Dear Mother,
I am in Italy.
Your loving son,
Barmy Fred.
Rumours of yet another ‘big attack’. The rain has stopped, a wind is blowing, so I will hang out my laundry that now lies reeking at the bottom of my big pack. Diving into those dark depths I pull out dreadful lumps of congealed mildewed clothing. Soon I am boiling a tin of water. Whhheeee Boom! an air-burst shell. It stops, I arise and see that the water is boiling, I drop in my clothes, then half a bar of soap and start stirring the lot with a stick. My idyll is shattered by another air burst; was Hitler trying to range on my laundry?
GERMAN OP OFFICER: Three rounds on to zur underpants Milligan. Fire! Ach Wonderschoen! a direct hit on zer soap! For you Gunner Milligan, the laundry is over.
Mail! father, mother, brother etc. And newspapers. It was a field day for me (every day I was in a field). I lay in bed and read a copy of the Melody Maker. Harry Parry and his Radio Rhythm Club were still going strong, and Bennym Lee was voted England’s greatest jazz vocalist. I often giggle about that when I hear him compering Old Tyme Dancing. I was reading:
“Last week, Mr Churchill entertained a Russian delegation to dinner in London. They were served venison that had been shot in the Scottish Highlands.”
“Isn’t it bloody marvellous. Russians eating Scots venison in London, and us eating curried Italian grass!”
“Winston is trying to impress the Russians, the Ruskies will go back to Stalin and report that the English are eating Royal Deerski, it’s natural for Churchill to show the English still have an upper class.”
“ That’s cobblers,” says Edgington. “It’s like this, Churchill likes his grub, but if he’s caught eating venison on his tod, the Daily Mirror would be in an uproar.”
CHURCHILL EATS ROYAL DEER WHILE OUR LADS EAT CURRIED ITALIAN GRASS.
“So, as a cover he invites a load of hungry-guts Russians who are pissed off with black bread and onion soup, and they come at the double.”
“Such are the vagaries of war, Edgington, I tell you, if Churchill asked me to come over for beans on toast I’d go like a shot, wouldn’t you?”
“No, I’ve got my pride.”
“Take it with you. You wouldn’t turn down a trip to London, with that little darling Peg of yours waiting at the station.”
At the mention of Peg his eyes went soft, and his trousers boiled. A terrible head with a dripping tin hat pokes its face in. We both scream. It was L/Bombardier Bill Trew, ex-London milkman. He curdled milk by looking at it.
“I ‘eard you got some newspapers.”
“Yes, but it’s all cultured stuff. The Times, the Manchester Guardian.”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” he said. “I only want to wipe me arse on ‘em.”
Trew is looking at my tea mug. “Gi’s a sip,” he says.
Trew sipped the tea and told us he’d heard that there was a rumour that we’re—we joined in as he concluded—“GOING BACK TO ENGLAND.”
That was the permanent rumour. They even said it when we were in England.
“We’re never going back to England,” Edgington said. “Never, never, never, the war was a life-saver for the Conservatives, it solved the unemployment problem, and American banks have agreed to prop up the economy, so? They are going to keep this bloody war going as long as they can, they’re even trying to get Turkey to join in.”
“Turkey for Christmas?”
It had always puzzled me as to how you got a neutral country to go to war. I mean, what did you say: “Come on in. The war’s lovely.”
“I know people, ordinary blokes, who like war,” said Trew, sipping more of my tea.
“Who?” says Edgington, who is now unexplainably removing his trousers.
“Liddel, Gunner Liddel.”
“What about him?”
“He told me he likes the war.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“Yes, he said in peacetime he was so skint he had to wear his brother’s left-off clothes. In fact his battle dress was the first bit of new clothing he’d had. Until he joined the Kate he’d never been put in charge of a job.” The job being Shit House Orderly.
“Oh he’s in charge of the job alright,” said Edgington, who was now scrutinising the insides of his trousers. “He’s in charge of every job that’s done!”
Trew sipped some more of my tea.
“Wot are you doing, Edgington?” I said.
“I think I’ve got a flea in me trousers…or something that bites.”
“Something that bites!” I said sitting up. “Could it be a dog?”
Trew sipped more of my tea. “Ta,” he said and handed me an empty mug.
Now, whenever there’s a reunion, I walk straight up to him and say “Gi’s a sip,” take his beer, drain it to the bottom, and say “Remember Italy.” I don’t think he does. Something strange. The dates October 28, 29 and 30 in my diary are blank save an oblique line drawn across them with the words “You’ve had it.” What it was I had had I cannot recall. I’ve looked up letters, diaries, the only document that exists of those three days is this unfinished letter.
The girl Beryl is a mixture of singer/sweetheart/friend/resident of Norwood. She had sung with Carl Barriateau’s band before and during the war. The only photo I have of her is the one overleaf on top of an oil tanker.
The letter seems to suggest that I was fed up. Well, I can’t remember so I must have been fed up; of course, I might have been fed down, or I might have been fed sideways, or fed intravenously, no one will ever know. Why I never finished the letter to Beryl is likewise a mystery; a bigger mystery, why did I keep it all these years? Did I intend to finish it? yes! of course, I’ll write at the bottom, “That’s all for now, love, Spike.” Another wartime mystery solved folks! AGED GUNNER FINDS LOST LOVE LETTER IN OLD ARMY SOCK. “Thanks to that sock,” says 159-year-old ex-Gunner Millington, “I have discovered my lost love, now we shall be married and I’ll end happily ever after.”
Miss Beryl Southby, sweetheart of my forces and singer with Carl Barriateau’s band. Shown on the wagon, Norwood 1941-2.
OCTOBER 31, 1943
MY DIARY:
LOVELY DAY. PADRE HELD CHURCH SERVICE.
ALF FILDES’ DIARY:
Lazy Day. Fry ups. Deans’ coffee.
NOVEMBER 1, 1943
REGIMENTAL DIARY: (I can’t resist reporting this entry!)
Had orders to move from 083857 by 10.00 hrs as ‘X’ Corps want to come into the area. The orders from 2 AGRA were vague and they were unable to indicate any hide area for us to go. They could not tell us where the enemy were, they could not tell us whether we were to go into action that day. So we aren’t doing anything.
Any questions folks?
Ted Lawrence, our Don R, comes up and says, “Jerry’s retreatin’.” He ought to know, he’s just stamped his bare foot on a dog-end and comes hot-foot from HQ. We’ve all got to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. A mad rush as we start hurling our crappy clobber into big pack, small pack kitbag, cardboard boxes, brown paper parcels all held together by miles of knotted string and bits of bent wire. It was really terrible to see what a once immaculate Battery looked like. No longer did we appear as Conquerors, no, we looked like families of impoverished Armenian refugees fleeing the Turkish slaughter. Bundles of canvas, tea-chests and water-proof sheeting were piled on the roof, obliterating the outline of the lorry which, in silhouette, appeared to be an extinct dinosaur. So, from our ‘Wembley Exhibition’ site we all started to slither and slide to the main road. My God! What a mess! Vehicles were everywhere, all pointing the wrong way, the giant Scammell lorries with guns in tow had ‘jack-knifed’, red-faced Sergeants were yelling abuse at the drivers, who in turn yelled abuse at the gunners, who pointed accusingly at the Sergeants. The signallers (us) are all OK. We are sitting in our trucks and have managed to get to the main road known as Route 6, facing the right way. We have brewed up. Great steaming mugs of tea are jam
ming the roadway. American trucks with coloured drivers are racing past shouting, “Out of the way, Limey white trash,” and we shout back, “Fuck Joe Louis.” We drank tea till our bladders were crippled and the tannic acid showed red through our skin, by which time the great guns had finally been extricated from the mud.
Ted Lawrence, with his pistol pointing in a direction that could ruin his marriage.
By eleven o’clock, we were in convoy, looking like Council Dustcarts on the move.
“Oh! look who’s coming up the road! It’s our leader, General Mark Clark! God bless ‘ee zur!”
He is seated in a jeep, with four stars on the front. His driver I swear was W. C. Fields. As he passes down our line he grins at the good-natured shouting, “Got any spare dollars, Mate? Why aren’t we getting ice cream like your men?”
He stopped at the head of our column, stood up, talked to his driver, turned round and came back again. He turned and gave a wave as he disappeared round a corner. Had he gone? No, a moment later he backs into view followed by a great Tank Recovery lorry. He waits patiently as the monster manoeuvres round the bend and then he goes again. We’re moving! Better still, we’re moving forward! A desultory cheer is heard. Our destination is Map Ref. 018908, what will that be? “All these bloody numbers,” says Edgington. “Everything’s numbers, I’m a number, you’re a number, the truck’s a number, the World War is a number. Two. The pills they give us, what are they?” rages Edgington. “Number nine!”
“Yes, Kings of England from the right, number! George one! George two, George three, William the one, James the two.”
I was babbling on like this when the beckoning face of Sergeant King appears. “Ahhhhh,” he leers, “‘oo ‘as been ‘iding from ‘is nice Sergeant?” He’s looking at me. “You are to go with our dearly beloved Major Jenkins forward, in search of (a) the Enemy, and (b) an OP.”
Gunner Ben Wenham outside his country residence (Wembley Exhibition position)
Soon I am in G truck with Spike Deans, Vic Nash and Lt. Wright. I am not actually with Major Jenkins, he’s in H truck. Behind us is X truck; what had happened to all the numbers? In the back of the truck the ever-inventive Bombardier Deans opens the pontoon school.
“I’ll be banker,” says Deans.
“Why?” I said.
“Because I thought of it.”
“We should draw for it,” I protested.
“Then you’ll have to use your cards,” said Deans.
“I haven’t got any.”
“Then I’m banker,” he said, “because I have.” He shuffled the cards with great dexterity and dropped them.
First hand I got pontoon! By the time we got to 018908 I accumulated a nice little kitty of about 300 lire.
“Well,” I said, “I never thought I’d be 300 lire better off by the end of the day.”
“You could be twice as rich,” said Deans.
“How?”
“I’ll toss you double or nothing.”
He did. I lost the lot. 018908 was a small flat area with a small range of hills north of us, San Marco by name. In the base of them were numerous caves. We parked our vehicles adjacent to a line of trees, put up camouflage nets, and sat staring at each other.
“What now, gentlemen?” I said.
“Pontoon?” said Deans.
“Not on your bloody life.”
“Alright, you suggest something,” he said, folding his arms and grinning.
“I have suggested something,” I said, folding my arms and grinning.
“What?” he said.
I said, “I have suggested that we don’t play pontoon.”
A voice is calling. “All personnel over here.”
It’s Lt. Wright, who is standing outside the mouth of a cave which looks like it’s going to swallow him. With great urgency on our faces we amble across. Mr Wright waits patiently.
“Now,” he says, looking at some orders pinned to his map. “We are now at San Marco, here,” he taps the map, his papers fall in the mud. “Blast,” he says.
I bend down to pick them up; he is now clutching a handful of muddy papers. “I was saying we are here, and we’ve temporarily lost touch with the Bosche—so we will carry out maintenance of wireless sets, small arms and vehicles until further orders, that is all.”
I clutch Bombardier Deans’ arm dramatically, and whisper, “He’s going to leave us. What are we going to do?”
A rattling sound reveals Sherwood’s bren carrier loaded to the gills, with Lt. Walker, Gunner Ben Wenham, Gunner Pinchbeck and Lt. Budden followed by Don R. Lawrence—they are going forward to look for Jerry.
“Group looking for Jerry.” Left to right are Don R. Ted Lawrence, Lt. Walker, Ben Wenham, Gunner Pinchbeck, Lt Budden and Bdr. Brookes.
“My God go with ‘eee,” I said, striking a dramatic pose, one hand clutching my heart.
Ben Wenham grins and says, “Who’s a silly bugger then!”
We wave them goodbye as they disappear over the brow of a hillock. Indeed the Germans had pulled back, quite a distance.
“They must be suffering withdrawal symptoms,” I told Mr Wright, “It’s a sort of wartime coitus interruptus.”
That night was wonderful. I remember it was crisp, cold, clear, starlit, that’s if I remember: if not, it was raining.
NOVEMBER 2, 1943
ALF FILDES’ DIARY:
Nothing doing. Enemy blowing up bridges, blocking and mining every L of C. Supposed to be flooding plains it took Italians 10 years to reclaim. We are now overlooking main Rome road, Germans are shelling it from their hills. Sitrep says we must now prepare for mountain war. BBC news still very good.
“Major Jenkins’ compliments, would Gunner Fildes and Lance-Bombardier Milligan please bring their instruments to the cave?” This from Gunner Woods.
“A Royal Summons,” I cried.
“What’s he want?” said Fildes suspiciously.
“I’ll say it again,” said Woods in an exasperated voice with a Cornish accent. “‘E wants you two to report to him with yourn instruments.”
“We know that,” I said. “But why? He doesn’t like jazz, so what’s he want us to bring our…”
But Woods wasn’t listening, he walked off waving his hand in the air saying, “I’m only a batman, not a bloody mind-reader.”
Most certainly Woods couldn’t tell the future, he couldn’t even tell the present. In peacetime he had been a farmhand, and had known the pleasure of having two great shire horses pulling his plough.
I said, “What’s it like?”
“Ploughing? ‘Ow yew like to be eight hours a day looking at two great ‘orses’ harses.”
Fildes and I entered the cave, which was very smoky from a fire in whose light sat Major Jenkins, still with his hat on. He was holding his clarionet, and playing his strangled version of Schubert’s Serenade. When he saw us he stopped.
“Ah, you know why I’ve asked you to bring your instruments?”
“You want us to throw them on the fire,” I said.
He didn’t laugh. He patted the floor, inviting us to sit.
“No,” he said. “You play all that nigger music don’t you? I’m going to teach you some good tunes, I want you both to join in.” Here he tootled the first bars of a tune. “Didn’t you recognise that?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “It was Whistling Rufus, he was my father.”
Over his head it went and hit the wall with a loud plop.
“Yes, it’s Whistling Rufus, a fine Military marching tune, the Gurkhas marched to that during the Chitral Rebellion.”
“It might have caused it,” I said.
“I’ll play the melody and when I point to you, Milligan, play the descending obligato.”
“What key?” asked Fildes, across the fiery divide.
“I play it in G major.”
“G? Major? I knew it when it was only a captain, sir.”
Over his head it went and plop against the cave wall. He launched int
o a very fast version of Whistling Rufus, at the given moment he pointed to me, and I played the obligato. He seemed well pleased. When we finished he smiled, counted two bars in and launched back into it all over again. We did this several times, he enjoyed it to such an extent I realised he’d never played with anyone before, it was all a new experience for him, it was a new experience for me…a bloody awful one. Woods brought him a cup of tea, Woods didn’t bring us a cup of tea.
“Now,” said Jenkins, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, “shall we try some of your nigger music?”
“What about ‘The Sheik of Araby’ by Rudolph Valentino?” I said.
“Jolly Good,” he said and launched into a chorus. I played the most awful corny obligatos and when I took a chorus played with a terrible nanny-goat vibrato. Oh! had I only a tape recorder that night! I’d have dropped it on him.
We were interrupted by a Despatch Rider from 2 AGRA HQ.*
≡ Army Group Royal Artillery.
A short dwarf, heavily wrapped up with knee-high motor-cycling boots that came up to his neck, a crash helmet that came down to his knees, and a khaki scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Jenkins saw the word URGENT on the envelope, hastily dropped his clarionet, stood up to read the message. It would have read exactly the same sitting down but standing up gave him height. What it didn’t give him was a view of his clarionet rolling slowly into the fire…We let it burn a few moments and when it was too late said, “Oh, sir! Quick, your clarionet is on fire.” (Rather like those French translations, i.e. The Clarionet of my cousin has been struck by lightning.) He rushed at the smouldering instrument, letting the top secret message fall.
“My God,” he wailed, “my father gave me this.”
He won’t half give it to you when he sees it again, I thought. Meantime his TOP SECRET message was now burning merrily. We left him trying to read it.
Memoires 04 (1978) - Mussolini, His Part In My Downfall Page 9