Where have all the bullets gone_ - Spike Milligan [73]
Parts? Piles don’t have parts. I can have two days in bed and then come and see him again. The pretty Italian lady cleaners want to know why I’m in bed. No way will my romantic soul let me tell them it’s piles, not even in Italian. Piles-o! No! I have bronchitis. They want to know why every time I sneeze, I grab my arse and scream. It’s very difficult. The Duty Officer and Sergeant find me asleep face downwards at midday.
“Why is this man in bed, Sergeant?”
“Piles, sir.”
“Piles?”
“Yes sir, the piles.”
“Have you seen the MO?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s he say?”
“He said I had piles, bed down for two days.”
The Officer gave me a look of utter disdain. Why? He was jealous. Any man with such a demeaning illness as piles should never be allowed to shirk his duty. Officers never had piles and if they did they went on serving the King.
WHITEHALL. FIELD-MARSHALL ALEXANDER’S OFFICE
ALEXANDER stands in front of a huge war map. HIGH-RANKING OFFICERS WAIT ON HIS EVERY WORD, HE POINTS TO THE MAP.
ALEXANDER:
Gentlemen (points to flags on map), there are several outbreaks of pile jealousy in these areas.
GENERALS:
Scrampson — Scrampson — Scrampson!!!
ALEXANDER:
From now on, all cases of piles must be kept top secret.
Romance ‘Neath Italian Skies
The music of ‘Lae thar piss tub dawn bab’ floats on the air. It’s spring in Napoli! Bornheim and I are sipping sweet tea as the sun streams into the golden pilasters of the Banqueting Room of the Royal Palace, Naples NAAFI, having posted a look out on the roof for Gracie Fields. Our waitress is a Maria, and fancying me.
“Wot ewer name?”
“Spike.”
“Spak?”
“Yes, Spike.”
“Spak.”
It sounds like custard hitting a wall. My darling, can we go “passagiere sul la Mare?” Si, si, si. When darling? Sabato. But we must be careful, we must not be seen by her parents or her familyo! Why, Maria, why? Wasn’t it I, a British soldier, who has liberated Italy from the Naughty Nazis and let loose a hoard of raping, pillaging, Allied soldiers on to your streets. Does her family know I am a Holy Roman Catholic with half a hundredweight of relics of the cross to my credit, and a cache of secondhand underwear? No, no, no, it would be dangerous. What would happen if they caught us together? They would catch mine together and crush them. We meet then in the mysterious Vomero, she in Sunday best, me in the best I can find on Sunday. Now for a day of high romance. But no. She is in a state of high anxiety, every ten seconds she clutches me with a stifled scream, she imagines one of her family appearing, knife in hand. We spend the day like two people trying to avoid the searchlights at Alcatraz, forever flattening against walls, diving into dark doorways where I give them a quick squeeze, and running across squares.*
* One of the squares I ran across was Reg O’List.
At the end of the day, shagged out by a hard day’s espionage and squeezing, she says goodbye and catches a tram. Bornheim is sitting on his bed awaiting the results.
“Did you get it?”
“No.”
Nothing? No. What did I do? About eighteen miles, I said.
Maria in a state of High Anxiety at the start of our day out
CAPRI
’Twas on the Isle of Capri
Private Bornheim is singing the theme from the ‘Pathétique’ and cutting his toe-nails with what look like garden shears. “The good weather is coming, we should go for a trip to Capri.” Good idea, but we must choose a day when Gracie Fields is singing on the mainland. Ha ha ha. “When should we go?” As soon as he’s finished cutting his toe-nails. That could be weeks.
The quay for the ferry to Capri — left is the Castel Uovo
One fine warm spring morning, we board the ferry Cavallo del Mare, and set fair for the Isle of Capri. Bornheim feels fine: with toe-nails clipped he’s about ten pounds lighter. A bar on board sells cigarettes, fruit juices and flies.
I watch as the magic isle heaves into view, blue and purple in the morning mist, the old village in the centre, the houses huddled together like frightened children. On the