Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [15]
“Dat town was called Battapaglia,” said the Irishman.
The act of speaking five consecutive words so exhausted him, he laid down. We pass Italian Military Policemen, looking scruffy and unshaved; they were performing helpful tasks like guarding German PoWs, whose arses they kicked in revenge, but they were getting weary of repeated insults from allied soldiers giving Fascist salutes with cries of “Mussolini—Spaghetti!” Suddenly the sky blackens, great thunder clouds congregate, the temperature lowers, spots of rain fall. The Irish soldier then makes an incredible prediction.
“I tink it’s goin’ ter rain.”
Immediately a deluge started.
“See?” he triumphed.
With no cover, we sat huddled in our greatcoats.
“Are you alright in the back there?” came a voice from the cab.
“Come on in the water’s lovely,” I said.
The journey seemed endless. “Where in God’s name are they taking us?”
“I tink,” said the Mick, “dey are just querying us.”
As quick as it started the rain stopped, the sun came out. Soon we were all steaming like wet laundry. At mid-day the lorry arrives at a field of tents, fronted by a farmhouse; there is a sign: Corps Reinforcement Unit. We are shown into the HQ office. A Corporal seated behind a desk:
“Name? Number? Religion? Regiment?” He tells us,
“You are here to await pick-up by your regiments.”
“How long will that take?” I said.
He frowns. I’ve broken the code! “Well, I don’t exactly know, so far no one has picked up anybody, we’ve only been ‘ere for a week, so it will take a while for ‘em to find the location. There are tented lines, two men to a bivvy. Part 2 Orders are posted on the board outside.”
We walk along the line of muddy tents. I find an empty one. I see men walking rapidly with empty mess-tins; food! I follow. We arrive at a field kitchen. Food??!! Two slices of cold bully beef, a carrot, a boiled potato. A mug of tea, two biscuits. No mess tent, eat where you stand. I see an intelligent face, his shoulder flashes, HAMPS.* We get talking, name Arrowsmith, was on the landings, shell shock. He looks a little like Ronald Colman, slim, about five foot seven, intelligent, sensitive.
“It’s simple arithmetic, the longer you are alive in action, the nearer you are to getting to your lot. You see, I think, I rationalise, and that way you see only too clearly your death approaching. If I go back to my mob, I’ll never see Blighty again. I came ashore with B Company. At the end of three days, me, the sergeant and one private were all that was left. We were given replacements; two days later, me and two of the new replacements are all that’s left. I mean, it’s on the cards; one night we are on patrol, we brush with a Jerry patrol, a grenade explodes on a tree next to my head, I don’t remember any more till I wake up in an ambulance. The quack says it’s concussion and I’ll soon be alright. Alright? The cunt! He’s talking about the outside! what about up in here?” He taps his head with his spoon, it sounded hard-boiled. “That’s where it all happens, and inside me it says no go.”
We go back to our tents.
“Can’t sleep in this bloody thing,” says Arrowsmith surveying his muddy bed.
I suggest we look around for a dry place.
“Dry?” He laughed.
“You don’t know what Basenji means do you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” *2/4 Hampshire.
We squat in our tents, smoke and talk. At this Camp there was a morning roll-call at 7.00, breakfast from 7.30 to 8.30, then Parade at 9.00, the rest of the day you did what you could with a muddy field and two hundred tents. There was no transport, no entertainment, no money. The boredom was unbelievable. I mean,