The Short, the Long and the Tall

by Jeffrey Archer

  a 1529, Skelton, E. Rummyng 75

  After the Sarasyns gyse,

  Woth a whym wham,

  Knyt with a trym tram,

  Upon her brayne pan.

  Sir William, in his neat hand, had written a note in the margin: ‘Forgive me, but I had to let her know.’

  ‘Know what, I wonder?’ said the Master softly to himself as he attempted to remove the book from Sir William’s hand, but the fingers were already stiff and cold around it.

  Legend has it that they were never apart for more than a few hours.

  A Good Toss to Lose

  MR GRUBER handed back the boys’ essays before returning to his desk at the front of the class.

  ‘Not a bad effort,’ the young schoolmaster said, ‘except for Jackson, who clearly doesn’t believe Goethe is worthy of his attention. And as this is a voluntary class, I’m bound to ask, Jackson, why you bothered to enrol?’

  ‘It was my father’s idea,’ admitted Jackson. ‘He thought there might come a time when it would be useful to speak a little German.’

  ‘How little did he have in mind?’ asked the schoolmaster.

  Jackson’s friend Brooke, who was seated at the desk next to him, whispered loudly enough for everyone in the class to hear, ‘Why don’t you tell him the truth, Oliver?’

  ‘The truth?’ repeated Gruber.

  ‘My father is convinced, sir, that it won’t be too long before we are at war with Germany.’

  ‘And why should he think that, may I ask? When Europe has never been at peace for such a long period of time.’

  ‘I accept that, sir, but Pa works at the Foreign Office. Says the Kaiser is a warmonger, and given the slightest opportunity will invade Belgium.’

  ‘But, remembering your treaty obligations,’ said Gruber as he walked between the desks, ‘that would also drag Britain and France into the conflict.’ The schoolmaster paused for thought. ‘So the real reason you want to learn German,’ he continued, attempting to lighten the exchange, ‘is so you can have a chat with the Kaiser when he comes marching down Whitehall.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe that’s what Pa had in mind, sir. I think he felt that once the Kaiser had been sent packing, if I could speak a little German, I might be in line to be a regional governor.’

  The whole class burst out laughing, and began to applaud.

  ‘We must hope for the sake of your countrymen as well as mine, Jackson, that it’s a very long line.’

  ‘If Kaiser Bill were to wage war, sir,’ said Brooke, sounding more serious, ‘would you have to return to your country?’

  ‘I pray that will never happen, Brooke,’ said Gruber. ‘I look upon England as my second home. Europe is at peace at the moment, so we must hope Jackson’s father is wrong. Nothing would be gained from such a pointless act of folly other than to set the world back a hundred years. Let us be thankful that King George V and Kaiser Wilhelm are cousins.’

  ‘I’ve never cared much for my cousin,’ said Jackson.

  * * *

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ said Brooke, as he and Jackson strolled across to the refectory a few weeks later.

  ‘What news?’ said Jackson.

  ‘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 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 learnt 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 third 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 quick like the hangman’s noose, but probably prolonged, in desperate agony. But he didn’t voice his opinion.

  On
ce 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 kick-off 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 towards 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 the eagle. Oliver quickly took off his tie, bound the prisoner’s wrists behind his back, and then began to march his old schoolmaster slowly back towards 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.

  ‘Are you married, sir?’ asked Oliver.

  ‘Yes. Renate. And we have a son and two daughters. And you?’

  ‘Rosemary. Just got married when the balloon went up.’

  ‘Bad luck, old chap,’ said Gruber, before taking his former pupil by surprise. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider being a godfather to my youngest, Hans? You see, I consider it no more than my duty once the war is over to make sure this madness can never happen again.’

  ‘I agree with you, Ernst, and I’d be honoured. And perhaps in time…’

  ‘May I suggest, Oliver, for both our sakes,’ said Gruber as the British front line came into sight, ‘that when you hand me over, you don’t make it too obvious we’re old friends.’

  ‘Good thinking, Ernst,’ said Oliver, and grabbed his prisoner roughly by the elbow.

  The next voice they heard demanded, ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Captain Jackson, Lancashire Fusiliers, with a German prisoner.’

  ‘Advance and be recognized.’ Oliver pushed his old schoolmaster forward. ‘Bloody good show,’ said the lookout sergeant. ‘You can leave him to me, sir. And you can keep moving, you fucking Kraut.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Oliver sharply, ‘try to remember he’s an officer.’

  * * *

  The war was over by Christmas. Christmas 1918.

  Captain Ernst Gruber spent two years in a prisoner-of-war camp on Anglesey. He passed the mornings teaching his fellow prisoners the local tongue as there might come a time when it would prove useful to speak a little English, he suggested, echoing Jackson’s words.

  Oliver sent Gruber the collected works of Rupert Brooke, which he translated in the evenings while he waited for the war to end.

  Ernst Gruber was shipped back to Frankfurt in November 1919, and within days he wrote to Oliver to ask if he was still willing to be a godfather to his son Hans. It was several weeks before he received a reply from Oliver’s wife Rosemary, to say that her husband had been killed on the Western Front only days before the Armistice was signed. They also had a son, Arthur Oliver, and on her husband’s last furlough he’d told her that he hoped Ernst would agree to be one of Arthur’s godparents.

  With the assistance of Oliver’s father, Herr Gruber was allowed to visit England to fulfil his role in the christening ceremony. As Ernst stood by the font alongside Oliver’s family, he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he had won the toss.

  Postscript

  19 September 1943

  LIEUTENANT HANS OTTO GRUBER was blown up by a landmine while serving on the Western Front. He died three days later.

  6 June 1944

  CAPTAIN ARTHUR OLIVER JACKSON MC was killed while leading his platoon on the beaches of Normandy.

  15 November 1944

  PROFESSOR ERNST HELMUT GRUBER was executed by firing squad in Berlin for the role he played in the failed attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler at Wolf’s Lair.

  May They Rest in Peace

  One Man’s Meat

  COULD ANYONE be that beautiful?

  I was driving round the Aldwych on my way to work when I first saw her. She was walking up the steps of the Aldwych Theatre. If I’d stared a moment longer I would have driven into the back of the car in front of me, but before I could confirm my fleeting impression she had disappeared into the throng of theatregoers.

  I spotted a parking space on my left-hand side and swung into it at the last possible moment, without indicating, causing the vehicle behind me to let out several appreciative blasts. I leapt out of my car and ran back towards the theatre, realizing how unlikely it was that I’d be able to find her in such a mêlée,
and that even if I did, she was probably meeting a boyfriend or husband who would turn out to be about six feet tall and closely to resemble Harrison Ford.

  Once I reached the foyer I scanned the chattering crowd. I slowly turned 360 degrees, but could see no sign of her. Should I try to buy a ticket? I wondered. But she could be seated anywhere – the stalls, the dress circle, even the upper circle. Perhaps I should walk up and down the aisles until I spotted her. But I realized I wouldn’t be allowed into any part of the theatre unless I could produce a ticket.

  And then I saw her. She was standing in a queue in front of the window marked ‘Tonight’s Performance’, and was just one away from being attended to. There were two other customers, a young woman and a middle-aged man, waiting in line behind her. I quickly joined the queue, by which time she had reached the front. I leant forward and tried to overhear what she was saying, but I could only catch the box office manager’s reply: ‘Not much chance with the curtain going up in a few minutes’ time, madam,’ he was saying. ‘But if you leave it with me, I’ll see what I can do.’

  She thanked him and walked off in the direction of the stalls. My first impression was confirmed. It didn’t matter if you looked from the ankles up or from the head down – she was perfection. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I noticed that she was having exactly the same effect on several other men in the foyer. I wanted to tell them all not to bother. Didn’t they realize she was with me? Or rather, that she would be by the end of the evening.

  After she had disappeared from view, I craned my neck to look into the booth. Her ticket had been placed to one side. I sighed with relief as the young woman two places ahead of me presented her credit card and picked up four tickets for the dress circle.