Flashheart: Eat knuckle, Fritz. [He knocks Blackadder to the ground and holds him there with his foot.] How disgusting, a Bosch on the sole of my boot. I shall have to find a patch of grass to wipe it in. I'll be shunned in the Officer's Mess."Sorry about the pong, you fellas; trod in the Bosch and can't get rid of the WHIFF."
Blackadder: If we could dispense with the hilarious doggie-doo metaphor for a moment, I am not a Bosch, this is a British trench.
Flashheart: Thank heaven for that, thought I'd landed sausage-side. Mind if I use your phone? If word gets out I'm dead, five hundred girls will kill themselves. I wouldn't want them on my conscience, not when they oughta be on my FACE.
Blackadder: I was wondering whether, after being tortured by the most vicious sadist in the German army, I might be allowed a week's leave to recuperate.
Melchett: Excellent idea - your commanding officer would have to be stark raving mad to refuse you.
Blackadder: You are my commanding officer.
Blackadder: Can I have a weeks leave to recuperate sir?
Melchett: Certainly not.
Blackadder: Thank you sir.