Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [111]
Outside a young Lieutenant was talking to a Sergeant. “…Then why didn’t they stay inside. I mean those inside didn’t get killed.” I presume he was referring to the unburied dead who lay without the walls. It was dark. A stream of MG bullets whined over the roof, God knows what he was aiming for—there was nothing behind us.
Overhead, stars shone. Back in Major Jenkins’ Salon for the Morose, I went back on the set. At that moment a terrific explosion shook the farm; it was a Jerry 155mm shell, and he continued to carry out harassing fire throughout the night. I think it was the road to the ferrybridge he was after, but he moved around a bit. I continued to relay our lunatic’s messages. “The Germans have started shelling us”, “There’s an interval of two minutes between each round”, this his most unbelievable one. “Every time we transmit a message—he shells us.”
The idiot was implying that Jerry had a device that made it possible to locate the position of a wireless set by its transmission. Of course, there was absolutely no truth in his statement—when we didn’t transmit Jerry shelled us—so how did he become a Major? Mens’ lives were in his hands. Like all lunatics he had unending energy—as dawn came he got worse. I was almost numb with fatigue, and my piles had started to bleed. I should never have volunteered. One of the lads makes breakfast—while I’m eating it Jenkins tells me, “Bombardier, I want you to take Gordon, Howard, Birch and Ballard to the OP with fresh batteries and a 22 set.” Great, all I have to do is carry a 50lb battery to the top of a mountain, anything else? Like how about a mile run before in medieval armour?
Ballard apparently knows the way. At 9.00 we put on Arctic Packs and strap on one battery each. We set off single file on the road towards Castleforte, which sits in the near distance on a hillside full of Germans. We turn left off the road into a field; we pass a Sherman Tank, a neat hole punched in the turret; a tank man is removing kit from inside. Laying on a groundsheet is the mangled figure of one of the crew.
“What a mess,” says the Tankman in the same tones as though there was mud on the carpet.
I grinned at him and passed on. Above us the battle was going on full belt; coming towards us is Thornton, dear old 35-year old Thornton; he looks tired, he has no hat, and is smoking a pipe.
“Hello, what’s on?”
He explains he’s been sent back. “I’m too old for that lark. I kept fallin’ asleep.”
I asked him the best way up. He reaffirms, “You got up a stone-lined gully; when it ends start climbing the hill, it’s all stepped for olive trees. Of course,” he added, “if you’re in the gully and they start mortaring, you’ve had it.”
“Thanks,” I said, “that’s cheered us up no end.”
He bid us farewell and we went forward, we reached the gully. In a ravine to the left were Infantry all dug into the side; they were either ‘resting’ or in reserve. So far so good. We reach the end of the stone gully and start climbing the stepped mountain—each step is six foot high, so it’s a stiff climb. CRUMP! CRUMP! CRUMP!, mortars. We hit the ground. CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP—they stop. Why? Can they see us? We get up and go on, CRUMP CRUMP CRUMP—he can see us! We hit the deck. A rain of them fall around us. I cling to the ground. The mortars rain down on us. I’ll have a fag, that’s what. I am holding a packet of Woodbines, then there is a noise like thunder. It’s right