All language subtitles for MV5BYTE2YTNiMGItYzgwMC0

[dramatic music]

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[dramatic music]

[bright instrumental music]

[lively music]

[people chattering faintly]
[typewriters clacking]

[phone ringing]

- Sorry to keep you waiting.

Balloon's gone up. Utter 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.

- Oh, of course, of course.

The, uh, the war.

Now.

You have impressive
references here.

From Mr. Gilbert Frankau
and Mr. R.C. Sheriff.

- Yes, I knew them back then,

when we were all
working on 10th Avenue.

- 10th Avenue? In New York?

- No, No. In Flanders.

It was a trench.

- Oh yes, the war. Very good.

I couldn't go of
course. Eyesight.

- I'm sorry.

You missed quite a show.

- Oh, really? Yes, it
must have been hell.

From what I've read.
- Hmm.

We had some bad times, but
we had some good times too.

- I'm sure.

So perhaps you could tell
me about yourself, Mr, uh?

- 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?

- Mm, jolly useful in
a pioneer battalion

charged with trench
repair and maintenance.

- Though less useful
in a newspaper office.

- Oh, 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?

[Fred clears throat]

[soft instrumental music]

[sighs]

[explosions booming]

[woman shouts]
[explosion booms]

[dramatic music]

- Come on. Come
on, lads, quickly.

[explosions booming]

- Move it, move it, move it!

[soldiers chattering faintly]

- You're all all right?

- All right. Come on. Come on.

[explosions booming]

Come on, lads.

- Everyone all right?

Good lads.

[explosions booming]
[glass shattering]

Oh, to be in Flanders
now that winter's here.

- It's April.

- Is It? I find it
frightfully difficult to tell.

- Usual drill, Sergeant.

- Oy! Smith, Dodd,
Henderson, Barnes,

you heard the officer.

Search the place for
anything we can use.

- Preferably of the
metal or timber variety.

- [Dodd] All right, sir.

- And be sharp about, lads.

Fritz's love tokens
seem to be arriving

with greater frequency.

- 4.2's sir.

- That's a relief.

Thought for a minute
they were 5.9's.

[explosion booms]

- No. Those are 5.9's sir.

[rodents squeaking]

What the hell are
you doing Dodd?

- Die Boche vermin! [grunts]

- You're wasting your time.

Just 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.

- Oh, 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.

[speaks in foreign
language], 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.

[explosions booming]

Quickly. Quick.

Come on, lads.
- Move your feet, Dodd.

[metal clanking]

[explosion booming]

- 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?

- Uh, 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 whizzbangs.

- Unless you're a red hat
in HQ with a cushy job,

and 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.

- [Henderson] There's
some tarpaulin here, sir.

- Well, that might be useful.

[soft instrumental music]

- Blimey.

- Now what the
bloody hell is that?

- That, Smith, is an Arab.

- I'm not stupid Sarnt.

- The Arab's 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

and 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.

- [Smith] Sarnt.

- How on Earth do you
know all this, Harris?

- Well, I was a printer
in civvy street, sir.

- Good grief. You
kept quiet about that.

- [chuckles] Well, it
didn't seem relevant

to fighting Fritz, sir.

- No.

But it might be now.

Can you make this work?

- Well, [chuckles] I mean,
she's not been used for a while.

Yeah, the type's all
over the countryside.

And a few unwelcome visitors.

But given a bit of
time, reckon so, sir.

Yes, sir.

- How's it work then, Sarnt?

- Well, you stick the
ink on that plate there.

And the rollers come down
onto the block there.

Paper goes in there.

[hand smacks]
Don't touch it!

- Very interesting.

But what are we
gonna 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.

- Oh, 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.

[upbeat instrumental music]

[explosions booming]

- [Harris] Come on!

Move it, lads.

Move it.
- Come on, lads!

[roller clanking]

- Yes.
[explosions booming]

- We've got plenty of
ink, plenty of paper.

In fact, according to Harris,

the only thing we seem
to be lacking is 'copy'.

- Uh-huh.

None of us is writing men.

We haven't done any journalism.

- Well, 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.

- Uh-huh. So what are we
actually going to write about?

[explosion booming]

- 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?

- Well, I suggest we do
so by just writing down

any old thing that
comes into our heads.

- Uh-huh.
- Trial page proof, sir.

Looks pretty good,
though I say it myself.

Who do I show it to?
Who's the editor?

- Well, as senior officer,

I am of course the
editor. [chuckles]

But I will need a sub-editor.

Any volunteers, Jack?

- Ugh.

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.

- Here.
- Only drawback, sir,

is that we're short
of Y's and E's.

- Well, it's just
well we're not based

anywhere called Ypres then.

- Ah.

- Now, sir, what
about some copy?

- Dammit, Harris, haven't
you heard of writer's block?

- Only everyday, sir, come
deadline time for the newspaper.

- Very well, Harris, but
you are very annoying.

- Very good, sir.

- Hmm, 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.

Now there's a dangerous thing.

Particularly in a war.

Do you suffer from optimism?

[whimsical music]
- Men!

Do you suffer from optimism,

but fail to recognize
the telltale 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.

- Oh dear.

This is the worst case of
cheerfulness I've encountered.

- Oh. 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,

that should do the trick.

- Is it a prescription, Doctor?

- [chuckles] No.
It's your orders.

I'm sending you
to the front line.

- Thank you, Doctor.

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

- Not sure about this
piece about optimism.

- Are you questioning the
judgment of a superior officer?

- Uh, yes.
- Good.

Though 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 10 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.

- Mm. Excellent.

- Having managed to
pickup 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 apologize 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, & 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?

- Uh, there's a problem
with potential advertisers

such as theaters, restaurants,

hotels, small
businesses, etcetera.

- Well, what's the problem?

- Uh, there aren't any.

They've all been
blown to buggery.

- Is that anywhere
near Poperinghe?

- [chuckles] No, it's not.

And you didn't hear
that, Sergeant, did you?

- No, sir, but it
was most amusing.

- [chuckles] 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?

[soft instrumental music]

[whip cracks]
[cart rustling]

- Taxi! Taxi!

I say, Taxi!

- [Voiceover] Are you
having trouble getting home?

Not anymore.

With our fleet of handsomely
appointed taxicabs.

- But how will I
recognize your taxis?

- [Voiceover] [chuckles] Easy.

They have a red cross
painted on each side.

[whimsical music]

Is your friend a soldier?

[melancholy music]

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?

- [Voiceover] Yes, you!
Is your life miserable?

Do you hate your
company commander?

[chuckles]

Of course you do.

Then why not buy him
one of our new patent

Tip-Me-Up Duckboards?

- But how does the
Tip-Me-Up Duckboard work?

- [Voiceover] You just
get your company commander

on the end and the
duckboard does the rest.

[duckboard springing]

[air whistling]

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.

[explosion booming]

- 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.

[explosions booming]

- Everything all right?
- I'm fine, Sarnt.

- Not you, the print blocks.

Get in there.

[soft instrumental music]

Don't get your hand
caught in the plate, Dodd.

Or you'll come a cropper.

A phrase incidentally
derived from printing presses

of H.S. Cropper,
do you know that?

- That's very interesting Sarnt.

- As is the phrase,
"Mind your P's and Q's."

It comes from a common
mistaking of the P for the Q

in a tray of type.

- That's even more
interesting, Sarnt.

- Whereas the expression "Get
the wrong end of the stick,"

now that comes from
grabbing 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, Sarnt.

- Correct.

- Right, here we
go. Grab it Smith.

- [Smith] Here it is, Sarnt.

- Now the results,
if I say it myself,

is a thing of beauty.

Unlike any of you lot.

[dramatic music]

[soldiers chuckling faintly]

- [Soldier] Oi, Bill.

This Wipers Times, it does
what it says. [laughs]

[paper ripping]

[phone ringing]

- 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!

- Well, 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 Glycerin 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.

- Oh. 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?

- Perfectly sound advice.

A chap wearing turned up
slack on the battlefield

not only looks a bloody fool,

but it advertises the
fact that he's an office

to any half-awake sniper.

- No, 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."

[laughing]

- 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'
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're just a gang
of backchat comedians,

deliberately undermining morale

with this impertinent,
unpatriotic rag.

Can you think of
anything more likely

to produce discontent
amongst the men?

- Yes. Banning it.

[soft instrumental music]

[press squeaking]

- Put your back
into it, Henderson.

- Yes, sir.

- Sergeant, we're
running out of timber.

[explosion booming]

Go and 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 a 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?
[bomb whistling]

What I think we should do, Jack-

[explosion booming]

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.

[explosion booming]

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.

- Oh 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.

[men singing faintly]

Oh, listen.

Listen. Fritz is in fine voice.

- What are they singing, sir?

Sounds like an hymn, sir.

- It is. 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.

[smith laughing]

- Your 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 next issue.

- What do you have in mind?

- We all love the
music hall, sir!

[whimsical music]

[men cheering]

[gavel banging]

- Ladies and Gentlemen!

Welcome to the
Cloth Hall at Ypres.

[men cheering]

The best ventilated
hall in the town.

[men laughing]

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 his stupendous new revue,
"The Bing Bangs are Here!"

[guns firing]
- [Men] Woo!

[explosions booming]

- With music by Mr. R. Tillery

[men laughing]

And, not to mention,
Mrs. Mini Werfer,

who always meets with
a thunderous reception.

[guns firing]
[men laughing]

And not forgetting
Bouncing Bertha,

who's only 17-inches high.

[gun fires]
- [Men] Woo!

- But is guaranteed to
bring the house down.

[men laughing]

And there's more.
With Hind and Berg.

Sword swallowers
[men laughing]

and nail eaters.

[guns firing]
[men laughing]

And introducing the world's
favorite comedian, Kaiser Bill.

[men laughing]

And his little Willy.

[men cheering]

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.

[men laughing]
The Atkins Brothers,

Thomas and Tommy!

♪ I heard the bugles calling

♪ Join up, I felt I must

♪ Now, I wish I'd
left them bugles ♪

♪ Go on blowing til they bust

[men laughing]
[men cheering]

- Yes, this show is
going to run and run

and run and run and run.

- [Smith] Dodd, did
you go swimming?

- [Dodd] Give it a rest,
Smithy, I was switching patrols.

- [Fred] As you were, Smith.

[men chattering faintly]

[soft instrumental music]

- 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,

because we don't have a
war expert of our own.

Someone 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?

[whimsical music]

- 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, 9 million
are already killed,

or are being killed as we speak.

Leaving just 3 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, 150,000 are
on the Eastern Front.

And of the remaining 600,

we see that 584 are
generals and staff.

Thus, we find 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.

Ah, news from the home front.

Has my wife been raising
money for noble causes

such as providing warm
woolens 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?

The letter from home.

- A reminder of a
land where gas-gongs,

whizz-bangs, and the
Minenwerfers are not allowed.

- Good heavens!

My wife has sent me a
clipping from the Tatler.

We've been mentioned
in Despatches! [laughs]

- 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.

- Ah, dear.

Appears we're not to
be famous after all.

- Oh, damn journalists,
[phone ringing]

can't they get anything right?

- Is that a rhetorical question?

- Yes, sir.

Uh, it's Lieutenant Colonel
Howfield's ADC, sir.

- Little bobbing Bobby.

- What, the one who has
little red star flashes

on his jim-jams?

- Ah, 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?
[dramatic music]

- 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.

- It's the same an old adage.

War, it's long
periods of boredom,

punctuated by sheer terror.

[door creaking]

- 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, Bobby?

- 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.

- [Bobby] 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.
[men chuckling faintly]

- Very good, Roberts.

Isn't it, Bobby?

- I'm not altogether sure, sir.

[explosions booming]
[men laughing]

- You heard the colonel.

We must attack something.

- How about

stupid mustaches?

- Good idea. Far too
many of them around.

I blame Charlie Chaplin.

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

I say, that was a bit friendly.

Put the gramophone
on, would you?

[explosion booming]

[sighs]

[soft instrumental music]

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

Well saved.

No. It's not enough.

I'll have to play the piano.

- Oh dear.

[soft piano music]

[whimsical music]
[Person laughs]

♪ There are various
types of courage ♪

♪ There are many kinds of fear

♪ There are many
brands of whisky ♪

♪ There are many makes of beer

♪ There is also rum
- Yeah.

♪ Which sometimes, in our
need, can help us much ♪

♪ But tis whisky,
whisky, whisky ♪

♪ Hands the courage
which is Dutch ♪

[explosions booming]
[soft piano music continues]

[Fred spits]

♪ There are various
types of courage ♪

♪ There are many kinds of fear

♪ There are many
brands of whisky ♪

♪ There are many makes of beer

♪ There is also rum

♪ Which sometimes, in our
need, can help us much ♪

♪ But tis whisky,
whisky, whisky ♪

♪ Hands the courage
which is Dutch ♪

- Bad news, sir. We've
had a direct hit.

[melancholy music]

- Oh no!

- Bloody Boche.

Excuse my French, sir.

- Your french excused, Sergeant.

Is there nothing
that can be done?

- Think it's finished, sir.

It's the end of
the Wipers Times.

- It was good while
it lasted, Fred.

- Yeah.

You know, I've tried,

throughout this war, to
maintain my sense of humor

but now, I'm really unamused.

[men chattering faintly]

[men laughing]

- What are you men
so happy about?

- Captain Roberts. He's on grand
form tonight, sir. [laughs]

- 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, blank blanks.

We're going up
the blanking line,

and if we see any
blanking Boche,

we're going 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.

- [Henderson] Sir.

[man shouting faintly]
[explosion booming]

- At least the old girl
has been put to some use.

- A distinguished end
to her literary career,

as a part of a transverse wall

of C4 trench, number six post.

- Raiding party coming through.

- Well, I assumed it
wasn't a delegation

from the general staff.
[melancholy music]

- [laughs] 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 hat's backsides?

Good man.

[explosion booming]
Off we go, boys!

- Good luck, Colonel.

- Who was that?

- Commanding officer of
the Royal Scots Fusiliers.

- Then why is 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.

- Huh.
- Heard a rumor, sir.

- Don't tell me.

Kaiser has been arrested by
Field Marshall Hindenburg

and shot as a spy.

- Not exactly, sir, no.

It's a friend of a
friend of a friend,

has told me-
[explosion booming]

He happens to know
the whereabouts

of a lovely little hand-jigger.

- Speak English, Sergeant.

- Uh, 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.

- Oh 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?

- Yeah, 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.

[explosions booming]
[bullets zipping]

[uplifting instrumental music]

- Why do they call it
Hellfire Corner, Sarnt?

- Why do you think, Dodd?

- Dodd doesn't think.

- Oh, shut up, Smithy.

Before Fritz shuts
you up for good.

- This bloody
thing weighs a ton.

- Yeah, well if you drop it,

you're putting up
with hellfire from me.

Now run, you bugger.

- Ah, well. So that
is a hand jigger.

[men chuckling]
Yes, pardon my French.

God bless this printer and
all the jokes who fail in her.

- Ey, 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.

[cork pops]

[men chattering faintly]

Too slow.
- There we go.

How on Earth did you
get hold of this?

- Well I had a bit
of luck at the cards,

with some of the brass hats
billeted at the chateau.

As it turned out,
magnificent cellar.

To the hand jigger.

[men cheering]
[whimsical music]

Ladies and Gentlemen,
welcome to the latest venue

in our grand tour of Flanders.

The Neuve Eglise Hippodrome,

where our doors are always open.

[men laughing]

Tonight, we are honored 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 sapper
songbirds, Trench and Foot,

with their delightful
ditty "Minor Worries."

♪ If the Hun lets off
some gas, never mind ♪

♪ If the Hun attacks
in mass, never mind ♪

♪ If your dugout's
blown to bits ♪

♪ Or the C.O.'s throwing fits

♪ Or a crump your rum
jar hits, never mind ♪

♪ Oh, never mind

♪ If your trench is mud
knee-high, never mind ♪

♪ You can't find a spot
that's high, never mind ♪

♪ Oh, never mind

♪ If a sniper has you set

♪ Through dents
in your parapet ♪

♪ And your troubles
fiercer get, never mind ♪

♪ Oh, never mind

♪ If machine guns join
the muddle, never mind ♪

♪ Though you're lying in
a puddle, never mind ♪

♪ Oh, never mind

♪ If the duckboard
barks your shin ♪

♪ And the barbed
wire rips your skin ♪

♪ 'Tis reward for all your sin

♪ Never mind

♪ Oh, never mind

[men cheering]

- [Man] Gas, gas, gas!
[ominous music]

[men chattering faintly]
[metal clanking]

- [Fred] A mask!

[men coughing]

[coughing continues]

- Looks good, Jack.

Harris and his devil's
have done a fine job.

[Fred coughing]

[coughs] Nothing. 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?

- Mm. Thank you.

I'm one of the lucky one's.

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.

[Fred coughing]

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 have been seen
with notebook in one hand

and 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.

- Picture of little lambs
gamboling 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, etcetera.

- Oh, well, we can't
write about the wider war,

'cause there's no
idea what's going on.

We're just fighting in it.

- Well, it's lucky we have
illustrious war correspondents

like William Beech-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."

- It's funny how
we've never actually

seen him though, isn't it?

- Now, Fred, you're
being cynical.

He must know what
he's talking about.

He's in The Daily Mail.

[whimsical music]

[typewriter clacking]

- "I am here, in no-man's land,

where all hell has broken loose.

[sighs] 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.

- Shh!

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.

[both sighing]

Splendid, Harris.
That's much better.

I think you'll be very
pleased with that.

- Thank you, sir.

- Ah, what is it, Barnes?

- Were 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.

- Oh.

- What have you got for me?

- Uh, nothing, sir.

- Show me.

"To My Chum."

Sounds suspiciously like
a poem to me, Barnes.

- It's about Henderson, sir.

- Ah.

Well, I'm sure we can make
an exception in that case.

- [Voiceover] "No more we'll
share the same old barn.

[melancholy music]

The same old dug-out,
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, while
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."

[explosions booming]

[birds cawing]

[people chattering faintly]
[phone ringing]

- 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?

Ah-ha. Excellent!

Ah, so now it's
the Kemmel Times?

- Well, they won't keep
moving us around, sir.

Now, we have seemed
to become infantry.

- Modern warfare is
about flexibility, Fred.

Take the calvary, now
they're riding tanks.

Whatever next.

Anyway, you'll 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.

- Ah!

- [Fred] 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.

- Oh. Merci.

- Fromage Bleu.

- Oh, merci buckets.

- But Madame Fifi
assures me that it is

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.

- [Jack] Oh.

- You really must
go there, Jack.

In fact, everyone must go there.

I'm giving all rank's one
day's leave in Amiens.

And that's an order!
[Jack chuckles]

- It's a bit far, isn't it?

- Well, it won't be.
We're on the move again.

- Really? Where to?

- Oh. You'll love it.

Apparently it's
very pretty indeed.

- Oh capital, what's it called?

- The Somme.

[feet marching]
[melancholy music]

[press squeaking]

[explosions booming]

- Zero minus three.

- I'm sorry, Jack, this
issue's a bit thin.

Not even sure we'll
make the deadline.

[explosion booming]

- Well we have had
other calls on our time.

- Perhaps we should wait

and bring it out
after the grand show.

[explosion booming]

- No. I think sooner
is better than later.

[men chuckling]

- 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.

- [Harris] Sir.

[explosion booming]

- Dodd is too young.
I'll have his.

- We don't want you
incapable, Smith.

- How would you tell, Sarnt?

- Any chance of seconds?

- No, it's bad for your health.

[explosion booming]

- Swine!

Can't even let a man
have a drink in peace.

- S'cuse me for asking, sir,

but there's rumors going round.

Is this the big push?

- I'm afraid such information
is a bit hush-hush, Dodd.

Who told you that?

- The 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.

[explosion booming]

- 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's to all you lads.

The game's started. So
keep the ball rolling.

And remember, the only
good Hun is a dead Hun.

[men cheering]

[guns cocking]

- 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 of sudden.

- Her exit she made with aplomb.

[men laughing]

[whistle blares]
[men shouting]

[melancholy music]

[explosions booming]
[guns firing]

- 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.

"Realizing 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 unpunished.

- "And yet, alas,
so goes the rumor.

The staff all lack
a sense of humor."

- Utter rubbish.

- Well, it's not
all rude rhymes.

In fact, uh, they've
put in a rather helpful

glossary of military terms.

- Really?
- Hmm.

"Duds, there are two kinds.

A shell, on impact, failing
to explode is called a dud.

These are unhappily
less plentiful

than the other kind of dud."

- [Howfield] 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 humor!

- Humor, my dear Howfield,

is what separates
civilization from incivility,

us from the Boche.

While Roberts and his merry
men are busy writing poems

poking fun at us brass hats,

the German's equivalent,
literary contribution,

is a "Hymn of Hate."

Have you heard it?

- 'Course I've heard it.

- 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.

- Oh? Something has been done.

He's been awarded the
Military Cross for Gallantry.

[soft instrumental music]

"Captain F.J. Roberts,

12th Sherwood Foresters,
24th Division.

For conspicuous gallantry
and devotion to duty

in the battle of the Somme
on August the 12th, 1916.

Captain Roberts showed
outstanding leadership

under fire as Company Commander.

Throughout, he behaved
most gallantly.

♪ If you're waking,
call me early ♪

♪ Call me early, Sergeant Dear

♪ For I'm very, very weary

♪ And my warrant's
come, I hear ♪

♪ It is blighty for a spell

♪ My old troubles
are all packed ♪

♪ So keep the war
a' going, Sarnt ♪

♪ It's all yours 'til I'm back

[Fred chattering faintly]

[Fred and Kate laughing]

Maitre'd? Maitre'd?

Oh, 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

comes in from the chaps.

The spoofs of Kipling
and Sherlock Holmes

and the Rubiyat of Omar Whatsit.

And limericks and jokes
from all sorts of unlikely-

- Slow down, Fred. I'm
not going anywhere.

- Mm.

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 Sherrif

who's good at little
dramatic squibs.

And, oh, and one of the men

has started carving
drawings on woodblocks.

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.

Oh Sommelier?

Could we have another
bottle of the '97?

- Darling, [chuckles]
can we afford all this?

- Of course we can't.

Not on a Captain's pay.

But as luck will have it,

I ran into a General
on 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.

- [laughs] Same old Fred.

- Well, not quite.

It's the quiet.

It's keeping me awake.

- What's it really like?

[melancholy music]

- 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 or the other

would try to get in
the other's trench

and bring back a man.

And the score is
one-nil 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.

'Til Christmas when
the war's going to end.

- Is it?

- Oh, 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 for
the vilest disaster

that can befall mankind.

War is nothing more

than wallowing in a dirty ditch.

- Are you going back?

- Of course.

[feet marching]

[ominous music]

"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."

[marching continues]

- Section, halt!

- [Harris] Give us
a cigarette Dodd.

- We are, we must be here.

Because this, here,
is over there.

- Hmm.
- Where are we, sir?

- If I'm not mistaken,
we're back at Wipers.

- Are you sure, sir?

[Jack grunting]

- 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?

[Jack speaking in
foreign language]

- 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.

- Ah. Merci.

I don't think you're
gonna believe this.

- Try me.

- He's with the Michelin Guide.

They're preparing
a tourist handbook

for the battlefields. [scoffs]

- Oh, so this is, this is going
to be a holiday destination?

- Apparently so.

We should consider
ourselves fortunate

that 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.

They'll be putting
us out of a job soon.

Shall we go and see if
the old editorial den

is still standing?

- [Jack] It'll be
like old times.

- Yes. Very old times.

Back when there were
no buildings at all.

[explosion booming]
[metal clanking]

Oh, tell me Sergeant how
many E's in Wenceslaus?

- As many of the little
blighters as I can find, sir.

Which, at the moment, is none.

- Very well.

Always thought The Good King
was over-encumbered with E's.

- We're also short
of paper, sir.

- 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.

You've dropped the pen
in favor 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 that doesn't get
around our problem.

Napoo 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 me 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."
[festive music]

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.

[explosions booming]

All was peace and good will.

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 best 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.

[Jack chuckles]

- 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?

[men speaking in
foreign language]

- Very good.

[Jack sighs]

Welcome to the Forresters 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 this is a sort
of first aid post.

- Or, rather, thirst aid post?

I'm terribly sorry.

- That's dreadful.
- [laughs] Well done, lads.

[men chattering faintly]

- There we are. One franc.

- I've no money, sir.

- Oh 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 Forrester's
Arms is providing

a vital service to these men.

And following a petition from
the divisional Chaplaincies,

the Forrester's Arms
has been authorized

to continue its essential work.

- On whose authority?
General Mitford's?

Field Marshall Haig's?

- Higher than that.

- You damn devil dodgers

are going to undermine
the whole war.

[soldier chuckling]

- 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, sir.

- 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 of the
army's reverses in the field

to the effects of alcohol.

They seem to be
under the impression

that trenches are awash
with the demon drink.

- I can't imagine why
they would think that.

- Rum business, war.

But the high command have given
the ladies their blessing.

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.

[soft instrumental music]
Do you have a drink habit?

Do you have a drink habit?

Do you have a drink habit?

If not, I can help you
acquire one in three days.

If you, or anyone 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.
[whimsical music]

- I was a rabid teetotaler

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 bonafide
toper is yours now.

Just write to me, Dr. Supitup,

at have-another-mansions,
in Bedfordshire.

[door knocking]

You wanted to see me, sir?

- Come in, Fred

- If it's about ragging
the Temperance Society?

- [chuckles] 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?
[speaks in foreign language]

- Sadly, she had to leave
her cozy club one dawn

for an appointment
with the firing squad.

[glass clinks]

- 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.

[Mitford chuckles]

Like all British officers
on the front line,

I'm kept completely in the dark.

- I am amazed, that after
all this time, [chuckles]

you can find anything funny.

- Oh, 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.

Second's out of the ring.
Last round coming up.

[explosions booming]
[guns firing]

- 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!

[whistle blaring]
[men shouting]

[explosions booming]
[dramatic music]

Come on, boys!

[explosions booming]
[guns firing]

[men grunting]

[gun cocking]

Stop. Men.

Stop!

Hold your fire!

- Sir?

- They're already dead.

It's the gas. They're 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? [chuckles]

- Not very sporting is it?

[Fred laughing]

Signing off before the
show's even started.

- Spoils the whole fun of war.

[men laughing]

[Fred panting shallowly]

[melancholy music]

[explosions booming faintly]

[men chattering faintly]

"There was a little Hun, and
at war, he tried his hand.

And while the Hun was winning,
[explosions booming]

war was fine, you understand.
[guns firing]

When the others hit him
back, he shouted in alarm,

'A little drop of peace
wouldn't do me any harm.'"

[gun fires]

[explosion booming]

[feet marching faintly]

- 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 rumor

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,

then 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

the tide has apparently turned

and perhaps, at last,

we can all look forward
to better times.

- Better Times.

It's a good name for a title.

[soft instrumental music]
[press squeaking]

[explosion booming]

- Letter to the editor.

- Is it genuine?

- Absolutely. I just
genuinely made it up.

[explosions booming]

"Dear sir,

I hear that when it's all over,

the people who joined up early

are going to be
de-mobilized first.

This is very unfair,

since they were obviously much
more eager to be in the army

than those of us who joined
up reluctantly later.

[Jack chuckles]

So surely, we should
go home sooner.

Yours, Lance
Corporal A. Slacker."

- Very convincing argument.

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

- Are you sure about this
title, "Better Times"?

- Apparently, we only
need one more big effort,

and we can completely
bust the Hun.

- You seem to be
suffering from optimism.

- Oh, 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.

[Jack groans]

- It would take a lot more copy.

- Well, surely there's
enough jokers out there

and more than enough
poets to fill the space.

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

- It's a signal for you, sir.

- Thank you, Harris.

[explosions booming faintly]

My god!

- What is it?

- It's all over.

- What, sir, just like that?

- Official radio from
Paris, 6:01 a.m.,

November the 11th, 1918.

Marshal Foch to
Commander in Chief.

Hostilities will be stopped

along entire front
at 11 o'clock.

[Jack speaks in
foreign language]

- Looks like it.

- Napoo Boche.

- So it would seem.

It's an armistice.

- No big show then, no
final push to Berlin?

[explosions booming]

- Shall I, uh, tell
them men then, sir?

[explosion booming]

- Thank you, Sergeant.

Oh, and tell them to keep
their bloody heads down

until 11 o'clock.

- Sir.

- So, Jack.

Our swords are going to
be turned into plowshares.

- Mm.

- It's the order of
the bowler hat for us.

We're going home.

- Shouldn't we be celebrating?

- I suppose we should.

- Mm.

[melancholy music]

- [Harris] Okay lads, well,
we just received a wire.

[speaker drowned out by music]

[explosions booming faintly]

[glass clinks]

- 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.

- They 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 on the front line."

[men cheering]
[whimsical music]

- And, welcome back to
the European theater

for our grand finale.

[men cheering]

Sadly, Keiser Bill Hohenzollern
will not be appearing.

- [Men] Ooh!

- As he has an
alternative engagement

singing 'My Old
Dutch' in Holland.

- [Men] Ooh!
[whimsical music]

- Also not on the bill
are the famous Crumps.

[men cheering]

And the little Pipsqueaks.

[men cheering]

And Duddy whizz bang!

[men cheering]

Yes! The show mustn't go on.

You've seen the horrors of war.

Now prepare for the
horrors of peace.

- Ooh!
[men laughing]

- You were an army
of occupation.

Now you're going to be
an army of no occupation.

[men booing]

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.

[men cheering]
[whimsical music]

♪ So scrap the mortar
mine and shell ♪

♪ The job's completely
done and well ♪

♪ We're done with mud
and rats and stench ♪

♪ Hope never again
to see a trench ♪

[men laughing]
[men booing]

- That'll do, lads.

We don't want to end
the show on a low note.

[men laughing]

♪ No more we'll hear
machine guns rattle ♪

♪ The minny's din,
the roar of battle ♪

♪ The long lost years
have been well worth ♪

♪ If once again we've
peace on Earth ♪

- That's more like it.
Now, come on, everybody.

Let's see that
de-mobilization smile.

[men cheering]

♪ Farewell to you,
to dear old Wipers ♪

♪ For better times
have come to pass ♪

[men cheering]

♪ And if they ask us
back to Flanders ♪

♪ We'll all say
shove it up your ♪

[gavel banging]

- A little decorum
gentlemen, please!

You are not in the army now!

[men cheering]

- Hmm.

It's all very amusing.

But I'm not 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.

Uh, 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
Beech-Thomas can get a job,

then surely I'd be
in with a chance.

- He's Sir William Beech-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.

- Don't. 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, uh,

the crossword?

- You want me to
compile the crossword?

- Uh, 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...

[bomb whistling]

[explosion booming]

[soft instrumental music]

- Uh, you haven't given
me an answer, Mr. Roberts?

Mr. Roberts?

Do you want this job or not?

Mr. Roberts?

[whimsical music]

[upbeat instrumental music]