< After our enthusiastic welcome to France,>
< Squadron's billet at Chateau Saint Pierre.>
< with the arrival of pilot Officer Hart,> < a volunteer from America.>
He replaces Flight Lieutenant Barton, who is under investigation
< of a Blenheim of 64 Squadron.>
< Although we fly frequent patrols > < near the German border,>
< but Squadron Leader Rex is keeping > < every pilot busy with tight formation training.>
< However, there have been several complaints >
< Despite the onset of autumn,>
(Dog barks)
Morning!
(Neighing)
Lord of the manor. Our leader of men.
For him, it's a country estate.
I suppose, yes.
< Up to the stables, hacking around the village.>
< A few words with the servants, gardeners.>
We really need a gamekeeper.
Good shooting around here as well, apparently.
- I've seen lots of squirrels. - Chaps don't shoot squirrels.
- Don't they? - You've led a very sheltered life, Skull.
There's a tree outside the library in my college at Cambridge, and it's infested with squirrels.
They beg for titbits and then bite them.
<- >The students? - Dons mainly.
Undergraduates don't use the library.
(Barking)
SKELTON: < How does he get away with it? >
That man was at the Savoy Grill, you know.
Did you try the Mouton Rothschild '28 the other night?
- A beer man, myself. -Yes, of course.
An Englishman likes his beer.
That was hardly a rebuke, Uncle. I like a pint of bitter myself.
Anyway, red wine doesn't agree with my palate. Or my tummy.
- What doesn't agree with you, Uncle? - Mouton Rothschild '28, apparently.
Have you lost your senses?
Not as good as the '23, but a very serviceable claret, nevertheless.
I'm sure it is, sir. Did you have a good ride?
I think they know me now.
-The people, I mean. -Very gratifying for you.
A memo from Area HQ, sir, and bits and bobs.
- Fine boots, sir. - My mother's polo boots.
She must be...
..a handsome lady.
She is, actually.
A very fine sportswoman.
I haven't seen on the squash court, er...Skull.
I don't play, sir.
Healthy body, healthy mind - isn't that what they say?
So I believe.
No, thank you, Reilly.
He's just being friendly.
- Anything else? - I'm afraid nothing from me, sir.
Bomber Command dropped leaflets on Hamburg again.
Always Hamburg. Can't the rest of Germany read?
- Come on, daft dog. - (Reilly barks)
Coffee, gentlemen.
- Oh, lovely. Thank you. - Thank you.
- You're the new boy. -Yes. Chris Hart.
- Dicky Starr. - Pleasure.
Our resident deaf, mute and mentally retarded dwarf.
- Bugger off, Moggy. - Repartee is his forte, as you can hear.
Ignore the uniform. Dicky's actually non-combatant.
- He's quite harmless, really. - Ah, but that's not true, is it?
I can harm you any day...can't I?
You see, the problem with Dicky is that his testicles haven't descended.
They're stuck somewhere.
We take it in turns to give him a good shake every morning but, so far, no good.
God, you're a bastard.
I can see you're great friends.
Oh, incredible friends in Hornet Squadron, give the odd idiot.
Eh, Dicky?
Right, settle down.
I want to talk to you about this war, such that it is. But first,
I've had a note from Area HQ concerning dangerous flying.
Some fool's had a go at the bridge in Thionville.
< Somebody has accused Hornet Squadron > < of this rampant irresponsibility.>
Now, we mustn't upset the locals - they have enough problems being French.
(Laughter)
That includes the livestock. Don't buzz the cattle.
But what about the er...fearful foe, sir?
That really is a problem. I don't think the weather's going to get any better.
My own candid opinion is that we won't have any sport, any real sport, until next spring.
- The men in grey won't come out to play. - Rotten shame.
Can we go on leave?
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Flying Officer Cattermole.
But there's a very real possibility of leave, so don't wet your knickers.
But before that, we have work to do.
During the last big bash, the typical fighter pilot was a solo act.
Now we need to think, fly and fight as a one-man team.
- Am I right, Uncle? - Absolutely, sir.
Then it was pot your Hun and bugger off home before his pals turned up.
Quite so.
But now, if Jerry's going to come out to fight, he's going to come over in quantity.
The American idea, the Hollywood idea, the ace fighter pilot, is right out of the window.
< It's one formation against another formation.>
< We've got the firepower.>
<- Eight Browning 303 machine guns.> <- >Thank you.
The key to the success of these attacks is tight, close, precise formation flying.
< Now, we've been attempting to do that,>
- Shit! - I beg your pardon?
Your dog, sir, has just...well, done his business.
- He has, as well. - You're an American, Hart.
You don't really understand Reilly.
- It wasn't me, sir, it was your dog. - (Laughter)
< Well, it was certainly somebody's fault.>
Someone's been feeding Reilly titbits and I won't tolerate it.
<- > (Scoffs) <- Reilly gets fed once a day, and nothing more.>
Dicky, will you take care of this?
(Laughter)
- Me? What have I done? - Fetch a servant.
Yes, sir.
(Laughs)
-That's the stuff. - Yes, sir.
- Say, Moggy, that bridge... - Mm?
- Well, was it you? - No, it was not.
< Sorry, I didn't see you there, Pip.>
He's lurking in the shadows because I'm thrashing him.
- Not finished yet. - You're going to lose a hundred francs.
Little Scotchmen don't like that... even if they're rich.
- I'm not rich. - Of course you are.
< in the Lothians, wherever they are? >
< All those poor pit ponies, all going blind.>
- Like you, Dicky. -That bridge < was > you.
It must be easy, then.
Well, there's only one way to find out...
..sunny boy.
I just don't see the point.
Then you don't understand it, do you?
Oh, come on, Moggy. You just think you're the best hotshot pilot in the squadron.
CATTERMOLE:
- A thousand francs, Dicky? - Any time you like.
- Are you looking at me? -That's right, Haggis.
Pleasure.
- Same stakes? - < Mm-hm.>
But just leave Dicky alone, huh? He's a good pilot.
Who told you that?
I bloody am! And I don't need people to fight my battles.
Now see what you've done.
Jester Leader to Red Three. Close up, close up!
REX: < Right under No.2's armpit.> < HART: OK, Red Leader.>
- I don't want to see daylight. - You got it.
Jester Leader. Follow me into a slow barrel roll.
Jesus!
REX: < What the hell is that, Red Three? >
Just lost my prop, Red Leader.
REX: < You know the drill.> <- > Done it.
REX: < You'd better find a cornfield somewhere.> <- > I can make it back to base.
REX: < Land your aircraft, Red Three,>
REX: < Red Three, damn you, land your aircraft.>
Red Leader, get out of my life. Son of a bitch!
REX: < Below you, ten o'clock, Red Three.>
No thanks, Red Leader. I'm going home.
<- I don't really want to see this.> <- He's doing well.>
I'm offering 9-4 odds on, Uncle, if he prangs.
- Really, Moggy, there is a place... - No place, I'm afraid.
Unless, of course, Rex crashes as well, on top of him.
That'd be the dual forecast. I don't know - 1 6-1 ?
KELLAWAY: < You have the morality of a bookie's runner.>
That was great, sir.
Are you all right, sir?
Yeah, I'm great.
Two minutes ago, not so great, but now...
..I'm great.
Well done, Hart.
I discovered something up there, Uncle.
-The Germans are gonna win. - Slightly pessimistic view.
Lousy wooden propeller.
KELLAWAY: Don't be downhearted. In a few months, you'll be getting metal props.
- Look at this. - Oh, dear.
- What happened, do you think? - Who knows?
- Well, it won't happen again. - Why not?
What would you have said to my parents?
Killed on active duty? Attacked by a couple of woodpeckers?
Argh!
- My point. - Of course not.
Of course it was. Uncle?
- I'm not quite sure, sir. - Well, it was.
- You hit me on the leg. - Nonsense.
You tried to kick the ball with your foot.
My point, my match.
If you don't mind me saying this, you're a cheat.
Not quick enough.
- Anything for me, Uncle? - A couple of things, sir.
Fore!
Bad luck.
A bit more practice.
A little request, sir. The village school - they'd like a couple of chaps to talk to the children.
- Ah. Yes, we could send Gordon, I suppose. - Yes, he looks like a schoolboy, doesn't he?
What about Fitzgerald? He's a pretty boy, isn't he?
Pretty, sir?
Yes, I suppose you'd describe him as... well, pretty.
You're not suggesting that he's a...?
- What? - Well, you know.
- Not a nancy boy. - No, of course not.
You've got a dirty mind, Uncle.
KELLAWAY: I thought Hart did well, didn't you?
Did he? I ordered him to land his aircraft immediately.
He was bloody lucky to get back to base.
I don't like pilots who ignore my orders.
KELLAWAY: Ah, well, I've asked him to sit beside us at dinner tonight.
REX: Bully for us!
- Mangetout, sir? - Rather!
Do you have them in America?
- What, sir? - Mangetout.
Oh, sure. We've got broccoli, and Brussels sprouts, turnips, carrots, haricot beans.
Mangetout's all over the place.
- Really? - < And potatoes.>
It's an indigenous vegetable, you know.
Potatoes are...
..well, very useful.
French fries.
I'm always amused by the expression instead of the plebeian ''chip''.
- Do you enjoy flying our Spitfires? -They're OK.
I'd like to try one against a Messerschmitt 1 09.
You think the 1 09s have the edge?
Who knows? If the Messerschmitt is so brilliant, why don't they demonstrate it in the air?
They have. I even shot one down.
- Where? - Spain.
The Civil War?
Hardly a real war.
They killed people, they wiped out villages and towns - it seemed like a real war to me.
You were with the reds, I suppose.
We called them republicans. Or loyalists.
A motley crew.
Adventurers, soldiers of fortune.
Long-haired poets and bolshies.
Defending democracy.
Whatever that means.
I won't have my pilots subjected to propaganda.
No politics in my squadron.
No politics. I joined the RAF simply to fight the Nazis.
HART: Five of hearts. Deuce of hearts. Six of hearts.
- 50 francs. - I'm out.
- I'm sure you've got an ace in the hole. - It'll cost you 50 francs to find out.
Hm? Come on, you putrid pigmy, call or fold.
- He may be bluffing. - Well, we know that, idiot, but he may not.
It's only money, isn't it?
Tradesmen round the back.
I need a willing pilot.
Well, don't look at us. We're knights of the air, not bloody drivers.
One of your knights of the air bent a Spitfire. My staff repaired the machine, but will it work?
Doubtless one of you will bugger it up again, but we have to try.
Ask Jock. He's the only one who isn't gainfully employed at the moment.
- Oh, I'm reading, Moggy. - It'll damage your brain.
I'll do it, after I win this hand.
Oh, Pip never gets any fun.
Your turn to impress the natives with your skill and daring.
< I don't care who does it.>
They really are an idle lot, aren't they?
I fancy a breath of fresh air.
CATTERMOLE: You can count on McSporran. HART: Can we play poker?
< I'm sure you've got a pair of aces.>
HART: I don't usually do this but, seeing as how it's just a family game, aces high. That's all.
I bet you have that king.
- Bloody have! - (Laughs)
(Table tennis game in progress)
- Hello, Rex. - Good to see you, sir.
This is Mr Earl from The Express. Squadron Leader Rex.
- Mr Martin from The Chronicle. - Squadron Leader Rex.
Glad you reminded me.
- How are you fixed for socks and underwear? - (Laughs)
(Bicycle bells ring)
Come on, then. Let's do our duty.
Bonjour. I'm sorry, I mean hello.
I'm Mary Blandin. For my sins, I'm a teacher.
- You're English, aren't you? - < Yes.>
Oh, and no. It's all rather confusing.
Er... Flying Officer Fitzgerald.
Flying Officer Gordon. But most people call me Flash.
- Like the comic strip character. - I'm sorry, I've never heard of him.
Oh.
And what's your nickname?
Er... Fitz. A bit boring.
They're so excited to meet you.
Well, I suppose you are rather glamorous.
It's just a job.
MARY: < I think you're glamorous. I mean, pilots.>
Oh! Oh, I'm sorry.
- I really am a Charlie. - It doesn't matter.
I was just trying to impress your pupils.
At least you've met. This is Mademoiselle Ligier.
Oh, er... Bonjour.
Um... Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.
- Your accent is excellent. -Thank you.
But that's it. I can't remember any more.
Then we'll use English, but... but you must tell me when I go wrong.
- I will. CHILD: < Super!>
- From our squadron. - Oh, I'm sure they'd love to hear about it.
- Like what? - Oh, I don't know.
- < How fast can it go? > <- 360 miles per hour.>
It's powered by a Rolls Royce Merlin engine.
It's got Browning machine guns.
It's a wonderful aeroplane.
I mean, it's beautiful.
No, thank you.
Thanks a lot, but no thanks.
< Has anything really happened? >
Well, Bomber Command has dropped some leaflets on Hamburg, again.
- Always Hamburg. - They think the rest of Germany can't read.
It's very tempting just to nip over the frontier
and er...shoot up a couple of the Jerry airfields, if you don't mind me saying so, sir.
- You're keen, aren't you? - I thought that was why we were here.
Some of the newspapers are calling it ''the phoney war.''
The French are terrified. They remember what happened in 1 41 8, they don't want that again.
What's Hitler trying to do?
Maybe he'll have a go at the Russians. Or maybe we'll have a go at them.
- The Russians? -They've invaded Finland.
Brave little Finland.
And we're thinking of sending an expeditionary force.
My chaps are as keen as mustard, sir, they'll do anything.
It won't happen, of course.
Just between you and me, a month and the whole thing will fizzle out.
- I'll see you back here! MARY: < Bye!>
I er...hope you don't mind me asking, but what took you away from England?
Well, my mother was French, so I lived partly in Cheltenham and partly near Paris.
I married a Frenchman. A doctor.
He died.
It happens, even to doctors.
We lived in Metz for five years. He died two years ago.
Well, you should go home. I mean, um... you should go home to Cheltenham.
I thought about it, but I couldn't face being a widow in Cheltenham.
''Oh, that poor, young window.''
Being seduced by randy insurance salesmen.
Yes, well, I'm sure it wouldn't happen quite like that.
Oh, it would. Snickering.
It's different here.
The French treat widowhood more...sort of... well, more cheerfully.
- So you mean they're more sophisticated? - More experienced.
Widows?
Life. Sex.
Yes, well, I wouldn't know about that sort of thing.
(Chuckles) Wouldn't you?
Hm...
Er... Well, they do say that the French know more about...sex.
And they say the English don't care.
It's just that they don't talk about it, that's all.
<- It's a bit silly, I suppose.> <- > Really?
This is where I live.
Would you like some tea?
I mean, I've got Brooke Bond, it's not that awful French tea.
Well, in that case, um...
Any problems, Pip?
Pretty good.
Brakes a bit spongy. A bit sloppy. Flew like a bird.
- Thanks. - Any time.
- Good time? - Smashing.
- What about the bridge? - What about it?
- Well, did you try it? - Yes.
- What happened? - Piece of cake.
Gosh! That'll wipe the smile off Moggy's face.
Are you all right?
- Listen, do you think I could do it? - Of course you could.
-You're a good pilot. - I'm all right, I suppose.
You're as good as me.
♪ Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers?
♪ Jeepers, creepers
♪ Where'd you get those eyes?
♪ Gosh oh, git up
♪ How'd they get so lit up?
♪ Gosh oh, git up
♪ How'd they get that size?
♪ Golly gee...
Do you think I'm boring?
What do you think?
That's not fair, I asked you.
Do you want the honest truth?
Yes.
It doesn't mean you're a bad person.
Thank you very much.
I'll have a pint, Harry. Dicky?
The American plays well, doesn't he?
HART: <# How do you do? >
HART: <# Hello > - # Hello
HART: <# Hello > # Hello
Come on, Dic...
HART: <# Little Sir Echo, I'm very blue >
HART: <# Hello > # Hello
♪ Hello
<# Hello > # Hello...
Give us a song, Moggy.
I need a drinky-poo.
♪ You're a nice little fellow, I know by your voice
♪ But you're always so far away - (Piano stops)
(Scattered applause)
I think you owe me some money.
Other way round, Moggy.
A thousand francs?
- You had a go, eh? - Of course.
- Any witnesses? - Dozens of them.
Well, Haggis...I'm a gentleman.
Always settle my gaming debts.
- But if I find I've been gypped... - What?
..well, I'd bite off his testicles.
- Are you suggesting I... - Oh, I only mention it.
I mean, if we can't be honest in the squadron, what chance have we got in life? Hm?
My very sentiments.
My congratulations.
(Rumble of thunder)
Ah. (Sighs)
Oh, thanks.
Have you had a lot of sex, Fitz?
- You mean today? - In life.
Well, no more or less than anybody else.
Yeah. Same as me.
I think it's a wonderful country.
Girls in England, they've only got one thing on their minds.
What's that?
Well, it's not bloody sex, that's for certain. Maybe it's because they don't drink wine.
Oh, I don't know. What's wrong with English girls?
Nothing. I'm as patriotic as the next chap. It's just that here, sex is a real possibility.
You can buy the books of Henry Miller here, you know.
Really?
Who's he?
Hot stuff!
Only they don't care. And it's in English, for God's sake.
Oh, but you see, the French... the French created the brassiere.
- Ever thought about that? - All the time.
And what about French kissing?
Yes, well, I'm thinking about that right now.
(Sighs) You do seem to know an awful lot, Flash.
I've been thinking about it.
I'd hate to die without knowing what life is really like.
(Rumble of thunder)
Don't drop dandruff on the carpets, Dicky. People have to walk around here.
Bugger off, Moggy! You're just annoyed because you had to pay Pip.
I'll get it back from you, won't I?
- Pip says it's easy. - < He's got a vivid imagination.>
< But you're not cut out to be daredevil, are you? >
You should have joined the Pioneer Corps.
Bloody fart.
(Clang)
- Whoa! - Argh!
(Groans)
Incredible prang, Dicky.
Hope you don't mind, sir. Sort of traditional thing with the squadron.
- Same as in my day, Rex. - I'm sure it is, sir.
- Are you all right? - Of course he is, sir. Aren't you, Dicky?
Don't bleed on the floor, Dicky, there's a good chap.
I've never felt better, Uncle.
Hey, Todd.
We should warm up the engine every few hours to keep the oil fluid.
- Is that possible? - Why not, sir?
Good man.
And...do you think you could fit this behind the seat?
- For what, sir? - Well, what do you reckon it is?
It's bullet-proof. I hope.
I can't do anything about a frontal attack,
but if a Jerry fighter gets on my tail, I've still got a chance.
It's heavy. Any modifications, I'd have to talk to Flight Lieutenant Marriott.
Just tell him the new Spits have all got back armour plates.
- Why stack all the odds on the Germans, right? -Yeah.
I suppose I could screw it onto the framework.
Well, if nothing else...
..my mother will be grateful.
I'll try, sir.
- It seems OK. <- Yes, sir.>
You ain't gonna play tennis in this weather, are you, sir?
Oh, no. Squash.
Ah. Good fun, is it, sir?
- Oh, you don't know about squash? - Never seen it, sir.
<- A bit like tennis, sir? > <- > No, not really.
It's a closed court. Small ball.
You have to hit it against the walls.
You have to have a good eye.
- Seems complicated, sir. - Er...no. No, that it isn't.
You have to be fit, but er...
- You ought to have a go. -
Wanna try?
Well, me, I'll try anything, sir, but...
- Well, I haven't got the gear or... - Borrow mine.
- OK? - Yes, sir.
- I'll clear it with your flight sergeant. - < Yes, sir.>
That's right. Good. Just hit the ball right back to me.
That's it.
There you go. Down the line.
<- Oh, nice backhand!> <- >Thank you, sir.
Listen... Forget the ''sir'' stuff, at least on the court, will you?
Yes, sir... Yes. Thank you.
It's er...David, isn't it?
Listen, you've got the idea. Let's have a game. You serve, OK?
At least one foot in the box,
I thought people should wear whites on the courts.
<- Maybe he's a new boy.> <- Yes, doesn't understand rules.>
Not a replacement pilot, is he?
- Are you talking to me? - Oh, it's our transatlantic cousin.
- < Having a good game? > <-This is AC Todd. He's my rigger, OK? >
If you want to watch, just shut up!
If you don't want to, buzz off. It's your service.
- We may get some hints. - I'd better go, sir.
It's your service!
Hard luck.
HART:
- Who's playing? -Todd.
The rigger, apparently. And old Hart, the demon poker player.
I thought it was only for us officers.
Give me the ball.
- Give me the ball! - I'd better go, sir.
- Like hell you will. Give me the ball. - I'd rather not, sir, to be honest.
- We're freezing. Can you get on with it? - Yes, hurry up.
We're bloody bored. Not much of a spectator game.
- Just ignore them. Give me the ball! - Thank you very much, sir.
Quick game, wasn't it?
Difficult, when you haven't got the ball.
(Ball bounces)
Listen, I'm sorry.
I mean, you've got a natural skill. You could beat any of those clowns.
In a few weeks.
Yes, sir.
(Barks)
Ah, young Todd. Playing soccer?
<- Not quite the weather for it, is it? Who won? > <- Squash, sir.>
I invited AC Todd to play squash.
Did you, by God? Did you really?
What a frightfully friendly thing to do.
And was the aircraftsman a satisfactory playmate?
It was a good game, sir.
< No arguments? > < You know what it can be like in squash.>
No, sir.
Is that all, sir?
- Should there be more? -
In case you hadn't noticed, it's very cold and your dog has just urinated on this airman.
What, old Reilly?
Not possible. Squadron mascot.
You wouldn't do a thing like that, would you, Reilly, eh?
He didn't disgrace himself, did he, Todd?
Jolly good, Todd.
Keep up the soccer. I like to see the chaps getting fit. Any way to beat the Hun, eh?
Not good enough, Hart.
- Come on, Reilly. - (Reilly barks)
(Screams)
(Gentle piano music in background)
- I'll give you two pair, aces on jacks. - Why not?
(Dice shaken and rolled)
Will you accept this?
Four aces.
You're so lucky. But I challenge.
- Jammy sod! - You can buy the wreath.
That's a bit off, Flip.
Why? Have you seen the price of flowers around here?
- Anybody fancy a game? - I'll take your money.
- Life goes on, as someone once said. - Let's roll 'em.
What the hell are you doing?
Old Dicky owes me some money, all right?
- You can wait till at least... - Until they settle the estate?
It's a gambling debt.
- You can't do that. Some crummy bet? - Oh, yes, I can.
I wasn't going to write to his mother.
<- You're disgusting.> <- > Am I?
He lost and... Ah!
A thousand francs, isn't it?
Two hundred, three, four...
Well! What's this?
A fiver! Genuine English currency of the realm.
What's that in Frog money? About er...
800 francs?
If I take another couple of hundred, is that about right?
How would I know?
Well, I don't want to short-change old Dicky, eh? Your mon ami.
I should smash your face.
Yes. Why don't you?
Get it off your chest...as they say.
Well.
Pity about Dicky, eh?
< What did you say? >
Piece of cake?
- Good Lord! Fanny! - Hello, Uncle.
We thought you were in the clink.
- Merci. -Took a long time, eh, the inquiry?
- Yes. But I was exonerated, you know. - Well, of course you were.
At least you'll have a chance to pay your respects to old Dicky Starr.
Dicky?
Afraid so.
Silly bugger.
A bit of an own goal.
Ah! Old Fanny!
-Thought you were in Dartmoor. - Same old Moggy.
You should be doing this. I'm commanding the burial party.
- Why me? - Didn't you go to the other one?
- What? - Well, the Blenheim pilot.
The one you killed.
That's a bit off, Moggy, even for you.
And, as I recall it, you were one of the attacking aircraft.
Yes, but I'm such a terrible shot.
Steady on. He was simply a scapegoat for the whole squadron.
Not me. I was on the ground.
Anyway, this is hardly the time. Let's take you to your quarters.
OFFICER: Fire! - (Gunshots)
- Fire! - (Gunshots)
Slope arms!
We give thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother
out of the miseries of this sinful world;
beseeching thee that it may please thee, of thy gracious goodness,
shortly to accomplish the number of thine elect,
and to hasten thy kingdom;
that we, with all those that are departed in the true faith of thy holy name,
may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul,
in thy eternal and everlasting glory;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
ALL: Amen.
Good God almighty.
Bugler!
(Bugler plays last post)
(Last post continues)
(Bugler stops)
Funeral party, dismissed!
Escort, right turn!
Right wheel, by the right, quick march!
- Fletcher! - Sir!
- I want that airman on a charge. - Which one, sir?
- one. -Yes, sir.
- What charge, sir? - Anything.
Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline,
mocking the king's uniform, or anything you bloody well want.
Sir.
Monsieur le Commandant.
Le curé de Pont Saint Pierre. J'exige une explication, monsieur.
Thank you very much, Father.
La situation est très grave. Il s'agit de votre pilote, Starr.
What are you talking about? Are you threatening me?
< Is he threatening me? >
Vous ne parlez pas français, naturellement. So, I will speak English.
Your pilot, the young Mr Starr, he is in the wrong grave, monsieur.
- Wrong grave? - The grave belongs to this gentleman.
-< What, it's his grave? > <- It's a family grave, monsieur.>
It has just been prepared for his brother and his father. An unfortunate accident.
The whole village is mourning. You understand.
Compris.
Flying Officer Cattermole!
Did you call, sir?
- Did you hear what this man said? - Something about a hole in the ground, sir.
I gave you a simple task.
A hole...is a hole, sir.
But there is also another point, monsieur.
He really shouldn't be here at all.
We are Catholic. He is a Protestant.
I want your Mr Starr out.
You want him out?
Now look here.
You may be COIC of your flock,
but you do not give orders to an officer of the Royal Air Force.
I insist, monsieur.
What do you want me to do? Turf him out? Put him in the gutter?
Do you believe this, Skull?
The deceased may not have been a paid-up member of your religion,
but he was good enough to fight and die for your country.
Do we have to take our dead back to England after every battle?
I trust you know there is a war on.
Good morning, padre. Excusez-moi.
Cattermole!
You put Dicky in the hole, you'd better get him out! Tout de suite!
- Happy days. - What an end for Dicky.
I'm not so sure about that.
What does that mean?
Well, after that shambles, the wrong grave and all that,
he's going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.
- Well, if you think it's my responsibility, it's not. - Nobody said a word.
- Perhaps everybody should try the bridge. - In formation.
Oh, that's a grand idea. That'll impress the Froggies.
I don't know about you, Uncle -
it was a very large black in the annals of the squadron.
An insult to the dead, a disgrace to the service.
It won't happen again, I can tell you.
You mean nobody's going to die?
I mean if they do die, they will be buried decently,
and you'll make sure it's carried out properly.
Good Lord, there's a Messerschmitt!
What the hell's he up to?
Bloody Jerry!
- Cheeky sods! - What is it?
It's a jerry! I mean a jerry from a Jerry!
- It's a bloody piss-pot, sir! - What about this, sir?
Made in England. What does this mean?
I think it means we've got a war.