Monty, his part in my victory - Spike Milligan [12]
A British soldier forcing an Arab to smash his foot with a large hammer so as to effect an early discharge
“Come and get it!”
We got it, fried eggs and sand. It was just after 10 a.m. when Doug put the lorry in gear and started following the signs.
“What happened at the Carthage?” said Doug, who was still puzzled.
“It was a great Naval Power! Had a war with Rome, I forget the score. The Romans razed the city, and ploughed the ground with salt.”
“How did you know all that?”
“Chambers Encyclopaedia,” I said, “as a kid I loved reading. Given a chance I could have been a great scholar, even University.”
“You could have been a great University?”
“Everyone ought to get a university education,” said Al. “I reckon if Harry had been through a university, he might be writing concertos instead of burning himself makin’ the tea.”
“I think he’d burn himself writing a concerto.”
“Chambers Encyclopaedia?” said Harry. “I thought that was the history of Piss Pots.”
Without warning, Kidgell burst into song. “Loveeeeeee let me taste the wine from your lipssss,” and then went into hysterical laughter.
“He’s goin’ off his nut,” said Edgington, “it happens to short arses like him.”
Doug frowned, smiled and grimaced as only a facial cripple could. “Short arsed men are well known for their power. Take Nelson.”
“You’re not,” said Fildes querulously, “you’re not lumping yourself in his class?”
A smile played across Kidgell’s face.
“Answer, answer,” shouted Edgington, banging his fist on the dashboard and cutting his finger.
“Yes,” said Kidgell, “I do, I have the same short arsed qualifications as ‘im, it’s just that I never had the same chances.”
Al turned and looked at Kidgell.
“What are you staring at?” he giggled.
“Christ,” chuckled Al, “you in charge of the H.M.S. Victory?”
“How do you know that inside me there isn’t a brilliant naval tactician?”
“Say Ahhhh,” I said, “and I’ll look for him.”
“Personally you look more like a ½ Nelson,” said Edgington.
“Alright, alright, you think what you want, I still say short arses have a greater power over their fellow men by reason that they’re nearer the ground and haven’t got so far to fall.”
That baffled the lot of us and we gave up. Edgington was bending his fingers over each other to make ‘Crab Claws’. “I learned this as a nipper,” he said. We set off again, sucking our ration of boiled sweets.
We were doing 15 miles an hour, at that speed you could say ‘Look at that’, but, at modern speeds it’s “Did you see that?” Finally, CARTHAGE! We parked by a clump of trees, and walked to the ruins of the amphitheatre.
It was almost featureless now. What a sight it must have presented, clad in marble, as high as El Djem, the sun of Africa reflecting its white surface, the roar of crowds, the blood, the mangled remains, like Celtic vs Rangers.
“Is this it?” said Doug.
“Yes.”
“This is what I missed Bing Crosby on the Road to Bali for? It’s terrible, it’s like Catford.”
“One minute you’re allying yourself with Nelson and when you see history you say it’s Catford! You short arse, I only brought you here because the ruins were low enough for you to see over.”
“Well,” says Kidgell, “I still say a Carthage is not as good as Bing Crosby in the Road to Bali.”
A postcard I sent home at the time. It shows the amphitheatre at Carthage that Kidgell objected to
We brewed our tea on the floor of the arena, it was hard to bielieve blood spilled here 2,000 years ago.
We upped anchors and drove on, finally Doug picked a pot adjacent to a heavily bombed French maritime repair docks.
“Ah!” says Kidgell, “This looks more like a Carthage.”
He backed the truck under a large tree — a small group of Arabs with 3 donkeys and a camel are passing towards Tunis. They sell us oranges, eggs, dates and things that look and taste like Pistachio nuts, mainly because they were.
After a day of