Goodbye Soldier (11 page)

“What’s going on here?” I open one eye to see Bornheim and Mulgrew; the latter, who hasn’t learned his lesson, is holding a fishing rod. “You know there’s no mixed bathing allowed in the long grass,” he says.

“Go away, Mulgrew. Weren’t you ever young?”

“Yes,” he says. “It was on a Thursday.”

It is tea-time, so we give in and the four of us head back to the guest house. I need a shower to get the oil off and a cold one to reduce the swelling. Toni came down to tea in an all-white dress to show off her suntan, and lovely she looked.

The show that night was pretty hysterical. A lone drunk in the middle of the hall started to shout out, “It’s bloody awful, bloody awful.” It took a time to evict him. Then, in the second half he obviously somehow got back in because he shouted from the gallery, “It’s still bloody awful, bloody awful.” Again he was thrown out, only to reappear through a front row fire exit direct from the street. “It’s bloody awful from here, as well,” he shouted, before doing a bunk. It caused great laughter in the audience and the cast. It wasn’t the last of him, my God. As we were about to drive back to the billets, he was thumping on the sides of the Charabong, “You’re all bloody awful, bloody awful.” Bill Hall rolled down a window and blew a thunderous saliva-draped raspberry at him, causing howls of glee in the truck.

“Perhaps we
are
bloody awful,” said Bornheim. “I mean, how many of us would a West End audience come to see?” he went on. “I mean, they’d pay to see the Bill Hall Trio. But the rest of us?”

This started a real row till we got to the hotel. Everybody was suddenly in star class.
Of course
the West End audiences would pay to see Chalky White hitting people, etc., etc. There was a lot of laughter as each artiste defended himself against the ‘bloody awful’ label. The fact is none of them were ever heard of again.

At dinner, the argument breaks out again. When Bornheim plays the piano, a shout of ‘Bloody awful’ goes up. From then on, no one could make a move without a shout of ‘Here comes bloody awful’. The Italian artistes couldn’t get the gist of it. But when they did, they too took up the cry. Toni asked me with a perfectly straight face, “Tell me, Terr-ee. We are bludy awful, yes?”

∗

The next morning broke sunny and warm. Across the road from us was a little Austrian beerhouse, so at lunchtime Bornheim and I toddled over and sat outside. We ordered a bottle of white wine and some cheese, then another bottle of white wine. Two Austrians in lederhosen with overmuscled legs and blue staring eyes asked us to join them for a ‘drink of zer Schnapps’ and my God we got pie-eyed. We wobbled back to our chalets. I was sick and crashed out groaning on the bed. Toni is horrified, I’ve never been drunk before. She sees the drunken wretch and says, “Terr-ee, you, you, bludy awful,” bursts into tears and runs out. I stumbled after her and crashed to the floor where I was sick yet again. I now looked like a walking Irish stew on legs. By evening I was coming to and drank a lot of black coffee, brought in by faithful Mulgrew who knew drunkenness. That night on stage I
was
bloody awful. I muffed the announcements, got the wrong intros and generally buggered up the act. But we still went down well.

“Just bloody luck,” said Bill Hall.

“What did you get pissed for?” said Lieutenant Priest. “About thirty Schillings,” I said. “We were very economical.”

∗

The weather stays divine. Up the road at the Worthersee riviera Toni and I hire a rowboat and take a packed lunch. I row to the middle of the lake. It’s one of those boats with a lounging double seat in the stern, so we snog while the boat drifts and drifts and drifts…Let it drift for ever, for we are lovers and the hands of the clock stopped the moment we met. We live in a time capsule called now. We can only think of each other. It is young and true love. The waters lapped the sides, lake birds flew hither and thither to their secret places and the day lay on us like a diaphanous dream…

Wake up, wake up! The boat is leaking. Blast, yes, there’s three inches of water in the bottom. So I row the love wagon back to the boathouse and point out to the Austrian man what has happened. He just laughed and gave us half our money back. We walked back down the dusty road and arrived home for tea. Toni is giggling because somehow I have managed to wet the seat of my trousers, which looks like a giant ink stain. I hang my shirt out to cover it but that’s wet as well. The hell with it! Wild poppies grow by the wayside. I pick some for Toni. Alas, the poor things start to die within a few minutes. Why can’t we leave nature alone? Toni takes a photo of me. She wants me to turn my back to the camera. I refuse.

Spike Milligan, Krumpendorf. Quite a long way from where the Pope lives.

Lieutenant Priest seeks me out. Tomorrow Bill Hall and I are to report to Villach Demob Camp to be issued with civilian clothes, how exciting! Next morning a 15
cwt
truck takes us to the depot. Giant sheds loaded with military gear. We hand in our papers and discharge sheets, then we are given the choice of three suits – a grey double-breasted pinstripe suit, a dark blue ditto or a sports jacket and flannels. This photograph shows us with our chosen clobber.

Goodbye Soldier! Bill Hall, unknown twit and Spike.

I had chosen clothes three times too large for me and Hall had chosen some three sizes too small. The distributing sergeant was pretty baffled. We duly signed our names and walked out. England’s heroes were now free men. No more ‘yes, sir, no, sir’, no more parades. Back at the guest house, we have our first meal as civilians. As I remember it was spaghetti.

Milligan and Hall, their first meal as civilians.

∗

We had one more demob appointment. That was with the Army MO. This turns out to be a watery-eyed, red-nosed lout who was to medicine what Giotto was to fruit bottling. “It’s got you down here as B1,” he says.

“That’s right, I was downgraded at a medical board.”

“It says ‘battle fatigue’.”

“Yes. ‘Battle fatigue, anxiety state, chronic’.”

“Yes, but you’re over it now, aren’t you?”

“No, I still feel tired.”

“So, I’ll put you down as A1.”

“Not unless I’m upgraded by a medical board.”

“Oh, all right. Bi.”

He then asks me if my eyesight is all right.

“As far as I know.”

“You can see me, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s all right.”

It ended with him signing a couple of sheets of paper and showing me the door. Why didn’t he show me the window? It was a nice view. To give you an idea of the creep, here is his signature.

That was it. I was a civilian and B1.

∗

Ah, Sunday, day of rest and something. On Monday we will travel to Graz and do the show. In the morning I lie abed smoking.

“What’s it feel like to be a civvy?” says Mulgrew.

“Well, I’ve felt myself and it feels fine.”

“Lucky bugger. I’ve still got two months to go,” he said, coughing his lungs up.

“You sound as if you’re going now.”

Bill Hall stirs. “Wot’s the time?”

I tell him, “It’s time you bought a bloody watch.”

Lying in bed, Hall looks like an activated bundle of rags. Poor Bill – he, too, had been to the creep MO, who had passed him out as A1. He didn’t know it at the time but he had tuberculosis, which would one day kill him. So much for bloody Army doctors.

I take a shower and sing through the cascading waters. “Boo boo da de dum, can it be the trees that fill the breeze with rare and magic perfume?” I sing. What a waste, singing in the shower. I should be with Tommy Dorsey or Harry James.

Mid-morning, Hall, Mulgrew and I agree to give a concert in the lounge. It is much enjoyed by the hotel staff. All blue-eyed, blond, yodelling Austrians, who have been starved of jazz during the Hitler regime. They have a request. Can we play ‘Lay That Pistol Down Babe’? Oh, Christ, liberation had reached Austria. To appease them we play it. Hall plays it deliberately out of tune. “I’ll teach the bastards,” he says,
sotto voce con espressione
. They applaud wildly and ask for it again!! Hall can’t believe it. “They must have cloth ears,” he says and launches into ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’ as a foxtrot. “Take your partners for the National Anthem,” he says. Hitler must have turned in his grave.

HITLER:

No, I’m not. I’m still shovelling shit and salt in Siberia.

No sign of Toni so far, then Greta tells me she’s in bed with tummy trouble. I go up to her room. She’s asleep, but awakes as I come in. “What’s the matter, Toni?”

She is perspiring and looks very flushed. “I think I eat something wrong,” she says. “All night I be sick.” Oh dear, can I get her anything on a tray like the head of John the Baptist? “No, I just want sleep,” she says in a tiny voice. So, I leave her.

That afternoon, Lieutenant Priest has arranged a picture show just for us. We all go to the Garrison Cinema in Klagen-furt to see the film
Laura
, with George Sanders and Clifton Webb. It has that wonderful theme song ‘Laura’, after which I would one day name my daughter. We are admitted free under the banner of CSE. The cinema is empty, so we do a lot of barracking.

“Watch it, darling, ‘ees going ter murder yes,” etc. “ee wants to have it away with you, darlin’.”

“Look out, mister, watch yer ring! He’s a poof!” Having destroyed the film, we return home like well-pleased vandals.

Tea is waiting and Toni is up and dressed, she feels a lot better. No, she won’t eat anything except a cup of coffee, so I get her a cup of coffee to eat. I light up my after-dinner fag and pollute the air. Toni flaps her hand. “Oh, Terr-ee, why you smoke?” Doesn’t she know that Humphrey Bogart never appears in a film without smoking? We spend the evening playing ludo with small bets on the side. Suddenly,
I
feel sick. It’s the same as Toni. Soon, I have both ends going. I take to my bed and only drink water. That night, I have a temperature. What a drag! I fall into a feverish sleep.