"Yes, if I remember, I sipped half the bottle and you the other, we carried the bottle through Mill Wood, getting more and more p.i.s.sed, we finally got out the other side on the Ninfield Road, and you remembered this bird because you'd tried to have it away with her, but she wouldn't have it because she was getting married."

"I know, I told her I was trying to warm her up for the honeymoon..."

"Helpful old you. Anyways, we arrived at her place, it was about mid-day, she let us in and you insisted that she play some Chopin."

"Yes, I remember. She didn't half play me up, she took me home one night, straight into the bedroom and, laugh, she was a ma.s.s of Women's Mag cliches. When I pulled her skirt up she said, 'There was a flash of pink thigh, and a rustle of silk petticoat', then when I kissed her, she turned her head away and said, 'She turned her head away and felt his warm breath on her neck'. I began to think she was a dummy being worked by Barbara Cartland. When I gave up trying I got up to leave, and as I combed my hair, she said, 'He stood, nostrils twitching, combing his plum-black hair'. I never saw her after that, though she did leave a message with the Battery office for me to contact her. 'Tell him I've changed my mind', was the exact communication; what it was she changed her mind about I'll never know."

Gunner White is sitting on an oscillating petrol tin, and reads from an old Bexhill Observer Bexhill Observer. "Listen! German raiders attacked several points along the SE Coast, a bomb was dropped on a farm, the explosion blew the door off the bull pen, the bull made his way to the cow pasture and the farmer had great difficulty in getting the bull back. He himself was attacked."

Gunner Birch, shrouded in cigarette smoke, tells us that in a letter from home his father told him there was a theory that Hitler was insane as the result of piles.

"Hitler has piles?" chuckled Edgington.

"I don't know," said White, "it's my father, he says-" here he picked up the letter and read, "Ron Lester, the publican, said that Hitler went mad through piles, he was operated on by a doctor, and the operation went wrong, and he still has them." don't know," said White, "it's my father, he says-" here he picked up the letter and read, "Ron Lester, the publican, said that Hitler went mad through piles, he was operated on by a doctor, and the operation went wrong, and he still has them."

"It was a Jewish doctor," I said. "That's why he had it in for the front-wheels."*

Front-wheel skid = Yid. Front-wheel skid = Yid.

"Don't tell me," said Edgington sitting up, "don't tell me World War 2 is due to piles."

"What a sobering thought," I said. "To think, a case of a.n.u.sol Suppositories could have stopped it."

"It's not too late," said Edgington. "We should load a Lancaster and drop three tons of pile ointment on his Reichstag."

"You see? Nothing's sacred these days, even a man's Reichstag."

Birch blinked and listened at the conversation he had started. "What's a Reichstag?" he said.

"Grub up," is all someone had to say to empty the hut.

Drooling Fildes has already mentioned this, let me amplify.

The Oxford Dictionary says it's 'To drivel, to slaver'. I give you the lie, in our battery Drooling had an entirely different meaning. It started on the farm and, in our case, the cause of drooling was s.e.xual frustration. If you saw a lone gunner for no perceptible reason suddenly make a low groaning sound that sounded like OOOOLEEEEDOO-LEYYYYYY, at the same time appearing to grab an erect invisible phallus with both hands that by their position suggested a 'chopper' about five feet in length, which he then proceeds to thud against the nearest wall with a cry of OLLEEEDOOLEE, THWAKKKKK!! OLLEEEDOOLEEEE THWACK!!, this was the new Drooling craze. It was not abnormal to come into pre-parade gatherings of bored gunners all apparently holding mighty invisible choppers, thudding them against walls, trees and the ground. When Major Jenkins first witnessed this from a distance, he asked Sgt. Jock Wilson, "What are they doing, Sergeant?"

And Wilson said, "It's something to do with the shortage, sir." Jenkins parried, "The shortage of what?" Wilson replied, "We don't know, sir." Travelling on the back of a lorry, the sight of a pretty girl immediately erupted into ma.s.s drooling until she was out of sight. Of late, the song 'Drooling' had come to light; it was sung to the Flanagan and Allen tune, 'Dreaming'.

Droooooooolingggg Droooooooolingggg Droooooooolingggg Droooooooolingggg Each night you'll find the lads all Droooo-lingg Each night you'll find the lads all Droooo-lingg A little Drool don't hurt no body A little Drool don't hurt no body And if it does then we don't give a Sod-dee And if it does then we don't give a Sod-dee Droooo-ling Droooo-ling Droooo-ling Droooo-ling It's so much better than Tom Foolingggg It's so much better than Tom Foolingggg A little drool can ease your heavy load A little drool can ease your heavy load So keep Drooling till your b.a.l.l.s explode. The author is unknown, he wants it that way. The farmyard square (now that it had been cleared of three hundred years of dung) displayed a fine cobbled courtyard; the farmer, who had lived on the farm since he was born, said he didn't know it existed. The lovely tall tower of the main farm block afforded a good all-round view from its oval windows that was repeated all up the staircase at ten-feet intervals. The tower had nothing at all to do with farming, nor had the building. It was obviously some landed gentry's country manor that had been vacated or sold cheaply to a farmer. The farmer kept horses and a few cattle and grew crops, along with a few fruit orchards.

Devine has returned from a fruitless fishing trip, "Are they sure there's fish in this ca.n.a.l?"

"Where else, you silly sod?"

"Then why didn't the f.u.c.kers bite? All I caught was this."

"That's a...er...it's not a salmon," said Liddell; not a bad guess, the creature was three inches long and black.

"It's a n.i.g.g.e.r's d.i.c.k," said White.

"Oh, great," grinned Devine, "I'll smuggle it back to Liverpool and hire it out to old ladies."

"Oh dear," said Deans in a female voice, "and I've cooked all these chips." He stamped his foot on the floor, from which arose a cloud of coal-dust.

Bombardier Fuller has arrived, "There's a little line-laying to be done-no panic it's only a short one, about a quarter of a mile." As we clamber aboard M2 truck, we witness the spectacle of a Driver Ron Sherwood of Reading, riding a bicycle backwards. Ask him to do a job and he's gone in a flash, but ride a bicycle backwards, oh yes, he'll do that all day. Sherwood was a lovely footballer on the wing with a slight tendency not to pa.s.s to anybody, and he wasn't a bad pianist, no, he was terrible. He could get the right-hand melody going, but with his left hand he would hit any any note, but he did it with such panache, a smile and a wink, that cloth-eared gunners would say, "Corrrrr, you can't half play the piano." and they were right, he could only half play that piano. note, but he did it with such panache, a smile and a wink, that cloth-eared gunners would say, "Corrrrr, you can't half play the piano." and they were right, he could only half play that piano.

Very quickly we laid the line to RHQ. I opened the door to see a gaggle of our top officers all swigging whisky; among them was dear Major Chater Jack, now a Lt.-Colonel. It had not changed him, he was still knocking it back.

"h.e.l.lo, Bombardier Milligan," he said warmly.

"Nice to see you again, sir-can you see me?" He laughed.

With a few pleasantries exchanged, I connected up the D 5 telephone.

"There's some of the lads outside, sir."

"I'll come out and see them..."

From the top he waved down to the lads on the truck, we all wished he'd never left us. It was the last time I would ever see him. The date was December 16, 1943.

I remembered the first time I'd seen him in Bexhill, a smallish, very dapper man, a weathered face, always ready to smile. I had noticed he was wearing a very fine brand-new pair of brogues.

"Very nice shoes, sir."

"My batman doesn't like them."

"That's because he has to clean them, sir."

This Christmas Concert is bothering me, I tell BSM Griffin, "If we don't get a piano we can't do the concert."

"Oh, we can't have that," he said, his Welsh accent thick as the Brecon peaks. "It's going to be alright, Spike. Lt. Walker's going with you in a truck tomorrow to look for a piano."

Great. I tell Harry. "Oh good," he said, "pick a good one."

"Pick one? They don't grow on b.l.o.o.d.y trees."

"A twenty-foot Beckstein, otherwise I refuse to play it."

He and others were on 's.h.i.t sc.r.a.ping' duties. This was the general t.i.tle given to any cleaning jobs, and as the farm and the buildings seemed never to have been cleaned since the Renaissance, the c.r.a.p was everywhere.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: 0830. OFF WITH LT. WALKER LOOKING FOR A PIANO, SPARANISE FIRST, PLACE HAS BEEN HAMMERED TO BITS BY ARTILLERY BUT PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN IT. NO PIANO. ON TO CAPUA, NO PIANO. ON TO SANTA MARIA LA FOSSE, NO PIANO. 0830. OFF WITH LT. WALKER LOOKING FOR A PIANO, SPARANISE FIRST, PLACE HAS BEEN HAMMERED TO BITS BY ARTILLERY BUT PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN IT. NO PIANO. ON TO CAPUA, NO PIANO. ON TO SANTA MARIA LA FOSSE, NO PIANO.

We weren't having much luck. I went into the Teatro Garibaldi hoping we might knock off the piano. As I entered I hear someone playing a splendid rendering of the Liszt Concerto. No. 2 in B Minor. The pianist was a young American sergeant. Outside again, I walked around a street market and (so my diary says) for some unknown reason I bought an aluminium washing basin. On the off chance I asked the old vendor if he knew where I could get a piano. Immediately he said, "Si, vengo qui domani alla mezzo giorno." I tell Lt.

Walker but he had already had a success, he too was to go to an address at two o'clock. We repaired to a restaurant.

Strange, the memories that exist for me from those days. The cities of the Campagnia seemed grey, dank, the streets permanently wet or muddy, the Italians looked drab. A sort of melancholia lay over the land. It didn't affect me, as I was by nature hyperthyroid and mindlessly happy, but I remember those atmospheres as though it were but yesterday.

Meantime Back at the Farm!

We hear tales of Mussolini holding out in Northern Italy.

"Wot can he do?" says Gunner White. "I mean he's what...sixty? He's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g this bird, wot's 'er name, Clara Petacci, he's got a few Iti 'erberts in black shirts on two-stroke motor bikes waving daggers on parades outside ruined Roman arches, wot's he think it's going to lead to? Hitler must have been off his nut to have him rescued."

"Well," said Arthur Tume philosophically, "Musso might 'ave owed him money."

There was a long pause, and then the surprised voice of Jack Shapiro chimes in.

"'Ere...I never thought of Hitler 'avin' money...I mean...does he ever have to go into a shop and say 'Ten Woodbines, and have you got change of a quid, and can I have a few shillings for the gas meter?'"

White says, "He has to 'ave his barnet cut, and the barber can't do it for nothin'...someone has to shack out for Hitler's haircuts."

"The German people pay for it," said Bombardier Deans.

"The German people???" Edgington laughed. "Haircuts only cost a couple of bob, how do you divide two bob between ninety-five million Krauts."

"They don't," continued Deans. "They take it in turns to pay."

"I wonder who's turn it is this week," said White.

"They never know," said Shapiro. "It's a reign of terror, they never know who's next to pay for Hitler's haircut." Here he stood and dramatised. "Suddenly, in the middle of the night, boom, boom, there's a knock on the door...and that's yer lot...the haircut payment squad are there."

"I suppose all the Jews left in Germany pray for Hitler to go bald then," said Milligan.

At two o'clock, we arrived at a house. Lt. Walker straightened his hat, and the reason why was soon revealed. A very pretty girl answered the door; from the truck I heard him speak in broken (broken? Shattered) Italian, he was full of smarmy smiling and head wagging, pulling out all the stops. Concluding, she bid him farewell and he lingered till the last view of her was obscured by the door.

"Very interesting, sir," I said as he returned. "But-the piano."

"Ah yes...the piano...we-er-have to collect that tomorrow," he said, looking dreamily ahead...the dirty little devil.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1943.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: THE PAGE IS BLANK. THE PAGE IS BLANK.

Why? Who knows? I usually made up my diary last thing at night, and I am almost sure what stopped me entering in it was an outbreak of Drooling my Spike Deans. I remember, it was late at night, we were in the garage billet, we had got our brazier going, two in fact, and several of us were seated around them, drinking our own brew-ups, and smoking.

[image]

Letter of the Day Some of the lads were already in bed, among the leaders was Gunner White. He was sitting up, smoking a dog-end and clutching a brown mug. The calm was broken by the entrance of L/Bombardier Deans, Jam-Jar Griffin and a few more p.i.s.s artists.

"Watch this," said Deans, removed his hat and very carefully aimed it at a distant point, then threw it; it landed anywhere, so we all wondered what we had watched it for.

"What were you aiming at, c.u.n.t?" said White.

"I was not aiming it at anything anything," said Deans, "it was just a display of joie de vivre joie de vivre."

"Joie de f.u.c.kin' vivre?" said White. "What's that?"

"Means, my dearest heart, joy of living."

"There's no f.u.c.kin' joy in livin'," was the immediate reply. Deans sat at the foot of White's bed.

"Darling," he said, "have you missed me?"...then grabbing White's feet through the blankets, said, "Who's little feetiepoos are these, eh?..."

White squirmed uneasily. "Geroff," he said.

Deans, still holding White's feet through the blanket, knelt.

"Ohhhh, dearest is upset, has someone upset my dearest whose little white feet I am holding through the counter-pane?"

"b.u.g.g.e.rorf," giggled White.

Deans moved his hands up to White's shins. "And whose little leggy poos are these, are they the ones my dearest has been dancing on all day on fields of daisies?"

Deans moves his hands up again to White's thighs.

"Go on, b.u.g.g.e.r orf," giggled White, who moved uneasily, but not enough to spill his tea, and in this, Deans knew he had White trapped. Nothing will make a gunner spill his Char, it was as predictable as the greedy monkey who couldn't get his food-filled fist back through the bars.

"Darling has been lonely without her diddums to love her, hasn't she?" Deans runs his hands Charles Boyer-like up the blankets on White's thighs.

A small group of interested spectators have gathered around the scene, Deans starts to ma.s.sage White's thighs, with White himself laughing and saying, "Someone get the b.u.g.g.e.r off."

"b.u.g.g.e.r off? You want your darling, who brings you romance on an Italian farm, to b.u.g.g.e.r off?...Tsu, tsu, tsu," then with a lightning move of the hand, Deans grabs White's cobblers. A great yell from White, who tries to escape and the whole bed collapses sideways to the floor, exposing White naked from the waist down. Deans lets out a horrified gasp, and lunges forward, his quivering finger pointing at White's Wedding Tackle.

"What's this? Ohhhh, while I've been away my darling has been unfaithful to me...."

There ended the romantic interlude.

I might say life wasn't all gaiety and laughter. Alf Fildes' diary of the time mentions: Boy am I browned off with this G.o.d-forsaken army. We have been here a week and still no recreation or trip to Naples. I've had four hours in Naples while others have had Boy am I browned off with this G.o.d-forsaken army. We have been here a week and still no recreation or trip to Naples. I've had four hours in Naples while others have had days. days. Doug [Kidgell] is there with the Scammells and some chaps with the guns, lucky devils, but I suppose money won't last long among those thieving b.l.o.o.d.y Italians, who are still charging four times the value of the goods. I'm sick and tired of this dragging war and dictatorship within this lousy tin-G.o.d ridden army. Give me peace or I'll go mad soon Doug [Kidgell] is there with the Scammells and some chaps with the guns, lucky devils, but I suppose money won't last long among those thieving b.l.o.o.d.y Italians, who are still charging four times the value of the goods. I'm sick and tired of this dragging war and dictatorship within this lousy tin-G.o.d ridden army. Give me peace or I'll go mad soon. [Soon? He was late. We were already there. S.M.] And what does this army do to try and cheer us up while the Yanks live in luxury at base kidding themselves they are winning the war and sitting pretty. The whole system stinks!!! And what does this army do to try and cheer us up while the Yanks live in luxury at base kidding themselves they are winning the war and sitting pretty. The whole system stinks!!!

There you have it. I wonder if Churchill knew all this?

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1943.