Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 9

Her name is Maria Marini (all gypsies not in the wood in Italy are called Maria). A high degree of naughty was possible! I asked her why she had chosen me. I looked kind. Kind? What kind? Her words: "You looka nice." The bottom drops out of the naughty when she tells me she's not not a tart, a tart, this this is the first time! Why, dear girl, are you doing this dreadful thing? Doesn't she know I'm trying to cure myself of Cold Collation, screaming and w.a.n.king? She's a teacher from the University of Milan, she was holidaying in Rome when the Germans put a curfew on all civilian movements. She was broke and desperate. I said so was I, I'd just had egg and chips. A friend had suggested there were two ways to make money, tarting or counterfeiting. Both ways you get f.u.c.ked. When we got to her small but tidy flat overlooking the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore (all Basilicas not called Franco are called Maria in Italy), she broke down. Should I call the AA? I couldn't bring myself to do it folks. I slept on that sofa! is the first time! Why, dear girl, are you doing this dreadful thing? Doesn't she know I'm trying to cure myself of Cold Collation, screaming and w.a.n.king? She's a teacher from the University of Milan, she was holidaying in Rome when the Germans put a curfew on all civilian movements. She was broke and desperate. I said so was I, I'd just had egg and chips. A friend had suggested there were two ways to make money, tarting or counterfeiting. Both ways you get f.u.c.ked. When we got to her small but tidy flat overlooking the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore (all Basilicas not called Franco are called Maria in Italy), she broke down. Should I call the AA? I couldn't bring myself to do it folks. I slept on that sofa!

After a good night's Cold Collation and somnambulism, she brings me coffee and a slice of cake. I would have done better at the Rest Camp! "Ta for not s.h.a.gging me, now can I have the money," she says, in so many words. She has thought twice about it, she wants me to stay! Has she caught a glimpse of it in the night? "I ken be lak a waf to you," she says. "I ken c.o.c.k for you." Well, I'd love her to c.o.c.k for me, but I have to leave - the people in Maddaloni are dancing to a man banging a dustbin lid as he whistles. Will I write to her? Yes, and send soap, chocolate and a few million lire. She will wait for me. As I leave she grabs me, kisses me, then slams the door on my fingers. I return to the camp with a bandaged hand and am greeted with, "Did she 'ave barbed wire round it?" Tell them all, every sordid little detail.

I upgraded the story. She was a distressed Countess, she wanted me to live with her. Corrrrrrrr! I could be the distressed Count. You count. She made me dress as Mussolini and make love to her! Corrrr! I wrote to Maria for nearly two years and I met her again in Volume VI (Order your copy now - due 1986).

September 6 It's back to Maddaloni and straight into the Junior Ranks Dance. The ATS are allowed to wear dresses, frocks, and what look like broken army blankets st.i.tched together with boot laces. At the door they are all given a flower. The lighting would have done credit to any swish night club, and so much food and drink seemed evil. We play some new arrangements; including 'Star Eyes' which was great; here I am seen at my pristine best playing the muted Trumpet solo.

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Playing 'Star Eyes'. My eyes are closed to avoid seeing any Cold Collation.

The dance contest is to be 'judged' by Brigadier Henry Woods CBE, which is no worse than Mary Whitehouse choosing the best p.o.r.no movie. Groans follow his every decision but he goes merrily on giving marks for the dancer with the 'best haircut' in the Waltz, and 'best-polished shoes' in the Quick Step. It's the biggest debacle since Dunkirk. By some miracle Rosetta Page wins the spot prize - she's covered in them. In my white Harry James jacket, dyed black trousers, bandaged hand and moustache, I manage to get the last waltz.

"What happened to your hand, Spike?"

I caught it on some barbed wire, I tell her. "I'm going on leave. Will you miss me?" Of course she will, she makes a point of it.

A letter from a girlfriend, Beryl Southby, sends me news of a song contest being held at the Hammersmith Palais by Oscar Rabin. Immediately I am George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. I see myself at a lonely piano on a grouse moor in pouring rain. Lit by a hurricane lamp, I am dressed as a damp Chopin. All through the tempest I cough blood, sip lemon tea and write a masterpiece of a tune called 'Dream Girl'. I write to my friend Gunner Edgington in distant Holland telling of my composition, a tune that is a sinecure for the depressed; one chorus will cure love sickness, two will stop varicose veins, three will prevent scrofula and psoriasis. The first prize is a thousand pounds. A thousand pounds; think what I could do with that! For a start, I could spend it. I send the song off. "Dear Oscar, herewith the winner, signed Bombardier Milligan S."

That was in 1945...perhaps the post is slow. The winning song was 'Twitty Twitty Twink Twink means I love you'. Now you know what's wrong with the b.l.o.o.d.y country. At the time I didn't didn't know what was wrong with the country, other than there was a great shortage. I for one wasn't getting enough of it. know what was wrong with the country, other than there was a great shortage. I for one wasn't getting enough of it.

Little Bits of Useless Information I had started to write essays (Essay, essay, essay, Who was that lady I saw you with last night...); these essays weren't, like Lamb's, they were like Mutton. One was on the death mask of a young girl found drowned in the Seine in 1899. I was haunted by the smile on the dead girl's face. Where else did I expect to see it? In an Essay Contest run by Corporal Hewitt, I won nothing. I've kept it secret until now, under the Thirty-Year Release of Information for the Security of the Nation Act. had started to write essays (Essay, essay, essay, Who was that lady I saw you with last night...); these essays weren't, like Lamb's, they were like Mutton. One was on the death mask of a young girl found drowned in the Seine in 1899. I was haunted by the smile on the dead girl's face. Where else did I expect to see it? In an Essay Contest run by Corporal Hewitt, I won nothing. I've kept it secret until now, under the Thirty-Year Release of Information for the Security of the Nation Act.

A Trifle Every morning a pretty Italian girl pa.s.sed our office window. I would say 'Buon Giorno' to her through the bars of my window, and she would throw bread to me. I did this drawing of her, now released under the Release of Information for the Security of the Nation Act.

One morning as I called to her, she burst into tears. What was wrong? Len Arrowsmith, married man, father and lecher, tells me. "It's possibly the menstrual cycle." Oh, I thought that was a ladies' bike. They say you live and learn. Well I didn't. It was my tenth day without Cold Collation.

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September 27 DIARY: DIARY: SERGEANTS' MESS DANCE. RAINING SERGEANTS' MESS DANCE. RAINING I was so excited at the prospect of UK leave that my swonicles were revolving at speed. Like a fool I thought I was going back to 1939. I'm still trying to get back to 1939. That was the best time. It all lay ahead of you. Now it's all behind and I don't want to look back. A letter from my mother tells me I have no home to come to. Her and dad are renting the ground floor of 40 Meadow Way, Woodhatch, Reigate at twenty-seven separate shillings to be paid at once to the landlady. Rations are short, they have eaten the couch. "Your father has left the army and is working at the a.s.sociated Press in Fleet Street. If you come, you'll have to sleep in the box room on dad's officer's camp bed." A camp bed! - a home fit for h.o.m.os.e.xuals. Brother is 'in Germany'. By order of the King of England he is. .h.i.tting refugees who try to nick food.

I must hurry, Mother, for I'm to be Queen of the Ball. The Sergeants are preparing for my last trumpet solo before my leave. I must look my best for them. In my scratched steel mirror, I look lovely. It's a short walk from my room, through the Sergeant Rev. Beaton's chapel, across the connecting covered way to the Dance Hall. I'm early and I tinkle the piano. Steve Lewis is early, too - that way he avoids paying.

I'm playing a Beguine.

"Is that yours?" he says.

The song yes, the piano no.

"I've never heard you play it before."

"I always play it before, never after."

We had been wanting to put on a musical about British soldiers transported back to Roman times. The tune I was playing was called Roman Girl.

You can see 'em At the Colosseum You can see 'em At the Colosseum Watching their favourite gladiators Watching their favourite gladiators In the arena In the arena There's a hyena There's a hyena Eating Christians with his friends the alligators. Eating Christians with his friends the alligators.

There were other songs we'd prepared but owing to unforeseen circ.u.mstances, which we could not foresee coming, the show never got off the ground. Another day without Cold Collation.

The dance begins. I feel great! I sing every song, play every chorus, blow louder and longer than ever before. It was to bring about my demise, however, for watching me all the while with his beady little eyes was Brigadier Henry Woods CBE, hating every note I played. He sent up a message by Major New to tell me to 'play quieter'. I told him if they wanted a quieter trumpet player, they should indent for one, or dance further away. Fuming, the little Brigadier pa.s.sed the stand with the face of an executioner. He fixed me with his 'You are for it' stare, then tripped. I laughed. It was my death sentence.

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Bdr. Milligan singing louder than has ever sung before and causing the photograph to crumble SERGANTS MESS DANCE SERGANTS MESS DANCE The very thorough resuscitator of the Seageants Mess danses, Sgt (now Mr.) T.E. Finucane, who made such a big success of the one just before he left for home, will be no little pleased when he learns that these affairs are carrying on along the lines he laid down and that a long and pleasant run of them seems a.s.sured. He spent much time coaching his buddy, the effervescent sports-maker, CSMI Rigg, on what to do and it was done, thoroughly. Not being quite so much a gala affair as the farewell to T.E. Finucane, Esq., rather fewer sweet young things from outside descended on the Alexander Barracks ballroom on Thursday, September 27 The very thorough resuscitator of the Seageants Mess danses, Sgt (now Mr.) T.E. Finucane, who made such a big success of the one just before he left for home, will be no little pleased when he learns that these affairs are carrying on along the lines he laid down and that a long and pleasant run of them seems a.s.sured. He spent much time coaching his buddy, the effervescent sports-maker, CSMI Rigg, on what to do and it was done, thoroughly. Not being quite so much a gala affair as the farewell to T.E. Finucane, Esq., rather fewer sweet young things from outside descended on the Alexander Barracks ballroom on Thursday, September 27th, buth there was a very fair representation to reinforce our own ATS, and rea ly bonnie the home and back o' beyend forces looked in their pretty dresses. An innovation much appreciated by the ladies was the installation of a large box of flowers at the entrance, from each eas invited to select a posey. Stan Britton's O2E Dance Band was on the top of its form and played with a rare swing througout the evening. An innovation much appreciated by the ladies was the installation of a large box of flowers at the entrance, from each eas invited to select a posey. Stan Britton's O2E Dance Band was on the top of its form and played with a rare swing througout the evening. Very much in evidence was 'Spike' Milligan (now also 'Young Sapling'), making his last appearance before departing on LIAP. Of course, his inevitable trumpet was Very much in evidence was 'Spike' Milligan (now also 'Young Sapling'), making his last appearance before departing on LIAP. Of course, his inevitable trumpet was his princ.i.p.al weapon, but he also triumphed as a vocalist, adding much to general gaiety. Sgt. Vera Smith, of our own ATS, and Len Prosser also obliged with vocal contributions. The lady established herself as a prime favourite and a few more his princ.i.p.al weapon, but he also triumphed as a vocalist, adding much to general gaiety. Sgt. Vera Smith, of our own ATS, and Len Prosser also obliged with vocal contributions. The lady established herself as a prime favourite and a few more

Hail the Chief DIARY: DIARY: OCTOBER 2 OCTOBER 2.

Big Parade, Bossman Cometh! Quick! hurry! no time to waste! Panic! Chaos! What's it all about? Helpppp! Field Marshall Sir Harold Alexander, GCB, CSI, DSO, MC, ADC, SAC, VWXYZ, is to inspect us. We are all drawn up in serried ranks in Alexander Barracks Square, the Great Man drives into view. Taa-raaa! Much saluting, handshaking, pointing, nose-picking. He is led up the steps and appears at a balcony overlooking the square. He opens his mouth to speak and a blast of thunder and ice-cold rain drown and drench him out. He is soon back in the building and from within the balcony room a voice, with a note of hysteria in it, shouts out to the now drenched troops: DISMMMMSSSSS. We all run for cover. End of parade. From the windows we watch his car fill up like a bath tub. For those who believe me not, here is an excerpt from the official version.

The Field Mashal's car pa.s.sed the guard of honour and came into the square, Sir Harold was met by Brig. J. H. Woods, The Field Mashal's car pa.s.sed the guard of honour and came into the square, Sir Harold was met by Brig. J. H. Woods, C.B.E. C.B.E., and escorted to the platform outside the concert room windows, and then it all happened. The black clouds which had been gathering for a half-hour suddenly broke and huge rain-drops fell. It was typical of a Commander who invariably has shown the greatest consideration for his troops that he immediately directed the parade to be dismissed to shelter. The men scurried to doorways and under trees, waiting a while on the chance of still hearing the Field Marshal, but the storm was The black clouds which had been gathering for a half-hour suddenly broke and huge rain-drops fell. It was typical of a Commander who invariably has shown the greatest consideration for his troops that he immediately directed the parade to be dismissed to shelter. The men scurried to doorways and under trees, waiting a while on the chance of still hearing the Field Marshal, but the storm was too much and he drove off too much and he drove off In true British Iconoclastic style, the quadrangle rang with gales of laughter. Anything that p.r.i.c.ks the balloon of pomposity is fair game for the Anglo Saxon.

England Home and Beauty Yes, I was going home to England and taking my beauty with me. I sent a hasty note to Harry.

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October 5 DIARY: DIARY: TRAIN LEAVES MADDALONI AT 09.00 HOURS TRAIN LEAVES MADDALONI AT 09.00 HOURS.

A crowd of over a hundred, some even older, are waiting at the siding. Sgt Prosser is my travelling companion. It's sunny, we are all in a holiday mood.

"Here she comes," says Prosser looking up the line.

"And there she goes," I say, as it goes right past.

Finally a string of Wagons-Lits clank slowly into place; a scramble of khaki porridge as we fight for seats. Len and I sink down in corner seats opposite each other. It's Sergeants only, but ah! ha!, I have added a third stripe to my sleeve. A shuddering clanking as the engine is coupled, a jerking start as the engine gets up steam; gradually we gain momentum and in ten minutes rejoin the same line in Caserta. Much points changing and shouts from the railway men, and we are set fair for Rome, a hundred miles north. Thank G.o.d I had Len for company, not one of these NCOs would talk, save for an odd grunt. "Any minute now," I said, "they'll go Baaa." They brought to this sunny day the atmosphere of a Coroner's waiting-room.

All rail journeys are identical - looking out of windows, yawning, walking up corridors, smoking, the occasional exchange of conversation, sleeping, scratching, smoking, reading. We pa.s.s through war-torn Sessa Arunca, a long tunnel through Monte de Fate, the country alternates between mountain and plain. I prefer my countryside plain, don't you? Through Minturno, the area where I had last been in action. I point out Colle Dimiano.

"That's where I was wounded," I tell Len and the entire carriage. "Did the Sergeant kiss it better?" says Len.

Midday, and we are on the plain approaching Cisterna, to our left the Via Appia, up into the Alban Hills dotted with white crosses from the Anzio break-out. By one o'clock we are hissing and chuffing into Rome Central Station. "Half an hour," shouts a voice. We debouch and stretch our legs, then taking from the vendor's trolley, stretch our teeth on sticky gooey cakes which look like noses boiled in treacle.

The platforms are scurrying with Romans, all looking like unshaven Barclays Bank managers in Cricklewood. The supply of pretty Italian girls seems endless. "They must have a factory round here," says Len, eating what looks like a dried mango with c.o.c.kroaches stuck on it. We both agree that to eat continental pastries you should be sedated or blindfolded. A sloppy thin, violently ugly Railway Transport officer comes a-clumping and a-shouting through a bull horn: "All Liap Pwarty number Twenty-six bwack on the twain." We had stocked up with French bread, cheese and boiled noses in treacle plus a bottle of Chianti. The guard's shrill whistle, unlike British guards', plays arias from Madame b.u.t.terfly: Madame b.u.t.terfly: he's still blowing when we've left the station. he's still blowing when we've left the station.

We are not hungry, so we start to eat the bread and cheese right away. The prognosis is we should be in Calais at exactly 'some time tomorrow'. When I wake up the train is speeding past Lake Bracciano; at the level crossing a crowd of peasants stand with open mouths. It's getting colder. So is mine. We can see snow on distant mountains. We plunge into long dark tunnels then into bright sunlight, into Umbria and through Viterbo, once in misty yesterdays an Etruscan Citadel. We are climbing, the windows are steaming up, we turn the handle from Freddo to Caldo, and soon we are nice and Caldo. Darkness descends, dingy yellow light bulbs illuminate the carriage. Heads are nodding, time for beddy-byes. I see there's room under the seat to sleep, I squirm underneath, bliss, there's a heating pipe behind me. While the dodos sleep upright, I sleep the sleep of an angel, be it fallen.

A merry Jiminy Cricket Castrati voice is calling: "Wake up, wake up...we're in Milan." "b.o.l.l.o.c.ks" is the response. It's eight o'clock on a very dull cold morning which I see through a sea of legs and boots. The smell in the carriage is like an uncleaned chicken coop on a hot day. Rasping smokers' coughs greet the morning. Milan station stands gaunt, grey and steely cold in the early gloom. The platform is almost empty save for vendors. We drink their exquisite aromatic coffee, banging our feet, expelling steam on our breath.

"How did you sleep?" I ask.

"Sitting up, didn't you notice?"

He hasn't slept well, because he hasn't slept at all. What did he do?

"I read the Corriere delta Sera Corriere delta Sera." He doesn't speak Iti, but when you're awake all b.l.o.o.d.y night, it's amazing what you can manage. "All Liap Pwarty number twenty-six bwack on twain."

He's still around! With my ablution kit I spruce up in the toilet. What the h.e.l.l, why not? I strip off for a stand-up bath. The train is on a dodgy bit of track. Trying to wash one leg while standing on the other, the train lurches and one leg goes down the toilet up to the groin. It's the nutcracker suite. I exit to a queue of strained faces: "Been 'avin' a b.l.o.o.d.y barf?" says one micturated voice. Why should I tell these rough soldiers that, quite apart from crushing my nuts, I have partaken of Italian train waters and my body is now snow white and ready for leave.

What's this? A buffet car has been added? Len and I wobble along the steamed-up corridors past the odd dozy soldier. It's very nice, bright and clean with white tablecloths and friendly waiters. Our waiter is fat and looks suspiciously like Mussolini. He smiles. We order egg and chips. He stops smiling.

The scenery is now ravishing. Cobalt-tinted lakes, blue mountains with snow caps, pine forests, cascading gorges, all displayed in bright sunshine. However, in the Sergeants' carriage, it is overcast, raining, with heavy fog. An RTO Sergeant holding a clipboard is checking our doc.u.ments and counting heads. G.o.d, this is exciting, this is what got Agatha Christie going on continental train murders. "She should have travelled Southern Railways in the rush hour," says Len. "That's murder all all the b.l.o.o.d.y time." We've come to a sudden halt. I get off the floor. A look out of the window shows gangers on the line, some shouting 'twixt engine driver and gangers. Finally shouts and a whistle blowing, we chuff chuff forward. We proceed in fits and starts, starts and fits, then farts and st.i.ts. the b.l.o.o.d.y time." We've come to a sudden halt. I get off the floor. A look out of the window shows gangers on the line, some shouting 'twixt engine driver and gangers. Finally shouts and a whistle blowing, we chuff chuff forward. We proceed in fits and starts, starts and fits, then farts and st.i.ts.

And lo! there was darkness on the land. It was called the Simplon Tunnel. Icy cold air squirts through the crevices in the trousers and fibrillates the Brinjalls. Soon we are out of war-torn Italy into peaceful money-mad Switzerland. Customs officers have boarded at Domodossola and are checking Pa.s.sports. "p.i.s.s Pots...all p.i.s.s Pots pleasea," they are calling. Two enter our cabin. No, we are travelling on the King's Warrant and don't need p.i.s.s Pots, but wish them well in their search. The lighthearted banter and laughter between Len and myself brings facial sneers, constant nudges and silent stares of hatred from our fellow pa.s.sengers. People are like that. If you don't understand them, hate them. What better species to drop the Bomb on! Alas they outnumber us.

CHEERFUL CHAPS.

2 2.

MISERABLE b.a.s.t.a.r.dS.

10 10.

MISERABLE b.a.s.t.a.r.dS WIN BY.

8 8.

The suburbs of Basle. What's this? Union Jacks hanging from the buildings and signs: 'Vive Tommy'. When the train slows, they foist apples and almond cakes on us, girls run alongside and hand us flowers. A quick look into my scratched steel mirror tells me why. I am still beautiful. I lean forward from the window to show my medal ribbons, and just in case I point to them.

Basle station is like Waterloo without the c.r.a.p. We are greeted by another RTO Officer: "LIAP party twenty-six? The train will be here for an hour. Refreshments have been laid on at the station buffet, no charge, just show your rail pa.s.s." Despite 'no charge', they all charge to the buffet. What a lovely surprise to hear the pretty waitresses saying, "We 'ave for you, ze Collation of Coldness." Lovely - can they whistle the Warsaw Concerto to complete our happiness? But what a difference. Cold Collation here is different from Cold Collation in Catford. Here it's great slices of turkey, a whole lettuce, great dollops of thick egg-bound mayonnaise, chunky brown bread. And here was a moment of delight: one of the grim miserable sergeants bites the thick chunky bread, his teeth come out in it, and he goes on eating.

"So, the we'll-be-in-Calais-some-time-tomorrow isn't going to materialize," says Len, not fancying another night of upright somnabulism.

"Can you hear horses galloping, Len?"

Len listens. "No, I can't."

"Oh, that's the second time today."

He looks at me and shakes his head. "It's time you had leave. Look, this is Switzerland, you could seek asylum here."

Back in the compartment of miserable b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Len consults his map. "We are about 450 miles to Calais."

"Any advance on 450? Do I hear 460? Sold then to Sgt Prosser for 450."

The Sergeants all steam with hate. I gain satisfaction from knowing that b.l.o.o.d.y ugly wives with faces like dogs' b.u.ms with hats on are waiting for them. Ha ha ha ha! It's getting still colder, but not as cold as Collation. Dinner? The white tablecloths are victims of sloppy eating and shunting. Would we like egg and chips? says Mussolini - if so you can sc.r.a.pe it off the table. Nay, we'll have some pasta. He has a heart attack. He runs screaming to the chef telling him of the breakthrough. I hear the kitchen staff singing hymns. Mussolini returns with steaming plates of ravioli. Tears come to his eyes as we eat it.

Night has encapsulated us, semaph.o.r.es of light flash past the windows like speeding fireflies. We pause a while over our coffee and brandy and think of my parents possibly drinking watery Horlicks, eating the cat, and listening to the nine o'clock noise in rented accommodation. Was I really going back to that? Yes I was. I should have got off in Switzerland.

We return to our compartment. All the repulsive Sergeants are laughing and joking, but stop the moment we return. They smirk as we sit down and I wonder what's fretting at the smooth surface of their delinquent minds. I crawl under the seat to last night's sleeping niche and turn off to the sound of iron crochets of train wheels. While we slumber, the land of Jeanne D'Arc is slipping by in the D'ark.

Awake, My Pretty Ones The sun is streaming through the carriage windows. Poplar trees are flashing past, the French countryside is a swirl of autumnal hues.

"Bonjour," says Len, as I arise from le floor. "It's temps pour le breakfast."

The buffet car is crammed with bleary-eyed, travel-weary soldiers. The smell of fried breakfasts wafts along the corridors; they've started queuing, we must be getting near England. Appet.i.te improves with waiting. Our turn. What would the messieurs like? Hot bread rolls? Oui, oui. We must be in France or luck. There's real real unsalted Normandy b.u.t.ter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. "Le Life is Tres Bon," says Len. He confers with his le map. "Ah, we pa.s.sed Chaumont in the night," he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I've been pa.s.sing Chaumonts in the night. unsalted Normandy b.u.t.ter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. "Le Life is Tres Bon," says Len. He confers with his le map. "Ah, we pa.s.sed Chaumont in the night," he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I've been pa.s.sing Chaumonts in the night.

We are coursing the side of the historic Marne river. To our left the verdant plain of Champagne. Blue overalled vignerons are harvesting the grapes. The train slows down into Epernay. My G.o.d! Champagne vendors on the platform! It's only ten o'clock in the morning, we'll be p.i.s.sed by twelve.

"It's a giveaway," Len said.

I waited, they didn't give it away. It was fresh and sparkling and delicious. I remember my parents telling me of their Salad Days in India during the Afternoon of the Raj. They used to drink Heidsicke Dry Monopole, and here was I twenty years on drinking it for the first time.

I was wrong, we were p.i.s.sed by eleven. We buy a second bottle for the journey.

"All Liap No. 26 back on the twain."

A late purchase of some Brie and we glide from the station. In the distance we see the exquisite Chateau Sarat. How can people live in such luxury, while my parents are eating the furniture. Never mind, I'll be rich one day, and if possible the day after that as well. We are at sea level, but none is getting in. What? We are not not going to stop in Paris. This is a breach of the Geneva Convention. going to stop in Paris. This is a breach of the Geneva Convention.

"The rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," says Len, who was looking forward to Paris, and is now looking back at it. Never mind, there'll be another war. Before that we must open the champagne! We retire to the corridor. Like barbarians we shake the living daylights out of the bottle. This was the way Clark Gable opened it in San Francisco. We swig from the bottle and soon we aren't missing Paris at all. We are jolted awake as the train suddenly screeches to a halt. Amiens. My G.o.d, we are reinforcements for World War One. "Oh," says Len, "that stuff." I didn't know he'd had a stuff, he must have done it while I was asleep.

The RTO Sergeant is wobbling down the corridors: "Calais in two hours." he calls. I must wash and brush up. Calais, one of the Sunk Ports.

"Have you ever seen the statue of the Burghers in Calais?" says Len.

"No, I'm waiting till they make the film."

A last coffee in the Buffet car. The waiters are breathing a sigh that the culinary barbarians are leaving. But what bad cooks the English are - they even burnt Joan of Arc.

Still miles from Calais, yet the idiot Sergeants are getting their luggage down. Some are even standing at the door. In their tiny minds they think they'll get there quicker. Why don't they stand near a graveyard?

Our train is slowing. The canvas is grey, a spaghetti of railway lines, black industrial complexes, many of them bombed skeletons. A mess of railway sidings, rolling stock, here and there a burnt-out tanker; slower and slower and then in the middle of a sea of points, we are told, "All out!" Waiting in the grey gloom are three RTO Sergeants, all bra.s.s, bianco and bulls.h.i.t. We split into two groups. "NCOs this way please." (PLEASE???) We two-step over a hundred yards of tracks. NO. 4 TRANSIT CAMP says the sign, and who are we to argue. "In here, gentlemen," (GENTLEMEN?) The Sergeant shows us into a Nissen hut. Beds and an iron stove.

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"Make yourselves comfortable," he says.

"How?" I say.