Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [16]
The Pioneer Corps were on the beaches collecting war salvage, all middle-aged men. We talked to them. Why did they join up?
“Anyfink ter git away from the bleedin’ wife.”
They are all old soldiers, some from World War 1, they are well organised. At lunch they light a fire on the beach, and are soon frying eggs and bacon.
“Like some grub?” says their Sergeant.
“Christ, yes,” I said.
Salerno Beach. Soldiers treasure-hunting. 44
The Sergeant is a Londoner, he’s about fifty, big, burly and used to be a fish porter at Billingsgate.
“I wos gettin’ fed up, so I fort, ‘ave a go in the Pioneer Corps. When they knowed I bin a sergeant in World Woer I, they makes me a sergeant right away, so strite on I’m orl rite fer lolly.”
He tells us about the ‘perks’.
“The CO ‘e says, go orf and get some salvage, so we takes a day’s rations, bully bread cheese an’ all that, we piss orf somewhere and swop the bully and cheese fer Iti eggs or chickens, an’ we live like fightin’ cocks, but,”, he giggled, “we don’t do no fitin’.”
For two days we met them on the beach and gave them a hand picking up empty ammo boxes, shell cases, and were rewarded with marvellous grub; the last day they brought three bottles of white Chianti, we got back to the Camp that evening very merry. We had also solved sleeping in the mud. Three hundred yards east of our camp in a field, I spotted a small hut on legs; these are apparently farmhands’ resting places during the hot harvesting season, made of straw, with wooden slats for the supporting skeleton. It was lovely! dry and warm. We slept very cosy that night.
But all good things come to an end, in this case a cigarette end; we set fire to the place. The glow drew the attention of the enraged farmer and we had to grab our belongings and, wearing only our socks and shirt, run like hell for the camp. We were stopped by the sentry, who had us taken to the guard room. The guard Sergeant asked what we were doing ‘runnin’ round half bloody naked’.
“Our grass hut caught fire,” explained Arrowsmith.
I couldn’t speak for suppressed laughter.
“What grass ‘ut?” says the Sergeant.
We had to tell the story and he put us on a charge for absenting ourselves from the camp. Next morning he forgot all about it. Well, not exactly, during the night he was convulsed with terrible pains in his side, he had a perforated appendix and was hurried to the hospital, so next morning I presume he had forgotten us. The subsequent guard commander said, “Piss off.” The boredom was getting me down. One grey morning I asked to see the OC.
“What for?” said the Corporal.
“It’s about Basenji.”
“Wait here.”
He knocked on a door. A very crisp voice shouted, “Come in.”
Opening the door the Corporal said, “There’s a Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan wishes to see you, sir.”
I was ushered in. The OC was a Major. He was a bright red. He wore his hat. Under a bulbous nose was a pepper and salt cavalry moustache. His chin was a mass of small broken veins, he blinked at twice the normal rate, and from time to time sniffed what was a running nose. He would be somewhere between thirty-eight and ninety-seven, it was hard to tell. He was writing an aerograph letter which, on my approach, he hurriedly covered with a blotter. Silly sod.
“What do you want?” he said curtly.
“This will come as a surprise to you, sir, but what I want is a job.”
He looked at me, blinked and sniffed.
“A job?” He stressed the word and said it again. “Job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Being a soldier is a job.”
“Well, I want a job on top of that job.”
“What kind of a job?”
“Any kind, sir, it’s the boredom here, it’s driving me mad.”
“You think you’re alone? What’s your army trade?”
“Wireless operator.”
“Well, I’m sorry we don’t have a wireless set for