Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [69]
Deans reported and was given the empty boot-polish tin and told, “If ever you get some butter, you can keep it in here.”
Checkmate. Ten o’clock, my turn for Command Post duty. Taking a writing pad and some old newspapers, I walked down the incline across the small depression, up the slope. I passed Maria doing a mountain of military laundry.
“Buon giorno, Maria.”
She smiled and blushed, the innocence of Italian country girls was something to see. Something else to see was the top of her stocking tops as she bent over.
“You’re ten minutes late,” said Ernie Hart.
“I’ll give you a receipt for it,” I said, “and if that’s not enough, tonight I’ll wear a hair shirt studded with hob-nails, OK? Now, if you hurry up you’ll see the back of Maria’s bum.”
We were very busy all morning, a total of 587 rounds were fired in support of the Camino Battle. On the Infantry network I hear a new map reference: ‘Bare Arse Ridge’. How it got its name is hard to conceive. Lt. Walker said it was during a previous attack, the Guards had come upon several Jerries squatting down having a ‘Pony’. One would be hard put to it to find a memorial that said ‘To the Fallen of Bare Arse Ridge’, and yet that was the case.
We came to a slack period. I start writing seasonal letters, and some poetry which was crap. I read it to Lt. Wright. “What do you think of it, sir?”
“I’m afraid, Milligan, I shall never think of it,” he said.
The rain had let up, a weak silver sun strained to make itself felt. Suddenly, from what seems directly above me, comes the roar of aero engines, oh God! are we for it?, a long burst of machine-gun fire. We all rush out, there are shouts of alarm, men are running and looking up. There, at about 500 feet, are a squadron of American Kittyhawks; the leading plane appears to be coming straight for me. I don’t understand, I hadn’t ordered one. His machine guns are blazing away, a figure hurtles from the cockpit, a parachute mushrooms, the fighter flashes past and hits the ground a hundred yards to our left. There is no explosion, so! Hollywood had been lying to us. The pilot is floating down on to an adjacent field. Our idiot Major appears.
“Follow me,” he says as though we’re the Light Brigade. He leads, holding out his pistol, he doesn’t run straight for the pilot, no: we follow the track plan, we skirt the edge of the field in Indian file, the pilot is extricating himself from his chute and wondering why we are circling him, the Major bounds up, he points his pistol at a man chewing gum, wearing a red flying jacket with the words HANK, THE KID FROM IDAHO on the front, and a yellow bird on the back inscribed FLYING EAGLES, he is taking a cigarette from a packet of Camels.
“Hands up! English or German,” says the looney Major.
The American went purple. “You’re fucking lucky I’m anything, it’s your trigger-happy fucking Ack-Ack, why don’t they make up their minds whose fucking side they are on.”
The Major was a little taken aback, steadied himself and said, “Consider it a gesture in return for the number of bloody times you’ve bombed us.”
This was great fun—Christmas, not only fighting Germans but each other. After being entertained at the officers’ mess with a cup of tea, he was whisked away by a USAAF jeep driven by a coloured private wearing a white bowler hat. Don’t ask me why. We waved them goodbye.
“Come and crash on us again some time,” we called.
Edgington is stumbling from his cave. “What happened?” he said. “I was writing to Peg.”
I grabbed his arm dramatically. “Writing to Peg?” I echoed. “You missed the crash? Wait, I’ll see if I can get him back.”
They all go across to see the remains of the Kittyhawk. The thieving bastards make towards the wreck with chisels, hacksaws, screw drivers, I call, “Leave a bit for me.”
Circling the wreck Edgington had said, “I wonder if there’s anyone underneath.”
White bends down and shouts: “Anybody underneath?”
Command Post, Fontana Fredda, December 1943 171
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1943
MY DIARY:
POURING RAIN.