Oh! What A Lovely War Page #7

There's a long, long trail a-winding

Into the land of my dream

Where the nightingales are singing

And a white moon beams

There's a long, long night of waiting

Until my dreams all come true

Till the day when I'll be going...

- Name?

- Connor.

- Chellis.

- Holland.

- Littman.

- Horace.

Complete victory.

The destruction of German militarism.

Victory march on Berlin.

Slow, deliberate fire is being maintained

on the enemy positions.

At this moment,

my men are advancing

across no-mars-land

in full pack,

dressing from left to right.

The men are forbidden,

under pain of court-martial,

to take cover

in any shell hole or dugout.

Their magnificent morale

will cause the enemy

to flee in confusion.

The attack will be driven home

with the bayonet.

I feel that every step I take

is guided by the divine will.

This is most unsatisfactory.

Where are the Sherwood Foresters?

This is the latest position.

- Whisky, sir?

- Thank you.

Where are the East Lancs on the right?

Out in no-mars-land.

They're sluggish

from too much sitting in the trenches.

Most of them, sir, will never rise again.

We must break through.

Regardless of loss, sir?

The loss of, say, another 300,000 men

may lead to really great results...

We lost 30,000 men

before lunchtime yesterday, sir.

...and will not impede

our ability to continue the offensive.

In any case, we have to calculate

on another great offensive next year.

If the slackers on the home front

see it our way, sir.

Quite.

We are rather short of men, sir.

Oh? What's left?

The new chappies

from Ireland have just arrived.

I see.

They are a wild, untrained lot.

Still, they'll be raring

to have a crack at the Boche.

They've only just got off the train.

Most haven't eaten for 48 hours, sir.

They're moving against

a weakened and demoralised enemy.

What they lack in training,

they'll make up for in gallantry.

Capture the German line

without further delay.

I think we made it.

Where are we, Sarge?

I reckon we've broken into a bit of a lull.

Yeah.

Nice, ain't it?

Aye. And peaceful.

Sniper.

I'd keep under cover if I were you.

Trouble is we've been fighting too well.

We've arrived ahead of ourselves.

Yeah.

Yeah.

What's that, Sarge?

What's what?

It's somebody shouting.

Hey, look.

There's some fellow

in that shell hole over there.

- Where?

- There! Do you see him?

There.

Back!

Come back!

Is it one of our boys?

Can't tell from here. Too far away.

He must have got it in the last attack.

Does he want any help then?

No. He's telling us

to get the hell back out of here.

Jesus, that's easier said than done.

You can say that again.

Keep down, Seamus.

- Did you see that one?

- It came from our boys!

- Hey, don't shoot!

- Don't shoot!

Now look what you've done.

You bloody idiots.

- Seamus.

- Sarge.

You're the fastest on your pins.

Nip back to HQ.

Tell the artillery

to save their shells for the Jerry,

and tell them

to raise their bloody sights a bit.

- Back through all that lot?

- Aye, sure.

Why, it's hardly nothing at all.

- Bring us back a couple of wee girls.

- Good luck, lad!

Good luck, Seamus!

Well, somebody's got to go.

Come on. Who's next?

- I don't mind, Sarge.

- Right.

Tell them there's hundreds of us

stranded up here in this ridge.

- And, Driscoll...

- Eh?

Watch it.

I'll do that.

Good luck, buddy.

If he's been shot now, I'll kill him.

He has, Sarge.

Well, I think it's best if we all

stick together in the one spot.

They've started shelling

for the next attack, Sarge!

Sit tight, lads.

We're out of the war now, boys.

Good morning, Mrs Howard.

Been at church today?

Well, I think we'll start.

I don't think

we're going to need the umbrellas.

Now, before I talk to you,

I should like to read you a letter

from George Bernard Shaw

to my mother.

Aye, aye, aye.

- Does your father know?

- He says,

"The men of our country

"are being sacrificed

by the blunders of boobies,

"the cupidity of capitalists,

"the ambition of conquerors,

"the lusts and lies and rancours

"of blood thirsts who love the war

"because it opens their prison doors

"and sets them on the throne

of power and popularity."

Now give us a song!

For the second time,

peace is being offered

to the sorely tired people

of the civilised world!

I don't like the title.

At the close of 1915,

President Wilson offered

an immediate armistice

to be followed by a peace conference.

Don't think much of the words, neither.

And in April of this year,

Germany herself proposed peace.

How do you know?

Got friends over there?

The exact terms of Germany's offer

have never been made known to us,

and I should like to ask Lloyd George

what his war aims are.

And I should like to ask you

what your old man has for dinner.

The politicians chatter like imbeciles

while civilisation bleeds to death.

Now you're talking like a traitor.

Pacifists is traitors.

I ask this gentleman...

Don't ask me. I don't know nothing.

I'm stupid.

...to consider the plight of

the civilised world after another year.

You do not know what you do.

And the statesmen

wash their hands of the whole affair.

Why don't you wash your face?

Old Douglas Haig's got them on the run!

He's got them going!

Who tells you this?

The newspapers.

Who refuse to publish

the pacifist letters,

who distort the facts

about our so-called victories.

We are killing off, slowly but surely,

the best in the male population!

Here, don't you address

them words to me!

The sons of Europe are being crucified

on the barbed wire

because you misguided masses

are crying out for it!

- Her boy's at the front!

- My boy's at the front!

War cannot be won!

No one can win a war.

Is it your wish this war will go on and on

until Germany is beaten

into the ground?

Rule, Britannia

Britannia rules the waves

Britons, never, never, never

shall be slaves

Rule, Britannia

Britannia rules the waves

Britons, never, never, never

shall be slaves

I don't want to go to war

I'd rather stay at home

Around the streets to roam

And live on the earnings of a lady typist

I don't want a bayonet in me belly

I don't want me bollocks shot away

I'd rather stay in England

In merry, merry England

And fornicate me bleeding life away

Now, then, my lads, move along there.

No need to make

a nuisance of yourselves.

Well, where can we go, eh?

My sister-in-law Flo's place.

Your sister-in-law Flo

will talk about food rationing.

Then we go round to the boozer,

and old Charlie

will talk about the zeppelins.

Then we go down the street,

and I'll say...

I'll say, "What shall we do?"

And you say,

"Let's go to

my sister-in-law Flo's place."

And we get down there,

and she'll tell us

all about the food rationing.

Then we go round

to the boozer for a pint,

and old Charlie...

Oh, I wish I was back

with the bleeding battalion!

Parlez-vous

The Sergeant-Major's having a time

Parlez-vous

The Sergeant-Major's having a time

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