Part 10 (1/2)
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I lit the oil lamp. Now! Where were me old p.o.r.nographic photographs...(”It's all lies officer! I bought them as art studies, I am a keen art student of twenty-one” etc.) Pouring rain, everything was damp, cigarettes went out-matches wouldn't ignite. I was asleep when Edgington returned.
”You asleep?” he says.
”Of course I am. You don't think I always make this noise?”
”These tents were made for dwarfs.”
”I'm a dwarf, but I'm tall with it”
”What's the b.l.o.o.d.y time?”
”The b.l.o.o.d.y time is 0200. Got a f.a.g?”
”Yes.”
Here there was a long pause from Edgington. Mind you I took part in the pause, but it was he who started it; with great strength of character I brought the pause to an end.
”Well give us one then,” I said impatiently.
”You must make yourself clear, Milligan. If you ask me 'have you got got a f.a.g', the answer is 'yes'. I a f.a.g', the answer is 'yes'. I have have got a f.a.g, but 'have you got a f.a.g for got a f.a.g, but 'have you got a f.a.g for me me', has an entirely different connotation.”
”Gis a f.a.g or I'll break out in running sores and make 'em gallop all over you infesting your Bazolikons.”
”Is this the language of the race that gave us Joyce, Yeats, O'Casey, Old Mother Riley?”
Edge has contorted himself into the letter Z to pull his tin of cigarettes from his pocket. He hands me a curved flattened thing.
”Wot's this?”
”Players Turkish for smoking round corners.”
Edgington was going through the gyrations of getting his battle-dress off, in the confined s.p.a.ce this meant you got his elbow in your earole every second.
”Let's face it, Edgington this is only a one man tent.”
”I am am only one man.” only one man.”
”But I I was only one man was only one man first first.”
”Lies, I I am the first only one man.” am the first only one man.”
Finally we settled, doused the light, rolled left and right into our blankets. Up front the Germans had opened an attack all along the line. Here we slept to the sound of rain, it was a good arrangement.
19 March, 1943 I awoke in the wee small hours, but not for a wee, no! something something was crawling on my chest, my first thought was it must be an eleven foot King Cobra, it was moving slowly down towards where women affect you most, if he bit me there, some twenty women in England would take the veil. I called very softly ”Harry...Harry...Harry...” He moved and mumbled something like ”It's all right mother, I've known her three years.” was crawling on my chest, my first thought was it must be an eleven foot King Cobra, it was moving slowly down towards where women affect you most, if he bit me there, some twenty women in England would take the veil. I called very softly ”Harry...Harry...Harry...” He moved and mumbled something like ”It's all right mother, I've known her three years.”
”Pay Parade!” I said. This got his eyes open. ”Now listen! There's something on my chest.”
”They're called blankets.”
”I'm serious, it's moving downwards, can you carefully take the blankets back and get it?” He lit the oil lamp, and very carefully peeled off the blankets, he gasped.
”Cor b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!”
”Never mind that, what is it?”
”A black scorpion.”
”Rubbish, it's an eleven foot King Cobra!”
”It's a two inch scorpion. I'm going to knock it to your side.”
”What's wrong with yours.”
With a sweeping movement he whisked the scorpion off, smashed the tent pole, collapsed the tent, extinguished the light, spilled the paraffin, and set fire to the blankets. From then on the evening lost its splendour, we stood in the pouring rain amid smouldering blankets, trying to avoid the scorpion, and to retrieve our kit. The night was spent in the gay carefree interior of Kidgell's lorry.
”You clumsy b.u.g.g.e.r you wrecked our little love nest.”
”Thank you very much, next time you knock your own b.l.o.o.d.y scorpions off.”
”It was an eleven foot King Cobra!”
March 22 The morning of March the 22nd dawned. The rain had stopped. Sol ascended. We strung our damp gear on a makes.h.i.+ft clothes line. dawned. The rain had stopped. Sol ascended. We strung our damp gear on a makes.h.i.+ft clothes line.
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Interior of my one man tent
”Milligan! pack your kit, you're going up the line,” said BQMS Courtney.
”But me kit's soaking wet!”
”Stop the war, Mr Milligan's kit is wet.”
I ma.s.saged my steaming belongings into my kit bag, and boarded the Ration Truck with Driver Wilson. ”What's all these blood stains in the back?” I said, ”It's not the old trouble?”
”Last night, I was driving back from the Guns, I found a Don R laying by the road with his legs nearly off, a Jerry patrol had got him with a machine pistol.”
Wilson was a dour Scot, sporting pebble gla.s.ses (only the British Army would make him a driver). I think he drove in Braille. In peace time he'd been a shepherd. He rarely spoke, but sometimes in his sleep, he bleated.
”Where you taking me?”