The Wipers Times

1

Sorry to keep you waiting.

Balloon's gone up.

Total 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, war.

Now, you have impressive references

here from Mr Gilbert Frankau

and Mr RC Sherriff.

Yes, I knew them back then when we

were all working on Tenth Avenue.

Tenth 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.

Really? Yes, it must have been hell.

From what I've read.

We had some bad times.

But we had some good times too.

I'm sure. So perhaps you could

tell me about yourself, Mr...?

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?

Jolly useful in a pioneer battalion

charged with trench repair

and maintenance...

Though less useful

in a newspaper office.

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?

Come on. Come on, lads. Quickly

Move it, move it, move it.

All right?

Come on! Come on!

Come on, lads.

Everyone all right?

Good lads.

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.

Oi! Smith, Dodd, Henderson, Barnes.

You heard the officer.

Search the place for anything

we can use.

Preferably of the metal or timber

variety. All right, sir.

And be sharp about it, lads.

Fritz's love tokens seem to be

arriving with greater frequency.

4.2s, sir.

That's a relief. Thought

for a minute they were 5.9s.

No. Those are 5.9s, sir.

What the hell are you doing, Dodd?

Die Boche vermin!

You're wasting your time.

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.

"Il n'y en a plus".

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.

Quickly. Quick. Come on, lads.

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? Er 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 whizz-bangs.

Unless you're a red hat in HQ with

a cushy job, 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.

Some tarpaulin here, sir.

Well, that might be useful.

Blimey.

Now what the bloody hell is that?

That, Smith, is an Arab.

I'm not stupid, Sar'nt.

The Arab is 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,

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.

How on earth do you know all this,

Harris?

I was a printer in civvy street,

sir.

Good grief.

You kept quiet about that.

Well, it didn't seem relevant to

fighting Fritz, sir.

No. But it might be now.

Can you make this work?

Well, I mean,

she's not been used for a while.

The type's all over the countryside.

There's a few unwelcome visitors.

But give it a bit of time, reckon

so, sir. Yes, sir.

How's it work then, Sar'nt?

Well, you stick

the ink on that plate there.

And the rollers come down onto

the block there.

Paper goes in there.

Don't touch it.

Very interesting.

What are we going to 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.

Move it, lads! Move it!

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.

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,

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