Monty, his part in my victory - Spike Milligan [7]
“That is so sir.”
“Well Milligan, he says that he had mentioned at the time, that if ever you had another cake like it, he was willing to sample a reasonable slice.”
“I don’t remember that sir.”
“Well he does. Now, there was a delivery of mail yester-day, and he noticed that one parcel was for you, and on the label it said that among the contents was a fruit cake.”
“That is so sir.”
“He says at Toukebour, you had received a cake, and shared it among the Command Post staff. He said he was on duty at the time, but not actually in the command post, and when he heard of the cake he came as quickly as he could but it had all been eaten.”
“I remember that sir.”
“So does he; what I’m coming to Milligan is that he would look on you in a kindly light if you were to give him a slice of the cake which is at this moment in your tent.”
“We’ve eaten the lot sir.”
“You’re a bloody guts Milligan.”
“Yes sir.”
I wrote and told my mother, and lo! she sent him a whole cake, but this never stopped him cadging mine.
“You see,” said Edgington, “he’s just a normal human being like us, he likes his grub.”
“His grub?” I said.
We had a morning of morse code training and equipment maintenance. Then came lunch: I ate a slice of ‘Spotted Dick’ pudding before I realized half the spots were dead flies.
Bombardier Marsden had a lottery. At the end of the day the one who presented most fly corpses won, and it was usually Sanitary Orderly Liddle. How did he do it?
“Look,” he explained, “when you work with shit, you can’t lose.”
We asked him for a percentage, arguing that it was our visits to his establishment which helped to attract the flies.
With the temperature at 100 degrees, I caught the sort of cold one could only catch on a freezing London night while bathing naked in the Thames.
“Got a cold mate?” says Edgington.
“Yed, I’d god a kode.”
“How did you get that?”
“Badin’ naged id der tembes od a freezin nide in London.”
“What’s wrong with you now?” says the M O.
“A kode sir.”
“In this weather?”
“Yed.”
“That’s like breaking your leg when you’re asleep.”
“That’s something else I wanted to see you about…”
British tank coming up the mad towards a German soldier — a brilliant picture
“Come and have a look at this,” says Smudger Smith. He leads us across the plain to a Cactus grove. There, hidden among the vegetation, is a Stuka, brand spanking new.
“I wonder how much it’s worth,” says White.
We swarmed over it, took turns to fiddle with the controls, the engine suddenly gave a tremendous cough.
“What did you do then,” said Smudge.
“I pressed a large red button,” said White.
“For Christ sake don’t do it again.”
But White did do it again, didn’t he? And the bloody engine started and there we were with this throbbing monster and Pilot Officer White screaming, “How do you switch the bloody thing off?”
“Don’t waste it,” I shouted. “Bomb the Cookhouse!”
It wouldn’t stop, we stood around chucking rocks at the propeller. They bounced off and nearly killed us. It was still ticking over when we were visited by Major Chater Jack. He was furious and kept asking questions, all of which were obliterated by the roar of the engine.
Unable to control himself, Chater Jack drew his Webley pistol, emptied it at the throbbing monster, and drove off.
Oudna Left to right: Gunners White, Milligan, Fildes J. Jnr., Fildes Snr. Note Ack-Ack shells bursting overhead
16 May ‘43
“Good morning, Bombardier Milligan,” said Syd Price, fiddling with a camera.
“What do you want?”
“I wish to take a photograph of the Oudna landscape.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I know,” said Price, “therefore, would you and a few like silly buggers care to pose in the foreground to relieve the monotony?”