Mussolini_ His Part In My Downfall Part 29

"Oh," he said.

It was a waste of b.l.o.o.d.y time. If I had answered 'Mussolini's fault' he'd have been satisfied.

"Agh-ah-weel-Glasgae-ah f.u.c.k," he'd caught up with us. We watch men catching octopus along the sh.o.r.e, to kill them they pulled them inside out. It was obscenely cruel, but then Man is.

"Do they eat those b.l.o.o.d.y things?"

"Yes."

White shuddered. "Ugg-like eatin' b.l.o.o.d.y worms."

The Anglo-Saxon will devour stale bread, bully beef, hard rolls, food boiled to death and obliterated with artificial seasoning-yet delightfully cooked octopus in garlic, No. You are what you eat, that's why we all look so b.l.o.o.d.y ugly. Back to billets to see if the showers are hot. Yes! But oh G.o.d! the news has got around, crowds of steaming red naked men cram the bathrooms-there's five men to a shower.

"It's every man fer 'ees b.l.o.o.d.y self." So saying, White and I charge our way in; the bodies are so compressed, I'm sure someone else washed my legs by mistake.

"Arrgg, yer sael nay f.u.c.k," the Scot; he's under the shower, but still in his underwear.

All clean and glowing, smelling of Wright's Cold Tar, we are ready for the evening. We're nearly skint so we have to eat the Army grub; we needed every penny to get p.i.s.sed.

"Let's look fer somewhere noo." White is looking up the steps that run up the centre of Amalfi. "Thank f.o.o.k we got rid of that b.l.o.o.d.y Jock."

It's evening now, above I spot Hesperides; I didn't mention this to White, he was already baffled enough by the Geological Fault lecture. All the way up the stairs at intervals were little Trattorias; we ascend half-way up the town and a pretty girl is standing invitingly outside of a house.

"You wanna drinka wine, bebe?"

White needs no second invitation, we go inside; it's a one-woman brothel. Now these weren't regular wh.o.r.es, but working-cla.s.s girls who had fallen on hard times and were doing it just for 'the duration'. Inside is a square white-washed room with a charcoal burner in the middle; there are simple wooden chairs with rush seats around the walls; several soldiers are drinking red wine from a large bottle on the centre table. There a large middle-aged lady in a black dress, and another young girl of about fifteen, pour us some wine. The girl from outside has come in and points to one of the soldiers; they go into the next room and I hear the lock go in the door. I felt uncomfortable, I'd never had it away with a wh.o.r.e, and being a Roman Catholic by upbringing, the thought of doing it with one horrified me. However...A couple of hours later I had blown all my money on wine, and the girl had been through about six customers, but she kept looking at me and saying 'You want?" and pointing to the room. I had declined, and each time she got angrier; she was in fact fancying me. (Why not? I was the best-looking one there.) My rejections finally drove her to say, "You, you no-lika-me. Why you no say?" I explained that I hadn't any money, whereupon in my drunken state she grabbed me, ushered me into the next room and screwed me. At the end I said, "Niente Soldi', she put her finger to her lips and went 'Sushhhhh', then, wait for it, she gave me a thousand lire.

"You no speak other soldiers," she confided, "you come back again, domani notte, eh."

Well, well, my male ego was bursting, after all she was not a common wh.o.r.e. Common wh.o.r.es wouldn't rate me at one thousand lire a go, no! This girl had a fine sense of values and a remarkable understanding of currency. Would I catch something? That's the question that haunted me in bed that night; however, I had broken the back of my Roman Catholic inhibitions. What would the Pope say? It all reminded me of the story of a fifty-year-old Pioneer Corps soldier who was caught having a knee-trembler in a doorway in Bradford. The Judge had told him he was a disgrace, there was far too much of this thing going on in Town etc., he was going to make an example of him and give him three months for indecency. The comment from the Pioneer soldier, "I tell thee summat, you'll never stop f.o.o.kin' in Bradford."

White is laying back in bed, ecstatic with the evening.

"Oh Mummy," he suddenly says, "I don't want to go back to school."

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A much decorated officer

DECEMBER 30, 1943.

DIARY: DIARY: GOT p.i.s.sED ALL DAY. GOT p.i.s.sED ALL DAY.

As requested I went back to the girl the next night, she was delighted and screwed me again. As I dressed I awaited my rightful payment.

"That will be a thousand lire," she said.

The woman was nothing but a common wh.o.r.e. If she weren't careful I'd become a practising Catholic again.

DECEMBER 31, 1943.

WE LEAVE AMALFI.

"All good things must come to an end." So saying, I slammed the tailboard up, climbed aboard, and we commenced our journey along the muddy Route 6, back to the farm. Ah Amalfi! Ravello! what terrible withdrawal symptoms is produced. We arrived back just after dark, the Sentry challenges us.

"Halt, who goes there?"

We give an incredible mixture of replies. I said, "Hiawatha and Co. Limited," I think I think Edgington said, "W. C. Fields, my deeer." Edgington said, "W. C. Fields, my deeer."

White dumps his big pack on the deck, flops on to his bed, lights a f.a.g: "Comin' back to this f.o.o.king place-it's like being taken to the ballet then asked to empty the dustbins."

Harry starts to sing 'Cuore Napolitano', a song we had heard in Amalfi. It had all been memorable.

JANUARY 1-2, 1944.

A muddy field, a rectangular pitch, at each end goals made from a bric-a-brac of telegraph poles, logs and branches of trees fresh-painted with whitewash. Around the touchlines are foregathered men of 19 Battery, they have come to see 19 Battery 'wipe the b.l.o.o.d.y floor' with a team from RHQ. "We'll teach 'em to live in dry b.l.o.o.d.y billets," said Dai Poole as he took the field to captain our team. Great cries of encouragement, as against the boos that greet RHQ. The referee is Sgt. Donaldson, the two linesmen Jock Hall and Bdr. Marsden: so biased is the referee that the entry of RHQ is greeted with a blast on the whistle and a cry of "Offside."

The game didn't seem to bear much relationship to football. Rather mud-ball. At times it was buried a foot under the surface, and after ten minutes both sides looked identical. Thereafter all the players ran around the field identifying themselves by shouting '19 Battery' or 'RHQ'. It sounded like a lunatic Eastern bazaar. All attempts at positional play were abandoned in favour of a ma.s.s concentration of wherever the ball was. I swear to G.o.d the first goal for 19 Battery was scored by the referee, and when the ball came where the touchline might might have been, several spectators joined in the dribbling. The interval was resplendent with two huge containers of tea, and a seasonal 'gift' of rum. The spectators were into it first, and the players got b.u.g.g.e.r all. have been, several spectators joined in the dribbling. The interval was resplendent with two huge containers of tea, and a seasonal 'gift' of rum. The spectators were into it first, and the players got b.u.g.g.e.r all.

The game is about to be resumed, but stops when three 19 Battery players were found hiding among the RHQ team. The game ended in a 2-0 win for us. Our second goal was unique; RHQ goalie stopped a shot and was standing holding the ball on the goal-line, when Gunner Devine shoved him in. There was a h.e.l.l of an argument but the goal was allowed, some say only after the referee had promised the goalie fifty lire.

That night we had news from the front, 18 Battery in a duel had blasted a Jerry gun off the face of the earth with an observed direct hit (from an Air OP), and 15 Battery had destroyed a very dangerous MG pill-box. Happy New Year!

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Correct uniform for officers sleeping on duty.

JANUARY 2/3, 1944.

Search for AFN Naples I wanted to get the Band a broadcast; with this in mind I skidaddled to Naples, hitching all the way. After much searching, I finally located the offices of the Allied Forces Network. They were located on the first floor of the San Carlo Opera house. I pa.s.sed along a corridor of Baroque doors. Signs-'Cappo de Ballet', 'Maestro del Orchestra', 'Prima Ballerina', and 'Viatato Ingresso'. Finally a piece of true British enterprise, 'AFN Liaison Officer', written on a piece of cardboard with a three-inch nail through it. I knocked politely-the door was opened by a tubby ATS girl who greeted me with "Yes?"

"I'd like to speak to someone about doing a broadcast."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes..."

She stood there like a dummy.

"Well-could you tell me who to see?"

"Well, there's only Lieutenant Mondey."

"Can I see only him?"

"Does he know you're coming?"

"Not unless he's an extra-sensory perceptionist."

"I'll tell him you're here."

She waddled off to a door directly behind her. Her bottom wobbled as though operated by an invisible hand. She reappeared blushing as though she had been interfered with. If this was the case her molester must be blind.

"Lt. Mondey will see you now."

I walked into a room that had obviously once been a broom cupboard. The desk took up most of the room, the walls were barren save for a nail with a hat on. On the desk was the stub of a pencil, a telephone and a copy of the Union Jack Union Jack. Behind it sat a minute, sallow-complexioned man; he was either a dwarf or sitting on a milking stool. If the latter was the case, the pained expression suggested the stool was inverted. He looked at me as though I had come from Mars.

"Yes, what is it?" he said, shifting his seat.

His demeanour gave me the same feeling Edith Cavell got on the dawn of her execution.

"I'm Lance-Bombardier Milligan, sir, 56th Heavy Regiment." Heavy Regiment."

He received this announcement as though it was an eviction notice.

"Oh yes," he said.

"I'd like to get a broadcast for a Jazz Quartet."

An eviction notice plus seizure of all a.s.sets. This was all new to him; by the silly look on his face, anything was new to him. He squirmed and said, "I see." He didn't really. "Are you professional musicians?"

I thought the answer 'Yes' a good one.

"Do you earn your living as a musician?"

"No, I earn it as a Lance-Bombardier."

"I better make a note of the Band's name," he said. "It's-er?-er?"

"It's-er-D Battery Dance Band."

"E Battery?"

"D sir."

"What?"

"It's D, sir."

"D? D what?"

"D Battery-you were writing E."

"Oh," he scribbled out the E and wrote D. "There," he said as though he'd climbed Everest. "Now!" He placed his pencil tidily on his deck. "Anything else?"

Anything else? What was he talking about?

"Yes, sir...when?"

"When what?"

"When can we broadcast?"

"Broadcast? Well...we don't know what you sound like, do we? ha ha ha."

"Well, how about an audition?"

"Audition?" It was like checkmate. "Ah yes-an audition-now when?"

"Any time."

"Any time-when would that be?"

G.o.d! there was only one way he became an officer, he was baptised one.

"I think my boys could make it day after tomorrow-the afternoon."

"Let me check my diary." He opened a drawer which was empty, he pretended to write something, closed the drawer. "Well, that's that," he blinked.

I saluted, he didn't. I don't think he knew how to. I walked out past the ATS girl, who was preparing for the next groping session.

Outside I rubbed my hands with glee. (I always kept a tin handy.) Wait till the lads hear the news!

"Now what songs will I sing?" were Kidgell's first reactions. "I'll be a hit on radio-for a start they can't see what a short-a.r.s.e I am."

"It took a b.l.o.o.d.y war to get us on the air," Fildes says, "we owe it all to Hitler."

"Gentlemen," I said, "will you all stand for Adolf Hitler."

JANUARY 4, 1944.

MY DIARY: MY DIARY: NIGHT OF FOURTH. NEWS THAT WE ARE ABOUT TO MOVE 'SOMEWHERE' AT 'SHORT NOTICE'. THIS HAS FLATTENED ANY HOPES OF THE BAND PLAYING ON THE AFN NETWORK IN NAPLES. b.u.g.g.e.r! b.u.g.g.e.r! b.u.g.g.e.r.! NIGHT OF FOURTH. NEWS THAT WE ARE ABOUT TO MOVE 'SOMEWHERE' AT 'SHORT NOTICE'. THIS HAS FLATTENED ANY HOPES OF THE BAND PLAYING ON THE AFN NETWORK IN NAPLES. b.u.g.g.e.r! b.u.g.g.e.r! b.u.g.g.e.r.!

It was a coldish night, so most of us were in bed, some with bottles of vino, some reading old newspapers, some writing those feverish letters home. I was reading letters from Bette, Beryl, Lily, Ivy Mae, Madge, and for some inexplicable reason, Jim. I would read all the best bits out to the most frustrated Gunners. White is sitting up in bed, with Happy New Year chalked on his tin hat.

Enter Bombardier Fuller. What's he doing up? He is fully dressed, looking very alert, and bearing down on us. It looks bad. It is bad. He says, "Listen fer yer names." He calls out, "Nash, Milligan, Deans," he drones on for about ten more. My G.o.d, they've found us, we were going to war again-a new position. We are the advance party to dig gun-pits, Command Posts, cookhouse, s.h.i.t house, etc. etc.

"You've got to be packed and ready to leave at 0530 hours."