God, why do they bother?!
Well, it's to k*ll Jerry, Isn't it, sir?
Yes, but Jerry is safe underground
in concrete bunkers.
We've sh*t off over a million cannon
shellsand what's the result?
One dachshund with a slight limp!
Shut up!
Thank you!
Right, I'm off to bed
where I intend to sleep
until my name changes
to Rip Van Adder.
Aah...
Oh, God! Bloody Germans!
They can't take a joke, can they?
Just because we take
a few pot-sh*ts at them,
they have to have an air-raid
to get their own back.
Where are our air force?
They're meant to defend us
against this sort of thing.
Right, that's it!
Hello?
Yes, yes, I'd like to leave a message
for the head of the Flying Corps, please.
That's Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh
Massingbird-Massingbird,
VC, DFC and BAR.
Message reads: "Where are you,
you bastard?"
Here I am, sir.
For God's sake, Baldrick, take cover.
Why's that, sir?
Because there's an air-raid going on
And I don't want to have to write
to your mother at London Zoo
and tell her that
her only human child is dead.
All right, sir.
It's just that I didn't know
there was an air-raid on.
I couldn't hear anything
over the noise of the terrific display
by our wonderful boys
of the Royal Flying Corps, sir.
What?
I say, those chaps can't half thunder
in their airborne steeds, can't they just?
Oh, hello, what's going on here?
Game of hide and seek?
Excellent!
Right now, I'll go and count to a hundred.
Er, no. Better make it five, actually.
George... Oh, it's sardines.
Oh, excellent!
That's my favourite one, that.
- George.
- Yes, sir?
Shut up, and never say anything again
as long as you live.
Right you are, sir.
Crikey, but what a show it was, sir.
Lord Flashheart's Flying Aces.
How we cheered when they spun.
How we shouted when they dived.
How we applauded when one chap
got sliced in half by his own propeller.
Well, it's all part of the joke
for those magnificent men
in their flying machines.
For "magnificent men," read
"biggest show-offs" since Lady Godiva
"entered the royal enclosure at
Ascotclaiming she had literally nothing to
wear."
I don't care how many times
they go up-diddly-up-up, they're still gits!
Oh, come on, sir! I'd love to be a flier.
Up there where the air is clear.
The chances of the air being clear
anywhere near you, Baldrick, are zero!
Oh, sir. It'd be great,
swooping and diving.
Baldrick.
Baldrick.
Baldrick, what are you doing?
I'm a Sopwith Camel, sir.
Oh, it is a Sopwith Camel.
Ah, right, I always get confused
between the sound of a Sopwith Camel
and the sound of a malodorous runt
wasting everybody's time.
Now, if you can do without me
in the nursery for a while,
I'm going to get some fresh air.
Ha! Eat knuckle, Fritz!
Ooh!
How disgusting.
A boche on the sole of my boot.
I shall have to find a patch of grass
to wipe it on.
Probably get shunned
in the officers' mess.
Sorry about the pong, you fellows,
Trod in a boche and can't get rid of the whiff.
Do you think we could dispense
with the hilarious doggy-do metaphor
for a moment?
I'm not a boche.
- This is a British trench.
- Is it?
Oh, that's a piece of luck.
Thought I'd landed sausage-side! Ha!
Mind if I use your phone?
If word gets out that I'm missing,
five hundred girls will k*ll themselves.
I wouldn't want them on my conscience,
not when they ought to be on my face!
Hi, Flashheart here.
Yeah, cancel the state funeral,
tell the king to stop blubbing.
Flash is "not" dead.
I simply ran out of "juice!"
Yeah, and before all the girls start saying,
Oh, what's the point of living anymore,
I'm talking about petrol! Woof, woof!
Yeah, I dumped the kite
on the proles, so send a car.
General Melchett's driver should do.
She hangs around with the big nobs,
so she'll be used to a fellow like me!
Woof, woof!
Look, do you think you could make
your obscene phone call somewhere else?
No, not in half an hour,
you rubber-desk johnny.
Send the bitch with the wheels right now,
or I'll fly back to England
and give your wife something
to hang her towels on.
Okay, dig out your best booze
and let's talk about me 'til the car comes.
You must be pretty impressed having
squadron commander The Lord Flashheart
drop in on your squalid bit of line.
Actually, no.
I was more impressed by the contents
of my handkerchief
the last time I blew my nose.
Yeah, like hell.
Huh, huh.
You've probably got little piccies of me
on the walls of your dugout, haven't you?
I bet you go all girly and giggly
every time you "look at me"!
I'm afraid not.
Unfortunately, most of the infantry
think you're a prat.
Ask them who they'd prefer to meet,
Squadron Commander Flashheart
and the man who cleans out
the public toilets in Aberdeen,
and they'd go for Wee Jock
"Poo-Pong" Mcplop every time.
Ha ha ha ha!
So when that fellow looped-the-loop,
I honestly thought that, that, that...
My God!
Yes, I suppose I am.
Lord Flashheart,
this is the greatest honor of my life.
I hope I snuff it right now
to preserve this moment forever.
It could be arranged.
Lord Flashheart, I want to learn to write
so I can send a letter home
about this golden moment.
So all the fellows hate me, eh?
Not a bit of it.
I'm your bloody hero, eh, old scout?
Jesus!
My lord, I've got every cigarette card
they ever printed of you.
My whole family took up smoking
just so that we could get the whole set.
My grandmother smoked herself to death
so we could afford the album.
Of course she did, of course she did,
The poor love-crazed old octogenarian.
Well, all right, you fellows.
Let's sit us down and yarn about
how amazingly attractive I am.
Yes, would you excuse me
for a moment?
I've got some urgent business.
There's a bucket outside
I've got to be sick into.
Yooo-hooo!
All right, you chaps,
let's get comfy.
You look like a decent British bloke.
I'll park the old booties
on you if that's okay.
It would be an honor, my lord.
Of course it would! Ha!
Ah... Have you any idea
what it's like
to have the wind
rushing through your hair?
No, sir.
He has! Lucky devil!
So I flew straight
through her bedroom window,
popped a box of chocs
on the dressing table,
machine-gunned my telephone
number into the wall,
and then sh*t off and shagged her sister.
Ahem.
Driver Parkhurst reporting for duty, my lord.
Well, well, well.
If it isn't little Bobby Parkhurst...
Saucier than a direct hit on a Heinz factory.
I've come to pick you up.
Well, that's how like my girls...
direct and to my point. Woof!
Woof!
Ah! Tally ho, then!
Back to the bar.
You should join
the Flying Corps, George.
That's the way to fight a w*r.
Tasty tuck, soft beds
and a uniform so smart
It's got a Ph.D. From Cambridge.
You could even bring
the breath monster here.
Anyone can be a navigator
If he can tell his arse from his elbow.
Well, that's Baldrick out,
I fear...
We're always looking
for talented types
To join the Twenty-Minuters.
And there goes George.
Tally ho, then, Bobby.
Hush, here comes a whiz-bang
and I think you know
what I'm talking about!
- Woof!
- Woof!
God, it's like crufts in here!
I say, sir, what a splendid notion.
The Twenty-Minuters.
Soft tucker, tasty beds,
fluffy uniforms.
Begging your permission, sir,
but why do they call them
the Twenty Minuters?
Ah, now, yes,
Now this one is in my brooke bond
"Book Of The Air."
Now, you have to collect
all the cards
and then stick them into this
wonderful presentation booklet.
Er...
Ah, here we are, Twenty-Minuters.
Oh, damn! Haven't got the card yet.
Ah, but the caption says "Twenty minutes
"is the average amount of time
new pilots spend in the air."
- Twenty minutes.
- That's right, sir.
I had a twenty-hour watch yesterday,
With four hours overtime,
in two feet of water.
Well then, for goodness sake, sir,
why don't we join?
Yeah, be better than just
sitting around here all day
on our elbows.
No, thank you.
No, thank you.
I have no desire to hang around
With a bunch of upper-class delinquents,
do twenty minutes work,
and then spend the rest of
the day loafing about in Paris,
drinking gallons of champagne
and having dozens of moist, pink,
highly-experienced young
French peasant girls
galloping up and down my...
Hang on.
Come!
Ah, Captain Blackadder.
Good morning, Captain Darling.
What do you want?
You're looking so well.
I'm a busy man, Blackadder.
Let's hear it, whatever it is.
Well, you know, Darling, every man...
Every man has a dream...
Hmmm...
and when I was a small boy,
I used to watch the marsh warblers
swooping in my mothers undercroft,
and I remember thinking,
'will men ever dare do the same? '
And you know...
Oh, you want to join
the Royal Flying Corps?
Oh, that's a thought.
- Could I?
- No, you couldn't!
Good-bye!
Look, come on, Darling,
just give me an application form.
It's out of the question.
This is simply a ruse
to waste five months of training
after which you'll claim you can't fly after all
because it makes your ears go "pop".
Come on, I wasn't born yesterday,
Blackadder.
More's the pity,
we could have started
your personality from scratch.
So, the training period
is five months, is it?
It's no concern of yours if it's five years
and comes with a free holiday in Tunisia,
contraceptives supplied.
Besides, they wouldn't admit you.
It's not easy getting transfers, you know.
Oh, you've tried it yourself,
have you?
No, I haven't.
Trust you to try and skive off
to some cushy option.
There's nothing cushy
about life in the Womens'
Auxiliary Balloon Corps.
...And then the bishop said,
I'm awfully sorry, I didn't realize
you meant organist.
Thank you, George.
At ease, everybody.
Now, where's my map?
- Come on.
- Sir!
Thank you.
God, it's a barren,
featureless desert out there, isn't it?
The other side, sir!
Hello, George.
What are you doing here?
Me, sir? I just popped in
to join the Royal Flying Corps.
Hello, Blackadder.
What are you doing here?
Me, sir? I just popped in
to join the Royal Flying Corps.
And, of course, I said...
Bravo, I hope, Darling.
Because, you know,
I've always had my doubts
about you trenchy-type fellows.
Always suspected there might
be a bit too much
of the battle-dodging,
nappy-wearing,
I'd-rather-have-a-cup-of-tea-
Than-charge-stark-naked-
at-Jerry about you.
But if you're willing to join
the Twenty-Minuters,
Then you're all right by me
and welcome to marry my sister any day.
Are you sure about this, sir?
Certainly, you should hear
the noise she makes
when she eats a boiled egg.
Be glad to get her out of the house.
So, report back here : hours
for your basic training.
Crikey! I'm looking forward to today.
Up-diddly-up, down-diddly-down,
Whoops-poop, twiddly-dee.
Decent scrap with the fiendish Red Baron,
a bit of a jolly old crash landing
behind enemy lines,
capture, t*rture, escape
and then back home
in time for tea and medals.
George, who's using the family brain-cell
at the moment?
This is just the beginning of the training.
The beginning of five long months
of very clever, very dull men
looking at machinery.
Flashheart:
Hey, girls! Look at my machinery!
Enter a man who has no underwear.
Ask me why.
Why do you have no underwear, Lord Flash?
Because the pants haven't been built yet
that can take the job on.
And that's the type of guy who's doing
the training around here.
Sit down!
Well, well, well, well, well.
If it isn't old Captain Slack Bladder.
Blackadder.
Couldn't resist it, eh, Slack Bladder?
Told you you thought I was great.
All right men, let's dooooo it!
The first thing to remember is:
Always treat your kite
like you treat your woman.
How... how do you mean, sir?
Do you mean...
Do you mean take her home at weekends
to meet your mother?
No, I mean get
inside her five times a day
and take her to heaven and back!
I'm beginning to see why
the Suffragette Movement want the vote.
Hey, hey!
any bird who wants to chain
herself to my railings
and suffer a jet movement gets my vote!
Er, right.
Well, I'll see you
in ten minutes for take-off.
Hang on, hang on!
What about the months of training?
Hey, wet-pants!
This isn't the Women's Auxiliary
Balloon Corps.
You're in the Twenty-Minuters now.
Er, sir...
Sir! Prat at the back!
I think we'd all be intrigued to know
why you're called the Twenty-Minuters.
Oh, Mister Thicko.
Imagine not knowing that.
Well, it's simple!
The average life expectancy for a new pilot
is twenty minutes.
Ah...
Life expectancy... of twenty minutes.
That's right.
Goggles on, chocks away,
last one back's a h*m*!
Hurray!
Hurray!
So, we take off in ten minutes,
we're in the air for twenty minutes,
which means we should be dead
by twenty-five to ten.
Hairy blighters, sir.
This is a bit of a turn-up
for the plus fours.
I shouldn't worry about it
too much, Blackadder.
Flying's all about navigation.
As long as you've got a good navigator,
I'm sure you'll be fine.
Actually, they're right. This is a doddle.
Careful, sir!
Whoops, whoops, a little wobble there.
I'll get the hang of it, don't worry.
All right, Baldrick,
how many rounds have we got?
Er, five hundred, sir.
Cheese and tomato for you,
rat for me.
Tally-bally ho!
What's this, sir?
Baldrick! Baldrick!
Will you stop arsing about
and get back in the plane!
Ooh, ooh, ooh!
Hey, sir, I can see a pretty
red plane from up here.
Ha ha!
Woo woo!
Schnell! Da unten!
Ha ha ha!
Oh, no!
Watch out, Baldrick,
it's stood right on our tail.
Yes, now this is developing
into a distinctly boring situation,
but we're still on our side of the line
So I'll crash-land and claim my ears went
"pop" first time out.
- Ooh, let's hope we fall on something soft!
- Fine.
I'll try and aim between
General Melchett's ears!
I don't believe it.
A German prison cell.
For two and a half years
the western front has been
as likely to move as a Frenchman
who lives next door to a brothel,
and last night the Germans advance a mile
and we land on the wrong side.
Ooh, dear, Captain B,
my tummy's gone all squirty.
That's because you're scared, Baldrick,
and you're not the only one.
I couldn't be more petrified
if a wild rhinoceros had just come home
from a hard day at the swamp
and found me wearing his pyjamas,
smoking his cigars and in bed with his wife.
I've heard what these Germans will do, sir.
They'll have their wicked way
with anything of woman born.
Well, in that case,
Baldrick, you're quite safe.
However, the teutonic reputation
for brutality is well-founded...
Their operas last three or four days,
and they have no word for "fluffy".
I want my mum!
Yes, it'd be good to see her.
I should imagine
a maternally-outraged gorilla
could be a useful ally when it comes
to the final scrap.
Prepare to die like a man, Baldrick.
Or as close as you can come to a man
without actually shaving
the palms of your hands.
Good evening.
I am Oberleutnant Von Gerhardt.
I have a message from
the Baron Von Richthoven...
The greatest living German.
Which, considering his competition consists
entirely of very fat men in leather shorts,
burping to the tune of
She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain,
is no great achievement.
Quiet!
And what is your message?
It is: "Prepare for a fate worse than death,
English flying fellow."
Oh.
So, it's the traditional
warm German welcome.
Correct.
Also, he is saying, "Do not try to escape
or you will suffer even worse."
"a fate worse
than a fate worse than death."
That's pretty bad.
Yes, well, you see,
It's all very well for you, isn't it,
Sitting here behind yer, behind yer,
behind yer comfy desk!
Don't you take that tone
with me, Lieutenant,
or I'll have you on a charge
for insubordination.
Well, I'd rather be
on a charge for insubordination
than on a charge of deserting a friend.
How dare you talk to me like that!
How dare I?
Now, then, now then,
now, now, then, now then,
now then, then now...
Now then, what's going on here?
That damn fool Blackadder
has crashed his plane
behind enemy lines, sir.
This young idiot wants to go
and try rescue him.
It's a total waste of men and equipment.
He's not a damn fool, sir, he's a bally hero.
All right. All right.
I'll deal with this, Darling.
Delicate touch needed, I fancy.
Now, George,
Do you remember when I came down
to visit you when you were a nipper
for your sixth birthday?
You used to have a lovely little rabbit...
Beautiful little thing. Do you remember?
- Flossy.
- That's right, Flossy.
Do you remember
what happened to Flossy?
- You sh*t him.
- That's right.
It was the kindest thing to do
after he'd been run over by that car.
- By your car, sir.
- Yes, by my car.
But that too was an act of mercy
when you would remember that
that dog had been set on him.
- Your dog, sir.
- Yes, yes, my dog.
But what I'm trying to say, George,
is that the state young flossy was in
after we'd scraped him off my front tire
is very much the state that
young Blackadder will be in now.
If not very nearly dead,
then very actually dead.
- Permission for lip to wobble, sir?
- Permission granted.
Stout fellow.
But surely, sir, you must allow me
to at least try and save him.
No, George.
It would be as pointless
as trying to teach a woman
the value of a good,
forward defensive stroke.
Besides, it would take a superman
to get him out of there,
not the kind of weed who blubs
just because somebody gives him
a slice of rabbit pie instead of birthday cake.
Well, I suppose you're right, sir.
'Course I am.
Now, let's talk about something
more jolly, shall we?
Look, this is the amount of land
we've recaptured since yesterday.
Oh, excellent.
Um, what is the actual
scale of this map, Darling?
- Um, one-to-one, sir.
- Come again?
Er, the map is actually life-size, sir.
It's superbly detailed.
- Look, there's a little worm.
- Oh, yes.
So the actual amount
of land retaken is... ?
Excuse me, sir.
Seventeen square feet, sir.
- Excellent.
So you see, young Blackadder
didn't die horribly in vain after all.
If he did die, sir.
Tch!
That's the spirit, George.
If nothing else works, then a total
pig-headed unwillingness
to look facts in the face
will see us through.
So!
I am the Red Baron von Richthoven
and you are the two English flying aces
responsible for the spilling
of the precious German blood
of many of my finest
and my blondest friends.
I have waited many months to do this.
You may have been right, Balders.
Looks like we're going to get
rogered to death after all.
Do you want me to go first, sir?
Ha ha ha ha!
You English and your sense of humour.
During your brief stay, I look forward
to learning more of your wit,
your punning and your amusing jokes
about the breaking of the wind.
- Well, Baldrick's the expert there.
- I certainly am, sir.
How lucky you English are
to find the toilet so amusing.
For us, it is a mundane
and functional item.
For you, the basis of an entire culture.
I must now tell you of the full horror
of what awaits you.
Ah, you see, Balders.
dress it up in any amount
of pompous verbal diarrhoea,
and the message is "squareheads down
"for the big boche g*ng-bang."
As an officer and a gentleman,
you will be looking forward
to a quick and noble death.
Well, obviously.
But, instead, an even worse fate
awaits you.
Tomorrow you will be
taken back to Germany...
Here it comes!
...to a convent school outside Heidelberg,
where you will spend the rest of the w*r
teaching the young girls home economics.
Er...
For you, as a man of honor,
the humiliation will be unbearable!
Oh, I think you'll find we're tougher
than you imagine.
Ha! I can tell how much
you are suffering by your long feces.
We're not suffering too much
to say thank you."
Thank you.
Say thank you, Baldrick.
Thank you, Baldrick.
How amusing. But now, forgive me.
I must take to the skies once again.
Very funny.
The noble Lord Flashheart still eludes me.
I think you'll find he's overrated.
Bad breath and...
impotent, they say.
Sexual innuendo.
Ha ha ha ha!
But enough of this.
As you say in England, I must fly.
Ha ha ha ha!
Perhaps I will master
this humour after all, ja?
I wouldn't be too optimistic.
Oh, and the little fellow,
If you get lonely in the night,
I'm in the old chateau.
There's no pressure.
Ha ha ha ha!
Pratfall!
Is it really true, sir?
Is the w*r really over for us?
Yup!
Out of the w*r and teaching nuns
how to boil eggs.
For us, the great w*r is finito.
A w*r that would be
a damn sight simpler
if we'd just stayed in England
and sh*t fifty thousand of our men a week.
No more mud, death,
rats, bombs, shrapnel,
whiz-bangs, barbed wire
and those bloody awful songs
that have the word "whoops" in the title.
Oh, damn!
He's... he's left the door open.
Oh, good! We can escape, sir.
Are you mad, Baldrick?
I'll find someone to lock it for us.
Ssh! Keep-ee! Mum's the word!
Not 'arf, or what?
Sir, why did you just slam the door
on Lieutenant George?
I can't believe it. Go away!
It's me. It's me.
But what the hell
are you doing here?
Oh, never mind the hows and the whys
and the do-you-mind- If-I-don'ts.
But it would have taken
a superman to get in here.
Well, it's funny you should say that,
because as it happens
I did have some help
from a rather spiffing bloke.
He's taken a break from
some crucial top-level shagging.
It... it's me, hurray!
Hurray!
God's potatoes, George.
You said Noble Brother Flyers
were in the lurch.
If I'd known you meant Old Slack Bladder
and the mound of
the Hound Of The Baskervilles,
I'd probably have let them
stew in their own juice.
And let me tell you,
if I ever tried that,
I'd probably drown.
Oh!
Still, since I'm here,
I may as well "doooo" it.
As the bishop said
to the netball team,
Come on, chums!
Aah! Ow! Aah!
Come on.
Yes, yes.
Look, I'm sorry, chaps,
But I've splintered my pancreas.
Erm, and I seem to have
this terrible cough.
C- Guards!
C- Guards!
Wait, wait,
wait, wait,
wait a minute.
Now, I may be packing the kind of tackle
that you'd normally
expect to find swinging about
between the hind legs
of a Grand National winner,
But I'm not totally stupid,
and I've got the kind of feeling
you'd rather we hadn't come.
No, no, no, I'm very grateful.
It's just that I'd slow you up.
I think I'm beginning to understand.
Are... are you?
Just because I can give multiple orgasms
to the furniture just by "sitting" on it,
doesn't mean that I'm not
sick of this damn w*r:
The blood, the noise, the endless poetry.
Is that really what you think, Flashheart?
Course it's not what I think.
Now get out that door
before I redecorate that wall
an interesting new colour
called "hint of brain."
Excellent. Well, that's clear.
Let's get back to that lovely w*r, then!
- Woof! Woof!
- Bark!
Not so fast, Blackadder.
Oh, damn! Foiled again!
What bad luck!
Ah, and the Lord Flashheart.
This is indeed an honor.
Finally, the two greatest gentleman flyers
in the world meet.
Two men of honor,
who have jousted together
in the cloud-strewn glory of the skies,
face to face at last.
How often I have rehearsed
this moment of destiny in my dreams.
The opportunity to encapsulate
the unspoken nobility of our comradeship...
What a poof!
Come on!
Oh! Oh!
- Hello, Darling.
- Good lord.
Captain Blackadder,
I thought you were...
- Playing tennis?
- No.
- Dead?
- Well, yes, unfortunately.
Well, I had a lucky escape,
no thanks to you.
This is a friend of mine.
Argh!
Hi, cretin.
Flashheart, this is captain Darling.
Captain Darling?
Funny name for a guy, isn't it?
Last person I called "darling"
was pregnant twenty seconds later.
Hear you couldn't be bothered
to help old slacky here.
Er, well, it... It wasn't quite that, sir.
It's just that we weighed up
the pros and cons,
and decided it wasn't a reasonable use
of our time and resources.
Well, this isn't a reasonable use
of my time and resources,
but I'm going to do it anyway.
What?
- This!
- Oh!
All right, slacky!
All right, slacky! I've got to fly.
Two million chicks,
only one Flashheart.
And remember, if you
want something, take it.
Bobby!
My lord!
I want something!
- Take it!
- Woof!
Git!
- Ah, Blackadder, so you escaped.
- Yes, sir.
Bravo!
Don't slouch, Darling.
I was wondering whether,
having been tortured by the most
vicious sadist of the German army,
I might be allowed
a week's leave to recuperate.
Excellent idea.
Your commanding officer would
have to be stark raving mad to refuse you.
"You" are my commanding officer.
Well?
Can I have a week's leave to recuperate, sir?
Certainly not!
- Thank you, sir.
- Baaaaaah!