Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [64]
FILDES’ DIARY:
Lounge, music room with Iti Trio, cakes, sandwiches, hot dinners, tea and silk stockings, all at reasonable prices, everywhere an air of elite comfort.
So, if blokes in crumpled battle dresses with their boots up on the table, cheeks bulging with doughnuts and jam dribbling down was elite comfort! Then luxury would be a Gunner eating a bully beef sandwich in evening dress, seated in a workman’s hut.
There are some ugly girls serving, a red-faced Infantryman is looking at one and saying ecstatically, “Corrrrr, just look at ‘er.” There is a time for ugly women, and World War 2 was it. I have seen desperate soldiers as handsome as Greek Gods escorting women who looked like Arthur Mullard in drag.
Waitress at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, fanning flies off soldier’s soup.
British troops being driven insane at the Army and Navy Club, Naples, 1943. The soldier slumped at the end is almost ready.
We ensconced ourselves in the Lounge and listened to the Iti trio. The violin-leader was a thin, febrile male, circa seventy-two, deepest eyes, they appeared like two holes drilled in his head with someone from behind looking through. Another old man with bald head and a curly white moustache (or was it a curly head and a bald moustache?) played piano, a huge stomach forced him away from the keyboard, he had to play arms stretched. One more big dinner and he’d never make it. On drums, a Gorgeous Italian Girl with shoulder-length raven black hair. They were grinding their way through a selection of ‘Touristic’ melodies, ‘Pistol Packing Mamma’, ‘In the Mood’, it was totally unbearable.
“I suppose he thinks ‘e’s Glen Miller,” I said.
“He sounds more like bloody Max Miller,” said Fildes.
Jam-Jar Griffin and Spike Deans are approaching, they are excited, they’ve been buying silk stockings. It’s late afternoon, we’ve had tea, we go and visit the Duomo; this was an interesting vaulted shopping Arcade, high enough for pigeons to fly within it. It’s cruciform in shape; after four hours’ walking around, so were we. In a moment of petroleum-induced madness we all piled into a dying Fiat taxi, the driver could barely see over the bonnet, we thought he was standing in a hole in the floor and propelling the vehicle on foot.
A quick drive around town, then he dumped us back at the Piazza Dante; there was a terrible argument over the fare. Who was going to pay it? Inside every Christian there is a Jew shouting to get out.
“We better get to the billet before it gets dark,” said Deans, who was being mother.
The billet was on the dock front, we knew when we got to it, it was the only building standing. “Fifth Army (British Contingent) Transit Camp. All intakes report to the Guard Commander.” We hawked our stuff off the truck and presented ourselves at the Guard Room.
“Yes! What is it?” said an officious, chubby, red-faced, totally idiot RE Sergeant.
“If he was in Germany Hitler would make ‘im a Gauleiter,” said Wenham.
“A Gauleiter? He couldn’t make a cigarette lighter,” said Jam-Jar.
Words didn’t count here. We each produced our 48-hour passes. The sweaty Sergeant took them all, walked to the window and squinted at them, he took three minutes to digest each one.
“They’re all the same, Sarge,” I said kindly.
“No, they’re not!” he snapped. “Numbers and names are all different.”
The shit. He then proceeded to laboriously enter our names in a book. He wheezed as he almost etched our details on the paper. “‘Oo’s senior here?” he said.
“You are,” I replied.
“I’m senior NCO with this party,” interjected Deans.
“You’ll be responsible