Monty, his part in my victory - Spike Milligan [10]
HIMMLER:
Nix poofs, zese are drag artists, zey are training to keep up zer morale of zer boys.
HITLER:
Vot I hear zer boys have all be up zer drag artists, how can mein Afrika Korps make shoot bang fire fight vit zer sore arses.
HIMMLER:
Zey like it mein Führer.
HITLER:
Like it? Zey must stop it!!! No more zer brown hatting until zer final victory. Give zer order. Stop all zer Browning!
Carthage
22-23-24 May
Our long weekend leave was about to start. Friday till Monday! Where to spend it?
“Edgington,” I said, as I shaved with a thousand year old blade, my face a sea of cuts, “All my born days I’ve wanted to see the ruins of Carthage.”
“I think you’ve only got a pint of blood left,” says Edgington.
“I must hurry.”
“What’s a Carthage?” said Doug Kidgell.
“A great archaeological site.”
“Oh?” said Kidgell, “Why we goin’, you got friends there?”
“It’s to improve my education.”
“Can’t we go to the pictures?” said Kidgell. “There’s Bing Crosby in ‘The Road to Bali’ in Tunis.”
That evening, excited as schoolboys we drove off along the Tunis-Bizerta road, it was as though the war didn’t exist, eventually we pull up on a sandy beach for the night.
There was no moon, but the sky was a pincushion of stars. Great swathes of astral light blinked at us across space. We; made a fire, glowing scarlet in cobalt black darkness, showers of popping sparks jettisoning into the night air. Tins of steak and kidney pud were in boiling water, with small bubbles rising to the surface.
“Ready soon,” said Doug, poking the fire, the only poke he would have for a long time.
Fildes and Edgington were making up their beds in the lorry. Edgington singing while Fildes spoke to himself. It was interesting to hear;
“A cigarette that bears lipstick traces”—
“I think I’ll put three blankets on top” —
“An air line ticket to romantic places!” —
“It’s going to get chilly later” —
“A fair-ground’s painted swings” —
“Better keep my socks on tonight”
“These foolish things” —
“Where’s that bloody pillow?”
“Remind me of you.”
Kidgell in the driving cab is finishing off an ‘I love you for ever’ letter.
“You don’t write many, Milligan.”
“I let ‘em all worry.”
“What about your folks?”
“Well they worry about me all the time. Before the war hey worried if I went to the toilet, even if I was in the garden they’d shout out ‘Are you alright son?’ They’d wake me up in the middle of the night and say ‘Are you alright?’ they’re natural worriers. My father would wake up at 3 in the morning and worry about his job, and my mother would worry about him worrying about his job.”
“They sound a mite strange mate.” :
“A mite? They’re insane! Every night, when my father comes home from work, he gets his pistol from under the stairs then shouts ‘Hitler! if you’re in this house, com out with your hands up.’ Let me tell you, Kidgell, I’m bloody worried about them.”
German general repairing Scottish officer’s bagpipes under fire.
We sat around the fire, opening the tins with a Jack knife.
“Army cooks don’t like tinned food,” says Kidgell.
“Why not?”
“They can’t sod it up in tins. They like fresh stuff they can burn the Jesus out of. The motto of the Army Catering Corp is, ‘Help wipe the smile off a soldier’s face.’”
“Got him!” said a triumphant Edgington, smashing a mosquito on his wrist, sending his marmalade pudding flying into the fire. “Bugger,” he said, trying to retrieve it with a stick.
In a food frenzy he dashes to the lorry, returns at speed with rifle and bayonet. A heroic sight, as he lunged time an time again to retrieve the blackened duff. “Don’t forget — thrust — turn — withdraw,” said Kidgell.
“Gentlemen, a surprise!” I produced a small bottle of Schnapps. “It fell off the back of a Major Chater Jack.”
“That is a spoil of war,” said Edgington, striking a dramatic finger-pointing pose.
“Well, it’s not going to spoil mine,” I said, pouring out the white liquid.
Alf sipped and grasped his throat. “Christ! If they drink this, they are the master race.”
It was fiery stuff.