Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (9 page)

It was a fitting Viking end for the Sacred Clubs. Occasions of insanity such as this stopped us all going mad.

The Gun Position Telephone at Mill Wood was in a small wooden but nine foot by eight foot, some two hundred yards from the gun. We were fairly isolated, off the road, in what had been a sand quarry. The but backed on to the working face of a sandy cliff about, fifteen feet high. Around and above grew gorse and brambles. It was a perfect getaway place, so much so that I used to volunteer to do any other signaller’s duty. It was simple. You sat by the phone and every hour tested the line to Battery Exchange. Twice a day we’d take down something called a M.E.T. These were figures that I didn’t understand, all to do with temperatures and barometric pressures. The G.P.O.A.↓ ‘specialists’ would work out from a book of tables what effect this information had upon the fusing of the shells and ranging.

≡ Gun Position Officer’s Assistant.

It was all too much for me. A week’s duty in the but all centred around a gramophone lent by Nick Carter, and jazz records I would bring back from leave. Happiness was a mug of tea, a cigarette, and a record of Bunny Berrigan playing ‘Let’s do it’. Sharing it with a friend like Harry rounded off the occasion. What’s happened to us all since then? The world’s gone sour. Happiness is a yesterday thing.

Ablutions were primitive. We crossed the road into Bexhill Cemetery. By the grave of a ‘Mrs K. Loughborough, died 23 September 1899. Not Dead just Sleeping’ was a tap. That was it. There are few finer sights than a duty signaller scrubbing his dirty laundry on the marble slab of Mrs Loughborough’s last resting place. “‘Not Dead just Sleeping’?” said Chalky White as he read her inscription. “She’s not kidding anyone but her bloody self,” he said as he wrung his socks out on her.

In the evenings after dark, one or two of our favourite birds would visit us and bring fish and chips; once in we bolted the door.

As the days of 1940 came to an end, Dunkirk was sliding into history. The war was spreading; there seemed very little in the way of victories, there were constant reversals in Libya and Greece. On my birthday, April 16
th
, 1941, London had its worst raid yet. But cheering news—May 14
th
was the first anniversary of—wait for it—The Home Guard!

Gunner Edgington about to make his famous last-minute leap at Mill Wood Rubbish Tip from the flaming club truth

IN BILLETS AGAIN

A
fter a winter under canvas it was good news that we were to be billeted in Turkey Road Girls’ School. It was for us a paradise—large clean rooms—white walls, ideal for nails—parquet floors, a large ballroom, showers, a well-equipped gymnasium (which we pretended not to see) and finally a brand new upright piano, on which Harry could play the bloody awful Warsaw Concerto. From here we ran our own dances. Captain Martin registered 19 Battery as a Limited Company and sold shares to sister Regiments. At this new billet we received morning visits from a W.V.S. Canteen Van. A very dolly married woman took a fancy to me and one night, after a dance, she took me home. Strange aftermath: a week later I thumbed a lift to Eastbourne, a civvy car: inside I could smell her perfume.

“My wife works for the W.V.S.,” said the driver.

“Really?” I said.

It was all sex in those days it was that or the ‘flicks’ and flicks cost money. There was a lovely busty bird called Beryl, who had hot pants for me.

During the interval of our first dance at Turkey Road I took her to the lorry park, into the back of a fifteen hundredweight truck. We were going through our third encore when the truck drove off. Apart from the jolting it must have been the best ride we’ve ever had. It stopped at Hastings. Through the flap I saw our chauffeur was Sergeant ‘Boner’ Hughes who hated my guts (I don’t know why, he’d never seen them). He backed the truck up an alley and left it while he went into The White Lion for a drink with his bird who was barmaid. Slipping into the driving seat I drove it back, and arrived in time to play the second half of the dance. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” asked Edgington, sweating at the piano. “I, Harry, have been having it off in the back of a lorry, and I got carried away.”

U Battery band playing at Turkey Road School, 1941

7.2 GUNS AND THE TIGER SCHEME

O
ur 9.2 guns were past it. Every time they fired, bits fell off.

In place of bolts and nuts were bent nails and chicken wire. Gunners on leave would rummage through their sheds for screws, pinions, etc. The end came when elastic bands, which held the gun-sight together, were no longer obtainable. The Major wrote away, asking for a new gun for Christmas. One day they arrived. Dozens of them! 7.2 gun howitzers. Huge things towed behind Giant Schamell lorries.

At once we were put into vigorous training to familiarize us with the new toys. For weeks the area rang to the clang of breech-blocks, shouted orders, grunts of the sweating ammunition numbers. The guns threw a 280 pound projectile 17,800 yards, so you weren’t safe any where except at 18,000 yards. Momentum was mounting, we were getting new field telephones, wireless trucks, wireless sets, tummy guns, Tannoy loudspeakers that linked Command Post to the guns. The war effort was moving into top gear.

Monty, sprang a giant Southern Command scheme, code name ‘Tiger’. One autumn dawn the sky was a mass of grey sponges: this undoubtedly would be the day. It was. Off we went. One hour after off we went we stopped wenting. We were in the middle of a Rain Forest that appeared to be in the Mato Grosso.

“Dismount,” came the waterlogged order. Soggy officers were called to the O.C.’s car. They stood in a squelching semi-circle, holding maps. Chaterjack whipped through the map references and all that Khaki Jazz. Our officer was Tony Goldsmith.

“We’ve got to set up an O.P. at Map Reference 8975-4564↓ in half an hour. Synchronise watches.”

≡ Somewhere on the South Downs.

None of us had one. “Very well,” said Goldsmith. “I’ll synchronise watches.” Goldsmith’s map reading left something to be desired, like someone to read it for him. Using his method, we had arrived at a hundred-year old deserted chalk quarry. How can people be so heartless as to desert a hundred-year-old chalk quarry? We were two hundred feet below sea level. We got out. Goldsmith consulted his map.

“There must be something wrong,” he said, looking intelligent at two hundred feet below sea level. “According to my calculations we should be on top of a hill, looking down a valley.”

Gunner Milligan said, “But we aren’t on top of a hill looking down a valley, are we sir?”

“No, we’re not, Milligan. How shrewd of you to notice. This could mean promotion for you, or death. I suggest we retrace our steps to the main road. Does anybody know where it is?”

“I think I do sir,” said Driver Wenham.

We boarded the truck, and set off somewhere. “Send a message to H.Q.,” said Goldsmith, still trying to maintain the illusion of efficiency. “Say, ‘Truck in ditch, will be late for O. P.’”

I sent off the message. But received a request for Goldsmith to speak to ‘Sunray’ (code name for C.O.). What a lovely name I thought for a dripping wet C.O.

Goldsmith spoke.

“Hello, Sunray, Seagull here. Over.”

Chaterjack:

Tony? What the bloody hell’s going on? Over.

Goldsmith:

The truck’s stuck, sir. Over.

Chaterjack:

Well hurry up, the whole bloody battery’s waiting for you.

We drove grimly on. One o’clock. “Get the BBC news, Milligan,” said Goldsmith, “you never know, it might be all over.” There were the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. “I wonder if he gets royalties,” said Goldsmith. “Oh yes,” I said, “every Friday.” The news. Russians were advancing on all fronts. Then a list of current British disasters, retreats, sinkings, etc. The news concluded with a report of a two-headed calf born in Hereford.

Using all the skill of a trained Army driver, Wenham had the truck into a ditch a second time!

“Sorry sir,” said Wenham, “I won’t do it again!”

“Don’t stop now man, you’re just getting the hang of it,” said Goldsmith. “Milligan! Send another message. ‘Truck now in second ditch.’ ”

Back came Chaterjack.

Chaterjack:

Good God, Tony, where are you man? Over.

Goldsmith:

About a mile from the O.P. sir. Over.

Chaterjack:

You’re very faint. Over.

Goldsmith:

It’s the food sir. Over.

Chaterjack:

I can’t hear you. Look, we’ll have to write you off. We’ll get 18 Battery O.P. to fire us. Over.

Goldsmith:

Roger sir. Over.

Chaterjack:

Anything else? Over.

Goldsmith:

A two-headed calf has been born at Hereford sir. Over.

Chaterjack:

Two what? Over.

Goldsmith:

Very good sir, anything else?

Chaterjack:

No. Roger and out.

We stopped at a village of Lower Lind, where we went to the Essoldo Bioscope Cinema to see ‘Black Moonlight’ with Anton Walbrook, and heard that bloody awful Warsaw Concerto. Lieutenant Goldsmith paid for us all, as is fitting for a man wearing the King’s uniform over his (queens’ College body.

He told me a story about Jesus College, Cambridge. It was Christmas morning, the phone rang in the gate porter’s lodge. “Hello,” said the porter.

“Is that Jesus?” asked a donnish voice.

“Yes.”

The voice sang, “Happy birthday to you.”

At six o’clock we arrived at the night rendezvous, a field of bracken resting on a lake. We got tea from a swearing cookhouse crew, who took it in turns to say ‘piss off’ to us. We were given to understand we could have a complete night’s sleep. Good. We tossed for who was to sleep in the truck. I lost. Sod. Rain. Idea! Under the truck! Laid out ground sheet, rolled myself like a casserole in three blankets. I dropped into a deep sleep. I awoke to rain falling on me. The truck had gone. Everybody had gone. There had been a surprise call to action at 02:00 hours. I was alone in a fifty-acre field. I shouted into the darkness, “Anybody there?” I was still alone in a fifty-acre field. Smell of oil—I felt my face. It was smothered. The stuff had dripped from a leaky sump. Sound of motor-bike approaching. “Help,” I said.

“Who’s that?” said a voice. It was Jordy Dawson.

“It’s me, Sarge! Milligan.” A torch shone.

“What in Christ has happened to you?” he said.

“I’m doing Paul Robeson impressions. You’re just in time for my encore.” I started to sing: “Ole man ribber, dat Ole…”

“What’s that on your mush?”

“Oil, Sarge! I cut an artery and struck oil. We’re rich, do you hear me. We can be married.” He started to laugh. “You silly bugger, we’ve had half the bloody signal section looking for you. The scheme’s over.”

“I know! Half of it’s over me,” I said.

“Come on, I’ll take you back.”

“Go back’?” I said in a pained voice, “but I’m happy here, here on de Ole plantation, massa baws.” Seated on the pillion, he drove me back to Bexhill. Tiger had been a roaring success. The German High Command must have been ecstatic. The following is an excerpt from the Regimental war diary of the time:

When the weather was too bad for schemes out of doors, wireless and telephone exercises were held within the Regiment to increase the proficiency in communications. It was on such an occasion as this, that a message reading: “Invasion Fleet in the Channel, two miles off SEAFORD, steaming N.W. Estimated, strength three capital ships, sixteen destroyers, and many lesser craft.” He had omitted to prefix the message with the magic word ‘PRACTICE’ and by some unkind trick of fate, which has never since been accounted for, the message by-passed R.H.Q. and was sent direct to Corps. The scheme finished, and the Regiment prepared to depart on its nightly occupations. Suddenly the peace was shattered by the frantic ringing of the telephone bell. It was a call from the War Office, who enquired, in no uncertain tones, what the thundering blazes was the meaning of our message. What steps had been taken by us: and had the Navy been informed?