Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [45]
Jerry Straffing April 1943—from ditch near Djebel Munchar
Trauma
I was smoking a cigarette when the mortar bomb hit me, when I regained consciousness I was lying on my side, my left shoulder and arm were lying 20 feet away, my lung was protruding from my chest, flies were swarming on it, my sight faded, even tho’ I knew my eyes were open I couldn’t see, talk or move. I hear the voices of stretcher bearers. Thank God, if they hurried I might have a chance. “There’s one here,” said a voice. Another voice replied, “No, he’s dead, get the wounded ones first, bring him later.”
“Spike! SPIKE!” The voice of Maunders was shouting in my headphones.
It was morning…
“Hello Alf. Yes?”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“I was waiting for the stretcher bearer.”
“What?”
“Nothing—what you want?”
“I’ve got some tea.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I scrambled like a hunted beast to the bottom of the hill where all was peace. I sipped the tea luxuriously. I have never tasted the like of it before or since. The next day was reasonably quiet, but one expected ‘things’ to happen, I was glad when at sunset we were told to close down O.P. as our guns were now out of range.
We packed up our gear. “Had a nice day,” said grinning Sherwood from his 7 foot funk-hole.
“Why did you stop, 3 feet more and you’d have come out on the Northern Line.”
“I think you did well today,” he said. “I enjoyed watching you running about, you must be very fit.”
“Your turn will come Sherwood.”
“I am one of His Majesty’s Military drivers and I do not partake in violence or running about like a scared rabbit, on my pay it’s not worth it.”
Capt. Rand and Bombardier Edwards came down, both ginning. Strange, after sticky situations men always grinned, even burst out laughing. We climbed into the Bren. It was sunset, the land was bathed in red, the dust from our tracks looked like powdered blood, perhaps it was. Lorry loads of reinforcement passed us, some of the men were singing as they disappeared in the dusk. “Singing songs going into battle is supposed to be old fashioned,” said Captain Rand. “Ah,” I said, “they don’t do any fighting sir, they are especially trained singing soldiers who drive along the front line singing merry songs to keep up morale, indeed there’s a great Trainee Singing Camp at Catterick, where men are selected for the vocal control under shell fire.” I went raving on, I was mad I know, under these conditions it was advisable. Darkness settled. We seemed to have been driving a long time. Rand gave a polite cough. “Where are we Sherwood?” Sherwood gave a polite cough. “I was just going to ask you that sir.” I gave a polite cough. “May I be the first to congratulate you on getting lost in a world record time of 1 hour 20 minutes.”
With a failing torch, Capt. Rand perused the map. We were 7 kilometres adrift. In Stygian darkness we arrived back at Munchar, I groped my way to the Cook House. “The Caviar’s all gone,” says Cook May, “and the Dover Sole is off.”
“It always was,” I said shovelling cold MacConockie into my face. “I must put myself down for an MM.” I added.
“Done something brave?” said May.
“Yes, I’m eating this bloody stuff.”
“Aherough!” The sound of an approaching Edgington, “Something tells me Field Marshal Milligan is nigh,” he waded .
“Nigh dead,” I replied.
Edgington tells me there’s mail! and off-loads 3 letters and a parcel! from Mother? I’d heard of such things in Vera Lynn’s songs. The parcel contained Fruit cake, a comb, holy medals, writing paper, Brylcream, 3 pairs grey socks, 3 Mars Bars, a holy picture of the Virgin Mary, 3 packets of Passing Cloud, 6 bars of soap, lovely—except when you smoked the fags they tasted of raw carbolic and you went giddy. An hour later, full of Mars Bars and wearing a necklace of holy medals and 3 pairs of grey socks, sick with soapy fags, I wearily pulled my blankets over my powerful Herculean body, and had the first good sleep I had had for 5 nights. As I lay there on that floor, Churchill