Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall Read Online Free PDF

the pig rushed up the steps and through the front door of the ‘Belgravia Guest House for Refined Gentlefolk’.
    Screams issued forth, crockery was breaking. Entering the hall we saw chaos! A bald man lying face down on his back with a grandfather clock across him. A fat bursting woman was clutching a gross of Pekinese; “My darlings,” she trilled through a rouged hole. On the landing a fine old man with a rolled newspaper was flailing away at nothing and shouting “Shoooooo.” A toothless crone issued forth stirring a sauce pan of thrice-watered porridge. Behind her a blind man holding up sagging trousers appeared at the W.C. door. “There’s no paper, Mrs Hurdle,” he said. “In the cellar!” screamed a refined voice. Down we raced. Up we came, with the blind man bound hand and foot, still looking for paper. “It’s the wrong one,” said Harris. Down we raced again. A woman on the top stair kept shouting,: “Mind my bottled quinces.” At last we got the animal up. We were covered in cuts, bruises and bottled quince. The pig was unmarked. With a noose around his neck he was as quiet as a lamb. “Who,” said a vast landlady, “who is gwoing to pway fwor all this dwamage! eh?” Sergeant Harris, braces dangling, bowed low. “That’s no bloody good,” she said.
    “Madam, every last penny will be repaid,” said Harris. He took her vile hand, kissed it, passing on his hereditary .gingivitis. Somewhere on the steppes of Russia squadrons of Red tanks were advancing on all fronts. But England too was in there somewhere.
     
    Hastings had had the pleasure of sounding their sirens about fifty times—Eastbourne about forty, but Bexhill sulked unrecognised. Then it came.
    A Wednesday night, late in March 1940, the band was doing a gig at a private house in Pevensey Drive. A well heeled ex-army major was throwing a house party on the occasion of his daughter’s coming-of-age. It had the cobwebs of a dying empire: men wore slightly dated evening dress, and there was one joker from the Blues with Cavalry spurs; the ladies were in gowns of chiffon that seemed straight from the wardrobe of Private Lives . It was pretty horsey, but not outrageously so, though I’m glad to say the moment we played a 6/8 they all did ‘cocking of the legs’↓ and shouted ‘Och Ayes’.
≡ An English version of the Highland Fling, see page 100.
    As a parting gift our host gave us each a fiver. We stood stunned. “I’m sorry,” said Kidgell, “we haven’t any change sir.” He waved us off. Outside, in the dark, we loaded our gear on to the fifteen hundredweight truck. Looking up I saw the night was alive with stars. In the Eastern sky I could make out Saturn, Pegasus, Castor and Pollux. I could hear the distant sound of sea washing the pebbled beaches of Pevensey. The Romans must have heard it once. We drove back in silence until Alf Fildes spoke. “Five pounds? He’ll ask for it back when he sobers up!” It was gone one o’clock when we rolled ourselves in our blankets for the ‘big black’ (as Kidgell called sleep): we drifted off talking about the gig.
    “Did you see that twit trying to do the Big Apple—what about that bird with the big Bristols!—I must of had six doubles—Five pounds!——Cor! Wish we had more gigs like that! For Christ’s sake don’t tell Martin, he’ll confiscate it! Lovely piano—Here! you got lost in the middle eight of ‘Undecided’—I don’t know what happened—I thought I was playing ‘Hot and Anxious’…” gradually the talk faded—silence—night; but the time for Bexhill’s siren was nigh! Somewhere in the wee wee hours a voice, “Everybody on parade at the double!” The voice of Sergeant Dawson bellowed us awake. The local air-raid sirens were going. At last! Bexhill had come into the war! In the dark we stumbled into our clothes: “Steel helmets, gas capes and respirators on!” roared a voice.
    “Oh, Christ!” said Devine, “we’re going to be bombed and