Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [40]
“Yes,” said Steve, “it’s time for beddy-byes so you’ll be a nice strong boy for your filing.”
I put on my beret, that bloody awful new beret! They had taken our forage caps from us and given us a thing that looked like a pudden cloth, or something that Auntie Rita wore to visit the Geriatric Ward. No matter how you wore it, it looked like a cow pat stuck on your head, about to slide off down your face.
The passion wagon drops us at Alexander Barracks. The roistering is in full flood and sounds like a farmyard on fire. One last drink, my friend.
“Ahhh Terence!” It’s Colonel Startling Grope. “Where have you been hiding these last two days?”
I tell him. “In my beret, Stanley Sir.” Come on, have a Strega with him.
“Cheers Terence!” He holds up the yellow liquid. “It’s all over.” He was right, most of it went over him.
The night died like a beheaded chicken; long after the head was off, the body went on dancing. I lay in bed, the distant sound of the CPA dance band echoing up the stairs…
Peace
To the victor the spoils. My spoils are a set of files. Big News! Startling Grope is leaving us.
“I’m being bowler-hatted,” he said. (I thought he would have been brown-hatted.) “I leave next week, Terence, and,” he tapped his nose, it stayed on, “I’ve left you a little present.”
Me? A present? What is it, a pot of Gentlemen’s Relish? A Unique Device with latent Screws? A Germolene dispenser? A leather-backed Divining Kit, a complete set of Marsh-mallows, a Devious Appliance with lubricating points? Any of these could be mine!
“Who’s taking your place here, Stanley Sir?”
“Nobody.”
“Well that doesn’t speak very well of you.”
“The job is being run down, Terence.”
“It was more than run down, it’s down right crummy.”
So departed the Colonel, and the pretty boys of O2E breathed a sigh of relief. Bending down would never be as dangerous again.
The Great Neapolitan Band Contest
56 Area are holding a Dance Band Contest. We’ll wipe the floor with ‘em. FIRST PRIZE FOR SUPERB LEAD AND SOLO TRUMPET, GUNNER MILLIGAN. We congregate in the rehearsal room. What to play?
“What’s wrong with Dinah?” says Manning.
“Rheumatism,” is the answer. We choose ‘Moonlight Serenade’, ‘Two O’clock Jump’ and ‘The Naughty Waltz’.
“You see! Those numbers will lose us the contest,” predicts Jim, one of the first people in 1939 to say “The war will be over by Christmas.” We practise and practise, every note and nuance is observed, we even play the specks of fly shit that land on the music. Nothing is wasted.
We want to wear just shirts and trousers. Major New won’t hear of it: “This is a military occasion, and you will look regimental.” OK, we can wear steel helmets, full pack, and play in the kneeling loading position; then while half of the band play ‘Moonlight Serenade’, the other half dig slit trenches; in ‘One O’clock Jump’ we can all fix bayonets and charge the judges; and finally, in ‘The Naughty Waltz’ we’ll all crawl along the stage and lob grenades at the audience.
The time is come. Backstage, musicians with extra Brylcreem in their dressing-rooms, playing scales, octaves or cards. Major New announces the draw. “We’re on first.” Groans.
“I told you we’ll ‘ave no luck with those fuckin’ numbers,” says Manning.
“It’s Kismet,” I said.
“What?”
“Kismet, that’s what Nelson said to Hardy.”
“I thought it was Kiss Me Hardy.”
No, that was Stan Laurel, that’s the popular version, you’re very popular if you quote that version.
“U lot better get on,” says a snotty-nosed Base Depot Sergeant, one of those cringing acolytes that has always got extra fags and chocolates in their locker, a housey-housey concession, never lends money, and has never been nearer than a hundred miles to the front line.
* * *
Dance band contest gets away on the down beat
An innovation in Naples entertainment was the 56 Area Welfare