Where Have All the Bullets Gone? Read Online Free PDF Page A

resident tart who traded on the outskirts of the town. Her pimp stood outside and shouted: “Thees way, twenty cigarette you fuck-a my seester.”
    “Sister?” said Bronx. “She looks more like his grand-mother.”
    “I think for twenty fags he’d let you fuck ‘im,” says Rogers.

Romance One
    I t was in the New Army Welfare Rest and Recreation Centre, a large rambling Victorian affair at the top of the village, that I found…romance! I had never myself ever had a large rambling Victorian affair, but now, one of the Italian girls serving at the tea bar takes my eye. Arghhh! You’ve heard of Mars Bars? Forget ‘em. She’s a ringer for Sophia Loren but six inches shorter and six inches further out. Troubles never come singly, and neither did hers. She likes me, can I have tea with her? There is a smell of burning hairs. I said yes from the waist down. 4 o’clock tomorrow? Si!
    I spent all day getting ready. Finally I apply Anzora hair goo and finger-wave my hair. I look lovely. I ‘borrow’ the jeep and drive to the address. What’s this? A magnificent Romano-Greek styled villa; it must be wrong, no, it’s right. I drive up the circular drive through embossed iron gates. The great double door: I gently bang the brass hand-shaped knocker. I’ve only just arrived and there I am with my hand on her knocker.
    A suave white-coated grey-haired flunkey opens the door: “Ah meester Meeligan.” He knows my real title! “Please come in, the Contessa is waiting.” Contessa? I follow him down a cool marble-floored hall, the walls hung with oil paintings broken by wall consoles. He opens the door into a large gasping-with-light room. The decor is Louis XVI with Baroque gilt furniture. She’ is sitting against the far wall on a buttoned couch, a fine white cotton dress to the knee (Arghhhhhhh!) brown satin legs (Arghhhh!) fine topless sandals cross laced up her leg (Arghhhhhhhhh!). Her hair is loose on her shoulder (Arrrrghh!), in her hand she holds an Arum lily that she is waving under her nose (Arghhhhhhhhhhh!) She has been practising this all day. I take off my hat to show her my fine Anzora goo hair-set stuck with flies. “Hello and arghhhhhhh,” I say. “Seet here,” she says. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She pats the Louis XIV couch to which I lower my Milligan trousers. It’s all too much. She speaks in slow purring tones. (Arghhhhhhhh!) She is very laid back or is it that I’m leaning forward. She asks me what ‘Spike’ means. I tell her, I mean business. Her family goes back six hundred years, where do mine go back to? I tell her they go back to 50 Riseldine Road, Brockley. Tea is served on a silver service — how many spoons can I get in my pocket? I ask her where her parents are; they are stopping at Eboli. I tell her I will stop at nothing. Yes, she is a Countess. Have I ever been to Eboli? No, I have been to Penge, Sidcup, but not to Eboli. She has heard me tinkering on the piano at the Centre, she likes jazz, will I play her piano? I bluff my way through ‘A Foggy Day in London town’. She claps her hands. “Whatees that?” I tell her: “It’s a piano, don’t you remember, you asked me to play it.” The flunkey arrives, it’s time for me to depart, la Contessa has another appointment. Blast. “Can you come see me again?” Yes I can, but can we try a different room next time. I shake hands. It’s like a cool perfumed sponge cake. (Arggggggggg!)
     
    I’m back at camp lying on my bed smoking, nay steaming, thinking of her. I am besieged with military questions: “Did I get it?” No I didn’t. How far did I get? The piano. What is it about the British soldier? He will knock off a German machine-gun nest single-handed and never say a word about it, but if he knocks off some poor innocent scrubber, he gives you every little nitty gritty detail. I don’t get it, as in this case I didn’t.
    I’ve caught it. Wait. You don’t catch bronchitis. I mean you don’t chase it up the street with a