Sir, I’ll have you know that her majesty’s tanks are some of the safest in Europe! Officer’s of the line enjoy the safety of their well armoured and ventilated central command rooms. Furthermore, should the brave boys in engineering, gunnery or the pilot house come to harm such that the tank is incapacitated, an officer may simply deploy the white flag and expect the enemy to faithfully evacuate and escort them to the nearest resort, er, I mean officer’s prisoner of war camp. Why just last war, our tank was overrun, and damned if my cousin, Fritz, wasn’t the most upstanding and generous prison camp commandant. Never did see the boys again, though. I expect those brave lads broke out of the enlisted camp that same day and rejoined the front lines, living the high life. Oh, how I envy them! As it was, I had taken some shrapnel to one of my toenails and found that walking with a cane was hardly conducive to the grand escape I so desired. I languished in that camp for the remainder of the war suffering such indignities as lean beef wellington, cheap claret, and the thinnest custard that can still be called so. Needless to say, when I finally arrived home after the war, I was no use to anyone. I accepted my medal and pension and retired to the countryside with little to show for my service save a palatial manor (thank you admiral grandfather), and the love of my wife, the duchess.

"Yessir, just say the word and we will crush the enemy! We will pulverise them, they will never stand a chance! We will… wait, did you say we have to go to them? Over bridges?! Naah, cannot do that, terribly sorry, sir.

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