Part 4 (2/2)
I am there, beautiful, radiating Bra.s.so, Blanco, Brylcreem and Brio, with all my things revolving at high speed. I am there dead on 8 o'clock, I am also there dead on at half-past eight, I am also dead on there at nine, and I am there dead on again at nine-thirty, and I went on to be dead on at ten o'clock. Where was she, my little darling dirty rotten little tart, letting me and it down! Today I wonder, was I at the right address? Somewhere in the street of Caserta is a grey-haired old lady in a ragged ATS uniform still waiting for it.
I withdraw to the Forces Canteen in the High Street and am found drinking tea, eating a sandwich and finding consolation watching the wobbling b.u.m of the manageress. Next Hay Major Rodes and his rupture hear of my adventure. ”So your little soldier tart didn't show, eh?” He hands me a drawing.
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Band Biz We want to expand the band. We would like a string section. There is a fine fiddler, one Corporal Spaldo. At concerts he plays Montes' Czardas. Would he like to play in our band? He shudders. No, not for him the n.i.g.g.e.r rhythm music. There is a postscript to this tale.
Many years after the war I was in a night club. The cabaret is supplied by a 'Krazy Kaper' Band. I notice a violinist, wearing a large ginger wig and beard, a football jersey, a kilt with a whitewash brush for a sporran, fishnet stockings and high heel shoes. They play 'Does chewing gum leave its flavour on the bedpost over night'. It's Spaldo! I couldn't resist it, I went over and said, ”Changed your mind, eh?”
So my lotus days in the band continued. We were paid three hundred lire a gig, my trumpet solos working out at a penny a time. Our finances were organized by Welfare Officer Major Bloore. He sometimes writes to me from the Cayman Islands.
Now I am moved moved from Filing to the Welfare Office, under the eye of Private Eddie Edwards. from Filing to the Welfare Office, under the eye of Private Eddie Edwards.
Pte. E. Edwards Posed with a soft filter, facing Nor' East and lightly oiled I am to draw posters for the current films being shown. My first one is Rita Hayworth. No, I'm not doing it right, says Major Rodes, try again. Rita Hayworth II, no, it's not right. Rita Hayworth III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, no, I just can't get Rita Hayworth right for West of Pecos; West of Pecos; I can't even get her right for East, North or South of Pecos. I can't even get her right for East, North or South of Pecos.
”Sir, I didn't join the army to draw a regiment of Hay-worths. I want out!”
”You fool, you little khaki fool,” losing a golden opportunity to become the great artist he could make me. The Major stamps off in a kilt-swinging rage.
”He's very temperamental,” says Eddie.
”I think he's in the change,” I reply. ”And his truss must be upside down.”
The Aquarium Club This is to be a new officers' drinking club. The venue is a farmhouse just outside the town.
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My penance is to do more murals. This time sea life. The Major drives me to the site. There are no men on the farm. ”Tutti nella Armata.” At the moment they were all planting cabbages in Suss.e.x; among them Mario and Franco who were to stay on to revolutionize our eating habits with their trattorias. Only the mother and the daughter Maria were left (in Italy all daughters not called mothers are Marias). She is a rough peasant beauty, five foot seven inches, tall for an Italian, and very tall for a dwarf. She has large brown expressive legs and eyes, tousled black hair and brown satin skin. (Arrrghhh!) Her mother, pardon me, looked like a bundle of oily rags ready for sorting. She seemed ever fearful of her daughter being screwed, whereas I wasn't worried at all. They were poor and leasing out a few rooms was salvation to them. She shows us two upstairs rooms. As Maria walked up the stairs, I made a note of her shapely bottom, while the Major made a note of mine. The rooms were being painted light marine blue by defaulters. Poor devils, here they had come to face Hitler, and instead they're stripping and painting walls, just like Hitler did twenty years ago. ”No wonder he went f.u.c.king mad,” they said. On the morrow I was to apply my skills; very nice, no filing, and away from the Maddening Thomas Hardy.
A Red Beard and a Beret By coincidence a real Royal Academician has joined our happy band. George Lambourne, one of Augustus John's many sons, and the image of him. He brings his talents and a batch of Welfare painters to 'tart up' our drab interiors.
I met him when I attended one of his lectures. He was too good to miss. I made a point of taking him to dinner at Aldo's Cafe. Talk was of painting. So, I'm doing murals. Did I go to art school? He is a bit puzzled by my scatty way of jumping from one subject to another like Queen Elizabeth the First, but I must have made an impression. Bear witness to mention in his diary.
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I remember George pouring me a gla.s.s of red wine, and feeling the glow of his personality. A man of depth, character, talent and brains. Who were his favourite painters? He reels off a mixture - Giotto, Rubens, Boudin, Van Gogh. What about me?
”What do you like drawing, Spike?”
I told him. ”Pay.”
Talking about Turner's sunsets: ”You never see a sunset like that,” I said. ”No,” said George, ”but don't you wish you did!”
George died a few years ago. The world is a colder place.
The Murals I'm there on the plank drawing enlarged fish, octopus, squid, dolphins and crabs; thank G.o.d I've never had them as bad. Maria drops in to see how I'm faring; there's a bit of flirting; she brings me figs, oranges, grapes. I ask her if she has a relative in Pompeii. We are repeatedly interrupted by the croaking voice of her mother - ”MARIAAAAAAAAA DOVE VI” - accompanied by sudden rushes into the room. Suspicious, yet disappointed. One arrives at the conclusion that the moment an Italian girl isn't visible to her parents she's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g.
Their farm was a tumbledown affair, and the farm dog, Neroni, a mongrel, was a sad sight, tethered on a piece of rope that only allowed him three paces, nothing more or less than a hairy burglar alarm. The forecourt was a mess of stabling, two white longhorn oxen, a few bundles of silage, scattered farm tools and a wooden plough (in 1944!), a few chickens and goats, the latter given to the desertification of Italy. Poor Neroni, whenever I approached he would snarl and bark like crazy, but when close to, he cowered and whimpered. I got him a longer piece of rope. I stroked him, something no one had ever done before. He licked my face. I brought him some food which he wolfed down. I often think of him. Those days were among the best I'd ever have. At morning I'd breakfast and then make my way to the farm down a dusty lane. The landscape was not unlike Aries at the time of Van Gogh. I'd work through the mornings. I brought the mother some tea, sugar and tins of bully beef. She wept and kissed my hand. Never mind that, what about a screw with Maria!
By the first week in October I had completed the murals at the Aquarium Club. I arranged to finish mid-morning so I could sneak the rest of the day off. I pack up my pots of paint, wash out the brushes. Tomorrow I will steal another day off when I come to collect them. Goodbye Maria, Momma and Neroni. I walk back by the dusty road and pa.s.s a goat flock. A large she-goat is about to deliver. The goat herder, a boy of fourteen, is stroking her and saying ”Piano, piano.” Why did a goat need a piano at this particular time? Finally the little hooves start to protrude. The boy, with consummate skill, takes the heels and pulls the kid clear, then repeats it on the twin, alley opp! The little kids, s.h.i.+ny and s.h.i.+very, lie still as their mother licks them. In minutes they are standing on jellified legs; seconds later they are at the teat sucking vigorously. It was all miraculous in its way, as moving as a Beethoven Quartet - now that needs a piano!
Il Bagno October is still warm, the waters call. At the rear of the Great Palace at Caserta is a great cascading water course, Bacino Grande e Caserta.
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Caserta - Parco - Reale - Bagno di Atteone The faded ill.u.s.tration I include, as it was bought on this very day. Ah, those marble water gardens, cascades gush over Diana of the Chase, poor Atteone being attacked by hounds. How is he supposed to obtain his romantic ends with gallons of algae-ridden water cascading over him and dogs snapping at his b.a.l.l.s?
This green sward where the Bourbons once sported has now been given over to the Allied soldiery and wham bam, it's become a swimming pool. Hundreds of leaping, diving, splas.h.i.+ng, plunging, coughing, spitting loonies are churning the waters. NAAFI stalls have mushroomed, lemonade, ice-cream, cakes, tea are all on tap. We have created Jerusalem in Italy's pleasant land. Along with the O2E Cook House staff, I am in there somewhere, witness following photographs.
Tell me what's clever about: ”Who can hold their breath under water longest? - winner gets 20 lire.” Believe me, some of them nearly died died in the attempt. This was the sort of stuff submariners dreaded, yet here we were doing it for 20 lire! We swam until sunset or death, then repaired to the American Red Cross cinema in the High Street. in the attempt. This was the sort of stuff submariners dreaded, yet here we were doing it for 20 lire! We swam until sunset or death, then repaired to the American Red Cross cinema in the High Street.
It was a Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland film with the 'Hey, why don't we put on a show' c.r.a.p. What had appeared to be a barn suddenly becomes the Carnegie Hall with six musicians sounding like a hundred and twenty; an unknown milkman, played by Jose Iturbi, plays Hungarian Rhapsody, tap danced by three hundred girls; Mickey Rooney tap dances, sings, plays the drums, the trombone, the piano, the fridge, the miracle of loaves and fishes, and then, for reasons only known to G.o.d, they all start to march towards the camera. Will Gracie appear? No, they all sing G.o.d Bless America, FDR and the Chase Manhattan Bank.
What an exciting life we were leading.
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American Red Cross Cinema and Lamppost
The Prodigal Returns Stanley Sir is back from the front (how's that?). He's heard that I've finished the Aquarium Club. ”Major Rodes is very pleased.” So he should be, he didn't have to do it. Stanley Sir points to the map of his tour. I was here, here and here. Not at the same time, surely. We were sh.e.l.led here, and a German plane strafed us here. I told you not to play with those boys up the road.
'Wedding Bells are Ringing for Mary but not for Mary and Me' (popular song, circa 1938) (popular song, circa 1938) Brigadier Henry Woods is in love! Who is she that will marry this World War I Worrier at the age of 104? Let Milligan tell all.
The story starts in Humphrey Bogart country, North Africa, land of the Bedouin, the Tuareg, the Clap. After the Torch landings, Henry Woods and his gallant band of clerks dash in and seize the offices, to a.s.sist the bureaucracy. He hires two sweaty blue-chinned Algerian Arabs and a French colonial girl, Mademoiselle Ding. They had all worked for Admiral Darlan before his a.s.sa.s.sination. Now they would work for Brigadier Woods before his his a.s.sa.s.sination. The trio all speak fluent French and Arabic. When they move to Italy they come to speak to any Italians that spoke Arabic. By now Henry has fallen in love with Mademoiselle Ding! He proposes, she accepts. Soon they usher forth from the portals of St Michael's Maddaloni. A guard of honour, clerks holding pens, form a bridal arch, the bells ring out, and the Honeymoon? Largo Como! There the happy couple dwell in bliss. But what's this? One day Henry arises and what's this? The bird has flown. ”L'oiseau est partie.” Fancy, here in this miserable backwater Maddaloni, the Neasden of Italy, deceit and despair, he has been cuckolded! How? Well, one of the blue-chinned Algerians had a few months back asked for permission to visit his relatives in Paris, people like Laval, Petain, etc., so with all found paid and a khaki handshake, he departs. Could he be the 'other' man? Henry is suspicious. He sends Major Rodes and his hernia (yes, they still haven't found the right doctor) to seek and kill. It is all as exciting as a B movie. a.s.sa.s.sination. The trio all speak fluent French and Arabic. When they move to Italy they come to speak to any Italians that spoke Arabic. By now Henry has fallen in love with Mademoiselle Ding! He proposes, she accepts. Soon they usher forth from the portals of St Michael's Maddaloni. A guard of honour, clerks holding pens, form a bridal arch, the bells ring out, and the Honeymoon? Largo Como! There the happy couple dwell in bliss. But what's this? One day Henry arises and what's this? The bird has flown. ”L'oiseau est partie.” Fancy, here in this miserable backwater Maddaloni, the Neasden of Italy, deceit and despair, he has been cuckolded! How? Well, one of the blue-chinned Algerians had a few months back asked for permission to visit his relatives in Paris, people like Laval, Petain, etc., so with all found paid and a khaki handshake, he departs. Could he be the 'other' man? Henry is suspicious. He sends Major Rodes and his hernia (yes, they still haven't found the right doctor) to seek and kill. It is all as exciting as a B movie.
Algerian Sheik Sweeps Brigadier's Wife From Under Nose of Husband Algerian Sheik Sweeps Brigadier's Wife From Under Nose of Husband Major Rodes' search leads him to Paris, and success. There at a table for deux, he finds Mademoiselle Ding and the Arab. Ah, if only the Sun Sun could have got the story. could have got the story.
ENGLISH BRIGADIER MARRIES FRENCH ALGERIAN THIRTY YEARS YOUNGER ENGLISH BRIGADIER MARRIES FRENCH ALGERIAN THIRTY YEARS YOUNGER 'Age makes no difference,' she says. 'Age makes no difference,' she says. STOP PRESS: THIRTY YEARS YOUNGER STOP PRESS: THIRTY YEARS YOUNGER 'AGE MAKES NO DIFFERENCE' BRIDE MISSING! 'AGE MAKES NO DIFFERENCE' BRIDE MISSING! Thirty Years Younger French Bride Caught In Flagrante With Algerian Arab In Bedford Hotel Paris Thirty Years Younger French Bride Caught In Flagrante With Algerian Arab In Bedford Hotel Paris. ”Age makes no difference,” she says. ”Age makes no difference,” she says. BRIGADIER HAS ARAB'S b.a.l.l.s CUT OFF BRIGADIER HAS ARAB'S b.a.l.l.s CUT OFF ”Age makes no difference,” says Brigadier. ”Age makes no difference,” says Brigadier.
Thus Major Rodes brought his rupture and the sad story back.
October 9 MY DIARY: MY DIARY: BAND GIG IN ROME. WHOOPEE! BAND GIG IN ROME. WHOOPEE!.
Rome! The Eternal City! Forever young! Age makes no difference here, unless you're Henry Woods.
We travel by Welfare Charabanc. Early morning the charabanc arrives at Alexander Barracks. We eagerly pack our stuff aboard. Len Prosser is worried about the safety of his ba.s.s. In its canvas sack he appears to be smuggling a murdered body aboard. ”The man who invented this instrument never intended it to travel - it's meant for hermits or the transfixed.” Drums. Vic Shewry is coming and going. Percussion seems unending. ”When you two have finished we'd like to b.l.o.o.d.y well get on,” says Jim Manning and his alto sax. Up and away a hundred and fifty miles to go, so a cigarette and the Union Jack and I settle back. The Allies are driving the Germans back over the Po River. It must be hard on German mothers to receive telegrams: [image] Hitlergram No. Sieben Hitlergram No. Sieben ZER FuHRER REGRETS TO INFORM YOU YOUR SON HAZ BEEN DROWNED IN ZER PO. ZER FuHRER REGRETS TO INFORM YOU YOUR SON HAZ BEEN DROWNED IN ZER PO.
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