Edward Marston: Instrument of Slaughter

January, 1916

The meeting was held in secret. Though they had similar views and shared objectives, they did not want to discuss them in a pub where they were likely to be mocked and vilified. In a time of war, pacifism was a stigma for able-bodied young men. Each one of them had his own collection of white feathers, contemptuous glances and harsh reproaches. Pressure to enlist grew more intense by the day.

‘Where’s Gordon?’ asked Cyril Ablatt, impatiently.

‘He swore that he’d be here,’ said Mansel Price.

‘Then why isn’t he?’

‘God knows!’

‘He can’t have forgotten,’ said Fred Hambridge. ‘It’s not like Gordon to be late. Shall I go and look for him?’

‘No,’ said Ablatt, firmly. ‘We’ll wait.’

Ablatt was the leader of the group and they’d arranged to meet that evening in the shed at the bottom of his garden. Small and cluttered, it was used as a workshop by Ablatt’s father in his spare time. Hambridge, a carpenter by trade, was interested in the various tools on display, not that he could see them all by the light of the candles that provided the only illumination. There was no source of heat and it was bitterly cold. All three of them wore coats, hats, scarves and gloves. They’d been close friends at school and — though they’d gone off in different directions — war had brought them back together again. Ablatt was a tall, slim individual with striking good looks and a confident manner. He worked in the local library where he regularly fielded hostile questions about why he’d so far failed to join the army to fight for King and Country. He always defended his position in a polite but robust manner.

Hambridge was a big, ugly, misshapen, red-haired young man with freckled features and a look of permanent bewilderment. Alone of them, he came from a family of Quakers. Price, by contrast, was shorter, slighter, darker and of middle height. Proud of his Welsh roots, he was at once the most genial and combative member of the group. He worked as a cook for the Great Western Railway, travelling, for the most part, between Paddington and his native country.

‘They tried to put me on a military bloody train,’ he complained. ‘I told my boss it was against my principles to help the war effort in any way. He said that people like me couldn’t afford principles. I hate to say it but he had a point. I earn a pittance.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Ablatt, ‘you must stick to your guns.’

Price grinned. ‘I don’t believe in guns, Cyril.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do and I don’t. We’re different, you and me. While you can get up on your hind legs and spout about pacifism for hours on end, I’m against conscription for a different reason. It’s a breach of my liberty, see? That’s what I resent. It’s the state, taking over my life, telling me what to do, what to wear, when to eat, drink and sleep and who to shoot at. I’m not having that. I’ve got rights and nobody is going to steal them from me. I don’t hold with killing people,’ said Price, warming to his theme, ‘and never have — simple as that. No government on this earth is going to make me take up arms. In fact-’

He broke off as they heard footsteps approaching along the lane at the back of the house. The garden door creaked open and the steps got closer. Gordon Leach had arrived at last. Ablatt got up to confront him, flinging open the door as his breathless friend was conjured out of the darkness.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he asked, accusingly.

Leach raised both hands. ‘Sorry — I got held up.’

‘This is an important meeting.’

‘I know that, Cyril.’

‘Then why did you keep us waiting?’

‘Let him in and close that bloody door,’ said Price. ‘It’s freezing in here.’

Ablatt stepped back so that the newcomer could enter the shed. Price was sitting on a wooden box and Hambridge was perched on the edge of the workbench. Closing the door, Ablatt took the only chair. Leach had to settle for an upturned bucket. He was a thin, pallid, fair-headed young man with a nervous habit of looking to left and right as he spoke, as if addressing a large and restive audience. After apologising profusely to his friends, he lapsed into silence.

‘Right,’ said Ablatt, taking charge. ‘You all know why we’re here. Until this year, recruitment was done on a voluntary basis. The Military Service Act changed all that. Conscription will come in to effect on March 2nd. Any man between the ages of eighteen and forty-one is likely to be called up unless he’s married, widowed with children or working in one of the reserved occupations. In other words, all four of us are liable.’

‘We simply tell them to bugger off,’ asserted Price.

‘It’s not as simple as that, Mansel,’ said Leach, worriedly. ‘We’d be breaking the law.’

‘There’s no law that can make me join the army.’

‘There is now.’

‘Then we bloody well defy it.’

‘That’s the point at issue,’ resumed Ablatt. ‘Are we all prepared to act together as conscientious objectors? Are we all ready to take the consequences?’

‘Yes,’ said Price, thrusting out his jaw.

‘Fred?’

‘I’ve been racking my brains to find a way out,’ said Hambridge, seriously. ‘I know this may sound daft but why don’t we make a run for it? We could head for Scotland and camp out until the war ends.’

‘You’re right,’ said Ablatt with a sneer. ‘It sounds daft because it is daft.’

‘We’d be escaping conscription, Cyril.’

‘You won’t get me freezing my balls off in the Highlands,’ said Price, angrily. ‘What are we supposed to live on? Where does the money come from?’

‘We have to do something ,’ insisted Hambridge, turning to Leach for support. ‘What do you think, Gordon?’

‘Running away is not the answer, Fred,’ said Leach, clearly appalled by the notion. ‘I’ve got Ruby to think of, remember. We’re getting married this year. I can’t just run off and leave her.’

‘Ruby would understand. It’d only be for a short while.’

‘You should try reading the papers,’ suggested Ablatt, irritably. ‘They all say the same. This war will drag on and on. Why are they bringing in conscription if they think it’s all going to be over by Easter? Forget about Scotland.’

‘All right,’ conceded Hambridge. ‘Let’s make it Ireland, then.’

‘We’re not turning tail like frightened rabbits. We’re going to stay here and demand our rights as conscientious objectors.’

‘Then there could be trouble ahead, Cyril.’

‘That’s my worry,’ admitted Leach. ‘How far do we go?’

‘All the way,’ said Price, pugnaciously.

‘We lead by example,’ said Ablatt with passion. ‘We refuse to fight our fellow men on the grounds of conscience. It’s what any good Christian would do. We march under the banner of peace. Let them bring in their tribunals and whatever else they devise to coerce us. We must stand shoulder to shoulder against them.’ He rose to his feet and wagged a finger. ‘I’m a human being. I will not be turned into an instrument of slaughter wearing a khaki uniform. I will not kill, I will not inflict hideous wounds. I will not turn my back on the teachings of the Bible.’ He looked around the faces of his friends. ‘I know that Mansel won’t let anyone push him around. What about you, Fred? Are you ready to face the music?’

‘Yes,’ said Hambridge, stirred by his words. ‘I think I am.’

‘What do you believe in?’

‘Peace and universal friendship.’

‘Tell that to the tribunal when they haul you up in front of one.’ Ablatt’s eyes flicked to Leach. ‘That leaves you, Gordon.’