Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [28]
1400 hours and the bloody stand to! Getting up at this hour must be something like the dead rising on Judgement Day. We were told a German patrol was behind us.
Afrika Korps practising “Heil Hitler!” on horseback
I got in my hole in the ground and cringed. To camouflage myself I stuffed the branch of a tree in the front of my web belt. On the Grandstand Hill side, there were flares and small arms firing. Lt Goldsmith ushered from his hut. He saw the bush in the hole.
“Who is that,” he asked.
“Gunner Milligan sir.”
He walked back into his hut, a pause, the door opened, a torch shone on me, the door closed followed by hysterical laughter. Not satisfied with humiliating me, they send Gunner Woods out with a kettle, who starts to pour water into the trench.
“Mr Goldsmith says it’s time you were watered.”
“Bugger off,” I said, beating him with the tree.
Tomorrow night if there was a German attack I would point out the officers’ quarters personally!
0600: Breakfast over, Shapiro, Webster and I set off.
“I feel safer out here than at the guns,” said Webster.
Suddenly, three ME 109s roared at nought feet over O.P. Hill, we all panicked, ran in circles, crashed into each other. It was pointless to lie down. As they roared over, I came to attention and gave the Nazi salute. It saved our lives I tell you! The planes raced at speed towards El Aroussa, Ack Ack shells tracing their route. We heard their cannons firing. A mighty explosion. It was an ammo dump, smoke curled up blue-black into the sky. Now! this day, I was carrying with me my gold-plated Besson trumpet to “fulfil a certain promise…”
“What certain promise?” asks Shapiro.
“I promised the Hire Purchase agent I would play this trumpet where the fighting and the repayments were thickest.” Ack Ack again—sod! They were coming back! I unslung my Tommy gun, and let fly my first rounds in anger. What a great feeling. Planes gone, excitement over, we went on checking the line till we arrived at Dead Cow Farm.↓
≡ A farm christened by me after a dead cow lying at the front door.
I buzzed the O.P.
Me:
Everything all right sir?
Lt Goldsmith:
Everything alright? There’s a bloody war on!
Me:
Yes sir—what I meant was, is everything in the war alright.
Lt Goldsmith:
Yes. It’s working splendidly. Any tea down there, Milligan.
Me:
I can’t tell you sir, careless talk costs lives.
We despatched Jock with the bottle of tea and watched as he wormed his way over the crest, backside sticking up all the way. “If there’s a sniper watching, he should be able to provide Webster with a second arsehole,” said Hart. Wheeeee Crashhhh. Wheeeee Booooom Crash…88’s! They were bursting just behind the crest of the O.P., it was odds on they’d spotted Webster’s clumsy efforts. Wheeeeebooom-mmmmmm Wheeeeeebooooomm. What was I waiting for. I unsheathed my trumpet and laying sideways I played ‘Mother Macree’ as a further batch of shells came over.
A bloody fool
But then, the shelling started to creep down the hill towards us, and Milligan stopped playing didn’t he? And Milligan packed up his trumpet and ran like bloody hell towards the wadi.
“Come back here you windy bugger,” shouted Sherwood.
“Windy buggers don’t come back,” I shouted.
I returned later. Jock Webster came back on his belly.
“I didna like thart,” he said, “I might ha got killed goin’ up there.”
“That was the idea,” I said. The phone buzzed. I listened in.
O.P.:
Action Left, Target! Tanks!
G.P.:
Action Left, Target! Tanks!
I had never seen the real thing, so I scrambled up to the O.P. trench. Without binoculars the tanks on the plain looked like toys moving at snail’s pace. Our shells were landing short, the tanks were at extreme range, and moving across our line of fire. After about twenty rounds the tanks had made cover behind a hillock to our left and the fire ceased. With that I crawled back to the Carrier, “What happened?” asked Sherwood. “Tanks,” I said. The effect was electric. “Tanks?” he said sitting bolt upright. “How many?”
“Millions,” I said.