Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [90]
“I wonder who’s workin’ the boiler room,” says Griffin.
Jam-Jar Griffin! He was big, gawky, dark-haired, brown eyes, six foot, when unshaven always looked like the villain in the Mickey Mouse comics. I never saw him down, in fact he was far too often up, a great morale-booster. He had a huge pipe in which he never seemed to have any baccy. With the greatest guffaw I’d heard, which you could even hear above the guns, he was one of the real characters and therefore invaluable in the run of human affairs.
Jam-Jar Griffin begging for tobacco on the Amalfi seafront.
We had been four hours on the truck, and travel boredom had set in. Lots of the lads were squatted on the floor, trying to doze, and only a few occasional words were heard.
“Bloody lost, ain’t we?” says Vic Nash. “Are we lost?” he shouts through the canvas to the driver.
“No, we’re not bloody lost,” is the reply. “Stop moanin’ or I’ll go into reverse.”
“Is Amalfi in Italy,” says Spike Deans, and looks at me.
“It is in Italy and we must be nearly there.” As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO.
We all perk up, and the view from the back of the lorry starts to get beautiful, with the sea on the left and mountains to our right. We have many hairy moments trying to negotiate the numerous bends with loony Italian drivers coming the other way. Snuggled along this coast were small fishing villages that looked like those over-syrupy buildings in Disney cartoons, yet they were real. The war had been kind to this coast; the only sign of destruction was our lorry.
“Oh Christ, how much longer? Five bloody hours, you can fly from London to Moscow in that time.”
A small squad of unshaven Carabinieri come marching along the narrow road; they are broken up by the passing of our lorry. They reform and continue marching smartly out of step.
The lorry is stopping! AMALFI! Cheers! We pull up on the seafront, opposite is a large barrack-like building. A freshly-painted white sign says ‘2 AGRA Rest Camp’. The whole village is built on steps that ascend up the mountains; the buildings are a mixture of white, sky blue, pink and deep blue; down the centre of the village runs a stream. I could see the odd lady doing her laundry in it and several small boys doing other things in it. The whole place has architectutal maturity; there are numerous creepers and vines growing in profusion on the walls and balconies. In summer it must be a riot of flowers, right now it’s a riot of gunners, there is a scramble as we dash for the best beds (if any); a Bombardier, all Base Depot smartness personified, says, “Follow me, 19 Battery Personnel.”
ALF FILDES’ DIARY:
…Great! Tablecloths, writing and leisure room, laundry facilities, barbers and SPRING BEDS! in the dormitories. No Roll-Calls! Breakfast from 7-30 to 8.30.
We were on the third floor in a dormitory of about thirty beds. No pictures, no curtains, no chairs, just beds. Edging-ton is testing his by his usual method, ten paces back, a run, then hurl yourself on.
“Seems alright,” he said.
A ‘resident’ says that the grub here was ‘not so good’, but there were ‘plenty of cafes in the town’. We dump our kit and make for outside. There is a great echoing thumping sound as we ‘last one down’s an idiot’ down the stone steps.
The town sloped up the hill from the waterfront. Running along the flanking hills were the remains of fortified walls and crumbling turrets, an echo of the days when the Moors raided the coast. What was unusual was a large Basilica almost on the beach and, more wondrous, sculptures by Michelangelo; an even more important work of art was a sign with the magic words ‘Eggs and chips’. I remember so well that sheer magnificence of smelling food being prepared continental-style, be it only eggs and chips! Through the Amalfi cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us!
“I’d forgotten