Spike: "That barr, when I seed him he dun growl, so Ahhh growls back, he leans ter the laift, so Ahh leans to the laift, he scratches his b.a.l.l.s, so Ahh scratch ma b.a.l.l.s...then that barrrrr dun a s.h.i.t, and I said Barrrr yew got me there...I dun that when I fust seed yew..."

A few more gags like that, then we all sing 'Ah Like Mountain Music', Fildes on the guitar, me and Edgington on ocarinas, Kidgell on the 'Rac.o.o.n's p.i.s.s' Jar. The music was interspersed with rhythmic spits and distant Dangsssss!!! in tempo, and we went off a treat.

"Gunner Shipman will now sing 'Shipmate of Mine'," announces Jam-Jar. "'Ees never seen a bleedin' ship," heckles a voice.

The curtain goes back to reveal Edgington at the piano in bare feet, dressed as a hillbilly. Shipman has a pleasant baritone voice inaudible in the low register; he insists on walking about as he sings, causing numerous clink-clanks from the stage. His song is frequently interrupted by hissed whispers from the wings, "Keep still." He stops in mid song to ask the voice what it is saying. "Keep still, the floor's squeaking when you walk about." He then continues except that his last position was on the extreme right of the stage, so we have a spectacle of a piano one side, an empty stage, and a singing gunner on the extreme right. He is well received.

Jock Webster follows with a series of h.o.a.ry old Scottish jokes. "Is anything worn under the kilt? Nai man! everything's in perfect working order," etc. etc.

To the great mock fight 'twixt Deans and Robinson. They appeared in Long Johns and plimsolls. They had been rehearsing this mock fight for a week, but it was all pointless, as in the first few moments Deans took a right hander to the chin that had him groggy, and from then on Robinson had to nurse him along. The crowd barracks, "Kill 'im...call a priest...send 'im 'ome..." The 'fight' went the whole distance and they were given an ovation, especially Deans who now had blood running down his chin. His parting remark, "You want blood, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, well, you got it."

Next, I and the mob in community singing. American officers were baffled by songs like: I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, Up her belly and down her back Up her belly and down her back In every hole and every crack In every hole and every crack I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her old tomater over and over again. I painted her old tomater over and over again.

It's BSM Griffin now, and he's had quite a skinful and does a conjuring act that to this day neither I nor anyone else understands. He He doesn't even remember it; he sat hidden under a blanket pushing cards out through the slit asking, "What is it?" A member of the audience would identify it: "Ace of Spades." He would take it back inside the blanket and from his obscurity say, "So it is." I think he got booed off, and seemed well pleased with it. doesn't even remember it; he sat hidden under a blanket pushing cards out through the slit asking, "What is it?" A member of the audience would identify it: "Ace of Spades." He would take it back inside the blanket and from his obscurity say, "So it is." I think he got booed off, and seemed well pleased with it.

Kidgell next, his old favourites, 'Sweet Mystery of Life', 'Drigo's Serenade'. He has a very good voice.

"He ought to have had it trained," said Edgington.

"To run errands," added Fildes.

Kidgell had announced himself, "I will sing songs you all know and love."

Voices of horror from the back. "Ohhhh Nooo."

When Doug had finished the same voice said, "I didn't love or know any of 'em."

Behind the stage Sid Carter has opened a few bottles of wine to celebrate the show going well.

"We should wait till the end really," he said, "but with this mob there might not be any b.l.o.o.d.y end."

Edgington is at the piano playing his own tunes with that grim b.l.o.o.d.y look on his face, as if he expected a shot to ring out from the audience. One of the notes went dead on him and he brought forth laughter whenever he came to the missing note, as he stood up and sang the note himself. Next, from Liverpool, we have a real 'Scouse', Joe Kearns. He tells lots of Liverpudlian jokes like "My owd man's got a gla.s.s eye, one night he swallowed it, he went to see the doctor, doctor said drop 'em, bend down, and he sees this gla.s.s eye lookin' at him out the back and he says, 'Wot's the matter, don't you trust me?'"

After him the Band are on again. We play a favourite of ours, 'Tangerine', and what in those days was a red-hot number, 'Watch the Birdie'. We didn't go that well because the boys had heard us so many times at dances. The Finale was a send-up of Major 'Jumbo' Jenkins in Command Post Follies, in which we took the p.i.s.s out of him in no uncertain fashion. He was fuming, but put a fixed grin on his silly face. We conclude with the cast singing 'Jogging Along to the Regimental Gallop' to the tune of Jenkins' own favourite, 'Whistling Rufus', and by G.o.d, we got a mighty ovation at the end.

The officers came backstage to congratulate us, and with consummate skill drink all our grog. We all got pretty tanked up; long after everyone had gone to bed Harry and I sat on the stage drinking and re-running the show. It had been a great night.

"Now what?" said Edgington.

Now what indeed.

BOXING DAY, DECEMBER 26, 1943.

News of Amalfi As if Christmas had not been wonderful enough-out of the line, dry beds, good grub, visits to Naples with free Venereal Disease!-we get more more good news. It was like hearing you'd won the Irish Sweepstake, the moment you'd just discovered Gold in your garden. We were in bed after our first concert when down the line came the message. The following personnel will proceed on four days' leave to the Amalfi AGRA Rest Camp, and lo! it's the Concert Party. good news. It was like hearing you'd won the Irish Sweepstake, the moment you'd just discovered Gold in your garden. We were in bed after our first concert when down the line came the message. The following personnel will proceed on four days' leave to the Amalfi AGRA Rest Camp, and lo! it's the Concert Party.

"Amalfi?" says Edgington, rearranging his cigarettes for the night. "What is an Amalfi? Amalfi?" says White.

"It sounds like a high-powered Iti motor car," says Edgington.

But I I, I, know-all/well-educated-Milligan tell them, "It's an Italian village that lies along the Divine Coast, south of Naples and south-east of Catford, 6,000 miles south-east of Catford I'm glad to say."

Amalfi? There must be some mistake!!! Gunners don't go to the Divine Coast, they only go to the karzi; but folks, it was all true!

9.30, MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943.

We were loaded on to our three-tonner, like merry cattle. We were all in cracking spirits; it was December 27, a crisp sunny morning, though Edgington is overcast, cloudy with rain on high ground.

"I had a drop too much last night," he said. "It was a mere thousand feet," he said, imitating W. C. Fields.

I continued in the same voice, "That's perfectly true, my dear, he was making love to Grace on a clifftop when suddenly he went over the side, that's how he fell from Grace." Groans!

From the back we were watching the column of military traffic going up the line, and in between the pitiful civilian transport. There were loads of pretty girls who came under fire from the tailboard. The cries ranged from "I can do you a power of good, me dear," to the less poetic "Me give you ten inches of pork sword, darlin'." It's strange none of the soldiers in Shakespeare talked like this. If Shakespeare had been in the army he would have sounded more like 'Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more-cor, look at those knockers-or fill this wall up with our English dead-grab "old of this, darlin'." We're travelling south down route six, along the line of a Roman Road.

"It's not the Via Appia," said Edgington, "but I have-ha, ha-never been 'appier." Groans. He pretends to hurl himself out of the lorry.

The roads were really a series of holes joined together; we spent the time yoyoing between the floor and the roof of the lorry. Sometimes to ease the jolting we hung on to the roof supports with feet off the floor, making monkey faces and scratching under the arms, all clever stuff. Edgington is demonstrating how he can hang by his insteps. We hit a b.u.mp, he goes straight down on his nut.

A few songs to alleviate the boredom.

I'll never forget the day I joined the Army on the spree, I'll never forget the day I joined the Army on the spree, To be a greasy gunner in the Royal Artillery. To be a greasy gunner in the Royal Artillery. For my heart is aching and a-breaking, For my heart is aching and a-breaking, To be in Civvy Street once more. To be in Civvy Street once more. Oh you ought to see the drivers on a Friday night Oh you ought to see the drivers on a Friday night A-polishing up their harness in the pale moonlight, A-polishing up their harness in the pale moonlight, For there's going to be inspection in the morning For there's going to be inspection in the morning And the Battery Sergeant Major will be there, And the Battery Sergeant Major will be there, He'll be there-he'll be there, In the little harness room across the square. He'll be there-he'll be there, In the little harness room across the square. And when they're filing out for water I'll be s.h.a.gging the Colonel's daughter And when they're filing out for water I'll be s.h.a.gging the Colonel's daughter In the little harness room across the square! In the little harness room across the square!

I'd come a long way since I was Altar Boy at St Saviour's Church, Brockley Rise. We are going through Capua at a speed that would have left Hannibal and his lads a long way behind. Driver Wilson has put a spurt on and we are being shook to b.u.g.g.e.ry. I clasp my legs.

"Ohhhhh."

"What's up?" says Edgington.

"Nothing-just practising."

On, on through Santa Maria, Afrigola, the outskirts of Naples. At the Piazza Dante we get out to stretch our legs and have a slash; we are besieged by Neapolitan Street-Urchins, 'Scunazziti', who sell everything from cigarettes to sisters. How could they ever lead normal lives after this? The square is a ma.s.s of lorries, jeeps and trucks, large numbers of soldiers drunk and otherwise are either arriving or leaving. The Americans are b.u.mptious. They have a great sense of humour, if you're about five.

"Come on, you lot, we're leavin'," Driver Wilson is yelling above the noise.

On to Amalfi! It's still a nice clear day but cold, the sun shines and bounces off the Gulf of Napoli. To our left looms Mount Vesuvius; white smoke drifts lazily from its crater.

"I wonder who's workin' the boiler room," says Griffin.

Jam-Jar Griffin! He was big, gawky, dark-haired, brown eyes, six foot, when unshaven always looked like the villain in the Mickey Mouse comics. I never saw him down, in fact he was far too often up, a great morale-booster. He had a huge pipe in which he never seemed to have any baccy. With the greatest guffaw I'd heard, which you could even hear above the guns, he was one of the real characters and therefore invaluable in the run of human affairs.

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Jam-Jar Griffin begging for tobacco on the Amalfi seafront.

We had been four hours on the truck, and travel boredom had set in. Lots of the lads were squatted on the floor, trying to doze, and only a few occasional words were heard.

"b.l.o.o.d.y lost, ain't we?" says Vic Nash. "Are we lost?" he shouts through the canvas to the driver.

"No, we're not b.l.o.o.d.y lost," is the reply. "Stop moanin' or I'll go into reverse."

"Is Amalfi in Italy," says Spike Deans, and looks at me.

"It is is in Italy and we must be nearly there." As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO. in Italy and we must be nearly there." As I speak we turn off the main Salerno road and lo! we are on a small coastal road with a sign saying AMALFI, MINORI POSITANO.

We all perk up, and the view from the back of the lorry starts to get beautiful, with the sea on the left and mountains to our right. We have many hairy moments trying to negotiate the numerous bends with loony Italian drivers coming the other way. Snuggled along this coast were small fishing villages that looked like those over-syrupy buildings in Disney cartoons, yet they were real. The war had been kind to this coast; the only sign of destruction was our lorry.

"Oh Christ, how much longer? Five b.l.o.o.d.y hours, you can fly from London to Moscow in that time."

A small squad of unshaven Carabinieri come marching along the narrow road; they are broken up by the pa.s.sing of our lorry. They reform and continue marching smartly out of step.

The lorry is stopping! AMALFI! Cheers! We pull up on the seafront, opposite is a large barrack-like building. A freshly-painted white sign says '2 AGRA Rest Camp'. The whole village is built on steps that ascend up the mountains; the buildings are a mixture of white, sky blue, pink and deep blue; down the centre of the village runs a stream. I could see the odd lady doing her laundry in it and several small boys doing other things in it. The whole place has architectutal maturity; there are numerous creepers and vines growing in profusion on the walls and balconies. In summer it must be a riot of flowers, right now it's a riot of gunners, there is a scramble as we dash for the best beds (if any); a Bombardier, all Base Depot smartness personified, says, "Follow me, 19 Battery Personnel."

ALF FILDES' DIARY: ALF FILDES' DIARY: ... ...Great! Tablecloths, writing and leisure room, laundry facilities, barbers and SPRING BEDS! in the dormitories. No Roll-Calls! Breakfast from 7-30 to 8.30.

We were on the third floor in a dormitory of about thirty beds. No pictures, no curtains, no chairs, just beds. Edging-ton is testing his by his usual method, ten paces back, a run, then hurl yourself on.

"Seems alright," he said.

A 'resident' says that the grub here was 'not so good', but there were 'plenty of cafes in the town'. We dump our kit and make for outside. There is a great echoing thumping sound as we 'last one down's an idiot' down the stone steps.

The town sloped up the hill from the waterfront. Running along the flanking hills were the remains of fortified walls and crumbling turrets, an echo of the days when the Moors raided the coast. What was unusual was a large Basilica almost on the beach and, more wondrous, sculptures by Michelangelo; an even more important work of art was a sign with the magic words 'Eggs and chips'. I remember so well that sheer magnificence of smelling food being prepared continental-style, be it only eggs and chips! Through the Amalfi Amalfi cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us! cafe window the sun shone; it was a great feeling, being safe, eating food off plates, and four days of it ahead of us!

"I'd forgotten what it was like to feel happy," said Edging-ton, as he poked his victuals in.

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We had wandered around Amalfi, bought postcards, walked up and down the seafront, tried to chat the Signorinas, no dice. I thought perhaps when I said 'Me Roman Catholic' it might break the ice, but no. I tried "Me Protestant, me Jewish." Nothing.

Chalky White looms up from behind the sea wall.

"I been sunbathin'," he is saying. "What s.a.d.i.s.t sent us to the seaside in December?"

It's late evening, nightlife consists of going to bed. We troop back to the leisure room to play darts. Dinner is bully beef stew, it's not bad, but somehow eating bully beef in Amalfi is like ordering beans on toast at Maxim's. We are restless, so decide to go for a stroll. It's dark, in the distance we can hear Ack-Ack, G.o.d knows where from. It's a reminder of what we have to go back to. We walked up the steps that ran alongside the stream, and ascended slowly until we reach a cafe. We entered a small room full of soldiers drinking. Alf and I sat down and ordered a couple of brandies; the room was blue with cigarette smoke. A fat-bottomed girl was carrying the drinks to the table, and those whose bottom brushed them seemed well favoured. One drunk was singing self-indulgent songs, 'My Mother's Birthday' or some such c.r.a.p. Ah! the fat bottom is approaching us, she has a lovely plump smiling face, with brown eyes as large as walnuts and glistening like oiled olives. She smiles, places our gla.s.ses before us. "Signore," she utters. "Corrrrr," we utter.

"Lets go," said Alf. We picked our way down the steps, no sound save the cascading water running down to the sea. Most of the lads were in bed except! Edgington, he's writing Peg one of his letters. That could mean a three-hour stint ending with swollen b.a.l.l.s. I just fell into the bed. Springs! Marvellous. Black out. Zzzzzzz.

DECEMBER 28, 1943.

I am roused in the early hours, bitten to death, my bed alive with bugs. I am worried about getting typhus. I report it to the duty Bombardier, he's nonplussed.

"Why you and no one else?" he says.

"Yes, why why me and no one else,". I said. With my clothes off I looked like I'd been sandpapered. I reported to the MO, a 45-year-old Base Depot drunk recovering from last night's p.i.s.s-up. With eyes like smoked gla.s.s windows he examines me and says with authority, "You have been bitten by something." me and no one else,". I said. With my clothes off I looked like I'd been sandpapered. I reported to the MO, a 45-year-old Base Depot drunk recovering from last night's p.i.s.s-up. With eyes like smoked gla.s.s windows he examines me and says with authority, "You have been bitten by something."

"Have I?" I said.

"Have you had a typhus injection?"

"Yes," I said very quickly.

"Good," he said. He wrote me a prescription for a bottle of camomile mixture.

"Have a good shower," said the Orderly, "then rub this on."

I retired to the showers. They're ice cold, aren't they!, my screams ring through the building. Covered in pink liquid I dress and join the lads in the rest room. Alf Fildes and I decide to look around the shops; he has already been around and been accosted by two girls who called him 'h.e.l.lo Baby'. I thought he looked older. My face a ma.s.s of red blotches, Fildes and I appraised the goods in the windows.

"What b.l.o.o.d.y prices," he moaned.

I was flat broke and living on money borrowed from Edgington, who in turn was living on money borrowed from Vic Nash. It did not deter me from going into the shops just to chat up the shopgirls, all of whom look ravishingly beautiful. We returned to the billets for lunch, an indifferent affair of stew, potatoes, bread, rice pudding, and tea. It tasted best if you mixed the lot together. Still it went down, and you could hear the crash.

"Now what?" says Edgington as we wash our dixies.

"The Ballet? The Opera? Or pontoon al fresco?"

"We're only here for four days, we must act quickly."

"Alright, Hamlet in four seconds!"

The billet notice-board recommended a visit to Ravello. This was at the top of the hill directly above Amalfi, so the gang of us set off, Spike Deans, Harry Edgington, Jam-Jar Griffin, Geo. Shipman, Alf Fildes, Reg Bennett and Ken Carter.

"They say it's very nice up there," says Ken Carter.

"It's a long way to the top," says the Billet Bombardier.

We start walking. The afternoon was bright, with slight haze out to sea. As we ascended I observed profusions of semi-tropical plants growing from the slopes; there were even small Alpine-type flowers growing amid rocks; gradually the view unfolded on to the sea and the Divine Coast; it was superb.

"They say that when an Amalfian dies and goes to heaven, it's just another day to them," spoke Spike Deans.

"Wot if he goes to h.e.l.l?" guffaws Jam-Jar.

"Well, you'd be able to welcome 'em in, tell 'em one of your sc.r.a.ppy jokes and they'd know the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l we've we've bin suffering from with you!" says Edgington. bin suffering from with you!" says Edgington.

Jam-Jar reacts. "Listen, pudden! Where I come from they think I'm in the Noel Coward cla.s.s."

There is an explosion of disbelieving laughter. He tries to retain his dignity by shouting above it.

"I've sung in D'Oyly Carte."

"You never even sung in a f.u.c.kin' dustcart," says Gunner Nash.