Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [51]
There was bitter bloody fighting on Djbel Tanngouch, Heidous and Djbel Ang, all of them changing hands several times througkout the terrible day. In support of them, we fired continuously, the Gunners were out on their feet, but knew their lot was easy compared with the P.B.I, so they never complained. There was, however, an occasional cry of “Fuck this for a livin’.” Lt Tony Goldsmith at the O.P. did some deadly accurate shooting, and remained stoically calm through the most blistering mortaring. In between shoots he would phone command post.
“Hello Milligan, I’m going to have a nap, would they turn the volume down on the guns.” He has eight days of his young life left.
Something had held up our rations, rumour hath that:
The rail link to the front was bombed.
The rations were bombed
The Arabs stole it and were bombed.
Whatever, we were put on hard tack for 4 days. It was the first time in the war we had felt peckish. One night Fildes, myself and Hart were told to drive to a deserted farm at Chassart-Teffaha and pick up Lt Tony Goldsmith and Co. We were told, “Watch out for Jerry Patrols.” It was midnight when we arrived, the white-washed walls of the deserted farm showed blue in the moonlight. The engine stopped, the silence that followed was very eerie; we were in a quiet valley, the sound of guns blocked by the surrounding mountains.
“Christ it’s quiet,” said Fildes.
“BANGGG.” I said. “Is that better?”
“Don’t take the piss Milligan or from now on I’ll play in F-sharp.”
“Steady, Driver Fildes, you are a-speakin’ to one of His Majesty’s Non-commissioned H’officers of two months’ standing and four years layin’ down .”
“Christ, it is quiet,” says Gnr Birch.
“I’ll sing a song then.”
Very softly I commenced ‘Oh God our Hope in Ages Past’ and ever so gently the lads joined in. We did one chorus.
“Well, that has passed,” I said looking at my watch, “one minute three seconds of World War II in a most peaceful, harmonious manner.”
“I’ve got a pain in my balls,” said Driver Bennett.
“So have I,” I said, “his name is Lt Joe Mostyn.”
“Is it safe to smoke here?” said Gnr Pool.
“No! no matter where you smoke it’s dangerous, it destroys the lungs and stunts the growth.”
“I’ve smoked 40 fags a day since I was 16 and I’m 6 foot 2 inches.”
“But if you ‘adn’t smoked you’d have been 18 foot 3 inches.”
“That’s a lot of balls.”
“True, if you’re 18 foot 3 inches you might need a lot of balls.”
“Where is Lt Goldsmith, it’s nearly half past one.”
“Are you missing him darling,” I said.
We had got out of the truck, it was getting chilly, we got back in the truck; we had a cigarette, then, asphyxiated by the smoke, we all got out of the truck, where it was chilly.
“Two o’clock, where the bloody hell is he?”
“You’re in charge Bombardier Milligan, do somethin’.”
“Stand-at-ease!” I said, “Now, men, I suggest we get out our blankets, and kip down in the farmhouse in homage to our King.”
“Ow did you get a stripe.”
“I put the wrong jacket on.”
We laid out on the stone floor.
“Supposin’ Goldsmith turns up.”
“He can lay on the floor as well, there’s no class distinction down here,” I said.
“Christ I feel ‘ungry.”
“So do I,” I said.
“I’d love a good dinner now.”
“So would I,” I said.
Driver Bennett says “You know what I’d like now…a large steak, wiv chips, big long golden ones, fried tomatoes.”
“Turn it up!”
“Turn it up,” I said.
“…wiv onions, crispy fried…”
“Wiv onions, crispy fried,” I said.
“Shut up, you’ll drive us all bloody mad.”
“No! I want to hear his dinner, carry on.”
“Carry on,” I said.
“Then beans, big heap of beans.”
“Stop it! Stop that grub talk,” shouts Fildes. “It’s torture.”
“It’s torture.” I said.
There was a second pause, pregnant with rumbling stomachs and gastric juices looking for food.
“Eggs, 3 big fresh farm eggs fried in butter…”
“Stop it! or I’ll thud you up the cobblers.”
The menu stopped, but