Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [63]
In the filling-in time, I used to play the trumpet in a scratch combination. It led to my meeting with someone from Mars, Gunner Secombe, H., singer and lunatic, a little myopic blubber of fat from Wales who had been pronounced a loony after a direct hit by an 88-mm gun in North Africa. He was asleep at the time and didn’t know about it till he woke up. General Montgomery saw him and nearly surrendered. He spoke like a speeded up record, no one understood him, he didn’t even understand himself; in fact, forty years later he was knighted for not being understood.
The Officers’ Club, Naples. We were playing for dancing and cabaret, the latter being the lunatic Secombe. His ‘music’ consisted of some tatty bits of paper, two parts, one for the drums and one for the piano — the rest of us had to guess. We busked him on with ‘I’m just wild about Harry’. He told us he had chosen it because his name was Harry, and we said how clever he was. He rushed on, chattering, screaming, farting, sweat pouring off him like a monsoon, and officers moved their chairs back. Then the thing started to shave itself, screaming, chattering and farting; he spoke at high speed; the audience thought he was an imported Polish comic, and many wished he was back in Warsaw being bombed. Shaving soap and hairs flew in all directions, then he launched into a screaming duet with himself, Nelson Eddie and Jeanette Macdonald, but you couldn’t tell him apart. A few cries of ‘hey hup’ and a few more soapy farts, and he’s gone, leaving the dance floor smothered in shaving soap. His wasn’t an act, it was an interruption.
The dance continues, and officers are going arse over tip in dozens. “No, not him,” they’d say when Secombe’s name came up for a cabaret.
Secombe, December 1945 — having cleared the Officers’ Club, Naples, with screaming, raspberries, shaving and singing — well pleased
Bill Hall. A law unto himself. He ignored all Army discipline, he ignored all civilian discipline. His regiment had despaired of him and posted him to CPA with an apology note.
Take kit parade. We are all at our beds, kit immaculately laid out for inspection. The Orderly Officer reaches Gunner Hall. There, on an ill-made bed, where there should be 19 items of army apparel, are a pair of socks, three jack-knives, a vest, a mess tin and a fork. The officer looks at the layout. He puts his glasses on.
OFFICER:
Where is the rest of your kit?
GUNNER HALL:
It’s on holiday, sir.
Apart from Gunner Secombe, CPA contained other stars to be, including Norman Vaughan, Ken Platt and Les Henry, (who later formed The Three Monarchs).
The CPA Personnel, including Spike Milligan (No. 1) and Harry Secombe (No. 2)
There were, of course, failures. Private Dick Scratcher, down-graded with flat feet, was billed as The Great Zoll, the Voltage King. He was given a try-out at the now recovering Officers’ Club. His act consisted of a ‘Death Throne’ made out of wood, cardboard and silver paper, with a surround of light bulbs. On a sign above was a warning: DANGER 1,000,000 VOLTS. The Great Zoll entered as a ‘Sultan’, with a turban that looked more like a badly bandaged head, and struck a ‘gong’ which was a dustbin lid painted with cheap silver paint: with its edge cut off it gave a flat ‘CLANK’. He was assisted by the driver/opera singer clad in a loin cloth, his body stained brown with boot polish. The ‘Sultan’ would be strapped into the chair with silver straps, telling us all the while in Chinese with a north-country accent: “Chop, chop, my assistant, Tong Bing, now strap me in Death t’chair, and throw switch, and send million volts through my t’body.” Tong Bing then chants some mindless tune which has nothing to do with the tune we are playing. Various bulbs go on and off as the great switch is thrown, the voltage meter goes up and down, the Great Zoll speaks: “By power of t’mind I will resist the power of t’electricity.” He stares into space, then magnesium flashes go off and fill the club with choking smoke.