Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [17]
“Any job, sir, otherwise I will desert.”
“Desert? Look, go to the Q stores, see Bombardier Logan, tell him the Major says you are to help him.”
I saluted and left him to his aerograph. As I closed the door behind me, I heard him give a gigantic sneeze and say, “Bugger!”
Bombardier Logan turned out to be a Scot; he didn’t have a face, just an area under his hat. His eyes, mouth and nose were all in conflict as to who should be in the centre. It turns out he was an ex-boxer. By the look of his face, every punch had got through. His ears were mangled fragments of gristle and skin. He was partially deaf, but then he was only partially human. He was from Glasgow, and spoke with an accent no one understood, not even himself. He walked stooping forward, his arms hanging ape-like, a square head with real corners on it.
From eight in the morning to eight at night I worked. There was nothing else to do, if there had been I’d have done it. He took pity on me and said,
“Ye karn harve some T chaists tae mak yer sael a baed.” (“You can have some tea chests to make yourself a bed.”)
He permitted me to sleep in the same room. It was dry and had three hurricane lamps in, so at least one could read in bed. Having nothing to read didn’t help. By day he talked to himself in Scots gutteral—interspersed with snatches of Scottish folk songs—it nearly drove me insane.
The Scotts have taught the bagpipes to the Canadians, the Australians, the Indians, the Gurkhas, the South Africans, the Rhodesians; even the Chinese! they’ve got a lot to answer for. This Bombardier couldn’t converse—saying hello to him had him completely baffled. Every night he regaled me with stories of his boxing prowess. He’d had two hundred fights. I asked him how many he’d won, he said “Seven.” He showed me a picture of his wife. She looked like she’d had two hundred fights as well; she had—with him. What he really needed was a head transplant.
Suddenly, with no warning we have to move. A back-breaking twenty-four hours loading stores on to lorries, again in the pouring rain. The Major (his name escapes me, but I think it was Castle) must have felt pity, for as the Bombardier and I sat in the empty storeroom, soaked, he brought in a bottle of whisky, and poured a liberal amount into our tea mugs.
“You’ve worked very well, Millington, I appreciate it, it’s been a bloody hard boring time setting up this unit, we’ve had bugger all co-operation, all the stores, etc., have all been rushed up to the front lines, that’s why the food’s been so bloody awful, but this place we’re moving to, things will be much better.”
Well, that was nice. First comforting words I had had for weeks. Before he left he said, “Before we leave tomorrow, any questions?”
“Yes sir,” I said. “What’s Basenji?”
He frowned. Walked back a few paces towards me. “What’s what?”
“Basenji, sir, what’s it mean?”
“I’ve no idea…is it an Italian word?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
He stood a while, then turned and left in silence. The Scottish Bombardier drained his mug. “It’s an Afrrrrrican dog,” he said.
“What is?”
“Basenji…it’s an Afrrrrican Dorg…it can nay bark.”
My God…he knew what Basenji meant! “How did you know?” I said, desperate to find out.
“I wus bitten by one in South Afrrica.”
“Where?”
“I tod yer, South Afrrrrica.”
OCTOBER 10, 1943
We Move to a New Depot
The new depot was at the north end of a coastal town called Castelemare di Stabia. We were to occupy a great railway repair depot, now deserted. It had been hammered by our planes, but two-thirds remained intact. There were plenty of empty goods wagons which we immediately used for store-rooms and billets; They were ideal, about six men to a wagon. Now it was hard to go ‘off the rails’.
I spent two days putting up shelves and organising the stores. If I’d waited for the Scots lunatic we’d have been still doing it, he constantly kept getting lost amid the maze of railway lines. “Aw the bludee Carrrrriages luke the sam tae me.” We had to draw a white cross on our wagon so he could find it. Alas, those with a sense of humour