Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [54]
“What is it?” I said.
“It’s called Gentian Violet.”
“You look like a leper.”
“Yes. I’ve got a beggin’ bowl in me cab,” he giggled. He was up from the Wagon Lines to help winch some of the guns into position. “We’re behind that village over there,” he pointed towards San Domenica. This was Coletti, where RHQ were now ensconced in comfort; the dream of every Gunner was to get a job at RHQ, usually in a house, and thus home from home. At this moment that skinny bugger Evan Jenkins was in charge at RHQ in the absence of Colonel Scorsbie, who had left to visit the Regimental training area and visit ‘the sick in Naples Hospital’.
“Visit the sick?” said Kidgell. “Who does he think he is, Florence Nightingale?”
“No,” I said, “he’s more like Florence Nightingoon, the Lady with the Lump.”
Mick Ryan is calling: “Kidgell…never mind orl dat chattin’, come and help get dis bluddy gun on der platform.”
“Comin’, Sarge,” says Kidgell, and waddles (yes waddles, the short arse) away.
“Quack, quack,” I shout after him; he doesn’t turn, but raises two fingers behind his back. I’m laughing when a lorry passes and speckles me with mud. What’s this? I’m on duty starting at 11.30 through till 2.30 along with Birch. Loaded with my writing pad, old Life magazines and two Mars bars from my Naafi purchases, I set myself up in the Command Post. Lt. Pride is there, he has his boot off, trying to hammer down a nail with a stone.
“We start firing at 0100, Bombardier,” he said.
“On one leg apparently.”
“If needs be, Milligan, yes.”
“I will not stand in the way of a one-legged order, sir,” I said.
Bombardier Deans is doing various computations on the Artillery board with a pencil that I swear is half an inch long.
“Who’s at the OP?” I asked.
“Lt. Walker, Nash, Griffin and Bombardier Edwards. I don’t know which signallers.” He cringes and says, “You won’t report me for that, will ‘ee young master?”
Trouble with wireless communication; surrounded by mountains, reception is down to strength 3, I put up the extension aerial, no go. We have to transmit by talking in little dots and dashes, a test of one’s ability to remember morse code. I had a Charlie on the other end from RHQ who sent this message, “…Reviset Sit Reps enrot via Don Her,” translation ‘Sit-Reps enroute via Don R’.
The rest of the day was a plague of these ‘messages’. One I just could not understand: “Cptlevinact for Cptbentlymo”…days later it came through in part two orders, “Captain Levine to act for Captain Bentley, MO”—by which time it was too late for Captain Levine to act for Captain Bentley because he had fallen and fractured his bloody ankle. So! we had two MOs ill!! At last the biter bitten. Bentley has diagnosed his own illness as Malaria, only to have another doctor diagnose it correctly as Jaundice. Not to lose face Bentley insists that the Medical Report states he has Malaria and Jaundice.
We have a brief spell of gunfire from A and D Sub, a total of ten rounds apiece, then “Stand Down.” Bombardier Begent from the Gun speaks on the intercom.
“Hello, Command Post, we haven’t had any Overseas News today, could we hear it this evening?”
“The reception’s bad, mate,” I said, “but the war’s still on. How are the lads?”
“Pissed off. If it weren’t for Naafi up today we’d have deserted.”
“Never mind, it’ll soon be Christmas.”
“Christmas? What’s that?”
2.30.
Pinchbeck has arrived, “Right, off you go.”
Pinchbeck and I had both lived in India, and often conversed in Urdu.
“Kitna Budgi hai.”
“Sara dho,” says Pinchbeck.
“Shabash.”
Lt. Price looks