Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [37]
“Major Jenkins’ compliments, would Gunner Fildes and Lance-Bombardier Milligan please bring their instruments to the cave?” This from Gunner Woods.
“A Royal Summons,” I cried.
“What’s he want?” said Fildes suspiciously.
“I’ll say it again,” said Woods in an exasperated voice with a Cornish accent. “‘E wants you two to report to him with yourn instruments.”
“We know that,” I said. “But why? He doesn’t like jazz, so what’s he want us to bring our…”
But Woods wasn’t listening, he walked off waving his hand in the air saying, “I’m only a batman, not a bloody mind-reader.”
Most certainly Woods couldn’t tell the future, he couldn’t even tell the present. In peacetime he had been a farmhand, and had known the pleasure of having two great shire horses pulling his plough.
I said, “What’s it like?”
“Ploughing? ‘Ow yew like to be eight hours a day looking at two great ‘orses’ harses.”
Fildes and I entered the cave, which was very smoky from a fire in whose light sat Major Jenkins, still with his hat on. He was holding his clarionet, and playing his strangled version of Schubert’s Serenade. When he saw us he stopped.
“Ah, you know why I’ve asked you to bring your instruments?”
“You want us to throw them on the fire,” I said.
He didn’t laugh. He patted the floor, inviting us to sit.
“No,” he said. “You play all that nigger music don’t you? I’m going to teach you some good tunes, I want you both to join in.” Here he tootled the first bars of a tune. “Didn’t you recognise that?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “It was Whistling Rufus, he was my father.”
Over his head it went and hit the wall with a loud plop.
“Yes, it’s Whistling Rufus, a fine Military marching tune, the Gurkhas marched to that during the Chitral Rebellion.”
“It might have caused it,” I said.
“I’ll play the melody and when I point to you, Milligan, play the descending obligato.”
“What key?” asked Fildes, across the fiery divide.
“I play it in G major.”
“G? Major? I knew it when it was only a captain, sir.”
Over his head it went and plop against the cave wall. He launched into a very fast version of Whistling Rufus, at the given moment he pointed to me, and I played the obligato. He seemed well pleased. When we finished he smiled, counted two bars in and launched back into it all over again. We did this several times, he enjoyed it to such an extent I realised he’d never played with anyone before, it was all a new experience for him, it was a new experience for me…a bloody awful one. Woods brought him a cup of tea, Woods didn’t bring us a cup of tea.
“Now,” said Jenkins, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, “shall we try some of your nigger music?”
“What about ‘The Sheik of Araby’ by Rudolph Valentino?” I said.
“Jolly Good,” he said and launched into a chorus. I played the most awful corny obligatos and when I took a chorus played with a terrible nanny-goat vibrato. Oh! had I only a tape recorder that night! I’d have dropped it on him.
We were interrupted by a Despatch Rider from 2 AGRA HQ.*
≡ Army Group Royal Artillery.
A short dwarf, heavily wrapped up with knee-high motor-cycling boots that came up to his neck, a crash helmet that came down to his knees, and a khaki scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Jenkins saw the word URGENT on the envelope, hastily dropped his clarionet, stood up to read the message. It would have read exactly the same sitting down but standing up gave him height. What it didn’t give him was a view of his clarionet rolling slowly into the fire…We let it burn a few moments and when it was too late said, “Oh, sir! Quick, your clarionet is on fire.” (Rather like those French translations, i.e. The Clarionet of my cousin has been struck by lightning.) He rushed at the smouldering instrument, letting the top secret message fall.
“My God,” he wailed, “my father