Author's Note- I believe, I'm the first to post How I Won the War fan-
fiction here. If I'm wrong, send me your story. Now! :P Anyway, I'm
probably going to add another chapter about later in the movie sometime.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer- I don't own How I Won the War. Patrick Ryan and Richard Lester
do. *nodnodnod*
North Africa, 1944
It was hot. Very hot. Of course, it tends to be in Egypt. As the burning, sultry sun beat down on the small British camp, it came to life again as more and more soldiers woke up.
Private Gripweed snorted in his sleep and flopped over onto his stomach. Groaning, he kicked off his blanket, wondering why on Earth he'd ever needed it. The sun's light beat down on him through the small flap on the top of the canvas covering the truck he slept in and, like a sharp smack to the face, told Gripweed it was time to wake up.
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
But alas! it had to be done. Gripweed flipped over again, reached over to the trunk by his uncomfortable cot and felt around for his glasses. Once. Twice. There they were.
Gripweed flung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the last traces of sleep from his eyes. Balancing the spectacles on his aquiline nose, he forced himself to stand up and threw on his jacket. He stepped out of the truck, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, put it to his dry lips, and inhaled.
Gripweed inspected his surroundings. The gorgeous azure sky met with towering rock formations. The small pond of the oasis the Third Troop had captured glistened like a pool of diamonds as the sun hit it just right. Only a few trees outlined the body of water and one could see all the way to the horizon. No buildings, no forests. Just sand all the way out.
And Private Gripweed hated it and he hated playing soldier boy now. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to go home. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he walked out to the cricket pitch-in-progress and began another day of Hell.
North Africa, 1944
It was hot. Very hot. Of course, it tends to be in Egypt. As the burning, sultry sun beat down on the small British camp, it came to life again as more and more soldiers woke up.
Private Gripweed snorted in his sleep and flopped over onto his stomach. Groaning, he kicked off his blanket, wondering why on Earth he'd ever needed it. The sun's light beat down on him through the small flap on the top of the canvas covering the truck he slept in and, like a sharp smack to the face, told Gripweed it was time to wake up.
That was the last thing he wanted to do.
But alas! it had to be done. Gripweed flipped over again, reached over to the trunk by his uncomfortable cot and felt around for his glasses. Once. Twice. There they were.
Gripweed flung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the last traces of sleep from his eyes. Balancing the spectacles on his aquiline nose, he forced himself to stand up and threw on his jacket. He stepped out of the truck, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, put it to his dry lips, and inhaled.
Gripweed inspected his surroundings. The gorgeous azure sky met with towering rock formations. The small pond of the oasis the Third Troop had captured glistened like a pool of diamonds as the sun hit it just right. Only a few trees outlined the body of water and one could see all the way to the horizon. No buildings, no forests. Just sand all the way out.
And Private Gripweed hated it and he hated playing soldier boy now. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to go home. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he walked out to the cricket pitch-in-progress and began another day of Hell.