Where Have All the Bullets Gone? (13 page)

To my parents

To my brother

We ask the Sick Bay for six rolls of cotton wool and are told that no one can be hurt that bad and live. I pack my presents. Mother has a small glass bubble enclosing Virgin Mary and Child; a good shake and they are obscured in a snow-storm, and death by hypothermia. Father will have his favourite King Edward cigars, but brother Desmond? What do you send a squaddie in the front line? Of course, a slit trench. No, I send him a sandbag, and, just in case he doesn’t laugh, a box of preserved fruit.

Christmas Eve

P
ouring, ice-cold rain. Steve and I are sitting in the festively decorated canteen. We feel seasonal but would rather feel an ATS. We are taking a little wine for our stomachs’ sake, also for our liver, spleen and giblets. The strains of Sergeant Wilderspin and his O2E choir are approaching. They enter, singing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ and sneezing. They are collecting for ye Army Benevolent Fund and are soaked to ye skin. At eight o’clock we all file into the concert hall to see the Nativity Play. It’s very good, except the dialects jarred. An Angel of the Lord: “Thar goes t’Bethlehem, sither,” and his sidekick answers, “Weail off tae sae him right awa.” It didn’t detract from the finale around the manger, the choir singing ‘Adeste, fideles’. In that moment all minds were back home by the fire, screwing on the rug. Numerous curtain calls, the Brigadier makes a speech “…a great deal of effort…a special debt of gratitude…not forgetting…screwing on the rug…also like to thank…A Merry Christmas to all our readers…has anyone seen Mademoiselle Ding?”

Stop the festivities! The Germans have broken our lines in the Ardennes, all our washing is in the mud! Yet another it’s-going-to-be-over-by-Christmas-promise gone. Still, it could be worse. Like poor old Charlie Chaplin who was in a paternity suit — unfortunately it fits him. Steve Lewis looks up from his newspaper, stunned! How can this happen? Will Hitler win after all? Should he telegraph his wife and say, “Sell the stock, only take cash.” Stay cool. Help is coming. Is it John Wayne? No, it’s Sheriff Bernard Law Montgomery. He is going to ‘tidy up’ the battle, which ends with him claiming he’s won it, and he will shortly rise again from the dead. Eisenhower is furious. He threatens to cut Monty’s supply of armoured jockstraps and Blue Unction. Monty apologizes: “Sorry etc., etc. You’re superior by far, Monty.”

Christmas came and went with all the trimmings, tinned turkey, stuffing, Christmas Pud, all served to us by drunken Sergeants. Now we were all sitting round waiting for 1945. It had been a good year for me. I was alive.

January 1945

C
old and rain.

Letter from home.

Very quiet month.

Then, on 23 February 1945, this drastic message was flashed to the world from the pages of
Valjean
, the O2E house magazine.

Trumpeter.

Is there no stylish trumpeter in the ranks of the Echelon ? At present the O2E Dance Orchestra is handicapped to a certain extent by the lack of one of these only too rare musicians.

Ex-trumpeter ‘Spike’ Milligan, who has now gone on to the production line, had to hang up his trumpet on medical grounds, so if there is a trumpeter in our midst please contact SQMS Ward of R/O.

Milligan has hung up his trumpet! A grateful nation gave thanks!

It started with pains in my chest. I knew I had piles, but they had never reached this far up before. The Medical Officer made me strip.

“How long has it been like that?” he said.

“That’s as long as it’s ever been,” I replied.

He ran his stethoscope over my magnificent nine-stone body. “Yes,” he concluded, “you’ve definitely got pains in your chest. I can hear them quite clearly.”

“What do you think it is, sir?”

“It could be anything.”

Anything? A broken leg? Zeppelin Fever? Cow Pox? La Grippe? Lurgi?

“You play that wretched darkie music on your bugle, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must give it up.”

“Why?”

“I hate it.” He goes on to say, “It’s straining your heart.”

Bloody idiot. It’s 1985, I’m a hundred and nine, and I’m still playing the trumpet. He’s dead. At the time I stupidly believed him and packed up playing.

The band without me. As you can see, they don’t sound half as good

The first Saturday Music Hall of the New Year was a split bill. The first half Variety, the second half, a play
Men in Shadow
. It was seeing the latter that prompted me to do a lunatic version of our own. We timed it to go on the very night after the play finished, using all the original costumes and scenery.

Men in Gitis
.

Tomorrow the chief attraction at the Concert Hall will be the super, skin-creeping, spine-tingling production ‘Men in Gitis’. In it are the craziest crowd of local talent that one could imagine. Spim Bolligan, the indefatiguable introducer of this new type of show, describes it as ‘colossal’.

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I wrote the script with Steve Lewis and Len Prosser. It was total lunacy, starting the play before the audience came in; several of the actors outside the hall doing the first act to the queue; the curtain going up and down throughout the play; the orchestra coming into the pit calling out “Bread…give us bread,” then proceeding to tune up every ten minutes. Bodies were hauled up to the ceiling by their ankles asking for a reduction in rent; people came through trap doors, and all the while a crowd of soldiers done up as Hitler tried to get a grand piano across the stage, and then back again. It ended with the projection of the Gaumont British news all over us, with the music up loud, while the band played ‘God Save the King’ at speed. As the audience left we leapt down among them with begging bowls, asking for money, and shouted insults after them into the night. How were we received? See below.

ENTERTAINMENTS
—
contd. from Page 1
.

Music Hall

Last Saturday’s Musical Hall was one of the best ever presented. The highspot was undoubtedly ‘Men in Gitis’ — a satirical sequel to ‘Men in Shadow’. This type of show is either liked or hated, and quite a few did not care for it at all, but the majority of people present gave the distinguished performers a really good ovation. ‘Spike’ Milligan was at his craziest and the show was a cross beween ‘Itma’ and ‘Hellzapoppin’.

The entry of Major Bloor, Major New and the RSM added to the enjoyment of this burlesque which culminated in the ‘Mass Postings’ poster being exhibited.

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I love that ‘good ovation’ as against a bad one, however it wasn’t bad for lunatics. Spurred by success, like vultures we prepared to wreck the next play. This was…

Future Attractions

Tonight and tomorrow there is the well advertised ‘White Cargo’ showing in the Concert Hall. This play, which some may remember seeing in pre-war days, has a first class story running throughout and should definitely not be missed.

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The innocent actor-manager putting it on was Lt. Hector Ross. No sooner was
White Cargo
over than
Black Baggage
was on its way. With maniacal relish we went on to destroy the play piecemeal. The best part of it was that we had persuaded Hector Ross to keep appearing and saying lines from the original show, then bursting into tears and exiting. It was uproarious fun. I didn’t know it, but I was taking my first steps towards writing the Goon Show. For this I have to thank Hitler, without whose war it would never have happened.

SOMEWHERE IN THE GULAG ARCHIPELAGO 1984

NINETY-YEAR-OLD HITLER IS SHOVELLING. SHIT AND SALT.

HITLER:

Hear zat? You must let me be free. I am zer inventor of zer Coon Show. Ven zer Queen hears zis she will giff me zer OBE and ein free Corgi.

Black Baggage
in progress. X marks Spike

Romance Three

T
o brighten up our winter gloom, we have been sent some thirty ATS ladies. Scrotum Agitators. No longer shackled by the band, I could stay on the dance floor, dazzling them with my masterful command of the Waltz, which I had perfected ever since I learned to count up to three. Among this new clutch of steaming females are two little darlings, Rosetta Page and ‘Candy’ Withers. I have my eyes on them, and hope to get my hands on later. Stage one: the chat-up-in-the-dance. Rosetta is a great dancer. Oh she’s from Glasgow? How interesting! Isn’t that where Harry Lauder appeared? I didn’t get far with Rosetta. Candy. Good evening, do you come here often? Only during wars. Ha ha. Why had I given up playing the trumpet? I daren’t tell her it was a suspected coronary. I mean, no respectable ATS wants to be found under a dead gunner. No! I wanted to concentrate on Buddhism. Oh really? Yes, I’d always been into Buddhism. It explored the upper ventricles. The ventricles? Yes. I couldn’t go into that now, but would she like to come outside, strip naked, and see what happened? No? Did I hear right? Did she say No to a handsome waltzing 1-2-3 gunner Milligan? Yes. Oh fuck! She’s going out with a Sergeant, but she does ‘like me’. I said could I see her in between? In between what? Sheets. Don’t be silly. OK, can I see her in between Sergeants? Sergeants? She’s only going out with one. Good — could I see her in between him? OK, Sunday. Sunday we’ll go to Caserta Palace. We’ll walk through the gardens then I’ll try and screw her; then we’ll have tea at the Palace NAAFI and I’ll try and screw her; we will then go to the cinema, where certain delights will accompany the Clark Gables! A Sunday came…and went. I tell you folks, holding hands is no substitute. I returned to my bedroom bent double with strictures from the waist down. Steve is up late reading the
Jewish Chronicle
. He’s deep into an article about Hitler never having been seen in the nude, but I’m not interested in nude Hitlers, I want nude Candy. How could I bend her to my will? Then the words of my friendly district visiting rapist camed to me. The hot weather! Of course! Heat made women more available, hence the invention of Central Heating. So I planned it all. Next time I met the little darling I’d take her to a warm room, close the windows, turn up the heating, make her drink boiling Horlicks then massage her with Sloane’s Linament. If that failed I’d set fire to her, then leap on. I kept sending her billets-doux and my measurements.