The Wipers Times Page #5

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? Mm. 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, hmm, 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.

Ah, 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.

Oh.

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.

Ah.

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?

Ah excellent.

Ah, 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.

Ah!

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 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.

Oh. 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.

Oh, 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.

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