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It started with a violent blast in the trenches, which for once wasn't a result of Baldrick's cooking, unless possibly the Germans had been warned about it. The explosion struck just outside the officers' dugout, knocking one of the support beams askew, spraying an arc of dirt across their nice clean mud floor, and severely ticking off one Captain Edmund Blackadder, who was at that moment under George's bed raiding the hamper of grub that his sprawling thicket of inbred relatives had sent him for his last birthday.
"You bastards!" Blackadder shouted, waving an impotent fist from underneath the bunk. "You absolute bastards!"
The boots he'd left standing in the doorway to dry out from spending all day on watch in two feet of water had been thrown across the room by the blast, and were now half-buried in the landslide of mud. Thirty seconds later and he would have been back in them, and with any luck copped a major injury that would have seen him on his way back to Blighty. Instead all he had to show for the explosion was a nasty splinter from the bottom of the bunk and George's bag of fluff-covered pear drops.
"Once again my ship has come in - and hit a bloody iceberg." He flopped face-down under the bed in a fit of depression.
His men being typically about as alert as a narcoleptic sloth with a hangover working the graveyard shift, it took some time for anyone to amble up to inspect the damage.
"Gosh," he heard George say from the trench outside the dugout. "Lucky for us Captain Blackadder insisted we had to clear out so he could read those top secret orders in private, eh, Balders?"
Yes, lucky for him as well - he'd managed to milk a whole hour of glorious solitude out of a memo from Darling about regulation moustache length.
"Cor, that's dangerous, that is," Baldrick said, inspecting the cascade of dirt that had been blasted into the trench. "Somebody could slip on that."
Blackadder was not entirely sure Baldrick had wholly grasped the point of being at war, but, in fairness, Baldrick seldom grasped the point of much.
"Anyway, I expect the jolly old captain's quite cheesed off," George said. "This kind of thing leaves a chap positively raring to throw himself at the Boche."
Yes, shouting, 'I surrender, take me prisoner so I can live out the war eating better-quality food in nicer living conditions with far more civilised working hours.'
George poked his head into the dugout. "I say, Cap, that one was a bit of a tooth-rattler, what?" He spotted the fallen pair of boots and jumped back with a horrified gasp. "Egad! Baldrick, you realise what this means?" he said.
"I'm going to have to sweep all this back up, and it's going to take ages to find Katie the worm," Baldrick said. "Right after I had her little bed all nice as well." It was difficult to assess whether this was meant to be a response or he was still some way behind the conversation, and, frankly, probably not worth the effort finding out.
Of course, he still arguably had a better grasp of the situation than George. "The captain's been abducted by a no-legged German parachutist in need of a stolen British uniform after landing behind enemy lines!" he cried.
"He wouldn't need to steal a British uniform if he was behind enemy lines," Baldrick pointed out. "The reason being, the Germans are the enemy."
"Gosh. I hadn't thought of that." He rubbed his chin, stymied, and sat down on a nearby crate. "Well, then, this really is a mystery."
Beneath the bed, Blackadder slowly and repeatedly thudded his head against the ground. Maybe if he kept it up for long enough, he'd be able to tunnel out of here.
"I've got it!" George said, snapping his fingers. "He was so overcome with delight at surviving that point-blank blast that he immediately dedicated his life to religion and ran off to join a sect of monks who eschew all personal belongings, including shoes."
"Or he's been blown to smithereens," Baldrick said.
"Or he's been blown to smithereens. Oh. Yes, that does seem more likely." He nodded along, and then belatedly jumped to his feet in shock. "My God! The Captain's been blown to smithereens. Oh, angst, woe, tragedy! This truly is a dark day for the British army."
"Well, it will be with all that dust that got blown up in the air," Baldrick said.
"To think his brave and noble face shall not be seen around these parts again. I can still hear him now, you know, Balders, striding into the dugout and saying-"
"George, you complete imbecile," Blackadder spoke up from under the bed.
"So can I, sir," Baldrick said.
"The thought that even a man like Captain Blackadder could be snuffed out just like that, it, well, it really makes you think!" George said.
That would, Blackadder reflected, be a first for both parties.
There was a brief and sombre pause. Very brief. About six seconds, in fact.
"Oh, well," George said, shaking it off. "Best dash off a quick message to HQ and tell them we need a new captain!" He strode away.
Baldrick lingered a moment longer. "Farewell, Captain B," he said. "You will always be remembered." He considered his next words carefully. "As a mean-minded, vindictive, sarcastic, rubber-faced git."
Well, that was Baldrick off the Christmas card list.
*
When he'd finished brooding over the indignities of life - and George's packet of pear drops - Blackadder finally realised he'd been handed a golden opportunity. If those idiots managed to get him declared officially dead, then he would be free. All he needed to do was avoid being spotted by their own soldiers - shouldn't be difficult, several million largely stationary Germans and their heavy artillery managed to do it on a regular basis - and make his escape to live out his life somewhere that the only trench was the one the gardener dug to keep people like Baldrick off the property.
Step one, make it out from under George's bed. He'd halfway wriggled out when the sound of voices outside forced him to reverse course.
"Now, really, this is most irregular," came the unmistakable voice of General Melchett outside. "We can't have captains going round getting themselves killed willy-nilly. What if the men started following their example? Make a note, Darling - any officer getting killed without permission will be taken out and shot."
"Sir," Darling said, a touch uneasily, as he dutifully scribbled it down.
Two pairs of suspiciously shiny boots appeared in Blackadder's line of sight. He squeezed further back into the shadows under the bed, safe in the knowledge that neither was likely to get down far enough in the dirt to spot him unless something sufficiently terrified Darling into fearing for his life, such as, say, a particularly loud cough or unexpected glimpse of Baldrick.
"So this is the scene of the crime," said Melchett. "Disgraceful! Didn't even have his regulation boots on - and just look at the state of this dugout!"
"Er, I believe that's probably from the bomb, sir," Darling said.
"Even worse! Allowing filthy German bombs into our good clean British trenches? The offences just keep mounting up."
The faint scratch of Darling's pen. "I must admit, sir, that it doesn't seem quite real," he said after a moment.
"I assure you, the offence is very real, Darling!" the general said.
"Ah, no, sir, I meant Captain Blackadder being dead. Really rather... sobering, in fact," he said. "If a man like him could die, then, well, so could anyone."
Well, not you, you git, Blackadder thought, stationed thirty-five miles from the front in an HQ that relocated backwards any time one of the Germans stood up too quickly.
"Yes, well, George's message was perfectly clear," the general said. "'CB stuck his spoon to the wall, request new brass hat sent like one o'clock, chop-chop, pip-pip and chin-chin.' There's simply no misinterpreting it."
He and Darling moved off, and Blackadder scrambled back out from under the bed. This was his chance! The general's staff car would be his best opportunity to smuggle himself out of the trenches to safety, but he would have to move fast - and stay out of sight. He snatched up one of Baldrick's blankets in passing as he hurried out of the dugout.
Then he came back, and swapped it for one of George's blankets instead. The point of this exercise was to survive, after all.
*
He'd made it almost all the way out to the general's car when he had the misfortune to run into George and Baldrick. Which, incidentally, also happened to be inconvenient for his escape plan. He hastily threw the blanket over his head before he could be recognised.
"Halt! Who goes..." Baldrick had to think about it, "there?"
Blackadder affected a nasal voice that wouldn't fool anyone with three working braincells, and was therefore probably overkill for his current audience. "Top secret blanket inspection," he said.
"Oh, gosh, is that today, on top of everything else?" George said. "Well, they do say hardships come in threes. The captain's gone and snuffed it, I pricked my finger sewing that shirt button back on, and now this!"
"I don't remember anything about a blanket inspection," Baldrick said, with what could have been mistaken for unusual perspicacity if not for the fact that he regularly failed to remember information he'd been drilled on five minutes before.
"Well, that's because it's top secret," Blackadder said.
"Better let him pass, Balders," George said. "Can't see any holes in that story!"
"Yes, much unlike this blanket," Blackadder said, poking his fingers through some of the worst examples.
At least it meant that he was able to see through the threadbare fabric as he navigated his way out to where the general's car had been parked. Fortunately, Melchett had decided to improve morale by inspecting the men - it was questionable precisely whose spirits were supposed to be lifted by this exercise, except possibly the Germans' - so the only one left guarding the car was his driver, Bob. AKA the runner-up in the World's Least Convincing Impression of a Man competition, coming second only to Baldrick.
Fortunately, Blackadder knew how to deal with her, much as the tactic pained him.
"Good Lord!" he said, from safely out of sight around a corner. "Is that Squadron Commander the Lord Flashheart, show-off of the skies, scourge of women's underwear, general all-round git?"
"Oh, gosh, where?" Bob immediately dashed off in search of him, leaving Blackadder free to dive into the back of the car. He'd just managed to wriggle into the footwell and cover himself with the blanket when Darling and Melchett returned from their tour of the trenches.
"Sorry, sir," Bob said as she opened the door for them. "That Lord Flashheart's just so goshdarned inspiring."
"Quite all right," Melchett said genially. He put his excessively large feet down on Blackadder's blanket, and trampled it down for good measure. Fortunately, the cough of the car's engine starting covered the swearing. "It's hardly a surprise that all the acrobatic antics of our boys would leave you overflowing with a surfeit of spunk."
As the staff car jolted its way over the muddy, rutted ground back to HQ, Blackadder couldn't help but note a distinct lack of mourning atmosphere around his supposed death. Was it too much to ask for some black armbands, a little light wailing, perhaps a tasteful paean or two to how his like would not be seen again in their lifetimes? Instead, here he was, lower down the military priority list than Baldrick's perennial request for a turnip-polishing kit.
"You're quiet tonight, Darling," Melchett observed after a while.
"Mm?" Indeed, he seemed atypically distracted for a man who was usually quicker to jump to the general's whim than a champion high-jumper who'd just sat on a roll of barbed wire. "Oh, just a little bit queasy," he said hastily. "Must be this... rather bumpy ride."
"Yes, we really must have the mechanics do something about it," Melchett said, stamping down on the blanket, and incidentally Blackadder underneath it. "I haven't had such a sore bottom since I shared a dormitory with Scrumpy Frobisher!"
"Sir?" Darling asked a little uncertainly.
"Oh, yes, we both got regular thrashings from the headmaster for our frisky gay behaviour," he said in nostalgic tones.
By the time they arrived back at headquarters, Blackadder was feeling thoroughly battered himself. He lay low in the back of the car until the building had largely gone to sleep for the night, which, in accordance with Melchett's staunch belief that night shifts built moral fibre, took until about half-past eight.
Right, first priority, find a civilian disguise and a replacement pair of boots.
Actually, no, second priority. First priority, find the nearest lavatory.
That particular item of business taken care of, he limped his way through the building to Darling's quarters. His clothes would be a better fit than the general's, and probably less conspicuous too. Darling was a more accomplished practitioner of the art of boring than the Corps of Royal Engineers.
Blackadder eased the door open and crept into the room, relying on Darling's sense of orderliness to be assured he wouldn't stumble over anything strewn across the floor in the dark. He'd just located and started rifling through the wardrobe when he heard stirring from the bed. Thinking fast, he hopped inside and pulled the wardrobe doors closed after him.
"Who's there?" came Darling's tremulous voice as flickering lamplight filled the room outside.
Blackadder experienced a brief inner scuffle between the angel and devil on his respective shoulders, both of which were duking it out for the chance to be the first to get one over on Darling.
"Kevin Darling," he intoned in a sepulchral voice from inside the wardrobe. "You have thwarted me in life, and now you must answer to me from beyond the grave for your actions."
Through the crack between the doors he saw Darling pull the covers up over his chest. "I'm dreaming," he said feebly.
"Dream about me often, Darling?" Blackadder said.
"No! Well, once. I couldn't help it. And I don't know what the naked wrestling was about! You can't hold a man responsible for what happens in his dreams," he wailed.
"And while you were awake?" he pressed, sensing he was onto something here.
Darling's eyes darted about, looking vaguely hunted. "Is this about... that thing I do before I go to sleep sometimes?" he said.
Blackadder contemplated his options. "Yes," he said, in the same eldritch tone.
"It's stress relief!" he insisted, babbling. "And, and going over our encounters in my head at the same time is just efficient use of time! I, I have to stay on my toes."
Apparently Darling's toes were not the body part Blackadder should have been concerned about. Tragically, however, this fascinating information about his nocturnal activities was coming far too late to make any use of it.
"I'm afraid this is goodbye, Darling," he said. "I suggest you shut the light off and keep your eyes closed so you can remember me as I once was, and not the way that I am now." Namely, togged out in several items purloined from Darling's own wardrobe.
He made appropriate ghostly noises to cover the creak of the wardrobe doors, and was pleased to see that Darling obeyed instructions, trembling away to himself under the covers as Blackadder stole back out of the room.
In fact, it was all going rather well until he left the room, tripped loudly over a tea trolley parked in the corridor, and came face to face with a shotgun-wielding General Melchett in a dressing gown and rather fetching moustache hairnet.
What was the word he was looking for? Oh, yes.
"Bugger," he said.
*
They convened in Melchett's office together with a rather pale-faced Darling.
"Dammit, what is the meaning of this, Blackadder?" the general demanded, still holding the shotgun. "You were reported dead, and now here you are groping around in Darling's clothes! You'd better have a damned good explanation for this."
"Yes," he said. There was a lengthy pause. "Well. You see... I... was thrown out of the trench by the explosion, and... became disorientated in the dark." His words gradually sped up as he found the thread of it. "Believing myself to be headed towards the German front lines, I cleverly evaded all of their snipers and made my way towards what I assumed to be their headquarters building. Having infiltrated, I planned to disguise myself and try to gather some intelligence. Obviously, I certainly wouldn't have bothered trying to find any had I realised I was here."
Darling had been coughing with increasing discomfort throughout this recitation, and Blackadder turned a pleasant smile on him. "Something the matter, Darling?" he asked.
"Yes, what is it with you today, Darling?" Melchett said. "I do wish you wouldn't expect me to read your mind. I think this tale of Captain Blackadder's demonstrates he's capable of a tremendous amount of spunk. If you're having some trouble swallowing it, by all means, spit it out!"
"Oh, I'm sure he... wouldn't dream of it," Blackadder said.
Darling subsided more quickly than Baldrick's attempt at building an extension on the dugout to house his collection of amusing vegetables. "It's nothing, sir," he said weakly. "Just, er, something in my throat."
"Well, anyway, this is all highly inconvenient," the general said. "We can't have a dead man in command in the trenches. It's unsanitary!"
"Er, sir, technically Captain Blackadder is only officially dead, rather than actually dead," Darling pointed out.
"Exactly, Darling, officially dead!" Melchett said. "That's far more serious than just not being alive."
"Well, perhaps I'd better stay out of the trenches until the paperwork can be corrected, just to be on the safe side," Blackadder said. Though frankly it was asking a lot of mere corpse to be more unsanitary than Baldrick.
"Excellent," the general said. "Although, then, there's the question of what to do with you. Having a dead man in the headquarters guest suite isn't very sanitary, either."
"Indeed not, sir," he said. "However, I think I have the perfect solution." Might as well get something out of this whole fiasco. "I can just share with Captain Darling for the night." He gave Darling a meaningful look. "I'm sure he'll find some way to fit me in."