Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [35]
“You can’t do a crap without one,” added Kidgell.
Before departing I spied a pile of American two-man pup-tents. I approached them respectfully, saluted, placed one under my arm and said “This is for Wounded Knee, it’s also for Wounded Teeth, Wounded Ear and Ulcerated Tongue,” one pace back, on to the lorry, and away. A brilliant tactical move, and my first blow against General Patton. The wind blew pleasantly through the lorry window. “Did you know,” said Edgington now covered in date-sticky, “there’s a man in St John’s Road, Archway who’s kept a whole egg in his mouth for a year without taking it out?”
“He must be bloody mad,” I said.
“Maybe, but he’s still a civilian,” he said, sliding dates down his throat. We finished the dates and felt sick.
We ourselves felt pretty free, alone, no authority, knowing where the next meal came from, young, all that had a certain freedom too. Since then, none of us have ever felt that particular type of mental and spiritual liberty, the gall of it is, at the time we didn’t know it, it appears memories always have to be forced on us. Suddenly, at an alarming speed, the skies overcast, turned black, and a thunderous torrential downpour descended. The land became a sea of reddy brown water, the force of the rain neutralized the windscreen wipers and we had to pull up.
“It will do BSM McArthur’s crops in Canada good,” said Kidgell. Almost as quickly the rain stopped, the sun shone, and that peculiar musk of drying earth permeated the air, the trees were a shade greener, the air fresher. God was very good when he wanted to be. In twenty minutes the world dried out, and no trace of rain remained. “Wot is that?” Edgington pointed to something moving along the road. We pulled up. “There, that thing.” It was a large black scarab shaped beetle, about half the size of a matchbox. It was standing on its head and, with its hind legs, pushing a round ball the size of a small tangerine.
“That’s a dung beetle.” Edgington gets out, and stands over the creature which is moving up the road.
“Why are they called Dung Beetles,” said Doug.
“Because that ball he’s rolling, is dung.”
“What’s he want it for?”
“He lays his eggs inside.”
“What a start in life being born up to your neck in shit.”
I picked up the beetle and placed him in a safer position where Kidgell stepped back and flattened it. We passed another batch of POWs, “Ein Reich! Ein Führer! ein Arsole,” we shouted.
“Lucky sods,” says Kidgell, “they’re out of it.”
“Here Milligan,” says Harry with surprised recollection, “today’s St Patrick’s day, any messages?”
“Yes. Fuck the English.”
That evening, I erected my new tent, and invited Edging-ton to share it. Suddenly the rain. “Oh Christ,” said Harry, “I’m on guard in five minutes,” he moaned. “Right,” I said, “off you go and stand in the pissing rain for your King and Country.” He went of groaning, and rustling in his Gas Cape.
I lit the oil lamp. Now! Where were me old pornographic photographs…(“It’s all lies officer! I bought them as art studies, I am a keen art student of twenty-one” etc.)
Pouring rain, everything was damp, cigarettes went out—matches wouldn’t ignite. I was asleep when Edgington returned.
“You asleep?” he says.
“Of course I am. You don’t think I always make this noise?”
“These tents were made for dwarfs.”
“I’m a dwarf, but I’m tall with it”
“What’s the bloody time?”
“The bloody time is 0200. Got a fag?”
“Yes.”
Here there was a long pause from Edgington. Mind you I took part in the pause, but it was he who started it; with great strength of character I brought the pause to an end.
“Well give us one then,” I said impatiently.
“You must make yourself clear, Milligan. If you ask me ‘have you got a fag’, the answer is ‘yes’. I have got a fag,