Part 8 (2/2)

'ATOM BOMB DROPPED IN HIROs.h.i.+MA'. 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 Hiros.h.i.+ma 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 ravis.h.i.+ng 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.

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