Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [10]
“My God, Terry, what are you doing in this God-forsaken place?”
“I’m helping England win the war.” What a silly bloody question. “Reg,” I said, “or do I call you sir?”
“How long you been here?” he said.
“Came yesterday—I thought it was a day trip.”
“I was here on the landings, you missed all the fun.”
“I’ll try and make up for it.”
It was difficult to make conversation. I couldn’t say, “Where’s the band playing this week?” I asked what had happened to the boys in the band.
“All split up.”
“That must be painful.”
“Most of them are in the services—remember Tom the tenor player with only one lung? They took him.”
“They took me and I’ve only got two.”
He was called away by a Sergeant. I never saw him again, I’ve no idea if he survived the war. If he reads this book, I hope he gets in touch.
A voice is calling across the land, “Bombardier Milligan.”
“Bombardier Milligan is dead,” I call in a disguised voice.
The voice replied, “Then he’s going to miss breakfast.”
Good God! it’s nearly nine! I just get to the cookhouse in time to have the remains of powdered eggs, bacon and tea that appears to have been all cooked together.
“You slept late,” says Edgington.
“I’m training for sleeping sickness.”
Loading a 7.2—to the right, Monte Stella; to the left, Monte Mango
We are now gathered around the Water Wagon doing our ablutions. Edgington is at the lather stage, peering into a mirror the size of a half crown propped on a mudguard. He was moving his face clockwise as he shaved. I had stripped to the waist, which brought cries of “Where are you?” I had my head under the tap enjoying the refreshing cascade of chlorinated cold water, at which time, twelve FW 109s are enjoying roaring out of the sun, guns hammering, there’s a God-awful scramble, we all meet under a lorry. I caught a glimpse of the planes as they launched their bombs on the 25-pounder regiment behind us.
“Look out,” warns Edgington, when the planes were half way back to base. He hurled himself face down. “All over.” We stand up. Edgington presented a face, half lather, dust and squashed grapes.
What was I laughing at? One moment I was well. Next moment I was on my knees vomiting. It was unbelievable. I became giddy, kept seeing stars and the Virgin Mary upside down.
“Report sick,” says Bombardier Fuller.
“You’re so kind,” I said.
They took me to the Doc, who said I had a temperature of 103.
“What have you been doing?” he said.
“I was washing, sir.”
Having a temperature of 103 allowed you to stop fighting. No but seriously, folks, I was ill! Oh I was ill!! The war would have to go on without me! In a bren carrier they took me shivering with ague to the Forward Dressing Station. It was a small tented area off a rough track; a Lance-Corporal, tall, thin with spectacles, took my details, tied a label on me, I think it was THIS WAY UP.
“That stretcher there,” he said.
So, they were going to stretch me! I felt a bit of a fraud. Around me were seriously wounded men. Some were moaning softly. A chubby Catholic Priest, about forty-five, red faced, blond hair going grey, walked among us.
“What’s wrong with you, son?”
“I got fever.”
“Fever?”
“Yes. Disappointed, father?”
He grinned, but it didn’t wipe the sadness off his face. He told me they were awaiting the arrival of some badly wounded men from the Queen’s.
“They were trying to take that.” He nodded towards Monte Stella.
Three jeeps arrive with stretcher cases. Among them is a German, his face almost off. Poor bastard. There was a trickle of wounded all afternoon, some walking, some on stretchers, some dead, the priest went among them carrying out the last rites. Was this the way Christ wanted them to go? The most depressing picture of the war was for me the blanket-covered bodies on stretchers, their boots protruding from the end. For my part I kept falling into a delirious sleep, where I told