Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (4 page)

≡ Assistant Instructor.

Signallers Devine and White, who would do anything for a break, set off. In the haste to defend the Sceptered Isle, the South Coast was a mass of hurriedly-laid, unlabelled telephone lines, along walls, down drains, up men’s trouser legs, everywhere!

After thirty military minutes, the O.P. telephone buzzed. “Ah!” said Dawson hopefully, “O.P. here.”

“We haven’t found the break yet.”

“Right. Keep trying.”

The fog was now settling inland. Toy brass had finished the contents of their thermos flasks and withdrawn to the shelter of a deserted fisherman’s cottage. All was silent save the sound of frozen gunners singing the International. Every ten minutes for two hours, Signaller Devine phoned and gleefully reported, “line still broken, Sarge”. The fog was very dense, as were Signallers Devine and White, who were now groping their way through Sussex in Braille. C.O.’s patience being exhausted, a runner was sent to the gun position. Off went Gunner Balfour, the Battery champion athletes foot. Another hour. He was lost. In despair Sergeant Dawson bicycled to the police station, telephoned the Gun Position and told them “Fire the Bloody Thing!” A distant ‘BOOM’. At the O.P. we heard the whistle as the rare projectile passed overhead into the Channel, a pause, a splash, then silence…it was a dud. How could the Third Reich stand up to this punishment! Next day at low tide we were sent out to look for traces of the lost projectile; we didn’t, but it was a nice day for that sort of thing.

Our very own 9 2 gun howitzer

Left to right: Gunners Edgington, Milligan, White and Devine, at low tide on the beach at Galley Hill O.P., Bexhill, the day after the famous dud shell was fired, looking for traces of the lost projectile

Gunner Milligan at the mighty Spandau

LIFE IN BEXHILL 1940-41

I
n Bexhill life carried on. We went on route marches which became pleasant country walks. A favourite marching song was ‘Come inside’—so:

Verse:

Outside a lunatic asylum one day

A Gunner was picking up stones;

Up popped a lunatic and said to him,

Good Morning Gunner Jones,

How much a week do you get for doing that?

Fifteen bob, I cried.

He looked at me

With a look of glee

And this is what he cried,

Chorus:

Come inside, you silly bugger, come inside,

I thought you had a bit more sense,

Working for the Army, take my tip

Act a bit balmy and become a lunatic;

You get your four meals regular

and two new suits beside,

Wot? fifteen bob a week,

A wife and kids to keep, Come inside, you silly bugger, come inside.

No matter what season, the Sussex countryside was always a pleasure. But the summer of 1941 was a delight. The late lambs on springheel legs danced their happiness. Hot, immobile cows chewed sweet cud under the leaf-choked limbs of June oaks that were young 500 years past. The musk of bramble and blackberry hedges, with purple-black fruit offering themselves to passing hands, poppies red, red, red, tracking the sun with open-throated petals, birds bickering aloft, bibulous to the sun. White fleecy clouds passing high, changing shapes as if uncertain of what they were. To break for a smoke, to lie in that beckoning grass and watch cabbage white butterflies dancing on the wind. Everywhere was saying bethankit. It was hop picking time. In 1941 the pickers were real cockneys who, to the consternation of the A.R.P. Wardens, lit bonfires at night and sang roistering songs under the stars. “Right, fags out, fall in!” of course, I almost forgot, the war! but people were saying it would all be over by Christmas. Good! that was in twelve weeks’ time! I started to read the ‘Situations Vacant’ in the Daily Telegraph, and prematurely advertised, “Gunner 954024, retired house-trained war hero, unexpectedly vacant. Can pull a piece of string and shout bang with confidence.”

Part III

1940 HOW WE MADE MUSIC DESPITE

I took my trumpet to war. I thought I’d earn spare cash by playing Fall In, Charge, Retreat, Lights Out, etc. I put a printed card on the Battery Notice Board, showing my scale of charges:

While waiting for these commissions I’d lie on my palliasse and play tunes like, ‘Body and Soul’, ‘Can’t Get Started’, ‘Stardust’. It was with mixed feeling that I played something as exotic as ‘You go to my Head’ watching some hairy gunner cutting his toe-nails. Of course I soon contacted the Jazz addicts. I was introduced to six-foot-two dreamy-eyed Gunner Harry Edgington. A Londoner, he was an extraordinary man, with moral scruples that would have pleased Jesus. It was the start of a lifelong friendship. Harry played the piano. Self taught. He delighted me with some tunes he had composed. He couldn’t read music, and favoured two keys, F sharp and C sharp! both keys the terror of the Jazz man: however, over the months I’d husk tunes with him in the N.A.A.F.I. I taught him the names of various chords and he was soon playing in keys that made life easier for me. He was game for a ‘Jam’ any time. And of course, start to hum any tune and Harry would be in with the harmony, and spot on. It helped life a lot to have him around. One day, with nothing but money in mind, I suggested to Harry we try and form a band. Harry grinned and looked disbelieving. “Just the two of us?”

“We could sit far apart,” I said.

A stroke of luck. A driver, Alf Fildes, was posted to us with suspected rabies and he played the guitar! All we needed was a drummer. We advertised in Part Two Orders. “Wanted. House Trained Drummer. Academic Training advantage, but not essential. Apply The Gunners Milligan and Edgington. No coloureds but men with names like Duke Ellington given preference.” No one came forward. We were stuck, worse still we were stuck in the Army. But! Milligan had the eye of an eagle, the ear of a dog, and the brain of a newt, (we’ve all got to eat). One meal time, as the dining hall rang to the grinding of teeth on gritty cabbages, came the sound of a rhythmic beat; it was a humble gunner hammering on a piece of Lease Lend bacon, trying to straighten it out for the kill. This was Driver Douglas Kidgell. Would he like to be our drummer? Yes. Good. Now, where to get the drums. Gunner Nick Carter said there was a ‘certain’ drum kit lying fallow under the stage of Old Town Church Hall. Captain Martin, a sort of commissioned Ned Kelly, suggested we ‘requisition’ the ‘certain’ drum kit to prevent it falling into German hands. This sort of patriotism goes deep. With Germany poised to strike we couldn’t waste time. We took the drums, and camouflaged them by painting on the Artillery Crest. Kidgell soon got the hang of the drums, and lo! we were a quartet!

After a month’s practice, Captain Martin asked could we play for a dance. I told him we had a very limited repertoire, he said: “So have I, we’ll hold the dance this Saturday.” GAD’ this was the big time! Saturday, The Old Town Church Hall, Bexhill! who knows next week, Broadway! In entertainment starved Bexhill, the dance was a sell-out. The old corrugated iron Hall was packed to suffocation; there were old women. kids, officers, gunners, various wives, very much a village dance affair.

After twenty minutes we had exhausted our repertoire, so we started again. I suppose playing ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ forty times must be some kind of a record. The bar did roaring business the barman being none other than the Reverend Clegg, Regimental Vicar. We played well on into the night. About two o’clock Captain Martin called a halt. They all stood to attention, we played ‘God Save the King’. Now for the rewards. To pay us, Captain Martin led us into the Churchyard in pitch darkness. There he gave us a ‘ten shilling note.

“A little something for you lads,” he said.

“Ten bob?” said Fildes painfully. “Couldn’t we raffle it?”

“Now then lads, remember there’s a war on,” Said Martin pocketing the rest.

That night, by a flickering candle, we all swore allegiance to Karl Marx. No matter what, next dance, unless we got paid more, we’d play the bloody awful Warsaw Concerto!

On pay nights most of us headed for the pubs where, apart from drinking, a lot of singing was done by the battery duettists, Gunners White and Devine. This was a very popular one:

I paid my entrance fee

To see that tattooed she

She had Sir Hubert Tree

Tattooed upon her knee

She had a great big Union Jack

Tattooed upon her back

And down below On her big toe

Jack Johnson done in black

She had a battleship

Tattooed upon her hip

And where I could not see

A map of Germany

She had a picture of Harry Lauder

Right across where she gets broader

And as a mixture

She had a picture

Of her home in Tenersee.

White and Devine were great fans of the band and travelled everywhere with us. Devine, who fancied himself as a ‘Bing Crosby’ in uniform, often took vocals.

In the months to come we enlivened many a lonely military camp. We saw life. In Upper Dicker, we played for a dance-cum-orgy. Couples were disappearing into the tall grass having it off and then coming back to the dance. God knows how many Coitus Interrupti the Hesitation Waltz caused, but we heard screams from behind the trees.

Music has strange effects on drunks: one lunatic ripped open his battle-dress, pointed to a scar on his chest, and shouted “Dunkirk! you bloody coward.” He had a face made from red plasticine by a child of three, that or his parachute didn’t open. “Do you hear me, you bloody coward. Dunkirk…” he kept saying. I’ve no idea what he meant. I confused him by giving him the ladies’ spot prize. A fight broke out with the Canadians. They were all massive.