According to David Niven, He once, during the war, gave a chitty to Peter Ustinov which proclaimed: 'This man may go anywhere and do anything in the course of his duty.’ That's nothing. My Friend Harry once got a chitty which excused its bearer from standing up. Listen…
Shortly after D-Day, Harry, at that time an Armoured Corps officer, was attached to an RAOC armoured fighting vehicle depot near Croydon to help them identify the types and marks of AFVs which were pouring in by the hundreds in order to be waterproofed before being shipped to Normandy.
Harry found the attachment to a service unit traumatic after the commitment and belligerence of a fighting regiment. Never would he forget the impact which the news of the invasion of Europe made at that depot. It was like a wet sponge falling on a carpet.
He had just started his breakfast when Alvar Liddell made the historic announcement over the radio. He and two other subalterns were struck rigid by what they heard. The CO and the Captain-Quartermaster were in a deep discussion about blankets. Harry called to the CO: "Listen, Colonel! We've gone in!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake pipe down, Harry," said the Old Man testily. "And switch that damned thing off. Now, then, Smithy, when did we last indent for blankets?"
However, back to chitties...
Harry was in his office making up a convoy list for the next day's delivery to Canning Town docks when in walked a pantomime soldier. Dirty uniform, baggy trousers, boots unpolished, one epaulette flapping, forage cap askew, hair unkempt "Jones 856, sir," he said with a wave that approximated a salute. “Told to report, sir."
"Why?"
"Just been posted, sir. Adjutant said you could use me, sir."
Typical, Harry thought. Any layabouts: pass them on to the tank park.
"Right, Jones," he said. “You're for the hard-standing detail. Get a broom from Sergt. Airie."
"Not allowed to do that, sir," he smirked. Got a chitty." He groped in his pocket and produced a much-worn scrap of paper.
Harry read it with disbelief. “This man is excused standing up."
"It's me feet, sir," volunteered Jones by way of enlightenment.
When Harry regained control of himself, he said: "Right, then, Jones. Go to the cook-house, give the Sergeant my compliments and..."
"Not allowed in cook-houses, sir," grinned Jones. "Got another chitty."
A second, equally repellent, scrap of paper was passed over. It said: “This man is liable to skin infections. He should not be given any work related to food."
A distant throbbing noise gave Harry inspiration. After the flying bomb had passed over, cut out and exploded on the nearby town, he said: "Right, Jones. Sitting down job OK?"
“Yes, sir."
"Well, go to the PAD store and draw a hand-siren and a chair. Then report to me at the foot of the water tower. 0K?”
"Yes, sir."
At the foot of the water tower, Harry handed him a long coil of rope. "Up you go, then, lad," he said briskly.
"Sir?"
"On top of the water tower, man. When you get there, pay out the rope. I'll tie the chair and the siren to it and you haul away. Then all you have to do is sit down and keep a sharp look-out for doodle-bugs. If you see one that is obviously heading straight for the depot, sound the siren like mad. We'll all take cover. If you see one heading this way but you think it will pass to one side or the other of the depot, don't sound the siren. We'll all carry on working. There’s been too much time wasted on false alarms as it is. Can't go on wasting time with all these tanks to be shipped."
To Harry's surprise, Jones did make it to the top of the water tower. As it happened, the very next flying bomb to appear was making a bee-line for the depot.
Jones sounded the siren; everyone took cover; the thing dived into a field just beyond the perimeter; there was an almighty bang and the customary column of black smoke.
And the echoes were still reverberating around the Surrey hills when Jones appeared beside Harry. His feet, apparently were in full working order.
"OK for general duties, Jones?" Harry asked.
"You name it, sir," he said fervently.
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