Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [106]
MY DIARY:
BREAKFAST AT 0800. OP PARTY FOREGATHER AT 0900. WE ARE ISSUED WITH ARCTIC CARRYING PACKS. WE HAVE A ‘DRESS REHEARSAL’, FULLY LOADED, THEN BREAK OFF TILL FURTHER ORDERS, IN WHICH TIME I AM WRITING THIS.
I had made a note in my diary at this point saying, “I died for the England I dreamed of, not the England I know.” I had a terrible foreboding of death. I’d never had it before. We hang around all day. The waiting is the worst part. I oil my tommy gun, I don’t know why, it’s already oiled. Word that our Major and his OP party are at 167 Bde HQ at Santa Castrese.
“I suppose,” says Fuller, “‘ees the patron saint of Castration.”
“They make a damn fine stew,” I said.
“What do?”
“Bollocks.”
I had a great urge to go to the ballet. I had always loved ballet, and was forever in love with ballerinas; it’s something I still suffer from. Somehow I couldn’t see myself going to the ballet today. Going to the Major, under fire, crawling forward to him and saying, “Excuse me, sir, could I have a 24-hour pass to see Coppelia?” It wasn’t on.
“You’re not going, Milligan, you’re wanted on the WT at the Command Post.” Bombardier Fuller gives me the news. Birch is to go in my place. Christ, what game are they playing? That’s twice! This will drive me bloody mad. Still I was going to be safe. Why was I grumbling? It’s still evening. It’s sunny, and, it’s good to be alive.
“Christ! You back again,” said Deans.
“Is it bothering you?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s bothering me.”
I flopped on my bed and dumped my small pack down. Five o’clock. Time for Command Post. I’ve got a sore bottom. The dreaded piles!
Alf Fildes on the path just outside our dug-out in Lauro. His hands are tied behind his back to stop him going blind.
The evening in the Command Post was enlivened by some Coon-type singing. Lt. Stewart Pride, Edgington, Deans and I were given to spirituals. Our programme was ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’, ‘I looked over Jordan’, ‘Old Man Ribber’. At eight o’clock I flopped on to my bed. I knew there was a barrage going over at 2100 hours. I didn’t want to miss it, so I read a collection of Tit-Bits and Tatlers. I must have dozed off but I was awakened by the Boof boof boof of Beauforts blazing away about four hundred yards from my dug-out. In my diary I write:
“Barrage not very intense. Beauforts using one in five tracer, I think it’s more a marking barrage for the infantry. Better get my head down, I’m on at 0500! Piles giving me hell.”
JANUARY 18, 1944
Somewhere in the small hours I heard explosions in that distant sleep-ridden way; I hard Spike Deans say in a sing-song voice like Jiminy Cricket, “Oh Spikeeeee, we’re being shelleeddd.”
I remember my reply, “Fuck ‘em,” and dozed off but then…my diary tells the story:
0220 HRS: AWAKENED BY SOMEONE SCREAMING COMING FROM THE GUNS, PULLED BACK THE BLACK-OUT AND COULD SEE THE GLARE OF A LARGE FIRE, AT THE SAME TIME A VOICE IN PAIN WAS SHOUTING “COMMAND POST, FOR GOD’S SAKE SOMEBODY, WHERE’S THE COMMAND POST?” IT WAS SOMEONE WITH HIS HAIR ON FIRE COMING UP THE PATH, HE WAS BEATING IT OUT WITH HIS HANDS, I JUMPED FROM MY BED SANS TROUSERS AND RAN TOWARDS HIM, IT WAS BOMBARDIER BEGENT. I HELPED BEAT THE FLAMES OUT. HIS FACE AND HANDS WERE BADLY BURNT, I HELPED HIM UP THE LADDER TO THE COMMAND POST AND I BLURTED OUT TO THOSE WITHIN, “THERE’S BEEN A DIRECT HIT ON THE GUNS.” I REALISED THEN I WAS LATE WITH THE NEWS, WOUNDED GUNNERS WERE ALREADY BEING ATTENDED TO. EVERYBODY LOOKED VERY TENSE, BEHIND ME FLAMES WERE LEAPING TWENTY FEET IN THE AIR, I RUSHED BACK TO MY DUG-OUT DRESSED IN A FLASH. TOOK MY BLANKETS BACK TO THE COMMAND POST TO HELP COVER THE WOUNDED. I THEN JOINED THE REST OF THE BATTERY, WHO WERE ALL PULLING RED-HOT AND BURNING CHARGE-CASES AWAY FROM THOSE NOT YET AFFECTED. THEY WERE TOO HOT TO PULL BY HAND SO WE USED PICKAXES WEDGED IN THE HANDLES. LIEUTENANT STEWART PRIDE WAS HEAPING EARTH ON THEM WITH HIS HANDS. GUNNER DEVINE SEEMED TO