Part 26 (1/2)
He walked on till he was quite a way away from me.
”For Gord's sake,” whispered a North Country voice in the ranks behind, ”don't upset 'im, he could send us back to t'front.”
”What do you mean 'back to front'?...make up yer b.l.o.o.d.y mind.”
Ahh! the Royal Artillery Band are striking up. Boom, bang, crash, ta ra ra ra bimmm, the Ba.s.s Drummer is so short we can't see his head above the drum, just a pair of legs hanging underneath.
”19 Batteryyyyyyy...............Attennnnnn......shun! Riiiiiiiiighttttt...turn! Kweekkkkkkk MMMMarchhhhh!”
We swing along the road in the direction of the town and past the saluting base, which appears to be a gunner in the crouching position covered with a blanket. On it stand the GOC and the OC2 AGRA. As we swing past them, there is a subtle waft of whisky.
”Eyeeeeessssssss Right,” roars the command.
We stamp along in fine style, we don't know where we're headed, but we are marching as if we do. The step is getting ragged as the band goes out of earshot, the rhythmic marching becomes a great ma.s.s of overlapping steps that sound like we're in an echo chamber. We reach the outskirts of town and are dismissed.
”Now then,” commenced BSM Griffin, ”there's two hours to see around the town, the lorries will be back 'ere to pick us up at-” he looked at his wrist, realised he'd forgotten his watch but went on ”-at 1500 hours. Any late 'uns will have to walk back. Right, disssss...misssss.”
We repair to a cafe. Ernie Hart points to a sign saying 'English soldiers welcome', in chalk someone had added 'and their MONEY'. It's the same semi-gloomy interior, a grubby Iti and a mountainous wife.
”Quatro cafe and Quatro Cognac,” I signalled.
We sit at a circular iron-topped table that I seized like a steering wheel and started to make motor-car sounds.
”I'm driving this bar to a better area,” I said, crouching over the table. ”Brrrrrr Parp Parp.”
Italians at other tables are looking at me and smiling, the British don't usually behave like this. We stayed there till we were stoned. We are all decidedly happy as the lorries tumble-dry us back to the farm, where we arrive dead on the stroke of one. Those who aren't dead we carry back to their beds. By six o'clock, after plenty of tea, we were sobering up. All talk is of Christmas. Those who had parcels from home were feeling them, smelling them, tearing little holes and peeping in.
Spike Deans had over the pre-Christmas months been keeping a supply of wine and Marsala in which G and T truck had all paid in so much per week; he, for some reason, had added sugar to the wines, and at this very moment was calling the faithful, ”G Truck and T Truck members this way to intestinal trouble.”
He had the bottles uncorked, and we presented our mugs for the seasonal cheer. By eight o'clock we were all very merry again; we went to the gun-teams' billets and sang carols. Well-meaning insults were hurled from the windows above. Back in our billet, we went to bed and continued consuming the last of the wine.
There was something grim about going to bed in a coal-bunker on Christmas Eve. As I got in, I remember all those child Christma.s.ses when my mother and my grandmother tucked me up in bed, my face red with excitement at the coming of Father Christmas, the magnitude to the child mind of new toys on the morrow, the trying-to-get-to-sleep-so-as-to-wake-up-early feeling. There was no joy ever quite like that. I tried not to think of all those happy yester-Christma.s.ses, but in the dark they came flooding back to me. I had always wanted toy soldiers, now I was one myself. The billet was mouse quiet. Were they all thinking like me? Outside, a cold wind was playing the trees. Christmas. Somewhere in the rest of this f.u.c.ked-up world there were still children wide awake. Someone had started snoring, so he had escaped from his nostalgia. Christmas Eve, G.o.d, it was quiet, or was I just making it seem that way? No good, I couldn't sleep. I lit up a cigarette. Christmas Eve. What was Mum doing? Dad? Desmond? The Christmas tree at 50 Riseldine Road; we always had a small one in the front room, we bought it from Wheelers at Honor Oak Park. Dad would always buy a bottle of sweet Sherry, a bottle of Port, three bottles of Brown Ale and two large ones of Lemonade, all from Lovibonds, the off-licence on Brockley Rise. All the bottles were saved, as Desmond would take them and get a few pennies on the empties. The Trifle!!! I remember that, I enjoyed it even more than the chicken (we couldn't afford turkey)...all that custard, that cream. At some hour during those kaleidoscope memories, sleep must have taken me. Away to the north of us, our sister Batteries were sending out a Christmas message of death and having the compliment returned by an equally unseasonal enemy.
CHRISTMAS DAY, DECEMBER 25, 1943.
ALF FILDES' DIARY: ALF FILDES' DIARY: Sgt.-Major Griffin and Sgts. wake us with tea and rum and we're off! Sgt.-Major Griffin and Sgts. wake us with tea and rum and we're off! MY DIARY: MY DIARY: LATE REVEILLE, DON'T HAVE TO GET UP. BSM AND SGTS. BRING US TEA AND RUM IN BED. LATE REVEILLE, DON'T HAVE TO GET UP. BSM AND SGTS. BRING US TEA AND RUM IN BED.
It was all too much. ”Give us a kiss, Sarge,” I said as Mick Ryan filled my battered tea mug.
”You'll kiss me a.r.s.e,” he says. An unbearable thought.
All around, smiling gunners are sitting up like old ladies in Geriatric Wards, grinning. ”Merry Christmas,” they say to each other. We linger over the Rum-laden tea.
”There's a carol service at RHQ, at 11.00, if anybody wants to go.”
Why not? It's Christmas, the season of goodwill? n.o.body went. A Regimental Parson in a barn merrily sang 'The First Noel', all by himself. Fried Eggs and Bacon for breakkers! Wow!!!
The morning was spent fiddling around with the stage and props. All seemed set; we then concentrated on thinking about Christmas dinner.
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Soldier and Italians trampling on a German soldier in back of lorry.
”I will eat mine very, very very, very slowly. I want it to last as long as possible,” said Gunner White. slowly. I want it to last as long as possible,” said Gunner White.
”They say there's tinned turkey on the menu,” I said.
”How do you know?” said Kidgell, his stomach revolving at the thought.
”I heard a rumour.”
”Look, mate,” said Kidgell, ”I don't want a rumour rumour of a turkey, I want a of a turkey, I want a real real b.l.o.o.d.y one, parson's nose and all.” So saying, he ran off to practise eating. b.l.o.o.d.y one, parson's nose and all.” So saying, he ran off to practise eating.
A detail of layabouts had been rounded up and a long makes.h.i.+ft table laid out in an adjacent barn. It consisted of long planks resting on trestles, blankets for tablecloths; someone with a soul had stuck thorn-leaves into some tins to resemble holly. BSM Griffin's voice rings on the air.
”Come and get it!”
We take off like sprinters and collide as we try to squeeze through the door. Thundering ahead is Kidgell, his legs barely touching the ground; pounding behind him is Gunner White, his tongue dragging along the floor. The cry goes up, ”For G.o.d's sake stop Kidgell before he gets there or we'll get b.u.g.g.e.r all.”
Like a jig-saw puzzle we all fit into place around the table. We sat on an a.s.sortment of chairs, stools, tins, logs. We are served, as is the tradition of the Royal Artillery, by the Officers and Sergeants. Lieutenant Walker is the wine waiter; himself having partaken of several pre-lunch drinks he is missing the gla.s.ses by a substantial amount. Gunner Musclewhite has a lap full of white Chianti, and Gunner Bailey is getting red wine among his greens. The Sergeants are ladelling out tinned turkey, pork, beef, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots and gravy. None of our 'waiters' are quite sober and there is an overlap at the end of the dinner when Sgt. Ryan is pouring custard over the turkey. As the wine takes effect, the chatter and laughter increase. For duff we have Christmas pudding and custard.
”'Urry up, you b.u.g.g.e.rs,” said Sgt. 'Daddy' Wilson, ”we're waitin' to 'ave ours.”
There seemed endless helpings and unlimited supplies of red and white wine, but it was a long way from the d.i.c.kensian Christmas around a log fire in the parlour, with Grandma and Grandpa present. However, when you are p.i.s.sed, all that nostalgia goes out the window. Gunner Smudger Smith stands on his chair and sings 'Bang away Lulu'.
Bang away Lulu, Bang away Lulu, Bang away Lulu, Bang away Lulu, Bang away, good and strong, Bang away, good and strong, What you gonna do What you gonna do When you want a blow through When you want a blow through And yer Lulu's dead an' gorn. And yer Lulu's dead an' gorn.
The Sergeants and Officers are returning, carrying makes.h.i.+ft trays laden with bottles of beer, oranges and nuts. Smudger calls for a toast to 'the Orficers and Sarnts'. There follow more toasts to the Regiment, the King, and in fact anybody. I distinctly heard, ”Gentlemen, the toast is Anybody.”
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'Daddy' Wilson, eldest member of the battery, aged 93 We gave the Sergeants and the Officers a cheer and in that order. We left the table lookin like Genghis Khan's horse-men had galloped over it. I felt as though they'd galloped over me. There was aught but sleep it all off. We washed our mess-tins in the three separate troughs-WASH, RINSE, DISINFECT, for those interested in detail-these were made from oil drums sawn in half and filled with the requisite liquid. In fact there was to be a 'Quickie' in the concert where 'Bruta.r.s.e' stabs Julius Geezer, then proceeds to Wash, Rinse and Disinfect the murder weapon.
Those who had thoughts of getting into Naples were frustrated, as the city was declared out of bounds due to typhus. ”Merry Typhus,” some of them were saying. The great moment is drawing nigh, the Concert! The audience are arriving early, most of them with bottles of beer stuffed in their coats. The programmes they are reading were as below:
PROGRAMME OF CONCERT.