“No one’s kissed me,” complained Gunner Holt, his face like a dog’s bum with a hat on. We motored slowly through the crowded streets, being kissed several times by pretty girls and once, by a pretty boy. In perfect broken English they replied, “Ve are vaiting to be took prisoners old poy.” At a café, two German officers drink coffee. In the Tunis streets the milling throng are thronging the mills. Something that went ‘Splush!’ was dropped in his mess tin. “What’s for the victory feast?” says a cheery voice. In the twilight our ground sheets glistened with rain. Looming behind us is Longstop Hill, a blood drenched salient taken at Bayonet point by the Argylls. We gathered round the Cook House in a gulley adjacent to the now silent guns. “You must have good hearing, that’s 20 miles away.” “I bet the victory cost Ladbrokes a fortune, we was 100-1.” Gunner Lee parts his hair, the comb clogged with a six months paté of Brylcream and dust. “We won,” said White, as though it had been a game of football. Had we ordinary layabouts beaten the formidable German Army?ĭear Führer, beaten ve haff been by zer Ordinary Layabouts, signed Formidable German Army. How Spike Milligan helped Monty capture North Africa during world war two.Īt least that's his side of this dead-pan humorous storyĬould this be the beginning of the end? Or the end of the beginning?
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