Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (17 page)

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Authors: Spike Milligan

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Tin hats, as observed on board the
Otranto
during anti-aircraft stations

ALGIERS

O
n January 18
th
, 1913, I wrote in my diary: “Arrived Algiers at Dawn.” Harry and I got up early to enjoy the sight of Africa at first light. We saw it bathed in a translucent, pre-dawn purple aura. Seagulls had joined us again. A squadron of American Lockheed Lightnings circled above. The coast was like a wine-coloured sliver, all the while coming closer. The visibility grew as the sun mounted the sky; there is no light so full of hope as the dawn; amber, resin, copper lake, brass green. One by one, they shed themselves until the sun rose golden in a white sky. Lovely morning warmth. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun. “I fell down a hatchway—”

“Awake!” said Harry down the hole, “for Morning in the Bowl of Night, Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight. Omar Khayyam.”

“Get stuffed. Spike Milligan.” The convoy was now in line ahead making for the port. Gradually the buildings of Algiers grew close. The city was built on a hill, and tiered, most buildings were white. We were closing to the dockside. Activity. Khaki figures were swarming everywhere. Trucks, tanks, aircraft, guns, shells, all were being off-loaded. Odd gendarmes looked helpless, occasionally blew whistles, pointed at Arabs, then hit them. They’d lost the war and by God they were going to take it out on someone. Now we could see palm tree lined boulevards. We made the last raid on the canteen, stocked up with fags, chocolate and anything. In full F.S.M.O. (pronounced Effessmmmoh) we paraded on deck. I tell you, each man had so much kit it reminded me of that bloody awful Warsaw Concerto. A Bombardier came round and distributed little booklets saying: “Customs and Habits of French North Africa. How to behave. The Currency. Addresses of Post-Brothel Military Clinics.” And a contraceptive. Only one? They must be expecting a short war. Harry Edgington was horrified. “Look at this,” he said, his lovely face dark with rage, “putting temptation in a man’s hands.” Whereupon he hurled it overboard. Others blew them up and paddled them ashore shouting ‘Happy New Year’. Down came the gang-planks and the 56
th
Heavy Regiment, ten days at sea, heavier than it had ever been, debouched.

There were no transports save those to carry kit-bags and luggage. Chalky White and I were lucky again. “You two stay behind. Supervise the loading of all Battery kit-bags on to that three-tonner.”

Unloading went on all day. The harbour was glutted with ships unloading war supplies and what occasionally looked suspiciously like Three Piece Suites. Throughout the dusty day the cranes were lifting and dipping, like herons fishing. Our Battery baggage was identified by colour. A blue square with a yellow stripe up the middle. We rode up and down in cargo nets. Puzzled Algerians watched us as we arose from the bowels of the ship singing Ann Zeigler and Webster Booth melodies. Ever present were the Arabs, waiting to nick things, but it was easy to stop them. You hit ‘em. It was appalling to see a people so impoverished. They wore rags, they were second-class citizens, they were degraded. It hurt most when you saw the children. I’m bloody glad I wasn’t French. Even better, I’m glad I wasn’t an Arab. But seriously, folks! By sunset, the job was completed and we were exhausted by a day’s hard singing in the nets. Lieutenant Hughes fell us in. We marched through the palm-lined streets, into a vast concrete football stadium. On the pitch were scores of tents. It must have been half-time I thought. But no! They were-the bivouacs of a Scots Battalion, just back from the front. Hanging on the washing lines were battle-scarred kilts. It must have been hell under there! It was a vast concrete football stadium. I mention that again in the nature of an encore. All the action was around a field kitchen. Several queues all converged on one point where a cook, with a handle-bar moustache, and of all things a monocle, was doling out. He once had a glass eye that shot out when he sneezed and fell in the porridge so he wore the monocle as a sort of optical condom. He doled out something into my mess tin. “What is it?” I asked. “Irish Stew,” he said, “Then,” I replied. “Irish Stew in the name of the Law.” It was a vast concrete arena. We queued for an hour. When that had passed we queued for blankets. Next, find somewhere to sleep, like a football stadium in North Africa. We dossed down on the terraces. After ship’s hammocks it was murder. If only, if only I had a grand piano. I could have slept in that. Anything was better than a vast concrete arena. At dawn my frozen body signalled me, arise. I stamped around the freezing terraces to get warm. I lit up a fag and went scrounging. There were still a few embers burning in the field kitchen. I found a tea urn full of dead leaves from which I managed to get a fresh brew. A sentry turned up. “Bleedin’ cold, ain’t it,” he said. “Yes,” I replied, and he seemed well pleased with the answer. After all, it was free and unsolicited. I shared the tea with him. “My name’s Eric Rushton,” he said. “In Civvy Street I’m a porter in Covent Garden.” Good, I thought, there’s nothing like coming to Algiers to meet, a fruit porter called Rushton. Who knows, before sun-up, I might even meet an apprentice gas-fitter’s mate called Dick Scroogle from Lewisham. If so, he’d have to hurry as dawn’s left hand was already in the sky. A small man in an overcoat drew nigh.

“You’re not Dick Scroogle from Lewisham, are you?”

“No,” he said, “people keep asking me that.” I gave him some tea. It had been a near thing. Gradually the sun came up. There was no way of stopping it. It rose from the east like an iridescent gold Napoleon. It filled the dawn sky with swathes of pink, orange and flame. Breakfast was Bully Beef and hard tack. I washed and shaved under a tap, icy cold, still, it was good for the complexion. “Gunners! Stay lovely for your Commanding Officer with Algerian Football Stadium water!” I stood at the gates watching people in the streets. I made friends with two little French kids on their way to school, a girl and a boy. I gave them two English pennies. In exchange they gave me an empty matchbox, with a camel label on the top. I shall always remember their faces. A gentle voice behind me. “Where the bleedin’ ell. you bin?” It was Jordy Dawson. “Come on, we’re off to the docks.” And so we were.

Arriving there we checked that all D Battery kit bags were on board our lorries, then drove off. The direction was east along the coast road to Jean Bart. We sat with our legs dangling over the tail-board. Whenever we passed French colonials, some of them gave us to understand that our presence in the dark continent was not wanted by a simple explicative gesture from the waist down. We passed through dusty scrub-like countryside with the sea to our left. In little batches we passed Arabs with camels or donkeys, children begging or selling Tangerines and eggs. The cactus fruit was all ripe, pillar-box red. I hadn’t seen any since I was a boy in India. The road curved gradually and the land gradient rose slightly and revealed to us a grand view of the Bay of Algiers. Rich blue, with morning sunshine tinselling the waves. Our driver ‘Hooter Price’ (so called because of a magnificent large nose shaped like a Pennant. When he swam on his back, people shouted ‘Sharks’) was singing ‘I’ll be seeing you’ as we jostled along the dusty road. It was twenty-six miles to our destination, with the mysterious name ‘X Camp’, situated just half a mile inland at Cap Matifou. X Camp was proving an embarrassment to Army Command. It was built to house German prisoners of war. Somehow we hadn’t managed to get any, so, to give it the appearance of being a success, 56 Heavy Regiment were marched in and told that this was, for the time being, ‘home’. When D Battery heard this, it was understandable when roll call was made the first morning:

“Gunner Devine?”

“Ya wol !”

“Gunner Spencer?”

“Ya! ”

“Gunner Maunders?”

“Ya wol!”

The march of the Regiment from the ship to Cap Matifou had been a mild disaster. It started in good march style, but gradually, softened by two weeks at sea, and in full F.S.M.O., two-thirds of the men gradually fell behind and finally everyone was going it alone at his own pace. A long string of men stretched over twenty-six miles. I quote from Major Chaterjack’s recollection of the incident in a letter he wrote to me in 1957. “Perhaps some will remember the landing at Algiers and that ghastly march with full kit, for which we were not prepared. The march ended after dark, somewhere beyond Maison Blanche, and was rather a hard initiation into war a valuable initiation though, for it made many things thereafter seem easier!” To top it all there was a tragedy Driver Reed, who flaked out on the march, tried to hop a lift but fell between the lorry and trailer and was squashed to death. The only way to unstick him from the road was by pulling at his webbing straps. Tragedy number two was Gunner Leigh, thirty-six (old for a soldier); as he arrived at the camp he received a telegram telling him his wife and three children had been killed in a raid on Liverpool. He went insane and never spoke again. He is still in a mental home near Menston in Yorkshire.

Sanitary Orderly Liddel was learning the trade of maintenance on the out door hole-in-the-ground latrines. The lime powder that is normally used to ‘sprinkle’ the pit, had not arrived. He, being of an inventive turn of mind, mixed petrol and diesel and used that. Dawn! Enter an R.S.M. pleasure bent’. He squats on pole. Lights pipe, drops match. BOOOOOOOOM! There emerges smoke-blackened figure, trousers down, smouldering shirt tail, singed eyebrows, second degree burns on bum a sort of English loss of face.

He was our last casualty before we actually went into action. Next time it would be for real.