Part 10 (2/2)

”Me too,” said Bombardier Milligan. ”I'm trying to cut down on f.a.gs, and build up on food.”

”I'll help you cut down on f.a.gs,” says Gunner White, who is pulling on a pair of underpants so ragged that they looked like lace, ”I'll smoke yours fer you.”

Through the day we got that which the farmers in the Sahara were dying for; it poured, it trickled through every aperture, the rim of my tin hat was a hanging ring of pear-shaped watery pearls. A merry game! Turn your head, see if you can make them run around the rim without letting any drop off.

A Catholic priest visited us this evening and asked if anyone wanted Confession and Holy Communion. I nearly went but since the war started, my belief in a G.o.d had suffered a reverse. I couldn't equate all the killing by two sides, both of whom claimed to be a Christian society. I was, as Gary Cooper would say 'kinda mixed up inside'.

Talking of mixed up inside brings us to the Deans evening gastronomique gastronomique. He had cooked it in half a kerosene oil tin, which now sat over a fire of diesel. ”It's got curry in,” he warned.

Edgington, White, Birch, Bdr. Fuller and myself sat expectantly squeezed into the dug-out.

”Right,” said Deans. From the tin of boiling water appears a giant suet roll which he has boiled in the sleeve of an old vest, he places it on a piece of wood. ”First!” he said. We all hold out tins. He cut a slice of the roll, from it oozed a curry stain gravy with what looked like thin french beans and Dobies' Four Square tobacco. With the first mouthful I let out a scream. It was like eating raw chillies.

”Too hot is it?” enquired Deans.

I lay rolling on the ground begging for water.

”I'll break it down a bit,” he said, and started mixing in hot water, turning the whole thing into a ghastly-looking death grey.

”What's this stringy stuff,” said munching Edgington.

”That?” said Deans. ”It's gra.s.s.”

There was a shocked silence. Edgington, his mouth still open with shock. ”Gra.s.s?” he said, ”GRa.s.s??”

”Now don't get angry,” said Deans, ”it's gra.s.s but specially selected.”

”Yes,” Edgington said, ”specially selected for idiots like us! I'm not givin' you five f.a.gs for b.l.o.o.d.y gra.s.s. I mean, I can graze free with the b.l.o.o.d.y cows.”

”Look! if you think you've been diddled, OK, but answer the question; until Trotsky 'ere-” he pointed to Edgington ”-asked what it was, you were all enjoying it, weren't you? Believe me, in the Alps Maritime, this dish is considered a delicacy.”

It did taste OK really, and by now the cookhouse would be closed, so basically we had no option.

”But,” Birch added, ”we should have been given warning.”

”I wanted there to be an element of surprise in it.”

”Oh, we were f.u.c.king surprised alright,” said White, who then broke the bad news. ”And I've got a surprise for you,” he said. ”I haven't got any f.a.gs.”

”You sod,” said Deans.

White grinned. ”All life is six to four against,” he said.

A head pokes in the dug-out, it's Ben Wenham.

[image]

Spike Deans waiting to steal a lorry.

”The news is on in the Command Post.”

We all rush there to hear the BBC Announcer saying, ”Heavy rain and conditions under foot, are slowing the Allied advance in Italy.”

”Good heavens, it's raining here then,” said Edgington, putting on an idiot grin. ”It's strange-he never mentioned it it.”

”Mentioned what?”

”He never mentioned that in Italy we'd had curried gra.s.s for dinner.”

I was on CP duty from eight-thirty. The weather had stopped the war. There was no firing save a few pre-planned hara.s.sing fire tasks. I wrote a letter home, then played Battles.h.i.+ps with Lieutenant Wright, a slight, dark-eyed, gentle-faced young man, who looked as out of place in a war as Quasimodo in the Olympic high-jump finals. (Supposing he'd won?) We had the 22 Set beamed on to Allied Forces Network, now operating from Naples. I remember that night how nostalgic I got when just before midnight they started to play Duke Ellington-Riverboat Shuffle! Outside I went knee-deep in water and did my own Riverside Shuffle back to my dug-out. My bed was raised on two large empty 8lb potato tins. Edgington was awake, writing a 10,000-page love letter to Peg. Outside I went knee-deep in water and did my own Riverside Shuffle back to my dug-out. My bed was raised on two large empty 8lb potato tins. Edgington was awake, writing a 10,000-page love letter to Peg.

”Still up?” I said.

”No,” he said. ”It went down an hour ago.” He took the f.a.g from his mouth. ”I'm drawing on my last reserves of energy.”

”Very quiet in the Command Post,” I said as I slid my muddy boots off. ”I beat Mr Wright three games to nil at Battles.h.i.+ps.”

”If that gets around he could be cas.h.i.+ered,” said Edging-ton.

I pulled myself wearily under my blankets. (Hadn't I better rephrase that?) I fell asleep leaving s.e.xually frustrated Edgington trying to work it out in writing. He certainly had a lot of lead in his pencil.

OCTOBER 27, 1943.

REGIMENTAL DIARY: REGIMENTAL DIARY: Infantry pus.h.i.+ng forward all day, we are bombarding and firing Y targets. Some slight enemy retaliation but not much Infantry pus.h.i.+ng forward all day, we are bombarding and firing Y targets. Some slight enemy retaliation but not much.

Good news! We are allowed to write home and actually tell our families that we are in Italy. Oh hooray.

Dear Mother, Dear Mother, I am in Italy. I am in Italy. Your loving son, Your loving son, Barmy Fred. Barmy Fred.

Rumours of yet another 'big attack'. The rain has stopped, a wind is blowing, so I will hang out my laundry that now lies reeking at the bottom of my big pack. Diving into those dark depths I pull out dreadful lumps of congealed mildewed clothing. Soon I am boiling a tin of water. Whhheeee Boom! an air-burst sh.e.l.l. It stops, I arise and see that the water is boiling, I drop in my clothes, then half a bar of soap and start stirring the lot with a stick. My idyll is shattered by another air burst; was. .h.i.tler trying to range on my laundry?

GERMAN OP OFFICER: Three rounds on to zur underpants Milligan. Fire! Ach Wonderschoen! a direct hit on zer soap! For you Gunner Milligan, the laundry is over GERMAN OP OFFICER: Three rounds on to zur underpants Milligan. Fire! Ach Wonderschoen! a direct hit on zer soap! For you Gunner Milligan, the laundry is over.

Mail! father, mother, brother etc. And newspapers. It was a field day for me (every day I was in a field). I lay in bed and read a copy of the Melody Maker Melody Maker. Harry Parry and his Radio Rhythm Club were still going strong, and Bennym Lee was voted England's greatest jazz vocalist. I often giggle about that when I hear him compering Old Tyme Dancing. I was reading: ”Last week, Mr Churchill entertained a Russian delegation to dinner in London. They were served venison that had been shot in the Scottish Highlands.” ”Last week, Mr Churchill entertained a Russian delegation to dinner in London. They were served venison that had been shot in the Scottish Highlands.”

”Isn't it b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous. Russians eating Scots venison in London, and us eating curried Italian gra.s.s!”

”Winston is trying to impress the Russians, the Ruskies will go back to Stalin and report that the English are eating Royal Deerski, it's natural for Churchill to show the English still have an upper cla.s.s.”

” That's cobblers,” says Edgington. ”It's like this, Churchill likes his grub, but if he's caught eating venison on his tod, the Daily Mirror Daily Mirror would be in an uproar.” would be in an uproar.”

CHURCHILL EATS ROYAL DEER WHILE OUR LADS EAT CURRIED ITALIAN GRa.s.s. CHURCHILL EATS ROYAL DEER WHILE OUR LADS EAT CURRIED ITALIAN GRa.s.s.

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