Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [10]
“What’s that mean?” asked student of Arabic, Gunner White.
“It’s an ancient Arab proverb,” I said.
“No it isn’t,” he said, “it’s a wog town.”
“Let me explain, it means the Shadow of the Razor falls directly under the earole of Mahomet, but it’s cheaper by the pound.”
“Git,” said Chalky in Bradford accents, “Where do you think up all that bloody crap?”
“Any open space,” I said. Outside Tizi Ouzou, we pulled off the road among groves of orange trees. That night I slept Al Fresco, and there’s nothing better, except sleeping Al Jolson.
Next day, according to my diary, I sat in the back of the truck with a ‘Huge pink idiot youth from Egham’, who I don’t seem to be able to recall. Egham yes, him no, but Egham yes. Perhaps I was sitting in the back with a huge pink Egham ? I passed the time testing the wireless set, when I got ‘This is the Allied Forces Network, Algeria’ a stentorian American voice said “Here for your listening pleasure is Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra.” Great! I listened all day. I lit up a cigarette, now this was more like war.
A sign, Sik-en-Meadou, “Sir,” I called to Budden, “We’ve just passed a sign saying someone’s been Sick-in-the-Meadow.”; there was no reply, just silence, but dear reader, it was a commissioned officer’s silence, of course, if you were a Brigadier you could command a brigade of silence, there was no end to it. I could feel it getting chilly at nights and made a mental note where my balaclava was…In the drawer of a cupboard in 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley, S.E.26. “You’ll never need woollens in Africa,” my father had said. The movement of the truck had lulled huge pink faced idiot from Egham to sleep. When we staged for the night I woke him up.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Africa,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said, “I thought it was Egham.” What he needed was a direct hit.
The Arabs of this village looked better off than the plain Arabs. (Two plain Arabs and one with chocolate sauce please.)
Part of the Regimental Convoy on its way to the front—Jan. 1943
Feb. 11 1943
Battery Diary:
Staged Beni Mansour.
If brevity is the soul of wit this diary was written by Oscar Wilde.
My Diary:
Found a tree with heavy foliage to keep off the dew and, if needs be, Oscar Wilde.
I placed my bed head towards the trunk between radiating roots. Radiating out from the tree are Gunners Edgington, Tume, White, Shepherd, total financial holdings—8 shillings. The night closed in, there was an almighty silence, a distant barking dog became a major sound. The soldiers grew still. There was a loud painful yell. ‘Fire bug’ Bennett had dozed off with a cigarette on and set himself and his bedding alight for the umpteenth time. His blankets looked like early piano rolls. Peace was restored, the silence broken only by the slow tramping of the picket. Each time he passed, puns from recumbent soldiers “You’ll never get well if you pick-it,” or “Keep going there’s a bone in the cookhouse for you.” He silenced us with one threat “You’ve had your fun and I’ll have mine, tomorrow morning at five o’clock, when you will have an accidental rude awakening with my boot up your nose.”
Somewhere a donkey was braying into the darkness. “Coming Mother,” said Gunner White.
Gunners bringing Porridge into action against German Sausages
08.00
Breakfast, what’s this? PORRIDGE! It was PORRIDGE, watery grey, but porridge. So the porridge convoys were getting through. Now this was better, this was more like the suffering we are supposed to have in wars. Porridge! We paraded at our vehicles, small arms inspection, check on ammunition then off again and Porridge.
We were climbing steadily all day, jagged peaks three and four thousand feet ranged on either side. From Major Chater Jack’s diary of 12 Feb. mid-day:
…very cold just now as we are high