Sorry to keep you waiting. Balloon's gone up.
Total chaos.
Deadlines brought forward, printers on the warpath -
all kinds of merry hell.
But that's Fleet Street for you.
I wouldn't know about Fleet Street but I'm familiar with merry hell.
Of course. Of course. The, war.
Now, you have impressive references here from Mr Gilbert Frankau
and Mr RC Sherriff.
Yes, I knew them back then when we were all working on Tenth Avenue.
Tenth Avenue? In New York?
No, No. In Flanders.
It was a trench.
Yes, the war. Very good. I couldn't go of course.
Eyesight.
I'm sorry. You missed quite a show.
Really? Yes, it must have been hell.
From what I've read.
We had some bad times.
But we had some good times too.
I'm sure. So perhaps you could tell me about yourself, Mr...?
Roberts, Fred Roberts.
You do have my curriculum vitae?
Yes.
But I'd like to hear about you in your own words.
Frederick Roberts.
Formerly of the North Midlands Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment,
otherwise known as the Sherwood Foresters.
A mining engineer by profession -
I worked in the Kimberley diamond mines in South Africa
until friend Fritz kicked off the firework party.
I see. So you have mining qualifications?
Jolly useful in a pioneer battalion
charged with trench repair and maintenance...
Though less useful in a newspaper office.
I don't know - digging up all that muck.
Yes, Mr Roberts.
My problem is that what we need here is men with relevant experience.
So tell me. Do you have any relevant experience?
Come on. Come on, lads. Quickly.
Move it, move it, move it.
All right?
Come on! Come on!
Come on, lads.
Everyone all right? Good lads.
To be in Flanders now that winter's here.
It's April.
Is it? I find it frightfully difficult to tell.
Usual drill, Sergeant.
Oi! Smith, Dodd, Henderson, Barnes. You heard the officer.
Search the place for anything we can use.
Preferably of the metal or timber variety. All right, sir.
And be sharp about it, lads.
Fritz's love tokens seem to be arriving with greater frequency.
4.2s, sir.
That's a relief. Thought for a minute they were 5.9s.
No. Those are 5.9s, sir.
What the hell are you doing, Dodd?
Die Boche vermin!
You're wasting your time.
Put your bayonet away before you hurt someone.
But it's a rat, sir.
Yes, I'm familiar with the species, Dodd.
We've encountered one or two since we've been in Ypres.
Ypres, sir?
It's what the Belgians call Wipers.
Right, sir. Funny lot, the Belgians.
It's like the Napoo Rum they got over here, sir.
Never seem to get any.
Napoo it's from the French, Dodd.
"Il n'y en a plus". There is no more.
Well, why don't they just say that then, sir?
Nothing here, Captain.
Napoo salvage, sir.
Very good, Dodd. We'll make a sapper of you yet.
Quickly. Quick. Come on, lads.
Find me something, lads.
Look what we have here, sir! Boxes of paper.
Excellent. Exactly what we're looking for to reinforce trench 132.
Really, sir? Er no, Dodd.
I'm afraid you'll find when you've been out here for a while that
paper doesn't offer much protection against crumps and whizz-bangs.
Unless you're a red hat in HQ with a cushy job, then the paper
stops you getting anywhere near the shooting gallery at all.
Your cynicism could become wearying, Lieutenant Pearson
except fortunately I find it quite amusing.
Some tarpaulin here, sir.
Well, that might be useful.
Blimey.
Now what the bloody hell is that?
That, Smith, is an Arab.
I'm not stupid, Sar'nt.
The Arab is an Anglo-American hand-fed platen press.
It's probably the finest in the world.
It's a manual, pedal-operated printing machine
patented in 1872 by Josiah Wade.
Manufactured in Halifax,
subsequently sold all over the world.
In short, it's a work of art.
So, shall we smash it up?
No. Stupid, Dodd.
Look, it's even got the blocks and the trays of type.
Go on, stick that over there, Smith.
How on earth do you know all this, Harris?
I was a printer in civvy street, sir.
Good grief. You kept quiet about that.
Well, it didn't seem relevant to fighting Fritz, sir.
No. But it might be now.
Can you make this work?
Well, I mean, she's not been used for a while.
The type's all over the countryside.
There's a few unwelcome visitors.
But give it a bit of time, reckon so, sir. Yes, sir.
How's it work then, Sar'nt?
Well, you stick the ink on that plate there.
And the rollers come down onto the block there.
Paper goes in there.
Don't touch it.
Very interesting.
What are we going to do with it?
We're going to borrow it.
Isn't that looting?
No, no. It's temporary requisitioning of civilian
facilities for military purposes.
Right. Sounds like looting.
Have you ever done any journalism, Pearson?
Good God, no! Excellent.
Me neither.
Because what we're going to do, is we're going to produce a newspaper.
Aren't we, Sergeant? If you say so, sir.
What, like the Daily Mail?
I was thinking something rather more accurate.
The Times?
The Wipers Times.
Move it, lads! Move it!
We've got plenty of ink, plenty of paper.
In fact, according to Harris,
the only thing we seem to be lacking is "copy".
None of us is writing men.
We haven't done any journalism.
There's a first time for everything. It can't be that hard.
I think we should aim to produce something a bit like Punch,
except with jokes..
So what are we actually going to write about?
Damn you, Fritz. I can't hear myself think.
Put on The Bing Boys would you, Jack?
So will The Wipers Times address the big questions of the war?
Certainly. And how will we do that?
I suggest we do so just by writing down any old thing that
comes into our heads.
Trial page proof, sir.
Looks pretty good, I must say myself.
Who do I show it to, sir? Who's the editor?
Well, as senior officer, I am, of course, the editor.
I will need a sub-editor. Any volunteers? Jack?
Bad grammar is simply something I will not put up with.
Up with which you simply will not put.
All right, Jack, the job's yours.
Only drawback, sir, is that we're short of Ys and Es.
Well, it's just as well we're not based anywhere called Ypres then.
Now, sir, what about some copy?
Dammit, Harris, haven't you heard of writer's block?
Only every day, sir, come deadline time for the newspaper.
Very well, Harris. But you are very annoying.
Very good, sir.
You know he's right, Fred.
Et tu, Pearson?
I'm going to hold this pencil...
and see what happens.
Something's bound to turn up.
You are an incorrigible optimist.
Optimism.
Well, there's a dangerous thing...
particularly in a war.
Do you suffer from optimism?
Men! Do you suffer from optimism,
but fail to recognise the tell-tale signs?
Many do.
Is it serious, Doctor?
I just need you to answer a few simple questions.
Do you sometimes wake up in the morning feeling that all is
going well for the Allies?
Yes, Doctor.
Do you sometimes think that the war will be over,
within the next 12 months?
Absolutely, Doctor.
Do you consider that our leaders are competent to conduct the war
to a successful issue?
I should say so, Doctor.
Dear. This is the worst case of cheerfulness I've encountered.
Good. No. It's terrible.
But don't worry.
I promise I can cure you of optimism within two days
and effectively eradicate all traces of it from your system.
Really, Doctor? And how are you going to do that?
I'm writing something for you now, which should do the trick.
Is it a prescription, Doctor?
No. It's your orders. I'm sending you to the front line.
Thank you, Doctor.
Not sure about this piece about optimism.
Are you questioning the judgment of a superior officer?
Er, yes. Good.
So as a superior officer, of course, I shall ignore you.
Seriously, do you not think it's gone a little bit too far?
How can you accuse me of going too far - when the entire
24th Division has gone precisely ten yards in the last six months?
And that was sideways. I'm just saying we have to be careful.
Yes, I guess you are right. We must be responsible.
As will be made clear in my editorial.
You haven't written an editorial.
How's your shorthand? Non-existent.
Good. Take this down.
Editorial.
Excellent.
Having managed to pick up a printing press, slightly soiled,
at a very reasonable price,
we have decided to produce a paper.
There is much we would like to say in it,
but the shadows of censorship enveloping us,
cause us to refer to the war that we hear is taking place in Europe...
Careful... In a cautious manner.
We apologise for any shortcomings in production of our paper...
on account of...
Editorial inexperience?
Quite so.
We hope to publish The Times weekly,
despite the attentions of Messrs Hun and co.
Our local rivals. Excellent!
And we take this opportunity of stating that we accept
no responsibility for the views expressed. We?
Yes. And we disassociate ourselves from any
statements in the advertisements.
Well, that bit's true. There are no advertisements.
No? Why Not?
There's a problem with potential advertisers such as theatres,
restaurants, hotels, small businesses et cetera...
Well, what's the problem?
There aren't any. They've all been blown to buggery.
Is that anywhere near Poperinghe?
No, it's not. And you didn't hear that, Sergeant, did you?
No, sir, but it was most amusing.
Harris, you're our expert.
We can't be a proper newspaper without advertisements, can we?
No, sir, that's what the front page is for.
So what do we do?
Taxi! Taxi! I say, Taxi!
'Are you having trouble getting home?
'Not any more, with our fleet of handsomely-appointed taxicabs.'
But how will I recognise your taxis?
'Easy, they have a red cross painted on each side.'
'Is your friend a soldier?
'Do you know what he wants? No? We do.
'Send him one of our latest improved combination umbrella
'and wire cutter.
'No more nasty colds caught when cutting the wire.
'He will be absolutely delighted with the combination umbrella
'and wire cutter.
'Just 15 francs.
'Quite right, Miss.
'Now you can rest assured your soldier friend will stay fit
'and healthy out in no man's land.'
'Calling all harassed subalterns.'
Who? Me?
'Yes, you. Is your life miserable?
'Do you hate your company commander?'
'Of course you do.
'Then why not buy him one of our patent "tip me up" duckboards?'
But how does the "tip me up" duckboard work?
'You just get your company commander on the end...
'and the duckboard does the rest.
'Every time a blighty!
'That's our promise. Remember...
'if once he steps onto the end,
'to take a month his face to mend.'
Thank you, "tip me up" duckboard.
Excellent work, Sergeant. When can we roll the pressers?
Soon as it eases off a bit, sir.
Surely you're not bothered by a spot of rain?
No. It's more the bombardment, sir.
Fritz is getting a bit too close to the print room to be pleasant.
Well, when Herman knocks off for his evening sausage let's print
the blighter.
Everything all right? I'm fine, Sar'nt.
Not you, the print blocks. Get in there.
Don't get your hand caught in the plate, Dodd.
Or you'll come a cropper.
A phrase, incidentally,
derived from the printing presses of HS Cropper.
Do you know that? That's very interesting, Sar'nt.
As is the phrase "mind your Ps and Qs".
It comes from a common mistaking of the P for the Q in a tray of type.
That's even more interesting, Sar'nt.
Whereas, the expression "get the wrong end of the stick",
that comes from grabbing the wrong end of the compositing stick
and getting your hand covered in ink.
It means thinking you're being interesting when really... Yes, Henderson?
Very, very interesting indeed, Sar'nt.
Correct.
Right, here we go. Grab it, Smith.
There it is, Sar'nt.
Now, the result, if I say it myself, is a thing of beauty.
Unlike any of you lot.
Oi, Bill, this Wipers Times does what it says!
Have you seen this poppycock, sir?
Yes, I have.
It's downright insubordination.
That's maybe why the men seem to like it.
The men also like the ladies of the Poperinghe Fancies.
Neither are exactly conducive to winning the war.
Really? Have you seen the ladies of the Poperinghe Fancies?
Of course not!
I think they're doing their bit.
Jolly, buxom girls.
They can't sing, they can't dance, but...
no-one seems to care, particularly.
I believe the chaps call them glycerine and Vaseline.
No idea why. We're getting off the point here, sir.
Which is surely that some of the material in this publication
is not merely unsuitable, it's downright treasonable.
Like what, in particular?
Like this.
Answers to correspondence.
Whoever wrote this should be court-martialed.
Like this item advising young officers not to wear turned-up
slacks or shoes when going over the top?
What? Lovely, sound advice.
A chap wearing turned-up slacks on the battlefield not only
looks a bloody fool,
but he advertises the fact he's an officer to any half-awake sniper.
No, no, no. That is not the offending article.
I'm referring to this response
to a supposed query from a junior officer.
"Dear Subaltern."
"No."
"The death penalty is not enforced"
"in the case of murdering a senior officer,"
"as you will always be able to claim extenuating circumstances."
That's a joke.
It's an incitement to mutiny, I'll have him shot.
Not if he shoots you first.
That's also a joke.
The war is not funny, sir.
I think the authors are aware of that.
I have a feeling that may be the point.
I mean...
It's not all cocking a snook at the general staff, although...
quite a bit of it is.
I mean, some bits are deadly serious - words from the heart.
Such as?
"People we take our hats off to - The French at Verdun,"
"the British Navy at Jutland,"
"and the Canadians at Ypres."
Saluting our fallen comrades is hardly sedition, is it?
They also take their hats off to the officer in charge
of the costume department of the Poperinghe Fancies.
They are just a gang of backchat comedians deliberately
undermining morale with this impertinent, unpatriotic rag.
Could you think of anything more likely to produce discontent amongst the men?
Yes. Banning it.
Put your back into it, Henderson. Sir.
Sergeant, we're running out of timber.
Go see if you can borrow something from the communications line.
Henderson. Barnes. You work on the parapets.
Yes, sir.
Keep down, Barnesy, unless you want sniper taking your head off.
Smith. Dodd. Start on the supports.
Do I have to work with Dodd, sir?
Yes, you do. Poor Dodd drew the short straw.
Now get on with it, Smith.
What's the plan?
What I think we should do, Jack...
Up the cover price, get in some new writers and cut down on the poetry.
You don't think you might be getting rather obsessed with the paper? Don't be ridiculous.
I'm a model commanding officer executing my duties
in exemplary fashion.
What do you think of the poetry?
I think poetry's essential in the modern battlefield. A bit like mud.
If only it were just mud.
Yes. Perhaps, better not dwell on the... unmentionables.
Better left unsaid.
That's why I'd rather think about the paper.
It's important to me because it's not important.
Dear. You're getting aphoristic.
Am I? Apologies.
So what are we thinking?
I think we should crack out another couple of issues.
And if it keeps going this well, try and sell it back home.
You're getting obsessed.
Listen. Listen, Fritz is in fine voice.
What are they singing, sir? Sounds like an hymn, sir.
It is.
It's called the Hymn Of Hate.
It goes something like this...
You we will hate with a lasting hate.
We will never forego our hate.
Hate by water and hate by land.
Hate of the head and hate of the hand.
Hate of the hammer, hate of the crown.
Hate of 70 millions choking down.
We love as one. We hate as one.
We have one foe and one alone.
Eng-er-land.
That's not very nice is it, sir?
Spot-on, Dodd.
We don't have any songs like that, do we, sir?
No, we don't and if we did they'd certainly be a lot funnier.
The Wipers Times should put that right, sir.
Good idea, Dodd.
Since Dodd has joined the editorial conference,
I propose we take his excellent suggestion on board
and include something suitably melodious in the issue.
What do you have in mind?
We all love the music hall, sir!
Ladies and gentlemen!
Welcome to the Cloth Hall at Ypres.
Best ventilated hall in the town.
Tonight, for your delectation,
we proudly present positively the greatest
collection of performers ever collected in one place at one time.
Yes, it's Mr Thomas Atkins And Co in their stupendous new revue,
The Big Bangs Are Here.
With music by Mr R Tillery.
And not to mention Mrs Miniworther,
who always meets with a thunderous reception.
And not forgetting Bouncing Bertha, who's only 17 inches high...
but is guaranteed to bring the house down.
And, there's more, with Hind and Berg, sword swallowers...
and nail eaters.
And introducing the world's favourite comedian, Kaiser Bill...
and his little Willie.
That's the crown prince I'm talking about.
Thank you. But I promised you a song and a song you shall have.
A pleasing patriotic performance from our very own privates -
The Atkins brothers - Thomas and Tommy.
Yes, this show is going to run, and run and run and run...
Dodd, did you go swimming? Give its a rest, Smithy I was switching patrols.
As you were, Smith.
Great news, Fred, apparently the war will be over within the week.
Says who?
Says Hilaire Belloc.
Didn't he say the war was going to be over within the week last week?
I rather think he did.
And the week before.
Now you're just jealous cos we don't have a war expert of our own.
Somebody who really knows what's going on.
Yes, you're right. Perhaps we should employ our own Hilary Belloc.
What about Belary Helloc? I hear he's very well informed.
Really?
So what is Mr Helloc's latest take on the war?
Good evening.
I'm the famous Belary Helloc and tonight my subject is
"why we are going to win the war."
Everything points to a speedy disintegration of the enemy.
So let's just have a look at the figures.
There are 12 million fighting men in Germany.
Of these, nine million are already killed,
or are being killed as we speak.
Leaving just three million.
Of these 2,500,000 are temperamentally
unsuitable for fighting owing to obesity, due to eating sausages.
This leaves us just 500,000 as the full German strength.
Now, of these, 497,250 are suffering from incurable diseases.
And I think we know which ones.
Leaving just 2,750 men.
Of these, 2,150 are on the Eastern Front.
And of the remaining 600, we see that 584 are generals and staff.
Thus we find, that there are in fact just...
16 men on the Western Front.
Clearly not enough to resist one final big push, or maybe two,
or three - four at the very most.
And that is why we are going to win the war.
If we haven't already by the time you've heard this.
Letters for you, sir. Thank you, Henderson.
Thank you.
News from the home front.
Has my wife been raising money for noble causes,
such as providing warm woollens for war-worn Walloons?
Is mine selling flags for blue body belts for bucolic Belgians?
Touche.
Always a bit of a mixed blessing, isn't it, a letter from home?
A reminder of a land where gascons,
whizz-bangs and mein und verfers are not allowed.
Good heavens - my wife has sent me a clipping from the Tatler.
We've been mentioned in Dispatches!
What? Fame at last?
What did they say?
"We hear news from the front of an amusing periodical designed"
"to entertain the troops."
"It is entitled The Wipers Times after the town of Ypres"
"where its enterprising creators are currently quartered."
"So, we salute the anonymous wits of the 6th Division..."
We're the 24th Division.
Nincompoops.
Dear. Appears we're not to be famous after all.
Damn journalists, can't they get anything right?
Is that a rhetorical question?
It's Lieutenant Colonel Howfield's ADC, sir.
Little bobbing Bobby.
The one who has little red star flashes on his jim-jams?
Captain, how can I help?
Of course. Yes.
Looking forward to it, sir.
Thank you, Smith. Sir.
Lieutenant Colonel Howfield has granted us
the privilege of a full inspection.
When?
Now. Initiate "Operation Panic".
Where is that "tip me up" duckboard when you need it?
We under attack, sir?
Quite the reverse. We've got an inspection by the Divisional Staff,
which means for as long as they're here, there won't be any action at all.
Not even our artillery would open fire when there's a brass hat down here.
Henderson, Dodd, shift these trays. Put them under the books.
Barnesy, get hold of this.
To say an old adage -
war is long periods of boredom punctuated by sheer terror.
Sir. At ease, Roberts.
Hope I'm not interrupting anything.
No, sir. Well, I should be, shouldn't I?
Boche obviously not keeping you occupied, and vice versa.
You've got time on your hands, Roberts,
and time is the soldier's greatest enemy.
Isn't it, Booby? Yes, sir.
Apart from the gas and the flamethrowers.
So, are your boys fit, Roberts?
As a fiddle, sir.
Because the men have got to be fit for the big push.
What about you, Roberts?
Keeping busy?
As a bee, sir.
So no distractions? Finding things to do?
Yes, sir.
Doing our best to make a little cover for the lads
who are hanging onto the remnants of Belgium in the teeth of every
disadvantage, discomfort and peril. Sir.
So not too much "paperwork", then?
Not at all, sir.
That's good to hear, isn't it, Bobby?
Yes, sir.
Because the problem with the whole damn line is inaction.
We're getting bogged down in a mire of defensive passivity.
There's no forward movement.
No sorties, no raiding parties, no mining activity.
You're right, sir. It's almost as if we were... entrenched.
Quite so.
And the question you have to ask yourself, and you,
particularly, as commander, Roberts, is are you being offensive enough?
I'm not sure, sir.
Are we being offensive enough? Pearson?
No, sir. I...
I think we could be a lot more offensive.
Good man, Pearson.
So from now on, you're going to be a lot more offensive.
You hear that, men?
From now on, we are all going to be as offensive as possible.
Very good, Roberts.
Isn't it, Bobby?
I'm not altogether sure, sir.
You heard the colonel, we must attack something.
How about... stupid moustaches?
Good idea. Far too many of them around.
I blame Charlie Chaplin.
I say, that was a bit friendly.
Put the gramophone on, would you?
Well saved. No...
It's not enough. Have to play the piano. Dear.
Bad news, sir. We've had a direct hit.
Bloody Boche. Excuse my French, sir.
French excused, Sergeant.
Is there nothing that can be done?
I think it's finished, sir.
It's the end of The Wipers Times.
It was good while it lasted, Fred.
I've tried, throughout this war,
to maintain my sense of humour.
But now I'm really unamused.
What are you men so happy about?
Captain Roberts. He's on grand form tonight, sir.
What do you mean?
Well, the orders that he gave the men were not strictly according to the drill manual. Really?
Yes, sir. He said, "Fall in, you blank, blank, blank, blank."
"We're going up the blanking line and if we see any blanking Boche,"
"we're going to shove their blanking bombs up their blanking... shirts."
Did he actually say shirts, Dodd? No, sir.
You'll have to excuse Captain Roberts.
I'm afraid he's taken the loss of the printer somewhat badly.
Sir.
At least the old girl has been put to some use.
A distinguished end to her literary career.
Part of a transverse wall of C4 trench number six post.
Men and party coming through.
Well, I assumed it wasn't a delegation from the general staff.
You wouldn't find them at this end of the muddy stick.
You must be, Roberts.
Sir. I hear you're quite the thorn in the red hats' backsides.
Good man.
Off we go, boys. Good luck, Colonel.
Who was that?
Commanding officer of the Royal Scots Fusiliers.
Why was he wearing a French tin hat?
A bit of a personality, somewhat eccentric.
Always suggesting the top brass come down to the front
and get a taste of the action.
He won't last long, will he? What's his name?
Name's Churchill.
Heard a rumour, sir.
Don't tell me, the Kaiser has been
arrested by Field Marshal Hindenburg and shot as a spy?
Not exactly, sir, no.
It's a friend of a friend of a friend, has told me...
He happens to know the whereabouts of a lovely little hand-jigger.
Speak English, Sergeant.
It's a printing press, sir. And word has it there's a lot more type.
Priceless, Sergeant.
Only drawback, sir, is its current location.
Which is where? Hellfire Corner.
Dear. That's the Hellfire Corner, the most dangerous place on the Salient.
Hottest place in the world, sir.
Where life expectancy is about, what? 60 seconds?
If that, sir.
Well, it would be an
act of pure folly to risk lives rescuing a printing press.
So no sensible commanding officer could possibly sanction it,
is that clear?
Very clear, sir.
Good luck, Sergeant.
Why do they call it Hellfire Corner, Sar'nt? Why do you think, Dodd?
Dodd doesn't think! Shut up, Smithy, before Fritz shuts you up for good.
This bloody thing weighs a ton.
If you drop it you'll find out about hellfire from me.
Now run, you bugger!
Well. So that is a hand jigger.
Pardon my French.
God bless this printer and all the jokes who fail in her.
Sir! Careful of the printer.
Careful of the champagne more like.
You mustn't waste this stuff there's a war on.
Is there? I had no idea.
Better make sure the Germans don't get hold of it.
Too slow. There we go.
How on earth did you get hold of this?
Well, I had a bit of luck at cards with some of the brass hats
billeted at the chateau.
As it turned out, magnificent cellar.
To the hand jigger.
Ladies and gentlemen,
welcome to the latest venue in our grand tour of Flanders.
The Neuve Eglise Hippodrome, where our doors are always open.
Tonight, we are honoured to present a show to die for.
The grand new revue, Over The Top.
Positively the greatest spectacular performance ever staged.
And topping the bill,
it's musical merriment from our very own sapper songbirds,
Trench And Foot, with their delightful ditty, Minor Worries.
Gas! Gas! Gas!
Looks good, Jack.
Harris and his devils have done a fine job.
It's nothing to worry about.
The quacks say I'll be right as rain and back on the front line in no time.
Are you sure? Thank you.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I'm still here.
Well, you were lucky.
Apparently, Fritz has developed a new type of stink bomb.
Makes you wretch so you have to take off your gas mask and then the chlorine kills you.
Fiendish.
Excuse me.
What about Henderson?
I'm very sorry.
Well, the good news is, we still have plenty of material
coming in from our distinguished contributors.
Please, tell me it isn't all poetry. Fine. It isn't all poetry.
That's a lie. It is all poetry.
Damn and blast. Alert the medical orderlies, Jack.
There's been a serious outbreak of poet-itus.
Subalterns are being seen with notebook in one hand,
a bomb in the other,
absently walking near the wire in deep communion with the muse.
It's probably because spring is in the air.
The picture of little lambs
gambolling among the whizz-bangs is so beautiful and romantic.
I've had enough verse. Doctor!
I demand an injection of prose.
What we do have is, a lot of letters to the editor.
This chap here wants to know why we don't write more about the war.
I rather thought we did? No the "wider" war.
The "big picture" et cetera.
We can't write about the "wider war" because we have no idea what's going on.
We're just fighting in it. Well, it's lucky we have illustrious war correspondents
like William Beach Thomas to keep us informed.
Teach Bomas? That idiot.
Are you trying to make me feel worse? He's highly respected
because he always manages to write from the "thick of the action".
Funny how we've never actually seen him though, isn't it? Fred, you're being cynical.
He must know what he's talking about. He's in the Daily Mail.
I am here, in no man's land, where all hell has broken loose.
The air is thick with bullets and shells but I don't mind that.
And now I'm climbing up a conveniently dangling
rope into an observation balloon.
I'm now right above the battle
and looking down on the gallant charge of the, Umpshires.
Yes. The brave men of the 13th Umpshire Regiment,
charging straight at the elite Prussian guard -
who are all surrendering.
Yes, they are shouting, "Kamerad" and putting up their hands.
Same again, please.
I am now over the German battle lines where I can tell you,
with complete confidence,
that the cavalry are laying down a barrage of shells,
whilst the submarines have advanced into the wood.
This has been me, William Teach Bomas,
writing exclusively from the middle of the bottle. Sorry, battle.
Stop it, Jack. You're hurting me.
Shhh, would you two, please, behave!
There are very sick men here. This is not the Palace of Varieties.
No, no, the girls here are much prettier.
Splendid, Harris, that's much better
I think he'll be very pleased with that. Thank you, sir.
What is it, Barnes?
Are you still taking submissions, sir?
We are as long as there is no poetry.
The editor has decided he is sick of rhyme.
The paper cannot live by poems alone.
What have you got for me?
Nothing, sir.
Show me.
To My Chum. Sounds suspiciously like a poem to me, Barnes.
It's about Henderson, sir.
Well, I'm sure we can make an exception in that case.
"No more we'll share the same old barn."
"The same old dug-out the same old yarn."
"No more a tin of bully share."
"Nor split our rum by a star-shell's glare."
"So long, old lad."
"What times we've had both good and bad."
"We've shared what shelter could be had."
"The same crump-hole when the whizz-bangs shrieked."
"The same old billet that always leaked."
"And now - you've stopped one."
"We'd weathered the storms two winters long."
"We'd managed to grin when all went wrong."
"Because together we'd fought and fed."
"Our hearts were light but now, you're dead..."
"and I am mate-less."
Missed, bad luck. Not artillery by any chance?
Sir. Good to see you, Fred. Fully recovered?
Fighting fit, sir.
Ready to be as "offensive" as possible?
Excellent. So now it's The Kemmel Times?
Well, they will keep moving us around, sir,
and now we seem to have become infantry.
Modern warfare's all about flexibility, Fred.
Take the cavalry, now they're riding tanks. Whatever next?
Anyway, you'd be glad to hear you're going to have a change of scenery.
Your days in the Salient are over.
I'll miss it, sir.
Unlike the Boche artillery, which has made rather a mess of it.
I'm not altogether keen on their idea of landscape gardening.
I think you'll prefer your next posting.
Frere Jacques! Bonjour!
How was leave?
Well, Amiens really is most agreeable.
Top-notch cathedral which, sadly, I didn't have time to visit.
Here, fromage.
Merci.
Fromage Bleu. Merci buckets.
But Madame Fifi assures me it's one of the finest
examples of Gothic Architecture in Northern France.
And Madame Fifi is...?
Absolutely charming.
Runs a delightful little club where if you buy a bottle of champagne,
the girls very kindly agree to sit on your knee.
You really must go there.
In fact, everyone must go there.
I'm giving all ranks one day's leave in Amiens.
And that's an order!
It's a bit far, isn't it?
It won't be - we're on the move again.
Really? Where to?
You'll love it, apparently it's very pretty, indeed.
Capital. What's it called?
The Somme.
Zero minus three.
I'm sorry, Jack, this issue's a bit thin.
Not even sure we'll make the deadline.
Well, we have had other calls on our time.
Perhaps we should wait and bring it out after the grand show.
No. I think sooner is better than later.
A harpsichord of hate...
performed to an audience of terrified Teutons.
I rather like that. Yes?
I must remember it if I ever get out of this.
Rum ration.
Rum ration, Sergeant. It's time to give the boys a tot.
Sir.
Dodd's too young. I'll have his.
We don't want you incapable, Smith.
How would you tell, Sar'nt?
Any chance of seconds?
No, it's bad for your health.
Swine. Can't even let a man have a drink in peace.
S'cuse me for asking, sir, but there's rumours going round.
Is this the big push?
I'm afraid such information is hush-hush, Dodd. Who told you that?
Germans, sir. They've been shouting out across no man's land.
Yes, well, perhaps it isn't the best kept military
secret in the history of the British military.
Zero minus one.
All right, men. Just wanted to say,
whatever happens, you know you can
rely on the old division to give a good account of itself.
Even Dodd, sir?
Especially Dodd.
So, here to all you lads.
The game's started, so keep the ball rolling and remember,
the only good Hun is a dead Hun.
No jokes?
A bit short of jokes.
There was a young girl of the Somme...
Who sat on a number five bomb...
She thought was a dud 'un but it went off sudden...
Her exit she made with aplomb.
Did you know it's still going on?
The War? Yes, apparently it is.
No, this mutinous magazine.
They promised to stop producing it, erm, when the war is over.
Just listen to this. "Realising that men must laugh."
"Some wise man devised the staff."
Is that supposed to be funny?
Well, it's funnier than what I'm reading.
It's a subversive attack on the entire high command. It continues...
"Let them lead the simple life far from all our vulgar strife."
My God, that's us they're talking about.
"Lest their relatives might grieve often, often give them leave."
"Decorations too, galore What on earth could man wish more?"
We cannot allow this scurrilous insubordination to go unpunished.
"And yet, alas, so goes the rumour."
"The staff all lack a sense of humour."
Utter rubbish.
It's not all rude rhymes.
In fact, er, they've put in a rather helpful glossary of military terms.
Really?
"Duds, there are two kinds -"
"a shell on impact failing to explode is called a dud."
"These are unhappily less plentiful on the other kind of dud."
Go on. "The kind that draws a large salary"
"and explodes for no reason far behind the fighting area."
The battlefield is not a place for humour!
Humour, my dear Howfield,
is what separates civilisation from incivility.
Us from the Boche.
Whilst Roberts and his men are busy writing poems poking fun at us
brass hats, the Germans' equivalent literary contribution is
a hymn of hate.
Have you heard it? Course I've heard it.
Has all the subtlety of a dawn barrage from Big Bertha.
What the Germans sing or don't sing is irrelevant.
We have to maintain discipline in our army,
or the result is defeatism and anarchy.
I still say something should be done about Captain Roberts.
Something has been done.
He's been awarded the Military Cross for gallantry.
"Captain FJ Roberts, 12th Sherwood Foresters,"
"24th Division, for conspicuous gallantry"
"and devotion to duty in the battle of the Somme on August 12th 1916."
"Captain Roberts showed outstanding leadership under fire"
"as Company Commander."
"Throughout he behaved most gallantly."
Maitre d', maitre d'?
I-I was saying - Pearson.
Pearson's priceless and Harris is an ace with the inkies.
And you'd be amazed at the sort of stuff that comes in from the chaps.
The spoofs of Kipling and Sherlock Holmes and...
the Rubaiyat of Omar whats-it.
And limericks and jokes from all sorts of unlikely...
Slow down, Fred, I'm not going anywhere.
But did I tell you about the poet, Gilbert Frankau contributing?
Now there's someone who's actually famous, now he's working for us.
You did mention it once or twice.
There's a very promising writer called Sherriff, who's good at little dramatic squibs.
And one of the men has started carving drawings on wood blocks.
So we're almost up there with the Illustrated London News.
You make it all sound such fun.
It would be if the infernal general staff didn't keep
insisting on us fighting all the time.
Sommelier? Could we have another bottle of the '97?
Darling, can we afford all this?
Of course we can't! Not on a captain's pay.
But as luck would have it, I ran into a general in the boat home
and I won a hand or two at cards.
I do hope he's better at strategy than he is at bridge.
Same old Fred.
Well, not quite.
It's the quiet.
It's keeping me awake.
What's it really like?
You know what the basis for this war is?
Mud.
And sticking through the mud at various places you can see
pieces of towns.
And out there are the trenches.
One set for our men, one for the Boche.
With thick wire fences in front of them.
And time passes slowly.
So, by way of amusement,
one side will try to get in the other's trench and bring back a man.
And the score is 1-0 for the night.
May seem a bit slow, taking the enemy one by one,
when there are millions more out there.
It all helps to pass the time.
Till Christmas, when the war's going to end.
Is it?
Yes. We just don't know which Christmas.
We are winning?
I'm not sure anyone knows.
I fought in a battle...
which was an epic of futility.
No-one could even speculate what the battle was supposed to achieve.
In fact, there was never the
slightest chance of achieving anything at all.
Apart from the flower of British manhood...
being hurled to a squalid death.
This isn't like you, Fred. I'm sorry.
Most of us have been cured of any illusion
we may have had about the pomp and glory of war...
and now know it as the vilest disaster that can befall mankind.
War is nothing more than wallowing in a dirty ditch.
Are you going back?
Of course.
'If you can live on bully and a biscuit.
'And thank your stars that you've a tot of rum.
'Dodge whizz-bangs with a grin.
'And as you risk it, talk glibly of the pretty way they hum.
'If you can crawl through wire and crump-holes reeking.
'With feet of liquid mud.
'And keep your head turned always to the place which you are seeking.
'Through dread of crying you will laugh instead.
'If you can grin, at last when handing over.
'And finish well, what you have well begun.
'And think a muddy ditch a bed of clover.
'You will be a soldier one day then my son.'
Section, halt!
Give us a cigarette, Dodd.
We must be here. Because this, here, is over there.
Where are we, sir? If I'm not mistaken,
we're back at Wipers.
You sure, sir?
Pretty sure.
We've come a long way in the last 18 months, haven't we?
I'd say approximately 30 yards.
Find out what the hell monsieur thinks he's up to, would you, Jack?
Monsieur! Bonjour!
Sergeant? Sir?
Make sure the printer's come in one piece.
I thought the GS wagon we put it on looked pretty ropey.
Sir. Thank you.
I don't think you're going to believe this. Try me.
He's with the Michelin guide.
They're preparing a tourist handbook for the battlefields.
So this is...? This is going to be a holiday destination?
Apparently so.
We should consider ourselves fortunate
we're among the first to have seen the sights. Yes.
Did you ask him to recommend any top class restaurants in the vicinity?
This is beyond parody. You couldn't make it up.
Right. Come on men. Forward march.
Onwards.
He'll be put out of a job soon.
Should we see if the old editorial den's still standing?
It'll be like old times.
Yes, very old times. Back when there were no buildings at all.
Tell me, Sergeant, how many Es in Wenceslas?
As many of the little blighters as I can find, sir.
Which, at the moment, is none.
Very well. I always thought the good king was over encumbered with Es.
We're also short of paper, sir.
We... We've got a bumper Christmas issue to produce.
I'm sure the readers will understand
if the issue's less than the advertised 20 pages.
We've dropped the pen in favour of the sword
and gone to liberate some French villages.
No, we promised our readers 20 pages, and 20 pages they shall have.
Well, that's all well and good, sir,
but it doesn't get around our problem. No poo paper.
If I can find something funny to say about another Christmas
on the front line...
then I'm sure you can find some paper in Ypres, Sergeant.
I'll do my best, sir.
Thank you.
I had a profitable hand of Brag with Bobbing Bobby.
If this issue comes out at all it'll be a miracle.
A miracle at Christmas.
This is the story of a soldier, Alfred Higgins,
or number 249921 Private Higgins A,
as he was officially known.
It was Christmas morning and Alfred was holding the line.
All was peace and goodwill.
The Gas Gongs were chiming out their message of joy to all mankind
and the merry bark of the pipsqueak, aided by the staccato cough of the
howitzer, combined to reassure Alfred that all was well with the world.
Alfred began to doze, when at last his sergeant came in sight.
"Higgins," said the Sergeant.
"Have you been drinking rum?"
"No, Sergeant. Honestly, Sergeant," said Higgins.
"Well, then," said the Sergeant.
"You must have some of mine."
Alfred was treated for severe shock
and never went to the front line again.
A happy Christmas and New Year to all!
And may next Christmas see the whole damn business over.
Bravo, Fred.
A festive tale to gladden the heart.
It's given me an idea.
Permission to go into the pub business?
Permission granted. What on earth are you talking about?
All right. Merci. Demain.
Demain deux fois, deux fois encore.
Very good.
Welcome to the Foresters Arms. Very impressive.
Well, something had to be done.
The ambulances can't keep up with the casualties
and get the wounded back to base quick enough, so...
it's a sort of first aid post.
Or, rather, thirst aid post?
I'm terribly sorry.
That's dreadful.
Well done, lads.
There we are. One franc.
I've no money, sir.
Dear. Well, then I shall have to insist on giving it to you for free.
Cheers, sir. What the bloody hell is going on here?!
You're meant to be a soldier not a bloody publican.
Yes, sir, I was just... I want it closed down immediately.
I'm afraid that's not possible. What?
The Foresters Arms is providing a vital service to these men
and following a petition from the divisional chaplaincies,
the Foresters Arms has been authorised to continue its essential work.
On whose authority? General Mitford's?
Field Marshall Haig's?
Higher than that.
You damned devil dodgers are going to undermine the whole war!
May I add my own note of caution, Captain Pearson? Sir?
I hope this new venture, however admirable,
will not get in the way of your duties.
May I remind you that you are first and foremost assistant editor
of The Wipers Times.
Yes.
The General Staff are under severe pressure from the good ladies
of the Temperance Society.
Why?
From their unique vantage point on the home front, they attribute
all the army's reverses in the field to the effects of alcohol.
They seem to be under the impression that the trenches are awash
with the demon drink.
I can't imagine why they would think that.
Rum business, war.
But the high command has given the ladies their blessing
and whether we like it or not, we will all have to acknowledge that
alcohol is a serious issue.
So what do you propose?
Well, obviously, we'll have to do our bit...
and place a suitable advertisement in a responsible trench newspaper.
Do you have a drink habit?
If not, I can help you acquire one in three days.
If you, or any one you know, does not drink alcohol regularly,
they need my new book Confessions Of An Alcohol Slave.
I can cure anyone.
Take this once sad wretch.
I was a rabid teetotaller for the first 15 years of my life,
but thanks to Dr Supitup and his miracle cure
I now never go to bed sober.
All cases are treated in absolute confidence.
This incredible three-step guide to being a bona fide toper is yours now.
Just write to me, Dr Supitup, at Have Another Mansions,
in Bedfordshire.
You wanted to see me, sir?
Come in, Fred.
If it's about ragging the Temperance Society...
No, no, no. It isn't,
though I have had complaints that your version of the war
consists of nothing but wine, women and song.
Well, there has been the odd visit to Madame Fifi's.
I'd keep quiet about that if I were you, Fred.
Madame Fifi's is closed.
Napoo Madame Fifi? Quelle damage.
Sadly she had to leave her cosy club one dawn for an appointment
with the firing squad.
Madame Fifi was a spy?
Apparently she was extracting information from excitable
young officers
and passing it straight to Berlin.
My conscience is clear, sir.
I can't have given anything away about the war
because I don't know anything.
Like all British officers on the front line,
I'm kept completely in the dark.
I am amazed that, after all this time, you can find anything funny.
I don't know, sir. You would have to concede that it is somewhat
comical that we have spent years fighting our way through Flanders
only to end up right back where we started.
Then I think you'll find the news of your next deployment hilarious.
I can hardly wait, sir.
24th division is being sent back to The Somme.
And why not, sir?
It was such a success last time, why not do it all again?
That's the spirit. War's waking up.
Seconds out of the ring. Last round coming up.
Zero minus one.
Right, lads. You all know the drill by now.
What's that you're drinking, Barnes? Water, sir.
Don't you know the water is not for drinking?
It's for putting in the radiators of the staff cars.
Don't do anything risky, never mind the water. Try some whisky.
Sir.
Ready, men?
Forward, the Foresters.
Give the Fritzes hell!
Stop. Men.
Stop!
Hold your fire!
Sir?
They're already dead!
It's the gas. Their own gas.
The wind must have changed.
I thought they were a bit... passive.
What, you mean...
they didn't put up much of a fight?
Not very sporting, is it?
Signing off before the show has even started.
Spoils the whole fun of war.
Christ!
There was a little Hun and at war he tried his hand.
And while the Hun was winning war was fine, you understand.
When the others hit him back, he shouted in alarm.
"A little drop of peace wouldn't do me any harm."
There was a young man of Avesnes...
Who took a stroll down a long shady lanes...
He trod on a dud Half-hidden in mud.
He never will do it agains.
Well up to our usual terrible standard.
Sir, we've heard a rumour that the Germans have surrendered.
Well, if that is the case, Corporal,
someone really ought to tell their artillery.
Yes, and if Fritz really is waving the white flag,
he might have the decency to stop firing at us.
So you don't think it's true then, sir?
All I'm prepared to say is that the tide is apparently turned
and perhaps, at last, we can all look forward to better times.
Better Times.
It's a good name for a title.
Letter to the editor.
Is it genuine?
Absolutely. I just genuinely made it up.
"Dear sir. I hear that when it's all over,"
"people who joined up early are going to be demobilised first."
"This is very unfair"
"since they obviously much more eager to be in the army than those of us"
"who joined up reluctantly later."
"So surely we should go home sooner?"
"Yours, Lance Corporal A Slacker."
Very convincing argument.
You sure about this title, Better Times?
Apparently we only need one more big effort
and we can completely bust the hump.
You seem to be suffering from optimism.
Talking of which...
Harris thinks we can go to a weekly edition,
despite brother Boche's best efforts to prevent all forms of journalism
by filling the office with shrapnel yesterday.
Why weekly? Why not a daily? Now who's suffering from optimism?
We're selling like hot cakes.
Is that good? I can't remember what a hot cake tastes like.
We're even selling out on the home front.
It would take a lot more copy.
Surely there's enough jokers out there
and more than enough poets to fill the space.
It's a signal for you, sir. Thank you, Harris.
My God!
What is it?
It's all over.
What, sir, just like that?
"Official radio from Paris. 6.01 am."
"November 11th 1918."
"Marshal Foch to Commander in Chief."
"Hostilities will be stopped along entire front at 11 o'clock."
Fini la guerre.
Looks like it.
Napoo Boche.
So it would seem.
It's an armistice.
No big show then, no final push to Berlin?
Shall I, er, tell the men then, sir?
Thank you, Sergeant.
And tell them to keep their bloody heads down until 11 o'clock.
Sir.
So, Jack...
our swords are going to be turned into ploughshares.
The order of the bowler hat for us.
We're going home.
Shouldn't we be celebrating?
I suppose we should.
OK, lads. Well... just received a wire...
Now that we've actually won the war, I hope that your scribbler friends
in The Wipers Times will treat the staff with a little more respect.
Yes, indeed. In fact,
they're recommending the staff be awarded more medals.
About time.
The want special recognition for all those martyrs
who've had to endure wearying years of soft jobs back at the base
and have missed out on all the fun of the front line.
And welcome back to the European Theatre for our grand finale.
Sadly Keiser Bill Hohenzollern will not be appearing as he has
an alternative engagement singing My Old Dutch in Holland.
Also not on the bill are the famous Crumps.
And the little pipsqueaks.
And Duddy... whizz-bang!
Yes! The show mustn't go on.
You've seen the horrors of war.
Now prepare for the horrors of peace.
You were an army of occupation.
Now you're going to be an army of no occupation.
So without further ado,
let's have one last encore from Tommy Atkins with
a delightfully delicious ditty - costumes kindly provided by Messrs.
D Mob & Co - the celebrated tailors of Cheap Street.
That'll do, lads. We don't want to end the show on a low note.
That's more like it. Now, come on, everybody,
let's see that demobilisation smile.
A little decorum, gentlemen, please!
You are not in the army now!
It's all very amusing,
but I'm sure that it is journalism.
Nowadays, ours is a very modern, high-pressure business.
Have you ever sat in a trench, in the middle of a battle
and corrected page proofs? You should try it.
I'm sure. But that was quite a long time ago.
And your CV is a bit sketchy on your more recent career.
I went back to prospecting.
Spent some time in Africa. Looking for gold.
Had some ups, had some downs.
Came home and thought I'd have a last shot at something,
which people were once kind enough to say that I was good at.
I thought if old Beach Thomas can get a job,
then surely I'd be in with a chance.
He's Sir William Beach Thomas
and he's one of our most distinguished correspondents.
Of course. I'm sorry.
Only he was a bit of a joke in the war.
Yes.
We're not really interested in jokes.
Modern writers tell the truth about the war.
Then perhaps I should write you a harrowing article about
how all was not quiet on the Western Front...
and how with shells raining down upon us,
and the chilly November air being rent with fury, the sub-editor
and I drank a case of whiskey and shot the padre for cowardice
and said goodbye to all that.
Well, that's more like it.
No.
This was my truth.
I'm sorry for wasting your time.
No, no, no. Don't be so hasty.
Here's the thing.
I like you, Mr Roberts, I really do.
And it's clear you're clever with words.
So I think I might have something for you here.
How about you start work on the, er..
The crossword?
You want me to compile the crossword?
No. HELP compile the crossword.
See how things go. Better not rush things.
It's not exactly the front line of the circulation war, is it?
A chap in your position can't expect too much.
What do you think?
I think...
Er, you haven't given me an answer, Mr Roberts?
Mr Roberts?
Do you want this job or not?
Mr Roberts?