldsmith, still trying to maintain the illusion of efficiency. “Say, ‘Truck in ditch, will be late for O. P.’”
I sent off the message. But received a request for Goldsmith to speak to ‘Sunray’ (code name for C.O.). What a lovely name I thought for a dripping wet C.O.
Goldsmith spoke.
“Hello, Sunray, Seagull here. Over.”
Chaterjack:
Tony? What the bloody hell’s going on? Over.
Goldsmith:
The truck’s stuck, sir. Over.
Chaterjack:
Well hurry up, the whole bloody battery’s waiting for you.
We drove grimly on. One o’clock. “Get the BBC news, Milligan,” said Goldsmith, “you never know, it might be all over.” There were the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. “I wonder if he gets royalties,” said Goldsmith. “Oh yes,” I said, “every Friday.” The news. Russians were advancing on all fronts. Then a list of current British disasters, retreats, sinkings, etc. The news concluded with a report of a two-headed calf born in Hereford.
Using all the skill of a trained Army driver, Wenham had the truck into a ditch a second time!
“Sorry sir,” said Wenham, “I won’t do it again!”
“Don’t stop now man, you’re just getting the hang of it,” said Goldsmith. “Milligan! Send another message. ‘Truck now in second ditch.’ ”
Back came Chaterjack.
Chaterjack:
Good God, Tony, where are you man? Over.
Goldsmith:
About a mile from the O.P. sir. Over.
Chaterjack:
You’re very faint. Over.
Goldsmith:
It’s the food sir. Over.
Chaterjack:
I can’t hear you. Look, we’ll have to write you off. We’ll get 18 Battery O.P. to fire us. Over.
Goldsmith:
Roger sir. Over.
Chaterjack:
Anything else? Over.
Goldsmith:
A two-headed calf has been born at Hereford sir. Over.
Chaterjack:
Two what? Over.
Goldsmith:
Very good sir, anything else?
Chaterjack:
No. Roger and out.
We stopped at a village of Lower Lind, where we went to the Essoldo Bioscope Cinema to see ‘Black Moonlight’ with Anton Walbrook, and heard that bloody awful Warsaw Concerto. Lieutenant Goldsmith paid for us all, as is fitting for a man wearing the King’s uniform over his (queens’ College body.
He told me a story about Jesus College, Cambridge. It was Christmas morning, the phone rang in the gate porter’s lodge. “Hello,” said the porter.
“Is that Jesus?” asked a donnish voice.
“Yes.”
The voice sang, “Happy birthday to you.”
At six o’clock we arrived at the night rendezvous, a field of bracken resting on a lake. We got