Where Have All The Bullets Gone? Part 5

Through ancient Capua, over the Volturno, Sparanise, Teano; all the roads I'd pa.s.sed through in action. Memories of 19 Battery, the sound of the guns, the shout of fire orders, now all pa.s.sing into the dreamtime. Through Ca.s.sino, and above it the ruined abbey, a monument to Allied stupidity. We rabbit, joke and laugh our way. Come evening we reach our destination. '56 Area Rest Camp Welcomes You'. It's like Belsen with food.

"This is yours," says a lumpy Corporal, opening the door of a Nissen hut. It is a paradise of wooden beds and blankets!

"So," says Len Prosser with an expansive gesture, "this is Broadway!" is Broadway!"

We get comfortable, try the beds for lumps. QMS Ward is to speak.

He holds up a hand like Custer halting the 7th Cavalry. "Ye-o-oh." He reads from a stained paper. "The first gig is tomorrow, Crusaders Officers' Club, leave here 1900 hours, best battledress." Cavalry. "Ye-o-oh." He reads from a stained paper. "The first gig is tomorrow, Crusaders Officers' Club, leave here 1900 hours, best battledress."

We have the evening to ourselves. Ah! The Alexander Club! We walk out in the sunlit wide streets; people here in no way resemble their grotty cousins in Naples. Lots of pretty girls. On the Via XX September we find the Alexander Club. It is a ma.s.sive modern concrete and gla.s.s horror, a sort of Orson Wells of architecture. Inside a milling sea of squaddies, a cacophony of rattling plates, cups, knives, forks and spoons; it sounds like Lyons Corner House going over Niagara Falls. "Christ!" says Jim Manning. "Aren't there any bleedin' soldiers at the front?" He's wrong. We join a queue for tea and all all the soldiers are at the front. It winds back two hundred yards. We look like the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. Tea, buns, f.a.gs; f.a.gs, buns, tea; buns, tea, f.a.gs. Opposite the Alexander is a chrome and gla.s.s Italian barber's. Smart glossy-haired white-jacketed Largo Factotums are in attendance. Len and I are grovelled into our foot-operated adjustable chairs, crisp white sheets are tucked around our necks. I had never savoured the delights of an Italian shave, and now he was whisking up the lather like an egg white. I hadn't seen such manual dexterity since Mademoiselle Fifi le Toof of the Cages, Bombay. With a chamois leather cloth he cleans my skin with an astringent. With fast revolving circles he lathers me with an aromatic soap made from almond oil. It's all too good for me. Honing a razor on a black leather strap, he gently sc.r.a.pes upwards, the bristles falling in hundreds. He feels for any areas he has missed and plies the blade over them, repeating the whole process twice. It's all done with a marvellous rhythmic precision, the blade so sharp that there is no pulling or tearing of the skin. A glance in the mirror, no shaving soap remains. Now he applies hot towels that he juggles from hand to hand to release the heat. The face is enveloped and the smell of cologne rises with the steam. This done, an ice cold astringent is patted on to the skin. It's taken twenty-five minutes. We have seen a great artist at work. Len has asked his to marry him. My face feels like fine velvet; I am reeking of a cologne that will make a woman rip her clothes off at fifty paces. I must hurry on to the streets before it wears off. the soldiers are at the front. It winds back two hundred yards. We look like the Israelites crossing the Red Sea. Tea, buns, f.a.gs; f.a.gs, buns, tea; buns, tea, f.a.gs. Opposite the Alexander is a chrome and gla.s.s Italian barber's. Smart glossy-haired white-jacketed Largo Factotums are in attendance. Len and I are grovelled into our foot-operated adjustable chairs, crisp white sheets are tucked around our necks. I had never savoured the delights of an Italian shave, and now he was whisking up the lather like an egg white. I hadn't seen such manual dexterity since Mademoiselle Fifi le Toof of the Cages, Bombay. With a chamois leather cloth he cleans my skin with an astringent. With fast revolving circles he lathers me with an aromatic soap made from almond oil. It's all too good for me. Honing a razor on a black leather strap, he gently sc.r.a.pes upwards, the bristles falling in hundreds. He feels for any areas he has missed and plies the blade over them, repeating the whole process twice. It's all done with a marvellous rhythmic precision, the blade so sharp that there is no pulling or tearing of the skin. A glance in the mirror, no shaving soap remains. Now he applies hot towels that he juggles from hand to hand to release the heat. The face is enveloped and the smell of cologne rises with the steam. This done, an ice cold astringent is patted on to the skin. It's taken twenty-five minutes. We have seen a great artist at work. Len has asked his to marry him. My face feels like fine velvet; I am reeking of a cologne that will make a woman rip her clothes off at fifty paces. I must hurry on to the streets before it wears off.

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L./Bdr. L. Prosser and Gunner T. Milligan. After being shaved, they are waiting at the Fountain of the Naiads for a good trouser press. * this man is now in America somewhere * this man is now in America somewhere What to do? It's only seven of the clock. We look at our Soldier's Guide to Rome - Soldier's Guide to Rome - [image]

"That one looks interesting, Len." I say, pointing out the Yewish Soldiers' Club. So there are are such people as Yews; they must come from Yewrusaleum. We opt for the Super Cinema in the Via Depretis. The film is such people as Yews; they must come from Yewrusaleum. We opt for the Super Cinema in the Via Depretis. The film is Sweet Rosie O'Grady Sweet Rosie O'Grady, starring Betty Grable's legs, and occasionally her. The hero, whose name escapes me, was John Payne; a fitting name for a pain in the a.r.s.e. It's San Francisco, but recently vacated by Jeanette MacDonald and Clarke Gable, John Payne is a struggling pianist. He's also having a struggle acting. He falls in love with Betty Grable's legs, she falls in love with his bad acting, but the boss of the bar loves her legs more. Payne writes 'My heart tells Me'; he tells her, "You sing it baby, it'll be a hit, you'll see." The boss says, "She ain't singin' no trashy song like that, dis goil I'm savin' fer Opera." Payne hits the boss, the boss. .h.i.ts Payne, they hit each other, they break, there is the traditional breaking of the matchstick chair over the hero, who floors the boss. "You're fired," he snarls. "Huh, fired, I'll quit." (If only he would.) Payne goes to New York. Diamond Jim Brady hires him on to Broadway; he's in the pit conducting on the big night; Joan Blondell and her t.i.ts are going to sing 'My heart tells me' and make him famous. But she faints. Who's going to save the show? Outside in the snow, a ragged unshaven figure appears: it's Betty Grable. She hears the introduction...The End. Money back please. So to bed.

The Gig We spent the morning lazing. I cleaned my trumpet. In the afternoon band practice, listened to by crowds of soldiers. Comes evening. I couldn't believe it. Little old me from Brockley, in Rome! Back home I'd never got further than Hernia Bay. The dance is at the Crusader Club. Wow! A huge marble hotel, an officer's dream palace.

Colonel Philip Slessor greets us. "Who's in charge?" he asks.

"You are," we say.

Tall and saturnine, Slessor was later to become a BBC announcer. He started practising right away by announcing that we were to follow him.

The ballroom is magnificent, the stage a ma.s.s of red velvet and gold embroidery; it was an 'embarra.s.s de choix de richesses'. Slessor makes another announcement. "There's a room for you all to change in." We haven't anything to change into except Mr Jekyll.

"What? You're not going to play like that?" Haven't we any mess dress? No, there's another fine mess dress we haven't got into. I told him we sounded exactly the same in battle-dress as we did in mess dress.

"Huh," he announces.

The band room is a munificence of coleslaw, the table is groaning with every sandwich possible, even a few impossible ones. Wine? Gallons. A line of bottles without labels. We tasted it, found it tasted like unlabelled wine.

Slessor is announcing again: "We start in ten minutes, lads." We set up behind the brocade curtains, give him the nod, and he announces: "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have great pleasure in announcing the Band of the Officers of the Second Echelon under their conductor Sergeant Stand (yes, Stand) Britton. Take your partners for the first Waltz." The curtains draw back as we swing into 'Song of India'. The floor is soon crammed with dancers, most of the ladies Italian, all desperate for food, f.a.gs and soap. It's hard to believe that the beautiful Contessa, dancing with the cross-eyed Hindu colonel, is doing it for three bars of chocolate.

I was blowing great that night. When I stood up to take a chorus it was for one of two reasons: a) Egomania or b) Piles.

The interval, and Colonel Slessor announces that he's 'Very pleased with us'. He then announces he is leaving the room.

Throughout the evening he announced every dance, the names of the tunes, the winners of the spot prize, even "The trumpet solos were by Gunner Millington." He really was ready for the 9 o'clock news. Finally "The last waltz, please." 'G.o.d Save the King', then we moved in on the scoff. It had been a great evening of dancing and announcing; we had seen lots of pretty birds but hadn't pulled any, so, as Jim Manning said, "We'll 'ave ter pull ourselves."

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Colonel Philip Slessor showing an officer the correct dress and stance for announcing

The Days The days of that week were spent visiting every tourist trap available, the Vatican, the Fountains of Rome, the Capitol, the Karzi, during which time I nearly scored.

We have one night off and I go solo walkabout. I'm hovering near the Therme de Caracalla when I hear a sweet female voice laced with sandpaper - there were no words as such - but she is bearing down on me as though I'm an old friend. A Junoesque thirty-five-year-old in black, and wearing an Ascot hat, she grabs my hand and says how good it is to see me again.

"Come sta?"

Oh, I'm very 'sta'. It's all a ploy to avoid the suspicion of; being on the game. I like this game, but I want game, set and match. She is desperate, she's short of money and at her' wit's end. My type.

She is respectable, she's not on the game, but she's desperate. So am I, I tell her. She says we must retire to a cafe. She: needs a coffee and brandy as she is 'faint', all twelve stone of her. So there we are in the cafe; she tells me she is married, that her husband is in the Reggimento Aeronautica, though he hasn't been sending her any money. But beware, he is 'molto geloso' and she shows me his photo. He looks like two Al Capones stuffed into a uniform. She thinks he's a prisoner of war 'somewhere'. I hope it's Siberia. Can Gunner Milligan take her to dinner tomorrow? No he can't, he's playing in the band. Oh, so I'm a musician! How romantico! The next night then, yes. I know the Sunday is free. Can I bring her some chocolate, soap, cigarettes, sweets, in fact the entire stores of the Allied 5th Army. There is a promise of female favours in her eyes. Yes I will etc. I tell the boys. They go green with envy, some go yellow and grey. Army. There is a promise of female favours in her eyes. Yes I will etc. I tell the boys. They go green with envy, some go yellow and grey.

"Wot's she like?" says Private Manning, lying on his bed looking at the ceiling, imagining it's him. I say she likes the contents of warehouses. I say she's a mixture of Rita Hay-worth, Betty Grable and Mae West. I'll make the b.u.g.g.e.rs suffer.

Romance Two We meet at the cafe. She's gone ahead and put two cognacs on my bill. Have I got the goodies? I hand her my meagre parcel, apologizing for omitting the leg of venison and side of beef. She must examine the contents and check these against her list. We must take a horse-drawn carriage, it will be less conspicuous. So we drive down the Corso Umberto while she checks the parcel. Mama mia! Only chocolate, cigarettes and jam? I apologize. Never mind, she knows a 'cosy little' trattoria. This is called La Tantolina and it's disguised as a four-star hotel. I can't believe the swish interior, black velvet and gold cutlery, all tables arranged in private nooks, with lights from chandeliers that look like flying saucers. A trio are playing 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. We are seated under the stern gaze of the Maitre. "h.e.l.lo mate," I say. He hands me the menu like a summons. One look and I realize I'm hurtling to financial oblivion. Just the soup needs a bank loan. What will madame have? She will have all Milligan's savings, post-war gratuities and his collection of underwear.

"Oh che mangiare," she says in ecstasy. Why oh why isn't Gunner Milligan eating, why is he only sipping water and not drinking the luscious vintage Masi? I tell her it's my delayed Easter fast. "Che poverino," she coos, munching Polio Romana. I watch her clock up seventeen thousand lire; I have eighteen, I just make it. I give the waiter a ten lire tip, which he throws in the rubbish bin. What now? Revenge in bed. No, she must fly, her mother is ill. She borrows my last 1000 lire, "Taxi!"

I never saw her again. That night, starving and skint, I could be found diving for coins in the Trevi Fountain. The lads; I lied to them, yes! I'd had it away again and again and again! I couldn't stop her! She said she'd leave her husband and join me in England. I failed to add, in a debtors' prison. Yes, lads, it was some night, now can someone lend me a bar of soap and a f.a.g?

Our final gig is at the Nirvenetta Club, Via de Monoriti; after that we all found our way to the GI Swing Club on the Via Vittoria Collona, a below-ground joint with seepage from the Tiber and an Iti 'swing band' that sounds like seepage from the Tiber - yes, it's 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. We don't get a dance - everyone has brought their own bird. Under Mussolini, jazz has been forbidden. This must have been the band that caused it. We ask them if we can sit in; they grudgingly agree. Soon we've wiped them out, we have the place jumping. G is are appreciative: "Great! Man, you should have come sooner," they say. We know. We get free drinks and the Italian musicians sit and glower at our success. First we bomb Monte Ca.s.ssino and now this.

Back to Base On the morrow we drive back to Maddaloni. We arrive in the early evening. During our absence, the old dance hall has been renovated by George Lambourne and his merry painters and looks great. Now we have a stage and an orchestra pit, lighting board, paint frame, the lot. We are forewarned by BQMS Drew Taylor, a khaki Florenz Ziegfeld, that a concert is to be given for the Grand Opening. Have we any contributions? I said mine were in the stomach of a ; bird in Rome. Can we do a small swing spot? Yes, has he a gallows?

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Alick Adams reports: A leading feature of the show was the O2E Dance Band, especially a spot in the second half when, as the programme states, Spike Milligan & the Rythm Section ware featured. A leading feature of the show was the O2E Dance Band, especially a spot in the second half when, as the programme states, Spike Milligan & the Rythm Section ware featured. I recall that the show was under the patronage of one Brigadier Woods, Deputy Adjutant General, or DAG for short. This proved significant for the aforementioned Spike had written a special number for the concert, 'Doodle with DAG'. 'Doodle' being a euphemism which was in popular use in the Other Ranks Bar at the time. The trumpet solo was of course executed from the horizontal position, the instrumentalist's embouchure being very prominent from this angle. I recall that the show was under the patronage of one Brigadier Woods, Deputy Adjutant General, or DAG for short. This proved significant for the aforementioned Spike had written a special number for the concert, 'Doodle with DAG'. 'Doodle' being a euphemism which was in popular use in the Other Ranks Bar at the time. The trumpet solo was of course executed from the horizontal position, the instrumentalist's embouchure being very prominent from this angle. Transcibed typed text Transcibed typed text[image][image]

We all worked very hard to get the show together and we opened to an enthusiastic reception. I did a mad musical spot called The Ablution Blues, with a pair of pyjama trousers tied to my trumpet that I kept dipping into a bucket of soapy water, then swinging round and drenching the audience. I I thought it was very funny, I did, I thought it was thought it was very funny, I did, I thought it was very very funny. Thanks to hard work the act was a smash flop. The reception was like the one Judas got at the last supper. funny. Thanks to hard work the act was a smash flop. The reception was like the one Judas got at the last supper.

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The Ablution Blues - - an overwhelming flop an overwhelming flop.

Piano: Stan Britton; Stan Britton; Drums: Drums: Vic Shewry; Vic Shewry; Ba.s.s: Ba.s.s: Len Prosser Len Prosser Why should I take all the blame?

The evening concluded with the band playing prior to 'closedown' (see programme). Finally there was a speech on the new stage by the Brigadier, who said all the right things: "I would like to thank...grateful to...hard work...made it possible...not forgetting...with the help of...debt of grat.i.tude...and of course...without whose help...bearing in mind...last but not least...has anyone seen Mademoiselle Ding?"

Let's see what George Lambourne thought about it: "Back to Maddaloni to O2E Concert (opening ceremony). Brigadier Woods in opening speech said a lot of flattering and charming things about me which I did not hear! I thought the concert very bad I thought the concert very bad."

Religious Interlude My days of sleeping on O branch office floor were over. I had found a windowless little room up a flight of stairs adjacent to the C of E chapel room at Alexander Barracks. I ask the Rev. Sergeant Beaton if I could sleep in it. Yes, but nothing else, remember! The chapel is next door and there's early services. OK, I move in, and am immediately seized upon to help. Sunday, the 'pumper' for the organ hasn't shown, can I? There, on my knees I am gainfully employed i by the Lord. The handle should should be lowered and raised with an air of delicacy, but Gunner Milligan is a jazz pumper, with a beat-me-daddy-eight-to-the-bar. There is a sickening 'CRACK', I am left with the shaft, and the only way to keep the music going is to activate the remaining four-inch stump. Panicky I pump gallantly, but just can't get enough air into the bellows. The organ fades, and wheezes back to life as the lunatic Gunner tries to keep it operating. No good, it's starting to sound like a bagpipe chanter groaning into life. The congregation are in disarray. Exhausted, I jack it in, the organ 'expires' with a long groan and 'Fissshhhhhh' as the last wind escapes. be lowered and raised with an air of delicacy, but Gunner Milligan is a jazz pumper, with a beat-me-daddy-eight-to-the-bar. There is a sickening 'CRACK', I am left with the shaft, and the only way to keep the music going is to activate the remaining four-inch stump. Panicky I pump gallantly, but just can't get enough air into the bellows. The organ fades, and wheezes back to life as the lunatic Gunner tries to keep it operating. No good, it's starting to sound like a bagpipe chanter groaning into life. The congregation are in disarray. Exhausted, I jack it in, the organ 'expires' with a long groan and 'Fissshhhhhh' as the last wind escapes.

Jesus said, "Through suffering thou shalt come to me." Well, I was nearly there.

After our weekly Sat.u.r.day night dance, I would like to hang back and play the piano. I had the illusion that a concerto would come. I was really Cornel Wilde as Chopin. As the climax of the Finale Grandioso con Woodbines, a magnificent ATS Private in a transparent cheesecloth vest would appear and unroll a mattress: "Come Chopin, forget your silly old Nocturnes - have something else."

On one such evening, someone does approach. It's a Yewish sergeant who wants to say how much he has enjoyed my trumpet playing. He's just joined the unit and is also keen on show business.

Well, it was the start of a friends.h.i.+p. I let him move into my billet because I thought he had money.

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Sgt. Steve Lewis A Yewish soldier taken in colour because he had money (N.B. due to the publishers' lack of money, it's black and white after all.) Help. A giant Yewish bedroll appeared, followed by a Yewish Brigade kitbag, table, chair, tea chest, camouflaged Minorah, and a secondhand copy of the Talmud. He then proceeded to erect the most complicated Heath Robinson network of strings, pulleys, hooks, weights and counter-weights. He wanted to be able to switch lights on and off, raise or lower them, drop his mosquito net, manoeuvre his mess tins and mug near or far, boil a kettle, make tea, toast bread, and open Tower Bridge, all without moving from his bed. I asked him, was he training to be a cripple? He had enough food by his bed to outlast an Atomic War and still open a shop in Golder's Green. If he had been at Masada it would never have fallen; he would have sold it to the Romans. I pointed out that his wasn't the only persecuted race. There were the Irish.

"Spike, the Irish got off light."

"We took as much stick as you did."

"Listen, we Jews have been persecuted since Egyptian times."

I told him I had never read the Egyptian Times Egyptian Times.

"All you suffered from was a shortage of spuds."

"Steve, in 1680, there were eleven million Irish. Now there's only two. We lost nine million."

"Nine million. Oh what a terrible accountant."

"Don't joke, they were starved, killed, deported or emigrated."

He laughed. "You sure sure they weren't Jewish?" they weren't Jewish?"

We had unending arguments. "The Irish? What did they ever have? We had Einstein, Disraeli, p.i.s.sarro, Freud. What have the Irish got? p.i.s.sed!"

"We got the Pope and Jack Doyle." "Jack Doyle the boxer? He's useless!" "Yes, but we got him."

"And there's never been an Irish Pope. How come?" "It's the fare."

In the shower Steve noticed I'd been circ.u.mcised. "Why?" I didn't know. "To make it lighter? You know, Milligan, if Jerry took you prisoner, that could have got you into a concentration camp." It was really something when your p.r.i.c.k could get you sent to a concentration camp. "Believe me, Spike," says the Yew, "anyone that sends someone to a concentration camp is a p.r.i.c.k." Amen.

This was the beginning of an ongoing Judaeo-Christian hilarity. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I'd call, "Is that the Yew?" I could hear his stifled giggles.

"Listen Milligan," he'd say. "Believe me, the Irish are famous for nothing nothing." And so to Christmas.

Yes, Christmas, b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas. We decided to do our shopping in Naughty Naples. All up the Via Roma urchins are grabbing us and singing, 'Lae thar p.i.s.s tub darn bab'. Why in the land of opera do they descend to this c.r.a.p? If the reverse were to apply in London, little c.o.c.kney kids would be singing 'La Donna e Mobile' as they begged. We make our Christmas purchases and retire to the Royal Palace, NAAFI, where, G.o.d help us, we are a.s.sailed by G.o.d bless her and keep her...away from us...Gracie Fields. She'd had a bad press at the beginning of the war about living in America, leaving poor Vera Lynn and Ann Shelton to face the bombs. Now she was making up for it. Every day she'd leave her Capri home and bear down on unsuspecting soldiers. "Ow do lads." Then, without warning, sing 'Red Sails in the Sunset'.

After a while the lads had had enough of 'Ow do lads' and 'Sall-eeee' and the sight of her looming up the stairs would start a stampede out the back, with cries of "Christ! Here she comes again." Nothing personal against the dear lady, who had a big heart and an enlarged liver, but she did overdo the "Eee ba gum, 'ave a cup o' tea lads."

Sometimes you wouldn't know she was in, until from a distant table, you'd hear 'It's the biggest Aspidistra in the World'. To get rid of her we directed her to a table of Goumiers (Rapists by appointment to the Allies) by telling her they were Gurkhas. "Sallyyyyyyy, Salleeeee," she sang at the baffled Moroccans. They didn't even try to rape her.

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A look-out on the Royal Palace NAAFI NAAFI roof, watching for signs of Gracie Fields's boat roof, watching for signs of Gracie Fields's boat

December It's cold, cold, cold. You can strike matches on 'em. My family have had a photo taken that sends a chill of horror through me. Were they dead or stuffed? My brother has the sneer of a high-born Sioux Chief, my mother has had a bag of flour thrown at her face, and my father looks as though he's just been asked to leave for an indiscretion.

A Christmas card from my mother gives my brother second billing, and poor father! Dad is spelt with a small d. Is he getting shorter? There are no traditional Christmas cards in Italy, so I send those available.

For my father I did a funny drawing of a man with a revolving wig. You see, my father wore one. His fear was that any gale over force three lifted the front and transferred it to the back. People wondered why he wore his hat in the Karzi.

O2E Christmas Arrangements The Welfare Department had made a Christmas tree that stood by the concert stage. A wonderful effort dressed in crepe paper, cotton-wool b.a.l.l.s and little candles. Pity about the fire.

We are putting up snow scenes with make-do commodities.

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My brother, mother and father, Desmond, Florence and Leo Milligan[image]

A Christmas card from my parents in Brentwood, posted October 10 1944[image][image]

To my parents[image]

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 gla.s.s 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 Pouring, 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 'G.o.d 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, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the rug. Numerous curtain calls, the Brigadier makes a speech "...a great deal of effort...a special debt of grat.i.tude...not forgetting...s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, 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 Cold 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 Valjean, the O2E house magazine.

Trumpeter. 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. 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. 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.