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

  “Gunners. You Paras?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were in the first lot out here?”

  “Yer. What a scramble, they dropped us on Bone, and the bloody Arabs were waiting to buy our ‘chutes as we landed, we had to fight ‘em to make ‘em let go.” He laughed, revved the engine, and roared away.

  “He might have been a German spy,” said Shapiro, who’d remained strangely silent during the conversation.

  “Don’t be bloody daft Shap, he was too scruffy to be a Kraut.”

  “He asked questions didn’t he? You told him what mob we were.”

  “I didn’t, all I said was we were gunners, not the name of the Regiment.”

  “Oh.”

  “You can take your finger off the trigger now.”

  “I was just playing safe. He could have been a German.”

  “OK it was a German, I never let on you were Jewish.”

  “Oh thank you, thank you very much, that’s big, you didn’t tell him I was Jewish, what you want, a receipt for it or something?” When we got back the guns were firing.

  “They’re busy,” I shouted to Shapiro.

  “It’s pay day,” he said.

  I sat on my bed enjoying the evening meal, steak and kidney pudding. This really was a good life if you didn’t want to think more than ten minutes ahead. We got money, grub, clothes, transport, travel, everything bar women, and we could dream of them at night. Some just thought of one woman, I thought of as many as I could. I don’t suppose they knew, but I had Deanna Durbin and Joan Blondell every night until the fall of Tunis, if I had a good dinner I used to include Mae West. Other lads were smoking, fiddling with kit, sewing buttons, chatting or talking to the wall. I closed my eyes. It was time I had some letters! Wonder what Lily was doing. I knew what Louise would be doing! AHHHHHHHHHHRGGGG! Louise was the girl with big boobs and buttocks that had serviced me twice a week. Ahrggg!!! Someone was shaking me—it was me. No, someone else was shaking me! It was him!

  The sentry, “Stand to.”

  Four o’clock already? Somewhere someone was removing the hours between sunset and sunrise, that or they were bringing four in the morning forward to eight at night. It was chilly. Silent. Again, I stood in a hole in the ground.

  On duty in a hole in the ground for my King and Country.

  Let me see first I’d face east for a few minutes, then I faced nor’ nor’ east, then south west and due west, next I sat on the edge of the hole and faced north. I then stood and revolved slowly round in a complete 360° circle, that is, I covered every known compass point in the world and all from a hole in the ground. Brilliant. I thought of a bar of soap. I unclipped the magazine of my Tommy gun. I said Hello to it. I clipped it back on again. I felt in my trouser pockets, I removed the contents, a broken comb, a pencil stub. I said Goodbye to them. I drew Ravel’s Haunted Ballroom in the air. Next, I pulled the pockets inside out and shook the dust out. I whistled Van Gogh’s Sunflower. I drew an imaginary line on my teeth. Now what? Don’t just stand there—be creative! I reversed my tin hat, and stuck one finger in my ear. I felt up the sleeves of my battle-dress and pulled the sleeves of my pullover down over my wrists. I counted my nose, I listened for Germans. Silence, but who was making it? On an impulse I said “Fish.”

  A sentry loomed into sight. “Spike?”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Ben Wenham.”

  “We can still be friends.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “04.20 hours. Mind you it’s only a cheap watch, by an expensive one it would be at least 05.30.”

  All quiet. I faced east. Yes, I’d stay facing east, that’s where the sun would appear. The sun was rising behind me. I must be facing west, or was it because I had my tin hat on back to front, yes, that’s it, I was facing east, but my hat wasn’t, and all in a hole in the ground. 06.00 Stand Down. Thank God. Another two minutes and I’d have been certified. I took breakfast, clobbered Jock Webster and Shapiro. “Sergeant Dawson says we’re to go to the O.P. because we’re not Protestants.”

  23 Feb. 1943

  My Diary:

  Up at dawn. To O.P. with Shapiro and Webster. Shapiro reports someone has stolen his shaving-brush. This is the 5th day he’s reported it. Anything rather than buy one. This will be my fifth continuous day as O.P. linesman. Arrived midday. Shelled…

  The blast threw me to the ground. Webster and Shapiro doubled for cover, like idiots we ran up the hill, and jumped into a trench. Help! A mortar pit knee-deep in mortar bombs! Sitting quietly in the corner smoking a pipe was an old Irish Sergeant. I tapped Shapiro.

  “Ask him if he wants to sell his fags.”

  Several more shells fell around us. Christ! if one landed in this pit!…

  “Let’s get out when it stops,” said Shapiro.

  “Oh, youse will be safe in here lads,” said the Sergeant.

  “Safe? In a pit full of bombs? Only the Irish…”

  It went quiet. “Right! now!” I said. “Not me,” said Webster.

  Gunner Milligan (22) after only 5 days in action

  Two of us crawled out and down the hill, then Whoosh Kerboooommm. Christ, we were caught in the open! “Our father who art in heaven…” I started. A German smoke bomb dropped fifty yards to our left, it was a repeat performance of yesterday. The Stukas tumbled out of the sky. “We’re in the bombing zone,” I shouted. “You think I don’t know,” says Shapiro. One by one the Stukas peeled off. “Are you insured Shap?”

  “For everything but this,” he said.

  The first stick of bombs fell along the crest of the hill, right in the middle of the London Irish again. I couldn’t resist looking up and watching the slow almost lazy majesty of the Stukas as they went on their nose for the final dive. It was all over as quickly as it started. We got up and ran, to the bottom of the hill, seeking safety in a wadi. I tapped into the line in case the bombing had damaged it. It was OK. Webster appeared. “You lousy buggers! You pissed off and left me.”

  “Rubbish,” I said. “You stayed behind and left us.” After a smoke, we limbered up and set off back. I remember we didn’t talk much this time. Perhaps that built-in count down had started to tick in our heads; each shell that missed you brought the one that killed you one shell nearer.

  Back at the guns, the Monkey↓ truck was up from Waggon Lines and me old mate Edgington and I had a get together, Alf Fildes got his guitar out.

  ≡ Monkey. Maintenance Truck for Telephone Wires.

  Sitting in our hut we played a Little jazz, Harry minus piano improvised a double bass, making a megaphone out of some artillery board paper. There and then we cooked up a song. El Aroussa.

  El Aroussa, El Aroussa,

  We’ll get thru sir,

  To El Aroussa,

  No more dryin’, no more tryin’

  No more dyin’ for El Aroussa.

  Up and Down Lorry Carry me thru

  In out, watch out, 88’s out of the blue!

  El Aroussa, El Aroussa,

  We’ve got thru sir, to El Aroussa.

  Crappy, isn’t it? Now you know why the war took so long. Don’t ask me how we ever learned’ Lili Marlene’, but the wartime grapevine was highly efficient. Here was a song the Afrika Korps brought over, the Eighth Army picked up and now we knew it. Some lads joined in singing, the guns started up, it all sounded very very strange. We played a few more boring requests, like ‘Stay in my Arms Cinderella’ or ‘The Greatest Mistake of my Life’. Edgington and I did our routine.

  “Do you know the Greatest Mistake of my Life?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Do you know ‘When the Poppies Bloom Again’?”

  “Yes, mid April till March.”

  “Do you know ‘I’ll be seeing you’?”

  “Not if I see you first!”

  German soldier praying for Gunner Milligan to stop playing the trumpet at night

  Hitlergram No. 3961

  Scene:

  The Eagles
Nest, Bertchesgarten, the Wagner Concert Hall. Stage curtains closed. Assembled are the Western World Press. House lights down. Over the speaker a voice.

  Voice:

  “Hello dere Vestern Vorld Gerpressen. Now! For your delight der All Deuscherband Hots shots!” From behind the curtains comes the sound of a quartet playing a very dodgy version of ‘Tiger Rag’—the curtains part—there, revealed in white monkey jackets, black trousers are a four-piece band—Martin Bormann dressed as Tommy Dorsey walks to mike.

  BORMANN:

  “Veil hello zer Western Press, let me make introductions—on Piano Adolph ‘Jerry Roll’ Eichman.”

  Storms of recorded applause stolen from Benny Goodman Hall Concert.

  BORMANN:

  “On Drums und Vibes! Herman ‘Milt’ Goering.”

  The scene:

  Applause—Goering does quick drum break—throws sticks in air—misses.

  BORMANN:

  “Ach zer practice you vill make after school hein? Ha! Ha! Now zen, rated No. 1 cripple of zer year on G Banjo und ace crooner—Slim Goebbels!” Goebbels does hot break on banjo.

  BORMANN:

  “A slick trick, hein? Cool it daddy! Now! on Cornet, lead and scat vocals—zer leader of zer Reich, Adolph ‘Bix’ Hitler!” Storm of recorded zeigheils. The quarter launch into ‘Is you is or is you ain’t my baby’.

  HITLER:

  (singing) “‘Isyou iss, orisyou vasmein baby’.”

  GOERING:

  “Ya!”

  HITLER:

  “Is you is or not mein baby now! Hein?”

  GOERING:

  “Crazy Daddy! Vant a smoke?”

  The scene:

  The vocal concluded, rallentando. Storms of recorded applause.

  BORMANN:

  “Cool it Herren volks!”

  The scene:

  Martin Bormann signals, a thousand Doberman Pincer dogs surround the Reporters.

  BORMANN:

  “Now kids, any questions.” The Times correspondent stands.

  TIMES:

  “Good evening—this new venture by the leaders of the Third Reich—what do you hope to achieve?”

  GOEBBELS:

  “I vill answer zis! Ya—it is new scene man—Gone ist zer goose-step—all zat crap is out, out, out man, old Ger-hat, in comes zer new Swingen Turd Reich—Unter der Linden Plattz Von-step.”

  HITLER:

  Yea Goebbels baby!

  GOEBBELS:

  “Right on Daddy. Zis is zer new Hitler! a smile, a song, a Stalingrad!”

  TIMES:

  “Mr Goebbels, what started this new sound?”

  HITLER:

  “Me!! Ve heard zat eine Englisher Battery by zer name of ‘D’ has got zer ‘Schwing Band’, and zey play in zer front line. Shit men! Zey can’t get away vis zat! Zer Hitler Hot Shots vill give zer lie! OK Boys 1-2-3-4.”

  The scene:

  Hitler launches into a growl cornet solo, “It must be Jelly cause Jam don’t shake like that.” Flash-bulbs explode—Martin Bormann takes the mike.

  BORMANN:

  “Well you folks in zer U.S.A., zis is a broadcast from Germany zer home of good Jazz, you have been listening to ‘Bix’ Hitler and his three Reich Hot Shots, zo, Gute nacht, and remember!—(shouts) Ve vill destroy you!”

  The Mediums in front of our guns now opened up, we were all firing at an alarming rate. There was a strange tension in the air. Our O.P. had spotted concentrations of vehicle borne Infantry and Mark III German tanks moving left behind the cover of Grandstand Hill.

  In burst Dawson. “Come on,” he said. “There’s fucking Germans on the other side of this hill and nothing in between them and us! I want you, you, you, you and you,” his finger stabbed in the directions of the victims. “Small Arms, outside now,” and he was gone. Led by Major Chater Jack, the party climbed Grandstand Hill. We at the G.P. got straffed by a lone ME 109. “The bastard,” I said. “Get his number, we’ll report him for wilful damage.”

  ‘Geordie’ Liddel replied on the Bren gun, but was miles out.

  “You’re a good shit-house orderly but a lousy shot,” we shouted. How Liddel complained about our references to his humble job. “It may be shit to you, but to me it’s bread and butter,” he said. As darkness fell, the O.P. reported a German patrol had ‘winkled out’ a Gunner O.P. to their right. Chater ‘advised’ our O.P. to withdraw half a mile and go back at first light. A listening post-cum-O.P. was placed forward of our guns. We had a report that ‘Tiger’ tanks were in our area, they weighed 90 tons. How in Christ could we stop them! “Simple,” I said. I held up my hand. “Tiger Tanks—Stop.”

  The BBC news that night ‘…German forces are concentrating along the line of the Medjez-el-Bab down the Medjerda Valley and towards Bou Arada…’

  About ten that night Jordy Dawson and Co. returned, red-eyed with whisky (where did he get the stuff?). “Milligan,” he woozed, “you can have the day off tomorrow.”

  “Oh lovely, I’ll drive down to Herne Bay.”

  There was talk of an early stand too, so I got my head down. 0300 hours, we were awakened. “Stand to.” I stood to.

  The sound of small arms echoed around the hills. The sky was lit up by repeated flares. Towards dawn it all went quiet. The first skinny wog cockerels were crowing across the land. Lucky sods, they’d had a night’s sleep. I was too tired for breakfast so went back to bed. I didn’t awaken till 11 o’clock.

  Gunner Milligan defending Tunis from a holt in the ground—note plenty of space in case of swollen ankles

  I was desperate for a bath. The river Siliana was about a thousand yards to the rear of our position, so I took soap, towel, Tommy gun and went. It was a slow flowing river, about sixty feet across, the water was clean. I walked along the bank until I came to an access spot. I stripped, and dived in. The water was just the right side of cold to make it refreshing. Standing waist deep in the water, alone, I felt like some bird freed from a cage. I swam across then back again. “FREE! FREE! FREE!” I shouted. I finally got out, and dressed. As I climbed up the bank, a herd of goats came over the top and swarmed each side, and smothered me in dust. I walked back very slowly, smoking, and thinking that this was all bloody mad.

  “What’s going on,” I asked Birch who was oiling his rifle.

  “Everything,” he said, without looking up. “Where you been?”

  “I had a bath in the river.”

  “What river?”

  “It’s about a quarter of a mile that way, you can’t miss it, you keep going and when you get wet, that’s it.”

  I was off duty and therefore not eligible to be killed. That afternoon, with the battle all around, some silly sod says “Test your wireless sets.”

  Syd Price and I set our trucks twenty yards apart.

  Syd:

  Hello are you hearing me ? Over.

  Me:

  Yes, hearing you strength ten—but I can hear you without the set on. This is all bloody silly. Over.

  Him:

  Have you got any pipe tobacco left? Over.

  Me:

  …………

  Him:

  Hello Spike, can you hear me? Over.

  Me:

  Hello Sid, what is it?

  Him:

  Listen, Milligan you can bloody hear me, I’m coming over.

  Before he arrived I managed to stuff all my tobacco into the pipe and smoke a good three pounds before he arrived to find me unconscious over my set, dying of nicotine poisoning. Now I’m not mean, but Price had a pipe, the bowl of which he hid in during air raids. A Syd Price tobacco refill meant three cargo ships.

  By eight o’clock I was very sleepy so I turned in.

  1400 hours and the bloody stand to! Getting up at this hour must be something like the dead rising on Judgement Day. We were told a German patrol was behind us.

  Afrika Korps practising “Heil Hitler!” on horseback

  I got in my hole in the ground and cringed. To camouflage myself I stuffed th
e branch of a tree in the front of my web belt. On the Grandstand Hill side, there were flares and small arms firing. Lt Goldsmith ushered from his hut. He saw the bush in the hole.

  “Who is that,” he asked.

  “Gunner Milligan sir.”

  He walked back into his hut, a pause, the door opened, a torch shone on me, the door closed followed by hysterical laughter. Not satisfied with humiliating me, they send Gunner Woods out with a kettle, who starts to pour water into the trench.

  “Mr Goldsmith says it’s time you were watered.”

  “Bugger off,” I said, beating him with the tree.

  Tomorrow night if there was a German attack I would point out the officers’ quarters personally!

  0600: Breakfast over, Shapiro, Webster and I set off.

  “I feel safer out here than at the guns,” said Webster.

  Suddenly, three ME 109s roared at nought feet over O.P. Hill, we all panicked, ran in circles, crashed into each other. It was pointless to lie down. As they roared over, I came to attention and gave the Nazi salute. It saved our lives I tell you! The planes raced at speed towards El Aroussa, Ack Ack shells tracing their route. We heard their cannons firing. A mighty explosion. It was an ammo dump, smoke curled up blue-black into the sky. Now! this day, I was carrying with me my gold-plated Besson trumpet to “fulfil a certain promise…”

  “What certain promise?” asks Shapiro.

  “I promised the Hire Purchase agent I would play this trumpet where the fighting and the repayments were thickest.” Ack Ack again—sod! They were coming back! I unslung my Tommy gun, and let fly my first rounds in anger. What a great feeling. Planes gone, excitement over, we went on checking the line till we arrived at Dead Cow Farm.↓

  ≡ A farm christened by me after a dead cow lying at the front door.

  I buzzed the O.P.

  Me:

  Everything all right sir?

  Lt Goldsmith:

  Everything alright? There’s a bloody war on!