Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [84]
“Yes and soon trying to break the six-minute boiled egg.”
It’s amazing, this spirit of Christmas. Everyone is cheery, there are smiles on the faces of miserable buggers. In a sing-song voice Gunner White recites ‘Christmas comes but once a year and when it does it brings good cheer’.
“Wrong,” says Gunner ‘Dirty Bugger’ Bailey. “It’s Father Christmas comes but once a year! and when he does his wife has Christmas Pudden Club fear!”
9.00.
We are on our transports heading towards Santa Maria La Fosse. We all sing:
Good King Wenceslas looks out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay all about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Tho’ the frost was cruee-ell
When a poor man came in sight
Playing with his Tooooo-oooo-llll.
We are dumped on a raised muddy road without the environs of Santa Maria la Fosse…there are Gunners everywhere. We line up next to the 74 Medium, we spot Ken Carter and Reg Bennett, who wave and point to their white webbing.
“Frost,” shouts Bennett.
“Stop all that talkin’,” shouts a Sergeant.
“It’s the only language we know,” I said.
“Can we do some mime?” pipes up a voice.
“Silence,” says the Sgt.
The GOC walked along the ranks, stopping every now and then and starting now and then. He stops now and then in front of me. I’m trying to stifle a laugh.
“What’s your name, Bombardier?”
“I think it’s Milligan, sir.”
He walked on till he was quite a way away from me.
“For Gord’s sake,” whispered a North Country voice in the ranks behind, “don’t upset ‘im, he could send us back to t’front.”
“What do you mean ‘back to front’?…make up yer bloody mind.”
Ahh! the Royal Artillery Band are striking up. Boom, bang, crash, ta ra ra ra bimmm, the Bass Drummer is so short we can’t see his head above the drum, just a pair of legs hanging underneath.
“19 Batteryyyyyyy……………Attennnnnn……shun! Riiiiiiiiighttttt…turn! Kweekkkkkkk MMMMarchhhhh!”
We swing along the road in the direction of the town and past the saluting base, which appears to be a gunner in the crouching position covered with a blanket. On it stand the GOC and the OC2 AGRA. As we swing past them, there is a subtle waft of whisky.
“Eyeeeeessssssss Right,” roars the command.
We stamp along in fine style, we don’t know where we’re headed, but we are marching as if we do. The step is getting ragged as the band goes out of earshot, the rhythmic marching becomes a great mass of overlapping steps that sound like we’re in an echo chamber. We reach the outskirts of town and are dismissed.
“Now then,” commenced BSM Griffin, “there’s two hours to see around the town, the lorries will be back ‘ere to pick us up at—” he looked at his wrist, realised he’d forgotten his watch but went on “—at 1500 hours. Any late ‘uns will have to walk back. Right, disssss…misssss.”
We repair to a cafe. Ernie Hart points to a sign saying ‘English soldiers welcome’, in chalk someone had added ‘and their MONEY’. It’s the same semi-gloomy interior, a grubby Iti and a mountainous wife.
“Quatro cafe and Quatro Cognac,” I signalled.
We sit at a circular iron-topped table that I seized like a steering wheel and started to make motor-car sounds.
“I’m driving this bar to a better area,” I said, crouching over the table. “Brrrrrr Parp Parp.”
Italians at other tables are looking at me and smiling, the British don’t usually behave like this. We stayed there till we were stoned. We are all decidedly happy as the lorries tumble-dry us back to the farm, where we arrive dead on the stroke of one. Those who aren’t dead we carry back to their beds. By six o’clock, after plenty of tea, we were sobering up. All talk is of Christmas. Those who had parcels from home were feeling them, smelling them, tearing little holes and peeping in.
Spike Deans had over the pre-Christmas months been keeping a supply of wine and Marsala in which G and T truck had all paid in so much per week; he, for some reason, had added sugar to the wines, and at this very moment was calling