Part 5 (2/2)
Well, it was the start of a friends.h.i.+p. I let him move into my billet because I thought he had money.
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Sgt. Steve Lewis A Yewish soldier taken in colour because he had money (N.B. due to the publishers' lack of money, it's black and white after all.) Help. A giant Yewish bedroll appeared, followed by a Yewish Brigade kitbag, table, chair, tea chest, camouflaged Minorah, and a secondhand copy of the Talmud. He then proceeded to erect the most complicated Heath Robinson network of strings, pulleys, hooks, weights and counter-weights. He wanted to be able to switch lights on and off, raise or lower them, drop his mosquito net, manoeuvre his mess tins and mug near or far, boil a kettle, make tea, toast bread, and open Tower Bridge, all without moving from his bed. I asked him, was he training to be a cripple? He had enough food by his bed to outlast an Atomic War and still open a shop in Golder's Green. If he had been at Masada it would never have fallen; he would have sold it to the Romans. I pointed out that his wasn't the only persecuted race. There were the Irish.
”Spike, the Irish got off light.”
”We took as much stick as you did.”
”Listen, we Jews have been persecuted since Egyptian times.”
I told him I had never read the Egyptian Times Egyptian Times.
”All you suffered from was a shortage of spuds.”
”Steve, in 1680, there were eleven million Irish. Now there's only two. We lost nine million.”
”Nine million. Oh what a terrible accountant.”
”Don't joke, they were starved, killed, deported or emigrated.”
He laughed. ”You sure sure they weren't Jewish?” they weren't Jewish?”
We had unending arguments. ”The Irish? What did they ever have? We had Einstein, Disraeli, p.i.s.sarro, Freud. What have the Irish got? p.i.s.sed!”
”We got the Pope and Jack Doyle.” ”Jack Doyle the boxer? He's useless!” ”Yes, but we got him.”
”And there's never been an Irish Pope. How come?” ”It's the fare.”
In the shower Steve noticed I'd been circ.u.mcised. ”Why?” I didn't know. ”To make it lighter? You know, Milligan, if Jerry took you prisoner, that could have got you into a concentration camp.” It was really something when your p.r.i.c.k could get you sent to a concentration camp. ”Believe me, Spike,” says the Yew, ”anyone that sends someone to a concentration camp is a p.r.i.c.k.” Amen.
This was the beginning of an ongoing Judaeo-Christian hilarity. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I'd call, ”Is that the Yew?” I could hear his stifled giggles.
”Listen Milligan,” he'd say. ”Believe me, the Irish are famous for nothing nothing.” And so to Christmas.
Yes, Christmas, b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas. We decided to do our shopping in Naughty Naples. All up the Via Roma urchins are grabbing us and singing, 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. Why in the land of opera do they descend to this c.r.a.p? If the reverse were to apply in London, little c.o.c.kney kids would be singing 'La Donna e Mobile' as they begged. We make our Christmas purchases and retire to the Royal Palace, NAAFI, where, G.o.d help us, we are a.s.sailed by G.o.d bless her and keep her...away from us...Gracie Fields. She'd had a bad press at the beginning of the war about living in America, leaving poor Vera Lynn and Ann Shelton to face the bombs. Now she was making up for it. Every day she'd leave her Capri home and bear down on unsuspecting soldiers. ”Ow do lads.” Then, without warning, sing 'Red Sails in the Sunset'.
After a while the lads had had enough of 'Ow do lads' and 'Sall-eeee' and the sight of her looming up the stairs would start a stampede out the back, with cries of ”Christ! Here she comes again.” Nothing personal against the dear lady, who had a big heart and an enlarged liver, but she did overdo the ”Eee ba gum, 'ave a cup o' tea lads.”
Sometimes you wouldn't know she was in, until from a distant table, you'd hear 'It's the biggest Aspidistra in the World'. To get rid of her we directed her to a table of Goumiers (Rapists by appointment to the Allies) by telling her they were Gurkhas. ”Sallyyyyyyy, Salleeeee,” she sang at the baffled Moroccans. They didn't even try to rape her.
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A look-out on the Royal Palace NAAFI NAAFI roof, watching for signs of Gracie Fields's boat roof, watching for signs of Gracie Fields's boat
December It's cold, cold, cold. You can strike matches on 'em. My family have had a photo taken that sends a chill of horror through me. Were they dead or stuffed? My brother has the sneer of a high-born Sioux Chief, my mother has had a bag of flour thrown at her face, and my father looks as though he's just been asked to leave for an indiscretion.
A Christmas card from my mother gives my brother second billing, and poor father! Dad is spelt with a small d. Is he getting shorter? There are no traditional Christmas cards in Italy, so I send those available.
For my father I did a funny drawing of a man with a revolving wig. You see, my father wore one. His fear was that any gale over force three lifted the front and transferred it to the back. People wondered why he wore his hat in the Karzi.
O2E Christmas Arrangements The Welfare Department had made a Christmas tree that stood by the concert stage. A wonderful effort dressed in crepe paper, cotton-wool b.a.l.l.s and little candles. Pity about the fire.
We are putting up snow scenes with make-do commodities.
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My brother, mother and father, Desmond, Florence and Leo Milligan[image]
A Christmas card from my parents in Brentwood, posted October 10 1944[image][image]
To my parents[image]
To my brother We ask the Sick Bay for six rolls of cotton wool and are told that no one can be hurt that bad and live. I pack my presents. Mother has a small gla.s.s bubble enclosing Virgin Mary and Child; a good shake and they are obscured in a snow-storm, and death by hypothermia. Father will have his favourite King Edward cigars, but brother Desmond? What do you send a squaddie in the front line? Of course, a slit trench. No, I send him a sandbag, and, just in case he doesn't laugh, a box of preserved fruit.
Christmas Eve Pouring, ice-cold rain. Steve and I are sitting in the festively decorated canteen. We feel seasonal but would rather feel an ATS. We are taking a little wine for our stomachs' sake, also for our liver, spleen and giblets. The strains of Sergeant Wilderspin and his O2E choir are approaching. They enter, singing 'G.o.d Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen' and sneezing. They are collecting for ye Army Benevolent Fund and are soaked to ye skin. At eight o'clock we all file into the concert hall to see the Nativity Play. It's very good, except the dialects jarred. An Angel of the Lord: ”Thar goes t'Bethlehem, sither,” and his sidekick answers, ”Weail off tae sae him right awa.” It didn't detract from the finale around the manger, the choir singing 'Adeste, fideles'. In that moment all minds were back home by the fire, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the rug. Numerous curtain calls, the Brigadier makes a speech ”...a great deal of effort...a special debt of grat.i.tude...not forgetting...s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the rug...also like to thank...A Merry Christmas to all our readers...has anyone seen Mademoiselle Ding?”
Stop the festivities! The Germans have broken our lines in the Ardennes, all our was.h.i.+ng is in the mud! Yet another it's-going-to-be-over-by-Christmas-promise gone. Still, it could be worse. Like poor old Charlie Chaplin who was in a paternity suit - unfortunately it fits him. Steve Lewis looks up from his newspaper, stunned! How can this happen? Will Hitler win after all? Should he telegraph his wife and say, ”Sell the stock, only take cash.” Stay cool. Help is coming. Is it John Wayne? No, it's Sheriff Bernard Law Montgomery. He is going to 'tidy up' the battle, which ends with him claiming he's won it, and he will shortly rise again from the dead. Eisenhower is furious. He threatens to cut Monty's supply of armoured jockstraps and Blue Unction. Monty apologizes: ”Sorry etc., etc. You're superior by far, Monty.”
Christmas came and went with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, tinned turkey, stuffing, Christmas Pud, all served to us by drunken Sergeants. Now we were all sitting round waiting for 1945. It had been a good year for me. I was alive.
January 1945 Cold and rain.
Letter from home.
Very quiet month.
Then, on 23 February 1945, this drastic message was flashed to the world from the pages of Valjean Valjean, the O2E house magazine.
Trumpeter. Trumpeter. Is there no stylish trumpeter in the ranks of the Echelon ? At present the O2E Dance Orchestra is handicapped to a certain extent by the lack of one of these only too rare musicians. Is there no stylish trumpeter in the ranks of the Echelon ? At present the O2E Dance Orchestra is handicapped to a certain extent by the lack of one of these only too rare musicians. Ex-trumpeter 'Spike' Milligan, who has now gone on to the production line, had to hang up his trumpet on medical grounds, so if there is a trumpeter in our midst please contact SQMS Ward of R/O. Ex-trumpeter 'Spike' Milligan, who has now gone on to the production line, had to hang up his trumpet on medical grounds, so if there is a trumpeter in our midst please contact SQMS Ward of R/O.
Milligan has hung up his trumpet! A grateful nation gave thanks!
It started with pains in my chest. I knew I had piles, but they had never reached this far up before. The Medical Officer made me strip.
”How long has it been like that?” he said.
”That's as long as it's ever been,” I replied.
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