Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 8

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LIAP.

Yes, LIAP - laugh you fools! To you LIAP means nothing but to us herberts in Italy it means Leave in Blighty! The home of Spotted d.i.c.ks and Treacle, Saveloy and Mushy Peas.

The withdrawal of the musicians from active service must be carefully planned, plinned and plonned! QMS Drew Taylor, our Svengali, has arranged a roster so that twixt July and October, the band will range from Full Orchestra in July, down to a selection from Piano, Drums, Ba.s.s and three Saxes, then just Piano and Double Ba.s.s in September. In October there would be one week with just a man banging a dustbin lid and whistling. It was better than nothing, but only just. The band felt a new importance. Without us, eighty per cent of entertainment was curtailed.

Why I was so overjoyed at the prospect of leave in the UK was silly. In Italy I was eating better, getting paid better and all in sunshine. No! it was that thing called 'home': wanting to get back to what it was before it all happened. Alas, there was no going back, ever. It would never be the same again for any of us. We were dreaming, chum. Now I furtively release this letter I wrote to my pal in 19 Battery, then 'somewhere in Holland':

GNR T.A. MILLIGAN.

675024.

'O' BRANCH GHQ 2nd ECHELON CMF.

13/6/45.

MY DEAR OLD SPLATTER GUTZ,.

ITS ABOUT TIME WE GOT IN CONTACT, WITH EACH OTHER.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL THE OTHER DAY I WAS SURE WHERE THE REGIMENT WERE...YOU LOW Sk.u.m...STAND BACK HUP THERE...LEAWVE ME IN THIS STINKING HOLE WITH NO LETTERS HUP THERE...HI...HUP. SO YOU HAVE HAD LEAVE IN BLIGHTY...YOU LOW SOD HUP THERE LLLLHO...HUP THERE...STAND BACK WHILE HE ARISES...AND I SUPPOSE THERE WAS MUCH NECKING WITH THE HACKER...EH???HUP THERE...HO...HI YOU Sk.u.mFILTH...AND DID YOU ATTEMOT TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME...DID YOU...F.....ARSOLES...HI...HUP THERE...STAND BACK LET HIM UP...W.H.A.C.K....TAKE THAT...WALLLOOOOPPPPP...SWAT...YOU DONT LIKE IT...KLUNK...(RIGHT ON HIS FILTHY CRUST) AND WHAT IS IT LIKE IN BLA.....???? DONT TELL ME TOU SWINE...FILTHY BLACK DROOLING SWINE...BLAM...RIGHT IN THE OLD BREAD BASKET...HI THERE HUP...HO...HOW IS THE OLD BAND GOING...EH...OH ITS FINE...WELL TAKE THAT...KLUD SPLAT...RIGHT IN THE KNCKERS...HO HO HIS FACE IS TURNIG A TRIFLE BLUE...AND IT CANT BE THE COLD SIR...YOUR PHOTO WAS IN THE 'TATLER WITH THE REST OF THE CONCERT PARTY A LA ROMA...YOUVE SEEN IT EH???? WELL TAKE THAT...BLATSMAZSH...RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES...HO THERE HUP ITS YER OLD FORGOTTON DUS2Y PAL SPIKE...CLANG...ON THE SHIN WITH A BRa.s.s ROLLING PIN...HA IT HURTS.WHACK.WHACK. WHACK...HEH HEH HEH...TEE HEE HEE.....MY BROTHER DESMOND IS IN HAMBURG...IN THE OX AND BUCKS...TRY AND LOOK HIM UP...TAKIMNG OF LOOKING UP...LOOK AT THAT AEROPLANE.....KRUNCH SPLAT RIGHT IN THE GLOTTIS...HO THERE HUP...HI AND AWAY TO THE SPANISH TWIST PIPE. I'M BACK IN CIRCULATION ON THE HORN...AND LEADING A 4 PIECE BRa.s.s SECTION...PLUS FOUR SAXES...WE CAME 4th IN THE ALL ITALY CONTEST...OH YOU HAVENT HEARD ABOUT IT WELL...ZONGKLUD...FOR YOU STUPID OLD a.r.s.e.....AND IM IN AGE GROUP 28.....SO ILL BE GOING HOME ABOUT THE SAME TIME AS YOU...WE WILL HAVE A PARTY WITH A BIG CLUB IN THE CORNOR...AND DO YOU KNOW WAHT HAPPENS WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT...???? YOU MAKE A GRAB FOR HACHER...BUT DO YOU REACHER.?. HO HO NO NO HI HUP! THERE.!..DONG!!!RIGHT ON YOUR CRUST COMES THE LAVISH KNOWLEDGED NAIL FILLED CLUB...OH OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH MY POOR BATTERED CRUST YOU MOAN...HEE HEE WHACK...AND IS QUIT BAR THE MONOTOUS KLUNK OF THE KLUB ON YOU KRUST!!! EVERY ONE IS

Transcribed typed letter to Harry Edgington, June 13 1945[image]

Calligraphy experts have described the handwriting as 'critical', and who are we to argue with qualified nursing sisters?

While waiting for LIAP, we continue to play for dances, but as the photo shows I have been promoted to the right, so I am within hitting distance of the pianist.

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The new white jacket band on a cloth of gold, plus a moustache...

Notice too I have grown a moustache, bra.s.s players swear it: 'bound the embouchure'. It made me swear, a real real b.l.o.o.d.y bind, and shaving became difficult, but, you see, Robert Taylor had grown one and I couldn't let him get away with it. b.l.o.o.d.y bind, and shaving became difficult, but, you see, Robert Taylor had grown one and I couldn't let him get away with it.

The Torch of Love is Extinguished One letter did it. Lily Dinley is getting married! That's bad enough, but, to another man man. That's terrible. This was the girl I had carried a torch for. Though she had officially left me, I lived in hopes that one day she'd officially come back, if only to get the money I owed her. I prayed she would change her mind or her body; as long as the latter stayed the same shape as when I last saw it at 47 Revlon Road, Brockley - it was better than egg and chips. Anyway, her letter sent me into the depths of depression and when I arrived, no one was down there. This letter lets in the light for you dear dear readers. I've excised certain parts which would not interest you; they just contained certain private measurements.

Students of punctuation will be rolling on the floor.

BDR TA MILLIGAN.

95_024.

O BRANCH GHQ 2nd Echelon CMF.

Dear Old Boy, A thousand pardons for failing to write to you for so long...when I explain the reason you will understand only too well...Lily got maried about two month back, and I have been on the boose ever since...honest son, nothing ever hit me so hard...I worshipped that girl in my own peculiar fashion...lets forget it eh?. I suppose you have heard about the [blanked]

well old Harry, I'm going home to Blighty in three weeks time...What are the chances of seeing you old son??? I will drop in and see you people in any case. Its raining oceans in Italy to day. Harry I well be hoping to settle down in N London after the war...(On my own) so i would like very much to be seeing a lot of you and your gang at my place (Where ever that is)...I don't quite know what I'm going to do without Lily.....9 years is a long time to be in love with one girl.....Lets forget it.....I want you to give all the following PTO [blanked]

NASH, and any that I may have forgotten. WELL x.x.xX x.x.xX Harry I am tn the dumps...I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm going to do on leave...I have no b.l.o.o.d.y home to go to and the girl?...ha ha what b.l.o.o.d.y mockery life is...dont take any notice of the depression I8m laying on, write soon harry... Harry I am tn the dumps...I don't know what the h.e.l.l I'm going to do on leave...I have no b.l.o.o.d.y home to go to and the girl?...ha ha what b.l.o.o.d.y mockery life is...dont take any notice of the depression I8m laying on, write soon harry...

Your Sincere friend Spike

Transcribed typed letter But despite Lily, I was still writing to my harem in the UK- Beryl, Bette, Mae, Ivy; there were shortages in England, but not of this.

Zounds! It's too much to believe. "The Band are to have a week's leave in Rome," says Major New. "It's for the good work you've all done."

I didn't understand. We'd never done any work. As if this is not enough, dear reader, on the 23 July my life is enriched by the legacy of Startling Grope. He's left orders that from this day henceforth I am to be promoted to Unpaid Acting Bombardier. No money, but I can put two stripes on my sleeve and I don't have to curtsy to Sergeants any more. Startling Grope has his little joke, for one day later...I am now PAID BOMBARDIER!

"Someone has blundered," says Sergeant Britton, who is now only one stripe ahead! I catch lovely long Captain Thelma Oxnevad. I show her my two stripes. "Any chance now?" I say, but before she can answer me I am laid low - not by illness, no, by treatment. Typhus inoculation. First shot.

"Roll your sleeve up," said a Medical Orderly. "Just a little p.r.i.c.k."

I said I could see he was.

"Can you feel that?" he said.

"Yes, coming out the other side."

He was well pleased.

Soon I'm in bed with a high temperature.

"Have you heard the news?" says Steve, holding up a paper.

I listen. I can't hear anything. What's he mean? I am am the news. the news.

"They've dropped the Atom Bomb."

Very good Steve, but who's who's dropped it on dropped it on who? who? The Yanks! Of course! They've got the money. He held up the paper. The Yanks! Of course! They've got the money. He held up the paper.

'ATOM BOMB DROPPED IN HIROSHIMA'. I was delirious and really didn't give a b.u.g.g.e.r. "It's their own b.l.o.o.d.y fault," I said.

August 9 DIARY: DIARY: BOOSTER INOCULATION BOOSTER INOCULATION.

Ouchhhhhh! He was still a little p.r.i.c.k. This time it was worse, a hundred and three temperature!

"At least you keep the room warm at night," says Lewis.

s.a.d.i.s.t! The Rev. Sergeant Beaton hears my groans and comes to minister the last rites. He's disappointed, I'll live. "Whisky in hot tea is good for yew."

I buy a bottle - it's good for me! And by the amount he he drank, good for him. I have two doubles, then send out for hot tea. It's a knockout. While I sleep, another plane is on its way to Nagasaki. By the time I wake the city is no more and the nature of war is to become a nightmare, something that I was just coming out of. I'm pouring with sweat. I feel like a wet rag but can't find one anywhere. Nagasaki! That used to be the name of one of my favourite busking tunes! drank, good for him. I have two doubles, then send out for hot tea. It's a knockout. While I sleep, another plane is on its way to Nagasaki. By the time I wake the city is no more and the nature of war is to become a nightmare, something that I was just coming out of. I'm pouring with sweat. I feel like a wet rag but can't find one anywhere. Nagasaki! That used to be the name of one of my favourite busking tunes!

Hot ginger and Dynamite Hot ginger and Dynamite That's all they get at night That's all they get at night Back in Nagasaki Back in Nagasaki Where the fellas chew t'baccy Where the fellas chew t'baccy And the women wiggy waggy woo. And the women wiggy waggy woo.

I haven't heard that song since. Amazing how one atom bomb can kill a song writer's income.

I'm groggy in bed for a while. Steve is bringing my meals in, and eating them. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry."

"That doesn't leave much after tax," he said, and I still don't understand what he meant.

"Stop that b.l.o.o.d.y noise in there," shouts the Rev. Sergeant Beaton. "We're trying to meditate."

"Sorry," says Steve. "Let us know when it's our turn."

Roma Encore The holiday with Scotland's Revenge (porridge) and Links of Love (Slingers). All packed and puffing cigarettes, our lorry drives out of Alexander barracks in triumph. As we pa.s.s through the proles on their way to their offices, they boo us. "You wouldn't 'af to work if you'd learn the fiddle," chortles Jim Manning. It's a glorious day with a sky like Ca.n.a.letto; unlike England where it's like Cannelloni.

September 1 DIARY: DIARY: 56 AREA REST CAMP. LOVELY LAZY DAY. SWIMMING, GRUB, PICTURES, PING-PONG. 56 AREA REST CAMP. LOVELY LAZY DAY. SWIMMING, GRUB, PICTURES, PING-PONG.

The consensus is we go to a restaurant. We find one in the Via Forno, a lovely little trattoria with plastic grapes hanging from the ceiling, raffia-bound flasks hanging in cl.u.s.ters from the wall, and candles on the table. Several blue-chinned mafia-style waiters are waiting to serve, or murder us. It's pasta all round, except for Jim Manning. He's not going to ' 'ave any of those long strips of garlic worms, no, it's egg and chips'. Alright, we can laugh - eggs are good for you, they give you the 'orn. I find a delightful red wine, Tignanello. Then two shillings a gallon, now 6 a bottle, I'm glad I ordered it then. We now rush rapidly to the next morning to avoid all that retching out of the back of the lorry.

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Funny ha-ha reaction to the End of WWII by Bdr. Milligan - note modern frizz-top hair-do. Left: Vic Shewery; Vic Shewery; right: right: Jim Manning who volunteered to pose with me Jim Manning who volunteered to pose with me.

Diary: September 2 Terrible hangover. Felt better after breakfast. Lovely sunny day. It is now ALL over: the Nips have jacked it in.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," said Jim Manning. "The bomb was too b.l.o.o.d.y good for 'em - they should have dropped something cheaper, like gas stoves filled with s.h.i.t." What a thought.

The Romans ignore the Victory, the Allied soldiers get p.i.s.sed, the City is full of stumbling, staggering, farting drunks, none of whom have ever seen a j.a.p. The rest camp leaves the latecomers a huge table of the latest greatest horror in British cuisine, the dreaded Cold Collation, each plate containing the following: Small part of cold dead chicken.

One lettuce leaf brown at edges.

One slice of tomato laid like wreath on dead chicken bit.

Mess of diced stale boiled potatoes hiding under thin watery mayonnaise.

Sprig of watercress.

Thin slice of bread curling at edges as though about to fly off plate.

Six pale peas glued together for security.

A shrimp.

Greasy thumbprint.

NIPPON DAILY NEWS NIPPON DAILY NEWS Emperor Hirohito hit by gas stove filled with s.h.i.t. Western barbarians drop ultimate weapon. Despicable act without warning. No surrender. Antikarzi squadrons to intercept new h.e.l.l weapon. Emperor Hirohito hit by gas stove filled with s.h.i.t. Western barbarians drop ultimate weapon. Despicable act without warning. No surrender. Antikarzi squadrons to intercept new h.e.l.l weapon.

It was a warm night and we all knew who had had brown ale. "I think," says Len Prosser, "if they'd dropped Cold Collation on Hiroshima it would have done more damage." He's right! After eating it, we surrendered.

There's no lights out, so we play Pontoon. At one in the morning, from distant campanili, a series of one o'clocks ring out over the rooftops of Rome. One o'clock went on for a good seven minutes. We set our watches some twenty times.

"It must be different religions," I said, "like the Protestants are three minutes behind the Greek Orthodox, and the Catholics one minute up on the Coptics." They all say I'm a silly b.u.g.g.e.r.

"That's it," says a triumphant Jim Manning. "Pontoons only." He scoops up the winnings.

I hadn't done too badly, I'd come out with the same amount I'd had before the game, but then I hadn't played -I'd had my fingers burnt before when someone set fire to the cards.

The days that followed were much the same. Monday, Tuesday etc. to the power of seven. Breakfast, lazing, swim, lunch, lazing, swim, cold collation, screaming, ping-pong, evening spruce up, Rome, sightseeing, pictures, dance, Trattoria, Alexander Club, pictures, cold collation, screaming, late night boozing, smoking, w.a.n.king, screaming.

Diary: September 6 Last day! MUST do something. Breakfast, lazing, swim, lunch, lazing, breakfast, cold collation, screaming, w.a.n.king, lunch - elephant strangling in rum (eh?). I'd found a great 'Cinema Verite' film, Citta. Aperta Citta. Aperta. No one wants to see it. "It's in bleedin' Iti, isn't it?" says The Jim Manning. Yes, dear lad, would he like c.o.c.kney sub-t.i.tles? No - he's going to have egg, chips and the horn. It's a marvellous film, very, very moving, a wonderful performance by Aldo Fabrizi, and I came out depressed but elated.

I hie me to the Alexander Club, and there pleasure myself with choice teas and buns. A 'Naafi' pianist is playing, an a.s.sa.s.sination job; he does for music what Dracula did for anaemia. I stand and listen to the horror and realize what a good thing a.s.sa.s.sination is. To recover I have a carafe of wine and head for home.

Outside the streets are bright, shops are open late, streets bustle with night life. I'm looking in a ladies' lingerie shop with my memories. A voice behind me. "Are you looking for a dirty girl?" It's a very beautiful thirty-year-old female.

No, I wasn't looking for a dirty girl, I was looking for some clean underwear. She smiled a ravishing smile and showed teeth as white as piano keys. She looked at me with huge brown eyes, a stunner. I had never been accosted before, I didn't know what to say; this was real men's stuff. My mother said I never should play with the gypsies in the wood. To h.e.l.l with that.