Lieutenant John Chard: The army doesn't like more than one disaster in a day.
Bromhead: Looks bad in the newspapers and upsets civilians at their breakfast.
Surgeon Maj. Reynolds: You know this boy?
Orderly: Name is Cole, sir. He's a paper hanger.
Surgeon Maj. Reynolds: Well, he's a dead paper hanger now.
Lieutenant John Chard: Good. I can find work for baritones as well as tenors.
Colour Sergeant Bourne: A prayer's as good as bayonet on a day like this.
Cpl. William Allen: Heave! Put a bit more weight on that rope, you men.
Pvt. John Williams: He's even got a voice like a corporal.
Pvt. Fred Hitch: Yeah, sort of like a female hippopotamus in labor.
Lieutenant John Chard: You didn't say a thing to help, Bromhead.
Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead: Well, when you take command, old boy, you're on your own. One of the first things that the general - my grandfather - ever taught me.
Pte. Thomas Cole: Why is it us? Why us?
Colour Sergeant Bourne: Because we're here, lad. Nobody else. Just us.
Private Thomas: Why worry about a calf? I thought I was tired of farming. No adventure in it. When you look at it, this country's not a bit as good as Bala and the lake there. Not really green, like. And the soil. There's no moisture in it. Nothing to hold a man in his grave.
Lieutenant John Chard: Mr. Witt! When I have the impertinence to climb into your pulpit to deliver a sermon, then you can tell me my duty.
Hughes: Colour Sergeant Bourne! What's that shooting?
Colour Sergeant Bourne: A rifle, Hughes.
Colour Sergeant Bourne: If you're sick in hospital, I'd suggest you go and lie down.
Hughes: Yes, Colour Sergeant.
Cpl. Frederic Schiess, NNC: A Zulu regiment can run, run, 50 miles and fight a battle at the end of it.
Pvt. William Jones: Well, there's daft, it is then. I don't see no sense in running to fight a battle.
Pte. Henry Hook: Rourke's Drift... It'd take an Irishman to give his name to a rotten stinking middle o' nowhere hole like this.
Pvt. William Jones: What's he up to, 593?
Pte. Robert Jones: Oh, I think he wants to be hero, 716.
Cpl. Frederic Schiess, NNC: Haven't you rednecks got names instead of numbers?
Pte. Robert Jones: 'Tis a Welsh regiment, man! Though there are some foreigners from England in it, mind. I am Jones from Bwlchgwyn, he is Jones from Builth Wells, and there are four more Joneses in C Company! Confusing, isn't it, Dutchy?
Hughes: Hey, Hooky... who's doing all that shooting? Who do you think?
Private Henry Hook: Who do you think? Mister flamin' Bromhead, shooting flamin' defenseless animals for the flamin' officers' flamin' dinner.
Reverend Otto Witt: Death waits you! You have made a covenant with death, and with Hell you are in agreement. You're all going to die! Don't you realise? Can't you see? You're all going to die! Die! Death awaits you all.
Cpl. Frederic Schiess, NNC: I belong to Natal Mounted Police.
Pvt. William Jones: Is that true then? He's a peeler, 716. Come to arrest the Zulus.
Bromhead: Fire at will.
Pte. Owen: That's very nice of him.
Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead: Sixty! We dropped at least 60, wouldn't you say?
Adendorff: That leaves only 3,940.