Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [34]
GERMAN OP OFFICER: Three rounds on to zur underpants Milligan. Fire! Ach Wonderschoen! a direct hit on zer soap! For you Gunner Milligan, the laundry is over.
Mail! father, mother, brother etc. And newspapers. It was a field day for me (every day I was in a field). I lay in bed and read a copy of the Melody Maker. Harry Parry and his Radio Rhythm Club were still going strong, and Bennym Lee was voted England’s greatest jazz vocalist. I often giggle about that when I hear him compering Old Tyme Dancing. I was reading:
“Last week, Mr Churchill entertained a Russian delegation to dinner in London. They were served venison that had been shot in the Scottish Highlands.”
“Isn’t it bloody marvellous. Russians eating Scots venison in London, and us eating curried Italian grass!”
“Winston is trying to impress the Russians, the Ruskies will go back to Stalin and report that the English are eating Royal Deerski, it’s natural for Churchill to show the English still have an upper class.”
“ That’s cobblers,” says Edgington. “It’s like this, Churchill likes his grub, but if he’s caught eating venison on his tod, the Daily Mirror would be in an uproar.”
CHURCHILL EATS ROYAL DEER WHILE OUR LADS EAT CURRIED ITALIAN GRASS.
“So, as a cover he invites a load of hungry-guts Russians who are pissed off with black bread and onion soup, and they come at the double.”
“Such are the vagaries of war, Edgington, I tell you, if Churchill asked me to come over for beans on toast I’d go like a shot, wouldn’t you?”
“No, I’ve got my pride.”
“Take it with you. You wouldn’t turn down a trip to London, with that little darling Peg of yours waiting at the station.”
At the mention of Peg his eyes went soft, and his trousers boiled. A terrible head with a dripping tin hat pokes its face in. We both scream. It was L/Bombardier Bill Trew, ex-London milkman. He curdled milk by looking at it.
“I ‘eard you got some newspapers.”
“Yes, but it’s all cultured stuff. The Times, the Manchester Guardian.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “I only want to wipe me arse on ‘em.”
Trew is looking at my tea mug. “Gi’s a sip,” he says.
Trew sipped the tea and told us he’d heard that there was a rumour that we’re—we joined in as he concluded—“GOING BACK TO ENGLAND.”
That was the permanent rumour. They even said it when we were in England.
“We’re never going back to England,” Edgington said. “Never, never, never, the war was a life-saver for the Conservatives, it solved the unemployment problem, and American banks have agreed to prop up the economy, so? They are going to keep this bloody war going as long as they can, they’re even trying to get Turkey to join in.”
“Turkey for Christmas?”
It had always puzzled me as to how you got a neutral country to go to war. I mean, what did you say: “Come on in. The war’s lovely.”
“I know people, ordinary blokes, who like war,” said Trew, sipping more of my tea.
“Who?” says Edgington, who is now unexplainably removing his trousers.
“Liddel, Gunner Liddel.”
“What about him?”
“He told me he likes the war.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“Yes, he said in peacetime he was so skint he had to wear his brother’s left-off clothes. In fact his battle dress was the first bit of new clothing he’d had. Until he joined the Kate he’d never been put in charge of a job.” The job being Shit House Orderly.
“Oh he’s in charge of the job alright,” said Edgington, who was now scrutinising the insides of his trousers. “He’s in charge of every job that’s done!”
Trew sipped some more of my tea.
“Wot are you doing, Edgington?” I said.
“I think I’ve got a flea in me trousers…or something that bites.”
“Something that bites!” I said sitting up. “Could it be a dog?”
Trew sipped more of my tea. “Ta,” he said and handed me an empty mug.
Now, whenever there’s a reunion, I walk straight up to him and say “Gi’s a sip,” take his beer, drain it to the bottom, and say “Remember Italy.” I don’t think he does. Something strange. The dates October 28, 29 and 30 in my diary are blank save an oblique line drawn across them with