‘Rommel?’ ‘Gunner who?’ by Spike Milligan

Author:Spike Milligan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 1974-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

27th Feb.: First Day at Waggon Lines

0700. After breakfast, Bombardier⁄Artificer Donaldson detailed five men to accompany him to the old Waggon Lines to collect equipment left behind in yesterday’s panic.

We drove in silence, except for me whistling, which I often did. It was an innocent pastime, free of malice, honest fun, it just drove people mad that’s all. In the Carrier with me was Shit-house Orderly Forrest, he was illiterate, but didn’t know that because he couldn’t read or write. He had a girl in Bradford called Enid – and in reply to her simple letters we would reply on behalf of Forrest, “Oh dearest Radiant light of Love, here, where I am serving my monarch and country, a great Symphony-like yearning burgeons within me whenever I think of you. Enid! The name is magic – and your face – whenever I sprinkle the quick lime over the crap, it’s your dear face I see.” She never wrote again.

Whistling merrily we arrived at the deserted Waggon Lines. Laying around were the bric-a-brac of hasty evacuation. “Throw it on the lorry then let’s piss off,” said Donaldson, walking up hill. “I’m going up on ridge to keep KV.”

“Where’s the piano?” I said to Forrest.

“What piano?” said the blank face of Forrest.

“The Regimental one.”

“The Regimental piano?”

“Yes, where is it?”

“I don’t know. You’re not jokin’ are you?”

“Joke? About the Regimental piano? You’ve never seen us playing without a piano!”

“No.”

“Well, until it’s found there’s no more dances, if the Germans have captured that piano we’re finished.”

We threw the last of the salvage on the lorry. “OK Bom,” I called up to Donaldson, “you can come down, all the work’s done.” The return drive was uneventful except the look the boys gave Forrest when he said “I wonder what happened to the piano then.”

At Waggon Lines, I shared a tent with BSM McArthur, a regular but only five foot six and a half which made him lack authority to anybody five foot seven and a half. He had a face the shape of a pear held upside down. Smoke blue eyes, a straight fleshy nose, under this hung a brown handlebar moustache. Head on he looked like a motor-bike. He had advanced piles and slept face downwards. He greeted me with “Good news you’ve been promoted to Lance Bombardier.” I wasn’t expecting this, but was quick to capitalise, “We non-commissioned officers must stick together. Wait till tomorrow, I’ll put this bloody lot through their paces.” He was new to the Regiment having joined a week before sailing. Apparently he had gained the disfavour of someone, and been banished to Waggon Lines as a Khaki Limbo. That night he talked, I thought I was a Walter Mitty, but this man was a congenital liar. He started, “I am born of noble birth, my forebears were Scottish Barons, I have Royal Blood, one of my forebears slept with Prince Charlie, from that a child was born, I am in direct line from that union.”

“Jolly good,” I said,

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