Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (15 page)

“Let’s go and have a Jam in the N.A.A.F.I”

It seemed a good idea. It was about one in the morning when we got in. For an hour we played. ‘These foolish things’, ‘Room Five Hundred and Four’, ‘Serenade in Blue’, ‘Falling Leaves’ and the inevitable Blues. In retrospect it wasn’t a happy occasion, two young men, away from home, playing sentimental tunes in a pitch black N.A.A.F.I. Oh, yesterday, leave me alone!

Friday, December 18
th
, 1942
: the place? The Devonshire Arms; the occasion? the Farewell Dinner and Dance for D Battery. It was Chaterjack’s idea, and I think I’m right in saying that he paid for the whole evening, because I overheard Captain Martin saying to him, “You’ll pay for this.” For the first time D Battery band didn’t play, the music was provided by Jack Shawe and His Band. We would have liked to have played, but Chaterjack insisted that we had the ‘night off’ for once.

It was a marvellous evening. We all enjoyed the dinner despite the frugal wartime fare. The enthusiasm of the occasion was terrific. In retrospect I don’t suppose many of the lads had ever been to a dinner dance on this scale. It was the eve of what for most of us was the greatest adventure of our lives. The moment for the speeches arrived. B.S.M. Poole rapped on the table with a knife handle. “Order please, for the Battery Commander, Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O.” We gave the old man a wild round of clapping infiltrated with Cockney witticisms: ‘Good old Chater’, ‘Hold on I haven’t finished me duff’, etc., etc. The major was in great farm, he’d already been in one war so he knew what it was all about. Taking a swig at his favourite whisky he wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said ‘Fellow Gunners’ (this got a spontaneous cheer). “We are going to war. It’s not much to worry about” (at this he got. various groans) “…at least not this evening.” He went on through a fairly predictable speech, war being “long periods of boredom broken by moments of great excitement; during moments of boredom I will order a certain amount of blancoing.” Here he got great groans and cries of “not again!” With a gleam in his eye he went on, “Ah, but during the moments of intense excitement I will order a double issue of rum ration. Now a toast, The King.” We all stood and drank and mumbled in that usual embarrassed tone Englishmen have on such occasions, ‘The King’. Next we had the guest speaker. “Silence please for Captain Arrowsmith.” Captain Arrowsmith arose. He was a tough man, in many ways he reminded me of Colonel Custer, in that he was a glory seeker. He was a brave man, and was killed in action in Italy, “Gentlemen” he commenced “The Royal Regiment have an appointment with the Bosche, and as you know, the Royal Regiment always keeps its appointments.” The sort of rhetoric got the gunners all patriotic and he got a storm of applause; he made us all feel important. He ended his speech with the toast, “Gentlemen, the Regiment.”

“The Regiment,” we echoed.

“What bloody regiment?” said a drunken voice.

The dinner over. the dance got under way, some lads had brought their wives down for the occasion, the local mistresses and girl friends were all present, everyone knew everyone else. I picked up with a W.A.A.F. Corporal, her name was Bette. I forget the surname. I ended up in bed with her, somewhere in Cooden Drive. I always remember a woman looking round the door and saying “Have you got enough blankets,” and I replied something like “How dare you enter the King’s bedchamber when he’s discussing foreign policy.” This sudden late affair with Bette flowered rapidly and we did a lot of it in the last dying days prior to Embarkation. Actually, I was glad when we left, I couldn’t have kept up this non-stop soldier-all-day lover-all-night with only cups of tea in between. I was having giddy spells, even lying down. I don’t suppose there’s anything more exciting than a sudden affair; it is the sort of thing that defeats the weather, and gives you a chance to air your battle dress. When I went overseas, Bette wrote sizzling letters that I auctioned to the Battery lechers.

Picture, taken at the insistence of my father to show the Milligan family at war, on embarkation leave.

My father appeared at the door clutching a kettle. (Drawn by my brother, who was there at the time
)

THE TRAIN JOURNEY
(BEXHILL-LIVERPOOL)

T
he date was January 6
th
, 1943, the time just, before midnight. An army on the march. Weather, pissing down. Standing in a black street, the hammer of the Germans stands silent in full F.S.M.O. With .arms aching from typhus, typhoid and tetanus injections, Edgington and I had been detailed to carry a Porridge Container. “Quick march!” Shuffle, shamble, slip, shuffle, scrape. Nearing the station, a voice in the dark: “Anybody remember to turn the gas off?”

“Stop that talking.”

“Bollocks’”

“No swearing now Vicar!”

The rain. It seemed to penetrate everything. We reached the station soaked. My porridge-carrying arm was six inches longer. Down the stairs we trooped on to the platform where the train was now not waiting in the station. Permission to smoke. An hour went by. We struck up a quiet chorus of “Why are we waiting?”, followed by outbreaks of bleating. At 2.14 a.m. the train arrived. Ironic cheers. All aboard! and the fight for seats got under way. A compartment packed with twelve fully-equipped gunners looks like those mountainous piles of women’s clothes at Jumble Sales. Once sat down, you were stuck. If you wanted to put your hand in a pocket, three men in the carriage had to get up. The train started. As it pulled fretfully from the station, I suddenly realised that some of us were being driven to our deaths! Edgington and I in the corridor decided to look for somewhere special to settle. The guard’s van! It was empty save for officers’ bed-rolls. Just the job. Removing our webbing, we lay like young khaki gods, rampant on a field of kit-bags. The young gods then lit up a couple of Woodbines. We passed the time with our song puns game.

Me:

What is the song of the Obstetrician?

Edgington:

I don’t know.

Me:

I’m always on the outside, looking in.

Edgington:

Swine. What is the song of the Barren Female Fish?

Me:

What?

Edgington:

No roses in all the world.

Me:

Rotten! What is the song of the man who’d lost his old cigarette-lighter, and found it again?

Edgington:

What?

Me:

My old flame!

Edgington:

Scum. What did Eve sing when she covered her fanny with a fig leaf?

Me:

I cover the waterfront!

Edgington:

Correct. One point to you.

Me:

It’s rude to point.

Edgington:

Right, one blunt to you. Just a minute, I’ve suddenly been overrun by a herd of Drunken Peruvian Trombonists on pleasure bent.

Me:

Bent pleasure? I like mine straight. Ta raaa.

It was going on for three o’clock. We fell asleep to the iron calypso of the wheels and the raindrop typewriter on the windows. I was awakened at about seven by Harry handing me a mug of tea. I looked out of the window. We were passing, at considerable speed, through black countryside sprinkled with snow. We must be going north, I thought. I ladled out some porridge into our mess tins. It was cold. Only one way to warm it up, eat it: Bombardier Trew of the signal section sauntered in. He had a large set of protruding teeth; but for this feature he would have been ugly. Seeing the luxury we were living in, he said, “You cunning bastards, you know where I slept last night? Sittin’ up in the bleedin’ Karzy.” We tried to soothe him with gifts of cold porridge. Trew said he thought we were going to Scotland.

“Why Scotland?”

“I’ll tell you! We’re going to make landings in Norway, it’s the second front, mate, we’ll link up with the Russians!”

“Oh, Christ!” groaned Edgington, “Norway, that’s done it.”

“I told my family it was Malta.”

“What about my family—I told them Bournemouth.”

Conversation was cut short by the panicky entrance of Gunner Simms. “Quick, where’s the medical officer?”

“Is it the old trouble, darling?” I said, taking his hand.

“Don’t piss around, there’s been a bloody accident.” Two sergeants came running through on the same errand. They returned with the medical officer. Excitement. A gunner in the forward carriage had intentionally shot himself in the leg with a tommy-gun. The weapon was on ‘automatic’, and had torn a great hole in the man next to him as well. There was blood everywhere. The medical officer did all he could to make them comfortable. There was no morphia. It must have been agony. They both survived, though the innocent party remained lame for life.

January 7
th
, at 2.45 that afternoon we arrived at Liverpool Station. An ambulance was waiting for the two wounded men. We detrained. Chaos. Non-commissioned officers kept running into each other shouting orders. Captains bounded up and down. the platform like spring-heeled Jacks shouting “I say!”

Dawson clobbered Chalky White and self. “You two! See the officers’ baggage into the three-tonner.” Great! We didn’t have to march. Gradually the Battery drained out of the station. We had to wait hours for the lorry. We loaded the officers’ kit on, and drove through the black gloomy streets, with their grey wartime people, but it was still all adventure to us.

It was dark when we arrived at the docks, which bore scars of heavy bombing. Towards the New Brighton side of the Mersey, searchlights were dividing the sky. Our ship was H.M.T.L.15, in better days the S.S.
Otranto
. She’d been converted to an armed troopship with A.A. platforms fore and aft. Her gross was about 20,000 tons, I could be a couple of pounds out. Just to cheer us up she was painted black. Loading took all night; there were several other units embarking. We got the officers’ bed-rolls into the cargo net, then boarded. A ship’s bosun: “What Regiment?” he said, “Artillery? Three decks down, H deck.” H deck was just above the water line, the portholes were sealed and blacked out, such a pity, I wanted to see the fishes. Along each side were tables and forms to accommodate twelve men a time.

Fore and aft were ships’ lockers with hammocks, strange things that some said we had to sleep in. Ridiculous! Long about ten o’clock. The lads were wandering freely, exploring the ship. Some had dodged ashore and were standing at the dock gate chatting up late birds. It was their last chance. Other more honourable men were furiously writing the last V-mail letter before sailing. I went on the top deck, aft, smoked a cigarette and watched reflections in the dark waters below. So far it had all been fun, but now we were off to the truth. I don’t know why, but I started to cry. 17 .30! There was to be a demonstration of how to live in a hammock. I arrived in time to see an able-bodied seaman deftly put one up between two hooks, then vault into it without falling out. It looked easy. Nobody wanted to sleep. I worked out we were waiting for the tide. About one o’clock the ship took on an air of departure. Gangways were removed. Hatches covered. Chains rattled. The ship started to vibrate as the engines came to life. Waters swirled. Tugs moved in. Donkey-engines rattled, hawsers were dropped from the bollards, and trailed like dead eels into the oil-tinted Mersey. We were away. Slowly we glided downstream. To the east we could hear the distant cough of Ack-Ack. The time was 1.10 a.m., January 8
th
, 1943. We were a mile downstream when the first bombs started to fall on the city. Ironically, a rosy glow tinged the sky, Liverpool was on fire. The lads came up on deck to see it. Away we went, further and further into the night, finally drizzle and darkness sent us below. I set about putting up my hammock. It was very easy and I vaulted in like an old salt. No, I didn’t fall out. Sorry. In the dark, I smoked a cigarette, and thought…We were going to war. Would I survive? Would I be frightened? Could I survive a direct hit at point blank range by a German 88 mm.? Could I really push a bayonet into a man’s body—twist it—and pull it out? I mean what would the neighbours say?