Casorta — Palazzo Reale — Scalone (prospetto)
The sound of a dance band wafts through the corridors. A girl is singing ‘I was taken for a sleigh ride in July’. It sounds good. What a surprise! It’s an all-American all-girl orchestra led by (it was a well-known name but I can’t remember!) -some of you may remember, their signature tune was ‘In the Blue of the Evening’ or, if you’re colour blind, the Brown of the Evening. They are all dressed in ice-white gowns looking like all-American women. Vestal virgins, hygienically wrapped, untouched by human hand, about to be debased in a TV series called Dysentery.
Such a cosmopolitan crowd! Greek sailors, Polish colonels, Yugoslavian partisans, Italian generals, Hindu captains, or as my father would say, a bunch of Wogs. Oh! the fun a xenophobe could have had with a shot gun! “Who’s paying for all this?” said Steve, as we raped the buffet table of food and wine.
I manage to get an American WAC. “Do you like waltzes?”
I asked, avoiding ‘Harry Lauder appeared in Glasgow’ routine. “Nhart Rilly,” she said. (Not Really, she said.)
“Where are you from?”
“The Yewknighted Staits.”
I guessed that, I said. Then why did I ask? She works as a ‘Clurk to Generil Muark Clurk’. I estimated her typing speeds would be anything up to several words a day. A Pakistani orderly cuts in. Just wait till she sees his, I thought.
“We’re supposed to be having a good time,” said Steve, guzzling Asti Spumante.
“Yes, I suppose this is a good time,” I said, guzzling Asti Spumante.
“Are you suggesting it could be better,” he said, guzzling Asti Spumante.
“Well it would be nice if we could find a couple of birds,” I said, guzzling Asti Spumante. “What I need is Romanceeeee.” And what do I get? — a Yewish Sergeant and Asti Spumante!
We bustle our way out to the rear gardens. There is a sea of tables with candles. We choose one and Asti Spumante. It’s a warm May night, the sound of the fountains is interwoven with the dance music. Lewis dumps a large jug of wine on the table. “Reinforcements,” he says. I have run out of money again. Would Steve give me a mortgage on my parents? We take a stroll on the great lawns. “It’s all mad, isn’t it?” says Steve. “I mean we don’t belong here. This,” he makes a sweeping gesture, “this is where the Bourbons and their satin ladies should be cavorting.”
He was right. “We are out of time with this place,” I said. “We belong at the WVS with Egg and Chips.”
There we are, wiping the eggs from the plate with bread in the canteen with the Italian Manageress with the huge bum. It ought to be in The Guinness Book of Records, but right now it’s in Caserta. “Two teas, signorina,” says Steve. I light up a cigarette, sip tea. We both sit staring, that end-of-the-day stare. You see it in pubs, tubes, restaurants, intervals at the theatre; always looking away from the company you’re in; something out there that will make the present more exciting? Curiosity killed the cat? It may have found a better cat. My watch says V-E night plus one is over, and we are in tomorrow. My God, it’s all going to happen again. I rise from my seat, clutch the air and moan. “The filessss, the filessss.”
“Yes,” said Steve, “it’s time for beddy-byes so you’ll be a nice strong boy for your filing.”
I put on my beret, that bloody awful new beret! They had taken our forage caps from us and given us a thing that looked like a pudden cloth, or something that Auntie Rita wore to visit the Geriatric Ward. No matter how you wore it, it looked like a cow pat stuck on your head, about to slide off down your face.
The passion wagon drops us at Alexander Barracks. The roistering is in full flood and sounds like a farmyard on fire. One last drink, my friend.
“Ahhh Terence!” It’s Colonel Startling Grope. “Where have you been hiding these last two days?”
I tell him. “In my beret, Stanley Sir.” Come on, have a Strega with him.
“Cheers Terence!” He holds up the yellow liquid. “It’s all over.” He was right, most of it went over him.
The night died like a beheaded chicken; long after the head was off, the body went on dancing. I lay in bed, the distant sound of the CPA dance band echoing up the stairs…
Peace
To the victor the spoils. My spoils are a set of files. Big News! Startling Grope is leaving us.
“I’m being bowler-hatted,” he said. (I thought he would have been brown-hatted.) “I leave next week, Terence, and,” he tapped his nose, it stayed on, “I’ve left you a little present.”
Me? A present? What is it, a pot of Gentlemen’s Relish? A Unique Device with latent Screws? A Germolene dispenser? A leather-backed Divining Kit, a complete set of Marsh-mallows, a Devious Appliance with lubricating points? Any of these could be mine!
“Who’s taking your place here, Stanley Sir?”
“Nobody.”
“Well that doesn’t speak very well of you.”
“The job is being run down, Terence.”
“It was more than run down, it’s down right crummy.”
So departed the Colonel, and the pretty boys of O2E breathed a sigh of relief. Bending down would never be as dangerous again.
The Great Neapolitan Band Contest
56 Area are holding a Dance Band Contest. We’ll wipe the floor with ‘em. FIRST PRIZE FOR SUPERB LEAD AND SOLO TRUMPET, GUNNER MILLIGAN. We congregate in the rehearsal room. What to play?
“What’s wrong with Dinah?” says Manning.
“Rheumatism,” is the answer. We choose ‘Moonlight Serenade’, ‘Two O’clock Jump’ and ‘The Naughty Waltz’.
“You see! Those numbers will lose us the contest,” predicts Jim, one of the first people in 1939 to say “The war will be over by Christmas.” We practise and practise, every note and nuance is observed, we even play the specks of fly shit that land on the music. Nothing is wasted.
We want to wear just shirts and trousers. Major New won’t hear of it: “This is a military occasion, and you will look regimental.” OK, we can wear steel helmets, full pack, and play in the kneeling loading position; then while half of the band play ‘Moonlight Serenade’, the other half dig slit trenches; in ‘One O’clock Jump’ we can all fix bayonets and charge the judges; and finally, in ‘The Naughty Waltz’ we’ll all crawl along the stage and lob grenades at the audience.
The time is come. Backstage, musicians with extra Brylcreem in their dressing-rooms, playing scales, octaves or cards. Major New announces the draw. “We’re on first.” Groans.
“I told you we’ll ‘ave no luck with those fuckin’ numbers,” says Manning.
“It’s Kismet,” I said.
“What?”
“Kismet, that’s what Nelson said to Hardy.”
“I thought it was Kiss Me Hardy.”
No, that was Stan Laurel, that’s the popular version, you’re very popular if you quote that version.
“U lot better get on,” says a snotty-nosed Base Depot Sergeant, one of those cringing acolytes that has always got extra fags and chocolates in their locker, a housey-housey concession, never lends money, and has never been nearer than a hundred miles to the front line.
* * *
Dance band contest gets away on the down beat
An innovation in Naples entertainment was the 56 Area Welfare Services’ Dance Band Competition, ath the Belini Theatre on Sunday. It was a big success, bith as an interesting competition and as a well staged show.
Each of the eight bands had a strong following.
The bands were called upon to play a slow fox-trot, a modern walz and a quick-step as competition peaces. This gave scope for sweet music as well as swing, and generally the standard of playing was very high.
Marks were awarded for intonation, tempo, phrasing and attack, and ensemble---and thought these finer points were perhaps above a large part of the audience, there seemed common concurrence with the judges’ decisions .
The first band on the stage was G.H.Q. O2E, led by Sjt. Stan Brittin,
and it achieved the difficult task of building up the right atmosphere and setting the feet of the audience tapping. There followed:-——
‘F’ Section, 16 Base Workshops (leader Cfn. Jack Sheldon); The Pionians, 333 (A) Company, Pioneer Corps (Hans Tischard); 5 Assembly Wing, Type A I.R.T.D. (Sjt Reg Service); 8 Petrol Depot, R.A.S.C. (Pte. Jack Curtiss); 5 Bn., No. 1 G.R.T.D. (Pte. Eddie Williams); 113 M.U., R.A.F. (L.A.C. Lee Underwood); and ‘J’ Section, 750 Base Workshops R.E.M.E. (Cln. Mock Loveday)
Lieut. T.T. Short, 56 Area’s producer, swa to it that there was no delay in changing bands, and the whole show went [text faded…]
for the job, were Lieut. Eddie Carrol, the B.B.C. dance band leader, Lieut. ‘Spike’ McIntosh, well-known locally as a trumpeter and Ensa’s C.M.F. Publicity Officer, and F.-O. Laurie Blewis, producer of M.C.A.F. entertainments.
Three bands---5 Assembly Wing, I.R.T.D.l 113 M.U., R.A.F.; and 16 base Workshops pass into the semi-final to be held in Sunday, June 10, for dancing in the ball-room at the Royal Palace Naafi. It will begin at 1900 hrs.
The judges added that O2E were close runners-up. As opening band they had perhaps been handicapped but the order of playing had gbeen decided by draw.
Individual awards were:---113 M.U. R.A.F. Cpl. Dennis Jones (tenor sax); and Cpl. Dennis Jones (tenor sax); and Cpl. Eric Chapman (trumpet). 5 Assembly Wing, L.-Cpl. H. Burn, section leader (trumpet), 5 B_ G.R.T.D., Pte. Eddy Williams (piano), and Pte. Sid Grainger (drums). 8 Petrol Depot, Dvr. Dennis Ewart (alto sax), Pionians, L.-Cpl. Kurt Br__n (vocalist). O2E, Sjt. Harry Carr. section leader (alto sax).
Prizes for instrumentalists will be presented at the final, at the Bellini Theatre, on Sunday, June 17.
NORMAN ENGLAND
* * *
Transcribed newspaper cutting from the Union Jack, 1945
The compère for the contest is Captain Philip Ridgeway, the announcer. He is as informed on Dance Bands as Mrs Thatcher is on Groin Clenching in the Outer Hebrides. Other judges are Lt. Eddie Carrol, famed composer of ‘Harlem’ and Lieutenant ‘Spike’ Mackintosh, famous for not writing ‘Harlem’.
Can you believe it — we didn’t win! WE DIDN’T win !!! I wasn’t even mentioned!! Why were the 56 Area Welfare Service persecuting me like this? At the contest I had heard shouts of ‘Give him the Prize’. No one listened, even though I shouted it very loud. Never mind, there would be other wars…!
The first Dance Band Contest held in this country took place at the Bellini Theatre on Sunday, 3rd June. Eight bands took part, including the O2E Dance Band, and a very high standard was shown by most of the competitors. Each band played four numbers, the first being a ‘warm-up’ followed by a Slow Foxtrot, Waltz and Quickstep.
The O2E Band opened the contest, their combination being 3 Trumpets, 2 Alto Sax, Tenor Sax, Piano, Drums, Bass and Guitar, and for their three tunes they chose ‘Moonlight Serenade’, “Naughty Waltz’, and ‘Two O’Clock Jump.”
They had a great reception, which they richly deserved. Every man gave of his best and the intonation and phrasing were excellent.
‘Two O’Clock’ Jump’ was the most difficult piece played during the contest, and was tackled with exceptional aptitude.
Transcribed excerpt from Valjean by S. G. Lewis
I took it all philosophically. I dressed up as Plato. So what? I didn’t get a prize, but I still had my files, my pile ointment and my treasure trove of back-up underwear; mine would get anybody’s back up.
Now I would concentrate on chasing Candy; evidence of this is contained in the following drool document:
Did you get that? Did I really write that crap? No wonder the BBC only book me on a pro-rata basis. That Milligan of 1945 is dead. Then I was twenty-seven. Now I am sixty-seven and the engine has just had its tenth MOT test and failed.
June 17
DIARY:
DANCE BAND FINALS
We sat through the finals contest, disenchanted that we weren’t in it, but drew comfort when Taffy Carr was called: “1st Prize for the best lead alto, Sergeant H. Evans O2E band,” and was handed something that had been made by St Dunstan’s Home for the Blind. It looked like an army tea mug with the handle removed, stuck on to a sawn-down broom handle nailed to the lid of a cigarette tin, then whitewashed. “It’ll look good on the mantelpiece,” said Taffy. I for one couldn’t wait. He threw a celebration dinner, most of which hit Jim Manning. No, seriously folks, at La Topo off Via Roma we spaghettied and wined too much, but at the time it seemed just right. All stuffed into a brougham, pulled by a thin horse, we sang and shouted, until, on a hill, the horse packed in. We paid the driver. When he saw the tip -he packed it in as well. Three in the morning, I tiptoed in.
“Who’s that?” said the Yew clutching his Pay Book.
“Steve, you’ve been waiting for me like a good Jewish mother.”
“I hope it was a nice Jewish girl,” was all he would say.
Now, I would raise the band’s morale! For one, they looked terrible playing in battledress. And they looked terrible when they were not playing.
I chat up a local tailor. Can he make Harry James white jackets like my drawing? “Si.” Armed with the ‘Si’, I troop all the herberts back to be measured.
“Is ‘e a tailor or a mortician?” says Jim.
“You must wait and see, Jim.”
“Who’s going to bloody well pay?” says sensible Stan Britton.
“We must wait and see,” I tell him.
The jackets are splendid; it only remains for us to dye our trousers black, draw white shirts from the Q Stores, buy bow ties, and no one will be able to tell the difference between Harry James and us, provided they stand well back. It’s a secret.
When the curtains part at the Saturday hop, gasps of ‘We’re in the wrong hall’ come from the dancers. “‘Tis a miracle,” says an Irishman, crossing himself.
Major New comes puffing up. “Bai Jove laids, you look super, this is how I always wanted the boys to look.”
Thank you, we say, and that will be ten thousand lire a jacket; and lo! the Major is cast down — but in the goodness of time he payeth up, and lo, there was a great skint in the camp. However, he got all the bloody praise, and took it. At dinner, the Brigadier made a speech: here it is, as reported by an officers’ mess waiter, Private Rossi.
Gentlemen, I’d just like to thank Major New for his brilliant transformation of the band from sacks of shit to Harry James sacks of shit. The design of white jacket and black trousers showing where the top half leaves off and the bottom half begins is a great help to musicians when dressing themselves.
Every word is true, I swear on this copy of Portnoy’s Complaint.
Looking as good as we did, the gigs rolled in, and for a gunner I was getting rich. The going rate was now 500 lire or the equivalent in force feeding. There were better things to come.
LIAP
Yes, LIAP — laugh you fools! To you LIAP means nothing but to us herberts in Italy it means Leave in Blighty! The home of Spotted Dicks and Treacle, Saveloy and Mushy Peas.
The withdrawal of the musicians from active service must be carefully planned, plinned and plonned! QMS Drew Taylor, our Svengali, has arranged a roster so that twixt July and October, the band will range from Full Orchestra in July, down to a selection from Piano, Drums, Bass and three Saxes, then just Piano and Double Bass in September. In October there would be one week with just a man banging a dustbin lid and whistling. It was better than nothing, but only just. The band felt a new importance. Without us, eighty per cent of entertainment was curtailed.
Why I was so overjoyed at the prospect of leave in the UK was silly. In Italy I was eating better, getting paid better and all in sunshine. No! it was that thing called ‘home’: wanting to get back to what it was before it all happened. Alas, there was no going back, ever. It would never be the same again for any of us. We were dreaming, chum. Now I furtively release this letter I wrote to my pal in 19 Battery, then ‘somewhere in Holland’:
* *
*
GNR T.A. MILLIGAN.
675024
’O’ BRANCH GHQ 2nd ECHELON
CMF.
13/6/45
MY DEAR OLD SPLATTER GUTZ,
ITS ABOUT TIME WE GOT IN CONTACT, WITH EACH OTHER.
IT WAS NOT UNTIL THE OTHER DAY I WAS SURE WHERE THE REGIMENT WERE…YOU LOW SKUM…STAND BACK HUP THERE…LEAWVE ME IN THIS STINKING HOLE WITH NO LETTERS HUP THERE…HI…HUP. SO YOU HAVE HAD LEAVE IN BLIGHTY…YOU LOW SOD HUP THERE LLLLHO…HUP THERE…STAND BACK WHILE HE ARISES…AND I SUPPOSE THERE WAS MUCH NECKING WITH THE HACKER…EH???HUP THERE…HO…HI YOU SKUMFILTH…AND DID YOU ATTEMOT TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME…DID YOU…F…..ARSOLES…HI…HUP THERE…STAND BACK LET HIM UP…W.H.A.C.K.…TAKE THAT…WALLLOOOOPPPPP…SWAT…YOU DONT LIKE IT…KLUNK…(RIGHT ON HIS FILTHY CRUST) AND WHAT IS IT LIKE IN BLA…..???? DONT TELL ME TOU SWINE…FILTHY BLACK DROOLING SWINE…BLAM…RIGHT IN THE OLD BREAD BASKET…HI THERE HUP…HO…HOW IS THE OLD BAND GOING…EH…OH ITS FINE…WELL TAKE THAT…KLUD SPLAT…RIGHT IN THE KNCKERS…HO HO HIS FACE IS TURNIG A TRIFLE BLUE…AND IT CANT BE THE COLD SIR…YOUR PHOTO WAS IN THE ‘TATLER WITH THE REST OF THE CONCERT PARTY A LA ROMA…YOUVE SEEN IT EH???? WELL TAKE THAT…BLATSMAZSH…RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES…HO THERE HUP ITS YER OLD FORGOTTON DUS2Y PAL SPIKE…CLANG…ON THE SHIN WITH A BRASS ROLLING PIN…HA IT HURTS.WHACK.WHACK. WHACK…HEH HEH HEH…TEE HEE HEE…..MY BROTHER DESMOND IS IN HAMBURG…IN THE OX AND BUCKS…TRY AND LOOK HIM UP…TAKIMNG OF LOOKING UP…LOOK AT THAT AEROPLANE…..KRUNCH SPLAT RIGHT IN THE GLOTTIS…HO THERE HUP…HI AND AWAY TO THE SPANISH TWIST PIPE. I’M BACK IN CIRCULATION ON THE HORN…AND LEADING A 4 PIECE BRASS SECTION…PLUS FOUR SAXES…WE CAME 4th IN THE ALL ITALY CONTEST…OH YOU HAVENT HEARD ABOUT IT WELL…ZONGKLUD…FOR YOU STUPID OLD ARSE…..AND IM IN AGE GROUP 28…..SO ILL BE GOING HOME ABOUT THE SAME TIME AS YOU…WE WILL HAVE A PARTY WITH A BIG CLUB IN THE CORNOR…AND DO YOU KNOW WAHT HAPPENS WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT…???? YOU MAKE A GRAB FOR HACHER…BUT DO YOU REACHER.?. HO HO NO NO HI HUP! THERE.!..DONG!!!RIGHT ON YOUR CRUST COMES THE LAVISH KNOWLEDGED NAIL FILLED CLUB…OH OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH MY POOR BATTERED CRUST YOU MOAN…HEE HEE WHACK…AND IS QUIT BAR THE MONOTOUS KLUNK OF THE KLUB ON YOU KRUST!!! EVERY ONE IS
Memoires 05 (1985) - Where Have All The Bullets Gone Page 10