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

  “It was all a bit of an anti-climax,” Fuller said.

  “Yes. I wonder which bit it was?”

  I felt my chin. I had a three day growth. A dust storm was starting to blow up, I couldn’t decide whether it was German or one of ours. In the middle of it, a staff car emerged from across the fields.

  Me: Look Frank! In the middle of it, a staff car has emerged from across the fields!

  It was General Alexander with some staff officers. They got out, pointed in all directions, leaped back in the car and shot off at speed. The rich have all the fun! Dusty and tired we arrived at the gun position. Lt Joe Mostyn had just returned from a meal with an Arab sheik. “I had to eat three bloody sheeps’ eyes!”

  “Really?” I said, “Bend down and you should be able to see out the back.”

  Poor old Joe! He was not particularly good at Gunnery! On his first day at an O.P. he scored ten direct hits,—on a field. I pointed out there were no Germans in it.

  “Ah,” he said, “they may fall in the holes.”

  “Of course,” I said, “German Division surrenders with twisted ankle.”

  “You’ve got to miss sometimes,” he said, “it’s good for business! What a war! There I was just doing well in the Schmutter Trade, and this Schmoch Hitler comes along so, I have to switch from outsize blouses to battle-dresses. I’m just starting to do well again when I get called up. Me a soldier? This major says ‘Mostyn, with your head for figures you’re ideal for the R.A’. So here I am wasting shells, ten shells, that’s see…nearly £400 quid, wasted, for that I could have made three hundred and ten battle-dresses.”

  The I.G. at war

  I’m Captain Blenkinsop, I.G.,

  Sent by mistake across the sea,

  To land upon this dismal shore

  And find myself involved in war.

  Sad is the tale I have to tell—

  For a man like me this war is hell.

  For how can anyone expect,

  My fall of shot to prove correct,

  When everything I tell the guns,

  Is interfered with by the Huns?

  When bombs are dropping down in rows

  How can I make my traverse close.

  Or take a bearing on the Pole

  While cowering in a muddy hole?

  It’s plain that the opposing forces,

  Have not been on the proper courses.

  But, worst of all, the other day,

  When I was checking someone’s lay,

  The Germans rushed the gun position

  Without the Commandant’s permission.

  I had to meet them, man to man,

  Armed only with a Tetley fan.

  O send me back to Salisbury Plain

  And never let me rove again!

  Larkhill’s the only place for me,

  Where I could live at ease and free

  And frame, with sharpened pencil stroke

  A barrage of predicted smoke.

  Worked out for sixteen different breezes,

  With extra graphs, in case it freezes,

  For non-rigidity corrected,

  And on a Merton Grid projected!

  O take me to the R.A. Mess,

  To dwell in red brick happiness,

  Enfold my body, leather chair,

  And let me fight the War from there!

  Lt Tony Goldsmith

  18.20 hours. I retired to our mud hut, threw myself on my bed. My second day in action and not killed yet! By God the Germans were bad shots! Next door to us were the Arab farmer, his wife and two kids, a boy of six and a girl about four. I knew they must be having a rough time so I occasionally took them a tin of steak and kidney pudding. What words of comfort did the Arab mother have for her children? How did she explain away the thunder of our guns, what did she say we were ? Good ? Bad ? I suppose the little Arab boy is a man now and works the same land, perhaps he’s getting a better life. I wonder if he remembers the gunner who made a rabbit’s head from a handkerchief and made it wiggle its ears. He might be telling his children “So this silly bugger comes up, ties a few knots in his handkerchief and I was supposed to laugh. Silly sod!” The oil lamps cast a yellow glow, shadows wavered on faces in the playing light. The guns, silent for the past hour, started a Harassing Fire Task. Somewhere, some German was about to receive 200 pounds of exploding iron.

  A direct hit on a German Laundry

  Harassing Fire had no rhythm…That was the idea…you fired at aggravating intervals. It was the Chinese water torture with solids.

  Ernie Hart:

  What was it like at the O.P. ?

  Me:

  Nothing much I was shelled a bit.

  Ernie:

  What real shells?

  Me:

  Oh no, just imitations.

  Ernie:

  Were they near?

  Me:

  Pretty near. They fell in the same country.

  Hart:

  We had to take a line to the top of Djbel Rihane, near the Mosque.

  Me:

  Mosque?

  Hart:

  Yes, it was a ruin.

  Me:

  Shows you what drink can do.

  Hart:

  We could see Jerry from the top.

  Me:

  Anybody we knew ?

  Hart:

  We could even see ‘em queueing up for grub.

  A Voice:

  What’s the time?

  Me:

  It’s nearly eleven.

  Hart:

  Feels like two in the morning.

  Me:

  You. must be feeling the wrong part.

  The scene:

  He pulled the blankets up and moved down into his pit.

  Me:

  Just think, if Gladstone was alive today he’d be a hundred and fifty-seven. Men cannot live by bread alone!

  Hart:

  Wot you talkin’ about? Go to sleep for Christ sake.

  Me:

  Very well, but if Gladstone comes through that door and asks for a slice of bread alone, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

  At this, Gunner Milligan rolled on his side, closed his eyes and dreamed he was fronting a twenty-four piece orchestra. They all wore black jackets but He was wearing a white one, playing great trumpet solos that had people crowding the stand. Lily was there and he ignored her, at which moment Rita Hayworth called for him in a Rolls Royce that she drove right up to the bandstand. He screws Hayworth in the back of the Rolls, then takes another chorus on the trumpet.

  Dawn 20th Feb. 1943

  A khaki creature was shaking me. “Come on Harry James stand to…”

  “Stand Two? I can’t stand one.”

  It was 0400 hours. 0400 hours? There was no such time, it had been invented by Hitler to break us. I staggered out into the chill morning darkness. Bombardier Edwards posted me in a trench directly outside the officers’ hut.

  “Get in, keep your eyes open, stay in that hole. If you get killed, just lay down and we’ll fill it in.”

  “Very funny,” I said to him. “With your sense of humour you should be on the other side.”

  I was alone in the hole in the ground in Africa. It was very quiet. All the guns had stopped firing. They usually did in the small hours, even wars get tired. There was the distant yapping of Arab farm dogs. I wondered when the bloody animals ever slept. As eyes focused to the dark I could see the black shapes that were the block outlines of the huts, the Bren carrier, the wireless trucks, the tracery of the scrim nets. Above, the heavens with stars glittering in the traverse of the sky. The officers’ hut door opened, I saw the outline of Major Chater Jack followed by Goldsmith. Seeing the top half of a human in a hole he said “My God, who’s that?”

  “Gunner Milligan sir.”

  “What’s the matter? I thought you were taller!”

  “I’m in a hole sir.”

  I heard Chater Jack chuckle. He said something to Goldsmith and they both returned convulsed with suppre
ssed laughter.

  I was again alone in a hole in Africa. At this moment among the warring nations there were literally hundreds of thousands of little men, all standing in holes, in France, Germany, Poland, Russia. What a lot of bloody fools we must look! The door of the officers’ hut opened again. The mountainous figure of Chater Jack’s batman, Woods, loomed towards me. He handed me a cup of tea “With the Boss’s compliments,” he said. I sipped the tea—there must be some mistake! It had whisky in!! I’d better hurry. I gulped it down and as I finished Gunner Woods returned. “Were there whisky in thart tea?” he said. I nodded.

  “Well bugger oi down dead,” he said, “that were Major’s tea.”

  Woods had approached me with the mind of a boy of twelve and left with one of thirteen. Experience ages a man. The first light was quickening the morning sky. Ghostly outlines were gradually turning into detailed reality as the covers of night fell off, we were all thinking, breakfast! Loudspeakers crackled into life. “Take Post!” Gunners dropped their food and ran to the guns, to cries of “Fuck our luck.” I discovered that some swine had stolen my shaving brush, so I stole someone else’s. I had an early breakfast, and was detailed to check the O.P. line. I liked going. It took me away from the mob and gave me a sense of freedom. I told Shapiro I wanted him to come with me.

  “Oh no,” he said, “I can’t come, my tin hat doesn’t fit properly.”

  “You’re a hat cutter, it’s your own bloody fault.”

  “OK,” he grinned.

  Winners of the 1st Army Trilby Hat Contest

  20 Feb. 1943

  Battery Diary:

  Activity of enemy patrols in the hills west of Battery has increased considerably. 6 Commandoes have come up on Division Front. Degree of alertness increased to one third stand to during hours of darkness. Bombing and listening posts established in gully running north into hills. 936338 W/Bdr Jones L. W. accidentally wounded during action exercise.

  Shapiro and I trudged dustily along the line.

  “Some bastard’s stole my shaving brush,” I said.

  “That’s funny, some bastard’s stolen mine.”

  We were walking over wheat fields now flattened by war machines. It was magnificent country, spring was at hand, the wild flowers were beginning to sprout, the wheat crops were about a foot high, and lush broad beans were about to flower. Compared with the English variety, these were giants, and there were acres and acres of them around El Aroussa flat lands. This was rich and fertile growing country, but depended on rain, the ancient Roman irrigation system having fallen into ruin. Another plant, Borage, was growing freely in the ditches as were little blue and red anemones that grew among the wheat stalks. Broom was about to bud. Looking back towards the guns, we were in a broad flat valley with high hills and mountains to our right, some craggy and precipitous, some smooth and rolling like the South Downs. Among the flat rock faces, lizards, chameleons and an occasional gecko would be found taking the warmth of the rocks. A few white cabbage butterflies had appeared along with several orange tips. In the evenings swifts appeared, from where I’ll never know. The African sky was like most other skies, save it had the quality of brilliant light. One felt oneself being urged to paint, paint, paint! As we trudged forward I wrote on various stones little messages for those who might follow in our footsteps.

  “This way for World War II,” or “Hello Soldier, having fun.”

  “You have just passed Go. Collect 200 pounds.”

  “Insure now with the Prudential.”

  Shapiro was patting his pockets…“Got a fag?”

  Me:

  Yes.

  Shapiro:

  Since we have been in action I’ve smoked more.

  Me:

  I’ve got plenty since I smoked a pipe.

  Shapiro:

  Ta.

  The scene:

  I lit him up and then lit my pipe.

  Shapiro:

  What’s it like with a pipe?

  Me:

  “It’s a psychological difference.”

  Shapiro:

  “What’s that mean?”

  Me:

  “I don’t know. I read it in a medical book.”

  Shapiro:

  “Let me try!”

  The scene:

  He took the pipe, drew, inhaled, then burst out coughing. His eyes started to water, “Ohhh dear! Fucking terrible! How do you inhale that crap?”

  Me:

  “You don’t.”

  Shapiro:

  “Now he tells me. I’ll stick to fags.”

  Me:

  “Yes, stick to yours.”

  Shapiro:

  Tell you what, you want to sell me some ?

  Me:

  You come quickly on the hour!

  Shapiro: How much?

  Me:

  How much you got?

  Shapiro:

  You thieving sod.

  Me:

  It’s twenty fags, twenty francs. Business is business. We are fighting a capitalist war, so it’s twenty francs!

  Shapiro unbuttons his left hand battle-dress pocket. You would tell by the wear and tear on the leading edges it was where he kept his lolly. He took out his pay book, opened it, laying between the leaves was 500 francs.

  “You done a robbery?” I said.

  “No, I save it and send it home to my mother, and she buys houses with it.”

  He counted me out two tens.

  “You’re a bloody robber,” he said smiling. I could but think of the added burden he had being Jewish. If the Germans took him prisoner…

  Milligan selling cigarettes to Gunner Shapiro in the heat of battle

  The line tested, we made for the Bren Carrier at the bottom of the hill. “Anybody in?” I called. Bombardier Sherwood appeared from under the scrim net. “Ahh! you’re just in time for tea.” Bombardier Hart was in the very act of pouring it. He looked up.

  “Cor, Cohen and Kelly! you don’t half time it right.”

  “We persecuted minorities have to use our nut.” I untied my tea mug from my waist. “ Weee Craskkhhhh.” An eighty-eight! Then another and another and another, then lots of anothers—in all about twenty rounds. We hugged the side of the Bren Carrier. The smell of cordite drifted across, fragments of metal scattered around us. It stopped as suddenly as it started.

  “I think Jerry can see the bloody lot of us all the time,” I said, “whenever I’ve come up here, he’s thrown a few over.”

  “It’s you, Milligan,” said Sherwood. “You’re a Jonah, get in the Bren Carrier and we’ll throw you over the side.”

  We drank our tea. After two days in action I knew the most dangerous gun in Africa was the 88 mm, its low trajectory gave no warning of approach.

  “Who’s at the O.P.” I asked.

  “Tony Goldsmith and Spike Deans.”

  “Have they had any tea?” I said.

  “No,” said Sherwood.

  “Fill my water bottle and I’ll take some up.”

  Carefully Sherwood filled it. I fixed it to my belt and started up the hill. I took no chances and kept to the right, as I neared the crest, I lay down and crawled.

  “Where are you 19 Bty?” I coo-ed.

  “This way,” said Spike Deans. “We’re the good-looking ones.”

  They guided me by “talking me down.” The view from the O.P. was magnificent. Below lay the vast Goubelat Plain, to our right, about five miles on, were two magnificent adjoining rocky peaks that rose sheer 500 feet above the plain, Garra el Kibira and Garra el Hamada, christened ‘Queen Sheba’s Tits’. At the foot lay El Kourzia, a great salt lagoon two to three miles in circumference. Around the main lagoon were dotted smaller lagoons and around the fringe, what appeared to be a pink scum. In fact it was hundreds of flamingo’s. This vision, the name of Sheba, the sun, the crystal white and silver shimmer of the salt lagoon made boyhood readings of Rider Haggard come alive. It was a sight I can never forget, so engraved was it that I was able to dash it down st
raight onto the typewriter after a gap of thirty years. Further right of the lagoon were marshes, at the edge of which was a burnt-out Panzer Mark III. “That shows what a careless cigarette can do,” said Lt Goldsmith.

  Tea finished, I started to crawl back.

  “Thank mother for the rabbit, Milligan,” said Goldsmith.

  Back at the Carrier they were playing pontoon. I arrived as Sherwood had lost his Bren Carrier on a five card trick.

  “Want to play?” said Hart.

  “OK.”

  “He’s got twenty francs,” Shapiro was quick to say.

  The game reached an alarming level, I had bet my own mother and three francs on two picture cards. I made thirty francs on the day and, on paper, I still own Sherwoods fruit-shop in Reading.

  “That’s me finished,” said Sherwood. “Who’s got a fag?”

  “Shapiro,” I said quickly—WHOOSHHHHHBANG! WHOSSSHBANG!…88’s! “See?” I said, “They know you’re Jewish.” Ten more rounds.

  “I’m not that bloody Jewish,” says Shapiro face down.

  Next a round of marker smoke. It was a guide for a bombing raid—twelve Stukas roared down, the noise of their engines was incredible—like howling wolves; above them, circling, were ME logs. The Stukas dropped their eggs on the London Irish, the noise was frightening, the earth shook as bombs exploded and the sky shook as the Bofors hammered away. When the last bomb had dropped the Gunners Shapiro and Milligan, Pontoon Players Extraordinary, shot out from under the camouflage net and ran heroically to a nullah. We sat gasping, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

  “We didn’t say goodbye,” I said. We bent over the stream and splashed water over our faces.

  Some of the London Irish had copped it, we saw three stretchers loaded on to a Bren and driven away. Hooking on our small arms we trudged back across the dusty plain. A motorcycle was coming towards us. It was a young paratrooper.

  “You know where the London Irish are?” he asked.

  “Yes, so do the bloody Luftwaffe,” I pointed. “They’re spread along the rear slope of that hill.”

  “Ta,” he said. “What mob are you?”