Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who Read online

  ’Rommel?”

  ‘GUNNER WHO?’

  (Memoires volume 2)

  (Non fiction)

  by Spike Milligan

  1974

  * * *

  THANKS

  Once again I am deeply grateful to Mrs Chater Jack, widow of our C.O. and late Lt Colonel Chater Jack, M.C., D.S.O., for the use of the private letters, diaries and documents which she so willingly lent me and is patient enough to let remain in my possession for this second volume, also to Al Fildes for his diary, and Harry Edgington for permission to publish his letters, plus the lads from the Battery who lent me the odd photo or letter, to Mr Rose and Mr Greenslade of the Ministry of Defence—to Mr Mayne of the War Museum for the loan of photographs—and to Syd Price for photos he took during the War and to BART H. VANDERVEEN for permission to use two photographs of the Humber Snipe wireless truck and also thanks to Derek Hudson for the loan of the photograph of Anthony Goldsmith.

  S.M.

  19 Battery on train to Embarkation Port—fighting off a ticket inspector

  19 Bty 56 Heavy embarking for Africa

  PROLOGUE

  Of the events of war, I have not ventured to speak from any chance information, nor according to any notion of my own. I have described nothing but what I saw myself, or learned from others of whom I made the most careful and particular enquiry.

  Thucydides. Peloponnesian War.

  I’ve just jazzed mine up a little.

  Milligan. World War II.

  Overture

  H.Q. Afrika Korps—Tunis. Jan. 1943

  The scene:

  Smell of German Ersatz Eggs, Sausages and Marlene Dietrich. A phone rings. General Stupenagel salutes it and picks it up.

  STUPENAGEL:

  Speilen!

  GOERING:

  Do you know were von Rommel is? This is Urgent.

  STUPENAGEL:

  General von Urgent?

  GOERING: Don’t make wiz zer fuck-about!—vere is Rommel?

  STUPENAGEL:

  He is in zer shit-house.

  GOERING:

  Vot is he doing in zere at zis time of zer morning.

  STUPENAGEL:

  He is doing zer schitz he was bombed all night.

  GOERING:

  Donner Blitzen!

  STUPENAGEL:

  He’s in zer shit-house too.

  GOERING:

  Listen! Ve have had Bad News!

  STUPENAGEL:

  Dat sounds like bad news!

  GOERING:

  Our spy, Mrs Ethel Noss, in zer Algiers NAAFI, says dat zer Pritishers have brung zer heavy Artillery into Africa.

  STUPENAGEL:

  Gott no!

  GOERING:

  Gott yes! Zey are going to make shoot-bang-fire mil 200 pound shells.

  STUPENAGEL:

  Oh, Ger-fuck!

  GOERING:

  Tell Rommel, zer Führer wants him to got mil zer Panzer and make vid zer Afrika Korps, Schnell!

  The scene:

  Scene changes to a German latrine in a Wadi near Shatter-el-Arab. Enter STUPENAGEL.

  STUPENAGEL:

  Rommel, vich one are you in?

  ROMMEL:

  Number Zeben.

  STUPENAGEL:

  You must go to Tunis at once.

  ROMMEL:

  Let me finish going here first.

  STUPENAGEL:

  Zere is a crisis out zere.

  ROMMEL:

  Zere is a crisis in here; no paper, (screams, sound of scratching)

  STUPENAGEL:

  Vat is ger-wrong?

  ROMMEL:

  Itchy Powder on zer seat!

  STUPENAGEL:

  Ach zer Pritish Commandos have struck again.

  Now read on:

  JAN-FEB

  X Camp. Cap Matifou. Algeria

  If you read the first volume of this trilogy, you will know that in Jan. 1943 19 Battery 56th Heavy Rgt R.A. had arrived in the continent of Africa, which couldn’t have cared less. We were in ‘X Camp’, soldiers under fourteen couldn’t get in without their parents. Calling it ‘X’ for security was beyond comprehension because there, in foot high letters, was the sign ‘No 201 PoW Camp’. I could hear the Gestapo: “Mein Führer, ve have cracked zer Britisher Code! X, it means 201 PoW Camp! Soon we will know what PoW means.” The Camp, situated up a dusty track fifty yards from the main Algiers Road, was a rectangle covering five acres surrounded by a double barbed wire fence fifteen feet high. The view was beautiful, the light clear, brilliant, like Athens on a midsummer day. Stretching to our left was a gradual curve of the coast with a laticlave of yellow sand and finally, Algiers proper, barely visible in the distance. To the right, turning crescent-like was another beach that terminated in a dazzling white lighthouse on Cap Matifou. This was all described in the Regimental diary thus:

  Arrived at X Camp, Cap Matifou.

  Whatever happened to Poetry?

  Algeria

  The ground was like rocks. The nights were rent with gunners groaning, swearing, twisting, turning and revolving in their tents.

  Temperatures fluctuated. You went to sleep on a warm evening, by dawn it dropped to freezing. We had to break our tents with hammers to get out. Dawn widdles caused frost bitten appendages, the screams! “Help, I’m dying of indecent exposure!” We solved the problem. I stuffed my Gas cape with paper and made a mattress. Gunner Forest wrapped old Daily Mirrors round his body, “I always wanted to be in the News,” he said, and fainted. Others dug holes to accommodate hips and shoulders.

  At night we wore every bit of clothing we had, then we rolled ourselves into four blankets. “We look nine months gone,” said Edgington. “Any advance on nine,” I cried.

  Confined to Camp

  It is night, Gunner Simpson is darning something which is four fifths hole and one fifth sock, “ I wonder when they’ll let us into Algiers.”

  “You gettin’ randy then?” says Gunner White, “because, we’ve all had our last shag for a long time.”

  “Are there French birds in Algiers?”

  “Yer. They’re red ‘ot. Cert Crumpet.”

  “You shagged one then?”

  We slept warmly, but had overlooked the need to commune with nature, it took frantic searching through layers of clothing to locate one’s willy, some never did and had to sleep with a damp leg. Gunner Maunders solved the problem! He slid a four foot length of bicycle inner tube over his willy, secured it round his waist with string, he just had to stand and let go. Jealous, Gunner White sabotaged it. As Maunders slept, fiend White tied knots in the bottom of the tube.

  “No, but my dad told me abaht ‘em in the first world woer.”

  “They’re not the same ones?”

  One by one the soldiers would fall asleep. I lay awake, thinking, dreaming young man’s dreams, jazz music would go through my head, I could see myself as Bunny Berrigan playing chorus after brilliant chorus in front of a big band surrounded by admiring dancers. Suddenly, without warning, ‘Strainer’ Jones lets off with a thunderous postern blast, he had us all out of the tent in ten seconds flat.

  One freezing dawn we were awakened by a Lockheed Lightning repeatedly roaring over our camp. “Go and ask that bastard if he’s going by road,” says Edgington. I got outside just as the plane made another drive. I shouted “Hope you crash you noisy bastard,” the plane raced seaward, hit the water and exploded. I was stunned. The gunners emptied from their tents to watch the flames burning on the sea. “Poor Sod,” said a Gunner, and he was right. Reveille was sounding. “Listen,” said Edgington cupping an ear, “they’re playing our tune.”

  My day, by Gunner Milligan

 
; Dear Diary, oh what a morning it’s been.

  06:30

  REVEILLE: we were annoyed.

  07:30

  BREAKFAST: Oh yum yum.

  09:00

  1st PARADE: Good morning darling!

  09:15

  DAILY TASK: Who me?

  13:00

  LUNCH: More boiled shit. Oh yum yum.

  14:15

  2nd PARADE: Haven’t we met before?

  14:30

  TASKS: I’ve got back-ache Sarge.

  16:45

  FALL OUT: Crash.

  18:00

  GUARD MOUNTING: Quick. Under the bed!

  A word about the food. Crap. Hard biscuits, Soya Links, Bully Beef, jam, tea, every day, for all meals. The first weeks were spent route marching. The Army works like this. If a man dies when you hang him, keep hanging him until he gets used to it. Marches were made tolerable by Major Chater Jack↓ insisting we sing.

  ≡ Our Battery Commander.

  A message would pass down the column: “Gunners Milligan, Edgington, White and Devine forward!” We’d gain the head of the column and to the tune of Vive la Compagnie, we’d sing:

  SOLO:

  The might of the nation was wielded by one

  OMNES:

  Vive la Joe Stalin!

  SOLO:

  He isn’t half knockin’ the shit from the Hun!

  OMNES:

  Vive la Joe Stalin…etc.

  We were young, we were enjoying the new adventure, ninety-nine per cent of the lads had never been abroad, and this was a bonus in their lives even though it took a war to give it. Chalky White invented a new sound, on the first beat of the march you crashed your foot down, for the next three beats you trod quietly, the effect was CRASH—2, 3, 4…later I added a groan on the fourth beat, CRASH, 2, 3, GROAN; CRASH, 2, 3, GROAN.

  75 Battery Signallers attacking the Cook-house for second helpings at X Camp, Cap Matifou

  Part Two orders

  Disciplinary action will be taken against other ranks responsible for the stamping and groaning on route marches.

  I noted Frangipani everywhere, but not yet in flower, magenta coloured Bougainvilleas were in full bloom. Towards evening the air filled with the cloying perfume of Jasmine, Belasarius was said to have placed one in his helmet at Tricaramaron saying, “ If I die, I will at least smell sweet…” Generals! Going into battle? Then use Perfume of Jasmine! Hear what one General says: General Montgomery: I use Jasmine—I couldn’t have won El Alamein without it. Get some today.

  Marches took us through timeless Arab villages, Rouiba, Ain-Taya, Fondouk, when we halted I’d try the Arab coffee; piping hot, sweet, delicious. I watched Gunner White sip the coffee then top it up with water! I explained the water was for clearing the palate. “I thought it was for coolin’ it down,” said the descendant of the Crusaders.

  Local Arab. Mr Fondouk—Jan 20 ‘43

  Lieutenant Joe Mostyn was Jewish, five foot six, on bad days five foot two, and, no matter how frequently he shaved, had a permanent blue chin; “try shaving from the inside’ I suggested. His forte was scrounging grub. One route march he bought a hundred eggs for twelve francs. Having no way of transporting them, he made us carry one in each hand till we reached Camp. Puzzled wayfarers watched as British soldiers marched by, clutching eggs accompanied by mass clucking. Water was rationed but we were on the sea. At day’s end we plunged into the blue Med. I watched gunners, unfamiliar with salt water, try to get their soap to lather. “Something wrong wiv it,” says Liddel. “Nuffink can go wrong wiv soap,” replies Forrest, who plunges into a furious effort to prove his point. “You’re right,” he finally concedes. “This soap is off.” NAAFI Managers tried to understand how some fifteen gunners all had soap that wouldn’t lather. No one mentioned salt water, dutifully they exchanged the soaps. Next morning the soap lathered beautifully. “This is better,” said Forrest. That evening, at swim parade, I watched Forrest and Liddel arguing about what had gone wrong with the soap since morning. We all bathed starkers, the lads gave wonderful displays of Military Tool-waving at passing ladies with cries of Vive le Sport’ or ‘Get in Knob its yer birthday.”

  It was all good stuff and bore out Queen Victoria’s belief that ‘Salt Water has beneficial effects on the human body’. There were dreadful gunners who floated on their backs playing submarines. At the approaching of a maritime phallus, Gunner Devine shouted “Achtung! Firen Torpedo!” and threw a pebble, and the hit ‘periscope’ would sink with a howl of pain. Another nasty trick was invented by Gunner Timms: Tie rock to piece of string, make noose at other end, next, dive under unsuspecting happily swimming gunner, slip noose over end of his Willie, let go rock; retire to safe distance. Mind you some gunners liked it. You can get used to anything I suppose.

  We had received no mail. “They’ve forgotten us! Out of sight out of mind!” says Gunner Woods scratching himself in bed.

  “You’re always moaning,” says ‘Hooter’ Price. “I got a wife and two kids, and I bet they haven’t forgotten me.”

  “With that bleedin’ great nose, I don’t suppose they can.”

  “Look, a large nose is a sign of intelligence. The Duke of Wellington had one.”

  “Yer, ‘e ‘ad one, but you look like you got two, and,” I added, “how come you’re only a bleedin’ driver eh?”

  “I chose to stay with the men,” said Price with great indignation. In the dark, a boot bounced off his nut.

  One morning, on Part Two orders, 0800 hours:

  Gunner Milligan, S., Golding, Hart, E., Wenham, B., report to Sergeant Andrews for ‘Camouflage’ course.

  This consisted of climbing over walls, ditches, fences, fag packets, in fact, anything. The course showed how it was possible to climb any tall obstruction. It became known as ‘Leaping’. I wrote a letter home to my brother Desmond, explaining how Leaping could be done in civvy street.

  23 Jan. 19 Bty.

  56 Heavy Regiment, RA

  BNAF

  My dear Des,

  In Africa we are all playing silly buggers. We are on a course teaching us how to ‘Leap’ anything that stands in our way. I think this could be introduced at home to encourage fitness among the Wartime civilian population. For example ‘Leaping Stones’ could be installed in the home. The stone, about three feet high by two feet wide, could be cemented in all the doorways in the home, including one at the foot of the stairs.

  A Leapo-meter is attached to the ankle of every member of the family, which records the number of leaps per person, per day. Those who show disinterest can have a small explosive charge fixed to the groin, which detonates should the person try climbing round the stone, this will cause many a smoke blackened crotch, but with our new spray-on ‘Crotcho!’—a few squirts leaves the groins gleaming white, and free of fowl pest. Think of the enervating joys of the Leaping stones! Sunday morn—and the whole household rings with shouts of Hoi Hup! Ho la! Grannies, uncles, mothers, cripples all leaping merrily from one room to another for wartime England—ah, there’s true patriotism! We have high hopes that more progressive young politicians with an eye to eliminating senile M.P’.s, intend to have a ‘Great Westminster Leaping Stone’ that will be placed dead centre of the great entrance doors on opening day. Mr Churchill could start the leaping, those failing will of course be debarred. You can try and assist the failed member over the leaping stone by applying hot pokers to the seat, thus the smell of scorched flesh, burning hairs and screams, can bring a touch of colour to an otherwise dull wartime England. I don’t know when I will post this letter, I might deliver it tomorrow by hand, ankle, foot and clenched elbow.

  As ever,

  Your loving brother

  Terry.

  To help kill boredom in the Camp I started a daily news bulletin posted outside my tent.

  X Camp 201 PoW

  MILLI-NEWS

  Libya: Last night, under cover of drunken singing, British Commandos with their teeth blacked out, raided an advance Italian Lau
ndry, several vital laundry lists were captured, and a complete set of Marshall Gandolfo’s underwear, which showed he was on the run.

  China: Chinese troops are reported in the area with their eyes at the slope.

  Syria: It is reported that Australian troops have taken Cascara. They are trying to keep it dark but it is leaking out in places and the troops are evacuating all along the line.

  Rome: Il Duce told the Italian people not to worry about the outcome of the war. If they lost, he had relatives in Lyons Corner House, from whence he would run the Government in Exile.

  Local: Sanitary Orderly Liddel takes pleasure in announcing his new luxury long drop Karzi.↓ Secluded surroundings, screened from the world’s vulgar gaze by Hessian. Plentiful supply of Army Form Blank. Book now to avoid disappointment in the dysentery season.

  ≡ From the Zulu word M’Karzi, meaning W.C.

  “When are we going to be allowed into Algiers?” Says Gunner Edwards, who is cutting Gunner Knott’s hair, and making his head look like a Mills grenade.

  “They’re frightened to let us in, we might get into the Kasbah and catch Syph.”

  “That’s all Cobblers, they’re stoppin’ us, so the officers can screw all the best birds first, that’s yer Democracy for you,” says Gunner Thorpe, who is scraping his toe nails with a Jack-knife.

  “You’re talking balls. Just because you get first bash at a French tart don’t mean you’re democratic! I mean shaggin’ a bird is the same if you’re a Commy or a Fascist, fucking is real democracy.”

  A solemn cheer greeted this. “Look, if none of us ever had a screw again we’ve had enough hoggins in Bexhill to last forever.” Cries of “No! Resign!”