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

  Goebbels News Flash

  HITLER:

  Vat is dis fartung noise zer Britisher are making ?

  HIMMLER:

  Einer Raspberry-speilen.

  HITLER:

  Raspberry-speilen?—vat is das?

  HIMMLER:

  According to our secret agent it is einen fartung noise.

  HITLER:

  How can einen Raspberry make zer fartung noise?

  HIMMLER:

  It is einen mystery?

  HITLER:

  Zat is not good enough! We must form Einer Raspberry-speil Panzer Unit. We will show zem who is master of zer Fartung noise.

  Gunner Milligan showing his unflagging belief in his King and Country

  A mile outside Beja, on the verge of a tree lined dusty road, we parked our vehicles, draped scrim nets over them. Flanking us were fields of ripening corn that rittle-rattled in the afternoon breeze. The afternoon was good drying weather; I had to wash my denims and battle-dress trousers because they pleaded with me to. I hung them to dry, and repaired in my shirt and socks to sleep in Kidgell’s lorry. I awoke to find the lorry a mile away at an Ordnance Depot about to be loaded with blankets. I was hoiked out of the back accompanied by wolf whistles from soldiers.

  An RSM spotted me. “Oi! Yew, ‘ere, and double!” It was a rare sight, me running across a busy square. I came to an unclassic attention.

  “Wot the bloody ‘ell you think you’re doing?”

  “It was an accident sir.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “Dysentery sir—I’m excused trousers during an attack.”

  “If the Arabs sees you they’ll think we’re all bloody queer.” He took me to the Quarter Master’s Store. “Fix this nudist up with trousers.”

  Kidgell was bent double with laughter as we drove back. “You swine, Kidgell, I hope on your honeymoon your cobblers catch fire and roll down the bed.”

  The roads were alive with reinforcements. A squadron of Churchills all spanking new were trundling towards the front—their gear stowed immaculately, Divisional signs freshly painted. Along the Beja-Oued Zaga Road we travelled, the sun was shining, the land was green, we didn’t have a care in the world, was there really a war on ?

  We sang songs, those nostalgic slushy moon-June love songs that had fucked-up my generation. I was brought up to believe that the answer to all problems was a red-rouged-moist-lipped Alice Faye romance. I wasn’t in a war really, I was, Robert Taylor in ‘Waterloo Bridge’—and Louise of Bexhill was Vivien Leigh. Life was a series of weak-joked crappy dialogues one could hear in any Hollywood film from 1935 to 1945. If I made a wisecrack I was Lee Tracey, if I sang a song I was Bing Crosby, if I played trumpet, Louis Armstrong if I kissed a girl, Clarke Gable, if I was in a fight, James Cagney—but who was I when washing out my socks? Hollywood didn’t recognise reality—the escapism was almost evil, yet, I was looking for the happy ending, with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney marching triumphantly and singing ‘They call us Babes in Arms’. It never happened. It never will, Hollywood sold us short. My generation have suffered withdrawal symptoms ever since. But here we were singing gaily. It was ridiculous! A thin soldier, in outsize denim trousers held up with string singing ‘You stepped out of a dream’. Doug had a new trick, on the first beat of the bar he’d hit the accelerator—and the lorry would lurch forward.

  March 13th

  The mail had arrived. Everyone went mad!

  I had one from Mum and Dad, one from Lily, and Ohhh ArGGGGHHHHHHH! Three from Louise of Bexhill. AHGGGHHHHHHHHHH. Help! I’m going blind. My father had rejoined the Army as a Captain in the RAOC. He was over fifty, but using glazier’s putty, and blacking his bald head with boot polish, looked forty-nine. My brother Desmond was working as a runner-cum-slave to a press photographers in Fleet Street, and was in the middle of all the fire raids and frequently came home smoke blackened, but whistling cheerfully. This caused mother to worry. She got Doctor O’Brien to prescribe whisky to “relax her.” Every evening she would open the front window, sip whisky, and listen for Desmond’s whistling. By the time he arrived mother was so relaxed she was stretched out in the passage.

  All the mail didn’t bring good news. Sgt Dale says “Ere! My missus has run off with a bleedin’ Polish airman!”

  “That’s funny, so ‘as mine. They must be short of planes.” Other letters were from Beryl Southby—a Norwood girl who had a crush on me, and one from Kay in Herstmonceaux—I must have pulled the birds in those days but I don’t remember working at it, however, it got complicated, as this letter of Edgington recalls:

  Then—how about the night at the De-La-Warr Pavillion, when it took seven of us to get all your ‘birds’ safely out of the place at the end of the evening whilst you ‘peeled-off’ secretly with the eighth—the latest! Kay, the dazzling blonde from Herstmonceaux who had been waiting behind the dressing-room door with a pair of scissors clutched in her hands during the interval!—Did you know about that!!!??? Doug was first man into the room in the interval and walked right into her, as Alf arrived, he was needed to help Doug in the struggle to ‘unarm’ her and as I came in, she was crying and they were trying to mollify her…

  You never showed up! If you were out in the auditorium you were still taking your life in your hands for they were all there—the two Bettys among them, flexing long fingernails, even Pearl the NAAFI girl was looking very unhappy, and there was one of the sergeant’s wives I remember. (It’s all lies folks! S.M.) Anyway, came the finish of the evening with Jimmy, Chalky and I nervously shepherding three of them up the left-hand (as you looked out from the stage) raised aisle or gallery where all the seating was: Well, we were just getting towards the far end of it and there were some three rows of triple cinema seats already pushed up tight against the wooden wall, that overlooked the dance floor. As we were coming up to these, I saw an army boot sticking out from the mass of steel legs. There must be another one somewhere I thought. Being on the inside, nearest to the chairs, I took one step rather more quickly and stopped and turned to the girls, so as to keep their attention up at me. I risked a look down at where the head that belonged to the boot ought to be. Sure enough, there it was (at the right distance from the boot), the Milligan features all screwed up into the usual huge grinning wink. Remember? It’s a pity you didn’t get that one into the book, for it has, despite all the shagging that was undoubtedly going on, afar happier and more humorous ring to it than all the other yarns about your ‘amours’.

  Gunner Milligan happily playing his H.P. Trumpet at De La Wan Pavilion, Bexhill, while his mates keep his birds from killing him

  Well folks! if that’s all true, I didn’t know when I was well off!

  Beja Waggon Lines 17 March 1943

  A velvet night as against last night which was Donegal Tweed. Midnight, around me the silent, sleeping Waggon Lines, I was reading a Micky Mouse comic printed in Arabic. I shouldn’t be doing this! I understood Micky Mouse, but Arabic! No, mice didn’t speak Arabic. This was nonsense. I should be on the floor of the Hammersmith Palais de Danse wearing a blue chalk-stripe suit with well padded shoulders, doing the ‘Suzy OJ with what’s-her-name-with-the-big-boobs, who used to go out with Roy Fox’s Singer, Denny Dennis, who had become the British Bing Crosby, whereas in fact, I was the British Bing Crosby—didn’t I win the Bing Crosby contest at the Hippodrome, Lewisham, wearing a shrunken sports jacket with four and sixpenny Marks and Spencer’s flannels? And again - didn’t I win the EPNS solid silver Crooners Cup at the Lady Florence Institute, Deptford, singing ‘East of the Sun’? and was chased frequently by the bloke who came 2nd?, anyhow, I settled down to a comparatively easy life at Beja, sitting in a hip bath and eating dates.

  March 18th

  We were to take returnable salvage to the RASC Depot at Souk El Khemis, Kidgell, Edgington and I, a perfect trio, all barmy, and none of us queer. On the way we stopped to exchange old battle-dresses and see through blankets with Arabs, for bunches of dates. The sticki
ness! By the time we got to the Depot we were stuck to each other. Kidgell had to prise his hands off the steering wheel. It was even on our boots, six feet away from the eating area!

  A stark white sign with the red letters BEJA, no admission, TYPHUS.

  “I wonder what Typhus is like,” said Edgington.

  “Typhus is an Arab village,” I said.

  “Then wot’s Beja?”

  “Beja is a dread disease that has struck down the people of Typhus.”

  “You notice that the Wogs don’t have these diseases until we arrive.” We drove along in silence. “What did one date say to another?”

  “I’m stoned.”

  Souk El Khemis was a pile of mud with windows. In the main street we entered an Arab Cafe called ‘Out of Bounds’. We drank a bottle of warm Thibar white wine. Arabs in ones and twos were seated round coffee tables. Above a three bladed fan turned slow enough to count the blades, it was intended to disperse flies, but in fact they rode on it. We drained the bottle, and left.

  Midday. Arrived at Service Corps Depot. Stopped at gates by small red-capped, two striped, military Hitler.

  “Wot is yourn business?”

  “I’m a Vicar’s Mate but the war has spoilt it.”

  “We want to play a little game do we? Gude. I like little games, now we are going to play a little game called Vicar’s Mate waiting at the gate for one hour.”

  “Where do they find people like him?” says Edgington.

  “You take a pig’s offal,” said Kidgell, “and make it a Corporal.” Finally allowed in we drove to the salvage bay, unloaded our junk—got a receipt for it.

  “Why does anybody have to sign for a load of crap like that,” says Edgington.

  “Why? It puts the responsibility for all that crap onto someone else. Life is all bits of paper. You don’t exist until you have a birth certificate, you are nameless unless you have a baptismal certificate, you have never been to school without a school leaving cert, you can’t get insurance without a clean bill of health certificate, and, you’re not legally dead without a death certificate.”

  “You can’t do a crap without one,” added Kidgell.

  Before departing I spied a pile of American two-man pup-tents. I approached them respectfully, saluted, placed one under my arm and said “This is for Wounded Knee, it’s also for Wounded Teeth, Wounded Ear and Ulcerated Tongue,” one pace back, on to the lorry, and away. A brilliant tactical move, and my first blow against General Patton. The wind blew pleasantly through the lorry window. “Did you know,” said Edgington now covered in date-sticky, “there’s a man in St John’s Road, Archway who’s kept a whole egg in his mouth for a year without taking it out?”

  “He must be bloody mad,” I said.

  “Maybe, but he’s still a civilian,” he said, sliding dates down his throat. We finished the dates and felt sick.

  We ourselves felt pretty free, alone, no authority, knowing where the next meal came from, young, all that had a certain freedom too. Since then, none of us have ever felt that particular type of mental and spiritual liberty, the gall of it is, at the time we didn’t know it, it appears memories always have to be forced on us. Suddenly, at an alarming speed, the skies overcast, turned black, and a thunderous torrential downpour descended. The land became a sea of reddy brown water, the force of the rain neutralized the windscreen wipers and we had to pull up.

  “It will do BSM McArthur’s crops in Canada good,” said Kidgell. Almost as quickly the rain stopped, the sun shone, and that peculiar musk of drying earth permeated the air, the trees were a shade greener, the air fresher. God was very good when he wanted to be. In twenty minutes the world dried out, and no trace of rain remained. “Wot is that?” Edgington pointed to something moving along the road. We pulled up. “There, that thing.” It was a large black scarab shaped beetle, about half the size of a matchbox. It was standing on its head and, with its hind legs, pushing a round ball the size of a small tangerine.

  “That’s a dung beetle.” Edgington gets out, and stands over the creature which is moving up the road.

  “Why are they called Dung Beetles,” said Doug.

  “Because that ball he’s rolling, is dung.”

  “What’s he want it for?”

  “He lays his eggs inside.”

  “What a start in life being born up to your neck in shit.”

  I picked up the beetle and placed him in a safer position where Kidgell stepped back and flattened it. We passed another batch of POWs, “Ein Reich! Ein Führer! ein Arsole,” we shouted.

  “Lucky sods,” says Kidgell, “they’re out of it.”

  “Here Milligan,” says Harry with surprised recollection, “today’s St Patrick’s day, any messages?”

  “Yes. Fuck the English.”

  That evening, I erected my new tent, and invited Edging-ton to share it. Suddenly the rain. “Oh Christ,” said Harry, “I’m on guard in five minutes,” he moaned. “Right,” I said, “off you go and stand in the pissing rain for your King and Country.” He went of groaning, and rustling in his Gas Cape.

  I lit the oil lamp. Now! Where were me old pornographic photographs…(“It’s all lies officer! I bought them as art studies, I am a keen art student of twenty-one” etc.)

  Pouring rain, everything was damp, cigarettes went out—matches wouldn’t ignite. I was asleep when Edgington returned.

  “You asleep?” he says.

  “Of course I am. You don’t think I always make this noise?”

  “These tents were made for dwarfs.”

  “I’m a dwarf, but I’m tall with it”

  “What’s the bloody time?”

  “The bloody time is 0200. Got a fag?”

  “Yes.”

  Here there was a long pause from Edgington. Mind you I took part in the pause, but it was he who started it; with great strength of character I brought the pause to an end.

  “Well give us one then,” I said impatiently.

  “You must make yourself clear, Milligan. If you ask me ‘have you got a fag’, the answer is ‘yes’. I have got a fag, but ‘have you got a fag for me’, has an entirely different connotation.”

  “Gis a fag or I’ll break out in running sores and make ‘em gallop all over you infesting your Bazolikons.”

  “Is this the language of the race that gave us Joyce, Yeats, O’Casey, Old Mother Riley?”

  Edge has contorted himself into the letter Z to pull his tin of cigarettes from his pocket. He hands me a curved flattened thing.

  “Wot’s this?”

  “Players Turkish for smoking round corners.”

  Edgington was going through the gyrations of getting his battle-dress off, in the confined space this meant you got his elbow in your earole every second.

  “Let’s face it, Edgington this is only a one man tent.”

  “I am only one man.”

  “But I was only one man first.”

  “Lies, I am the first only one man.”

  Finally we settled, doused the light, rolled left and right into our blankets. Up front the Germans had opened an attack all along the line. Here we slept to the sound of rain, it was a good arrangement.

  19 March, 1943

  I awoke in the wee small hours, but not for a wee, no! something was crawling on my chest, my first thought was it must be an eleven foot King Cobra, it was moving slowly down towards where women affect you most, if he bit me there, some twenty women in England would take the veil. I called very softly “Harry…Harry…Harry…” He moved and mumbled something like “It’s all right mother, I’ve known her three years.”

  “Pay Parade!” I said. This got his eyes open. “Now listen! There’s something on my chest.”

  “They’re called blankets.”

  “I’m serious, it’s moving downwards, can you carefully take the blankets back and get it?” He lit the oil lamp, and very carefully peeled off the blankets, he gasped.

  “Cor bloody hell!”

  “Never mind tha
t, what is it?”

  “A black scorpion.”

  “Rubbish, it’s an eleven foot King Cobra!”

  “It’s a two inch scorpion. I’m going to knock it to your side.”

  “What’s wrong with yours.”

  With a sweeping movement he whisked the scorpion off, smashed the tent pole, collapsed the tent, extinguished the light, spilled the paraffin, and set fire to the blankets. From then on the evening lost its splendour, we stood in the pouring rain amid smouldering blankets, trying to avoid the scorpion, and to retrieve our kit. The night was spent in the gay carefree interior of Kidgell’s lorry.

  “You clumsy bugger you wrecked our little love nest.”

  “Thank you very much, next time you knock your own bloody scorpions off.”

  “It was an eleven foot King Cobra!”

  March 22

  The morning of March the 22nd dawned. The rain had stopped. Sol ascended. We strung our damp gear on a makeshift clothes line.

  Interior of my one man tent

  “Milligan! pack your kit, you’re going up the line,” said BQMS Courtney.

  “But me kit’s soaking wet!”

  “Stop the war, Mr Milligan’s kit is wet.”

  I massaged my steaming belongings into my kit bag, and boarded the Ration Truck with Driver Wilson. “What’s all these blood stains in the back?” I said, “It’s not the old trouble?”

  “Last night, I was driving back from the Guns, I found a Don R laying by the road with his legs nearly off, a Jerry patrol had got him with a machine pistol.”

  Wilson was a dour Scot, sporting pebble glasses (only the British Army would make him a driver). I think he drove in Braille. In peace time he’d been a shepherd. He rarely spoke, but sometimes in his sleep, he bleated.