Read Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall Online
Authors: Spike Milligan
Tags: #Biographies & Memoirs, #Memoirs, #Humor & Entertainment, #Humor
Then he gave me a cup of tea that did both. He stripped me of all kit, leaving essentials like my body. The cell, my God! it must have been built in anticipation of Houdini. Seven foot by six foot, by twenty foot high, stone floor, small window with one iron bar, up near the ceiling, wooden bed in the corner. The door was solid iron, two inches thick, with a small spy-hole for the guard. No light. “You go to sleep when it gets dark, like all the good little birdies do,” said the sergeant. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, slamming the cell door. Every day, a visit from the orderly officer, a white consumptive lad who appeared to be training for death. “Cot everything you want’ ?” he said. “No, sir, I haven’t got a Bentley.” I grinned to let him know it was a joke, that I was a cheery soul, and not down hearted. It wasn’t the way he saw it. He pointed to a photo of my girl by my bed. “That will have to go,” he said.
“Yes sir, where would you like it to go? I think it would go nice on the piano.”
“Put it out of sight.”
“But it’s my fiancée sir.”
“Photographs are not
allowed
.” He was starting to dribble. “What about statues sir?”
He lost his English ‘cool’. “Sergeant put this man under arrest.”
“He’s already under arrest sir,” said Sarge.
“Well give him extra fatigues for being impertinent!”
I planned revenge. I cut my finger-nails. On his next visit I placed them in a cigarette lid.
“What are those?”
“Finger-nails sir.”
“Throw them away.”
“They are my fiancée’s sir.”
“Throw them away.”
“Very good sir.”
The next time he visited I had cut a small lock of my hair, tied a small bow on it and placed it on my bed.
“What’s that?”
“A lock of hair sir.”
“Throw it away.”
“It’s my fiancée’s sir.” etc. etc.
The last one I planned was with an artificial limb, but the officer never visited me again. He was drafted overseas, and killed during an air-raid on Tobruk; a N.A.A.F.I. Tea Urn fell on his head.
My duties were not unpleasant.
After fourteen days I was sent back to Hailsham—I arrived to find the whole Battery boarding lorries yes! “Prepare to move”—again! With my kit I jumped into a fifteen hundredweight, making it a sixteen hundredweight.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know, it’s another secret destination,” said Sergeant Dawson.
Three hours later, we were back to square one. Bexhill.
“I wish they’d make their fucking minds up,” said Sergeant Dawson.
“Look Sarge, they’re moving us about to make us look a lot,” said Gunner Tome.
“We look a lot,” said Dawson, “a lot of cunts.”
“Give us a merry song, Sarge,” I said, running for cover.
After the war, in 1968, I was appearing at the Royal Theatre, Brighton. I took a trip to Preston Barracks. All changed, the Old Guard Room with my cell had gone—everything had changed except the large parade ground, that was still there; did I really weed it by hand in 1942? We must have all been bloody mad.
DECEMBER 1942-JANUARY 1943—EMBARKATION LEAVE
A
s the monkey-keeper at the Zoo said, when a new trussed-up gorilla arrived, “It was bound to come.” We were going overseas. Of course we should have gone yesterday. Everything had to be packed into everything else yesterday. Somewhere great wooden crates appeared yesterday. “Good God,” said Edgington yesterday, “they’re sending us by parcel post!” The crates were filled, nailed down and stencilled ‘This Way Up’ at all angles. Vehicles had to be waterproofed. Oh dearie me! This smacked of a beach landing. Everything was camouflaged black and dark green so it couldn’t be the desert. All our missing clothing was replaced. We then ran straight down to the town and sold them. One issue was a large vacuum-sealed tin of ‘Emergency Chocolate’, only to be eaten in the event of, say, being surrounded by the Enemy. That night, in bed, surrounded by the Enemy, I ate my Emergency Chocolate.
The news had been broken by the Old Man in the N.A.A.F.I. hut, the dear old N.A.A.F.I. hut. In it we wrote letters home, drank tea, played ping-pong, banged tunes out on the piano, or, when we had no money just sat there to keep warm. It was in this but that I first heard the voice of Churchill on an old Brown Bakelite Ecko Radio. On the day of the official pronouncement, we were marched in and sat down. Enter Major Chaterjack, “Eyes Front!” Chaterjack acknowledges Battery Sergeant-Major’s salute. “At ease Sergeant-Major.” At ease it is. “You can all smoke,” said Chaterjack, “I’m going to.” (Light laughter.) Smilingly, he starts to speak. “You may have been hearing rumours that we were going abroad.” (Laughter. Rumours had been non-stop.) “We are, finally, going overseas. It’s what we’ve all been trained for, so, it shouldn’t come as a shock.” He cut out all unnecessary gas and told us dates and times. A very Scots voice from the back, “Where are we going sir?”
“Well, I know it’s not Glasgow.” (Roar of laughter.) “Embarkation leave will start immediately, married men first…they need it.” (Laughter.) A voice from the back, “Don’t we all.” (Loud laughter.) He told us that there would be a farewell dinner dance at the Devonshire Arms. He finished “Good luck to you all.”
It was a time of incredible excitement. God knows how we got so much done in so short a time. Men usually only had one active participation in a war during their lifetime. It was about to happen to us. We had problems, for instance the double bass we had knocked off from the De La Warr Pavillion.↓
≡ I haven’t mentioned this before because I’ve been waiting for the original owner to die.
It was stolen in anticipation of Al Fildes learning to play it. It had been noticed that the bass had been lying in the corner of a backstage room. We measured the size, passed the measurements on to Bombadier Donaldson who had a crate made to fit. The outside of the crate was stecilled
MARK THREE BOFOR GUN SPARES
. On morning after parade we drove to the Pavillion and hurroed in through the back door with the crate. A few moments later we hurried out with it, nothing had changed save the weight had increased by One Double Bass. It was rushed to our work shops, where high speed work was done in stripping the varnish off, staining the wood a deep Black Oak, then re-varnishing. It was whilst in the middle of the last mentioned operation that we got our overseas sailing orders, so, not wanting to lose the fruits of our labours, we decided to give the bass to Harry Edgington to take home for his brother Doug who was desperate to learn to play the instrument. Somewhere in the dark of a December evening Harry smuggled the bass aboard a London-bound train, and put it down at his home in St John’s Road, Archway. While we were overseas we had a letter saying that Doug had won first prize for the best bass player in London, and had won a Melody Maker medal. Who said crime doesn’t pays Our leaves overlapped. I went straight home to 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley Rise, where my family had returned when my father was posted back to London.
I arrived at Victoria Station during the rush-hour. The crowds were a weird mixture of grey faces carrying early Christmas shopping. I was wearing my new red artillery forage cap, and felt rather conspicuous. I took the crowded tube to London Bridge, and from there a train to Honor Oak Park. The faces of the commuters were tired and pinched. Occasionally one would steal a look at me. I don’t know why. To break the boredom I suppose. A man of about fifty, in a dark suit and overcoat, leaned over and said “Would you like a cigarette?”
“Thank you,” I said, and like a bloody fool smoked it. A bloody fool because, dear reader, I had just gone through three weeks’ agony, having given up the habit. As I walked from the station down Riseldine Road a raid was in progress. It was very, very dark, and I had to peer closely at several doors before I arrived at Number 50. The family were about to have dinner in the Anderson Shelter. “Ah son,” said my father, in that wonderful welcoming voice he had, “you’re just in time for the main course.” Holding a torch he showed me down the garden. “Put that bloody light out,” said my brother in a mock A.R.P. warden voice. The voice was in the process of breaking, and I swear in speaking that short sentence he went from Middle C to A above the stave. By the light of a hurricane lamp, called ‘Storm Saviour Brand’, I squeezed next to my mother. They had made the shelter as comfortable as possible, with duck boards and a carpet on top, an oil heater, books, and a battery radio. Mother said grace, then the four of us sat eating lukewarm powdered egg, dehydrated potatoes, Lease Lend carrots and wartime-strength tea. I felt awful. So far I hadn’t suffered anything. Seeing the family in these miserable circumstances did raise a lump in my throat, but they seemed cheery enough. “Got a surprise for you son.” So saying Father put his hand under the table and produced a bottle of Chateau La Tour 1934. “It’s at Shelter temperature,” he said. We drank a toast to the future. The next time the family would drink a toast together was to be ten years later.
Mother related how the week previously the whole family had nearly been killed. It was nine at night; Father, wearing aught but Marks and Spencer utility long underwear and tartan slippers, was heavily poised in the kitchen making a cup of tea, strength three. He was awaiting that jet of steam from the kettle that signals the invention of the steam engine. In the lounge, oblivious of the drama in the kitchen, were my mother and brother. This room had been modified into a bedroom-cum-sitting room, double-bed in one corner and the single for my brother in the other. This arrangement made my brother’s night manipulations extremely difficult. However, Mother was seated on an elephantine imitation brown mochette couch with eased springs, knitting Balaclavas for the lads at the Front. My brother, Desmond, a lad of fourteen, was sitting on his bed, looking through his wartime scrap book, reading aloud sections on Hitler’s promised invasion. A two-thirds slag, one-third coal fire smoked merrily in the grate. Suddenly, an explosion, arranged Luftwaffe. Mother was blown six feet up in the sitting position, then backwards over the couch. My brother was shot up against the wall, reaching ceiling level before returning. The fire was sucked up the chimney, as were mother’s C. & A. Mode slippers. The Cheesemans of Lewisham’s imitation-velour curtains billowed in and the room was filled with ash. It was all over in a flash. My mother was upside-down behind the couch. My father appeared at the door. “What’s happening:” he said. He presented a strange figure, clutching a steaming kettle and smoke-blackened from head to foot. He said “Wait here,” went to the back door and shouted “Anybody there?” He then returned and said. “It’s all right, he’s gone.” Despite the activities of German Bombers I was determined to sleep in my old bed. Sheets! Sheer bliss. Lying in bed I realised that the family was finally broken up the war had made inroads on our peacetime relationship, I was independent, my brother no longer had my company. All was changed. For the better? We’ll never know. We had been a very close-knit family, something not many British families were.
The New Cross Palais de Danse was still open. Next night I took Lily Chandler, a girl in whom I had a fifty-one per cent controlling interest, to the Palais. It was a long room with a gallery running around the top. Chicken wire had been stretched below the gallery because of a habit of people throwing things down on the dancers. A five-piece band was blowing its way through the wartime standard tunes. The room was packed with civvies, soldiers, sailors and airmen, with windows closed and blackouts up, the atmosphere was stifling. I spent that evening waltzing, foxtrotting, and chatting up Miss Chandler. I can still see the bobbing heads of the dancer, and the reflected spots from the revolving glass ball above me. Every dance in those days ended with the waltz ‘Who’s taking you home tonight’, and everyone would sing it sotto voce as they glided around. While I was doing this, the last bloody tram was leaving, so I had to walk Miss Chandler back to 45 Revelon Road, Brockley, a matter of two miles. The raid was still on. We walked back through deserted streets; occasionally fragments of A.A. shells would whoshhhh down and split on the pavements, they do say if’ you were hit by one of our own A.A. fragments you could have your rates reduced. Lily was wearing black, I think she had a premonition about me. As we approached Malpas Road a stick of three bombs fell about a half mile to our left, but they passed directly overhead and Lily and I lay down against a wall. While we were down there I tried to make love to her. “Don’t be a fool,” she said. “That was close,” she remarked. I’m not sure whether she referred to the bombs or me. I spent some half an hour kissing her good night in the door-way, and tried everything, but she: kept saying ‘Stop it’ or, “Don’t come the old assing with me.” So I walked another two miles back to my house, bent double with pain and sexual frustration.
My week’s leave was spent in ‘sitting in’ with local gig bands, seeing people from the Woolwich Arsenal (where I had worked before the War), drinking, and walking home bent double with sexual frustration from 45 Revelon Road, Brockley.
I arrived back off leave, and, I quote from my diary, “Returned back at billets to find everybody drunk, jolly or partially out of their minds.” The knowledge that at last we were going overseas had given the Battery the libertine air of the last day at school. It was impossible to try and sleep. Everyone was hell bent on playing practical jokes. Beds crashed down in the night, buckets of water were fixed over doors, boots were nailed to the floor, there were yells and screams as thunder-flashes exploded under unsuspecting victims’ beds. The Battery was in a state of flux, most were on leave, others were about to go, others were on their way back, some couldn’t get back, others didn’t want to. One night the barracks were full, the next they were empty, God knows who was running us, certainly all the officers were on leave, what one good Fifth Columnist could have wrought at that time doesn’t bear thinking about. I remember very well, one rainy night, Harry and I lay in bed, talking, smoking, unable to sleep with excitement.