Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [11]
Twixt Tizi Ouzou and Beni Mansour we passed mountains each side of 8,000 feet, and numerous rock-hewn tunnels.
“Attention! Rallientair!” signs appeared frequently. We saw camel trains all laden with goods. They followed ancient camel tracks two or three hundred feet above us, moving slowly with a dignity no civilization had managed to speed up. At sundown the Arabs turned towards Mecca to carry out their devotions, a religious people, more than I could say for our lot, the only time they knelt was to pick up money.
Hitlergram No. 697312
The scene:
A glittering affair in a German NAAFI. The band under General Glen von Miller.
HITLER:
Ach Meiner beautiful may I have zer Collapse of France Waltz with you?
GUNNER MILLIGAN:
Thank you!
HITLER:
You dance beautifully but, IT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FORZER FÜHRER!
PETAIN:
Pardonnez-moi Hitler. This is a Vichy excuse me one step.
HITLER:
Take zis olf French Twit outside and shoot him ! Now what is your name?
GUNNER MILLIGAN:
Gunner Milligan.
HITLER:
Gunter Milligan? Vere haff I hears zat name before?
ME:
I give up. Where have you heard that name before?
HITLER:
Playing hard to get, hein ? Take this woman out and shoot him.
Feb. 12th: Approaching Setif
A large French colonial town. We passed fifty sweating, spotty, French civilians being drilled by a Legion Sergeant. “Don’t look!” I said. “It might be contagious!” A line of black clad Arab ladies carrying pitchers moved liquidly by. “You’d think their old man would buy ‘em a suitcase,” said Chalky White.
“How you gonna carry bloody water in a suitcase?”
“Look, I just think of the ideas, it’s up to the wogs to make ‘em work.”
As we entered this dusty town the French Mayor came out and greeted us with a huge stomach, sweat, a speech and numerous gesticulations. Major Chater Jack’s reply was to the point.
“Merci, bon chance, and Vive la France.”
“I suppose there’ll be a grand ball at Versailles tonight,” said Edgington.
We bivouacked just outside Setif. We’d had a good day buying Arab supplies, eggs, potatoes and chickens, so a great meal was in the offing. We backed two wireless trucks together, threw a blanket over the join, inside we rigged an inspection light, and picked up BBC on the set. The food came steaming in the chilly night air as I uncorked the Vin Rosé. I can still see the scene, the young faces, poised eagerly over the food, all silent save the odd ‘Cor lovely’ and the clank of forks on mess tins. We listened to the news.
“I think it will be over by Christmas,” said White.
“You said that last year, and the year before.”
“I’m playing the waiting game,” says White. “But this time,” he held up his fork to emphasize a point, like lightning, I snatched it from his hand, scooped a mouthful of egg from his mess tin and said “You’re right! By the taste of that egg it will definitely be over this year.” I looked at the engraving on the fork ‘Devonshire Hotel. Bexhill’.
“Give it here,” snatched White. “It’s a souvenir of our last supper in Bexhill.”
“Last supper?” said Edgington. “If you were at the last supper, Jesus must have kept his bloody mess tins on a chain.”
“Arrest that man,” says White, “boil his balls in syrup and serve when cool.”
We drained the last of the wine, smoked, turned in, turned off. It was a hunter’s moon, so we went to sleep shouting “Tally Ho!”
Bdr ‘Spike’ Deans with Arab chicken purchased by wayside
Feb. 13th 1943
This morning, tired of those coughing, scratching Reveilles, I took my trumpet and blew a swing bugle call. Chalky White appeared from under a blanket with a severe attack of face and eyes with blood filled canals. “Whose bloody side are you on!” he groaned. Odd silent soldiers, hands in pockets, eating utensils tucked under arms were making their way