A Confrontation in the Desert
PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published by Michael Joseph 1974
Published in Penguin Books 1976
Reissued in this edition 2012
Copyright © T. A. Milligan, 1974
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-24-196617-4
Prologue
Jan: Feb
March
April
PENGUIN BOOKS
Spike Milligan was one of the greatest and most influential comedians of the twentieth century. Born in India in 1918, he was educated in India and England before joining the Royal Artillery at the start of the Second World War and serving in North Africa and Italy. At the end of the war, he forged a career as a jazz musician, sketch-show writer and performer, touring Europe with the Bill Hall Trio and the Ann Lenner Trio, before joining forces with, among others, Peter Sellers and Harry Secombe, to create the legendary Goon Show. Broadcast on BBC Radio, the ten series of the Goon Show ran from 1951 until 1960 and brought Spike to international fame, as well as to the edge of sanity and the break-up of his first marriage. He had subsequent success as a stage and film actor, as the author of over eighty books of fiction, memoir, poetry, plays, cartoons and children’s stories, and with his long-running one-man show. In 1992 he was made a CBE and in 2001 an honorary KBE, and in 2000 and 2001 he received two Lifetime Achievement Awards for writing and for comedy. He died in 2002.
To my dear brother Desmond
who made my boyhood happy and with whom
I have never had a cross word,
mind you he drives his wife mad
19 Battery on train to Embarkation Port – fighting off a ticket inspector
Once again I am deeply grateful to Mrs Chater Jack, widow of our C.O. and late Lt Colonel Chater Jack, M.C., D.S.O., for the use of the private letters, diaries and documents which she so willingly lent me and is patient enough to let remain in my possession for this second volume, also to Al Fildes for his diary, and Harry Edgington for permission to publish his letters, plus the lads from the Battery who lent me the odd photo or letter, to Mr Rose and Mr Greenslade of the Ministry of Defence – to Mr Mayne of the War Museum for the loan of photographs – and to Syd Price for photos he took during the War and to BART H. VANDERVEEN for permission to use two photographs of the Humber Snipe wireless truck and also thanks to Derek Hudson for the loan of the photograph of Anthony Goldsmith.
S.M.
19 Bty 56 Heavy embarking for Africa
Of the events of war, I have not ventured to speak from any chance information, nor according to any notion of my own. I have described nothing but what I saw myself, or learned from others of whom I made the most careful and particular enquiry.
Thucydides. Peloponnesian War.
I’ve just jazzed mine up a little.
Milligan. World War II.
If you read the first volume of this trilogy, you will know that in Jan. 1943 19 Battery 56th Heavy Rgt R.A. had arrived in the continent of Africa, which couldn’t have cared less. We were in ‘X Camp,’ soldiers under fourteen couldn’t get in without their parents. Calling it ‘X’ for security was beyond comprehension because there, in foot high letters, was the sign ‘No 201 PoW Camp.’ I could hear the Gestapo ‘Mein Führer, ve have cracked zer Britisher Code! X, it means 201 PoW Camp! Soon we will know what PoW means.’ The Camp, situated up a dusty track fifty yards from the main Algiers Road, was a rectangle covering five acres surrounded by a double barbed wire fence fifteen feet high. The view was beautiful, the light clear, brilliant, like Athens on a midsummer day. Stretching to our left was a gradual curve of the coast with a laticlave of yellow sand and finally, Algiers proper, barely visible in the distance. To the right, turning crescent-like was another beach that terminated in a dazzling white lighthouse on Cap Matifou. This was all described in the Regimental diary thus: ‘Arrived at X Camp, Cap Matifou.’ Whatever happened to Poetry?
The ground was like rocks. The nights were rent with gunners groaning, swearing, twisting, turning and revolving in their tents.
Temperatures fluctuated. You went to sleep on a warm evening, by dawn it dropped to freezing. We had to break our tents with hammers to get out. Dawn widdles caused frost bitten appendages, the screams! ‘Help, I’m dying of indecent exposure!’ We solved the problem. I stuffed my Gas cape with paper and made a mattress. Gunner Forest wrapped old Daily Mirrors round his body, ‘I always wanted to be in the News,’ he said, and fainted. Others dug holes to accommodate hips and shoulders.
At night we wore every bit of clothing we had, then we rolled ourselves into four blankets. ‘We look nine months gone,’ said Edgington. ‘Any advance on nine,’ I cried.
We slept warmly, but had overlooked the need to commune with nature, it took frantic searching through layers of clothing to locate one’s willy, some never did and had to sleep with a damp leg. Gunner Maunders solved the problem! He slid a four foot length of bicycle inner tube over his willy, secured it round his waist with string, he just had to stand and let go. Jealous, Gunner White sabotaged it. As Maunders slept, fiend White tied knots in the bottom of the tube.
It is night, Gunner Simpson is darning something which is four fifths hole and one fifth sock, ‘I wonder when they’ll let us into Algiers.’ ‘You gettin’ randy then?’ says Gunner White, ‘because, we’ve all had our last shag for a long time.’
‘Are there French birds in Algiers?’
‘Yer. They’re red ’ot. Cert Crumpet.’
‘You shagged one then?’
‘No, but my dad told me abaht ’em in the first world woer.’
‘They’re not the same ones?’
One by one the soldiers would fall asleep. I lay awake, thinking, dreaming young man’s dreams, jazz music would go through my head, I could see myself as Bunny Berrigan playing chorus after brilliant chorus in front of a big band surrounded by admiring dancers. Suddenly, without warning, ‘Strainer’ Jones lets off with a thunderous postern blast, he had us all out of the tent in ten seconds flat.
One freezing dawn we were awakened by a Lockheed Lightning repeatedly roaring over our camp. ‘Go and ask that bastard if he’s going by road,’ says Edgington. I got outside just as the plane made another drive. I shouted ‘Hope you crash you noisy bastard,’ the plane raced seaward, hit the water and exploded. I was stunned. The gunners emptied from their tents to watch the flames burning on the sea. ‘Poor Sod,’ said a Gunner, and he was right. Reveille was sounding. ‘Listen,’ said Edgington cupping an ear, ‘they’re playing our tune.’
Dear Diary, oh what a morning it’s been.
0630. REVEILLE: we were annoyed.
0730. BREAKFAST: Oh yum yum.
0900. 1ST PARADE: Good morning darling!
0915. DAILY TASK: Who me?
1300. LUNCH: More boiled shit. Oh yum yum.
1415. 2ND PARADE: Haven’t we met before?
1430. TASKS: I’ve got back-ache Sarge.
1645. FALL OUT: Crash.
1800. GUARDMOUNTING: Quick. Under the bed!
A word about the food. Crap. Hard biscuits, Soya Links, Bully Beef, jam, tea, every day, for all meals. The first weeks were spent route marching. The Army works like this. If a man dies when you hang him, keep hanging him until he gets used to it. Marches were made tolerable by Major Chater Jack* insisting we sing. A message would pass down the column ‘Gunners Milligan, Edgington, White and Devine forward!’ We’d gain the head of the column and to the tune of Vive la Compagnie, we’d sing:
19 Battery Signallers attacking the Cook-house for second helpings at X Camp, Cap Matifou
SOLO: The might of the nation was wielded by one
OMNES: Vive la Joe Stalin!
SOLO: He isn’t half knockin’ the shit from the Hun!
OMNES: Vive la Joe Stalin … etc.
We were young, we were enjoying the new adventure, ninety-nine per cent of the lads had never been abroad, and this was a bonus in their lives even though it took a war to give it. Chalky White invented a new sound, on the first beat of the march you crashed your foot down, for the next three beats you trod quietly, the effect was CRASH – 2, 3, 4, … later I added a groan on the fourth beat, CRASH, 2, 3, GROAN; CRASH, 2, 3, GROAN.
‘Disciplinary action will be taken against other ranks responsible for the stamping and groaning on route marches.’
I noted Frangipani everywhere, but not yet in flower, magenta coloured Bougainvilleas were in full bloom. Towards evening the air filled with the cloying perfume of Jasmine, Belasarius was said to have placed one in his helmet at Tricaramaron saying, ‘If I die, I will at least smell sweet …’ Generals! Going into battle? Then use Perfume of Jasmine! Hear what one General says:
General Montgomery: I use Jasmine – I couldn’t have won El Alamein without it. Get some today.
Marches took us through timeless Arab villages, Rouiba, Ain-Taya, Fondouk, when we halted I’d try the Arab coffee; piping hot, sweet, delicious. I watched Gunner White sip the coffee then top it up with water! I explained the water was for clearing the palate. ‘I thought it was for coolin’ it down,’ said the descendant of the Crusaders.
Local Arab. Nr Fondouk – Jan 20 ’43
Lieutenant Joe Mostyn was Jewish, five foot six, on bad days five foot two, and, no matter how frequently he shaved, had a permanent blue chin; ‘try shaving from the inside’ I suggested. His forte was scrounging grub. One route march he bought a hundred eggs for twelve francs. Having no way of transporting them, he made us carry one in each hand till we reached Camp. Puzzled wayfarers watched as British soldiers marched by, clutching eggs accompanied by mass clucking. Water was rationed but we were on the sea. At day’s end we plunged into the blue Med. I watched gunners, unfamiliar with salt water, try to get their soap to lather. ‘Something wrong wiv it,’ says Liddel. ‘Nuffink can go wrong wiv soap,’ replies Forrest, who plunges into a furious effort to prove his point. ‘You’re right,’ he finally concedes. ‘This soap is off.’ NAAFI Managers tried to understand how some fifteen gunners all had soap that wouldn’t lather. No one mentioned salt water, dutifully they exchanged the soaps. Next morning the soap lathered beautifully. ‘This is better,’ said Forrest. That evening, at swim parade, I watched Forrest and Liddel arguing about what had gone wrong with the soap since morning. We all bathed starkers, the lads gave wonderful displays of Military Tool-waving at passing ladies with cries of ‘Vive le Sport’ or ‘Get in Knob its yer birthday.’
It was all good stuff and bore out Queen Victoria’s belief that ‘Salt Water has beneficial effects on the human body.’ There were dreadful gunners who floated on their backs playing submarines. At the approaching of a maritime phallus, Gunner Devine shouted ‘Achtung! Firen Torpedo!’ and threw a pebble, and the hit ‘periscope’ would sink with a howl of pain. Another nasty trick was invented by Gunner Timms: Tie rock to piece of string, make noose at other end, next, dive under unsuspecting happily swimming gunner, slip noose over end of his Willie, let go rock; retire to safe distance. Mind you some gunners liked it. You can get used to anything I suppose.
We had received no mail. ‘They’ve forgotten us! Out of sight out of mind!’ says Gunner Woods scratching himself in bed.
‘You’re always moaning,’ says ‘Hooter’ Price. ‘I got a wife and two kids, and I bet they haven’t forgotten me.’
‘With that bleedin’ great nose, I don’t suppose they can.’
‘Look, a large nose is a sign of intelligence. The Duke of Wellington had one.’
‘Yer, ’e ’ad one, but you look like you got two, and,’ I added, ‘how come you’re only a bleedin’ driver eh?’
‘I chose to stay with the men,’ said Price with great indignation. In the dark, a boot bounced off his nut.
One morning, on Part Two orders, 0800 hours: ‘Gunner Milligan, S., Golding, Hart, E., Wenham, B., report to Sergeant Andrews for “Camouflage” course.’ This consisted of climbing over walls, ditches, fences, fag packets, in fact, anything. The course showed how it was possible to climb any tall obstruction. It became known as ‘Leaping.’ I wrote a letter home to my brother Desmond, explaining how Leaping could be done in civvy street.
23 Jan. 19 Bty.
56 Heavy Regiment, RA
BNAF
My dear Des,
In Africa we are all playing silly buggers. We are on a course teaching us how to ‘Leap’ anything that stands in our way. I think this could be introduced at home to encourage fitness among the Wartime civilian population. For example ‘Leaping Stones’ could be installed in the home. The stone, about three feet high by two feet wide, could be cemented in all the doorways in the home, including one at the foot of the stairs.
A Leapo-meter is attached to the ankle of every member of the family, which records the number of leaps per person, per day. Those who show disinterest can have a small explosive charge fixed to the groin, which detonates should the person try climbing round the stone, this will cause many a smoke blackened crotch, but with our new spray-on ‘Crotcho!’ – a few squirts leaves the groins gleaming white, and free of fowl pest. Think of the enervating joys of the Leaping stones! Sunday morn – and the whole household rings with shouts of Hoi Hup! Ho la! Grannies, uncles, mothers, cripples all leaping merrily from one room to another for wartime England – ah, there’s true patriotism! We have high hopes that more progressive young politicians with an eye to eliminating senile M.P.s, intend to have a ‘Great Westminster Leaping Stone’ that will be placed dead centre of the great entrance doors on opening day. Mr Churchill could start the leaping, those failing will of course be debarred. You can try and assist the failed member over the leaping stone by applying hot pokers to the seat, thus the smell of scorched flesh, burning hairs and screams, can bring a touch of colour to an otherwise dull wartime England. I don’t know when I will post this letter, I might deliver it tomorrow by hand, ankle, foot and clenched elbow.
As ever,
Your loving brother
Terry.
To help kill boredom in the Camp I started a daily news bulletin posted outside my tent.
‘When are we going to be allowed into Algiers?’ Says Gunner Edwards, who is cutting Gunner Knott’s hair, and making his head look like a Mills grenade.
‘They’re frightened to let us in, we might get into the Kasbah and catch Syph.’
‘That’s all Cobblers, they’re stoppin’ us, so the officers can screw all the best birds first, that’s yer Democracy for you,’ says Gunner Thorpe, who is scraping his toe nails with a Jack-knife.
‘You’re talking balls. Just because you get first bash at a French tart don’t mean you’re democratic! I mean shaggin’ a bird is the same if you’re a Commy or a Fascist, fucking is real democracy.’
A solemn cheer greeted this. ‘Look, if none of us ever had a screw again we’ve had enough hoggins in Bexhill to last forever.’ Cries of ‘No! Resign!’
‘A man can never have enough hoggins, a good shag clears the custard,’ said Gunner Balfour as he wrote a tender love letter off to his wife.
Gunner Maunders, his feet reeking, sits up in his bed. ‘They say French tarts can shag all night on one dinner.’
‘That’s right,’ says Lance Bombardier Denning, ‘they can shag around the clock, in any position.’
‘Good,’ says Gunner Knott. ‘From now on I’m going to shag laying down, no more bangin’ away standin’ in Bexhill doorways in the shape of a cripple.’ Cries of ‘Knee trembler.’
Discussions on sex took up large portions of gunners’ working hours. The nearest they got to it was the Estaminet at Jean Bart, a quarter of a mile from the Camp. There, apart from the booze, was a barmaid whose bulging bosoms floated along the top of the bar with never less than a hundred pairs of eyes to help them on their way. Many hot-blooded gunners ruptured themselves just staring. ‘Try only looking at one at a time,’ I advised them. There was no shortage of alcohol. We guzzled muscatel, about eighty per cent proof, the real proof was hundred per cent stoned gunners, spark out in the gutters. Those who could stagger would go down to the beach. Naked, we’d sit waist deep in the water, to sober up. One such night, (Jan. 19th 1943) the port of Algiers had a ‘sudden attack of air raid,’ soon the sky was a mass of exploding shells, flaming onions and searchlights.
We sat and enjoyed it. ‘It’s lovely,’ said Edgington. ‘Yesh, it’s slouvely,’ I agreed. Gunner Roberts took from the waters to don his steel helmet.
‘What German is going to by-pass Algiers to bomb you,’ says Edgington.
‘They say on a moonlit night an airman can see a bald head from 20,000 feet,’ said Roberts. ‘You haven’t got a bald head,’ says I. ‘I’m not waiting till the last minute,’ says Roberts. I got back to the beach and returned with fags.
Anti-aircraft fire at night. Algiers
‘Ta,’ said Edgington, ‘nothing like wet cigarettes covered in bloody sand.’
We sat silent. Edgington spoke. ‘Milligan? See if your aeroplane curse still works.’ I stood up. I waited till a German plane was caught in a searchlight, then shouted ‘I hope you bloody well crash.’ Nothing happened.
‘Perhaps it’s a deaf pilot,’ said Edgington.
‘I HOPE YOU BLOODY CRASHHHHH.’
‘We’re too far away,’ said Edgington.
‘Let’s forget it.’
‘Forget what?’ he said.
‘See?’ I said, ‘you’ve forgotten it already.’ He too, forgetting, lay back and disappeared below the surface. He reappeared spluttering. ‘This water’s unreliable,’ he said. We dressed and started to wander back. It was dark. Being nyctalopic* I always carried a torch. Suddenly in the beam hopped an animal,
‘I hope you bloody well crash’ I said
‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s a jerboa!’
‘Jerboa my arse, that’s a kangaroo,’ says Forrest.
‘What’s a kangeroo doing in Africa?’
‘There’s no such animal, Milligan,’ says Edgington, ‘you made the word up.’
‘On the bible it’s true!’
‘Bible? You’re agnostic!’
‘O.K. I swear on Tiger Tim’s Weekly.’
‘Halt, who goes there?’ came the midnight challenge.
‘Hitler,’ I said.
‘You can’t be! He came in ten minutes ago.’
‘We don’t know who we are, we’re Military Amnesiacs Anonymous.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘We give up, what is the password?’
‘I’m waiting,’ said the sentry.
‘So are we … gi’s a clue.’
‘The clue is, what’s the password?’
‘Just a minute,’ says Edgington, ‘I’ve got it written here on a piece of paper … Ahhhh! the word is “Fish”.’
‘That was last night.’
‘Chips?’
‘No.’
‘Shirley Temple.’
‘I don’t know why they put me on sentry duty,’ said the demoralised sentry. ‘There’s seventy blokes come in in the last two hours and not one bugger remembered the word. It’s a waste of bloody time. Sod Churchill.’ We gave him a rousing cheer and he let us in.
January the 23rd: Bombardier Harry Baum, nicknamed ‘Hairy Bum,’ told us ‘You lot are to be allowed into Algiers and let loose on the unsuspecting women therein. The Passion Wagon leaves at 13.30 hours, and you will all be back at 23.59, like all gude little Cinderellas.’ Fly buttons flew in all directions.
We set about cleaning up. Boots were boned, web belts scrubbed, brass polished and trousers creased. It made little difference, we still looked like sacks of shit tied up in the middle. A three tonner full of sexual tension, rattled us to Algiers Docks. Most others were looking for Women and Booze. Not Gunner Milligan, I was a good Catholic boy, I didn’t frequent brothels.
No, all I did was walk round with a permanent erection shoutin ‘Mercy!’, in any case, I was in the company of ‘Mother Superior Edgington,’ who shunned such practices. Was he not the one who threw his army issue contraceptive into the sea where it was later sunk by naval gun fire? So we entered Algiers, with pure minds, and the sun glinting on the Brylcream running down our necks. We were joined by Bdr Spike Deans and Gunner Shapiro. Along the main tree-lined Rue d’Isly, we entered a small café, ‘Le Del Monico.’ ‘That means “The Del Monico”,’ I explained. Inside we were shown to a table by an attractive French waitress. We perused the menu.
MENU
Moules Mariniere
Homus
Spigola al Forno
Sole Nicoise
Scampi Provencale
Poulet Roti
Carre d’Agnau
Courgettes
‘Eggs and chips four times,’ we said. ‘Make mine Kosher,’ added Shapiro.
‘There’s no such thing as Jewish Chicken,’ I said.
‘And I’ll tell you why,’ said Shapiro, ‘there’s no money in it.’ The eggs arrived sizzling in round copper dishes. ‘Where’s the chips?’ says Shapiro. ‘She’s forgotten the chips.’
‘Don’t be bloody ignorant,’ rebukes Edgington, ‘in French cooking le chips are served separate! Patience!’ So we sat in patience. We sat a long time in patience. She had forgotten ‘le chips.’ The mistake rectified, we ate the meal with quaffs of Thibar Rosé.
‘You’d never think there was a war on,’ said Dean.
‘I think there’s a war on,’ said Shapiro.
‘I notice,’ said Edgington, ‘you dip your chip into the yolk first.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘I cannot tell a lie.’ We finished the meal.
‘What now?’ says Milligan.
‘Let’s go to the pictures,’ says Shapiro.
‘PICTURES? We come all the way from England to Africa and you want to go to the bloody PICTURES?’
‘I like the pictures,’ he says, ‘they make me forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘I can’t remember.’
We decided to wander through Algiers, it was amazing how boring it could be. ‘Isn’t this the place where Charles Boyer screwed Hedy Lamarr?’ said Deans. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m