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

  Me:

  Yes sir—what I meant was, is everything in the war alright.

  Lt Goldsmith:

  Yes. It’s working splendidly. Any tea down there, Milligan.

  Me:

  I can’t tell you sir, careless talk costs lives.

  We despatched Jock with the bottle of tea and watched as he wormed his way over the crest, backside sticking up all the way. “If there’s a sniper watching, he should be able to provide Webster with a second arsehole,” said Hart. Wheeeee Crashhhh. Wheeeee Booooom Crash…88’s! They were bursting just behind the crest of the O.P., it was odds on they’d spotted Webster’s clumsy efforts. Wheeeeebooom-mmmmmm Wheeeeeebooooomm. What was I waiting for. I unsheathed my trumpet and laying sideways I played ‘Mother Macree’ as a further batch of shells came over.

  A bloody fool

  But then, the shelling started to creep down the hill towards us, and Milligan stopped playing didn’t he? And Milligan packed up his trumpet and ran like bloody hell towards the wadi.

  “Come back here you windy bugger,” shouted Sherwood.

  “Windy buggers don’t come back,” I shouted.

  I returned later. Jock Webster came back on his belly.

  “I didna like thart,” he said, “I might ha got killed goin’ up there.”

  “That was the idea,” I said. The phone buzzed. I listened in.

  O.P.:

  Action Left, Target! Tanks!

  G.P.:

  Action Left, Target! Tanks!

  I had never seen the real thing, so I scrambled up to the O.P. trench. Without binoculars the tanks on the plain looked like toys moving at snail’s pace. Our shells were landing short, the tanks were at extreme range, and moving across our line of fire. After about twenty rounds the tanks had made cover behind a hillock to our left and the fire ceased. With that I crawled back to the Carrier, “What happened?” asked Sherwood. “Tanks,” I said. The effect was electric. “Tanks?” he said sitting bolt upright. “How many?”

  “Millions,” I said. “In fact, Tanks a Million.” High above us a squadron of Bostons and Maurauders were heading towards Tunis, then turned right towards the Eighth Army front. Flak burst around them as they disappeared in the blue distance. While we had been frolicking at the O.P., the gun position had been having fun. Here it is recounted by Gunner Harry Edgington:

  Major Chater Jack, M.C., D.S.O., had told Sgt Dawson, “I want to test the alertness of the gun positions to possible Infantry attack which might occur during the next twenty-four hours. Get some of your off-duty signallers to put on gas capes, go out in front of the guns, then infiltrate forward through the scrub to the left of the gun positions.”, so me (Edgington) and six of us all put capes on and sauntered off rifles and all. We did what we were told, suddenly we appear through the bushes with our rifles at the high port. Cor blimey, when the gun crew saw us, they all rushed for their small arms dived into trenches and were about to let us have it when Sergeant Griffin recognised us, “Don’t fire,” we hollered, just in time to stop a massacre. He then let us have the length of his tongue.↓

  [≡ 6 ¾ inches.]

  “You silly sods! You nearly got yourselves bloody killed! are you all bloody darft!”

  “Yes sarge.” had been the meek reply. Turns out no one had warned the gun position Sergeants of the ‘Stunt’. But another gun position had seen another group of mysterious ‘enemy’ among which was Bdr Jones and they got fired on didn’t they? and Bdr Jones gets wounded? Christ you couldn’t see their arses for dust. Anyhow it all simmered down and Chater Jack knew that the gun positions were on their toes.

  Now the good news! Everybody was on all night stand to.

  Hitlergram No. 3086142

  With our Führer behind the Enemy Lines

  GNR HITLER:

  Ach! I hate zese stand-toos! I shouldn’t be doing zat, I should zer Sergeant be in zer kip I

  GNR WHITE:

  Arsoles!

  HITLER:

  You say arsoles to me ? In Germany I am Leader of zer Turd Reich I You are lucky I only ask you for ein Fag!

  GNR WHITE:

  I thought you didn’t smoke?

  HITLER:

  Zat is silly bugger Goebbels propaganda—he says you must never be seen wiz zer fag on! I smoke zeben-und funfzig fags a day! I have to hide in zer cupboard, in zer Karzi, it is not easy. I am human like anybody else, I may burn ein Jew or two, but nobody’s perfect I tell you.

  GNR WHITE:

  What about sex?

  HITLER:

  I make mit zer shag ten times a day.

  GNR WHITE:

  Poor Eva Braun.

  HITLER:

  Oh, not her, I screw her in zer night, she is der greatest, we screw in zer shape of a swastika! Zen ven she plays die Valkyrie on zer Beckstein I make vid zer Back Scuttle. Zen we are dansing de Tangogerstein with ze Berlin Novelty Trio.

  GNR WHITE:

  You look shagged out—if you’re goin’ ter win this war you better get some sleep.

  HITLER:

  Ha! you little Kakhi foolen! How can I loose? Look at zese good conduct passes—1st prize Five String Banjo at Gratz country fair! Three times Last Tango Champion in Paris—admit defeat Tommy!

  We were told the situation was ‘Grave’. What does that mean?

  “How do you feel Milligan?”

  “Grave sir, very grave.”

  Small arms firing all around us, the night passed very slowly. I was glad to see the first light in the sky. Here my Diary takes up the story:

  Feb. 26th

  My diary:

  The storm broke at about 9.30 a.m. Our troops pushed off 0.P. Hill, Lt Goldsmith and O.P. Party came back. Sergeant Dawson set up an O.P. directly on the hillock in front of our guns. Position now called ‘serious’.

  “How do you feel now Milligan?”

  “Serious sir, very serious.”

  Sporadic fighting all around in isolated groups. Infantry manoeuvering for position.

  Major Chater Jack was anxiously awaiting orders from Div. H.Q. to move. By three in the afternoon it hadn’t come, so Chater Jack took the initiative and gave the order, “Move and Quick.” I packed everything in two minutes, piled it on Sherwood’s Carrier which was moving out with Lt Goldsmith aboard.

  “What’s happening sir?”

  “We’re moving Milligan.”

  “Somewhere cheaper?”

  “No, quieter…If you see a milkman tell him no milk tomorrow.”

  We were the first vehicle out. Here is another excerpt from Edgington’s letter with his version of that occasion:

  Monkey-Two was bumping out of a wadi and gathering speed as I came at it, with Bill Trew, Pedlar Palmer and Jack White reaching anxiously out over the half-up tail-board, (all the equipment had just been slung in) and I finished my run with the most blood-curdling hurdle-jump to clear the tail-board sufficiently for Bill, Pedlar and Jack to grab enough of me to hold on to, and nearly tearing me cobblers off.

  I watched as the Battery pulled out. We were retracing tracks we had originally taken from the El Aroussa road, when we reached it, Bdr Sherwood, swerving, braked his left track and turned on to the tree-lined road leading towards Bou Arada. A company of infantry were digging in along the railway bank. They were second-line defence, this was the direction Jerry wanted to come. The guns were now well across the field but, as they turned onto the road, 88 mm shells started to burst among the convoy. It was deadly accurate and miraculously they didn’t hit men or charges, I watched fascinated as scarlet and purple flashes exploded under the lumbering lorries and guns.

  It was a lovely warm clear day—pity someone was spoiling it. Up the line comes Sgt Dawson on his motorbike.

  “I was in the middle of that bloody lot,” he said.

  “It suited you,” I said.

  “Anyone hurt,” said Goldsmith.

  “No sir,” said Dawson.

  “Well anyone annoyed then?”

  The shelling stopped,
we had gone half a mile when Sherwood turned right off the road, into a copse of Acacia trees, the first thing I saw was a grave, a crude cross on top, a helmet with jagged shrapnel holes. A 15 cwt truck is leaving the site, the driver stops. “You’re not staying here are you? We bin shelled out, Jerry’s got this place zeroed so he can drop ‘em in yer mess tins.”

  “Oh good, I’ll get mine ready,” I said.

  The guns hove to, gunners grinning, giving thumbs up signs, behind comes Major Chater Jack, unruffled, smiling, and returning the stopper on his whisky flask. “I’m sorry we had to move gentlemen.”

  While all this had been happening, at Waggon Lines a critical situation had arisen. “I say Soldier what’s that arising, over there?”

  “That sir is a Critical Situation.”

  Orders for them to move had arrived at the same time Jerry tanks infiltrated from ‘Tally Ho’ corner; to give the vehicles a chance to get away, Captain Rand, BSM McArthur and Bdr Donaldson went north to a crest to hold off a tank attack, with pick handles, lucky for them, as the Panzers came into view, Churchill tanks of the Derbyshire Yeomanry came through the waggon lines at speed, counter attacked, knocking out 7 Mark III’s.

  My Diary:

  Waggon lines evacuated south of El Aroussa. Telephone contact with Waggon Lines was down, so I was sent to open up wireless contact. I threw my gear into Doug Kidgell’s lorry (who was up with the rations).

  Driver Kidgell, sans tin helmet, showing utter contempt for the Germans whilst 75 miles from the front

  “Mind if I drive Doug?” Of course he didn’t, I took the wheel, put my foot down.

  “What’s the bleedin’ hurry?” says Kidgell hanging on grimly.

  “I want to live,” I said raising one eyebrow like John Barrymore and crossing my eyes. “I’m young! Lovely! I want to feel the wind of this giant continent blowing through my hair,” I laughed “Happy darling?” I said as Kidgell shot two feet up, hitting his nut on the roof.

  “Slow down! Per Christ sake!!!”

  “He’s not in the back is he?”

  “Milligan, stop! Or the child will be born premature.”

  “If you saw Jerry’s artillery back there, you’d realise I’m not doing this for fun!”

  “I didn’t say it was fun,” he raged.

  We hit a large pothole, Kidgell goes up, while he’s up we hit another pothole, so while he’s on his way down the seat is on its way up to meet him, this time he does a semi-somersault, I have to brake suddenly and there on the floor in the shape of a granny-knot is Kidgell.

  We raced past El Aroussa station—now we were safe from Jerry’s artillery, I slowed.

  “Who taught you to drive?” said Kidgell.

  “Eileen Joyce.”

  “She’s a pianist.”

  “That was the trouble.”

  We arrived at Waggon Lines at five o’clock, too late to bivvy, so I kipped down in the back of Kidgell’s lorry.

  27th Feb.: First day at Waggon Lines

  0700. After breakfast, Bombardier/Artificer Donaldson detailed five men to accompany him to the old Waggon Lines to collect equipment left behind in yesterday’s panic.

  We drove in silence, except for me whistling, which I often did. It was an innocent pastime, free of malice, honest fun, it just drove people mad that’s all. In the Carrier with me was Shit-house Orderly Forrest, he was illiterate, but didn’t know that because he couldn’t read or write. He had a girl in Bradford called Enid—and in reply to her simple letters we would reply on behalf of Forrest, “Oh dearest Radiant light of Love, here, where I am serving my monarch and country, a great Symphony-like yearning burgeons within me whenever I think of you. Enid! The name is magic - and your face—whenever I sprinkle the quick lime over the crap, it’s your dear face I see.” She never wrote again.

  Whistling merrily we arrived at the deserted Waggon Lines. Laying around were the bric-a-brac of hasty evacuation. “Throw it on the lorry then let’s piss off,” said Donaldson, walking up hill. “I’m going up on ridge to keep KV.”

  “Where’s the piano?” I said to Forrest.

  “What piano?” said the blank face of Forrest.

  “The Regimental one.”

  “The Regimental piano?”

  “Yes, where is it?”

  “I don’t know. You’re not jokin’ are you?”

  “Joke? About the Regimental piano? You’ve never seen us playing without a piano!”

  “No.”

  “Well, until it’s found there’s no more dances, if the Germans have captured that piano we’re finished.”

  We threw the last of the salvage on the lorry. “OK Bom,” I called up to Donaldson, “you can come down, all the work’s done.” The return drive was uneventful except the look the boys gave Forrest when he said “I wonder what happened to the piano then.”

  At Waggon Lines, I shared a tent with BSM McArthur, a regular but only five foot six and a half which made him lack authority to anybody five foot seven and a half. He had a face the shape of a pear held upside down. Smoke blue eyes, a straight fleshy nose, under this hung a brown handlebar moustache. Head on he looked like a motor-bike. He had advanced piles and slept face downwards. He greeted me with “Good news you’ve been promoted to Lance Bombardier.” I wasn’t expecting this, but was quick to capitalise, “We non-commissioned officers must stick together. Wait till tomorrow, I’ll put this bloody lot through their paces.” He was new to the Regiment having joined a week before sailing. Apparently he had gained the disfavour of someone, and been banished to Waggon Lines as a Khaki Limbo. That night he talked, I thought I was a Walter Mitty, but this man was a congenital liar. He started, “I am born of noble birth, my forebears were Scottish Barons, I have Royal Blood, one of my forebears slept with Prince Charlie, from that a child was born, I am in direct line from that union.”

  “Jolly good,” I said, I mean what else can you say to a short sallow Herbert, lying face downwards under three grotty blankets, total value three pounds ten. He didn’t stop there. There were the yachts, “I have one tied up at the Pool of London.”

  “Oh yes, if I had one I’d tie it up,” I said.

  “You see I married a millionairess,” he said lighting a dog-end.

  “Why didn’t she buy you out?”

  “Oh no! I couldn’t let the old country down.”

  “Why not,” I said. “Everyone else has.” He was still rambling on when I fell asleep.

  Next day I dug a slit trench, roofed it with a small tent and installed the wireless, the Gun position was nearly fourteen miles away, “ If we move any further, we’ll have to get in touch by medium.”

  Through the daylight hours I would contact the G.P. every hour. We had a sudden outbreak of the squitters, and Gunner Forrest had to dig a second latrine to take the overflow. We all had it very bad, and no one dare go more than twenty seconds away from the Karzi without jeopardizing underwear.

  The M.O. gave us all some foul tasting pills that left you feeling like you’d slept with an Arab’s toe in your mouth. After a few days it all cleared up, but during the attack Bombardier Marsden ran a sweepstake, BSM McArthur swept the pool with twenty-four visits in eight hours, he got two hundred francs, and a sore arse.

  A three man latrine with two men in support

  28 Feb. 1943

  My Diary:

  Torrential rain. Wireless trench flooded.

  Contacted Gun Position:

  Milligan:

  Hello! Tell Sergeant Dawson I need a relief.

  Gun Position:

  Who do you want?

  Milligan:

  Paulette Goddard.

  Gun Position:

  What will be her duties?

  Milligan:

  Me.

  The rain! Not only did it come down, it went up 6 feet, and then came down a second time.

  “It’s good for the crops,” said McArthur.

  “I haven’t got any,” I said.

  “I have. I’ve got a
hundred acres in Somerset and three hundred in Canada.”

  “It’s not raining there.”

  “I know,” he said, pacing up and down, “and it’s very very worrying.”

  B.S.M. McArthur telling a gunner he owns all the mud in Tunisia

  MARCH

  Germans launched an offensive called ‘Ocksenkopf’.↓

  ≡ ‘Ox Head’. With names like that for a major offensive, they just couldn’t have had a sense of humour.

  It went from 26 February to 5 March. They nearly broke through at Hunt’s Gap, but an incredible resistance by 5 Hampshires and 155 Bty R A for over twelve hours (the latter were finally overwhelmed), decimated the Bosch so much—he had to stop.

  March 13 1943

  Early closing in Lewisham.

  US BULLETIN

  The scene:

  A highly camouflaged American Ice-cream refrigerator in the battle zone. A phone rings.

  EISENHOWER:

  Who is that?

  VOICE:

  I’m General Patton, 2nd in line to John Wayne…

  EISENHOWER:

  It’s Ike here? We’ve taken a thrashing from the Germans at Kasserine.

  PATTON:

  Germans? I’ll put them on the list, but first we get rid of the Limeys!

  EISENHOWER:

  Remember, form the Tanks into a circle—with women and kids in the middle.

  12 March 1943

  Q, Bloke, Courtney says: “We’ve got to move to a place called ‘Beja’.” Soooo, we all start this bloody kit packing again. Finally the convoy lined up. BSM McArthur on his motorbike. “Where’s the Rolls?” I said. It was 44 miles to Beja, en route we passed a glut of POW’s; without fail, we gave them Nazi salutes and morale sapping raspberries. The Germans looked baffled. Was this rabble the Army they were fighting? And what was this strange farting noise they made?