Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [2]
“Here to sing melodies divine is Gravard Lax.” A time-ravaged middle-aged very fat tenor comes forward. “Lend us yer ration book,” comes a cry.
“Good evening,” he says in a high catarrhal voice, like snails had crawled up his nose. “Itt-isser, a greattt pleasurer-errr, to beee-er here-er to-nightttt-er.”
“You’re lucky to be anywhere tonight.” A voice.
“Ha ha ha-er’ says the singer, meaning ‘You Bastard-er.” “I would like to sing the Bowmen of England-er.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Mrs Terrible thunders the intro. Now, it so happens, at that very moment, a squadron of Heinkel bombers, with the engines cut, were gliding in to bomb Naples and/or Mrs Terrible and her piano. The engines roar into life, followed by the ascending banshee wail of the sirens, which synchronize with the opening of the tenor’s mouth. “My God,” said Guardsman Rogers, “he’s singing the air-raid warning.” Bombs start to drop, the entire audience vanishes and the driver slips the lorry into gear and drives away. I watched transfixed with laughter as the tenor, still singing ‘The Bowmen’ was transported to safety, staggering and holding the sides of the lorry as they turned left and drove up the road to Afragola. He was still in full song as he disappeared into the darkness and I could only wonder when he stopped — did he reach Cassino? They don’t write songs like that any more.
Hitlergram No Eins
HITLER:
Hello Goering? How did zer air-raid go?
GOERING:
Ve are breaking up zer Tailboard Follies, for zem zer war is over. Next time, Tommy Trinder, Ann Shelton and Micheal Wilding and his wig!
HITLER:
Gut. Soon Vera Lynn and zer White Cliffs of Dover Sole will sue for peace.
February 30
The day after, a notice appears on Part Two orders: “The ENSA Concert is cancelled until further notice.” The war seems to have stopped, the weather and casualties have ground our advance to a halt. If no news is good news, we must all be delirious with happiness. Guardsman Rogers has been posting little pieces of mud home. “Dear Mother, This is a piece of mud. When you have enough, stand on it, and have a holiday in sunny Italy.” The days pass, life is like a clock with no hands. — Wait! Excitement beckons. An Inspection? INSPECTION???? HERE??? Everybody’s covered in mud! We’re ankle deep in it! We are all shit order! Yet, somewhere the British Army have found a Colonel suffering from I-must-have-an-inspection withdrawal symptoms. A BBC documentary of what followed, would go thus:
COMM:
Well here we are on the great field of mud inspection parade (sound of rain, thunder and groans). Some ten thousand tons of mud have been flown in especially to simulate the Somme. The troops are wearing their best battledress with their best mud on it. It’s a proud sight as the Colonel walks along the ranks of slowly sinking men. He’s stopped to talk to a soldier in a hole. But it’s too late, he’s drowned.
It was a proud day for the British Army and a hysterical one for me. If only Hitler had known.
Hitlergram No. Zwei
HITLER:
If only I had known.
GOEBBELS:
If only you had known vat?
HITLER:
That’s vat I don’t know.
92 General Hospital Naples
Mud and trench foot have triumphed! We move to 92 General Naples! Here we are in warm dry billets and for a time the administration was taken over by the hospital, so Jock and I were ‘spare wanks’ but were told to ‘Stand by’. We did. We ‘stood by’. What we were standing by for we knew not, but whenever we were asked. “What are you men doing?” we replied ‘Standing by, sir’ and it sufficed.
Naples, land of Wine, Women and Syph. The Borsa Nera!
My parents sent me all my post office savings — no good leaving it mouldering in England when here I could become rich, rich, rich! In time it arrived, smuggled in a box cunningly marked Pile Suppositories. My parents were no fools.
Six pounds! Wait till this money hits the black market! Next