“Luk herrre, Spike, no fuckerrr everrr got anywherrrre being a fucking runerrrr.”
How wrong he was, what about Jesse Owens, Sidney Wooderson?
“Who the fuck are they mon?”
He wasn’t that thick. A heavy smoker, well on his way to lung cancer, he was forever on the earole for fags and, here’s the cunning of the man, if you didn’t give him one he would stand beside you and howl like a wolf. In any well-ordered society he would have been taken away, but in this camp he was considered normal. He could be pinpointed, suddenly, as from some distant tent came unearthly howling.
Captain Peters once asked: “What is that?”
I told him, “Private Andrews.”
“Oh, he’s phnut! very good at it,” said Peters, who wasn’t too bad at it himself.
We now have a 15cwt truck and driver. He is private Jim Brockenbrow. His father had been a POW in World War I, stayed in England and married a lass from Mousehole. The fruit of that union, now known as that ‘square-headed bastard’, he would defend his Teutonic ancestry with a Cornish accent.
“Luk’ere, them Germans hain’t bad fellas, it’s them bluddy Narzees that’s the narsty buggerrrss.”
Andrews will have none of it. “Listen Jamie, the fuckin’ Germans are fitin’ on the same side as the fuckin’ Nazis.”
“Oo arr, but them’s not memburs o’ the Narzee party.”
“Awa fuckin’ hame, there’s nay fuckin’ difference, they all shute tae kill, that’s why I’m fuckin’ herrrre.”
He had a point. Poor Brockenbrow, they ragged him stupid. “‘ere ‘itler, take this package to Town Major Portici, don’t give it to Goebbels on the way.”
Photo of office personnel
* this man is now in South Africa somewhere
Daily Life in the Camp
Reveille at 0700,
Roll call at 0730,
Breakfast at 0800.
Parade 0915,
Sick Parade and Defaulters 1000.
Everything was organized. We had typewriters, filing cabinets, inter-camp phones, electric light, but no mangle.
I was having recurring bouts of depression, just suddenly black, black gloom. I was missing the Battery. I wrote what must have been an embarrassing letter to the CO. Major Jenkins. It was snivelling and grovelling, asking to be forgiven for failing in the action at Colle Dimiano; would he give me another chance, anything, I’d do anything to come back. I’d go insane if I stayed here. It demanded a reply if only on humanitarian grounds. He never replied. He was an officer and a gentleman, so fuck him, but, he was a good soldier and a pain in the arse…all over.
It’s a nice morning. I’m in the office sipping tea I’ve brought from breakfast. A new intake arrives, a big batch, over a hundred. Bronx and I are documenting them. “Next, please,” I say in my cheer-up-chum voice, and there was Lance Bombardier Reg Bennett from our North Africa concert party. He bursts into tears. “Don’t cry, Reg, there’s a drought on.” An attempt to joke him out of it. He’s from the 74 Mediums, a sister regiment. The Americans had bombed his position on the terrible day of the Monastery disaster. “We were bloody miles away, but bloody miles from the Monastery. Why me? Do I look like a Monastery?” His friends had been killed and wounded, and it had done for him.
Now he disagrees with my version of our meeting. He says:
“I came to the camp and you weren’t in the office when I came through. I was in the camp two days, and I was going out of my mind with depression and boredom when one day I heard the sound of a trumpet coming from a tent. I thought, Christ, it’s Spike. I came over, threw back the tent flap and there you were laying on the bed blowing your bugle. I remember putting my mess tins full of dinner down to shake hands with you.”
If, after forty years, our stories differ so much, how many changes has the Bible gone through? Did Jesus meet Paul on the road to Damascus or was it Lance Bombardier Bennett?
“I thought I heard you playing the trumpet, Jesus.”
“No,” says Jesus, “that was Milligan. You haven’t seen Bombardier Bennett, around, have you?”
Reg was in a bad way, tense and lachrymose. I took him down town in the evening and we sat in a Vino Bar drinking white wine. Of an evening, the people of Baiano emptied out on to the streets and sat in little groups at their doors, mothers, fathers, children, uncles, aunts, all chatting away, laughing or lamenting the state of the world. Like we watch ‘Dallas’, the Italians watched German air-raids over Naples, cheering when some Jerry plane was hit and the pilot was having his arse burnt off, or parachuting into the Bay of Naples to die of typhoid.
We became friendly with one Franco and his family. He was a shoe salesman in Naples, forty, excused war duties because of ill health, though when I met his giant wife and six kids I couldn’t see the reason. She had bosoms like the London Planetarium and was feeding not only her own baby, but wet nursing her neighbours’.
We are invited to partake of the meagre fare. (The last meagre fare I had was a cheap day return to Brockley: Groucho Marx.) Mussels! All bigger than mine. And garlic, phew! Franco’s brothers are musicians; they play the mandolin and guitar. I thought they’d like to hear some jazz, so I strummed and sang ‘When my sugar walks down the street’. They asked for a translation which was ‘Quando mia sucro passegiare fondo la strada, tutti i piccoli ucelli andato tweet tweet tweet’ or, “When my sugar ration walks down the street, it is attended by little birds going tweet tweet tweet.” They liked my Players cigarettes. In exchange they offer me the local Italian brand. I forget the name, I think it was Il Crap.
The village had its resident tart who traded on the outskirts of the town. Her pimp stood outside and shouted: “Thees way, twenty cigarette you fuck-a my seester.”
“Sister?” said Bronx. “She looks more like his grand-mother.”
“I think for twenty fags he’d let you fuck ‘im,” says Rogers.
Romance One
It was in the New Army Welfare Rest and Recreation Centre, a large rambling Victorian affair at the top of the village, that I found…romance! I had never myself ever had a large rambling Victorian affair, but now, one of the Italian girls serving at the tea bar takes my eye. Arghhh! You’ve heard of Mars Bars? Forget ‘em. She’s a ringer for Sophia Loren but six inches shorter and six inches further out. Troubles never come singly, and neither did hers. She likes me, can I have tea with her? There is a smell of burning hairs. I said yes from the waist down. 4 o’clock tomorrow? Si!
I spent all day getting ready. Finally I apply Anzora hair goo and finger-wave my hair. I look lovely. I ‘borrow’ the jeep and drive to the address. What’s this? A magnificent Romano-Greek styled villa; it must be wrong, no, it’s right. I drive up the circular drive through embossed iron gates. The great double door: I gently bang the brass hand-shaped knocker. I’ve only just arrived and there I am with my hand on her knocker.
A suave white-coated grey-haired flunkey opens the door: “Ah meester Meeligan.” He knows my real title! “Please come in, the Contessa is waiting.” Contessa? I follow him down a cool marble-floored hall, the walls hung with oil paintings broken by wall consoles. He opens the door into a large gasping-with-light room. The decor is Louis XVI with Baroque gilt furniture. She’ is sitting against the far wall on a buttoned couch, a fine white cotton dress to the knee (Arghhhhhhh!) brown satin legs (Arghhhh!) fine topless sandals cross laced up her leg (Arghhhhhhhhh!). Her hair is loose on her shoulder (Arrrrghh!), in her hand she holds an Arum lily that she is waving under her nose (Arghhhhhhhhhhh!) She has been practising this all day. I take off my hat to show her my fine Anzora goo hair-set stuck with flies. “Hello and arghhhhhhh,” I say. “Seet here,” she says. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She pats the Louis XIV couch to which I lower my Milligan trousers. It’s all too much. She speaks in slow purring tones. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She is very laid back or is it that I’m leaning forward. She asks me what ‘Spike’ means. I tell her, I mean business. Her family goes back six hundred years, where do mine g
o back to? I tell her they go back to 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley. Tea is served on a silver service — how many spoons can I get in my pocket? I ask her where her parents are; they are stopping at Eboli. I tell her I will stop at nothing. Yes, she is a Countess. Have I ever been to Eboli? No, I have been to Penge, Sidcup, but not to Eboli. She has heard me tinkering on the piano at the Centre, she likes jazz, will I play her piano? I bluff my way through ‘A Foggy Day in London town’. She claps her hands. “Whatees that?” I tell her: “It’s a piano, don’t you remember, you asked me to play it.” The flunkey arrives, it’s time for me to depart, la Contessa has another appointment. Blast. “Can you come see me again?” Yes I can, but can we try a different room next time. I shake hands. It’s like a cool perfumed sponge cake. (Arggggggggg!)
I’m back at camp lying on my bed smoking, nay steaming, thinking of her. I am besieged with military questions: “Did I get it?” No I didn’t. How far did I get? The piano. What is it about the British soldier? He will knock off a German machine-gun nest single-handed and never say a word about it, but if he knocks off some poor innocent scrubber, he gives you every little nitty gritty detail. I don’t get it, as in this case I didn’t.
I’ve caught it. Wait. You don’t catch bronchitis. I mean you don’t chase it up the street with a butterfly net. No. Bronchitis catches you. So, a bronchitis had caught me. It was suffering from me very badly, I had given the poor thing a high temperature, so I had to get my bronchitis to a hospital. No. 104 General at Nocera. Bingo! You’ve won the Golden Enema! Another ward, blue jim-jams, female nurses, and mossy nets to stop them dive-bombing. That night I was delirious, but people couldn’t tell the difference.
April 13
Diary:
Feeling better. Wrote to mother giving list of my post-war underwear stock.
I go on record that April 16 is my birthday.
“Given extra medicine as a treat.”
Now dear reader, mystery.
April 21
Diary:
“Bert says his leg is getting better.”
Now I don’t remember Bert or his leg. So, if nothing else, the reader will know that on April 21 1944, Bert’s leg is getting better. By now I’d say it was totally better and he’s snuffed it.
My bronchitis is better and I can take it back to camp.
Necrophiles
Outside our camp was the walled cemetery. Alas! the grounds are overgrown with wartime neglect or is it grass? Latins lavish more attention and emotion on their dead than we do. Every headstone has a photograph of the departed. What was ghoulishly interesting were the wall graves, immured with a glass panel to show the departed. One was stunningly macabre: the body of a girl of eighteen buried in 1879 in her bridal gown. The hair was red and had grown after death, as had her fingernails, filling the space like Indian candy floss. The headstones abound with grisly warnings: “As I am now, so will you be.” Why does the church allow these nasty after-death threats? Why not go the whole hog?
EARLY MORNING VATICAN RADIO
HIGH PRIEST:
Hi ya, this is Vatican Radio PIP PIP PIP. Yes, it’s nine thirty-one, another moment nearer your death, Byeeeeeeee.
Nasty things are happening — some of the loonies are digging up the graves, or breaking the glass and knocking off the rings. (In the case of bankruptcy break glass?) Jock Rogers is horrified. “Och, this’ll get us a terrible name.” Terrible name? How about Tom Crabs or Doris Herpes? Dick Scratcher?
Private Andrews is more suspicious. “They’re fuckin’ the stiffs.” Surely not. “Aye, they’re not after the jewellery, they’re after a fuck.” It wasn’t so, but we didn’t want to spoil Andrews’ fun. He was an argumentative bugger, especially on sport. He was a fitba’ freak and when he found I liked rugby, gave me hell.
“It’s fer bleedin’ snobs Jamie, and that ball, like a bloody duck’s egg, no wonder you ha’ to carry the bloody thing.”
I still wasn’t a well person. In May I had three bad depressions. I had heard via the grapevine that some of my mates from 19 Battery were having leave at Amalfi, just an hour up the road. I asked ‘Trickcyclist’ if I could go and see them, but he said no, we were not to leave the confines of Baiano. It was nonsense. Now I realize I could have gone and taken the quinciquonces. Depressed by the decision, I went straight out, got smashed, came back late, got into the Nissen hut, bolted the door, went on drinking and shouted abuse. Finally I cut my face with a razor blade then fell asleep, all done for effect, a cri de coeur. They broke down the door and took me to the sick bay. When I awoke, Private Shepherd gave me some pills that sent me off again. His exact words were: “Take these yer daft bugger.” However a letter written at the time showed me to be quite lucid.
* * *
ED: Transcribed faithfully including error. Added some spaces to improve reflowability.
MY DEAR DAD,
SORRY TO HAVE DELAYED IN ANWERING YOUR LAST LETTER, BUT WORK IN THIS OFFICE IS HANDS HIGH. I NEARLY DROPPED DOWN WITH SHOCK WHEN YOU TOLD ME THAT DES WAS NOW IN THE ULSTER RIFLES, UO TO THEN I HAD NO IDEA HE AS EVEN ON THE VERGE OF JOINING THE ARME…BUT INFANTRY, THATS NO JOKE, BELIVE ME, IN THIS THEATERE THE INFANTRY GET ALL THE MUCK, KNOWING DESMONDS PSYCHOLOGICAL CHARACTER AS I DO IT IS OBVIOUS HE WILL NEVER STICK IT, IF HE COMES OUT HERE I WILL MAKE IT MY DUTY TO CLAIM HIM, PRETTY SHARP. AS YOU ALREADY KNOW I AM NOW DOWNGRADED TO BI, FOR THE DURATION, THAT MEANS MY RETURN TO ENGLAND IN ONE PIECE IS ENSURED. STILL IVE DONE MY BIT, IVE NEVER S[XXXX] MY DUTY, I WOULD STILL BE UP THERE NOW, BUT THAT SHELL BURST SO CLOSE THAT IT DID MOTE DAMAGE TO MY NERVOUS SYSTEM THAN MY PSYSICAL SELF.STILL IM GETTING BETTER NOW,BUT STILL SUFFER FROM DEPRESSIONS,WHICH MAKE ME UNBEARABLE AS A COMPANION. TIME IS THE ONLY DOCTOR,AND OF COURSE MYSELF.WELL DAD HOW IS THE OLD WAR HORSE, I WAS DISAPOINTED TO HEAR THAT YOU BOOK COULD NOT BE PRINTED, THE SHORTAGE OF PAPER YOU SAY, IS IT A BOOK THAT WILL KEEP POST WAR ? OR IS IT A MOOD OF THE MOMENT? GIVE ME A FEW MORE DETAILS, ABOUT SAME. LILY WRITES REGULAR,AND SO DO ALL MY FRIENDS. I HAVE LEARNT A LITTLE ITALIAN,AND CAN CARRY ON A REASONABLE CONVERSATION WITH THE LOCAL NATIVES…ALL ITALIANS CAN SING, KIDS, GRANDMONTHERS, FATHERS, DUSTMEN, ALL SING. I HAVE BEEN TO SOME FIRST CLASS OPERAS SINCE BEING BASE DEPORTED, AND THEY WERE TRULY MAGNIFIQUE MON PERE. THE FOOD IS VERY GOOD IN THIS CAMP EGGS FOR BREAKFAST EVERY DAY, A CINEMA NEAR BY, A SMALL SWIMING POOL, AND A CANTEEN WHICH IS LOCATED IN A LOVELY VILLA, ADJOINING A GARDEN, IN THIS GARDEN A RATHER ATRACTIVE BAND PLAY ITALIAN FOLK MUSIC DURING THE EVENINGS, IT IS VERY PLEASENT. THERE IS ALSO A QUITE ROOM WHERE ONE CAN WRIT, STUDY ECT.A TRAIN SERVICE IS AVAILABLE TO BIG TOWNS, AND TRAVELLING ON ONE OF THESE IS A REAL EXPERIENCE, EVERY ONE TALKS ALOUD SINGS FIGHTS AND IF THE ROOM IS FULL, THEY JUST HANG ON THE OUTSIDE,ALL VERY UNSTAID AS COMPARED WITH ENGLISH TRAVEL. TAKEN ON THE WHOLE ITALY IS VERY VERY ATTRACTIVE, THE DIVINE COAST FOR INSTANCE
A STRETCH OF COAST FORM SALERNO TO SORRENTO, THER IS SCENERY THAT HAS INSPIRED POETS PAINTERS MUSICIANS FOR CENTURIES, IT IS STEEPED IN HISTORY, I HAVE RECORDED MANY INTERESTING FACT ABOUT THESE QUAINT PLACES I HAVE VISITED, DURING MY LEAVE PERIODS IN THIS COUNTRY,MY POST CARD COLLECTION IS NOW ENOURMOUS, I’M SURE YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO SEE MY COLLECTION. I HAVE ALSO MANAGED TO OBTAIN A PIECE OF MOSAIC FROM ONE OF THE VILLAS IN RUINED POMPEII.
(AT THIS STAGE YOU MUST EXCUSE THE ERRATIC SPACING BUT THIS MISSIVE HAS BEEN REMOVED FROM THE TYPEWRITE TO ALLOW THE DISPATCHES OF WAR TO TAKE PRECEDENCE), ANY HOW POMPEII…I SPENT THREE DAYS OF MY FOUR DAY LEAVE IN THIS ENCHANTING TOWN OF YESTERYEAR, I TOOK PARTICULAR NOTE OF THE ARCHETICTURE ARCITECTURE OF THAT IDOM, AND STRANGE TO SAY THE COUNTRY BUILDINGS OF TO DAY( IN ITALY 0 ARE DEFINATELY A PROTOTYPE, OF POMPEII’S VILLAS. THE FARMERS OUT HERE ARE MASTERS OF THEIR CRAFT, STILL EMPLOYING METHODS CONSIDERED ANCIENT BY OUR STANDARDS, BUT NEVER THE LESS PRODUCING THE SAME FULL HARVEST. THE LATINS ARE NOT LIVING A LIFE BASEDON THE GLORIFICATION IN MY PAST FEW LINES ..ON THE CONTRARY, I SHOULD SAY BY MERE OPTICAL DEDUCTION, THAT 30 % OF ITALIAN FAMILIES ARE BARELY EXISTING. THE REST LIVE ON EITHER BLACK MARKET, THEIR WITS, OR WORKIN
G FOR THE ANGLO-AMERICAN FORCE. I AHVE A REALLY GOOD FRIENDIN THE LOCAL TOWN.. HE IS A FAMILY MAN, A CHARMING AND FAITHFUL WIFE(A RARITY IN ENGLAND) AND 5 BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN, ONE OF WHICH (ANNA BY NAME) I AM VERY MUCH ATTACHED TOO, SHE IS 5 YEARS OF AGE, A TYPICAL LATIN/ BROWN EYES THAT HAVE PATHOS, SINCERETY, WARMTH AND ALL THAT FO TO MAKE THE FEATURES WORTHY OF THEIR ROMAN ANCESTORS, FRANCE HAS 3 BROTHERS, ALL THINK THE WORLD OF ME, THEY ARE MUSICAL, EACH BEING A COMPETENT SOLOIST ON THE GUITAR, I SPEND EVERY EVENING AT THEIR HOME, WITH THE TRADITONAL VINO BLANCA (WHITE WINE) AND FRUIT THAT WOULD DRIVE AN ENGLISH HOUSE WIFE OFF HER HEAD WITH JOY. WELL DAD YOU HAVE HEARDENOUGH FOR TO NIGHT(THE CANDLE IS RUNNING LOW) I MUST FINI POURA SA SARA. ARE FER TEACHI(SEEIN YA)
YOUR AFFECTIONATE SON
TERRY.
P.S. PLEASE PASS THIS LETTER ON TO MUM.
T.M.
* * *
A stream that runs through the camp has been dammed and a swimming hole is the result. I will recount an incident with one of the more advanced loonies. ‘Tis evening, and Milligan takes to the waters; there approaches a loony. The conversation I remember almost to the word.
Memoires 05 (1985) - Where Have All The Bullets Gone Page 3