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 Wilhelm’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.
“Once you go over the top, you need only remember one thing,” Oliver instructed them. “If you don’t kill them, as sure as hell they’ll kill you. Think of it like a football match against your most bitter rivals. You’ve got to score every time you shoot.”
“But whose side is the ref on?” demanded a young, frightened voice.
Oliver didn’t reply, because he no longer believed God was the referee and that therefore they must surely win.
The colonel joined them just before the kickoff and blew a whistle to show the match could begin. Captain Jackson was first over the top, leading his company, who followed closely behind. On, on, on, he charged as his men fell like fairground soldiers beside him, the lucky ones dying quickly. He kept going, and was beginning to wonder if he was out there on his own, and then suddenly, without warning, he saw a lone figure running through the whirling smoke toward him. Like Oliver, the man had his bayonet fixed, ready for the kill. Oliver accepted that it would not be possible for both of them to survive, and probably neither would. He held his rifle steady, like a medieval jouster, determined to fell his opponent. He was prepared to thrust his bayonet, not this time into a horsehair bag while training, but into a petrified human being, but no more petrified than he was.
Don’t strike until you see can the whites of his eyes, his training sergeant had drilled into him at Sandhurst. You can’t be a moment too early, or a moment too late. Another oft repeated maxim. But when he saw the whites of his eyes, he couldn’t do it. He lowered his rifle, expecting to die, but to his surprise the German also dropped his rifle as they both came to a halt in the middle of no-man’s-land.
For some time they just stared at each other in disbelief. But it was Oliver who burst out laughing, if only to release his pent-up tension.
“What are you doing here, Jackson?”
“I might ask you the same question, sir.”
“Carrying out someone else’s orders,” said Gruber. “Me too.”
“But you’re a professional soldier.”
“Death doesn’t discriminate in these matters,” said Oliver. “I often recall your shrewd opinion of war, sir, and looking around the battlefield can only wonder how much talent has been squandered here.”
“On both sides,” said Gruber. “But it gives me no pleasure to have been proved right.”
“So what shall we do now, sir? We can’t just stand around philosophizing until peace is declared.”
“But equally, if we were to return meekly to our own side, we would probably be arrested, court-martialled, and shot at dawn.”
“Then one of us will have to take the other prisoner,” said Jackson, “and return in triumph.”
“Not a bad idea. But how shall we decide?” asked Gruber.
“The toss of a coin?”
“How very British,” declared Gruber. “Just a pity the whole war couldn’t have been decided that way,” added the schoolmaster as he took a Goldmark out of his pocket. “You call, Jackson,” he said. “After all, you’re the visiting team.”
Oliver watched as the coin spun high into the air and cried, “Tails,” only because he couldn’t bear the thought of the Kaiser’s image staring up at him in triumph.
Gruber groaned as he bent down to look at his emperor. Oliver quickly took off his tie, bound the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and then began to march his old schoolmaster slowly back toward his own front line.
“What happened to Brooke?” asked Gruber as they squelched through the mud while stepping over the bodies of fallen men.
“He was attached to the Royal Naval Division when he last wrote to me.”
“I read his poem about Grantchester. Even attempted to translate it.”
“‘The Old Vicarage,’” said Jackson.
“That’s the one. Ironic that he wrote it while he was on a visit to Berlin. Such a rare talent. Let’s hope he survives this dreadful war,” Gruber said as the sun dipped below the horizon.