Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [25]
Let me see first I’d face east for a few minutes, then I faced nor’ nor’ east, then south west and due west, next I sat on the edge of the hole and faced north. I then stood and revolved slowly round in a complete 360° circle, that is, I covered every known compass point in the world and all from a hole in the ground. Brilliant. I thought of a bar of soap. I unclipped the magazine of my Tommy gun. I said Hello to it. I clipped it back on again. I felt in my trouser pockets, I removed the contents, a broken comb, a pencil stub. I said Goodbye to them. I drew Ravel’s Haunted Ballroom in the air. Next, I pulled the pockets inside out and shook the dust out. I whistled Van Gogh’s Sunflower. I drew an imaginary line on my teeth. Now what? Don’t just stand there—be creative! I reversed my tin hat, and stuck one finger in my ear. I felt up the sleeves of my battle-dress and pulled the sleeves of my pullover down over my wrists. I counted my nose, I listened for Germans. Silence, but who was making it? On an impulse I said “Fish.”
A sentry loomed into sight. “Spike?”
“Yes, who is it?”
“Ben Wenham.”
“We can still be friends.”
“What’s the time?”
“04.20 hours. Mind you it’s only a cheap watch, by an expensive one it would be at least 05.30.”
All quiet. I faced east. Yes, I’d stay facing east, that’s where the sun would appear. The sun was rising behind me. I must be facing west, or was it because I had my tin hat on back to front, yes, that’s it, I was facing east, but my hat wasn’t, and all in a hole in the ground. 06.00 Stand Down. Thank God. Another two minutes and I’d have been certified. I took breakfast, clobbered Jock Webster and Shapiro. “Sergeant Dawson says we’re to go to the O.P. because we’re not Protestants.”
23 Feb. 1943
My Diary:
Up at dawn. To O.P. with Shapiro and Webster. Shapiro reports someone has stolen his shaving-brush. This is the 5th day he’s reported it. Anything rather than buy one. This will be my fifth continuous day as O.P. linesman. Arrived midday. Shelled…
The blast threw me to the ground. Webster and Shapiro doubled for cover, like idiots we ran up the hill, and jumped into a trench. Help! A mortar pit knee-deep in mortar bombs! Sitting quietly in the corner smoking a pipe was an old Irish Sergeant. I tapped Shapiro.
“Ask him if he wants to sell his fags.”
Several more shells fell around us. Christ! if one landed in this pit!…
“Let’s get out when it stops,” said Shapiro.
“Oh, youse will be safe in here lads,” said the Sergeant.
“Safe? In a pit full of bombs? Only the Irish…”
It went quiet. “Right! now!” I said. “Not me,” said Webster.
Gunner Milligan (22) after only 5 days in action
Two of us crawled out and down the hill, then Whoosh Kerboooommm. Christ, we were caught in the open! “Our father who art in heaven…” I started. A German smoke bomb dropped fifty yards to our left, it was a repeat performance of yesterday. The Stukas tumbled out of the sky. “We’re in the bombing zone,” I shouted. “You think I don’t know,” says Shapiro. One by one the Stukas peeled off. “Are you insured Shap?”
“For everything but this,” he said.
The first stick of bombs fell along the crest of the hill, right in the middle of the London Irish again. I couldn’t resist looking up and watching the slow almost lazy majesty of the Stukas as they went on their nose for the final dive. It was all over as quickly as it started. We got up and ran, to the bottom of the hill, seeking safety in a wadi. I tapped into the line in case the bombing had damaged it. It was OK. Webster appeared. “You lousy buggers! You pissed off and left me.”
“Rubbish,” I said. “You stayed behind and left us.” After a smoke, we limbered up and set off back. I remember we didn’t talk much this time. Perhaps that built-in count down had started to tick in our heads; each shell that missed you brought the one that killed you one shell nearer.
Back at the guns, the Monkey↓ truck was up from Waggon Lines and me old mate Edgington and I had a get together, Alf Fildes got his guitar out.
≡ Monkey.