Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [113]
[Thank you, Dipper!]
I wake up, it’s very early, am I now stark raving mad? I can distinctly hear a brass band, right outside the tent, they are playing ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ at an incredible speed. I get up, look outside. There in a circle stand a collection of GIs, all playing this tune; they are in a strange collection of garments, some in overcoats with bare legs and boots, some in pyjamas, others in underpants, unlaced boots and sweaters, an extraordinary mixture.
I looked at my watch. It was 0645. This I discovered was the American Reveille; the tune finished, the men doubled back to their beds. But where was I? It was a large hospital tent, full of bunk beds with sleeping soldiers. I was the only one awake, and was still fully dressed save my battle-dress jacket. For the first time I felt my right leg aching. I sat on the side of my bed, took the plaster off my leg to look at the wound. It was a wound about two inches long and about a quarter of an inch deep, as though I had been slashed with a razor blade. Today you can only see the scar if I get sunburnt. It wasn’t hindering me, so what was I here for? I lit up a cigarette. It was one of my five remaining Woodbines, now very crushed. Two RAMC Orderlies enter the tent, young lads, they go around the beds looking at the labels; they woke some of the men up, gave them tablets. They arrived at me. I asked them where I was. They told me it was 144 CCS, I was labelled ‘Battle Fatigue’. I was to see a psychiatrist that evening. Meantime there was a mess tent where I could get breakfast. I told them I didn’t have my small kit. “Don’t worry, lad, they’ve got knives and forks there.”
Lad? So I was Lad now. It was a wretched time. No small kit, no towel, no soap, no friends. It’s amazing what small simple things really make up our life-support system, all I wanted was for some cold water on my face. I went across to the American Camp and from a GI (of all things smoking a cigar) I scrounged a towel. He was more than generous, he took me to his Quarter Master, who gave me two brand-new khaki-coloured towels, soap, and a razor. I’m afraid I was still in a terribly emotional state, and I started to cry ‘Thanks’ but apparently they were aware that the Camp next to them were Battle Fatigue cases.
I wandered through a mess of tents till I found the Ablutions. It was still only 7.30, but the place was full; there was the terrible silence of a mass of people who don’t know each other. I washed in silence, and the cold water made me feel a little fresher. The seat of my trousers are all sticky. Oh God, what a mess, blood, the curse of the Milligans is still working. What I really want is a bath. I’m given two different-sized pills. I ask what they are, the orderly says, “I don’t know, chum.” (I’m Chum now.) He knows alright, but it was early days for tranquillisers. “Take them after breakfast.” I have absolutely no recollection of eating breakfast, I think that I took the tablets right away; next thing it was evening time, I’m very dopey.
“You got to see the ‘Trick Cyclist’,” says the young orderly. I had no idea what ‘Trick Cyclist’ meant. I asked. Psychiatrist? That was for lunatics. Was I one? I was to find out. In a small officer-type tent, behind an Army folding-table covered with a grey blanket sits a stern, or rather attempting to look stern, officer. He is a Captain. Middle aged, a small, almost pencil-thin, moustache. He asks me all those utterly boring questions, name, religion, etc…He asks me what happened. I tell him as much as I can recall. He is telling me that it takes 100,000 shells before one soldier is killed, he ends with (and in a louder voice than before), “You are going to get better. Understand?” Yes, I understand. I’m back in my tent, still a bit airy-fairy in the head. I’ve never had mind drugs before.
I get an evening meal. There’s no lighting in the hospital tents, the orderlies come round with a Tilly Lamp, and I get more knock-out pills. Next morning, ‘Roll Out The Barrel’; it’s a great place for Battle Fatigue, a week here and it would be ‘Roll