Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [36]
“Yes, Kings of England from the right, number! George one! George two, George three, William the one, James the two.”
I was babbling on like this when the beckoning face of Sergeant King appears. “Ahhhhh,” he leers, “‘oo ‘as been ‘iding from ‘is nice Sergeant?” He’s looking at me. “You are to go with our dearly beloved Major Jenkins forward, in search of (a) the Enemy, and (b) an OP.”
Gunner Ben Wenham outside his country residence (Wembley Exhibition position)
Soon I am in G truck with Spike Deans, Vic Nash and Lt. Wright. I am not actually with Major Jenkins, he’s in H truck. Behind us is X truck; what had happened to all the numbers? In the back of the truck the ever-inventive Bombardier Deans opens the pontoon school.
“I’ll be banker,” says Deans.
“Why?” I said.
“Because I thought of it.”
“We should draw for it,” I protested.
“Then you’ll have to use your cards,” said Deans.
“I haven’t got any.”
“Then I’m banker,” he said, “because I have.” He shuffled the cards with great dexterity and dropped them.
First hand I got pontoon! By the time we got to 018908 I accumulated a nice little kitty of about 300 lire.
“Well,” I said, “I never thought I’d be 300 lire better off by the end of the day.”
“You could be twice as rich,” said Deans.
“How?”
“I’ll toss you double or nothing.”
He did. I lost the lot. 018908 was a small flat area with a small range of hills north of us, San Marco by name. In the base of them were numerous caves. We parked our vehicles adjacent to a line of trees, put up camouflage nets, and sat staring at each other.
“What now, gentlemen?” I said.
“Pontoon?” said Deans.
“Not on your bloody life.”
“Alright, you suggest something,” he said, folding his arms and grinning.
“I have suggested something,” I said, folding my arms and grinning.
“What?” he said.
I said, “I have suggested that we don’t play pontoon.”
A voice is calling. “All personnel over here.”
It’s Lt. Wright, who is standing outside the mouth of a cave which looks like it’s going to swallow him. With great urgency on our faces we amble across. Mr Wright waits patiently.
“Now,” he says, looking at some orders pinned to his map. “We are now at San Marco, here,” he taps the map, his papers fall in the mud. “Blast,” he says.
I bend down to pick them up; he is now clutching a handful of muddy papers. “I was saying we are here, and we’ve temporarily lost touch with the Bosche—so we will carry out maintenance of wireless sets, small arms and vehicles until further orders, that is all.”
I clutch Bombardier Deans’ arm dramatically, and whisper, “He’s going to leave us. What are we going to do?”
A rattling sound reveals Sherwood’s bren carrier loaded to the gills, with Lt. Walker, Gunner Ben Wenham, Gunner Pinchbeck and Lt. Budden followed by Don R. Lawrence—they are going forward to look for Jerry.
“Group looking for Jerry.” Left to right are Don R. Ted Lawrence, Lt. Walker, Ben Wenham, Gunner Pinchbeck, Lt Budden and Bdr. Brookes.
“My God go with ‘eee,” I said, striking a dramatic pose, one hand clutching my heart.
Ben Wenham grins and says, “Who’s a silly bugger then!”
We wave them goodbye as they disappear over the brow of a hillock. Indeed the Germans had pulled back, quite a distance.
“They must be suffering withdrawal symptoms,” I told Mr Wright, “It’s a sort of wartime coitus interruptus.”
That night was wonderful. I remember it was crisp, cold, clear, starlit, that’s if I remember: if not, it was raining.
NOVEMBER 2, 1943
ALF FILDES’ DIARY:
Nothing doing. Enemy blowing up bridges,