Mussolini_ His Part In My Downfall Part 25

Battery Orders: the following men have been chosen for GOS's Parade. Santa Maria La Fosse. Battery Orders: the following men have been chosen for GOS's Parade. Santa Maria La Fosse.

Parade 0730 0730.

Embuss 0745 0745.

Arrive 0815 0815.

Parade 0830 0830.

March Past.

Best battle dress. Lanyards will be worn. All webbing to be blancoed. Full FSMO less small and big pack. Rifles will not be carried. Best battle dress. Lanyards will be worn. All webbing to be blancoed. Full FSMO less small and big pack. Rifles will not be carried.

As each one saw his name on the roll he gave a groan and slumped away like a broken man, the one word that destroyed, BLANCO!, it struck terror into all.

In a disbelieving voice Sergeant King reads, "Concert Party excused guard excused guard in lieu of Rehearsals!" in lieu of Rehearsals!"

Morning Parade has gaps in the ranks. "It's the Concert Party, sir," comforts BSM Griffin.

"There's SIXTY men missing," says Major Jenkins. "What are they putting on...Aida?"

We have sent for Driver Kidgell in Naples. The Guns and the Scammells are at workshops being overhauled; he's he's not being overhauled, no, he and his oily b.l.o.o.d.y mates are sitting on their fat a.r.s.es saying 'Phew' as they exhaust themselves playing Pontoon, and only move for meals and selling petrol. Half of them are freezing to death as they've sold their blankets, some of them are already in the Mafia. not being overhauled, no, he and his oily b.l.o.o.d.y mates are sitting on their fat a.r.s.es saying 'Phew' as they exhaust themselves playing Pontoon, and only move for meals and selling petrol. Half of them are freezing to death as they've sold their blankets, some of them are already in the Mafia.

On the morning of December 22, his lordship Kidgell arrives in a stately three-tonner lorry, he's waving from the window like Royalty and the subjects are returning it with certain signs from the waist down. He drives up to Edging-ton and I who are trying to make one cigarette do the job of twenty.

Short-a.r.s.e Kidgell is preparing to leap from the cabin, for this he really needs a parachute.

"It's an insult," he said, "why didn't they send the Rolls?"

"Rolls? You still still b.l.o.o.d.y hungry," I said. "Let me take the Royal Big Pack, and count the Royal Cigarettes." b.l.o.o.d.y hungry," I said. "Let me take the Royal Big Pack, and count the Royal Cigarettes."

He'd done alright for f.a.gs in Naples. "I bought 'em on the black market," he said, as I unearthed ten packets.

Edgington is walking behind, holding up Kidgell's overcoat like an ermine cape. Bombardier Deans spots the entourage, runs forward with his groundsheet and throws it before the dwarf driver.

"'Tis the Virgin Queen," he chortles.

He's timed his arrival well. Lunch.

"Where's the cookhouse?" he said, forming a queue on his own. The sight of our well-prepared stage had impressed him. "b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous," said he, "can you eat it? Where's the cookhouse?"

We watch as Kidgell devoured a third helping of duff as though he'd been adrift with Captain Bligh. Kidgell licks his knife. "My motto is, today I live, tomorrow I die."

"Well, it won't be from b.l.o.o.d.y starvation."

Meanwhile, back at the stage, Sid Carter and a group of minions are performing miracles, using coloured crepe-paper and bunting; the stage looked splendidly seasonal, even front curtains on runners. 'Manglewurzel' Wenham had installed footlights.

"Watch this," he said, and lowered the lights.

"Cor," said appreciative Kidgell, "nearly as dim as you."

"You b.u.g.g.e.r," said Wenham.

The piano has arrived. It is an aged black upright. Edging-ton supervises the unloading as though it were a Bechstein, however it was to sound more like a Frankenstein. As he struck the first chord the response was like running an iron bar around the spoke of a bicycle.

"What b.l.o.o.d.y fool chose this?" gasped Edgington.

"I did," said Lt. Walker. "Isn't it satisfactory? I mean...it looked alright."

"Oh, it looks alright, that's all you can do, look at it."

"Oh dear." Lt. Walker was obviously distressed, after all, he was an officer, and here he was being told he was a musical ignoramus. "That piano has set me back to the tune of 800 lire."

"Well, sir, that's the only only tune you'll get out of it." tune you'll get out of it."

That afternoon, armed with pliers, Edgington and I tuned the piano; as he tightened the first string, it snapped with the sound of a bullet ricocheting. BSM Griffin entered at the moment to see us flat on the floor.

Kidgell reads the piano manufacturer's name. "Bertorelli. Milano."

"Bertorelli? Don't they make ice cream?"

"Yes," said Edgington. "They mix it inside."

By sheer effort we managed to tune the piano to a reasonable state. Getting the thing on the stage we dropped it.

"Oh, f.u.c.k nooo," groaned a despairing Edgington.

"Don't worry, don't worry," said Shapiro, our khaki Jew. "It can only make it better."

The Concert We had been overwhelmed with a mountain of jokes, ideas, etc., most of them too terrible to perform; some suggestions were impossible impossible to perform-who in G.o.d's name would tolerate Gunner Chalky White singing to perform-who in G.o.d's name would tolerate Gunner Chalky White singing Ave Maria Ave Maria nude save for army boots? nude save for army boots?

"The best we can do is pick the least offensive," I said.

"They're all all b.l.o.o.d.y offensive," said Jam-Jar Griffin, who was 'Manager' for the Company. b.l.o.o.d.y offensive," said Jam-Jar Griffin, who was 'Manager' for the Company.

Gunner White gives a soppy grin and says, "General Alexander says we must be on the offensive all the time."

"You can't sing Ave Maria Ave Maria in the nude, man. Some of the Iti farmers and their wives have been invited." in the nude, man. Some of the Iti farmers and their wives have been invited."

"I've got a good voice," said White.

"You've got a big p.r.i.c.k as well," I said.

"They don't have have to look at it." to look at it."

"How can they miss it."

"Ities like good singing'."

"Not with yer p.r.i.c.k hanging out."

Edgington, Fildes and I had 'written' a reasonably funny hillbilly act. We set about making beards by unravelling rope, and brushing it into shape. We used boot polish to blacken them.

"Behold!" says Jam-Jar Griffin, holding up four ragged shirts. It was just what we wanted for hillbilly costumes. Where did he get them?

"Pinched 'em off a washing line, keep yer eyes open for four Ities naked from the waist up."

Using miles of adhesive tape, Edgington and Fildes are affixing megaphones to the muzzles of our rifles to give them the appearance of blunderbusses. Sergeant Donaldson prepared blank ammunition by pulling the bullets from their cartridges like teeth.

"Be careful how you point, these will give a flash ten foot long."

"Don't worry, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Jenkins will be in the front row, we'll point 'em at him, ha ha ha," said Jam-Jar.

"A ten-foot-long flash could make some old lady very happy," said Gunner White.

Jam-Jar Griffin is organising the traditional Army seating. "Bra.s.s hats in front, rabble at the back."

He had the Battery office working overtime typing and duplicating programmes. The pre-Christian spirit was starting to pervade, and everyone seemed full of bonhomie or alcohol. After lunch a truck is going to Capua and some of us. .h.i.tch a ride. Driver Sears parks his truck off the road, immobilises it; that is, he leaves it without a driver. Capua! of course. Hannibal and his hairies had knocked the s.h.i.t out of the Romans just outside. He'd gone but the Romans were now in cafes, selling coffee in cups that looked suspiciously like thimbles with handles on.

"Ort ter bring our own bleedin' mugs," said Sears. "Thirty lire a bleedin' cup?"

"Etta costa thirty lire because eet ees reala reala Braziliana Coffee," said the proprietor. Braziliana Coffee," said the proprietor.

He should have added, "Stolen from our beloved Allies." However, it was worth it to see the pretty girls seated around. Those eyes! eyes! Iti girls must have the biggest in the world! To get a smile from one changed the shape of the day; it certainly changed the shape of your body. Helppppp! Iti girls must have the biggest in the world! To get a smile from one changed the shape of the day; it certainly changed the shape of your body. Helppppp!

The evening ended with a Gunners' beauty contest. The first entrant was Bombardier Milligan wearing a towel and a bra made from two army socks. Deans announced me as 'Miss Brockley of 1904, winner of last year's never-been-s.h.a.gged contest'. I am followed by Gunner Devine draped in a blanket, he is 'Miss Various Veins of Liverpool, and other areas'. Devine turns to reveal a bare b.u.m. "Miss Various Veins is wearing the peek-a-boo skirt with a view of Oscar Wilde." Close behind comes lovely Gunner White in a gas cape. "Miss Conduct of Battersea is wearing the plunging knee-line." White opens the gas cape, he is naked save for an army sock tied round his w.i.l.l.y; he wins. Remarks and shouts came in profusion from the spectators, it went on till lights out. As I lay in bed I wondered if we were really going round the bend.

DECEMBER 24, 1943.

Christmas Eve Parade The night before Christmas Eve, after tea, we had all, as was our custom, traipsed across to the Battery office (comfortably ensconced on the top floor of a farm building) to read Part 2 Orders.

"Oh no..." says Gunner White, "Oh no, no, no, no." He backs away as though he has seen Dracula. We are ALL to parade on the morrow, to be inspected by GOC 10 Corps.

"Oooo's 'ee?" said Gunner Forrest.

"'Eeee," I explained, "will either be David Niven or someone else."

"'Oooo's David Niven?"

"David Niven," I further explained, "is someone else."

Edgington is reading further from Part 2 Orders. "Ohhhh Christ, listen to this, not only an Inspection BUT, we will March Past him."

"That is a total waste of energy, why doesn't he he march past march past us? us?"

"Perhaps his legs are in REME," suggests Edgington, doing a Ritz Brothers face, and doing a ridiculous sideways walk. "Come, men," he says, "to La Belle Ballet de bianco." He leaps a clumsy jete jete, sending up a muddy spray.

The morning of Christmas Eve, we awoke to find the dawn blowing but sunny. "Corr, it's parky-" Tired men coming off guard, they rest their rifles against the wall, yawn, and fall on their beds. The Guard Commander, Syd Price, enters, his pipe wafting morning smoke-signals; he hurls his webbing on to the floor.

"Down, you b.u.g.g.e.rs..." a change of tone as he sees us all abed. "Come on, you lazy b.l.o.o.d.y lot, it's Christmas Eve, Father Christmas is on his way with a box of bianco for all good little gunnerkins."

A wave of rude remarks. He chuckles. "You are all rude, nasty little gunners, and I'm never going to play mothers and fathers with you again."

Sensational news, "Eggs for breakfast."

A mighty unshaven rush. I race across the courtyard, Edgington close behind. "Trying to break the four-minute mile?"

"Yes and soon trying to break the six-minute boiled egg."

It's amazing, this spirit of Christmas. Everyone is cheery, there are smiles on the faces of miserable b.u.g.g.e.rs. In a sing-song voice Gunner White recites 'Christmas comes but once a year and when it does it brings good cheer'.

"Wrong," says Gunner 'Dirty b.u.g.g.e.r' Bailey. "It's Father Christmas comes but once a year! and when he does his wife has Christmas Pudden Club fear!"

9.00.

We are on our transports heading towards Santa Maria La Fosse. We all sing: Good King Wenceslas looks out Good King Wenceslas looks out On the feast of Stephen On the feast of Stephen When the snow lay all about When the snow lay all about Deep and crisp and even Deep and crisp and even Brightly shone the moon that night Brightly shone the moon that night Tho' the frost was cruee-ell Tho' the frost was cruee-ell When a poor man came in sight When a poor man came in sight Playing with his Tooooo-oooo-llll. Playing with his Tooooo-oooo-llll.

We are dumped on a raised muddy road without the environs of Santa Maria la Fosse...there are Gunners everywhere. We line up next to the 74 Medium, we spot Ken Carter and Reg Bennett, who wave and point to their white webbing.

"Frost," shouts Bennett.

"Stop all that talkin'," shouts a Sergeant.

"It's the only language we know," I said.

"Can we do some mime?" pipes up a voice.

"Silence," says the Sgt.

The GOC walked along the ranks, stopping every now and then and starting now and then. He stops now and then in front of me. I'm trying to stifle a laugh.

"What's your name, Bombardier?"

"I think think it's Milligan, sir." it's Milligan, sir."