Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [28]
The door flew open and in crashed the master-spy himself, Gruenthaphartz, measuring five rounds gun-fire by inches three, and clad only in a huge fur coat of huge fur, a sou’wester, and two hand-painted barges strapped to his feet for a quick getaway. With a hairy on the knee. He was escorted by a plague of Zeppelins. He loped across the room with a great lope and snatching up a sharpened lamppost hurled it wildly at the bedraggled portrait of Sir Bennispon-of-du-Whacka. “So perish all my enemies” he roared, and then, “I have quoth,” whereupon they all leapt into a handy bus and drove off smiling and waving through the wildly cheering populace.
“A near thing,” he said, reaching for the wine, “that lamp-post must have been seven and one tooth.”
Curtain, to chord in various flats by orch. of military bugle, violin and Pianist who has one hand out to show he is going to turn right.
We wrote reams of this stuff. We read some to Lieutenant Goldsmith. “Very good,” he said, moving in the general direction of away.
The Signal Section was a law unto itself. We organized the duty roster to suit ourselves. We all opted for one week’s duty and one off. Two of you would work out who slept and kept awake. During the off’ week your presence in bed at midday was explained thus: “This man has been on duty all night, sir.” It was all right having a whole week off, but it became boring. A sleeping contest was inaugurated. The rules were: “The contestant will at no time leave the bed. The first to do so is disqualified.” So started the great sleep. Piddles were done out of the back window at night, standing on your bed. Food was hauled up in a kit bag when the N.A.A.F.I. van called at 10.30 of a morning. Tea was brought in by bribing Danker wallahs. The contestants were the Gunners Milligan, Edgington, White and Devine. There we lay for five days and nights. Sometimes we sang songs, told jokes, recounted past incidents.
“You know what I’d like to do to Bombardier Jones?”
“What?”
“Tie him to a post, then shoot him with a blunderbuss loaded with his own Shite.”
“When I leave the army I’m not going to do anything for a year.”
“You know what I’d like now? Four fried eggs, chips, bacon and tomatoes.”
“Too many eggs give you the horn.”
“I think this war will die out.”
“Die out? How do you mean?”
“Well, stop. I mean everyone will get fed up. I’m fed up already.”
“So am I. Let’s all fuck off.”
“Lend us a fag.”
“You’re always scroungin’ bloody fags. What do you do with them?”
“I smoke ‘em.”
Edgington won the contest with six days and seven hours.
“Christ, how did you do it?” said Devine.
“Training,” said Edgington, “that, and dreams of grandeur!”
About now the owner of the livery stables (retired livery Colonel) gave a dance for officers from local British and Canadian units; we were detailed to play.
British officers are possibly the world’s worst ballroom dancers. One or two of the more daring ones would wag one finger in the air as they went ‘Trucking’. First signs of repressed inhibitions came in the ‘Paul Jones’. As they circled the ladies, there would be a few jolly Scottish whoops. Next they would do their ‘Cocking of the Legs’ which I will describe later.
The dance was held in a large and comfortable country-style lounge: chairs and sofas clad in loose floral covers, plenty of polished wood, a few Hercules Brabizon-Brabizon water colours on walls, standard lamps with silk shades, a few oriental curios, traces of visits to foreign climes. (What are foreign climes? Waiter! A pound of foreign climes, please!) As the guests eased themselves in, we were playing lively tunes ‘Woodchopper’s Ball’, ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree’, ‘Ma, I miss your apple pie’, ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, ‘Undecided’, ‘Tangerine’ (what memories these tunes bring back). Soon the floor was crowded, drinks for the band were