Mussolini_ His Part In My Downfall Part 23

Devine was anxious to see the display. White was somewhere chasing a brown filly that had almost taken him out of sight. We had heard him shouting implorations, but he was now down to slinging lumps of turf after the reluctant creature. Here, however, Nash was preparing. He threw his cigarette away, then said to the animal, "Come on...off we go." She didn't go off. He tried several more 'off we goes', but she went on grazing.

"Get 'er head up, will you," he instructed us.

This done he tried a sudden use of the heels and in doing so fell off.

"I thought you said you could ride," said Devine.

"I thought so too," insisted Nash.

Devine helps him up again but they still argue.

"It hasn't moved yet and you've fallen off."

"It takes time to get back into the swing of it...when I say ready, give her a smack on the a.r.s.e...right?"

Right. Nash settles, takes a firm hold of the rope and the mane.

"Right," he yells.

Devine connects his palm with her rump. SMACK! loud and clear. We helped Nash up again.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to remember," he said.

Devine pats the horse. "I can do better than that: I've never ridden, but it should be easy. I seen tons of cowboy pictures...they never fall off." Milligan and Nash hold hands as a step. Devine is on!!! He smiles in triumph. Devine is off. White has come running back, he has chased the brown horse out of the province. He settles for a donkey. Great, he's on, he stays on, and manages to get the animal to run around.

"Anyone got a camera before it's too late?" he shouts. After the trials of 'Cowboy' Devine I got on and rode the horse at a canter around rather muddy fields. I hadn't ridden since I was a boy in India. I had forgotten how wonderful it was, and that smell peculiar to horses; we messed around like this until we hear a terrible yell and a splash. Nash is in the ca.n.a.l. Devine had challenged him to leap across and he had failed. Devine is laughingly helpless as Nash thrashes the s.h.i.t-strewn waters and swears his way to the bank where Devine hauls him up, only to find himself on the same side he'd jumped from. There is a shivering run by Nash along the ca.n.a.l to where the bridge is, some quarter of a mile away. He divests himself of his now reeking battle dress, and hangs it outside to dry. It's past redemption. The smell is appalling. He tries to exchange it at the Q stores; he had only been in there two minutes when everyone ran out. When he ran out after them, they all ran in again. They told him to get it washed and it would be alright. The farmer's wife fainted when he showed it to her. Finally, he boiled it. It killed the smell but the suit shrank twelve inches. In a fit of desperation, he put it on; his appearance in the Q stores sufficed to point the need for a new one. Alas, the new one was two feet longer than him. The moral is, don't go riding. But many persisted; every evening, the meadows were full of galloping horses with gunners hanging round their necks. The Italian farmer wondered why every morning his horses were too s.h.a.gged out to pull his wagons. He reported this to the Major and Part 2 Orders read, "The practice of riding farm horses in off-duty hours will cease forthwith, as the animals are only for agricultural use."

"Thank Christ its all over," said Nash from somewhere inside a battle dress.

Ahhhh! The Army Kinematographic Corps have visited us! they set up their cinema in our billets! There's to be three shows starting at three...second house six...last house nine.

"Signallers and Specialists in the last batch," said Sgt. King.

b.l.o.o.d.y nerve, it was in our our billet, we had to move all our beds, and we had to wait outside until nine at night. We all strolled over to the Tower house, where Edgington and mob are in a frenzy of pontoon. Lire notes are piled in the middle, and like true punters and sportsmen their faces are masks of utter misery. Smudger Smith is Banker. They have been playing nigh four hours, and the total winnings are somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve shillings, there could be suicides before the night is over. billet, we had to move all our beds, and we had to wait outside until nine at night. We all strolled over to the Tower house, where Edgington and mob are in a frenzy of pontoon. Lire notes are piled in the middle, and like true punters and sportsmen their faces are masks of utter misery. Smudger Smith is Banker. They have been playing nigh four hours, and the total winnings are somewhere in the neighbourhood of twelve shillings, there could be suicides before the night is over.

"Stand behind me, Milligan, you're Irish, bring me luck," says Money-Mad Edgington.

Strangely enough, his luck did change, he lost the lot.

Some of the lads had seen the three and six o'clock show and knew it by heart. The film was Casablanca Casablanca, dubbed Case-of-Blanco, with 'Humphrey Gocart'.

Every entry by Bogart was greeted with "Now listen, Blue Eyes." Ingrid Bergman got "'Ave you had it yet darlin'?" Bogart in Casablanca town was repeatedly warned "The invasion's c.u.mmin', p.i.s.s orf before you're conscripted."

At one stage as Bogart nonchalantly put his hands in his pockets, a warning to Bergman, "Look out, darlin', he's going to show you the white-eared elephant."

Claude Rains was greeted with "Here comes the weather report." When Bogart's victim fell to the ground there was "Stretcher bearer!", kissing was greeted by 200 gunners making suction noises. I can never ever watch that film again. I report in full Alf Fildes' diary, it gives an interesting insight as to what an ordinary soldier was thinking on that day thirty-five years ago.

Cinema Show in our garage, so we're out all day till it's our turn. Good film Cinema Show in our garage, so we're out all day till it's our turn. Good film Casablanca, Casablanca, lots of barracking. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman and Claude Rains, but made me rather lovesick and homesick, nevertheless very entertaining. Most of the lads sweeping up muddy courtyard along with parades. Maintenance with Milligan leading mad moments of his latest invention called 'Drooling', a new game with effects on victims, who are pounced upon with verbal hoots and groans like gorillas. How mad we all are when there's a war on and no artificial pleasures. Jerry still holding his winter line cleverly with MG's and Mortars but 5 lots of barracking. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman and Claude Rains, but made me rather lovesick and homesick, nevertheless very entertaining. Most of the lads sweeping up muddy courtyard along with parades. Maintenance with Milligan leading mad moments of his latest invention called 'Drooling', a new game with effects on victims, who are pounced upon with verbal hoots and groans like gorillas. How mad we all are when there's a war on and no artificial pleasures. Jerry still holding his winter line cleverly with MG's and Mortars but 5th Army gaining yard by yard Army gaining yard by yard. CAMINO MONASTERY piled with dead of both sides and therefore unoccupiable since rock surface affords no graves for bodies, it must have been horrible to clamber up that sheer-razor rock with mortars dropping with lethal accuracy but, after changing hands a number of times, it is now definitely ours and the 46 Division are advancing with the Yanks CAMINO MONASTERY piled with dead of both sides and therefore unoccupiable since rock surface affords no graves for bodies, it must have been horrible to clamber up that sheer-razor rock with mortars dropping with lethal accuracy but, after changing hands a number of times, it is now definitely ours and the 46 Division are advancing with the Yanks.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1943.

Mobile Shower Unit have arrived, naked gunners all over the place, steam, soap, whistling, songs, pranks. A Quartet of naked men are standing in barber-shop formation-Edgington, Milligan, Devine and White. The water cascades down them, patent-leathering their hair to their heads, water jets run off their noses, elbows and w.i.l.l.i.e.s.

"We're poor little sheep who have lost our way, baaa, baaa, baaa." This is all done with a fine feeling for dramatic gestures, arms shoot up in all directions, occasionally the steam would obscure them completely. We sang for nearly an hour; when we came out all of us were bright red.

"I feel giddy," said Edgington.

"It's the loss of dirt," I said. "It leaves you dizzy."

Having given us a shower we are now told to don our denims and "Clean the underside of all the signal vehicles." An hour later we were all s.h.i.t-black again. As luck would have it, the showers unit was still working; soon from the steam came "We're poor little sheep..."

The Bath Corporal said, "'Ere, weren't you lot in this mornin'?"

"Yes."

"You're only supposed to 'ave one one go." go."

"This is is only one go," I said. only one go," I said.

"This is the second time you been in. I recognised the singin'." Fame at last!

He forthwith switched off the water. We were left naked, covered in soap and shivering.

"I'm not 'avin' this," said Devine, who runs after the Corporal. Soon the water flowed again, but then it went off again, and on again, and off again...we could hear a scuffle out back somewhere, then the thud of a body falling to the floor. Devine reappeared with a turnc.o.c.k, he had blood coming from his mouth. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I told him."

What had happened? Simple. The Bath Corporal now lay unconscious by his control valve.

"Hurry up, then," said Devine. "I didn't hit him very hard."

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1943.

REGIMENTAL DIARY: REGIMENTAL DIARY: RA Band visited 10 Corps area and gave performance in the Teatro Garibaldi at Santa Maria, and Capua Vetere RA Band visited 10 Corps area and gave performance in the Teatro Garibaldi at Santa Maria, and Capua Vetere. MY DIARY: MY DIARY: ONLY EIGHT SHOPPING DAYS LEFT TO CHRISTMAS. OH DEAR, I MUST HURRY. ONLY EIGHT SHOPPING DAYS LEFT TO CHRISTMAS. OH DEAR, I MUST HURRY. FILDES' DIARY: FILDES' DIARY: Still no Naples or rest but plenty of graft Still no Naples or rest but plenty of graft.

Graft yes. We are cleaning and recleaning our Signal equipment.

"I can't clean this wireless set any more, Sarge."

"Why not?"

"It's starting to scream."

Afternoon. All ranks other than those on guard and regimental duties will proceed to Santa Maria for the RA Band Concert.

The Garibaldi Theatre fronted a muddy street. The interior was a wonderland of plaster work, gilt, marble columns and red velvet. Built 1840, in cla.s.sical style, it would be a show-piece anywhere. Right now the RA Band are pumping out 'Colonel Bogey'. We listen to a few Sousa Marches and off out. American Red Cross Cinema! That was for us. It's full. Round the back, Milligan. Open door. On to the rear of the stage. Fildes, White and I lay on our backs on the reverse side of the screen and watched George Brent and Mary Astor in a film I think called Black Victory Black Victory When the t.i.tles came up, White said, "This must be the Joe Louis versus Max Schmeling fight." When the t.i.tles came up, White said, "This must be the Joe Louis versus Max Schmeling fight."

I wish it had been. The film bored me to death, it was a series of doors opening and people coming into rooms, talking about an inheritance, then leaving; after door number fifty opened I fell asleep. I'm woken by Fildes to 'stop bleedin' snorin' ', I can't imagine what people on the other side of the screen thought as this inexplicable snoring was heard in a scene where the Will was being read.

Home to dinner and we lay awake a long time yarning about Christma.s.ses from yesteryear. Deans asks what the film was like.

"It was a film where suddenly! nothing happened all the time."

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1943.

Today was like Tuesday the fourteenth without the baths.

We have a new MO, a Captain Duggan from the RAMC; he was a pink-looking Irishman with freckles, about six foot, and tall with it, thin, and a hat that seemed to be loose on his head. He walked about a bit like Jacques Tati. At the sick parade all the men felt worse after seeing him. He had come from Kerry, and been a smalltown doctor, mostly farmers.

Gunner Bailey went sick with a twisted and swollen ankle; he was given aspirins. Gunner Musclewhite went in with Dermat.i.tis and got Castor Oil, "Jock' Wilson went in with a boil on his nose, and was told to 'Run it under a cold tap."

"It stands to reason," said Bailey, "if you went in with appendicitis, he'd give you a holy picture and tell you to pray."

A stickler for fresh air, Captain Duggan slept with the windows open. A week later he was taken from us with Bronchitis. As his stretcher was slid into the ambulance a Scots voice was heard to cry, "Don't forget, run him under the cold tap."

It's mid morning, there's lots of work everywhere, but n.o.body doing it. Where are we? A small shed among some trees behind the big Tower block. From it come low voices and palls of cigarette smoke. This is the hideaway, the inside reeks with gunners making tea and smoking; they are ignoring distant voices of sergeants calling, "Where are you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?!"

The game is to make occasional appearances. We always left a skeleton staff on maintenance while the bulk of the layabouts hid. It was Crown and Anchor with Dai Pool, he brought the board up with the rations, he doled out our cigarette allowance, one hour later he had won them all back. I think today he has a villa on Malta and lung cancer.

SAt.u.r.dAY, DECEMBER 18, 1943.

Zounds! Great Grundles of Gerzolikon. It's happened. I feared this day for many a month. There, in black and white in clear language on Part Two Orders. "Guard Commander: L/Bombardier Milligan. S. 954024." So Milligan was trapped. There was one privilege; you got the afternoon off to prepare your kit. One could never place a brush to a boot without the remark, "After another b.l.o.o.d.y stripe, are we?" I blancoed my webbing, polished all my bra.s.s, then wrote a letter home. Major Evan Jenkins is driving his batman insane.

"He wants 'ees battle dress 'ung up to attention, 'eees boots angled out at forty-five degrees, mustn't put 'is 'at upside down, it's an insult to the gun on the cap badge."

As retribution, he used to swig Jenkins' whisky then top it up with water, and Jenkins used to wonder why he could never get p.i.s.sed on it.

"Very good turn-out, Bombardier," said Captain Sullivan of the guard mounting.

"Yes, sir," I said, "I wonder what's gone wrong."

I saluted him. He saluted me. We saluted.

"Dismiss the men, Bombardier." I saluted, he saluted.

I saluted him. He saluted me. We saluted. They saluted. I turned smartly.

"Old Guardddd, officer on paradeeee-dissss missss...New Guard...to the Guard Room...Dissss...misss."

Boots thumped on the cobbles and the men trooped into the guardroom, leaving Driver Alf Fildes on first stag picking his nose. Like a good guard commander I slept smartly to attention that night. I awoke once when Gunner Jock Hall knocked the tea bucket over. I leapt to my feet and saluted it.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19, 1943.

Next morning I wrote in the Guard Report, "0545 Hrs, Tea, buckets for the use of, knocked over, spilling contents. Took immediate action and returned bucket to upright position. Signed L/Bdr Milligan. S."

The dawn was clear, and stars were still lingering in the morning sky, underfoot a hard white frost. The Billet was still and quiet, sleeping forms locked in their dreams. What better than to cheer them up, CRASH, CLANG, I dropped all my webbing and sang "G.o.d rest ye merry gentlemen, may nothing ye dismay." Why then were they so dismayed?

Here I was awakening them, so that they would not be late on parade, and what do I get? But wait, what is Gunner White saying to me, his hands round my throat, "You c.u.n.t!...today's SUNDAY...SUNDAY!"

The more religious had gone to ma.s.s at RHQ. I didn't. I was a bad Catholic and I didn't want to spoil my fine record. I wanted to be like my father. All his life he totally ignored his religion, but when he's told he's dying, suddenly! it's Good Catholic Time! "Call a Priest," he says. "No, wait, call a Bishop."

In those moments before death he was re-baptised seven times, went to confession a dozen, and took communion six times. He used to say, "What's the use of being a good Catholic for seventy years? All you need is one confession before you die and it makes up for all of it, and look at the time and money you've saved!"

The Sunday was all letter-writing, yarning, darning holes in clothes, reading, and fishing in the ca.n.a.l. I spent an hour feeding worms to the fish and gave it up. Gunner Miller of 18 Battery has a real line, and is catching Roach, Dab, etc...He gave me two. Ronnie May grilled them and I gave one to Edgington (who doesn't remember the occasion), he complained bitterly, "It's full of b.l.o.o.d.y bones."

"Of course it is, everybody is, you'd fall down without 'em."

DECEMBER 20, 1943.

"Looking forward to Christmas, Harry?"

Edgington looks up from his mess-tin. "I'm not sure, mate, in one way yes, in another no, the no part is spending it away from home. You can't help feeling homesick, and it's worse at Christmas."

There is no place to be at Christmas except home. I thought of the Christma.s.ses I remembered from boyhood days in Poona. I remember the little room I slept in at the back of the house in 5 Climo Road, the indescribable excitement of waking at four in the morning, with the world of adults all silent, finding the pillow-case full of boxes and toys, and the magic as you unwrapped each one...I remember waking up at the very moment my mother and grandmother were putting the pillow-case at the bottom of my bed, explaining how 'Father Christmas had just gone', and when I asked which way he went, they pointed at the window; as it was covered with chicken wire, I worked out that he was magic, had got through the holes and was now a jig-saw puzzle. All that and more was moving in the memory bank of my past, and I too knew that Christmas on a farm in Italy could never be the real thing. Ted Lawrence, the Don R, brings news of Kidgell; he's in Naples at the REME Depot.

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Driver Kidgell "Lucky b.u.g.g.e.rs, billeted in the middle of Naples for three three b.l.o.o.d.y weeks." b.l.o.o.d.y weeks."

Edgington is reading a shirt. "Remember that girl in Bexhill with the hairy legs who played Chopin?"

"Yes," I said, "that's all I ever think of, she and her hairy legs playing Chopin."

"I wonder what happened to her?"

"I suppose she's shaved her legs and they now play Rachmaninov."

"I remember the time we were pulling out of Bexhill-"

"You pulled out in Bexhill? What was the poor girl's name?"

He ignored me. "...we were pulling out, and we were detailed to clean up the officers' billets---"

"Trevissick?"*

Name of officers' billet in Bexhill. Name of officers' billet in Bexhill.

"Very!...we were just finishing off, when you spotted a crate of booze in the back of the garage. I remember one bottle was rum, and you and I started to sip it, remember?"