Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [109]
Lt. Joe Mostyn—an identification photo was given to each member of the battery with warning not to lend money.
“It says we have ‘Fighter with no propeller’,” I read aloud. “Ah, well that’s due to shortage of parts,” said Vic Nash. “I myself have a razor with no blades, it’s part of a plan to drive us all bloody mad.”
I read that there is a “Test lighting of street-lamps in Malpas Road, Deptford, a Councillor Coombs pressed a button in a controlling sub station and the lights came on.”
Nash looks up from de-mudding his boots. “A lot of fucking good that’s going to do for winning the war.”
“I’ve looked through this paper and there’s not one bloody mention of us.”
“That’s it mate…we’re the forgotten Army.”
“Forgotten…FORGOTTEN? Don’t make me laugh…they’ve never bloody heard of us.”
Smudger Smith and Spiv Convine from B Sub have arrived. They are definitely scrounging. “Got any fags, Milly?” (Smudger always called me Milly.) He’s moaning about not having enough mail.
“They must all be bleedin’ crippled from the shoulder dhan, I written a dozen bleedin’ Air letters and nuffink back, last one was Christmas…Huh…women…Huh!”
He was right. “Women huh!”, that summed them up. “Huh.”
“Good news, Smudger, according to the Daily Express there’s no war in Italy.”
He borrows the paper; I never saw it again. It would come to the same terrible end that all good newspapers came to in this army, even The Times. At that time, I was dreaming of after-the-war ventures, and I had decided that I would like to have a Club on the river. Edgington, Deans and myself had discussed being partners with Dixie Dean* from Hail-sham. It would be called either Holiday Inn or Ravello’s: Deans would see to the catering, I would have a band, and Harry Edgington would play the piano in the lounge. I had a pad and I was writing down what the requirements of the place were—plates, chairs, etc. Dreams. Dreams. Dreams.
“Come on, you’re bloody late,” Sergeant King has bearded me in my lair.
“Sorry, Sarge, I was miles, miles away.”
“We’re all bloody miles away,” he said. “They’re having a bloody hot time across the river. We’re through to them on the wireless; they’re at Tac HQ where ‘Looney’ is. Lt. Budden and party are up Dimiano trying to establish an OP.’” *He used to play drums with us when we were stationed in Hailsham.
Lt. E. Wright holding up a set of railings willed to him by his mother.
We are walking together to the CP. He leaves me at the entrance.
“Hurry up, Milligan,” says Lt. Wright, “we’re off again.”
Bdr. Edwards has been working the phone, the wireless and the Tannoy.
“What’s it feel like to be fully employed, Eddy?” I said, taking over the earphones.
Bombardier Edwards was a gift to the army. He did his job to full measure, never complained, first class at his profession of Specialist, clean, shaved every morning even in cold water, about five foot ten, black-haired, not in any way good-looking, prominent teeth, never said much; when we were all getting pissed out of our tiny minds, Eddy would be doing water-colours and sketches of the landscape. We noticed at dances, whenever he took the floor, he appeared to be on wheels and his lady partner pushing him around. At OPs he was very brave—well, braver than me—he wouldn’t flinch when one dropped near, and I did, I flinched when they didn’t drop near. I even flinched when nothing was happening, I was an inveterate flincher. I flinched after the war whenever a car backfired.
The weather now is glorious, a faint promise of spring warmth is in the air, the sun is in a cloudless sky, and the Germans must be cursing it as the RAF and the USSAF pound the daylights out of them. Suddenly there are no more fire orders. All round, guns are going, all except us, is it because we’re Jewish? We all stare into the Command Post fire, it stares back, we are all pissed off, and trying to find comfort in dreams.
“I think I’d like to be walking along the front at Brighton with Margaret,” said Edwards.
At the hour of five I was glad to see Sergeant King come and take over. I go straight to my bed.