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By Root 72 0

tea from a swearing cookhouse crew, who took it in turns to say ‘piss off’ to us. We were given to understand we could have a complete night’s sleep. Good. We tossed for who was to sleep in the truck. I lost. Sod. Rain. Idea! Under the truck! Laid out ground sheet, rolled myself like a casserole in three blankets. I dropped into a deep sleep. I awoke to rain falling on me. The truck had gone. Everybody had gone. There had been a surprise call to action at 02:00 hours. I was alone in a fifty-acre field. I shouted into the darkness, “Anybody there?” I was still alone in a fifty-acre field. Smell of oil—I felt my face. It was smothered. The stuff had dripped from a leaky sump. Sound of motor-bike approaching. “Help,” I said.

“Who’s that?” said a voice. It was Jordy Dawson.

“It’s me, Sarge! Milligan.” A torch shone.

“What in Christ has happened to you?” he said.

“I’m doing Paul Robeson impressions. You’re just in time for my encore.” I started to sing: “Ole man ribber, dat Ole…”

“What’s that on your mush?”

“Oil, Sarge! I cut an artery and struck oil. We’re rich, do you hear me. We can be married.” He started to laugh. “You silly bugger, we’ve had half the bloody signal section looking for you. The scheme’s over.”

“I know! Half of it’s over me,” I said.

“Come on, I’ll take you back.”

“Go back’?” I said in a pained voice, “but I’m happy here, here on de Ole plantation, massa baws.” Seated on the pillion, he drove me back to Bexhill. Tiger had been a roaring success. The German High Command must have been ecstatic. The following is an excerpt from the Regimental war diary of the time:

When the weather was too bad for schemes out of doors, wireless and telephone exercises were held within the Regiment to increase the proficiency in communications. It was on such an occasion as this, that a message reading: “Invasion Fleet in the Channel, two miles off SEAFORD, steaming N.W. Estimated, strength three capital ships, sixteen destroyers, and many lesser craft.” He had omitted to prefix the message with the magic word ‘PRACTICE’ and by some unkind trick of fate, which has never since been accounted for, the message by-passed R.H.Q. and was sent direct to Corps. The scheme finished, and the Regiment prepared to depart on its nightly occupations. Suddenly the peace was shattered by the frantic ringing of the telephone bell. It was a call from the War Office, who enquired, in no uncertain tones, what the thundering blazes was the meaning of our message. What steps had been taken by us: and had the Navy been informed?

By the time that the matter had been sorted out, tempers were frayed and feeling was running high. It took some laughing off, but a personal visit by the C.O. to the War Office the following day succeeded in allaying the storm. It is an interview that few of us would have cared to undertake personally.

I think I can now safely reveal that the signal was sent by 954024, Gunner Milligan.

A 7 2 dun howitzer as seen from the receiving end

I was alone in a fifty-acre field

SPORTS

Invitations to join the Battery boxing team had fallen flat. We had one professional, Sergeant Conroy, but he wasn’t going to do any boxing, oh no, he was, to quote him, going to “Pluck another Jimmy Wilde from our ranks.” He plucked Lofty Andrews, a bean pole, six-foot one, with a pigeon-chest. Conroy explained: “This lad is God’s gift to me, he’s as tall as a heavy-weight, with the same reach and he only weighs eight stone! Now boxers at that weight are usually only five-foot-six. Don’t you see? With Lofty’s reach, they won’t get near him!” But before that, the Battery were to have another champion. Southern Command Sports were coming up. One of our competitors was Gunner Alexander Naze who had entered for the high jump. This puzzled us. He was the most unathletic person I’d ever met. Such was his confidence, he never trained. Came the day and Bexhill Sports Ground was crammed with shouting soldiers and things. The weather was perfect, sunny, warm, with a delightful cool, salt-scented breeze from the Channel. The grass was a fresh