Ian sits in the corner of a almost empty bar enjoying a good glass of malt. He wears his white rollneck sweater without rank epaulettes and thinking about his recent promotion to admiral. How long i serve now? he thought to himself while sipping from his drink. Than a few pilots of his squadron, the 390th bomber wing join the table. Ye ain't thinkin' we gonne let ye drinkin' alone skipper? Smirks a cocky lieutenant named Bell. And the group agrees. Alrighty than lads but no ranks tonight. Ian says Tonight we celebrate a lot of promotions. He turns towards the barkeeper, Lad tonight the drinks are on me.
The barkeeper looks at Ian as he is mad but raises his shoulders and start to pour in drinks for everybody in the room. Than suddenly a couple of pilots start to sing and its not long before the entire group sings:
I don't want to be a soldier,
I don't want to go to war;
I'd rather hang around
Piccadilly underground,
Living on the earnings of a high born lady;
Don't want a bullet up my arsehole,
Don't want my bollocks shot away,
For I'd rather stay in Bretonia,
Merry, merry Bretonina,
And roger all my bleeding life away,