Tell Tale: Short Stories

“Mr. Gruber will be returning to Germany within a fortnight.”

“Why?” said Jackson.

“It seems the headmaster thought it wise given the circumstances.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jackson as they sat down on a wooden bench and waited to be served lunch.

“But I thought you didn’t like having to study German,” said Brooke, as he attempted to spear a soggy carrot with his fork.

“And I still don’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like Mr. Gruber. In fact he’s always struck me as a thoroughly decent fellow. Not at all the sort of chap one would want to go to war with.”

“We might even be at war with him in a few months’ time,” said Brooke, “and if you’re still thinking of making the army your career, you could find yourself on the front line.”

“I don’t think you’ll be exempt from that privilege, Rupert,” said Oliver, swamping his food with gravy, “just because you’re going up to Cambridge to swan around writing poetry.”

“Which reminds me,” said Brooke. “My mother wondered if you’d like to join us in Grantchester for a couple of weeks this summer. And I can promise you some rather interesting gals will be joining us.”

“Can’t think of anything better, old chap. That’s assuming Kaiser Bill hasn’t got other plans for us.”

* * *

Oliver Jackson did spend a couple of carefree weeks with his friend, Rupert Brooke, that summer, before they parted and went their separate ways. Brooke to read Classics at King’s, while Jackson reported to the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, to accept the King’s shilling and spend the next two years being trained as an officer in the British Army.

* * *

In October 1913, Second Lieutenant Jackson of the Lancashire Fusiliers reported to his regiment’s depot in Chester, where he quickly discovered that talk of war with Germany was no longer confined to the Foreign Office, but was now on everyone’s lips. However, no one could be sure what would light the fuse.

When Kaiser Wil

helm’s close friend and ally, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, was assassinated in Sarajevo, the German emperor had at last found the excuse he needed for his troops to invade Belgium, giving him the chance to expand his empire.

The only good thing that had happened while Oliver was serving his tour of duty in Chester was that he fell in love with a Miss Rosemary Carter, the daughter of one of his father’s colleagues at the Foreign Office. In the fathers’ eyes, the marriage was no more than an entente cordiale, whereas both mothers quickly realized that this particular treaty had never required Foreign Office approval.

One of the many things Kaiser Bill did to irritate Oliver was to declare war while he and Rosemary were still on their honeymoon. Lieutenant Jackson received a telegram delivered to his Deauville hotel ordering him to report back to his regiment immediately.

* * *

A few weeks later the Lancashire Fusiliers were among the first to be shipped out to France, where Oliver quickly discovered that it was possible to live in far worse conditions and force down even more disgusting grub than he’d been made to endure at Rugby.

He settled down in a trench where rats were his constant companions, three inches of muddy water his pillow, and slowly learned to sleep despite the sound of gunfire.

“It will be over by Christmas,” was the optimistic cry being passed down the line.

“But which Christmas?” asked a bus driver from Romford as he forked a billycan of corned beef and baked beans, while refilling his mug with rainwater.

In fact the only present the young subaltern got that Christmas was a third pip to be sewn next to the other two already on his shoulder, and then only after he replaced a brother officer who had not made it into 1915.

Captain Jackson had already been over the top three times by the winter of 1916, and didn’t need reminding that the average survival period for a soldier on the front line was nineteen days; he was now in his second year. But at least they were allowing him to return home for a three-week furlough. What old soldiers referred to as a “stay of execution.”

Jackson returned to the Marne after spending an idyllic carefree break with Rosemary in their country cottage at Crathorne. He was grateful to find that even his father was beginning to believe the war couldn’t last much longer. Oliver prayed that he was right.

On arriving back at the front, Jackson immediately reported to his commanding officer.

“We are expecting to mount another attack on Jerry in a few days’ time,” said Colonel Harding. “So be sure your men are prepared.”

Prepared for what? thought Oliver. Almost certain death, and not quickly like the hangman’s noose, but probably prolonged, in desperate agony. But he didn’t voice his opinion.

Once he was back in the trenches, Oliver quickly tried to get to know the young impressionable men who’d just arrived at the front line, and hadn’t yet heard a shot fired in anger. He couldn’t think of them as soldiers, just keen young lads who had responded to a poster of a moustachioed old man pointing a finger at them and declaring YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU.