“A man can never have enough hoggins, a good shag clears the custard,” said Gunner Balfour as he wrote a tender love letter off to his wife.
Gunner Maunders, his feet reeking, sits up in his bed. “They say French tarts can shag all night on one dinner.”
“That’s right,” says Lance Bombardier Denning, “they can shag around the clock, in any position.”
“Good,” says Gunner Knott. “From now on I’m going to shag laying down, no more bangin’ away standin’ in Bexhill doorways in the shape of a cripple.” Cries of “Knee trembler.”
Discussions on sex took up large portions of gunners’ working hours. The nearest they got to it was the Estaminet at Jean Bart, a quarter of a mile from the Camp. There, apart from the booze, was a barmaid whose bulging bosoms floated along the top of the bar with never less than a hundred pairs of eyes to help them on their way. Many hot-blooded gunners ruptured themselves just staring. “Try only looking at one at a time,” I advised them. There was no shortage of alcohol. We guzzled muscatel, about eighty per cent proof, the real proof was hundred per cent stoned gunners, spark out in the gutters. Those who could stagger would go down to the beach. Naked, we’d sit waist deep in the water, to sober up. One such night, (Jan. 19th 1943) the port of Algiers had a ‘sudden attack of air raid’, soon the sky was a mass of exploding shells, flaming onions and searchlights.
We sat and enjoyed it. “It’s lovely,” said Edgington. “Yesh, it’s slouvely,” I agreed. Gunner Roberts took from the waters to don his steel helmet.
“What German is going to by-pass Algiers to bomb you,” says Edgington.
“They say on a moonlit night an airman can see a bald head from 20,000 feet,” said Roberts. “You haven’t got a bald head,” says I. “I’m not waiting till the last minute,” says Roberts. I got back to the beach and returned with fags.
“Ta,” said Edgington, “nothing like wet cigarettes covered in bloody sand.”
We sat silent. Edgington spoke. “Milligan? See if your aeroplane curse still works.” I stood up. I waited till a German plane was caught in a searchlight, then shouted “I hope you bloody well crash.” Nothing happened.
“Perhaps it’s a deaf pilot,” said Edgington.
“I HOPE YOU BLOODY CRASHHHHH.”
“We’re too far away,” said Edgington.
“Let’s forget it.”
“Forget what?” he said.
“See?” I said, “you’ve forgotten it already.” He too, forgetting, lay back and disappeared below the surface. He reappeared spluttering. “This water’s unreliable,” he said. We dressed and started to wander back. It was dark. Being nyctalopic↓ I always carried a torch. Suddenly in the beam hopped an animal,
≡ Find out like I did.
“Look,” I said, “it’s a jerboa!”
“Jerboa my arse, that’s-a kangaroo,” says Forrest.
“What’s a kangeroo doing in Africa?”
“There’s no such animal, Milligan,” says Edgington, “you made the word up.”
“On the bible it’s true!”
“Bible? You’re agnostic!”
“O.K. I swear on Tiger Tim’s Weekly.”
“Halt, who goes there?” came the midnight challenge.
“Hitler,” I said.
“You can’t be! He came in ten minutes ago.”
“We don’t know who we are, we’re Military Amnesiacs Anonymous.”
“What’s the password?”
“We give up, what is the password?”
“I’m waiting,” said the sentry.
“So are we…gi’s a clue.”
“The clue is, what’s the password?”
“Just a minute,” says Edgington, “I’ve got it written here on a piece of paper…Ahhhh! the word is ‘Fish’.”
“That was last night.”
“Chips?”
“No.”
“Shirley Temple.”
“I don’t know why they put me on sentry duty,” said the demoralised sentry. “There’s seventy blokes come in in the last two hours and not one bugger remembered the word. It’s a waste of bloody time. Sod Churchill.” We gave him a rousing cheer and he let us in.
Anti-aircraft fire at night. Algiers
‘I hope you bloody well crash’ I said
January the 23rd
Bombardier Harry Baum, nicknamed ‘Hairy Bum’, told us “You lot are to be allowed into Algiers and let loose on the unsuspecting women therein. The Passion Wagon leaves at 13.30 hours, and you will all be back at 23.59, like all gude little Cinderellas.” Fly buttons flew in all directions.
We set about cleaning up. Boots were boned, web belts scrubbed, brass polished and trousers creased. It made little difference, we still looked like sacks of shit tied up in the middle. A three tonner full of sexual tension, rattled us to Algiers Docks. Most others were looking for Women and Booze. Not Gunner Milligan, I was a good Catholic boy, I didn’t frequent brothels.
No, all I did was walk round with a permanent erection shouting “Mercy!”, in any case, I was in the company of ‘Mother Superior Edgington’, who shunned such practices. Was he not the one who threw his army issue contraceptive into the sea where it was later sunk by naval gun fire? So we entered Algiers, with pure minds, and the sun glinting on the Brylcream running down our necks. We were joined by Bdr Spike Deans and Gunner Shapiro. Along the main tree-lined Rue d’lsly, we entered a small cafe, ‘Le Del Monico’.
“That means ‘The Del Monico’,” I explained. Inside we were shown to a table by an attractive French waitress. We perused the menu.
MENU
Moules Mariniere
Homus
Spigola al Forno
Sole Nicoise
Scampi Provencale
Poulet Roti
Carre d’Agnau
Courgettes
“Eggs and chips four times,” we said. “Make mine Kosher,” added Shapiro.
“There’s no such thing as Jewish Chicken,” I said.
“And I’ll tell you why,” said Shapiro, “there’s no money in it.” The eggs arrived sizzling in round copper dishes. “Where’s the chips?” says Shapiro. “She’s forgotten the chips.”
“Don’t be bloody ignorant,” rebukes Edgington, “in French cooking le chips are served separate! Patience!” So we sat in patience. We sat a long time in patience. She had forgotten ‘le chips’. The mistake rectified, we ate the meal with quaffs of Thibar Rosé.
“You’d never think there was a war on,” said Dean.
“I think there’s a war on,” said Shapiro.
“I notice,” said Edgington, “you dip your chip into the yolk first.”
“True,” I said. “I cannot tell a lie.” We finished the meal.
“What now?” says Milligan.
“Let’s go to the pictures,” says Shapiro.
“PICTURES? We come all the way from England to Africa and you want to go to the bloody PICTURES?”
“I like the pictures,” he says, “they make me forget.”
“Forget what?”
“I can’t remember.”
We decided to wander through Algiers, it was amazing how boring it could be.
“Isn’t this the place where Charles Boyer screwed Hedy Lamarr?” said Deans.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” said Edgington, “there’s nothing else to do.”
We followed signs ‘THIS WAY TO WVS CANTEEN, ALLIED TROOPS WELCOME’. The building looked like a warehouse. We went in. It was a warehouse. Tables and chairs were spread around a massive hall-like room. Behind tea-bearing tables were middle-aged English ladies who also looked like warehouses, they obviously thought being in Algiers was ‘naughty’. We drank piss poor tea and ate buns made of leather.
Edgington was already slumped over a desk, dashing off a ‘Darling-I-love-you-I-always-do-you-love-me’ etc. etc. standard soldier’s letter for the relief of sexual tension, pausing only to hit his re-occurring erect
ion with an ink well. I used to write to several birds, but hadn’t realised my letters were getting stereotyped until one replied ‘Darling, Thank you for your circular…” Edgington wrote reams, average letter twenty pages. He was the most pure of gunners and faithful to his sweetheart. Mind you he missed a lot of fun and his machinery got very rusty. I woke Shapiro. “Dreaming of the Promised Land?” I said. “No, I was dreaming of East Finchley, it’s cheaper there,” he said yawning. Evening; we sauntered out into the main Boulevard. All the prettiest French birds were out, chaperoned by what looked like the Mafia and an occasional Quasimodo. We promenaded up and down. “We can get all this bloody route marching at camp,” said Shapiro, “let’s lie down.” We repaired to a street café “quatre verres cognac’ I said to a waiter. “Never mind all that crap,” he said, “what do you want to drink?” The brandy arrived.
“Here’s to a safe war,” said Dean, and spilled the lot over his jacket. We downed several brandies in the next hour, and all became decidedly unsafe. Shapiro dozed off. “He’s not asleep,” said Edgington, “it’s a Jewish ruse, the next round’s his!”
“Wake up Shap,” I said, “your turn to pay.”
“You’re a Fascist,” said Shapiro, unchaining his wallet. The sun was setting, so were my legs. No one could remember the way. “Follow me,” said Edgington. Twenty minutes later we stopped. “Now do you know where you are?”
“It’s the café we left twenty minutes ago.”
“See?” he said, “let’s go in.”
By 23.15 hours we were all in the Passion Waggon. The noise was incredible, talking, singing, farting, laughing, vomiting. Versatility was going to win us the war. It was horrible, but, there was a kind of mad strange poetry to it, that is, ask any one why they were like they were at that moment and they’d have a rational answer.
Drunks being loaded into ‘Passion Waggon’ after first visit to Algiers
An hour later we settled in our beds, listening to the lurid exploits of Driver ‘Plunger’ Bailey, “Plunger’ because he had a prick the size and shape of a sink pump. He had entered the forbidden Kasbah in the search of his ‘hoggins’ and gained entrance to an Arab brothel, “They wouldn’t let me in till I took me boots off,” he said. He had been shown a room where a naked Arab girl had entertained him with a belly dance, feeling he should reciprocate he sang her a chorus of ‘The Lambeth Walk’ and then ‘got stuck up her.” From now on, all my illusions of the Arabian Nights were dead.
January the 27th 1943
The services of the Battery Band were called for. “There’s ten acts on the bill and we’d like yeow to do a twurn!” said the District Entertainments Officer. He had a very high effeminate voice. “I used to be countertenor at the Gwarden,” he said. “It must have been Welwyn Garden,” whispered Edge. That evening, a highly polished staff-car calls for us. “Don’t touch it,” I cautioned, “it’s a trap, it’s only for our instruments, we’re supposed to run alongside.” We were driven at great speed to a massive French Colonial Opera House where at one time, massive French colonials sang. A sweating Sergeant was waiting,
“Ah,” he said with obvious relief. “I’m Sergeant Hope.”
“What a good memory you’ve got,” I said.
“I’m the compère. You are the Royal Artillery Orchestra?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Where’s the rest of you?”
“This is all there is of me, I’m considered complete by the M.O.”
“We had been expecting a full Orchestra.”
“We are full—we just had dinner.”
“That will do,” he said leading us to the wings.
On stage an Army P.T. Instructor was doing a series of hand stands, leaps, and somersaults, the conclusion of each trick was standing to attention and saluting. “You don’t salute without yer ‘at on, cunt,” said a voice from the Khaki rabble. Sgt Hope took down details of our ‘act’.
“Name?”
“Milligan.”
“Rank?”
“Gunner.”
“Regiment?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “under the Geneva Convention of 1921 all I need give is my name, rank and number.”
“Look son, I’ve had a bloody awful day, I’m at the end of my tether,” he said. “Save the jokes for the stage, I was told you were a twenty piece Regimental Orchestra and you were going to play Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstances,” he walked away holding his head.
The P.T. Sergeant finished his leaping act, and was given a reception that he had never had before or since. He came into the wings grinning with triumph. “I think I’ll turn pro after the war,” he triumphed. The next time I saw him was 1951, he was a furniture remover in Peckham. “Changed your mind?” I said. He threw a cupboard at me. The worried compère was now the other side of the curtain saying “Thank you, the next act is—er—the 19th ‘Battalion’, Royal Artillery Dance Band, under its—er—conductor Gunner Spine Millington!” Behind the curtain we were rupturing ourselves trying to get a massive French colonial piano on the stage. I shouted “We’re not bloody well ready.”
“Well,” said the sweating Sergeant, “as you can hear they’re not quite bloody well ready yet ha-ha but—er—they ha-ha—er—won’t be long now, and then—” he put his head through the curtain. “Hurry up for Christ’s sake!”
“Keep ad libbing,” I said, “you’re a natural.” He continued “Well, they’re—er—nearly—er—not quite—ready, ha-ha and soon we’ll be…” Not waiting for him to finish, we launched into our up tempo signature tune, ‘The Boys From Battery D.’, which Harry Edgington had written.
We’re the boys from Battery D
Four Boys from Battery D
We make a rhythmic noise
We give you dancing joys
And sing the latest melody.
Now we make the darndest sounds
As we send you Truckin’ on down
And if it’s sweet or hot
We give it all we’ve got
And boy! we got enough to go around.
We’ll set your feet tapping with a quick step
We’ve a waltz that’ll make you sigh
And then the tempo we’ve got
For a slow fox-trop
Would make a wallflower wanna try.
Come on along you he and she
It’s the dancers jamboree
Come on and take a chance
Come on and have a dance
To the band of Battery D.
My life long pal Harry Edgington playing an 88 mm Piano in action, at the same time inflating his head
Not exactly Cole Porter, but we weren’t getting his kind of money. To our amazement we got an ovation. Three more jazz numbers and they wouldn’t let us go, to cool them off I got Doug Kidgell our drummer to sing Toselli’s Serenade. When he came to the line:
‘Deep in my heart there is Rapture’ forgetfully we sang our customary version:
“Deep in my guts I’ve got Rupture But for that dear I’d have upped yer.”
We realised our mistake too late, and a great roar of laughter stopped the song in its tracks. We finished up with me impersonating Louis Armstrong doing The St Louis Blues, and took unending curtain calls. Old soldiers reading this may remember that occasion.
Driving back in the staff car, we sat silent in the aura of our unexpected success. To our left the Bay of Algiers was bathed in moonlight. “I never dreamed,” said Harry, “that one day, I would be driven along the Bay of Algiers by moonlight.”
“Didn’t you?” I said, “the first time I saw you I said ‘one day that man is going to be driven along the Bay of Algiers by moonlight’.”
“You’re asking for a thud up the hooter,” he said. “No I wasn’t! What I said was, “the first time I saw you I…””
“All right Milligan, stick this in yer dinner manglers.” He gave me a cigarette. Old sweats will shudder and fall faint when I mention the brand, “V’s!” They had appeared in our rations wh
en we landed in Algiers. “This is,” I said, “living proof that the British soldier will smoke shit, and that goes from Sanitary Orderly Geordie Liddel to General Alexander.” Alf Fildes, our guitarist, disagreed. “Liddel, yes, he lives near it, he’d smoke shit, yes, but I bet a bloke like Alexander wouldn’t wear it.” There followed a classical argument on smoking shit, that resolved in the agreement that General Alexander would smoke shit provided it was offered him by the King. The story went round that ‘V’s’ were India’s contribution to the war. Churchill asked Ghandi if there was a natural commodity that was going to waste, and Ghandi said “Yes, we got plenty of cows’ shit.”
“Right,” said Churchill, “we’re sending you a million rupees to turn it into tobacco.”
Two years went by, Churchill, anxious for news, phones Ghandi:
CHURCHILL:
Ghandi? How’s the Ersatz tobacco coming along?
GHANDI:
All right but we need more money.
CHURCHILL:
Good God, you’ve had a million!
GHANDI:
Yes, you see, so far it looks like tobacco—it smokes like tobacco—but—
CHURCHILL:
But what?
GHANDHI:
It still smells like shit.
The long haul to the front
One day, there was the long awaited news on the notice board.
0600 11 FEB. 1943. Regiment will prepare to move etc. etc.
Great excitement, packing, renewing kit, selling kit, buying fruit for the journey, writing ‘Farewell for ever’ etc. to sweethearts, etc. The day before the move I developed toothache. It started at two in the morning, the pain shot up my head down the back of my neck, disappeared down my spine then reappeared in my chest sideways up the tent pole. How could one tiny hole neutralise a whole man? Will-power! That would stop it. I did will-power till three o’clock. It got worse. Old wives’ recipe! Stuff tobacco into the cavity. I lit the lamp. Edgington woke, he saw what appeared to be Gunner Milligan splitting open cigarettes and poking the tobacco down his throat. “Look mate,” he said, “you’re supposed to smoke ‘em.”
Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who Page 2