Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (11 page)

FEBRUARY 1941
MOVE FROM TURKEY ROAD SCHOOL TO HAILSHAM

O
ne Sunday morning we Roman Catholics were religiously gathered around playing Pontoon. A devout Scots gunner was about to say ‘Pontoons Only’ when Bombardier Bastard entered. “Stop,” he said. The Scots gunner with a twenty-one hand, and therefore heir to a fortune, collapsed. Bastard spoke the well-known phrase: “Prepare to Move! Kit packed by 06:00 hours! Parade 06:15 hours! Full F.S.M.O.!” We were off again.

“Yes lads,” said Bastard through clenched teeth, “we’re all going tat-tars.” He then detailed Edgington and myself to clean up the officers’ billets at ‘Trevissick’.

“You will report back tue billets before 15:00 hours, understan’?” We understan’. We put on our denims and with two brooms grumbled our way to ‘Trevissick’, a house in the posh area of Bexhill known as The Highlands. We picked up bits of paper, rusty blades, a sock, a broken record of Al Bowley singing ‘Buddy can you spare a dime?’

“He’s broke,” I punned. We burnt all the rubbish and the brooms, then! a bit of Ould Oirish Luck. There in the corner of the garage was a crate of certain bottles. We drew nigh, and lo! there were two full bottles of liquid. One marked Barbados Rum, and the other, Soda Water. Being of a patriotic mien I volunteered to taste the rum in case it was poisoned. “I can’t let you take all the risk,” said Harry, “I must drink my share.” The tasting went on for quite a while. Also being of a scientific mind, from time to time we mixed, the soda with the rum. We gave of our best for over an hour. At 12:00 hours we were wandering, drinking, giggling, somewhere in Mill Wood. I challenged Edgington to a tree-climbing race. He said I couldn’t climb a tree for toffee. I said, “Who climbs trees for toffee? I get mine in a shop.”

At 13:00 hours we were still wandering, drinking and giggling, in a tree in Mill Wood. I said I could leap from the tree and say ‘My Mum’s Monkey Makes Many Mistakes’ before I hit the ground. He said, Rubbish, I’d never get further than Mum’s Monkey, but he could. I jumped but forgot to say it. He said it but forgot to jump, so he jumped while I said it.

The sun was setting, and an early crescent moon sailed towards the evening sky. (gunner Edgington lay on his back, looking up the neck of an empty rum bottle. “All gone,” he said. “Gone, all gone,” I said from the same position. We both stood up. He saluted, and fell down. I did an imitation of ‘Last Post’ over his recumbent body. “England’s a beautiful country,” he said and was sick. I don’t know how, but we ended up at the house of a Lady Friend, a pretty girl with hairy legs, who was getting married next week. We sat and listened to her play Chopin. I sang “Chopin, I love you, you know I always will, I love most of your Nocturnes, and I’ll sing them till I’m ill.”

“Lovely,” said Edgington, “Lovely.”

We arrived back at Turkey Road in the dying moments of the Battery’s departure. Great activity. We hoisted long underwear up on the flagpole. We joined a queue going into the Q Stores, and came out with a case of prunes each. A duty Bombardier, insane with military rage, put us under arrest for being late, drunk, improperly dressed, checking an N.C.O., bad language, the murder of Rasputin, and singing the Warsaw Concerto. “Get your kit into that fucking truck!” Piling on to that fucking truck, we drove into the night towards yet another secret destination. We lay on heaps of military gunge and sang the worst American song titles we could dream up: ‘Galloping hooves in the night remind me I married a Centaur’; ‘Little Dutch time bomb, tick-tock-Boom’; ‘I’ll wait for you till the end of time and then apply for an extension’. We were whistling the Warsaw Concerto when the lorry stopped. We’d arrived!

In the dark Harry and I unloaded our kit. The lorry drove away. He’d only stopped far a leak. We stood on the verge swearing. We sat on the verge swearing, which is the same as standing only lower down. We put our groundsheets down, covered up with blankets and went to sleep swearing. In the wee hours the truck returned. “You silly buggers,” said the driver, “what did you get off for?”

“Excitement,” said Harry.

An hour later, we were dumped in the yard of a requisitioned livery stable cum dog breeders’ kennels at the junction of the A295 and A22 (Hailsham-Eastbourne road). “Up in t’ loft, that’s where Clads are sleeping,” said the duty Bombardier. We climbed up and were met with the steamy fug that goes with sleeping gunners.

It was 5.30 a.m., no point in sleeping. We started to change into dry clothes; a perfect end to the whole night was nigh. I fell through a trap door. Edgington looked down from above.

“Cheer up,” he said. “Remember, man with death-watch beetle in wooden leg better off than man with tin leg in thunderstorm.” I made a certain gesture.

Our new H.Q. was Hailsham. In the town centre, an old Vicarage was commandeered as Battery Office; it was a maze of unending passages and dark brown rooms. I remember Lieutenant Walker, drunk, at two one morning, blundering through the darkened corridors shouting “Ariadne! the thread! The thread!”

Normal day. Reveille 06:30. Roll call, 07:00. Breakfast, 07:15. Parade, 08:00. Then training. Morse Code, Heliograph, Wireless, Jokes, Tea. Break at 10:30, when a N.A.A.F.I. Van arrived. Parade 11:00. More training. I was the clown of the Battery I would give a demonstration of how to do rifle drill in Braille, how to sleep standing up on guard, how to teach a battledress to beg, how to march standing still.

Roll call one morning.

“Neat?”

“Sah!”

“Edgington ?”

“Sah!”

“Milligan…MILLIGAN?…GUNNER MILLIGAN?”

“Sah!”

“Why didn’t you answer the first time?”

“I thought I’d bring a little tension into your life, Sarge.”

“Oh—well here’s a little tension for you. TEN—SHUN! To cook house for fat-i-gues—Double!!”

FIGHT AT ROBIN’S POST—IN HAILSHAM

T
he Battery telephone exchange was in the grounds of Robin’s Post, a private home on the A22 road between Horsefield and Polegate. Again it was an air-raid shelter but brand new, with shelves, wall beds, ventilation and plenty of electric points and lights. We were well away from everybody. Occasionally wed get a visit from Lieutenant Goldsmith. During spells of duty we would make up what I suppose were the first dim adumbrations of the Goon Show. Here is a fragment of Harry Edgington’s writings of that time:

The door flew open and in crashed the master-spy himself, Gruenthaphartz, measuring five rounds gun-fire by inches three, and clad only in a huge fur coat of huge fur, a sou’wester, and two hand-painted barges strapped to his feet for a quick getaway. With a hairy on the knee. He was escorted by a plague of Zeppelins. He loped across the room with a great lope and snatching up a sharpened lamppost hurled it wildly at the bedraggled portrait of Sir Bennispon-of-du-Whacka. “So perish all my enemies” he roared, and then, “I have quoth,” whereupon they all leapt into a handy bus and drove off smiling and waving through the wildly cheering populace.

“A near thing,” he said, reaching for the wine, “that lamp-post must have been seven and one tooth.”

Curtain, to chord in various flats by orch. of military bugle, violin and Pianist who has one hand out to show he is going to turn right.

We wrote reams of this stuff. We read some to Lieutenant Goldsmith. “Very good,” he said, moving in the general direction of away.

The Signal Section was a law unto itself. We organized the duty roster to suit ourselves. We all opted for one week’s duty and one off. Two of you would work out who slept and kept awake. During the off’ week your presence in bed at midday was explained thus: “This man has been on duty all night, sir.” It was all right having a whole week off, but it became boring. A sleeping contest was inaugurated. The rules were: “The contestant will at no time leave the bed. The first to do so is disqualified.” So started the great sleep. Piddles were done out of the back window at night, standing on your bed. Food was hauled up in a kit bag when the N.A.A.F.I. van called at 10.30 of a morning. Tea was brought in by bribing Danker wallahs. The contestants were the Gunners Milligan, Edgington, White and Devine. There we lay for five days and nights. Sometimes we sang songs, told jokes, recounted past incidents.

“You know what I’d like to do to Bombardier Jones?”

“What?”

“Tie him to a post, then shoot him with a blunderbuss loaded with his own Shite.”

“When I leave the army I’m not going to do anything for a year.”

“You know what I’d like now? Four fried eggs, chips, bacon and tomatoes.”

“Too many eggs give you the horn.”

“I think this war will die out.”

“Die out? How do you mean?”

“Well, stop. I mean everyone will get fed up. I’m fed up already.”

“So am I. Let’s all fuck off.”

“Lend us a fag.”

“You’re always scroungin’ bloody fags. What do you do with them?”

“I smoke ‘em.”

Edgington won the contest with six days and seven hours.

“Christ, how did you do it?” said Devine.

“Training,” said Edgington, “that, and dreams of grandeur!”

About now the owner of the livery stables (retired livery Colonel) gave a dance for officers from local British and Canadian units; we were detailed to play.

British officers are possibly the world’s worst ballroom dancers. One or two of the more daring ones would wag one finger in the air as they went ‘Trucking’. First signs of repressed inhibitions came in the ‘Paul Jones’. As they circled the ladies, there would be a few jolly Scottish whoops. Next they would do their ‘Cocking of the Legs’ which I will describe later.

The dance was held in a large and comfortable country-style lounge: chairs and sofas clad in loose floral covers, plenty of polished wood, a few Hercules Brabizon-Brabizon water colours on walls, standard lamps with silk shades, a few oriental curios, traces of visits to foreign climes. (What are foreign climes? Waiter! A pound of foreign climes, please!) As the guests eased themselves in, we were playing lively tunes ‘Woodchopper’s Ball’, ‘Don’t sit under the apple tree’, ‘Ma, I miss your apple pie’, ‘Honeysuckle Rose’, ‘Undecided’, ‘Tangerine’ (what memories these tunes bring back). Soon the floor was crowded, drinks for the band were arriving at a steady rate. Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O., came over to see that we were being ‘looked after’; he was really a great soldier, I for one would have followed him anywhere, preferably away from the war. He was this kind of man. Autumn morning—the early sun had melted the night frost, leaving glistening damp trees. Battery parading—small wafts of steam are appearing from men’s mouths and noses the muster roll is called—B.S.M. is about to report to Major Chaterjack: “Battery all correct and present, sir!” The roar of a plane mixed with cannon shells all over the place—M.E. 109 roof top, red propellor boss—panic—Battery as one man into ditch—not Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O.—stands alone in the road—unmoved—produces a silver case, lights up a cigarette. He is smoking luxuriously as we all sheepishly rise from what now feels like the gutter. He addresses us: “Very good you realise you did the right thing and I the wrong.” What can you say to a bloke like that?

Interval. We ditch our instruments and wander into the garden for a leak; finding a bush, we ‘ease springs’; these were accompanied by the usual postern blasts, each one greeted with cries of “Good luck!”

“Fall out the Officers!”

“Drink up! mine’s a Guinness!” As eyes became accustomed to the dark, I was horrified! five feet from us, on a garden seat, was Lieutenant Goldsmith and a bird. As we slunk away, he called out, “Thank you gentlemen, and what time is the next performance?” This was too much, we broke out into uncontrollable laughter and once started, we couldn’t stop. By the time we got to the house, I was holding my sides with pain. On entering we saw a huge fat woman, seated at the drums, making a bloody fool of herself. This finished me off. The dance restarted.

Without warning, a Canadian officer poured a beer into the bell of my saxophone—(Yes! I also played that)—which he thought funny. I threw the contents on to his jacket, something he didn’t think funny. He grabbed the saxophone. I stopped playing. “Let go,” I said, “this is a solo instrument.” Our host came over. The Canadian was told that it “wasn’t the done thing.” The dance continued and we, rather
I
, got drunker. Time now for what I told you was the ‘Leg Cocking’; this is an English officer gyration. The man assumes the position for a Highland Reel, and then at the sound of 2/4 or 6/8 tempo, he raises his right leg and leaps all over the room with one hand up in the air and one on his hip. We played ‘Highland Laddie’; at once the floor became a mass of leaping twits all yelling “Och! Aye!” This is where the fight started. One of the batmen serving drinks had his tray knocked flying all over a Mrs Hendricks. Captain Hendricks hit someone, someone else hit him. This became popular. The room became a melee of fisticuffs and gentlemen. “Somebody stop them,” shrieked Mrs Hendricks, as someone floored her. Our host rushed up: “Quick, play a waltz.” We launched into ‘Moonlight Madonna’. Someone hit Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O. His batman laid out the offender, then carried Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O. to safety. To help it all along, Doug Kidgell threw an occasional cream cake into the arena. The addition of confectionery to the struggling mass made exotic pictures. A red-faced major, his bald head supporting a chocolate eclair, hit a Canadian sporting a jam-covered ear. Kidgell’s masterpiece: a large circular cream-topped cake that stuck to the back of a long officer’s head. For moments he stood like Greco’s Christ Ascending until a loping right felled him. The cake was picked up by a foot, which trod it all over a chest, that passed it on to a neck. In a short time, cream, jam, and treacle, were liberally distributed on the uniforms of His Majesty’s Officers. Strawberry flan up the front of the jacket, apple strudel on the lower face, plus little blobs of cream on the epaulettes was something we found difficult to salute. Someone covered in lemon-curd was hit backwards through an open window. Our host, his head split open, suddenly appeared, rising cross-eyed and smiling above the mass. “Molly,” he shouted and disappeared again. The news from Moscow was good. Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O. had recovered enough to come on again and was rendered unconscious for the second time. He was immediately trodden underfoot. His batman grabbed his ankles and pulled him from the carnage, a seraphic smile on his face. There seemed no sign of the fight abating, so we played ‘God save the King’, and packed our gear. There was a lot of booze left in the kitchen. We drank it. Legend has it I slid to the floor, first calling for my mother or a priest. To make matters worse, the band truck wouldn’t start, so Edgington and Fildes dragged me along between them, with Kidgell walking behind making remarks. The billet was a mile and a half away, but after a while the Gunners Edgington and Fildes dropped Gunner Milligan in a ditch and said, “Sod it.” They sat a while smoking and Driver Kidgell said, “I’ll go and ‘phone for a truck.” An hour later the water waggon arrived. It was two in the morning and I was starting to surface enough to notice that all the dragging had removed the soles from my boots. There was only enough room for three in the cabin, so Edgington and I sat astride the water tank on the back and drove through the black silent streets of Hailsham shouting ‘Night Soil’. Thank God there wasn’t any.