Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [76]
Home to dinner and we lay awake a long time yarning about Christmasses from yesteryear. Deans asks what the film was like.
“It was a film where suddenly! nothing happened all the time.”
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1943
Today was like Tuesday the fourteenth without the baths.
We have a new MO, a Captain Duggan from the RAMC; he was a pink-looking Irishman with freckles, about six foot, and tall with it, thin, and a hat that seemed to be loose on his head. He walked about a bit like Jacques Tati. At the sick parade all the men felt worse after seeing him. He had come from Kerry, and been a smalltown doctor, mostly farmers.
Gunner Bailey went sick with a twisted and swollen ankle; he was given aspirins. Gunner Musclewhite went in with Dermatitis and got Castor Oil, “Jock’ Wilson went in with a boil on his nose, and was told to ‘Run it under a cold tap.”
“It stands to reason,” said Bailey, “if you went in with appendicitis, he’d give you a holy picture and tell you to pray.”
A stickler for fresh air, Captain Duggan slept with the windows open. A week later he was taken from us with Bronchitis. As his stretcher was slid into the ambulance a Scots voice was heard to cry, “Don’t forget, run him under the cold tap.”
It’s mid morning, there’s lots of work everywhere, but nobody doing it. Where are we? A small shed among some trees behind the big Tower block. From it come low voices and palls of cigarette smoke. This is the hideaway, the inside reeks with gunners making tea and smoking; they are ignoring distant voices of sergeants calling, “Where are you, you bastards?!”
The game is to make occasional appearances. We always left a skeleton staff on maintenance while the bulk of the layabouts hid. It was Crown and Anchor with Dai Pool, he brought the board up with the rations, he doled out our cigarette allowance, one hour later he had won them all back. I think today he has a villa on Malta and lung cancer.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1943
Zounds! Great Grundles of Gerzolikon. It’s happened. I feared this day for many a month. There, in black and white in clear language on Part Two Orders. “Guard Commander: L/Bombardier Milligan. S. 954024.” So Milligan was trapped. There was one privilege; you got the afternoon off to prepare your kit. One could never place a brush to a boot without the remark, “After another bloody stripe, are we?” I blancoed my webbing, polished all my brass, then wrote a letter home. Major Evan Jenkins is driving his batman insane.
“He wants ‘ees battle dress ‘ung up to attention, ‘eees boots angled out at forty-five degrees, mustn’t put ‘is ‘at upside down, it’s an insult to the gun on the cap badge.”
As retribution, he used to swig Jenkins’ whisky then top it up with water, and Jenkins used to wonder why he could never get pissed on it.
“Very good turn-out, Bombardier,” said Captain Sullivan of the guard mounting.
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I wonder what’s gone wrong.”
I saluted him. He saluted me. We saluted.
“Dismiss the men, Bombardier.” I saluted, he saluted.
I saluted him. He saluted me. We saluted. They saluted. I turned smartly.
“Old Guardddd, officer on paradeeee—dissss missss…New Guard…to the Guard Room…Dissss…misss.”
Boots thumped on the cobbles and the men trooped into the guardroom, leaving Driver Alf Fildes on first stag picking his nose. Like a good guard commander I slept smartly to attention that night. I awoke once when Gunner Jock Hall knocked the tea bucket over. I leapt to my feet and saluted it.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1943
Next morning I wrote in the Guard Report, “0545 Hrs, Tea, buckets for the use of, knocked over, spilling contents. Took immediate action and returned bucket to upright position. Signed L/Bdr Milligan. S.”
The dawn was clear, and stars were still lingering in the morning sky, underfoot a hard white frost. The Billet was still and