Adolf Hitler_ my part in his downfall - Spike Milligan [41]
“The Regiment,” we echoed.
“What bloody regiment?” said a drunken voice.
The dinner over. the dance got under way, some lads had brought their wives down for the occasion, the local mistresses and girl friends were all present, everyone knew everyone else. I picked up with a W.A.A.F. Corporal, her name was Bette. I forget the surname. I ended up in bed with her, somewhere in Cooden Drive. I always remember a woman looking round the door and saying “Have you got enough blankets,” and I replied something like “How dare you enter the King’s bedchamber when he’s discussing foreign policy.” This sudden late affair with Bette flowered rapidly and we did a lot of it in the last dying days prior to Embarkation. Actually, I was glad when we left, I couldn’t have kept up this non-stop soldier-all-day lover-all-night with only cups of tea in between. I was having giddy spells, even lying down. I don’t suppose there’s anything more exciting than a sudden affair; it is the sort of thing that defeats the weather, and gives you a chance to air your battle dress. When I went overseas, Bette wrote sizzling letters that I auctioned to the Battery lechers.
Picture, taken at the insistence of my father to show the Milligan family at war, on embarkation leave.
My father appeared at the door clutching a kettle. (Drawn by my brother, who was there at the time)
THE TRAIN JOURNEY
(BEXHILL-LIVERPOOL)
The date was January 6th, 1943, the time just, before midnight. An army on the march. Weather, pissing down. Standing in a black street, the hammer of the Germans stands silent in full F.S.M.O. With .arms aching from typhus, typhoid and tetanus injections, Edgington and I had been detailed to carry a Porridge Container. “Quick march!” Shuffle, shamble, slip, shuffle, scrape. Nearing the station, a voice in the dark: “Anybody remember to turn the gas off?”
“Stop that talking.”
“Bollocks’”
“No swearing now Vicar!”
The rain. It seemed to penetrate everything. We reached the station soaked. My porridge-carrying arm was six inches longer. Down the stairs we trooped on to the platform where the train was now not waiting in the station. Permission to smoke. An hour went by. We struck up a quiet chorus of “Why are we waiting?”, followed by outbreaks of bleating. At 2.14 a.m. the train arrived. Ironic cheers. All aboard! and the fight for seats got under way. A compartment packed with twelve fully-equipped gunners looks like those mountainous piles of women’s clothes at Jumble Sales. Once sat down, you were stuck. If you wanted to put your hand in a pocket, three men in the carriage had to get up. The train started. As it pulled fretfully from the station, I suddenly realised that some of us were being driven to our deaths! Edgington and I in the corridor decided to look for somewhere special to settle. The guard’s van! It was empty save for officers’ bed-rolls. Just the job. Removing our webbing, we lay like young khaki gods, rampant on a field of kit-bags. The young gods then lit up a couple of Woodbines. We passed the time with our song puns game.
Me:
What is the song of the Obstetrician?
Edgington:
I don’t know.
Me:
I’m always on the outside, looking in.
Edgington:
Swine. What is the song of the Barren Female Fish?
Me:
What?
Edgington:
No roses in all the world.
Me:
Rotten! What is the song of the man who’d lost his old cigarette-lighter, and found it again?
Edgington:
What?
Me:
My old flame!
Edgington:
Scum. What did Eve sing when she covered her fanny with a fig leaf?
Me:
I cover the waterfront!
Edgington:
Correct. One point to you.
Me:
It’s rude to point.
Edgington: