Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [38]
“Well, I know it’s not Glasgow.” (Roar of laughter.) “Embarkation leave will start immediately, married men first…they need it.” (Laughter.) A voice from the back, “Don’t we all.” (Loud laughter.) He told us that there would be a farewell dinner dance at the Devonshire Arms. He finished “Good luck to you all.”
It was a time of incredible excitement. God knows how we got so much done in so short a time. Men usually only had one active participation in a war during their lifetime. It was about to happen to us. We had problems, for instance the double bass we had knocked off from the De La Warr Pavillion.↓
≡ I haven’t mentioned this before because I’ve been waiting for the original owner to die.
It was stolen in anticipation of Al Fildes learning to play it. It had been noticed that the bass had been lying in the corner of a backstage room. We measured the size, passed the measurements on to Bombadier Donaldson who had a crate made to fit. The outside of the crate was stecilled MARK THREE BOFOR GUN SPARES. On morning after parade we drove to the Pavillion and hurroed in through the back door with the crate. A few moments later we hurried out with it, nothing had changed save the weight had increased by One Double Bass. It was rushed to our work shops, where high speed work was done in stripping the varnish off, staining the wood a deep Black Oak, then re-varnishing. It was whilst in the middle of the last mentioned operation that we got our overseas sailing orders, so, not wanting to lose the fruits of our labours, we decided to give the bass to Harry Edgington to take home for his brother Doug who was desperate to learn to play the instrument. Somewhere in the dark of a December evening Harry smuggled the bass aboard a London-bound train, and put it down at his home in St John’s Road, Archway. While we were overseas we had a letter saying that Doug had won first prize for the best bass player in London, and had won a Melody Maker medal. Who said crime doesn’t pays Our leaves overlapped. I went straight home to 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley Rise, where my family had returned when my father was posted back to London.
I arrived at Victoria Station during the rush-hour. The crowds were a weird mixture of grey faces carrying early Christmas shopping. I was wearing my new red artillery forage cap, and felt rather conspicuous. I took the crowded tube to London Bridge, and from there a train to Honor Oak Park. The faces of the commuters were tired and pinched. Occasionally one would steal a look at me. I don’t know why. To break the boredom I suppose. A man of about fifty, in a dark suit and overcoat, leaned over and said “Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thank you,” I said, and like a bloody fool smoked it. A bloody fool because, dear reader, I had just gone through three weeks’ agony, having given up the habit. As I walked from the station down Riseldine Road a raid was in progress. It was very, very dark, and I had to peer closely at several doors before I arrived at Number 50. The family were about to have dinner in the Anderson Shelter. “Ah son,” said my father, in that wonderful welcoming voice he had, “you’re just in time for the main course.” Holding a torch he showed me down the garden. “Put that bloody light out,” said my brother in a mock A.R.P. warden voice. The voice was in the process of breaking, and I swear in speaking that short sentence he went from Middle C to A above the stave. By the light of a hurricane lamp, called ‘Storm Saviour Brand’, I squeezed next to my mother. They had made the shelter as comfortable as possible, with duck boards and a carpet on top, an oil heater, books, and a battery radio. Mother said grace, then the four of us sat eating lukewarm powdered egg, dehydrated potatoes, Lease Lend carrots and wartime-strength tea. I felt awful. So far I hadn’t suffered anything. Seeing the family in these miserable circumstances