Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [48]
Oh Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul was he
Called for his pipe, he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
There was a late moon, it reflected on the trunks of the olive trees standing ghost-like, their aged limbs extended like tired wooden arms. “Did you know Harry—that ancient Greeks thought they were the tortured souls of the departed?”
“Yes, I did,” he paused. “Ahh! it’s so peaceful,” he said, puffing his cigarette. “It makes a nice break,” I said, “I don’t like the war any more. I wish, right now, I was on the stand at St Cyprians Hall, Brockly, SE 23 and there was Jim Cherry on Alto, Billy Mercer on Tenor, and I was doing Bunny Berrigan’s chorus in ‘Song of India’, and all the little darlings are looking at me, especially Ivy Chandler, with the ‘lovely legs. Oh roll on demob, no more bloody Woolwich Arsenal for me, it’s straight to Jos Loss and asking for an audition.”
“You’d make a good chauffer.”
“Shut up! Heaven is a fourteen-piece band with me on second trumpet, and the money would be good.”
“All money is good,” said Edgington.
“All money is not good, take Chinese money.”
“Chinese money is good, if,” he added, “you’re Chinese.”
“It’s no good being Chinese, with Chinese money, you can’t go into Cheesmans of Lewisham, and put Chinese money down and ask for ten Woodbines or even Woodblines.”
“I was thinking of the Chinese in China, not bloody Cheesmans of Lewisham.”
“I say even if you’re Chinese, with Chinese money and you go into a Chinky-poo fag shop, you still couldn’t ask for 10 Woodbines.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t sell Woodbines in China.”
“What proof have you got? If you say there are no Woodbines in China, you must be backed up by facts.”
“All right, don’t shout! The baby’s asleep! Now, have you ever seen a Chinaman?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Limehouse.”
“Have you ever seen ‘em smoking?”
“Yes, sideways.”
“How many?”
“About 10.”
“Right, 10 Chinese, how many brands of fags are there?”
“About a score↓.”
≡ 20.
“So, without going to China, you’ve seen 10 Chinamen smoking; now, out of 20 brands of fags, one brand is Woodbines, therefore on the law of averages at least half a per cent of the Chinamen are smoking Woodbines.”
“Whoever saw half a Chinaman smoking?”
“Why don’t you bleedin’ idiots go to sleep,” said a weary voice. A good idea. The bleedin’ idiots went to sleep. Not before a German plane dropped parachute flares, bathing our faces in an eerie green light.
“You’re going mouldy,” says Edgington. “No, I’m not,” I said, “I’m inventing Penicillin.” Another flare, this time red. Lovely.
“He’s trying to make us think it’s Guy Fawkes night.”
“He’s taking photographs,” said Harry.
“Say Cheese.”
The flare faded, the plane droned away, I suppose the pilot was as pissed off’ with war as we were, in half an hour he’d be in bed smoking a fag and playing with himself, or if rumours about the Germans were true, playing with his fag and smoking himself.
“You still awake Harry?”
“No, I’m dead asleep, this is a recorded message.”
I yawned one of those yawns that makes the back of your head touch your shoulder blades and push your chest out. Tomorrow the new Gun Position. Oh no! not tomorrow…at midnight we were beaten awake with rifle butts, our erections smashed down with shovels. We were to move now.
“This isn’t war,” screamed Edgington, “it’s Sadism. S-a-d-e-s-e-a-m.” etc. The convoy crawled along in pitch darkness, the moon having waned. “Where are we going sir?” I asked.
“It’s a place called Map Ref. 517412,” said Lt Goldsmith.
“They don’t write numbers like that any more sir.”
We passed the bombed shattered village of Toukabeur, full of Booby Traps. Seven Sappers were killed during clearing. Outside the village was our new position. At night it looked like the surface of the moon, or Mae West’s bum the moment the corsets came off.
In front of us was a rocky multi-surfaced outcrop