“No, sir.”

“You look sexy in that, Jenkins.”

“I look exposed to enemy fire in this, sir.”

“Only if they’re firing off their love guns. Sticky, warm bullets from their love guns, Jenkins. All over you. That’s how you know the battle’s over.”

“You’re talking about pornography, sir.”

“War, porn. Enriching the old and morally debased through degrading the bodies of the young. All the same thing.”

“It’s not, sir. Besides, it’s World War I. There’s not really any pornography yet.”

“Pshaw. I’ve got a few decks of playing cards that would curl a Chinaman’s hair.”

“Yes, sir. You’ve shown them to me.”

“Oh, those French ladies. And such crisp photos! You can almost smell the muff.”

“Sir, can we talk about the mini-tank?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“The disastrous nature of its existence.”

“Nonsense! It’s a bulwark, Jenkins. A bulwark. Sucker could wark the living hell out of any bull it saw.”

“Possibly, sir. It could definitely stand a chance against an unarmed bovine. I’m talking about the Germans, though.”

“Curse the Hun!”

“I do, sir.”

“Pestilent and weak-kneed race. What have the Germans given the world, Jenkins?”

“Beethoven? Bach?”

“It’s just scales, Jenkins. They go up the piano, they go down the piano. Scales and sausages, Jenkins. All the German is good for. And taking bullets. Why won’t you shoot Germans in their face?”

“I’d like to, sir, but I fear that they might shoot me back in this contraption.”

“Your tomfoolery and malarkey is chapping my asshole, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Becoming rather sandpaperish back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll need a salve. Where can we get some linseed oil and a gentle nurse?”

“Paris, sir. Let’s go there.”

“Oh, Jenkins, the lengths you’ll go to not get murdered by a stranger in a field full of corpses.”

“I am peculiar that way, sir.”

“No, no. We’ll hit Paris after the trials. Now: hup!”


“Get to it.”

“Get to what, sir?”

“The DMZ. The Bad Place. Tampa. What are we calling the bit in between the trenches?”

“No Man’s Land, sir.”

“No Mans Land? Then it should be your kind of place, Jenkins.”

“Because I’m–”

“A sweet little girl.”

“–a little girl? Yes, sir.”

“Now stop sliding down the bannister, Jenkins. Your mother and I know what you’re doing. Go and kill some Germans. Or Austrians. Hell, kill a Finn for all I care: just kill someone.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Don’t give me any of that conscientious objector crap, Jenkins.”

“No, sir. It’s not that. The engine on this nightmare has seized up.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. Probably because engines were invented, like, five minutes ago and we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”


“No, sir.”

“Hup to it, boy.”


“You can do it; put your back into it.”

“Sir, the mini-tank weighs a ton and everything is muddy.”

“What if we strap a couple horses to the front of it?”

“A chariot, sir. You’re now describing a chariot.”

“Old school, Jenkins.”

“The horses would be immediately killed by machine gun fire, sir.”

“I have it!”

“We’re not putting cows in front of the horses, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because I see where this is going and a mile-long team of various animals–all dead from machine gun fire–is how it’s going to end, and that’s not going to work.”

“What about–”

“Nor can we strap ethnics to the front.”

“Oh, why not? What’s the point of being alive in 1918 if you don’t strap non-whites to the front of poorly-designed tanks?”

“I don’t know, sir, but we can’t.”

“Fine. We’ll just do Plan B.”

“Plan B, sir?”

“Unscrew that rifle and run straight at the German trenches.”

“I’m gonna monkey around with the engine a bit, sir.”

“I knew you’d see things my way.”