Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [6]
“Wake up Shap,” I said, “your turn to pay.”
“You’re a Fascist,” said Shapiro, unchaining his wallet. The sun was setting, so were my legs. No one could remember the way. “Follow me,” said Edgington. Twenty minutes later we stopped. “Now do you know where you are?”
“It’s the café we left twenty minutes ago.”
“See?” he said, “let’s go in.”
By 23.15 hours we were all in the Passion Waggon. The noise was incredible, talking, singing, farting, laughing, vomiting. Versatility was going to win us the war. It was horrible, but, there was a kind of mad strange poetry to it, that is, ask any one why they were like they were at that moment and they’d have a rational answer.
Drunks being loaded into ‘Passion Waggon’ after first visit to Algiers
An hour later we settled in our beds, listening to the lurid exploits of Driver ‘Plunger’ Bailey, “Plunger’ because he had a prick the size and shape of a sink pump. He had entered the forbidden Kasbah in the search of his ‘hoggins’ and gained entrance to an Arab brothel, “They wouldn’t let me in till I took me boots off,” he said. He had been shown a room where a naked Arab girl had entertained him with a belly dance, feeling he should reciprocate he sang her a chorus of ‘The Lambeth Walk’ and then ‘got stuck up her.” From now on, all my illusions of the Arabian Nights were dead.
January the 27th 1943
The services of the Battery Band were called for. “There’s ten acts on the bill and we’d like yeow to do a twurn!” said the District Entertainments Officer. He had a very high effeminate voice. “I used to be countertenor at the Gwarden,” he said. “It must have been Welwyn Garden,” whispered Edge. That evening, a highly polished staff-car calls for us. “Don’t touch it,” I cautioned, “it’s a trap, it’s only for our instruments, we’re supposed to run alongside.” We were driven at great speed to a massive French Colonial Opera House where at one time, massive French colonials sang. A sweating Sergeant was waiting,
“Ah,” he said with obvious relief. “I’m Sergeant Hope.”
“What a good memory you’ve got,” I said.
“I’m the compère. You are the Royal Artillery Orchestra?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where’s the rest of you?”
“This is all there is of me, I’m considered complete by the M.O.”
“We had been expecting a full Orchestra.”
“We are full—we just had dinner.”
“That will do,” he said leading us to the wings.
On stage an Army P.T. Instructor was doing a series of hand stands, leaps, and somersaults, the conclusion of each trick was standing to attention and saluting. “You don’t salute without yer ‘at on, cunt,” said a voice from the Khaki rabble. Sgt Hope took down details of our ‘act’.
“Name?”
“Milligan.”
“Rank?”
“Gunner.”
“Regiment?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “under the Geneva Convention of 1921 all I need give is my name, rank and number.”
“Look son, I’ve had a bloody awful day, I’m at the end of my tether,” he said. “Save the jokes for the stage, I was told you were a twenty piece Regimental Orchestra and you were going to play Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstances,” he walked away holding his head.
The P.T. Sergeant finished his leaping act, and was given a reception that he had never had before or since. He came into the wings grinning with triumph. “I think I’ll turn pro after the war,” he triumphed. The next time I saw him was 1951, he was a furniture remover in Peckham. “Changed your mind?” I said. He threw a cupboard at me. The worried compère was now the other side of the curtain saying “Thank you, the next act is—er—the 19th ‘Battalion’, Royal Artillery Dance Band, under its—er—conductor Gunner Spine Millington!” Behind the curtain we were rupturing ourselves trying to get a massive French colonial piano on the stage. I shouted “We’re not bloody well ready.”
“Well,” said the sweating Sergeant, “as you can hear they’re not quite bloody well ready yet ha-ha but—er—they ha-ha—er—won’t be long now, and then—” he put his head through the curtain. “Hurry up for Christ’s sake!”
“Keep ad libbing,” I said, “you’re a natural.” He continued “Well, they’re—er—nearly—er