Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [28]
I was blowing great that night. When I stood up to take a chorus it was for one of two reasons: a) Egomania or b) Piles.
The interval, and Colonel Slessor announces that he’s ‘Very pleased with us’. He then announces he is leaving the room.
Throughout the evening he announced every dance, the names of the tunes, the winners of the spot prize, even “The trumpet solos were by Gunner Millington.” He really was ready for the 9 o’clock news. Finally “The last waltz, please.” ‘God Save the King’, then we moved in on the scoff. It had been a great evening of dancing and announcing; we had seen lots of pretty birds but hadn’t pulled any, so, as Jim Manning said, “We’ll ‘ave ter pull ourselves.”
Colonel Philip Slessor showing an officer the correct dress and stance for announcing
The Days
The days of that week were spent visiting every tourist trap available, the Vatican, the Fountains of Rome, the Capitol, the Karzi, during which time I nearly scored.
We have one night off and I go solo walkabout. I’m hovering near the Therme de Caracalla when I hear a sweet female voice laced with sandpaper — there were no words as such — but she is bearing down on me as though I’m an old friend. A Junoesque thirty-five-year-old in black, and wearing an Ascot hat, she grabs my hand and says how good it is to see me again.
“Come sta?”
Oh, I’m very ‘sta’. It’s all a ploy to avoid the suspicion of; being on the game. I like this game, but I want game, set and match. She is desperate, she’s short of money and at her’ wit’s end. My type.
She is respectable, she’s not on the game, but she’s desperate. So am I, I tell her. She says we must retire to a cafe. She: needs a coffee and brandy as she is ‘faint’, all twelve stone of her. So there we are in the cafe; she tells me she is married, that her husband is in the Reggimento Aeronautica, though he hasn’t been sending her any money. But beware, he is ‘molto geloso’ and she shows me his photo. He looks like two Al Capones stuffed into a uniform. She thinks he’s a prisoner of war ‘somewhere’. I hope it’s Siberia. Can Gunner Milligan take her to dinner tomorrow? No he can’t, he’s playing in the band. Oh, so I’m a musician! How romantico! The next night then, yes. I know the Sunday is free. Can I bring her some chocolate, soap, cigarettes, sweets, in fact the entire stores of the Allied 5th Army. There is a promise of female favours in her eyes. Yes I will etc. I tell the boys. They go green with envy, some go yellow and grey.
“Wot’s she like?” says Private Manning, lying on his bed looking at the ceiling, imagining it’s him. I say she likes the contents of warehouses. I say she’s a mixture of Rita Hay-worth, Betty Grable and Mae West. I’ll make the buggers suffer.
Romance Two
We meet at the cafe. She’s gone ahead and put two cognacs on my bill. Have I got the goodies? I hand her my meagre parcel, apologizing for omitting the leg of venison and side of beef. She must examine the contents and check these against her list. We must take a horse-drawn carriage, it will be less conspicuous. So we drive down the Corso Umberto while she checks the parcel. Mama mia! Only chocolate, cigarettes and jam? I apologize. Never mind, she knows a ‘cosy little’ trattoria. This is called La Tantolina and it’s disguised as a four-star hotel. I can’t believe the swish interior, black velvet and gold cutlery, all tables arranged in private nooks, with lights from chandeliers that look like flying saucers. A trio are playing ‘Lae thar piss tub darn bab’. We are seated under the stern gaze