Alan Johnson’s Enormous Penis

You find all sorts in the trenches. The other day I shared a billet with the Duke of Richmond’s pastry chef. Geff Torrence is a flag designer, Angel Dickson makes candles and Doug Pinchers was a professional crown green bowler before he got his call-up papers.

None of these skills and trades are of any use in the trenches. None of them can do anything to stop a bullet. Some of the lads at least have abilities that can entertain, there are singers, musicians (though a shortage of instruments) Sandy Duggan can tapdance, though not so well in his army issue boots in a pool of mud, and Ed Fleeceman can impersonate anyone or anything, from bellowing sergeant to seven different types of shell.

I’d include Alan Johnson’s penis in this category, as although it’s not a ‘skill’, his enormous third leg is a constant source of amusement, speculation and barracks humour, the detail of which I shall leave to your imagination.

One day Johnson was on a reconnaissance mission and got caught in a funk hole on the German lines. A sudden bombardment of mortar fire left him stuck there for several hours, and he ended up falling asleep.

He woke with a start, to find three Germans in the funk hole beside him, the one nearest him pointing his rifle straight at Johnson’s head. There was nothing he could do, by the time he’d reached down for his pistol the German would have long since spread his brains over the funkhole floor.

“Don’t shoot,” he pleaded, “Nicht Schiessen”.

“Warum nicht?” the German asked, clearly unimpressed by the pleading Tommy.

“I have a girlfriend. Eine Madchen. She’d be devastated if anything happened to me.”

​Johnson's feeble attempts at German were unnecessary, the soldier understood, and replied in perfect English.

“You think I haven’t shot a dozen Englishmen, all with wives, children, girlfriends, some of them probably many girlfriends. What’s different about you?”

Unable to think of any other plea, Johnson dropped his trousers, revealing his enormous trouser snake.

The three Germans stared in amazement at Johnson’s considerable appendage. Eventually one the Germans raised his arm and moved his colleague’s gun away so that it was no longer pointing at Johnson’s head.

“Don’t shoot him, Hans,” he said. “Think of his girlfriend.”