Part 16 (1/2)

”Why aren't you digging under a camouflage net?” he said, his little beady eyes boring into our souls. The answer came very simple: ”We 'aven't got one, sir.”

”Send someone at once at once to Wagon Lines and draw one.” to Wagon Lines and draw one.”

”Yes, sir,” says Fuller, but the inflection sounded like ”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

”Bombardier Hart, take Monkey Truck and collect a scrim net.”

Hart grins, he offs and soon we watch Monkey Truck pull away up the road. Jenkins is still trouble-hunting.

”Have you a track plan?”

”Yes, sir,” I said.

”Where is it?”

Hurriedly I invented the track plan. ”We keep to the edge of the drop and when we reach the road we turn right under the trees, sir.”

”Mmmm,” was all he said.

A track plan was this: so as not to leave new trails all over the landscape, we all kept to one path to draw less attention from Jerry observation planes. As the entire landscape was one great churned-up mud bath it didn't matter where you walked or drove, as the water in the mud washed away all traces of a track, but to keep the peace we pretended. We watched him as he dutifully walked along the edge of the drop keeping to the 'track plan' that didn't exist. He did stop and pause once and look back as though he didn't believe me, then he walked on. f.u.c.k him.

We continue combined digging and moaning. By evening we have a large dank Command Post ready. First thing, the fire!!! After the addition of twigs and a tin full of Derv, whoooosh, it ignites and settles down to give a friendly warmth. We hide inside for a while as Ben Wenham fixes up the lights.

”Lazy b.u.g.g.e.rs,” he says, seeing us all huddled around the fire.

”Lazy b.u.g.g.e.rs,” explodes Edgington. ”Where were you when the s.h.i.+t hit the fan?”

Specialists are coming in with their gear. Signallers are setting up the No. 22 wireless set, connecting up the batteries. Mr Wright is duty officer, he ducks under our black-out curtain and surveys our efforts, ”Very nice, ten out of ten.” Ernie Hart has come in with extra firewood. ”And what nice gunner is going to help bring in the Yule log?” He throws the firewood in a corner.

Yule log! My G.o.d! It would soon be December...The first away from home.

”Out of the b.l.o.o.d.y way,” says Shapiro, who backs in with a drum of Don 5 Cable. Behind him comes Pinchbeck, they've been laying a line from the OP and are well covered in muck.

”Where would you like it, me Lord?” says Shapiro.

I point to a spot by the wireless. Pinchbeck is baring the two wires with his pliers, and with professional deftness connects the telephone and buzzes the OP. Shapiro watches, a cigarette between his lips. Pinchbeck buzzes again, a look of anxiousness on his face. If the line isn't through, it means they have to traverse the whole b.l.o.o.d.y line again to find what's wrong. Pinchbeck smiles.

”h.e.l.lo, OP? OK?...Yes, fine here...what? You'll be b.l.o.o.d.y lucky.” He grins and hangs up. ”Cheeky b.u.g.g.e.rs, they want to know if tea will be served on the lawn.”

”Who was it?” I said.

”Jam-Jar.”

”Tea on the lawn,” mocks Ernie Hart. ”Where 'e lives he 'asn't got a b.l.o.o.d.y lawn.”

”That is a truth,” says Edgington pontifically, rubbing his hands together. ”Let's face it, like us he is a common or garden citizen.”

”...and,” I added, ”as we haven't got a garden or a common, that's why we're in this b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the ground.”

”Grub up,” a voice from outside speaks and enters by pus.h.i.+ng a dixie of hot stew, followed by a hand then a body belonging to Bombardier Edwards. There is a ma.s.s exodus, but I am clutched by the arm.

”You stay and make like you're on duty,” says Bombardier Fuller.

b.u.g.g.e.r! I seek solace in a f.a.g. Opposite me, Lt. Wright sits on a wooden box reading a book. It made little difference if he was sitting on a book reading a wooden box. It's all very cushy, with the fire going, with headphones on I'm wrapped up with the music. A tap on the shoulder, turning I see Ernie Hart.

”I come to release you from your bondage.”

”What's for dinner?”

”It's M & V again.”

”They must must run out of it run out of it one one day!” day!”

The batmen and slave labour have built a very fine officers' mess c.u.m billet, they have laboured the long day to achieve it, 'Woody' (Jenkins' Batman) tells us.

”Next we's goin' to build a b.l.o.o.d.y 'otel with hot worter.”

NOVEMBER 20, 1943.

The morning of November 20 burst cheerily on us with an exciting cold downpour. Gad! It was good to be alive, the question was, were we? We are concluding the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the Command Post, a sandbagged blast wall on the open side of the dug-out. There are many brilliant minds at work in the war, Radar, Infra-Red Telescopes, Mulberry Harbours, but no b.u.g.g.e.r has invented how to get wet mud into a sandbag. We are almost pouring it in. When we seal the sandbag the mixture starts to squeeze through the hessian like thin spaghetti! We fill them to bursting, yet when we lay another bag on top, it flattens like a wafer.

”This isn't a job,” moans one miserable Gunner. ”This is a b.l.o.o.d.y sentence!”

17 Battery tell us they have managed to fire twenty rounds in the afternoon.

”The b.l.o.o.d.y fools,” says Alf Fildes, ”if we all kept quiet Jerry would pack up and go home.”

Gunner Birch is amusing his little mind by standing on the sandbag and giggling as it sprouts myriad growths of mud spaghetti.

”'Ere,” he says in a surprised voice, ”it's s.e.xy.”

”s.e.xy,” says Bombardier Fuller. ”You must be b.l.o.o.d.y hard up for it if you get the Colin' watchin' that.”

Across the road a Battery of 3.7s let off a salvo of gunfire. The noise is such that all conversation is silent, we start miming, and it gets out of hand; Edgington is caught in the middle of an involved mime standing on one leg and licking the back of his right hand.

”I give up, what was it?” I said. ”A one-legged man eating a toffee apple?”

We are silenced again by the 3.7s. While we cavorted in the mud, in the bright sunlit days on the Dodecanese the British are losing the Greek Islands to the Germans. It's all on the News, in slanted terms. ”British troops are fighting a 'skilful' retreat on the Isle of Leros. HQ Middle East Command say 'The more we delay them, the better it is for us.'” As we listen to this statement the faces of the Gunners break into wry disbelieving smiles, who are they kidding?

”It must be for home consumption,” says Trew. ”My mother would listen to that and think we were winnin'.”

It was strange coming from him because it was a fact that when Trew had sent his first photo of himself in Italy to his family, they wrote back and asked if we were losing. Birch had sent his photo (taken by a street photographer) back to his sweetheart, and she wrote back asking who it was. The worst was Gunner Collins, his family sent his photo back marked 'Not known at this address'. My mother, father and brother had sent me a photo intended to boost my morale, taken by a neighbour in Brentwood. When I saw it I thought they were all convalescing from rabies. They were all white-faced, with fixed false-teeth smiles and staring eyes. The explanation was it was taken by magnesium flash, badly printed, and the photographer, Mr Wheel had asked them to 'Open your eyes wide' to get a good expression. The result, dead people standing up.

Deans, Nash and Fildes have done a great job on their bivvy. It now has a fireplace, and so in the evenings Harry and I go in for a warm. It was one evening with the rain running in rivers that we cooked up a tune, 'The Rocamanfina Rhumba'. From somewhere I had obtained an ocarina, and with Edgington banging on a box of matches we gradually bring the tune to life. The lyrics were: The Rhumba The Rhumba Caramba! Caramba! Roca-manfina Rhumba Roca-manfina Rhumba All the natives say All the natives say It's a snappy little number It's a snappy little number Caramba. Caramba. Roca-mana-fina way. Roca-mana-fina way. Rocamanfina Rhumba Rocamanfina Rhumba Rocamanfina way. Rocamanfina way.

It was in the charts for about three weeks, but it never became a hit. Jam-Jar Griffin comes in, he's heard the music.

”Is this where all the action is?” he says, his bulk blocking the entrance. What a waistline! just under his armpits. It seemed wider than his shoulders, when he 'jitterbugged' he appeared to be wearing a lifebelt under his jacket.