Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [37]
“Now the bad news?”
“I’ve tested the set, the Dags are charged, the Don 5 is working, all you got to do is play with yourself and drink tea.”
The billet was a bombed farm house, minus a roof, but the first floor kept off the rain. I entered the building. Inside was a room about 20 ft x 20, to the left a burnt staircase. Lying on the floor were two of the flowers of English manhood, Gunner Arthur Tume and Gunner Payne.
“Hello Spike,” says Tume, “I’m just reading the Daily Mirror.”
“You always were a daredevil.”
“You’ll be glad to know that they’ve evacuated all our lads safely from Dunkirk.”
“Thank God, one of them owes me money.”
I dumped my kit in the corner. “Who’s on duty,” I said. “I am,” said Payne, “I’ve got my tin hat on.” He was cleaning his nails with a small hammer. “As you’re both lying down I think I can break the news, I am now Lance Bombardier Milligan.” Tume lowered his newspaper, “Oh Christ no.” The phone buzzed, “Hello,” said Payne, “19 Battery-all-action-packed Command Post. What? Yes, he’s arrived, and he says he’s a Lance Bombardier.” There was a howl of laughter from the other end and Payne hung up.
The overcast sky was clearing and the sun shone. I reported to Lt Budden, who had one of the ‘rooms’.
“Ah Gunner Milligan.”
“It’s Bombardier Milligan now sir.”
“Bombardier?” He turned and looked out the window. “Oh dear.” he said. “I’ll put you in the picture. We’re in support of the O.P.,” he laid out a map, and indicated the spot, “Lt Goldsmith and Bombardier Deans are up there, where the tea stain is, they’re pissed out of their minds. We are the carrying party for food, ammo, mail, fresh batteries, line testing and relief.”
“Do we have to take the dog for a walk as well?” The floor was the bed, and while I was down there I did a rough pencil drawing that survived, though it’s so faint I’ve had to ink it over.
Drawing—Inside Billet—Munchar
I spent the morning exploring the house, burnt stairs (still strong enough to support one), to the First Floor, pitiful traces of happier days, a lady’s slipper, a burnt doll, some women’s magazines, a prayer book in French, and of all things, still hanging on the wall, a picture of M. Renaud. But lo! and behold in the room at the back was a piano, still playable but the floor adjacent had given way, so, I made no effort to play my attractive version of Chopsticks, which is not better than any other version, except I do it blindfolded standing on one leg with my trousers down. Oh I know it would mean nothing at a Chopin recital, but it had been well received in the NAAFI Canteen on Christmas Eve 1942, and who’s to say, during those long nights at the Carthusian Monastery in the Valedemosa, Chopin didn’t drop his trousers to compose the E Minor Nocturne? It was common knowledge that when he played in the relative minor of C, his legs overheated, atone time George Sands’ hands were a mass of burns. One afternoon the line-laying truck (Ma) halted by the door, and a long thing called Harry Edgington drew nigh, giving our special ‘choked scream’. I greeted him in my draws cellular. (I was counting my legs to see how near to Chopin I could get.) “And why,” he said, wriggling his ringers in the air, “are you in a state of dishabille?”
“I’m practising to be Chopin’s legs.”
“Good, I’m training to be George Sands’ teeth.” I told him about the piano, gleefully he ascended the blackened stairs as I dressed, I heard Edgington plunge into the keyboard, Big Fat Romantic chords G aug 9th + 11th + 13th—then, the music stopped, and started but now, very sad, I climbed the stairs and found him with the burnt doll propped on the music stand.
“Blimey, this if sad,” he said taking the burnt doll in his hands. “It says the whole war. Ahh!” he said, “you’ve brought your trumpet, great, what is it? Honey Suckle?” I nodded. As I drew near the piano it became apparent, the sagging