Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [5]
No, all I did was walk round with a permanent erection shouting “Mercy!”, in any case, I was in the company of ‘Mother Superior Edgington’, who shunned such practices. Was he not the one who threw his army issue contraceptive into the sea where it was later sunk by naval gun fire? So we entered Algiers, with pure minds, and the sun glinting on the Brylcream running down our necks. We were joined by Bdr Spike Deans and Gunner Shapiro. Along the main tree-lined Rue d’lsly, we entered a small cafe, ‘Le Del Monico’.
“That means ‘The Del Monico’,” I explained. Inside we were shown to a table by an attractive French waitress. We perused the menu.
MENU
Moules Mariniere
Homus
Spigola al Forno
Sole Nicoise
Scampi Provencale
Poulet Roti
Carre d’Agnau
Courgettes
“Eggs and chips four times,” we said. “Make mine Kosher,” added Shapiro.
“There’s no such thing as Jewish Chicken,” I said.
“And I’ll tell you why,” said Shapiro, “there’s no money in it.” The eggs arrived sizzling in round copper dishes. “Where’s the chips?” says Shapiro. “She’s forgotten the chips.”
“Don’t be bloody ignorant,” rebukes Edgington, “in French cooking le chips are served separate! Patience!” So we sat in patience. We sat a long time in patience. She had forgotten ‘le chips’. The mistake rectified, we ate the meal with quaffs of Thibar Rosé.
“You’d never think there was a war on,” said Dean.
“I think there’s a war on,” said Shapiro.
“I notice,” said Edgington, “you dip your chip into the yolk first.”
“True,” I said. “I cannot tell a lie.” We finished the meal.
“What now?” says Milligan.
“Let’s go to the pictures,” says Shapiro.
“PICTURES? We come all the way from England to Africa and you want to go to the bloody PICTURES?”
“I like the pictures,” he says, “they make me forget.”
“Forget what?”
“I can’t remember.”
We decided to wander through Algiers, it was amazing how boring it could be.
“Isn’t this the place where Charles Boyer screwed Hedy Lamarr?” said Deans.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” said Edgington, “there’s nothing else to do.”
We followed signs ‘THIS WAY TO WVS CANTEEN, ALLIED TROOPS WELCOME’. The building looked like a warehouse. We went in. It was a warehouse. Tables and chairs were spread around a massive hall-like room. Behind tea-bearing tables were middle-aged English ladies who also looked like warehouses, they obviously thought being in Algiers was ‘naughty’. We drank piss poor tea and ate buns made of leather.
Edgington was already slumped over a desk, dashing off a ‘Darling-I-love-you-I-always-do-you-love-me’ etc. etc. standard soldier’s letter for the relief of sexual tension, pausing only to hit his re-occurring erection with an ink well. I used to write to several birds, but hadn’t realised my letters were getting stereotyped until one replied ‘Darling, Thank you for your circular…” Edgington wrote reams, average letter twenty pages. He was the most pure of gunners and faithful to his sweetheart. Mind you he missed a lot of fun and his machinery got very rusty. I woke Shapiro. “Dreaming of the Promised Land?” I said. “No, I was dreaming of East Finchley, it’s cheaper there,” he said yawning. Evening; we sauntered out into the main Boulevard. All the prettiest French birds were out, chaperoned by what looked like the Mafia and an occasional Quasimodo. We promenaded up and down. “We can get all this bloody route marching at camp,” said Shapiro, “let’s lie down.” We repaired to a street café “quatre verres cognac’ I said to a waiter. “Never mind all that crap,” he said, “what do you want to drink?” The brandy arrived.
“Here’s to a safe war,” said Dean, and spilled the lot over his jacket. We downed several brandies in the next hour, and all became decidedly unsafe. Shapiro dozed off. “He’s not asleep,” said Edgington, “it’s a Jewish ruse, the