Rommel_ Gunner Who Part 13

April 11/12 The front line is out of range. Officers are reccying new positions. The Fifth Mediums were settling into a new one on a farm when a Gun Lorry runs on a mine, it blows off the front axle, the driver jumps out to inspect damage and has his legs blown off. He bled to death before he reached hospital. Discussing it that night I said: "It might have been a blessing in disguise that he died."

"Oh no, no, no," says Gunner Maunders rising from his blankets like Lazarus from the dead, but worse looking, "people live with their legs off, there are even advantages."

"Like what?"

"For a start he hasn't got so far to bend down." He wasn't joking.

We rendezvoused at Map ref. 4940, a grove of ancient olive trees, and hid up all day. The terrain was rocky white outcrops, sudden valleys, chasms, tortuous for man and machine. I tuned in Allied Forces Network, round the back of the truck comes Edgington's grinning face, with a paper moustache held to his lip, otherwise he appeared to be in control.

"Arrrrg," says he, "this looks like the Interval for World War Two."

"Arrg," sez I, "absolutely right, I'm just casting the Battle of Tunis."

"What part do I play?"

"A crippled Grannie with identical matching plimsoles."

He took my hand. "You look lovely in the moonlight, Samantha," sez he, "What's a nice gunner like you doing in a war like this?"

"I'm the duty h.o.m.os.e.xual," sez I. I give him a set of headphones and we listen to music until "Tea up," shouts a voice. Edgington leaps out the truck and nearly decapitates himself.

"Say after me," sez I, "I must remember to take my headphones off."

"Nonsense!" sez he, "it's your duty to get me a thirty-mile extension so I can wander freely with headphones on and a magnetic vanilla-flavoured truss that points due North."

"Come in Gunner Edgington your time is up," sez I.

The Tunisian night closed in, the sky turned pink, purple, then rapidly into a fathomless black, then, the stars, stars, stars. Dinner was nigh; we knew by the clanking mess tins of those who carried clocks in their stomachs. His name? Driver Kidgell!

"How do you time it to the second?"

"I park my lorry near the Cookhouse."

"I suppose," Harry said, "after the war you'll sleep in the kitchen."

"Kitchen?" I said, "he'll sleep in the food. If his guts was on the outside, they'd look like worn out suit linings."

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Lt Tony Goldsmith on right of picture with Derek Hudson

It was sing-song night. Dvr Fildes strummed his guitar, our voices echo into the feline darkness. Lt Goldsmith joined us with two bottles of Rose and a silly grin. "I have brought along Major Chater Jack's Pink Voice Improver." A sort of cheer greeted this.

"I have a request," he said.

"What is it? Shut up?"

"The Tower fer you Milligan."

"Thank you sir, I'll move in tomorrow."

"I have a request for you, Smudger Smith, to sing 'Ole King Cole', complete with all foul and bawdy references." Smudger stepped forward, five foot eight, chunky, blue eyes, a disarming grin (Smith! grin at those Germans and disarm them!), he was the breath of c.o.c.kney London, a Smithfield porter. He launched into song.

Oh Old King Cole Oh Old King Cole Was a merry old soul, Was a merry old soul, A merry old soul was he A merry old soul was he Called for his pipe, he called for his bowl, Called for his pipe, he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. And he called for his fiddlers three.

There was a late moon, it reflected on the trunks of the olive trees standing ghost-like, their aged limbs extended like tired wooden arms. "Did you know Harry-that ancient Greeks thought they were the tortured souls of the departed?"

"Yes, I did," he paused. "Ahh! it's so peaceful," he said, puffing his cigarette. "It makes a nice break," I said, "I don't like the war any more. I wish, right now, I was on the stand at St Cyprians Hall, Brockly, SE 23 and there was Jim Cherry on Alto, Billy Mercer on Tenor, and I was doing Bunny Berrigan's chorus in 'Song of India', and all the little darlings are looking at me, especially Ivy Chandler, with the 'lovely legs. Oh roll on demob, no more b.l.o.o.d.y Woolwich a.r.s.enal for me, it's straight to Jos Loss and asking for an audition."

"You'd make a good chauffer."

"Shut up! Heaven is a fourteen-piece band with me on second trumpet, and the money would be good."

"All money is is good," said Edgington. good," said Edgington.

"All money is not good, take Chinese money."

"Chinese money is is good, good, if if," he added, "you're Chinese."

"It's no good being Chinese, with with Chinese money, you can't go into Cheesmans of Lewisham, and put Chinese money down and ask for ten Woodbines or even Woodblines." Chinese money, you can't go into Cheesmans of Lewisham, and put Chinese money down and ask for ten Woodbines or even Woodblines."

"I was thinking of the Chinese in in China, not b.l.o.o.d.y Cheesmans of Lewisham." China, not b.l.o.o.d.y Cheesmans of Lewisham."

"I say even if you're Chinese, with with Chinese money and you go into a c.h.i.n.ky-poo f.a.g shop, you still couldn't ask for 10 Woodbines." Chinese money and you go into a c.h.i.n.ky-poo f.a.g shop, you still couldn't ask for 10 Woodbines."

"Why not?"

"They don't sell Woodbines in China."

"What proof have you got? If you say there are no Woodbines in China, you must be backed up by facts by facts."

"All right, don't shout! The baby's asleep! Now, have you ever seen a Chinaman?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Limehouse."

"Have you ever seen 'em smoking?"

"Yes, sideways."

"How many?"

"About 10."

"Right, 10 Chinese, how many brands of f.a.gs are there?"

"About a score."

20. 20.

"So, without going to China, you've seen 10 10 Chinamen smoking; now, out of 20 brands of f.a.gs, one brand is Woodbines, therefore on the law of averages at Chinamen smoking; now, out of 20 brands of f.a.gs, one brand is Woodbines, therefore on the law of averages at least least half a per cent of the Chinamen are smoking Woodbines." half a per cent of the Chinamen are smoking Woodbines."

"Whoever saw half a Chinaman smoking?"

"Why don't you bleedin' idiots go to sleep," said a weary voice. A good idea. The bleedin' idiots went to sleep. Not before a German plane dropped parachute flares, bathing our faces in an eerie green light.

"You're going mouldy," says Edgington. "No, I'm not," I said, "I'm inventing Penicillin." Another flare, this time red. Lovely.

"He's trying to make us think it's Guy Fawkes night."

"He's taking photographs," said Harry.

"Say Cheese."

The flare faded, the plane droned away, I suppose the pilot was as p.i.s.sed off' with war as we were, in half an hour he'd be in bed smoking a f.a.g and playing with himself, or if rumours about the Germans were true, playing with his f.a.g and smoking himself.

"You still awake Harry?"

"No, I'm dead asleep, this is a recorded message."

I yawned one of those yawns that makes the back of your head touch your shoulder blades and push your chest out. Tomorrow the new Gun Position. Oh no! not not tomorrow... tomorrow...at midnight we were beaten awake with rifle b.u.t.ts, our erections smashed down with shovels. We were to move we were beaten awake with rifle b.u.t.ts, our erections smashed down with shovels. We were to move now now.

"This isn't war," screamed Edgington, "it's Sadism. S-a-d-e-s-e-a-m." etc. The convoy crawled along in pitch darkness, the moon having waned. "Where are we going sir?" I asked.

"It's a place called Map Ref. 517412," said Lt Goldsmith.

"They don't write numbers like that any more sir."

We pa.s.sed the bombed shattered village of Toukabeur, full of b.o.o.by Traps. Seven Sappers were killed during clearing. Outside the village was our new position. At night it looked like the surface of the moon, or Mae West's b.u.m the moment the corsets came off.

In front of us was a rocky multi-surfaced outcrop 80 feet high and a hundred yards long, behind us a ledge dropping sheer 50 feet to a granite plateau 50 yards long, then another 30 foot drop into a valley, in fact two giant steps. The canvas command post erected, I pitched my tent on the edge of the first drop, because sh.e.l.ls falling behind me would drop 50 feet down and I would avoid being sub-divided by the Third Reich. However, if sh.e.l.ls landed in front of me, I'd suffer the quincequonces. The guns were pulled, heaved and sworn into position. Wireless network opened with 78 Div. H.Q. and 46 Div. O.P. line laid and contact made. Jerry dropped an occasional Chandelier flare. Kerrashboom-kerak! Our first rounds went off at 22.00 hours. I was on Command Post duty all night.

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A Sgt standing on the trail to make it more difficult to move

In between fire orders a running argument developed between Lt Beauman Smythe, Gnr Thornton and self.

Thornton: There's been heavy casualties on Bou Diss.

Me: I'm glad it's not me.

B-Smythe: That's a selfish view.

Me: Selfish Sir ? All I said was I'm glad it wasn't me that died.

B-Smythe: That's not something to be glad glad about! about!

Thornton: I think- Me: Sir! You want me to say 'I'm sorry it wasn't me that got killed'?

B-Smythe: It's better than being not not sorry. Someone's got to get killed in wars. sorry. Someone's got to get killed in wars.

Me: Well, someone was was, it's just that it wasn't me.

Thornton: I think- B-Smythe: I still say your att.i.tude to death was selfish.

Me: Look sir, mother went thru' a lot of pain to have me, I was a 12 lb. baby, 11 lbs. was my head, me father spent a fortune for a Sergeant on my education, some days it was up to threepence a day, I'm not throwing all that away. My father still goes round with a begging bowl.

Thornton: I think- B-Smythe: I still say your att.i.tude to death was selfish.

Milligan: Sh.e.l.lfish?

Thornton: I think- Me: Sell? What do do you think? you think?

Thornton: ...Oh Christ-I've forgotten.

Me: Well be a good boy, go outside and get killed to cheer up Lt Smythe.