Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 6

He ran his stethoscope over my magnificent nine-stone body. "Yes," he concluded, "you've definitely got pains in your chest. I can hear them quite clearly."

"What do you think it is, sir?"

"It could be anything."

Anything? A broken leg? Zeppelin Fever? Cow Pox? La Grippe? Lurgi?

"You play that wretched darkie music on your bugle, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must give it up."

"Why?"

"I hate it." He goes on to say, "It's straining your heart."

b.l.o.o.d.y idiot. It's 1985, I'm a hundred and nine, and I'm still playing the trumpet. He's dead. At the time I stupidly believed him and packed up playing.

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The band without me. As you can see, they don't sound half as good The first Sat.u.r.day Music Hall of the New Year was a split bill. The first half Variety, the second half, a play Men in Shadow Men in Shadow. It was seeing the latter that prompted me to do a lunatic version of our own. We timed it to go on the very night after the play finished, using all the original costumes and scenery.

Men in Gitis Men in Gitis. Tomorrow the chief attraction at the Concert Hall will be the super, skin-creeping, spine-tingling production 'Men in Gitis'. In it are the craziest crowd of local talent that one could imagine. Spim Bolligan, the indefatiguable introducer of this new type of show, describes it as 'colossal'. Tomorrow the chief attraction at the Concert Hall will be the super, skin-creeping, spine-tingling production 'Men in Gitis'. In it are the craziest crowd of local talent that one could imagine. Spim Bolligan, the indefatiguable introducer of this new type of show, describes it as 'colossal'. Transribed typed text Transribed typed text I wrote the script with Steve Lewis and Len Prosser. It was total lunacy, starting the play before the audience came in; several of the actors outside the hall doing the first act to the queue; the curtain going up and down throughout the play; the orchestra coming into the pit calling out "Bread...give us bread," then proceeding to tune up every ten minutes. Bodies were hauled up to the ceiling by their ankles asking for a reduction in rent; people came through trap doors, and all the while a crowd of soldiers done up as. .h.i.tler tried to get a grand piano across the stage, and then back again. It ended with the projection of the Gaumont British news all over us, with the music up loud, while the band played 'G.o.d Save the King' at speed. As the audience left we leapt down among them with begging bowls, asking for money, and shouted insults after them into the night. How were we received? See below.

ENTERTAINMENTS ENTERTAINMENTS - - contd. from Page 1 contd. from Page 1. Music Hall Music Hall Last Sat.u.r.day's Musical Hall was one of the best ever presented. The highspot was undoubtedly 'Men in Gitis' - a satirical sequel to 'Men in Shadow'. This type of show is either liked or hated, and quite a few did not care for it at all, but the majority of people present gave the distinguished performers a really good ovation. 'Spike' Milligan was at his craziest and the show was a cross beween 'Itma' and 'h.e.l.lzapoppin'. Last Sat.u.r.day's Musical Hall was one of the best ever presented. The highspot was undoubtedly 'Men in Gitis' - a satirical sequel to 'Men in Shadow'. This type of show is either liked or hated, and quite a few did not care for it at all, but the majority of people present gave the distinguished performers a really good ovation. 'Spike' Milligan was at his craziest and the show was a cross beween 'Itma' and 'h.e.l.lzapoppin'. The entry of Major Bloor, Major New and the RSM added to the enjoyment of this burlesque which culminated in the 'Ma.s.s Postings' poster being exhibited. The entry of Major Bloor, Major New and the RSM added to the enjoyment of this burlesque which culminated in the 'Ma.s.s Postings' poster being exhibited. Transribed typed text Transribed typed text I love that 'good ovation' as against a bad one, however it wasn't bad for lunatics. Spurred by success, like vultures we prepared to wreck the next play. This was...

Future Attractions Future Attractions Tonight and tomorrow there is the well advertised 'White Cargo' showing in the Concert Hall. This play, which some may remember seeing in pre-war days, has a first cla.s.s story running throughout and should definitely not be missed. Tonight and tomorrow there is the well advertised 'White Cargo' showing in the Concert Hall. This play, which some may remember seeing in pre-war days, has a first cla.s.s story running throughout and should definitely not be missed. Transribed typed text Transribed typed text The innocent actor-manager putting it on was Lt. Hector Ross. No sooner was White Cargo White Cargo over than over than Black Baggage Black Baggage was on its way. With maniacal relish we went on to destroy the play piecemeal. The best part of it was that we had persuaded Hector Ross to keep appearing and saying lines from the original show, then bursting into tears and exiting. It was uproarious fun. I didn't know it, but I was taking my first steps towards writing the Goon Show. For this I have to thank Hitler, without whose war it would never have happened. was on its way. With maniacal relish we went on to destroy the play piecemeal. The best part of it was that we had persuaded Hector Ross to keep appearing and saying lines from the original show, then bursting into tears and exiting. It was uproarious fun. I didn't know it, but I was taking my first steps towards writing the Goon Show. For this I have to thank Hitler, without whose war it would never have happened.

SOMEWHERE IN THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO 1984 SOMEWHERE IN THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO 1984 NINETY-YEAR-OLD HITLER IS SHOVELLING. s.h.i.t AND SALT. NINETY-YEAR-OLD HITLER IS SHOVELLING. s.h.i.t AND SALT. HITLER: HITLER: Hear zat? You must let me be free. I am zer inventor of zer c.o.o.n Show. Ven zer Queen hears zis she will giff me zer OBE and ein free Corgi. Hear zat? You must let me be free. I am zer inventor of zer c.o.o.n Show. Ven zer Queen hears zis she will giff me zer OBE and ein free Corgi.[image]

Black Baggage in progress. X marks Spike in progress. X marks Spike

Romance Three To brighten up our winter gloom, we have been sent some thirty ATS ladies. s.c.r.o.t.u.m Agitators. No longer shackled by the band, I could stay on the dance floor, dazzling them with my masterful command of the Waltz, which I had perfected ever since I learned to count up to three. Among this new clutch of steaming females are two little darlings, Rosetta Page and 'Candy' Withers. I have my eyes on them, and hope to get my hands on later. Stage one: the chat-up-in-the-dance. Rosetta is a great dancer. Oh she's from Glasgow? How interesting! Isn't that where Harry Lauder appeared? I didn't get far with Rosetta. Candy. Good evening, do you come here often? Only during wars. Ha ha. Why had I given up playing the trumpet? I daren't tell her it was a suspected coronary. I mean, no respectable ATS wants to be found under a dead gunner. No! I wanted to concentrate on Buddhism. Oh really? Yes, I'd always been into Buddhism. It explored the upper ventricles. The ventricles? Yes. I couldn't go into that now, but would she like to come outside, strip naked, and see what happened? No? Did I hear right? Did she say No to a handsome waltzing 1-2-3 gunner Milligan? Yes. Oh f.u.c.k! She's going out with a Sergeant, but she does 'like me'. I said could I see her in between? In between what? Sheets. Don't be silly. OK, can I see her in between Sergeants? Sergeants? She's only going out with one. Good - could I see her in between him? OK, Sunday. Sunday we'll go to Caserta Palace. We'll walk through the gardens then I'll try and screw her; then we'll have tea at the Palace NAAFI and I'll try and screw her; we will then go to the cinema, where certain delights will accompany the Clark Gables! A Sunday came...and went. I tell you folks, holding hands is no subst.i.tute. I returned to my bedroom bent double with strictures from the waist down. Steve is up late reading the Jewish Chronicle Jewish Chronicle. He's deep into an article about Hitler never having been seen in the nude, but I'm not interested in nude Hitlers, I want nude Candy. How could I bend her to my will? Then the words of my friendly district visiting rapist camed to me. The hot weather! Of course! Heat made women more available, hence the invention of Central Heating. So I planned it all. Next time I met the little darling I'd take her to a warm room, close the windows, turn up the heating, make her drink boiling Horlicks then ma.s.sage her with Sloane's Linament. If that failed I'd set fire to her, then leap on. I kept sending her billets-doux and my measurements.

The Printed Word in Maddaloni Our Librarian, Corporal John Hewitt, tried to foster the written word. Till he arrived our library had no one in charge of our book. He put it to rights by procuring numerous volumes. "This," he said, holding up a ragged book with covers hanging like limp wings, "this is the Bible of the ma.s.ses." No Orchids for Miss Blandish No Orchids for Miss Blandish. He points to the drool stains. I'm above this, I have borrowed Darwin's Origin of the Species Origin of the Species, which my father had said was 'Rubbish'. He He was the origin of the species. Hewitt wants to know why I've had Dante's was the origin of the species. Hewitt wants to know why I've had Dante's Divine Comedy Divine Comedy for two months. I daren't tell him it's a counter-weight on Lewis's mosquito net. 'Twas Hewitt, himself a poet (silly to be not yourself and a poet) who introduced poetry contests, which he lived to regret. for two months. I daren't tell him it's a counter-weight on Lewis's mosquito net. 'Twas Hewitt, himself a poet (silly to be not yourself and a poet) who introduced poetry contests, which he lived to regret.

LONDON LONDON Oh London, none sufficiently can praise Oh London, none sufficiently can praise The courage fowering 'mid your smoke maze The courage fowering 'mid your smoke maze Of Limehouse alleys and suburban streets; Of Limehouse alleys and suburban streets; From every home unfailing humour beats From every home unfailing humour beats Each newer outrage with a newer jest Each newer outrage with a newer jest, And death has never claimed but second best And death has never claimed but second best. This deathless spirit freed from shattered bones This deathless spirit freed from shattered bones Scarce sheds a tear above your broken stones Scarce sheds a tear above your broken stones Scarce pauses far a moment longer than Scarce pauses far a moment longer than It takes to snap the slender life of man It takes to snap the slender life of man, ' 'Ere taking stand within another heart, Doubling the measure of its counter-smart Doubling the measure of its counter-smart Until today your limitless reserve Until today your limitless reserve Of courage, breaks the n.a.z.is' vaunted nerve Of courage, breaks the n.a.z.is' vaunted nerve. W.J. O'Leary, Pte. W.J. O'Leary, Pte.

"That was the winner," he said sobbing on my shoulder. "You should have seen the bad ones," he lamented.

Furlough Yes. "We've been furloughed," said Steve, holding up Part Two Orders. Why had we been furloughed? In appreciation of our Men in gitis Men in gitis efforts. One whole week in the Capital again. We are away next morning, Sgt. Steve Lewis, Private Eddie Edwards and Gunner S. Milligan. It looked like an old joke. "There was this Englishman, this Irishman and this man of the Hebrew persuasion and they were all in the Army, and then one day, ha ha ha, they were all given leave to Rome, ha ha ha." Once again it's the 56 Area Rest Camp. Steve, being senior, signs us in. "You realize I've signed for you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. For G.o.d's sake please avoid the following: rape, murder, arson, little boys, gefilte fish, Mlle Ding." We queued for a dinner of Irish stew, sponge roll and custard. efforts. One whole week in the Capital again. We are away next morning, Sgt. Steve Lewis, Private Eddie Edwards and Gunner S. Milligan. It looked like an old joke. "There was this Englishman, this Irishman and this man of the Hebrew persuasion and they were all in the Army, and then one day, ha ha ha, they were all given leave to Rome, ha ha ha." Once again it's the 56 Area Rest Camp. Steve, being senior, signs us in. "You realize I've signed for you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. For G.o.d's sake please avoid the following: rape, murder, arson, little boys, gefilte fish, Mlle Ding." We queued for a dinner of Irish stew, sponge roll and custard.

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Steve Lewis, Eddie Edwards and Spike Milligan There was an Englishman, an Irishman and a Jew...[image]

Tired after a hard day's travel, we ate it, then wrote off for compensation. The Yew, Lewis, has bagged the favoured upper bunk. "It's the English cla.s.s system," he explains. "If a wild beast gets in it eats the lower cla.s.s first, allowing the upper cla.s.s to survive and re-let the bed for the next victim." Next morning, early hot showers, singing, towel flicking on the b.u.ms etc., then breakfast of sausage, bacon, bread and jam, and we are like giants refreshed. We go on the town.

We are accosted outside a souvenir shop. "Hey Joe," says an Iti tout. I tell him my name is not Joe, but Terence Alan Milligan and have a care. Do I want a picture? "Your-a-face-a-painted in five-a-minutes flat." Do I want a flat face? OK-o. I must have had a face like a po - he has named me Jerry.

The Colosseum is to Rome what the Eiffel Tower is to Paris but less rusty. "That's where they threw the Christians to the lions," says Eddie. No Jews? "No, the lions weren't kosher." We eat gelati at a cafe; visit the Forum. "Not much of it left," says Eddie. I tell him that the Forum was destroyed by Vandals. "I know, they did in our local phone box," he said.

The Parthenon; two thousand years old and still intact! -the Barbara Cartland of Architecture. Within are the tombs of the Kings and Queens of Italy and there, immured in marble, is Michelangelo. Steve is very impressed. "What did he die of?" I tell him: "He fell off the scaffolding." He is trying to translate the plaques.

"Pity they're in Latin."

"Why?"

"It's a dead language."

"Well they are are all dead." all dead."

I couldn't believe it! Me from Brockley standing where Agrippa stood; it was as absurd as finding Agrippa queuing for fish in Catford. Steve is telling me he has cracked it. "Agrippa," he says, laughing at the terrible pun. "Agrippa is...Latin for hair grips." I thought I heard a groan from the tomb of Michelangelo.

Outside we turn into the Corso Umberto and witness the great cat colony. An old Italian lady is feeding them (as is the Roman custom). In answer to my query she says the cats have been here 'Lontano fa', so I tell my two chums, "They've been here since lontano fa." Steve says, "That's strange - they miaow in English."

The Fontana de Trevi and its songs in water: it cascades, gushes, ripples, drips, laughs, squirts. It is magnificent.

I toss the traditional coin in. "What did you wish?" says Steve. I explain certain things about Candy and he is well pleased. Eddie throws his coin in; he won't say what, but if it was to retire and live in Southampton and go grey, it's been granted. Steve screws up his Jewish soul and throws in a low-denomination coin. What does he wish? He wishes he hadn't thrown it in. We hold back as he starts to strip.

Food. A small restaurant, 'La Bolla' in the Via Flamania, a four-star place - you can see them through a hole in the roof. Here we are in the land of pasta, and I order stew stew. The photograph shows the evidence. I even had a cup of tea cup of tea AND bread and b.u.t.ter. They didn't have Daddy's sauce. AND bread and b.u.t.ter. They didn't have Daddy's sauce.

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Flashback! Steve had somehow (he can't remember) gained ingression to a Roman widow's flat. She was sixty with a daughter and son. He had arranged for two of us to stay there the last three days of the leave. And so it came to pa.s.s. We left Eddie standing in his shirt - Angora, for the wearing of- standing by his bottom bunk saying, "It's not fair, I'm not going to play with you any more." Yes, we gave poor Eddie the elbow, and if he wasn't careful he'd get the shins and the knee bones as well.

Steve's suitcase has labels. Albergo Vittorio Emanuel, Albergo Grande Viale, Albergo Re de Italia, Albergo Savoia. It gives a touch of cla.s.s to his 2/6 Marks and Spencer reinforced cardboard box with the knotted string handle.

It's in a faceless modern Mussolini-built block. We take the lift. "What's this Primo Piano, Secondo Piano, Terzo Piano?" I told him that they had one piano on the first floor, two on the second and three on the third. Apartment 234. We are met at the door by the smiling grey-haired Roman widow. She's yours, I tell Steve. We are shown into the bedroom, and having dumped our kit, she gives us tea. Her husband had died just before the war in a car accident; she has a twelve-year-old son Raymondo and a twenty-one-year-old daughter Anna, who will be mine!

It was mid-afternoon and we went to the PICTURES! George O'Brien in The Kid Rides West The Kid Rides West. I had already seen him ride East, North and South, and the film was exactly the same except he did it in a different direction. It was full of 'Aw Shucks', "You're looking real purty today Miss Lucy', and 'Are you a-callin' me a liar?" To the Alexander Club where my Hebrew friend did partake of Eggs and Chips. The REME band were playing. They were terrible. Someone shouted, "Mend a lorry." The band meant well, but then so did Hitler.

Anna Morto Little did we know of the tragedy that was impending. On our return we were let into the flat by daughter Anna. "Aye Steve," she said, and kissed him. "This is my friend, Spike." Anna was tall, blue-eyed and blonde. She could have been a model. Her brother is back from school, a dark lad with numerous questions: "Were we in the fighting, how was it, had we won any battles?" It could have been any boy anywhere.

Anna works of an evening. Blast! Chance one gone! She works in the American Officers' Club, the Nirvanetta. She is bemoaning Rome's loss of elegance. She tells us that during Mussolini's regime a woman was safe to walk anywhere after dark, even during the German occupation, but now, she threw her hands up in despair, now it was terrible, she couldn't take the drunkenness and the lechery. Chance number two gone. She wasn't joking, as we were to find out.

We were tired and after a shower I donned my terrible 'Made-out-of-cheap-sheet-then-dyed-with-a-dye-that-comes-off-in-bed' pyjamas. I was reading old English newspapers and magazines from home. I must have dozed off and I was awakened by Anna coming into my room. She put her finger to her lips for silence, then whispered: "Can I borrow this chair?" Yes. Did she want to borrow me? I had two legs less, but I was willing to be sat on. No. I was the last one to see her alive.

At seven next morning, Raymondo burst into my room: "Anna Morto," he shouted. I leapt from my bed and followed him to the kitchen. Anna was in the chair, a gas pipe leading from the stove to her mouth. Hurriedly I picked her up. It was horrible; rigor mortis had set in, and she stayed in the shape of a person seated. Steve put the mirror to her mouth.

The mother is distraught, and that poor boy, that little innocent face as yet unused to a world without a father, now his sister...The mother says she has sent for the police. It would be best if we weren't found here. We leave in embarra.s.sing haste with our pyjamas under our battledress. I often wonder if having two Allied soldiers in her home was the last straw for Anna. Please G.o.d, I hope not. I will never know. How insensitive we were. We never even went back or wrote or said thank you. What kind of a person was I...?

It put a terrible damper on the rest of the holiday and soon we were in the lorry rumbling back to our Alma Mater, Maddaloni. Trouble with lorries is you can only see out of the back. "You see where you've been and you already know that," says the Yew.

Sometimes - on a dark night - I still see Anna's face.

April 17 MY DIARY: MY DIARY: MY BIRTHDAY. I'M 27. HAD EXTRA CUP OF TEA. MY BIRTHDAY. I'M 27. HAD EXTRA CUP OF TEA.

The news tells us that the Germans in Italy are on their last legs.

Fuhrer Bunker Fuhrer Bunker HITLER IS IN THE KARZI GIVING HIMSELF ONE OF DOCTOR MORRELL'S ENEMAS. HITLER IS IN THE KARZI GIVING HIMSELF ONE OF DOCTOR MORRELL'S ENEMAS. ADOLPH: ADOLPH: Allez oops! Ahhh! Dat is better. Allez oops! Ahhh! Dat is better. GOEBBELS: GOEBBELS: Mein Fuhrer, mein Fuhrer. Mein Fuhrer, mein Fuhrer. ADOLPH: ADOLPH: Dere's only one of me. Dere's only one of me. GOEBBELS: GOEBBELS: In Italy our troops are running out of legs. In Italy our troops are running out of legs. ADOLPH: ADOLPH: You Schwein, you haff ruined my happy enema hour. You Schwein, you haff ruined my happy enema hour.

I see Thelma Oxnevad. "Spike, did you enjoy your leave?" Never mind that, Thelma, marry me at eight o'clock tonight. QMS Ward is asking me to come back to the band. I say, what about my impending coronary? He says that's all s.h.i.t. As a qualified Quarter Master Sergeant he says I'm fit. But playing the trumpet could kill me! Yes it could, but if I take the risk, so will he. OK, I'll try. There I'll be, playing a great Bunny Berrigan chorus, I hit a top G, clutch my heart and crash face downwards on a mattress. ATS Candy Withers will raise my lovely head in her arms. Have I any last request? Yes, yes, yes, if she could just take her clothes off.

Also my thespian talents are in demand! Sergeant Lionel Hamilton thinks I could play a part in The Thread of Scarlet The Thread of Scarlet. Will I be the knot? We start rehearsing, but that old Black Magic called Manic Depression attacks me and I'm put to bed with Aspirins Aspirins. What a doctor, I suppose he's still practising. G.o.d knows, he needs to. The play goes on, and horror of horrors, it's a success!

Someone is worse off than me. Mussolini has been murdered; he and his mistresses are hanging upside down in a garage in Milan.

It was a barbaric act that puts the clock back. However, the natives seem happy. Nothing like an a.s.sa.s.sination to cheer the ma.s.ses.

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The Mussolini Ma.s.sacre. They shoot horses, don't they?

May 1 MY DIARY: MY DIARY: IT'S OVER! JERRY SURRENDERS! IT'S OVER! JERRY SURRENDERS!

I had just sat down at my morning desk still reeking of porridge when a very excited Colonel Startling Grope thundered into the office. "Have you heard Terence? It's over! I've just spoken to Alex at AFHQ and it's OVER! General Vietinghoff von Nasty is at the Palace now now signing the surrender." signing the surrender."

"Great! Do I have to sign anything, Stanley Sir? I mean, I I haven't agreed to the surrender." We can have the day off, he's right, it's time we had it off. The Ities are in the street singing 'Finito, Benito Finito' and 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. The bells of the churches ring out their iron victory message. haven't agreed to the surrender." We can have the day off, he's right, it's time we had it off. The Ities are in the street singing 'Finito, Benito Finito' and 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. The bells of the churches ring out their iron victory message.

I walked back through the milling streets, lay on my bed and lit up a Capstan. I could hear the din outside and running footsteps, but I was strangely quiet. Suddenly a complete change of direction. How do you handle the end of a Campaign? I wanted to cry. Was it really over? 31,000 Allied troops had died - a city of the dead. Is a war ever really over?

A few days pa.s.s and Steve comes into the room. He is grinning: "Have you seen? He's dead." He shows me the headlines. 'HITLER, SUICIDE IN BUNKER' 'HITLER, SUICIDE IN BUNKER'. "Yes, he's dead, his tart and and his b.l.o.o.d.y dog." He hammered the words out like nails in a coffin. his b.l.o.o.d.y dog." He hammered the words out like nails in a coffin.

I had better news. Back at the officers' club in Portici I had snaffled a bottle of Dom Perignon 1935. "I've been saving this, Steve," I said, producing the bottle from its wrapper. We toasted the end in our enamel mugs. We sat grinning in silence. It was all too much; two soldiers; just statistics; where did we fit in...? Mind you, they were still fighting in Berlin, but most of the orchestra had stopped playing.

The Russians are sweeping into Berlin. Their might is awesome. The Allies and the Russians meet on the Elbe. At Luneburg Heath, Monty accepts the German surrender. It's over. Just like that. One day war, the next it's peace. It's almost absurd. The entire energy of O2E is vested in preparations for the official V-E Night celebrations. It would appear that only alcohol can generate true happiness: hundreds of bottles, barrels and fiasco are stock-piled in every available area. They are scrubbing out the fountain! Why? It's the brainchild of RSM Warburton who has ordained that it be 'filled with wine'. They had tried to get the fountains to gush, but the plumbing had long since decayed. The date is fixed. In Part Two orders: YOU YOU WILL WILL ALL HAVE A GOOD TIME, YOU ALL HAVE A GOOD TIME, YOU WILL WILL GET DRUNK, AND YOU WILL ALL STAGGER AROUND...YOU WILL GET SICK OVER EACH OTHER FOR YOUR KING AND COUNTRY. THE BAND WILL PLAY FOR DANCING UNTIL 2 A.M. GET DRUNK, AND YOU WILL ALL STAGGER AROUND...YOU WILL GET SICK OVER EACH OTHER FOR YOUR KING AND COUNTRY. THE BAND WILL PLAY FOR DANCING UNTIL 2 A.M.[image][image]

The Square in Alexander Barracks "Where did all those b.l.o.o.d.y Union Jacks come from?" Steve is counting the ma.s.s of flags that are now starting to appear around the barracks.

"Doesn't it make you feel good," I said, "to know that, despite it all, there are factories still making the British Flag."

"Oh yes, there's nothing like a good old Union Jack to cheer you up."

"I always carried a photo of the flag, and many a dark night in a muddy trench, I've taken it out and said to my trench mate: "Cheer up," and shown him my Union Jack. There would always be a response." Wait! American flags are appearing. "My G.o.d," I cry out, "they're running out of Union Jacks...!" It's getting bad! Italian flags are being hoisted, Russian! Any minute now the Ovaltinies' emblem will be shown. Janker wallahs on ladders are putting up hurriedly painted banners. VICTORY IN EUROPE! others: WELL DONE O2E! A large board with a hand giving the Victory salute. It's all happening.

I was still wondering if my brother had survived the last days of fighting. I saw him in Sydney last year and he was still alive. At the time I did not know he was still alive in Sydney.

Tuesday 8 May Official Victory celebrationsssssss, commence! It starts with the day off. We can obtain breakfast up to and including ten hundred hours.

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Sergeant Beaton gives a long thanksgiving speech: "Let us be grateful for this Victory." We were grateful when he'd finished. On the hills behind the town, the Italians are climbing up to make a giant bonfire for the evening, a prelude to which is the occasional trial firework exploding in the street. We wash, rinse and sterilize our mess tins, then wipe them dry with disease-ridden teacloths. Years later, Peter Sellers told me that on this identical day, he was in Ceylon, telling an RAF MO that he (Sellers, that is) had heard a tiger outside his hut the previous night. There being no tigers in Ceylon, LAC Sellers was recommended for a Psychiatrist's Report. Alas, what transpired at that session has never been recorded.

PSYCHIATRIST:.

Aircraftsman Sellers, you say that you've been hearing tigers.

SELLERS:.

Yes, sir, there was one outside my hut.

PSYCHIATRIST:.

Do you know there are no tigers in Ceylon?

SELLERS:.

Well there are now.

PSYCHIATRIST:.

It says, and I quote: "I heard heard a tiger growling." a tiger growling."

SELLERS:.

Yes sir.

PSYCHIATRIST:.

You're sure it wasn't some other carnivore? I mean, lots of growls sound the same.

SELLERS:.

Not this one, sir, this growl had stripes on.

At immediately-it-was-ready, the festivities started.

The Dance Hall is packed. For the first time Italian civilians are allowed in. A drunken fug hangs over everything. They've been drinking since dawn. In Alexander Square tables are laid with myriad edibles, a display that would have been a feast in rationed England. Fairy lanterns bedeck the trees, wine is flowing freely and the fountain is full of red chianti. It looks wonderful. On the hill the giant bonfire is alight. Fireworks are exploding in the streets under the great display of orchestrated electric lights.

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V-E Night in Merry Maddaloni We've never played so good. Charlie Ward sings: "We're gonna get lit up when the lights go on in London." It's like an anthem. A great chorus comes from the dancers. Colonel Startling Grope has sent us up six bottles of Asti Spumante! The evening wears on, the dancers wear out. A GI joins us. His name is Ken Mule. He sings with the band. What a find - he sounds like d.i.c.k Haymes! More booze is coming up, but I'm keeping mine down. At two o'clock the dance finishes, but some of the band are 'into it' and go on jamming. I creep off and accost lovely Rosetta Page. We get a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of Valpolicella. Soon we are snogging.