Rommel_ Gunner Who__ A Confrontation in - Spike Milligan [9]
A cloud of dust is approaching at high speed. From its nucleus formidable swearing is issuing. It’s our Signal Sergeant Dawson, “Get mounted, we’re off,” it bellows as it goes down the line, followed by mocking cheers. I jump in, engines are coming to life, the hood is rolled back so Budden can stand Caesar-like in the passenger seat. Shouts are heard above the sound of the engines revving. “Right Milligan,” says Lt Budden. “World War Two at 25 m.p.h.” He looked back at the long line of vehicles. “My God, what a target for the Luftwaffe.”
“Don’t worry sir, I have a verbal anti-aircraft curse, that brings down planes.”
“Keep talking Milligan. I think I can get you out on Mental Grounds.”
“That’s how I got in, sir.”
“Didn’t we all.”
There was a throttle on the steering column, I set it to a steady twenty m.p.h.
“I said twenty-five,” said Budden.
“Trying to economise, sir. The slower we go chances are by the time we get there it might be all over.”
“Oh it will be all over Milligan,” he said, “all over bloody Africa.”
We rolled along comfortably, the sun warm, scenery magnificent. We stopped for ten minutes every two hours to stretch legs. I didn’t stretch mine as they seem to be long enough. At every halt, Arabs materialised from nowhere bearing eggs, dates, and some long black things that looked like petrified eels or models of ‘Plunger’ Bailey’s weapon.
We pressed on, crossing the River Isser, a thick, brown, tortuous winding affair flowing very fast, it kept company with us until we reached the village of Les Isser, a cluster of mud buildings. Outside a seedy white Gendarmerie, an unshaven seedy off-white gendarme slumbered in a chair. “He’s pretending there isn’t a war on,” said Mr Budden. I shouted “Ai Meisu! le Gendarme? Oil est la Guerre Mondiale Nombre Deux?”
He pointed up the road. “Avante siese mille kilo.” He grinned and fell back to sleep.
19 Battery men on their march to the Front being accosted by consenting French Vichy Seamen
Here is an excerpt from Major Chater Jack’s letter of the time:
Here I sit in a truck by the road side, the country is all covered with olive trees, Caroo Beans and Alloes, there are snow capped mountains in the distances and a deep turbid muddy river flowing through the centre of a broad fertile valley…What growing country this is! There have been no vineyards for a long time; a few orange groves but the crop is nearly over. Mostly Arabs about, herding flocks of goats, some cattle, some French people in the first few days, but now an Italian strain is showing.
The scene:
A lonely French Barracks in Regents Park.
CHAS. DE GAULLE:
I am France, Zear iss no osaire leader. France ees de Gaulle, de Gaulle ees France! (he sings the Marseillaise)
GUNNER:
Fer Christ sake go to kip.
DE GAULLE:
How can I kip ven I zer leader of France, only ‘ave ten francs and ze arse out of my trousers!
GUNNER:
It’s yer own bleedin’ fault, you shouldn’t be rude to Churchill.
DE GAULLE:
Churchill! zat man! he is calling me a Froggie’, sometimes he says I am Jewish!
CHURCHILL:
You must be the Froggie Froggie Jew!
Funny, I never knew the Major was suffering from Italian strain. 1300 hours. Arrived village of Camp du Marechal.
(Q.) What ‘Marechal’ was it named after?
(A.) “It’s had a railway siding,” said Edgington, “so it must be (all together) Marechal Yard!”
“Three out often,” I said. We sat down to eat “the unexpired portion of our rations,”
“unexpired’ being a piece of bully beef that is gradually dying for its country. I grabbed my throat, staggered round gasping ‘This bully’s been poisoned with food Ahhhh!” and fell to the ground.
“Bury me up a tree,” I said.
“You bloody fool,” said Edge, “why?”
“After I die I want people to look up to me.”
“Three out often,” he said placing one finger in his ear.
Lunch over and on to battle. Above, the sky was cobalt, cloudless, the Djebels stood out stark blue-grey in the clear light. On our left, the silt laden waters of the Sebaou thundered in a titanic gorge on its way to