Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (War Memoirs, Volume 1)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
'At Victoria station the R.T.O. gave me a travel warrant, a white feather and a picture of Hitler marked 'This is your enemy'. I searched every compartment, but he wasn't on the train'. Spike Milligan's on the march, blitzing friend and foe alike with his uproarious recollections of army life from enlistment to the landing at Algiers in 1943. Bathos, pathos and gales of drunken laughter, and insane military goonery explode in superlative Milliganese.
rear gunners.” “No sir, I don’t want to be at the back, I want to drive.” “I’m sorry lad, that’s all we can offer you.” Letter from my major to my father I stood up, saluted smartly and exited. As I walked down the corridor to the street, I saw what was possibly the ugliest W.A.A.F. I had ever seen. “Hello cheeky,” she said as I passed her. Perhaps they were right, perhaps I had got bad eyesight. I caught an evening train back to Bexhill, and arrived to be informed by Edgington that he
breech-blocks, shouted orders, grunts of the sweating ammunition numbers. The guns threw a 280 pound projectile 17,800 yards, so you weren’t safe any where except at 18,000 yards. Momentum was mounting, we were getting new field telephones, wireless trucks, wireless sets, tummy guns, Tannoy loudspeakers that linked Command Post to the guns. The war effort was moving into top gear. Monty, sprang a giant Southern Command scheme, code name ‘Tiger’. One autumn dawn the sky was a mass of grey
shouted into the darkness, “Anybody there?” I was still alone in a fifty-acre field. Smell of oil—I felt my face. It was smothered. The stuff had dripped from a leaky sump. Sound of motor-bike approaching. “Help,” I said. “Who’s that?” said a voice. It was Jordy Dawson. “It’s me, Sarge! Milligan.” A torch shone. “What in Christ has happened to you?” he said. “I’m doing Paul Robeson impressions. You’re just in time for my encore.” I started to sing: “Ole man ribber, dat Ole…” “What’s that on
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
to hurry as dawn’s left hand was already in the sky. A small man in an overcoat drew nigh. “You’re not Dick Scroogle from Lewisham, are you?” “No,” he said, “people keep asking me that.” I gave him some tea. It had been a near thing. Gradually the sun came up. There was no way of stopping it. It rose from the east like an iridescent gold Napoleon. It filled the dawn sky with swathes of pink, orange and flame. Breakfast was Bully Beef and hard tack. I washed and shaved under a tap, icy cold,