Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [17]
“You’ll like it here,” says Len. “At night you have a lovely view of the typewriter.”
Romance
So far Sergeant Hallam has always carried the files to the Colonel. But I’m lovelier. So now it’s me.
Announcement over the interphone. “Send Milligan in with File X.” The Colonel is ‘getting to know me’. I was going through what girls go through with in the initial chatting-up process.
“What is your — er — do sit down, Milligan, you can dispense with rank.”
“I haven’t any rank to dispense with, sir.”
“You can call me Stanley.”
“Yes sir, Stanley.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Spike, Stanley, sir.”
“Spike? That’s not your real name.”
“No, my real name is Terence.”
At the mention of the name his eyes lit up with love.
“Terence,” he lisped. “Yes, that’s better, Terence, that’s what I’ll call you.” Like Private Noffs said: “Watch yer arsole.”
I had not forgotten my trumpet. In the evening I’d practise in the office. Those notes that echoed round Maddaloni’s fair streets were to lead me to fame, fortune, overdraft, VAT, Income Tax, mortgages, accountants, solicitors, house agents, nervous breakdown and divorce.
O2E Dance Band, August-September 1944, each man a master of posing. Piano: Sgt. S. Britton; Bass: L/Bdr. L. Prosser; Drums: Pte. ‘Chick’ Chitty; Guitar: Phil Phillips; 1st Trumpet: Gnr. S. Milligan; 2nd Trumpet: Pte. G. Wilson; 1st Alto: Sgt. H. Carr; 2nd Alto: Pte. J. Manning; Tenor: Pte. J. Buchanan
It starts with a tall thin, bald, moustachioed Sergeant Phil Phillips. He leads the O2E band. Will I play for them? Yes, yes, yes, yes. Here is a recollection of those days by the bass player L/Bdr Len Prosser, who is now, according to his psychiatrist, the President of the United States.
* * *
LEN PROSSER’S RANDOM REMINISCENES OF ITALY - 1944 -1946
The O2E Dance Orchestra started out playing for dancing in the hall at Maddaloni Barracks, later playing ‘in the pit’ for variety show each Saturday night and on occasion during the week. For some shows the band would be on stage in the tradition of ‘show bands’, set up in tiers. Recalled is one particular Saturday evening when several of the band members had been celebrating some promotions in the cellar bistro know as ’Aldo’s’ in the village of Maddaloni Inferiors (very), partaking of the local, very stickly and thick version of Vermouth, imbibed from cut-down beer and wine bottles. I was one of them; I am not certain that you, Spike, were there, but it was possible, since I recall that at some time in your career you were awarded the stripes of a sergeant, and that was most likely the time. When it cam to near curtain time for the show, which the band was to open from behind the tabs with Dorsey’s Song of India, we left Aldo’s and wended our way up to the hall feeling rather worse for the wine.
Drummer Chick Chitty and I were on the top tier, setting uo our gear, when I staggered and fell, bass and all, down the tiers. Chick tried to grab me but managed to tumble down also. We ended up among the saxophones; were not hurt, but my bass was punctured in the side by Harry Carr’s sax-stand.
The uniforms the band wore, I recall were the result of your initiative. The trousers were khaki drill dyed black; the jackets were of white duck and made by a Napolitan tailor, I believe, although somewhere in my memory I remember visiting a laundry in Naples for a ‘fitting’. Anyway, we all felt and looked better for being able to wear this approximation of a civilian band uniform, and soon after we started wearing it our bookings began to come in thick and fast. We played for the American Red Cross in Caserta and elsewhere (enjoying