The Wipers Times Page #8

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.

Mmm.

The order of the bowler hat for us.

We're going home.

Shouldn't we be celebrating?

I suppose we should.

Hmm.

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.

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...

That'll do, lads. We don't want to

end the show on a low note.

..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

demobilisation smile.

..Farewell to you

To dear old Wipers

For better times

have come to pass

And if they ask us back

to Flanders

We'll all say

Shove it up your...

A little decorum, gentlemen, please!

You are not in the army now!

Hmm. 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?

Er, 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?

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