As Albert and Charlie sat in the still evening air drinking foul-tasting tea, Sergeant Carter appeared in the trench. ‘Right, you lot. On parade at base camp. The other half of the troop will take your place.’
The soldiers bustled to collect their kit-bags and weapons and obey.
‘He looked serious,’ Albert said. The memory of the Sergeant’s warm arm around his shoulder that morning seemed like a dream.
‘It means trouble,’ Charlie said.
When they arrived on the parade ground Captain Forsythe was waiting for them. ‘Stand at ease,’ he cried, his thin voice lost in the moon-grey clouds. ‘Now. General French has heard stories of soldiers having truces with their German enemies.’
‘That’s a disgrace,’ Sergeant Carter barked.
‘There are even stories of British soldiers playing football with the enemy.’
‘I can’t believe that, sir,’ Carter snapped.
‘I told the general that my men would never do such a thing. That football match never happened. If any man saw someone playing football with the enemy he must step forward now.’
No one moved. At last Charlie Embleton stepped forward.
‘Excuse me, sir, but I did hear about that football game that never happened. I heard that a captain and a sergeant played for the British team.’
Captain Forsythe turned to Sergeant Carter. ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense, Sergeant?’
‘Never, sir.’
The captain nodded. ‘Do you have any toilets that need cleaning, sergeant?’
‘A couple of hundred, sir.’ The officers looked at Charlie.
Captain Forsythe spoke. ‘So, Embleton. What did you hear about this football match?’
Charlie sucked on his false teeth. ‘I heard it never happened, sir.’
The Captain smiled. ‘Correct. Troop dismiss. And get a good night’s sleep.’ Then he said quietly, so that only Albert’s sharp ears heard the slow sad words, ‘Tomorrow we go to war.’