Part 8 (1/2)

Hurriedly we lit up and forming a circle facing outwards started to envelope ourselves in clouds of smoke. Soon we were all coughing like consumptives; it alleviated the situation but as soon as we stopped, the mozzies returned. To help them, Jerry starts lobbing over odd sh.e.l.ls. Running and eating, we dive into the muddy ditch, there in the dank dark we squat and eat mouthfuls of lovely hot stew, mixed with dead mosquitoes.

”What a terrible position,” grumbled Edgington. ”I've eaten many meals,” he went on, ”but Mosquito Stew, never.”

”Eat as many as you can,” I said, ”better still, bite 'em.”

The rims of our ears were now a ma.s.s of red lumps.

Edgington continues, ”You never know, in France these might be a delicacy like frogs' legs.”

Whoos.h.!.+ Plonk! Whoos.h.!.+ Plonk! Jerry is lobbing over 155mm sh.e.l.ls that we have been told to avoid.

”If you like tomato sauce, that tells me you're a carman's pull-up eater,” I said.

”Wot's wrong with a carman's pull-up?” says Tume.

”I'll tell you,” I said. ”It's the tomato sauce...have you ever looked closely at the bottles? The tops are congealed with dirt and stale tomato sauce, they never wash the bottle out, they just squirt in fresh red c.r.a.p.”

”How do you know, clever d.i.c.k?”

”I know because I was on a tomato sauce round, we used to go around with a lorry, me and a bloke called Len Brockenbrow, we had great petrol tins full of this red c.r.a.p, and a kerosene oil funnel. We'd stick all the bottles on the deck, I'd hold the funnel, Len would pour out the goo, and we never once see the bottles clean. I tell you there was stuff at the bottom of the bottle that was twenty years old; Len told me he once looked down the neck of a bottle and he saw an eye looking up at him.”

”Was it the manager?” says Edgington.

”Anyways, there's only one good sauce to put on grub and that's Worcester,” I said.

”Worcester? Burns the a.r.s.e off you,” said Fuller.

”Good,” I said. ”I always wanted to get rid of mine.”

Jock Webster interrupts. ”None of you ignorant swines has any idea of sauces.”

”Have you?”

”No, I'm an ignorant swine too, but if there is a sauce that compliments a meal it's HP.”

”Harry p.r.i.c.kers,” said Harry.

”Wot?” said Wilson.

”HP stands for Harry p.r.i.c.kers,” he repeated.

”I wouldn't stand for that,” I said.

Wheeee, plop, wheee, plop. More sh.e.l.ls, but they don't explode.

”Duds,” says Trew.

”That or AP.”

”AP?” says Edgington. ”Wot's he want to fire Armour Piercing at us for?”

”It's the dinner they're after,” I said.

”Gad, you're right,” says Edgington, immediately seizing on the nonsense. ”Once they can get a sh.e.l.l through the crust on a British Army Stew, the way is open to pour in reinforcements. In no time they would be behind the back of the cookhouse cutting off our supply of food, and bringing the Army Catering Corps to its knees.”

”Imagine,” I said. ”Imagine what fixed-line Spandaus could do to a treacle duff. No, we'd have to surrender. We'd have to haul up the white pudding cloth, and hand over the entire plans of our Treasured Meat and Veg Stew. For England the war would be over.”

”Never,” said Harry. ”We could get to the colonies, Canada, Australia, and start making meat and veg stew with a new formula, and-”

He was cut short by a very close Whhhheeeee Splot. Another sh.e.l.l. There was a silence broken only by a chorus of mosquitoes.

”You alright, Harry?” I said.

”I'm just feeling meself to see if that was a direct hit...no, there's no holes in me so I'll continue in the service.”

”Milligan? Bombardier Milligan?” the voice of our new AI Sgt. King: ”It's no use keeping silent, I'll find you, the smell will give you away.”

I give a weak 'I'm here, Sarge', trying to throw my voice in another direction.

”Ah, I want you to make out a roster for the Command Post for twenty-four hours.”

It's along midnight, I'm not wanted for any duties, so I must find a place to kip. Eyes now accustomed to the gloom, I see ahead of our trench a group of farm outbuildings. With blankets and kit I lumber across to them. Inside I find a manger. The roof is intact save a few slates that rattle when the guns go. A manger? Well, if it was good enough for him... him... There are a few bales of straw around, soon I am lying snuggled down. I'm a bit worried about being above ground with Jerry lobbing over hara.s.sing fire, but I gradually fall asleep to the sound of 7.2s. There are a few bales of straw around, soon I am lying snuggled down. I'm a bit worried about being above ground with Jerry lobbing over hara.s.sing fire, but I gradually fall asleep to the sound of 7.2s.

OCTOBER 22, 1943.

I glanced at my watch, 0700 hours, the sun is s.h.i.+ning like a spring morn. It had a cheering effect, so I gave three cheers. I arose from my straw bed and was soon at the cook-house for breakfast. The mosquitoes return to the attack. We eat with gas capes draped over our heads. ”Where'd you kip?” said Edgington. I pointed. ”Over there.”

”Jerry slung over a dozen in the night.”

”I didn't hear them. Did they have silencers on?”

”Poor old Bill Trew, he was havin' a c.r.a.p in the field, the first one landed behind him. He set off and ended up in the ditch, with his trousers still down.”

”I heard that Captain Richards of 17 Battery has got the MC.”

”What for?” I said.

”I dunno,” said Edgington, ”it arrived with the rations so he pinned it on, and our Johnnie Walker's been mentioned in despatches.”

”Oh, what did he do?”

”Drinking a whole bottle of Scotch under heavy mortar fire, and never spilled a drop.”

We all realised as we drank our tea that the guns were silent.