Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [71]
“Yes,” says Nash, “active-fucking-service.”
“Can I join in?” guffaws Jam-Jar, taking off his overcoat. “Let me partake of this seasonal red tannic-acid tea—and wish my guts the compliments of the season. A real Dickensian Christmas to you all.”
Guffaws. Alf Fildes laughs long at Jam-Jar’s old world posturing.
“‘Ark,” says Nash, cupping his hand to his ear in fairy-like gesture, “isn’t that an old Dickensian 7.2 gun goin’ off?—‘pon my word I didn’t know Christmas was so near—I must to the workhouse to put my Christmas Puddins in place.”
Alf starts to play ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’, we all join in. All evening Dean’s had been in a state of agitation, finally, “It’s no good,” he said, “I’ll have to open it.”
Open what? He has a bottle of Marsala! he has been waiting all night for us to depart, but couldn’t wait any longer, now he had to share it! He consoled himself with a mug-full before letting us into it. It tasted like vinegar.
“It’s corked,” I said.
“Corked? it’s fucked.”
“Let’s think of something nice,” said Deans. “Are you going anywhere for Christmas?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to spend a few days in my tent in Italy.”
“I think I’ll take a stroll round my truck—never know who you might meet,” said Fildes.
Buzz-buzz. Our private phone is going. Deans raises it.
“Hello—Chez G Truck…” he hands me the hand-set. “It’s fer you.”
Gunner Hart in the Command Post is asking me, “‘Ave you taken the pencil?”
“No, I haven’t, I’ve only got my own.” Can he borrow it, otherwise the Battery will be ‘out of the war’.
In a few minutes he appears covered in mud.
“I fell over,” he said.
I handed him the pencil.
“Cup of tea?” said Deans.
“Just a sip,” said Hart. “They’re waiting for me to start the war.” He took a hasty mouthful. “Ta,” he grinned.
“Fire one for us,” we called after him.
“Any special colour?” we heard him say.
The drumming of rain starts on the canvas ceiling, I throw a log on the fire, it reflames, a shower of needle-sparks fly up the chimney.
DECEMBER 8, 1943
This day the battle was won. Jerry pulled out and Monte Camino was ours. I don’t think a battle could have been fought under worse conditions. The pace now slackens, I manage a wayside bath in a tin. It’s so cold you keep the top half fully dressed while you do the legs, then on with the trousers, strip the top half and do that.
We are all fed up with being in the same position, and rumours are flying. We’re going home, etc., and the best one of all—the war is going to finish in eight days!
DECEMBER 9, 1943
I can’t take much more of this bloody rain. It’s time we had a rest. I must have been depressed because on this day my diary is empty.
FILDES’ DIARY:
I’m getting fed up with myself here and will be glad when we move or go for a rest.
REGIMENTAL DIARY:
Body of soldier reported lying dead in passage in RHQ.
It wasn’t mine. It turned out to be an engineer who had committed suicide. “Lucky bastard,” said Nash. I think we were all feeling like that. At 1530 hours came orders that might have saved his life. “17 and 19 Batteries will move to rear position for refitting and rest.” The news fell like a bombshell, it galvanised smiles back on to our faces. We were walking around and saying like Mr Barrett to Elizabeth, “You must restttt, my dear.”
I give the order from the Command Post to all Guns, “Cease fire—prepare to move.” We could hear the cheers come back over the headphones. The tempo changed as though we’d all been given a shot of adrenalin. I got radio AFN and plugged it through to all the gun-pit Tannoys.
We danced with each other all day.
DECEMBER 10, 1943
Today we go back! Griffin enters G Truck bivvy, a garland of withered flowers on his unshaven head, a blanket, toga-fashion, around his ungainly body. “Beware the Ides of March.”
“Beware the Clap of Naples,” was the reply.
“I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”
“The shovel’s in the lorry.”
“The evil that men do live after them.”
“We must fill in the shit-pit before we leave.”
“We got