Oxford, England — Tuesday, 22 June 1915

David watched for a short while as Harold walked across the quadrangle. A fine chap. Ironic, he was a student here when war was declared, rushed off to the Front within weeks. Now he's back here teaching. David shook his head, then turned and stepped into the Orderly Room. He set his basket and satchel down and presented his orders to the clerk who had looked up as he entered.

The Corporal riffled through a stack of manilla folders on the counter and selected one, opened it and read for a while. Then he took a sheet of paper from the dossier, passed it to David and asked him to read it through and sign it.

With the paperwork done, the clerk handed him a small booklet, a sealed envelope and several loose pages. "Most everything you need to know about Brasenose is in this book, Sir. These are tomorrow's orders, and this is the duty roster." He looked across the room and signalled to a young man in uniform. "He'll show you to your quarters, Sir. Your baggage will be sent along when it arrives."

David picked up his basket and satchel. "I've no baggage. These are all I have, Corporal." He dropped the booklet, envelope and papers into his basket, thanked him and turned to follow the cadet.

As they walked across the quadrangle, David asked, "How long have you been here?"

"My fifth week starts the morrow, so I'll no longer be a rook. First four weeks are the tough uns, you'll be everyone's target."

They entered a building and walked along a broad corridor, their footsteps on the oaken floor echoing as they went. At its end, the cadet pointed to a door. "This here's yers." He knocked on the door, opened it a crack and called in. "Yer new bunkie's here." Hearing no response, he continued in and David followed.

The cadet looked around the small suite, then turned to David. "One bed only..." He paused a moment, then said, "Ours are all four beds, stackers. You a lord or some it?"

"This whole thing is new to me, but I'll take what's offered." He set his basket and satchel down and glanced at his watch. "I've not eaten since the Channel ferry, and I'm sure the mess has long since closed."

"Yes, we have to be in the mess by ha' past six to eat. There's pubs out in Radcliffe Square and along in the High Street."

"What's your favourite?"

"T'other side o the square, the Crow and Gate. It's blocked from view when you come out, behind the Camera, the round building in the centre o the square."

He thanked the cadet who looked around the suite again, shaking his head and muttering, "Posh," as he left.

David made a quick survey of his quarters, examining the washbasin and the shower in one small room and the water closet behind another door. This is much more comfortable than I had imagined it would be.

He took the sealed envelope from his basket, opened it and unfolded the page to read the brief handwritten note:

David,

I am asked by R to express his great pleasure with having met you. 

Upon reviewing your file, he found the War Office had approved on the 25th of April the recommendation of your Battalion Commander, granting you a field commission with the temporary rank of Lieutenant. Since your mission can be shown to warrant this rank, he has decided to let it stand, as it will make your time at Oxford easier for all of us.

Destroy this note.

G.

He tore the small note into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. So I'm a Lieutenant. Field commission must be what the Captain was talking about before he... David winced at the memory, shook his head and took a few deep breaths. Back to now, to here.

He squatted and took the booklet from the basket and began reading it. I can do this while I eat. He checked that his orders were in his breast pocket, felt the coins in his trousers, then took the key from the door, stepped out into the corridor and locked his room. Wonder if I keep this or turn it in at the front. Probably keep it. They'll tell me if I'm wrong.

At the security post, he told the guard he was going across the square for dinner. He showed his orders. "I'll be able to get back in with these, will I?"

The guard glanced at them and nodded. "Yes, but curfew for cadets is twenty-one thirty."

David glanced at his watch. Twenty fifty-five. "And the curfew for officers is when?"

The guard laughed. "There's none, but you needn't worry about that until after you finish here." He laughed louder. "If you don't wash out in the first few weeks, that is."

"Thank you." David turned and walked briskly through the entrance and into Radcliffe Square. Out of sight from the guards, he paused and looked at his orders. Cadet Berry, David M. That's the attitude Colonel Picot told me about. The enlisted men have fun at the expense of the cadets. An old tradition and part of the training.

He pocketed his orders and strolled around the periphery of the square, examining the architecture of the buildings. The Crow and Gate was crowded and bustling as he walked past. Too boisterous for me. He continued around the square and stopped in front of a smaller establishment, Tyne Head, which was about two-thirds full. This is better. Certainly quieter.

He stepped through the doorway and was greeted by an elderly woman. "Kitchen's just closing, but yer've still a bit a time if you be quick."

David nodded. "Just something simple to fill me. I've not eaten since the ferry."

"We've shepherd's pie with pease and chips as our supper special. Three and six with a half pint of ale."

"Sounds like what I need. I'll do that."

She signalled the bartender on the way by as she led David to a table along the rear wall. He sat facing out into the room and did a slow survey of the others in the restaurant. His tankard arrived, and he took a long draught to quench his thirst, then continued his casual people watching. Mostly young men in groups. A few young couples. No women alone and no older people. Must be all students — a few with their girls.

The woman set his dinner on the table and he nodded thanks to her, then he stared at it for a long while. How inelegant. Sloppy pie plunked on a plate, a lump of grey mashed peas and some greasy-looking fried potatoes. No garnish, no art, no care. I'm back to the stodge of my training on the Canterbury plains. Maybe it's not the British Army's food that's poor, it's the British food itself.

He began eating as he read through the OTC booklet, learning among other things, that officer training at the University of Oxford dates to the bodyguard the students formed in 1642 to protect King Charles during the Civil War. Halfway through reading the regulations, there was a scrape of chairs and increased movement in the room as most of the patrons rose from their tables and left. Must be the curfew. He glanced at his watch and smiled. Twenty-one twenty-five. I don't think I need to worry. At least I hope not.

David sat back and continued reading for another quarter hour as he nursed the last of his ale, then he signalled the woman that he wished to pay. She looked at the large clock above the bar and said, "Curfew always clears the house."

"Much quieter now, probably because the kitchen's closed."

"It's much too late to eat."

"In France, people have barely begun to eat at this hour."

"So I've been told. But they do a lot of strange things there, like eating snails and calf brains and frog legs and..."

"They're delicious."

She contorted her face as if she'd be sick, then she smiled at him. "And what of our food? British food? What do they think of it?"

"Many would certainly hesitate before eating the dinner I was served here."

"You all say similar things. One fellow told me last month that the French would think carefully before feeding British food to their animals."

David laughed. "Some would, for sure. There's such a different attitude about eating there, compared to here. Here it's refuelling, there it's an aesthetic and sensual pleasure. Both serve to nourish the body, but the French also use their food to nourish their minds and their souls."

"Far too froufrou and chichi for me. Solid food to stick to the ribs, that's what's needed."

"And to lift the spirits? I would have loved to have had something more appealing than globs of stodge in the trenches. I'm sure millions of others would as well."