Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [42]
Midnight, the wind almost a gale. In the back of the truck we sipped tea and played twilight pontoon, me with headphones listening on the Infantry network. A silent attack was to go in and take their objectives by 04.00, we were standing by if they called for fire. At 03.50 hrs. on our right, an Artillery barrage was to support the 78 Div. attack on the Munchar-Medjez-el-Bab front. As the hour came I thought of those young men going forward into darkness towards death or mutilation. At 03.50 the sky sang with flashing lights, a thunder of iron artillery rolled through the night, my wireless came alive with urgent voices, “Hello Baker Charlie 2, we’re pinned down by mortars at Wog-Dog Farm,” every call was a life and death affair, and here I was in comparative safety.
“Hello Milligan?” it was Chater Jack. “Yes sir—it goes Da-da-die—”
“No, no! I want to speak to ‘Sunray’.”↓
≡ Sunray: Code name for Battery Captain.
I moved the dial towards our own net, as I did the opening bars of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue filled my headphones, it was too much, I burst into tears. “What’s the matter,” said Driver Robinson.
“It’s a piece of music.”
“Must be fucking ‘orrible to make you cry.”
The music soared, the barrage raged on, turning the night red, green, orange, purple…Gunner Tume relieved me on the set. “There’s tea in the O.P.” he said.
I stumbled along the communication trench, the wind had dropped, I looked up, the sky was clearing.
In the dim light of the O.P. Chater Jack and three Officers were sipping tea. I saluted. To a man they ignored me. Two signallers squatting on the floor clutching telephones, writing messages and handing them to the officers who, to a man ignored them. Gunner Woods, slaving over a hot primus, filled my mug. The officers were talking, “I don’t like hybrid strains,” one was saying. “Too much like having a queer in the garden. Ha ha ha.”
“What a crowd of bloody fools,” I thought. “You should have come earlier,” whispered Woods, “they were on about the price of tennis shoes.” Chater was passing his whisky flask around.
A whole band of bloody fools
Suddenly, at 04.59 the Barrage stopped. The ‘phone buzzed. “For you sir,” said a buck-toothed Signaller. “Hello?” said Chater, “Right.” He put the ‘phone down. “Gentlemen, the North Irish Horse are going in,” he looked at his watch. “Dead on time,” he grinned.
“How’s the attack going sir,” I ventured.
“I haven’t had one yet Milligan,” he ventured. The junior officers laughed—they had to. They peered thru’ the slits into the night, where a myriad permutations of muzzle-flashes told their story. Woods grinned at the sight of officers staring into the darkness with binoculars. “They’re our leaders,” he whispered, tapping his head. Dawn was emerging from our right, which was a good arrangement. Soon the battle panorama was revealed; in front, a large valley, on the far slopes, tanks of the North Irish Horse were fighting their way up Djbel Kachbia. To our left the and Hamps. were attacking the slopes of Djbel Mahdi. “We’ve got to get the set out of the truck,” says Tume hurriedly, “it’s got to pick up something.”
“Oh shit!”
“It could be that.”
We unloaded the set. Blast! The remote control cable wouldn’t reach the slit trench. “Oh shit II.” So we had to leave it on open ground, then, the bad news, a series of 88’s burst around us, we moved at considerable speed into a trench and huddled in the bottom, I let out a yell as a piece of red hot shrapnel fell on to my hand.
“There’s bloody luck!” said Tume, “hit by the enemy and no blood.”
“My Blighty one and it didn’t work,” I moaned.
Bombardier Andrews was sweating and pulling at his lower lip—I don’t know why, it looked long enough.
“How long does this go on,” he said.
“Until the war is finished,” I said.
“Don’t take any notice of him,” said Tume, seeing that Andrews was frightened. “Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes an hour, it depends which German’s on duty.” The wireless came to life, bravely Tume crawled out and put the headphones on—bravely I watched