Part 27 (1/2)

Spike: ”That barr, when I seed him he dun growl, so Ahhh growls back, he leans ter the laift, so Ahh leans to the laift, he scratches his b.a.l.l.s, so Ahh scratch ma b.a.l.l.s...then that barrrrr dun a s.h.i.+t, and I said Barrrr yew got me there...I dun that when I fust seed yew...”

A few more gags like that, then we all sing 'Ah Like Mountain Music', Fildes on the guitar, me and Edgington on ocarinas, Kidgell on the 'Rac.o.o.n's p.i.s.s' Jar. The music was interspersed with rhythmic spits and distant Dangsssss!!! in tempo, and we went off a treat.

”Gunner s.h.i.+pman will now sing 's.h.i.+pmate of Mine',” announces Jam-Jar. ”'Ees never seen a bleedin' s.h.i.+p,” heckles a voice.

The curtain goes back to reveal Edgington at the piano in bare feet, dressed as a hillbilly. s.h.i.+pman has a pleasant baritone voice inaudible in the low register; he insists on walking about as he sings, causing numerous clink-clanks from the stage. His song is frequently interrupted by hissed whispers from the wings, ”Keep still.” He stops in mid song to ask the voice what it is saying. ”Keep still, the floor's squeaking when you walk about.” He then continues except that his last position was on the extreme right of the stage, so we have a spectacle of a piano one side, an empty stage, and a singing gunner on the extreme right. He is well received.

Jock Webster follows with a series of h.o.a.ry old Scottish jokes. ”Is anything worn under the kilt? Nai man! everything's in perfect working order,” etc. etc.

To the great mock fight 'twixt Deans and Robinson. They appeared in Long Johns and plimsolls. They had been rehearsing this mock fight for a week, but it was all pointless, as in the first few moments Deans took a right hander to the chin that had him groggy, and from then on Robinson had to nurse him along. The crowd barracks, ”Kill 'im...call a priest...send 'im 'ome...” The 'fight' went the whole distance and they were given an ovation, especially Deans who now had blood running down his chin. His parting remark, ”You want blood, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, well, you got it.”

Next, I and the mob in community singing. American officers were baffled by songs like: I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, Up her belly and down her back Up her belly and down her back In every hole and every crack In every hole and every crack I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her, I painted her old tomater over and over again. I painted her old tomater over and over again.

It's BSM Griffin now, and he's had quite a skinful and does a conjuring act that to this day neither I nor anyone else understands. He He doesn't even remember it; he sat hidden under a blanket pus.h.i.+ng cards out through the slit asking, ”What is it?” A member of the audience would identify it: ”Ace of Spades.” He would take it back inside the blanket and from his obscurity say, ”So it is.” I think he got booed off, and seemed well pleased with it. doesn't even remember it; he sat hidden under a blanket pus.h.i.+ng cards out through the slit asking, ”What is it?” A member of the audience would identify it: ”Ace of Spades.” He would take it back inside the blanket and from his obscurity say, ”So it is.” I think he got booed off, and seemed well pleased with it.

Kidgell next, his old favourites, 'Sweet Mystery of Life', 'Drigo's Serenade'. He has a very good voice.

”He ought to have had it trained,” said Edgington.

”To run errands,” added Fildes.

Kidgell had announced himself, ”I will sing songs you all know and love.”

Voices of horror from the back. ”Ohhhh Nooo.”

When Doug had finished the same voice said, ”I didn't love or know any of 'em.”

Behind the stage Sid Carter has opened a few bottles of wine to celebrate the show going well.

”We should wait till the end really,” he said, ”but with this mob there might not be any b.l.o.o.d.y end.”

Edgington is at the piano playing his own tunes with that grim b.l.o.o.d.y look on his face, as if he expected a shot to ring out from the audience. One of the notes went dead on him and he brought forth laughter whenever he came to the missing note, as he stood up and sang the note himself. Next, from Liverpool, we have a real 'Scouse', Joe Kearns. He tells lots of Liverpudlian jokes like ”My owd man's got a gla.s.s eye, one night he swallowed it, he went to see the doctor, doctor said drop 'em, bend down, and he sees this gla.s.s eye lookin' at him out the back and he says, 'Wot's the matter, don't you trust me?'”

After him the Band are on again. We play a favourite of ours, 'Tangerine', and what in those days was a red-hot number, 'Watch the Birdie'. We didn't go that well because the boys had heard us so many times at dances. The Finale was a send-up of Major 'Jumbo' Jenkins in Command Post Follies, in which we took the p.i.s.s out of him in no uncertain fas.h.i.+on. He was fuming, but put a fixed grin on his silly face. We conclude with the cast singing 'Jogging Along to the Regimental Gallop' to the tune of Jenkins' own favourite, 'Whistling Rufus', and by G.o.d, we got a mighty ovation at the end.

The officers came backstage to congratulate us, and with consummate skill drink all our grog. We all got pretty tanked up; long after everyone had gone to bed Harry and I sat on the stage drinking and re-running the show. It had been a great night.

”Now what?” said Edgington.

Now what indeed.

BOXING DAY, DECEMBER 26, 1943.

News of Amalfi As if Christmas had not been wonderful enough-out of the line, dry beds, good grub, visits to Naples with free Venereal Disease!-we get more more good news. It was like hearing you'd won the Irish Sweepstake, the moment you'd just discovered Gold in your garden. We were in bed after our first concert when down the line came the message. The following personnel will proceed on four days' leave to the Amalfi AGRA Rest Camp, and lo! it's the Concert Party. good news. It was like hearing you'd won the Irish Sweepstake, the moment you'd just discovered Gold in your garden. We were in bed after our first concert when down the line came the message. The following personnel will proceed on four days' leave to the Amalfi AGRA Rest Camp, and lo! it's the Concert Party.

”Amalfi?” says Edgington, rearranging his cigarettes for the night. ”What is an Amalfi? Amalfi?” says White.

”It sounds like a high-powered Iti motor car,” says Edgington.

But I I, I, know-all/well-educated-Milligan tell them, ”It's an Italian village that lies along the Divine Coast, south of Naples and south-east of Catford, 6,000 miles south-east of Catford I'm glad to say.”

Amalfi? There must be some mistake!!! Gunners don't go to the Divine Coast, they only go to the karzi; but folks, it was all true!

9.30, MONDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1943.

We were loaded on to our three-tonner, like merry cattle. We were all in cracking spirits; it was December 27, a crisp sunny morning, though Edgington is overcast, cloudy with rain on high ground.

”I had a drop too much last night,” he said. ”It was a mere thousand feet,” he said, imitating W. C. Fields.

I continued in the same voice, ”That's perfectly true, my dear, he was making love to Grace on a clifftop when suddenly he went over the side, that's how he fell from Grace.” Groans!

From the back we were watching the column of military traffic going up the line, and in between the pitiful civilian transport. There were loads of pretty girls who came under fire from the tailboard. The cries ranged from ”I can do you a power of good, me dear,” to the less poetic ”Me give you ten inches of pork sword, darlin'.” It's strange none of the soldiers in Shakespeare talked like this. If Shakespeare had been in the army he would have sounded more like 'Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more-cor, look at those knockers-or fill this wall up with our English dead-grab ”old of this, darlin'.” We're travelling south down route six, along the line of a Roman Road.

”It's not the Via Appia,” said Edgington, ”but I have-ha, ha-never been 'appier.” Groans. He pretends to hurl himself out of the lorry.

The roads were really a series of holes joined together; we spent the time yoyoing between the floor and the roof of the lorry. Sometimes to ease the jolting we hung on to the roof supports with feet off the floor, making monkey faces and scratching under the arms, all clever stuff. Edgington is demonstrating how he can hang by his insteps. We hit a b.u.mp, he goes straight down on his nut.

A few songs to alleviate the boredom.

I'll never forget the day I joined the Army on the spree, I'll never forget the day I joined the Army on the spree, To be a greasy gunner in the Royal Artillery. To be a greasy gunner in the Royal Artillery. For my heart is aching and a-breaking, For my heart is aching and a-breaking, To be in Civvy Street once more. To be in Civvy Street once more. Oh you ought to see the drivers on a Friday night Oh you ought to see the drivers on a Friday night A-polis.h.i.+ng up their harness in the pale moonlight, A-polis.h.i.+ng up their harness in the pale moonlight, For there's going to be inspection in the morning For there's going to be inspection in the morning And the Battery Sergeant Major will be there, And the Battery Sergeant Major will be there, He'll be there-he'll be there, In the little harness room across the square. He'll be there-he'll be there, In the little harness room across the square. And when they're filing out for water I'll be s.h.a.gging the Colonel's daughter And when they're filing out for water I'll be s.h.a.gging the Colonel's daughter In the little harness room across the square! In the little harness room across the square!

I'd come a long way since I was Altar Boy at St Saviour's Church, Brockley Rise. We are going through Capua at a speed that would have left Hannibal and his lads a long way behind. Driver Wilson has put a spurt on and we are being shook to b.u.g.g.e.ry. I clasp my legs.

”Ohhhhh.”

”What's up?” says Edgington.

”Nothing-just practising.”

On, on through Santa Maria, Afrigola, the outskirts of Naples. At the Piazza Dante we get out to stretch our legs and have a slash; we are besieged by Neapolitan Street-Urchins, 'Scunazziti', who sell everything from cigarettes to sisters. How could they ever lead normal lives after this? The square is a ma.s.s of lorries, jeeps and trucks, large numbers of soldiers drunk and otherwise are either arriving or leaving. The Americans are b.u.mptious. They have a great sense of humour, if you're about five.

”Come on, you lot, we're leavin',” Driver Wilson is yelling above the noise.

On to Amalfi! It's still a nice clear day but cold, the sun s.h.i.+nes and bounces off the Gulf of Napoli. To our left looms Mount Vesuvius; white smoke drifts lazily from its crater.

”I wonder who's workin' the boiler room,” says Griffin.

Jam-Jar Griffin! He was big, gawky, dark-haired, brown eyes, six foot, when unshaven always looked like the villain in the Mickey Mouse comics. I never saw him down, in fact he was far too often up, a great morale-booster. He had a huge pipe in which he never seemed to have any baccy. With the greatest guffaw I'd heard, which you could even hear above the guns, he was one of the real characters and therefore invaluable in the run of human affairs.

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Jam-Jar Griffin begging for tobacco on the Amalfi seafront.

We had been four hours on the truck, and travel boredom had set in. Lots of the lads were squatted on the floor, trying to doze, and only a few occasional words were heard.