Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [59]
“Shall I chop the tree down?” said Fildes, giggling.
“It’s the antennae that’s in the way,” I said. “I’ll unscrew them.”
I soon have three loose antennae in one hand, and I find the other hand insufficient to climb and hold the aerial.
“Catch,” I said, and dropped the antennae. Looking up, Fildes loses his balance, and starts to slide back down the muddy slope. So smooth is his progress that he doesn’t realise he’s moving; gently the back of his nut collides with a tree. I gave the Tarzan call, and a lot of bloody good it did. The antennae are now slopped in the mud. I, in contrast, am covered in the green moss of the tree trunk and covered in scratches. This is called modern wireless communications.
“Shall I come up and help?” said Fildes.
No, I need no help, I am the complete wireless technician. I give another Tarzan call to verify it.
A wet officer from 17 Battery appears at the bottom of the tree. He explains to Fildes that he is to pass on a shoot for Major Jenkins. Fildes explains that this is not possible until the aerial is up. The officer can hear swearing issuing from the tree behind him because Milligan has ripped the knee of his battle dress. It’s letting in the cold mountain air, something his London-bred knees are not accustomed to. The officer is Lieutenant Pascoe, young, slim, very refined. He could hear a very unrefined voice from behind a tree saying, “Fuck all this, if it doesn’t work this bloody time, I’m packing it in.”
I have managed to tie the aerial to the top of the tree. “Throw the antennae up, Alf.”
Using Olympic-style javelin throws, Alf manages to hit me on the chest.
“Can you tell the man up the. tree that the shoot has to go through at 1430 hours?” says Lt. Pascoe.
Fildes shouts up the message. Milligan is unaware of the officer’s presence, and replies thus:
“They’ll be fucking lucky.”
I give one more Tarzan call. On descending I was confronted by a smiling Lt. Pascoe.
“Did you leave Jane up there?” he said.
“Oh hello, sir,” I said. “We’re having trouble with the aerial.”
“Yes, I heard you having trouble.”
We immediately tried the strength of the new aerial; it’s no better. As it is a prearranged shoot with no adjustment of ranges, it goes through on morse. The target lay on the rear crest of Limata Grande.
“What’s so important about that?” I asked Lt. Pascoe.
“Nothing. It’s a registration shoot for future reference.”
With that he demands tea.
“Yes, sir,” I said and demanded cigarettes.
He gave us one each. Tea concluded, he took his leave, wandering off left towards where his transport was hidden. We hear a ‘Heloooooo’ from further down the slope. Was this the spirit of Arcadia? There, amid the greenery we see a clutch of muddy gunners in various stages of climbing. They are Bombardier Syd Price and his merry ration carriers.
“Come down here,” he calls.
“Why?”
“Because we can’t get up there.”
“If we come down there where you can’t get up from, we’ll be down there as well not being able to get back up here where we are now.”
“It’s yer bloody rations, take ‘em or we’ll eat ‘em here.”
A desperate situation. Alf and I slither down the hillside. Rations are rations and we’ll do anything to get them. Along with them we find “Two bloody great batteries for the wireless.” We manage to get the rations up, but the weight of the batteries is too much, so we leave the things on the mountain. Syd Price puffs his pipe as he and his ‘porters’ slither backwards down the mountain.
“When are we going to be relieved?” I asked as a parting question.
“Use a tree,” he calls.
We are alone again in our little heaven in the clouds. A small group of silent Infantry men are leaving their position. They pass us in silence. We’ve had a belly full of wireless.
“Let’s pack it in,” I said, “I feel a bit feverish.” I bed down and Fildes prepares an evening meal. I had fallen asleep before he served it.
Drill instructor at the low port.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 1943