The Wipers Times Page #7

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.

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 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?

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 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.

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.

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.

Oh, 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,

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