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By Root 108 0

were some three rows of triple cinema seats already pushed up tight against the wooden wall, that overlooked the dance floor. As we were coming up to these, I saw an army boot sticking out from the mass of steel legs. There must be another one somewhere I thought. Being on the inside, nearest to the chairs, I took one step rather more quickly and stopped and turned to the girls, so as to keep their attention up at me. I risked a look down at where the head that belonged to the boot ought to be. Sure enough, there it was (at the right distance from the boot), the Milligan features all screwed up into the usual huge grinning wink. Remember? It’s a pity you didn’t get that one into the book, for it has, despite all the shagging that was undoubtedly going on, afar happier and more humorous ring to it than all the other yarns about your ‘amours’.

Gunner Milligan happily playing his H.P. Trumpet at De La Wan Pavilion, Bexhill, while his mates keep his birds from killing him

Well folks! if that’s all true, I didn’t know when I was well off!

Beja Waggon Lines 17 March 1943

A velvet night as against last night which was Donegal Tweed. Midnight, around me the silent, sleeping Waggon Lines, I was reading a Micky Mouse comic printed in Arabic. I shouldn’t be doing this! I understood Micky Mouse, but Arabic! No, mice didn’t speak Arabic. This was nonsense. I should be on the floor of the Hammersmith Palais de Danse wearing a blue chalk-stripe suit with well padded shoulders, doing the ‘Suzy OJ with what’s-her-name-with-the-big-boobs, who used to go out with Roy Fox’s Singer, Denny Dennis, who had become the British Bing Crosby, whereas in fact, I was the British Bing Crosby—didn’t I win the Bing Crosby contest at the Hippodrome, Lewisham, wearing a shrunken sports jacket with four and sixpenny Marks and Spencer’s flannels? And again - didn’t I win the EPNS solid silver Crooners Cup at the Lady Florence Institute, Deptford, singing ‘East of the Sun’? and was chased frequently by the bloke who came 2nd?, anyhow, I settled down to a comparatively easy life at Beja, sitting in a hip bath and eating dates.

March 18th

We were to take returnable salvage to the RASC Depot at Souk El Khemis, Kidgell, Edgington and I, a perfect trio, all barmy, and none of us queer. On the way we stopped to exchange old battle-dresses and see through blankets with Arabs, for bunches of dates. The stickiness! By the time we got to the Depot we were stuck to each other. Kidgell had to prise his hands off the steering wheel. It was even on our boots, six feet away from the eating area!

A stark white sign with the red letters BEJA, no admission, TYPHUS.

“I wonder what Typhus is like,” said Edgington.

“Typhus is an Arab village,” I said.

“Then wot’s Beja?”

“Beja is a dread disease that has struck down the people of Typhus.”

“You notice that the Wogs don’t have these diseases until we arrive.” We drove along in silence. “What did one date say to another?”

“I’m stoned.”

Souk El Khemis was a pile of mud with windows. In the main street we entered an Arab Cafe called ‘Out of Bounds’. We drank a bottle of warm Thibar white wine. Arabs in ones and twos were seated round coffee tables. Above a three bladed fan turned slow enough to count the blades, it was intended to disperse flies, but in fact they rode on it. We drained the bottle, and left.

Midday. Arrived at Service Corps Depot. Stopped at gates by small red-capped, two striped, military Hitler.

“Wot is yourn business?”

“I’m a Vicar’s Mate but the war has spoilt it.”

“We want to play a little game do we? Gude. I like little games, now we are going to play a little game called Vicar’s Mate waiting at the gate for one hour.”

“Where do they find people like him?” says Edgington.

“You take a pig’s offal,” said Kidgell, “and make it a Corporal.” Finally allowed in we drove to the salvage bay, unloaded our junk—got a receipt for it.

“Why does anybody have to sign for a load of crap like that,” says Edgington.

“Why? It puts the responsibility for all that crap onto someone else. Life