Memoires 02 (1974) - Rommel, Gunner Who

by Spike Milligan

  A mile to our left towered the blue grey shape of Djbel Eich Cheid, rising some thousand metres. Moving towards us in a cloud of dust was a flock of goats attended by a small boy, whose sole occupation was to hit them and shout ‘Yeaeah’. Growing almost in secrecy were cornflowers. This little flower was the first to bloom in Hiroshima after the holocaust; so much for the power of the Atom. Lurching hither, his hat on sideways was the Great Edgington. He carried yet another mug of tea. How did he manage to brew up so quick? “I’ll tell you,” he said. “It’s fear.”

  Hitlergram No. 1560934a

  Führer:

  Tea—zat is how ve will break zer Britisher!

  MESSERSCHMIDT:

  A great idea mein Führer.

  Führer:

  Zer Englanders, zey like make drink tea?—zis is vat I vant you should make, you vill build eine Tank—zis Tank vill inside a bladder have—in zer bladder ve have zer smell of zer NAAFI tea—we sneak zer tank up on zer Tommy Lines, at 4 o’clocken, zer gun barrel, we squirt zer NAAFI tea smell up zere trouser legs.

  MESSERSCHMIDT:

  Squirt ze tea Schmell?

  HITLER:

  Zen zer Tommy will jump up and run vid zer mug tovords zer tea-schmell-tank. Zen we shoot-bang-fire!

  MESS:

  Zis vill finish zer Englanders.

  We listened to the BBC one o’clock news. Stewart Hibberd was telling us the First Army troops had “successfully disengaged the enemy,” this meant we’d taken a bashing. Why not “British troops confuse enemy by refusing to fight.”

  The little shepherd boy stood watching with eyes like huge brown liquid marbles. “Quelle est votre nom?” I asked.

  “Mahomet,” he said.

  “Me Spike Milligan,” I said.

  I gave him some boiled sweets, it came as a shock when I realised he wasn’t quite sure what they were, I had to eat one to show him. We take a lot of things for granted. The afternoon was warm. Some lads, shirts off, basking in the sun, white bodies, eyes closed, what were they thinking? Pint at the Pub? Watching Millwall at the Den? A walk with the Girl on Sunday? See? The lazy sods, that’s all they ever think of! Booze, Football and Sex.

  The afternoon was passing very slowly, we threw stones, broke branches off trees, played Pontoon, we played stones, broke Pontoon and threw trees. We walked around. We sat down. We stood up. We smoked. “Christ if only we had an air raid or measles.” Spike Deans had bought two chickens off an Arab, and for three francs each we could partake of them for din-din! That night we sat dining on roast chicken and drinking the last bottle of wine. We drank and sang I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places’. In the distance we could hear guns. In the shadows our own guns stood silent in their covers. Soon it would be their turn.

  17th Feb. Dawn

  Yawning, I slipped the Humber into gear. “Rendezvous Map Reference 68039.” said Lt Budden. “You holidayed in Cornwall you say?”

  The road was difficult. Come to think of it, so was I. It was marked camel track and it took us to El Aroussa, a small wayside railway station, now a smoking ruin. Around it were the blackened skeletons of a dozen or so lorries. Inside shattered buildings were blood spattered walls, blood soaked battle dress jackets and trousers. An old Arab, all that was left of the station staff (“Toute morte”) described how it happened. Stukas had come yesterday, in a few minutes it was all over.

  “Christ,” says Bdr Sherwood. “What’s happened?”

  “Don’t worry, these are only the cheap seats,” I said.

  “He must have been a bad driver,” said Chalky White. The humour was a bit forced. None of us were sure what to say. The officers were grouped around a map, and appeared more excited than is good for English gentlemen.

  “What are they on?” said Chalky.

  “Vitamin B.” I said.

  Up the line comes Chater Jack’s truck. “Prepare to move! Lads, Yoiks, Tally Ho!”

  We followed him towards Bou Arada. Half a mile on he turned left across the railway lines, down a bank, over a dusty wheat field towards a small farm nestling at the foot of the Djbel Rihane (nicknamed ‘Grandstand Hill’). Behind, the great khaki guns rolled like fat babies as they negotiated the bosomy terrain. The silence was broken by the sharp crack of artillery.

  “They sound like Mediums,” said Lt Budden.

  “Too small sir,” I said. “I take Outsize.”

  Sergeant Dawson raced past on his motorbike; when we arrived at the farm, he was waiting with the Major, soon the area was a mass of frenetic action.

  “Scrim Nelson!”

  “Disperse Wireless Trucks under those trees!”

  “Monkey trucks prepare to lay ten-mile telephone line!”

  “All guns in that Wadi there!”

  “Bombardier ? Form OP Party!”

  “For God’s sake,” I said, “There’s more orders than men.” Edgington joined in, “All Gunners stand on one leg and lean eastward.”

  The guns were towed into a Wadi. Command Post tent appeared to have been put up by trainee Wolf Cubs. Bren guns were mounted against aircraft. “Lucky sods,” said White, “all they got to do is scratch their balls and look up.”

  The 200 lb mustard coloured shells were being unloaded and stacked. Signallers were lugging communications equipment into the Command Post, specialists were putting up Artillery Boards and all those fiddling instruments that computed which German the shell would hit. Of course they could have put all the names in a hat. A trestle table was erected for the Tannoy Control. Next to it were the telephone and the wireless set. Cables were run to the gun positions, loudspeakers at each sub-section connected and tested. It worked like this. Place loudspeaker near gun, connect wire from Command Post, press button on top of loudspeaker at Gun Position. Immediately light flashes in Command Post control panel.

  “Hello B Sub. You’re flashing, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, but we’re not B Sub, we’re A Sub.”

  “Oh fuck, can you flash again?”

  “I’m not going to become a flasher fer anybody.”

  Signallers are laying a line to the Waggon Lines, the place for vital supplies, vehicles, cowards, and Porridge. It is important to appear busy. Gunner White was cunningly going round with an empty DDT tin, when questioned, he would spring to attention and say “Delousing Sah!” and he got away with it. On the next page I have drawn from diary a plan of the 19 Battery layout including the sleeping accommodation.

  19 Battery gunners specially marked with large white crosses to make them easier targets for the Germans

  Major Chater Jack’s letter of the time recounts:

  …perhaps an idea of what my H.Q, looks like would be possible but to get the atmosphere is impossible. It is rather like one of the original structures at K.K↓ but there is very much more of it. Tony (Goldsmith) and I have bedding at one end handy to us, our wireless, telephone and loudspeaker systems to the guns. In the middle is a table, some charts and an electric light run by bringing in the headlight of the vehicle outside. At the other end is Wood (Batman) and a few others who are this moment trying to get a primus stove going for tea, since we have just had ‘stand down’ as the sun rises…

  ≡ I never found out what this meant.

  Ridiculous! Sit down yes, but stand down, impossible! It was late afternoon, we were hurrying to establish an O.P. before dark.

  Battery Diary:

  Battery moved into action, north of Bou Arada. Map Ref. 6006.

  By nightfall guns were dug in, and living quarters constructed. In my mud hut I took out my trumpet and played ‘Lili Marlene’.

  A 7-2 Howitzer being made ready for its first time in action—Bou Arada Feb. 1943

  NAZI NEWS FLASH

  ROMMEL:

  Hear zat? Zis man must be captured, he has shown considerable initiative! To play a German tune behind zer Allied Lines, he must have zer complete confidence of General von Alexander. We must capture zis Golden Englander Trumpet-speiler!

  VON HAT
ATIME:

  How can ve use him?

  ROMMEL:

  First we make him Field Marshall Spike von Milligan and Company Limited Nazi Holdings, Bankers Hill Samuels then he will face the Allied Line and play ‘Charge!’ Ven zer British are almost up to our lines he will play ‘Retreat’, they will withdraw, zen he will play ‘Charge’ again, zen ‘ Retreat’. After five hours zer Britishers vill be, how you say?

  VON H:

  Shagged out!

  ROMMEL:

  Ya. Shagged out!

  VON H:

  Supposing he refuses?

  ROMMEL:

  He von’t I have zomething here, he will do anything for!

  The scene:

  Here Rommel hands Von Hatatime a photograph. Von H. looks, has seventeen premature ejaculations, staggers, backs forwards, sideways, sweat pouring from his Field Marshall’s baton, speaks.

  VON H:

  Mein Gott. Louise from Bexhill!

  ROMMEL:

  Look at zose Knockers.

  VON H:

  Vunderschoen. I Now I know why zey call you zer Foxtrot of the Desert.

  The Signallers were all inside the Arab hut which now glowed yellow with improvised oil lamps. I checked my Tommy gun for the night. I had continually worked out in my mind the precautions I would take if confronted by Germans. It was a simple but highly effective plan, I would raise my hands above my head and say “I surrender.”

  Through our door came Sergeant Dawson! Grinning evilly he removed the blankets from my weary body.

  “We’re looking for our first hero casualty. We’re laying a line to the O.P.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was just going to bed, it’s Rita Hayworth’s turn.”

  “Get yer bloody boots on.”

  “I must get my rest Sarge—people are saying I’m finished.”

  “I’ll tell you when you’ll be finished. Four o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  I pulled my boots on, got my pliers, Tommy gun, and slid into the dark. The detail was, L/Bdr Sherwoods and his Bren Carrier, Sgt Dawson, Gunners Hart, Webster, Milligan and Bdr Fuller, who knew where the O.P. was. Dawson told us “Silence is imperative.” We set off being imperatively silent which couldn’t be heard because of the noise of the Bren Carrier. We walked behind with a cable drum that went clinkety-clank. Why? The ‘hole’ in the cable drum was square but the spindle was round. We all spoke in hysterical whispers. God knows why, to communicate we had to shout above the engine. As this charade went on, we started to giggle, then outright laughter. “Stop the bloody Bren.” shouted Dawson, himself on the verge of laughter. There was a suppressed silence. Unable to stand it, we all burst out laughing again.

  “Stop it at once!” said Dawson through his own laughter. We stopped. “Now stop it, or I’ll kill the bloody lot of you.” A white star shell lit the night.

  “What’s that?” said Ernie Hart.

  “That, Ernie, means that a child has been born in Bethlehem,” I said.

  “Well, he’s two months late and the wrong bloody map reference.” Another two star shells.

  “She’s had triplets,” said Ernie. After an hour we reached the O.P. hill.

  “This way,” said Bombardier Fuller. Birch and followed with reel.

  “Stop that fokin’ noise,” hissed an angry Irish voice, “you’ll get us all fokin’ mortared.”

  We took the spindle from the drum and unwound by hand. More flares, suddenly a rapid burst of automatic fire. It was a Spandau, a return burst, the unmistakable chug, chug, chug of a Bren gun. A flare silhouetted us beautifully for the whole Afrika Korps to see. “Freeze,” hissed Fuller. I had one leg raised when he said it. Somewhere a German O.P. officer was saying “Himmel! zey are using one-legged soldiers.” The flares fade. Fuller says “I’m lost.”

  “I thought you’d never say it,” I said. We groped our way back to the party who were inside the Bren practising fear and smoking. Dawson attached a phone to the line.

  “Hello, Gun Position here.”

  “This is Sergeant Dawson. Tell Major Chater Jack we can’t find the bloody O.P., will it be all right tomorrow?” We waited. “Yes’ Chater said ‘OK tomorrow, but before first light.”

  “Let’s bugger off,” said Dawson.

  We piled into the carrier. I looked up. What a sky! The heavens encrusted with stars, the milky way hung like a luminous veil across the firmament.

  “Halt.” Two sentries loomed in the dark. “Friend or Foe?”

  “Friends,” we all screamed from the grovelling position. “What’s the password?”

  Dawson tried explaining in a thick Jordy accent, “Why mon, we doant noe. Weaire Gooners from 56 Artilury, weaire layin a lyine.” The accent was sufficient for us to pass. About one o’clock we arrived at the G.P. Our guns were firing. What a bloody noise. What in heaven’s name did they think they were doing—it was past midnight! What would the neighbours say? Soldiers needed rest. They have to get up every morning looking lovely for their Regiments.

  Map of route to O.P.

  GENERAL MONTGOMERY:

  Have you seen Gunner Milligan this morning?

  GENERAL ALEXANDER:

  No, why?

  GENERAL MONTGOMERY:

  He looks so tired and washed out. The Germans shouldn’t really see him like that.

  GENERAL ALEXANDER:

  By Jove yes, I’ll ask him to see the M.O.

  The scene:

  Later at the M.O.:

  GNR MILLIGAN:

  I don’t know, every morning I wake up listless and jaded and the men are talking.

  M.O.:

  Milligan, you’re suffering from night-starvation. I want you to wake up five times a night and drink three gallons of Porridge.

  The scene:

  Next morning:

  GENERAL MONTGOMERY:

  Seen Milligan this morning?

  GENERAL ALEXANDER:

  Yes, he’s back to his old self, thanks to

  TOGETHER:

  Porridge!

  I got to bed. Yawning, I pulled the blankets over me, doused the lamp and slid into dream-lit hours of dark freedom. To sleep under the ear shattering blasts of our guns seemed impossible, yet as they thundered in the night towards Medjez el Bab, we slept like babes. It seemed I had just put my lovely head to pillow when the boot of the sentry delicately kicked me conscious.

  “Milligan.”

  “Mmmm? Arggggg Schmatter Gwanpizorf.”

  “You and Fuller have got to connect the O.P. line.”

  “Whassermarrer? Ahhhhhhhbalztoyer alllll.”

  “There’s early breakfast laid on for you.”

  “I don’t like people laying on my food!”

  It was 05.00 hours, it wasn’t fair! Who invented early? The late people were much happier, like the Late King George, or the Late Rasputin. I didn’t bother to wash or shave. Red-eyed I ambled to the Cook House. “How long you been dead?” said the Cook. The morning air was cool, light blue mist cast a hazy veil over the landscape. The dawn peace was shattered by the Fifth Mediums laying down a barrage. Breakfast was a surprise. The new Compo K rations had arrived, cases of tinned and dehydrated foods. We had scrambled egg, sausages and Ahhha Porridge.

  “They’re just fattening you up for the kill,” said the Cook.

  0600: Bombardier Fuller and I set off. We skirted our guns to avoid the muzzle blast and Porridge. The ground was covered with a very light dew that was now drying out. Every twenty yards we stapled the wire to the ground.

  The 1st round in anger— 79 Battery at War

  The sun came up, it was going to be a lovely day. Reaching the foot of the hill Bdr Fuller suddenly ‘remembered’ where the O.P. was, “We was too far to the left.” (We?) “You (You?) go and bring it this way.” I walked to where we’d dumped the cable. Unbeknown, I was under enemy observation. WHOOSH-BANG! Behind me a purple and red explosion. I was so surprised I walked to where it had happened when WHOSSH-BAM anoth
er one; I didn’t like it, dropping the cable drum I made a tactical withdrawal to the foot of the hill.

  British troops cutting German Laundry Lines

  “They must have seen you,” says Fuller, a master of the obvious. Two more burst behind the crest, half a dozen more they, were searching for us. Then all quiet.

  “Look,” I said, “this is bloody dangerous work. I’m going to put in for a rise.”

  “I (I?) must get this bloody line finished,” says Fuller, “O.P. is straight up to the right of that tree.”

  I payed out the line as he went forward. Nearer the crest he started to crouch and finally disappeared into the scrub. Now and then I’d feel a tug on the line as he freed it from some obstruction. I was holding the line when two Bren carriers of infantry passed down the hill to my right.

  “Fishing, mate?” said a laconic voice. I made a time honoured gesture. Fuller re-emerged.

  “Everything OK?” I asked .

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s up there?”

  “Lt Goldsmith and Bdr Edwards.”

  “Let’s get back,” I said. I now produced my new pipe, which I had bought to try and avoid smoking those bloody awful Vs. Having a pipe clenched in your teeth seemed to make you feel calm, thoughtful, unflappable.

  Major Chater Jack:

  I see Milligan is smoking a pipe.

  Sgt Dawson:

  Yes sir.

  Major Chater Jack:

  He looks very good smoking it.

  Sgt Dawson:

  Yes sir.

  Major Chater Jack:

  He looks manly.

  Sgt Dawson:

  Very manly.

  Major Chater Jack:

  Unflappable?

  Sgt Dawson:

  Definitely unflappable!

  Major Chater Jack:

  What’s he like as a soldier?

  Sgt Dawson:

  Bloody awful sir.

  Rather than go back to the gun position we hung around at the foot of the O.P. hill yarning and smoking. Finally, towards evening, we started back.