CARRY ON SERGEANT (1958) -
Sergeant Grimshaw wants to retire in the flush of success
by winning the Star Squad prize with his very
last platoon of newly called-up National Servicemen.
But what a motley bunch they turn out to be, and it's up to
Grimshaw to put the no-hopers through their paces.
We don't deserve your congratulations.
It was luck. Pure luck.
Old Grandfather :
What a lot of rubbish.
Luck doesn't enter into it.
Sure it does, Grimmy.
Take you, now. Six years
a Training Sergeant.
And never had a Champion
Platoon. It's bad luck.
Old Grandfather :
Oh, no, it isn't.
Listen, Paddy, every man has the instinct
of soldiering in him. Right?
Paddy :
Right enough.
Old Grandfather :
You've all done it. You've all had
a Champion Platoon at
one time or another.
So shall I. With my next platoon.
Paddy :
Why? What's the hurry?
Old Grandfather :
It's my last platoon.
I shall be leaving the army in ten
weeks and it's my last chance.
Paddy :
Don't set your heart on it.
Old Grandfather :
Now listen, when I
want your advice...
Paddy :
Like to bet on it?
Old Grandfather :
I don't bet as a rule.
Paddy :
What, scared?
Old Grandfather :
Not a bit of it.
Paddy :
All right. 50 quid says
no Champion Platoon.
********
Old Grandfather :
Sergeant Grimshawe, sir.
Can I give you a lift to the mess, sir?
Well, that's extremely
civil of you, Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
Thank you, sir.
Let me take the bag, sir.
Thank you, Sergeant.
Bye, darling.
Well, a very nice place
you have here, Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
Finest depot in the command, sir.
That's encouraging.
Well, Sergeant, where do I report?
Old Grandfather :
That's the officers'
mess over there, sir.
Very nice too, but I happen
to be a National Serviceman.
Old Grandfather :
Get in the back of that
truck, will you? Fast.
Thank you, Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
I know exactly how you feel.
Old Grandfather :
Thank you.
Judging by their names,
they should be a fine lot.
There's a lot in a man's name,
Corporal. Gives him character.
Strong, Sage, Bailey,
Heywood, Galloway, Golightly.
Golightly?
Cpl. Copping :
Golightly.
What's in a name?
Old Grandfather :
Corporal Copping, you know how much
depends on the success of this platoon.
Cpl. Copping :
50 quid, Sergeant.
That's only money.
There's my reputation,
and perhaps er...
your recommendation
for promotion when I leave,
and possibly a slight
percentage for you if I win.
Cpl. Copping :
When you win, Sergeant.
That's the spirit, Copping.
Now er... let's have a look at
our Champion Platoon, shall we?
All right, stand by your beds.
All right, at ease, lads.
I'm Sergeant Grimshawe.
And this is Corporal Copping. Right?
Now, I'm a quiet, reasonable, humane man.
I know. My mother told me.
Oh, yes. I had a mother and a father,
even though I am a sergeant.
Only one thing rubs
me up the wrong way,
and that's a man that doesn't
pull his weight in my platoon.
In that respect, I'm a
veritable Jekyll and Hyde.
But somehow, looking around me,
I don't think that nasty side of my
character's going to
rouse itself this time.
I judge a body of men on sight.
And I don't mind telling
you lads I feel
distinctly encouraged
at the prospects.
Don't disappoint me.
Right, any questions?
Can I report sick, please?
Old Grandfather :
What's yer name?
Pvt. Strong :
Strong.
Horace Strong.
Old Grandfather :
Corporal Copping.
Cpl. Copping :
Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
Private er... Strong...
on sick report tomorrow.
Anyone else?
Ooh er... please, sir.
Old Grandfather :
And don't call me
sir. Sergeant to you.
Are you feeling sick too?
Oh, no, Sergeant.
I want some leave.
Old Grandfather :
Leave? Why, you've only
just arrived, son.
But it's vital, Sergeant.
Compassionate. What happened...
Old Grandfather :
All right, all right, you don't
have to tell the world. Copping.
This man to see the
Company Commander.
Thank you, Sergeant.
Not now. When you're sent
for. Get back in line.
But, Sergeant...
Old Grandfather :
Quiet. I never did.
What's that?
Haven't you ever seen a guitar,
Sergeant? Where've you been living?
Old Grandfather :
Right here, you numbskull. Where you're
gonna live for the next ten weeks.
With that banjo out of sight.
Banjo?
Old Grandfather :
Yes. Out of sight. Understand?
- I dig.
Old Grandfather :
You'll dig, all right.
I'll see to that.
We've met.
Yes, Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
And no more skylarking, right?
Or you're for it, got it?
Yes. Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
Corporal. Empty bed.
Where's that man?
Er... I don't know, Sergeant.
Old Grandfather :
What's his name?
- His name's Golightly.
Old Grandfather :
I might have known it. Find him.
Sergeant.
Golightly.
At the double. Private Golightly.
I'm so sorry.
Hello. Did someone call?
Golightly, where have you been?
- Must I say?
Come here.
At the double.
Where have you been?
Well, I... got locked in somewhere.
You see, I... Oh, dear.
Have you hurt yourself?
I've got some lotion here.
Old Grandfather :
Quiet, the lot of you.
Oh, do stop shouting, please.
Old Grandfather :
You there.
Is that remark addressed to me?
Old Grandfather :
Stand to attention
when I'm talking.
Why?
Old Grandfather :
Why? Do as you're told,
You're in The Army, son.
Oh, not quite. I'm still a
civilian. With civilian rights.
Don't shout, please.
Old Grandfather :
What is your name? Please.
Bailey. James Bailey.
How do you do?
Old Grandfather :
Fine. Absolutely bloody fine.
But I'll feel even better
once you're in uniform.
Thank you, Sergeant.
All right, carry on, Corporal.
As you were.
The Sergeant doesn't seem to like us.
I wonder why.
I dunno.
Old Grandfather :
Why does it happen to me?
Isn't there any justice?
Cpl. Copping :
You don't want to worry,
Sergeant. It'll be all right.
Old Grandfather :
It'll be what? You were
there. You saw them.
Out of 24 men, I'm lumbered
with one hypochondriac,
one natural-born candidate
for the glasshouse,
a rock 'n' roller,
a shadow of a man haunted
by Lord knows what,
and a popsy-chasing layabout,
and some idiot who gets himself
locked in... well, you know where.
Cpl. Copping :
Yes, but I mean, look...
Old Grandfather :
Any one of those clots
could sabotage the squad.
But I've got 'em all. About turn.
We're 24 per cent non-effective
before we start.
How in the name of
Aldershot can it work out?
Cpl. Copping :
Well, it's got to. Your
reputation depends on it.
Old Grandfather :
My reputation, my foot.
What about my 50 quid
riding on that lot?
Cpl. Copping :
No, that's true. Oh, well.
There's only one thing for it.
Chase the living
daylights out of them.
Old Grandfather :
Oh, no, no, no. That's no
good. That'd be fatal.
Half the mob in the guardroom's
no good to me.
Cpl. Copping :
Yes, but Sergeant...
Old Grandfather :
Will you have hush.
No, Copping, we've
got to be... subtle.
Cpl. Copping :
Subtle.
Old Grandfather :
We must be kind. Considerate.
Cpl. Copping :
Kind?
Old Grandfather :
Yes. These are delicate blooms, Copping.
Cpl. Copping :
Are they?
Old Grandfather :
Yes.
Hello. You must be the new lot.
- Greetings, cat.
- Cat?
No, my name's not Cat.
- Are you in our platoon?
- No, not Cat.
Brown. Herbert Brown.
- What did you say?
- Are you in our platoon?
No. I just live here.
Yeah, I think I can
understand him.
You er... received a severe blow on
the head as a child, didn't you?
No, that was my brother.
Horace, old man, can't you forget
psychiatry for one minute?
I was only trying to help him.
Oh, I don't need any help, thanks.
Well, ta-ra, fellas. See
you at the NAAFI perhaps.
Hello, corp.
Don't get lost.
Here, Corporal. Who
was that soldier?
Ta.
That was no soldier,
that was Herbert.
I give up.
Don't worry, so did the army.
Here we are, chaps.
Help yourselves.
Thank you.
Old Grandfather :
What a right bunch
they turned out to be.
Oh, just luck. Rotten bad luck.
I must have stood
under a ladder and
kicked 13 black cats
some time or other.
Well, don't worry, sarge, it'll all
be behind you this time tomorrow.
Your last day in The
Army. I wish it
had turned out the
way you wanted it.
You know. You at the head
of a Champion Platoon.
Yes. It isn't given to
every man to achieve
his life's ambition.
Certainly not to me.
However, I hope when
you get the other one
up, you'll have better
luck than I had.
- Good night.
- Good night, sarge.
Don't be daft, Herbert.
Characters like Grimshawe
don't leave the
army. They can't.
They've taken root.
Listen, I heard 'em
talking about it.
Tomorrow's his last
day in the army.
Well, best of British
luck to the old b...
Oh, all right, then.
Perhaps he isn't such a bad old buzzard.
Best sergeant I ever served under.
Let's give him a present.
I know what he'd like. Us.
The Champion Platoon tomorrow.
What a hope.
Aye, he would like that.
I heard him saying just that to
Corporal Copping.
No, it's impossible.
In any case, why should
we knock ourselves
out after the way he's
chased us around?
When did he ever chase you, Andy?
Or any of us, for that matter.
He's yelled a lot, but sergeants can't talk quietly.
If he'd wanted to, he could have had
all of us inside over and over again.
Yeah, that's right. I wonder why he didn't.
Excuse me.
Perhaps he's been trying a
sociological experiment too.
As Miles said.
Grimshawe could have made life
purgatory for us. He didn't.
- Why?
- Why, Jim?
My theory is this.
With us, his last platoon,
Grimshawe tries the experiment
of deliberately putting a brake
on his disciplinary powers,
relying, instead, purely
on his personality.
In my opinion, such an
experiment deserves success.
Boys... we shall be
Champion Platoon tomorrow.
You're barmy.
We can but try. If the others
will cooperate. What do you say?
- Go on, boys. Try.
- Ok.
What have we got to lose?
- Nothing.
- Come on, let's tell the others.
