Memoires 03 (1976) - Monty, His Part in my Victory Read online

  Monty

  His Part in My Victory

  (Memoires volume 3)

  (Non fiction)

  by Spike Milligan

  1976

  * * *

  Edgington knocks his duff into the fire

  PREFACE

  This Volume will cover from the fall of Tunis until our embarkation for the Salerno Landings. I have gone over the ground again, relating in more detail the days preceding the capture of Tunis, using my own diary, those of the Regiment, the Battery, and that of Driver Alf Fildes, who came up with lots of things I’d forgotten, like how much I owed him. During this period, we did nothing but play at soldiere, having good times, having bad times, and times -neither good nor bad which consisted of lying in a red hot tent, looking at the join, and pretending you’re having a good time, when in fact it was a bad time, but in the main it was a good time. I had with me wonderful comrades who made life worth while, anything that failed was laughed at. It was all a big joke that would stop when Hitler had his chips. Again thanks to Syd Price for his photos, Syd Carter for his watercolours, Mr Bart H. Vanderveen for photos of war time vehicles, Doug Kidgell for committing his memories onto tape, Harry Edgington for his letters, the Imperial War Museum for photographs, Al Fildes for his war diary, and D Battery Reunion Committee for reminding me of many incidents I’d forgotten, like how much I owed them.

  393 Orange Grove Rd,

  Woy Woy, N.S.W.,

  Australia

  Editorial acknowledgement

  To Mr Moy, a London taxi driver, who returned the manuscript of the book to the editor with no claim for reward and without whom this book would not have appeared.

  J.H.

  Our First Victory

  May 7th 1943

  In a tent, dripping with rain, battery clerk, L/Bdr Mick (I think I’m ruptured) Haymer, rattled a dodgy typewriter and printed ‘Tebourba ¾ reported % clear of ½ enemy, @ leading elements of Armoured Div, dntering e Tunis & ¾.’ That day fighting reached maximum intensity, and at 3.20 Tunis fell. “We got to engage pockets of die-hard’s holding out on Djbel El Aroussia,” said a man claiming to be a Sergeant.

  “Wot’s die-hards?” asked Gnr Birch.

  “Well, when you die you go ‘ard,” says White, “like gangsters in cement.”

  “That’s why they’re called hardened criminals,” says Birch.

  “You’re a cunt,” says Devine.

  “Tunis fallen?! Ups a daisy!”

  Had we ordinary layabouts beaten the formidable German Army?

  Dear Führer, beaten ve haff been by zer Ordinary Layabouts, signed Formidable German Army.

  “We won,” said White, as though it had been a game of football. Gunner Lee parts his hair, the comb clogged with a six months paté of Brylcream and dust. “I bet the victory cost Ladbrokes a fortune, we was 100-1.”

  “I hear there’s fighting in Cap Bon.”

  “You must have good hearing, that’s 20 miles away.”

  We gathered round the Cook House in a gulley adjacent to the now silent guns. Looming behind us is Longstop Hill, a blood drenched salient taken at Bayonet point by the Argylls. In the twilight our ground sheets glistened with rain.

  “What’s for the victory feast?” says a cheery voice. Something that went ‘Splush!’ was dropped in his mess tin.

  M.P. booking a 17 pounder for parking on the wrong side of the battlefield

  May 8th 1943

  Deluge. The rain not only fell mainly on the plain in Spain, it also fell mainly on the back of the bloody neck, dripping down the spine into the socks where it came out of the lace-holes in the boots.

  Christ!!! we got to move again! “Who runs this bloody Battery? Carter Paterson?” In darkness we load vehicles. I crash into someone.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t know, I think I start with G. Who are you?”

  “If this thing on my back isn’t a kit bag, I’m Quasimodo.”

  I backed a truck down a slope; a scream. “Owwww fuck!”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “Me foot.”

  “I never knew it swore.” A fist hits me in the earhole.

  The move is held up by torrential rain, meanwhile Sgt Dawson has got ‘Bludy mulharia’ and is taken sweating, farting and shaking to hospital. “That’s what comes of flogging ‘is Mepacrin tablets to the wogs as sweets.”

  Rain. Mud. Boredom.

  “Christ,” said Gnr White, “I must be bored. I just thought of Catford.”

  Occasionally a lorry door would open as an occupant pissed out of the side to cries of “You’re spoiling the carpet.”

  A creature shining like glycerine approached. his boots great dustbin lids of mud.

  “Let me in,” it groaned, “I can’t swim.”

  Edgington squeezed in.

  “Anything on the wireless?” he said.

  “No, the batteries are flat.”

  “I thought they were square,” he said.

  “I’ll turn on the windscreen wipers, it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do.”

  He watched the blades sweep the rain from the glass.

  “Ooooohhh,” he groaned in ecstasy. “What other Army can give you perversions like this.”

  The rain is now frightening, the ground is rapidly flooding. “We better start building a fuckin’ Ark.” said Sgt Ryan.

  Lunch came, lunch went, tea came, tea went, dinner came, dinner went. That was May the 8th 1943. Anybody want to buy it? It’s going cheap.

  NAZI NEWS FLASH

  The scene:

  Mrs Eichmann’s boarding house. Bolivia.

  HIMMLER:

  Ach Ein bugger! Ve should never have lost Tunis! If der Führer had only eaten his tin of P.A.D.

  GOERING:

  P.A.D.?

  HIMMLER:

  P.A.D. Prolonged Active Dog. If mine Führer had eaten Prolonged Active Dog, today he would be 159 vid a beautiful coat.

  A captured German pilot crapping into the cockpit of his plane in displeasure with the Geneva Convention

  May 9th 1943

  Dawn. Rain stopped. I prod Edgington.

  “Awake! for morning in a bowl of light, has cast the stone that puts the stars to flight.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “No it was Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald’s bollocks then.”

  The sun rose, angering the morning sky, and Edgington was none too pleased either.

  “Wassertime?” he said, as he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth with a spoon.

  “It’s hours 0600 darling.”

  “It’s hours too bloody early ‘darling’.”

  He opened his eyes with a sound like the tearing apart of fly papers.

  Driver Fildes rapped on the window. “I’m driving to Tunis.”

  Edgington sits up. “Can I come too?”

  “It’s about time you came to,” I chuckled. The boot missed me, landed in the mud and sank slowly out of sight.

  “It’s one legged marching from now on,” I tell him.

  We set off across the Goubelat Plain to Tunis, following the wake of the victorious 6th and 7th Armoured. We passed smouldering tanks, dead soldiers in grotesque ballet positions, Arab families emerging from hiding, baffled and frightened, and the children, always the children, more baffled and frightened than the rest.

  In the Tunis streets the milling throng are thronging the mills. At a café, two German officers drink coffee. Lt Walker asked what they were doing. In perfect broken English they replied, “Ve are vaiting to be took prisoners old poy.”

  We motored slowly through the crowded stree
ts, being kissed several times by pretty girls and once, by a pretty boy.

  “No one’s kissed me,” complained Gunner Holt, his face like a dog’s bum with a hat on.

  “Never mind — ‘ere comes one now, I’ll stamp on her glasses!”

  A fat lady with revolving bosoms shouts “Vive les Americains.”

  “She thinks we’re Americans,” says Holt.

  “We’ll slip one up her, then blame them,” says Devine.

  A group of ‘Ities’ insist they be taken prisoner or they’ll surrender.

  “Sorry --—” I explain, “We British Army prisoners.”

  Some of the beautiful ladies of Tunis greeting our victorious entry

  The day passed with the drinking of wine and the ogling of women. We were well oiled when two Gunners, The Pills (twins), cadged a lift. “Either I’m pissed — or he is,” said Devine referring to the twins. The Pills told us the Batter had “rejoined Regiment on t’other side T’Oued Melah’,” by sheer luck we found it in t’dark.

  Our wireless truck ‘Fred’

  “Have you caught it yet?” greeted Bombardier Dean. He held up a half empty bottle. I recognized the gesture at once.

  I must have got pretty stoned. When I awoke next morning I was fully dressed, face downwards, on the roof of a lorry, with a severe attack of face.

  “On yer bloody feet,” said a fiend sergeant. We were going into action again!! “He’s bottled up in Cap Bon, so no Tunis tata’s today.”

  Chater Jack consults his map.

  “Milligan,” he says, “we’re going into Gap Bon to establish a suitable O.P.”

  “What’s wrong with Lewisham?” I said.

  “I’ve just written home saying — stop worrying, fighting has stopped — now I got to send a telegram saying — Ignore last Letter,” says Driver Shepherd.

  “If you want to drive ‘em really mad,” I said, “send a telegram saying — Ignore last Telegram.”

  Driver Shepherd has a large boil on his neck covered by a circular piaster. While he slept some artist had drawn a bell push with the word ‘press’ on it. And they did.

  My Diary:

  Motoring inland towards Djbel Ben Oueled. Stop to ask jerry prisoners the way. Chater Jack takes shortest route twix himself and whiskey-flask and flags down Mercedes carrying German officers, point blank asks them “Haben ze Schnapps.” He gets 3 bottles!

  A message from RHQ. “Return to base.”

  “What!?” said Chater. Snatching the mike, he shouts “We’ve only just bloody arrived, who’s buggering us around? We’ve been up since 0600 will you make up your bloody minds, what is the situation…”

  All was wasted as he forgot to press the transmit button.

  “They’re all bloody deaf back there. Drive on, Shepherd.” The road is a mixture of Allied and Axis transport, groups of Germans talk with British soldiers. It’s all very strange. “Have you any of that fruit cake left, Milligan?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just asking, Milligan. It’s a hot evening, I don’t see why we shouldn’t indulge in a dip, got your costume?”

  “No sir, I’ve learned to swim without it.”

  Adjacent to a POW Camp where a brass band played Tyrolean Waltzes, we enjoyed a delicious swim in the Med. starkers, save Chater who wore his knee length ‘drawers cellular’, something to do with an officer being ‘properly dressed’. The sky turned the colour of a cut throat that bled onto the sea.

  British soldier in a sexual trauma brought on by Dorothy Lamour in ‘The Road to Morocco’

  I swam out about 300 yards then, to my horror, I saw a mine floating towards me. I yelled a warning — 1 part salt water — 2 parts swearing.

  Chater Jack shouts “Quick! explode it with small arms, it’s ruining the holiday.” We blazed away, and soon a hundred of His Majesty’s soldiers were showing what bloody awful shots they were. Finally, with a roar, the monster exploded.

  “I hit it!” said Major Chater Jack, “It was me! If anyone contradicts me he’ll be on a charge. Now let’s get back, it’s time for the cooks to poison us.”

  On the return journey we pass a village. “Cretinville!”

  “STOP!!!” said Major Chater Jack chuckling; we enter ‘Le Hotel Brilliante’, a mud hut held together by a door knob and 2 oil lamps. At several tables sat several Arabs drinking coffees. On the wall were posters of Bourguiba.↓ Who?

  ≡ The current President of Tunisia, that’s who.

  The Major ordered four Vin Blancs; we repeated the order 3 times, just missing me.

  “Let’s be getting along, gentlemen,” said the Major.

  We followed him into the dark. The truck moved off, and I got the BBC news. “Axis forces are bottled up in Gap Bon.” If the BBC but knew, we were all bottled up. We sang:

  We were drunk last night,

  We were drunk the night before,

  We’re going to get drunk tonight

  If we never get drunk any more.

  The more we drink

  The merrier we shall be

  For we are the boys of the Royal Artillery.

  Now everybody knew. I picked up a faint German broadcast of a very corny band playing old Jack Hylton arrangements. The singer, could I ever forget his name! — Ernst Strainz! His vibrato sounded like he was driving a tractor over ploughed fields with weights tied to his scrotum.

  Back at midnight. The Battery were all wide awake, there were fires, and sing-songs.

  “Hello, hello, hello,” said the watchful Edgington, bathing in a tin of hot water.

  “Havin’ a bath?” I said.

  “I found the instruction book.”

  Mail! There were letters from parents, a dozen hot knicker girls Arggg!!! and one from Louise!!! Arggggggg!!!! Arrrrrrg. Heel. Heel! My parents were well, father was still wearing a wig, brother Desmond was still skinny and being hit by everyone. My father was now a Captain. He re-joined the Army to get the uniform as his own suit had the arse out of it. Since he was a boy, he had been obsessed with the romance of the old West. I grew up with rooms full of guns. He believed that Red Indians lurked in every corner, so all his life he carried a six-shooter. I offer a series of pictures which bear out the story.

  Shooting at my mother for breakfast — India 1922

  Protective underwear — Burma

  Fleet Street about to shoot the Editor of J.P.

  Fleet Street 1935, having killed his editor, now after Lord Beaverbrook

  Jock strap to be worn in the shower

  Shooting a few wogs before breakfast

  Killing one of his NCO’s for being late on parade — England 1940

  I was lucky to have lived through peace unwounded.

  The letter from Louise left me gasping, I rolled on the ground to beat out the flames.

  “What’s the matter oh son of khaki?” said Edgington.

  “It’s the one-eyed trouser snake,” I groaned.

  Arggg!! Louise! that night I went to bed, a virile 25 year old Adonis, I awoke next morning a 90 years old, broken-down, onanistic wreck.

  May 11th 1943

  “Get up, you dirty little devil,” said a prematurely aged Edgington, breaking his blankets over his knee. May the 11th was exactly the same as the 8th, only worse, much worse, exactly much worse.

  Hitlergram No. 091546

  The scene:

  A mixed NAAFI. Tunis.

  HITLER:

  For vy are zer British Tommy Atkins always making mit zer moaning?

  TOMMY ATKINS:

  It’s this bleedin’ crappy war.

  HITLER:

  How dare you say zat mein war is crappy! Zis is zer best var you have had for twenty years! Soon it will be as good as World War One, und I vill be in zer Guinness Book of Records! You little Tommy Atkins Creep! Vot did your life consist of pefore eh? Porridge, half pint warm sticky beer, Anton Walbrook in Dangerous Moonlight mit zer bloody awful Varsaw Concerto. Two pounds ten shillings unt one shag a veek! Vid zat vife vid a face like ein
chickens arse!

  TOMMY ATKINS:

  You started it all.

  HITLER:

  Me? You declared var on us! you cock-a-nee creep.

  TOMMY ATKINS:

  That’s because you kicked the shit out of the Poles.

  HITLER:

  Everybody kicks shit out of zer Poles, zat is what zey are zere for.

  May 12 1943

  Driver Fildes’ War Diary:

  Lazy day at Camp.

  The lads were preparing for visits to Tunis.

  “Conquerors! that’s what we are,” said Gunner Patrick Devine in thick Liverpudlian tones. A strange Conqueror he looked standing in a tin of hot water, with muscular arms, powerful shoulders, thin white legs and knees that seemed to range up and down his shins when he coughed. Edgington is crouched over Devine’s bath, waiting to boil eggs in it.

  Swearing (soldiers for the use of) is coming from under a bonnet. “This truck’s had it!” said Fildes. “When I press the brake pedal the headlights go on and a voice speaks from the steering wheel.”

  Sherwood is ‘ironing’ his KD’s, he places them inside two boards, and drives his Bren Carrier on top.

  In Chater Jack’s tent the telephone rang. “Hello, CO. 19. Battery. AHHHH!” He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “It’s all over, Von Arnheim has surrendered and he’s very angry.”

  “This could mean war,” said Lt Budden, who was really in the middle of Beethoven’s 5th.

  Chater Jack called a general parade. “It’s officially over,” he said with a huge satisfied grin.

  “At last we’re safe,” said Gunner Forrest, and for the first time in months removed his tin hat, Gunner Woods is puzzled. “I don’t understand, we’re fighting Germany yet we’re in Africa bloody miles from Germany.”