John Boyne - The Absolutist

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

“A week today.”

I exhale and shake my head in surprise; if I’ve been in bed for a week, then why do I still feel so tired?

“I think you might be over the worst of it. We thought we were going to lose you at first. You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”

“I never used to be,” I say. “What have I missed, anyway?”

“Nothing,” replies the doctor, laughing a little. “The war’s still going on, if that’s what you’re worried about. Why, what did you expect to miss?”

“Has anyone been killed?” I ask. “Anyone from my regiment, I mean.”

He takes the thermometer from my mouth and stares at it, then turns to look at me with a curious expression on his face. “Anyone from your regiment?” he asks. “No. Not since you’ve been in here. None that I’m aware of. It’s been fairly quiet out there. Why do you ask?”

I shake my head and stare at the ceiling. I’ve been sleeping for most of the past two days but want more. I feel as if I could sleep for another month if I was offered the chance.

“Much better,” says the doctor cheerfully. “Temperature’s back to normal. Or as normal as it gets out here, at any rate.”

“Did I have any visitors?”

“Why, who were you expecting—the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

I ignore his sarcasm and turn away. It’s possible that Will looked in on me from time to time; it’s not as if this doctor has been watching my bed twenty-four hours a day.

“So what’s next for me, then?” I ask.

“Back to active duty, I expect. We’ll give you another day or so. Look, why don’t you get up for a little bit? Go to the mess tent and get some food into you. Plenty of hot sweet tea if there’s any to be found. Then report back here and we’ll see how you’re getting along.”

I sigh and drag my body from the bed, feeling the weight of a full bladder pressing on my abdomen, and dress quickly before taking myself off to the latrine. As I open the flap of the tent and step out into the miserable, murky half-light, a great pool of water that has been sitting on the canvas above falls on me, drenching my head, and I stand there for a moment or two, a sodden mess, willing the elements to make me ill again so that I might return to the warmth and comfort of the medical tent.

But, to my disappointment, I only improve and am soon back on active duty.

*

Although I develop a rash on my arm later that day, which makes it feel as though it’s on fire, after spending another afternoon in the medical tent waiting to be seen I’m finally given a cursory examination and told that there’s nothing the matter with me, it’s all in my head, and I can go to the trenches.

In the evening, standing alone at my box-periscope, my rifle slung over my shoulder as I stare across no-man’s-land, I become convinced that there is a German boy of my own age standing on the opposite side, watching me. He’s tired and frightened; he’s spent every evening praying that he will not see us climbing over the sandbags because the moment we emerge from our muddy graves is the moment he will be forced to give the signal to his own comrades and the whole horrible business of engagement will begin.

No one mentions Will, and I am nervous about asking after him. Most of our original regiment are dead, or in Hobbs’s case sent to a field hospital, so there isn’t any reason why they should be thinking of Will. I am racked with loneliness. I haven’t laid eyes on him since before I became ill. After my refusal to report Milton to Sergeant Clayton, he studiously avoided me. Then I became sick and that was the end of that.

When a group of men are selected by Sergeant Clayton for a recce in the dead of night over the sandbags and towards the German defences, of the sixty who leave us, only eighteen return, a disaster by any standards. Among the dead is Corporal Moody, who has taken a bullet in the eye.

Later that same evening, I discover Corporal Wells sitting alone with a mug of tea, his head bowed over the table, and I feel unexpected sympathy for him. I’m unsure whether it’s appropriate to join him or not—we have never been particularly friendly—but I feel alone, too, and in need of company so I take the bit between my teeth, pour myself some tea, and stand before him.

“Evening, sir,” I say carefully.

It takes him a moment to look up and, when he does, I notice that there are dark bags forming under his eyes. I wonder how long it has been since he has slept. “Sadler,” he says. “Off duty, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, nodding at the empty bench opposite him. “Would you rather be alone or can I join you?”

He stares at the emptiness as if unsure of the etiquette of the moment, but finally shrugs and indicates that I might sit down.

“I was sorry to hear about Corporal Moody,” I tell him after a suitable pause. “He was a decent man. He always treated me fairly.”

“I thought I’d better write to his wife,” he tells me, indicating the paper and pen before him.

“I didn’t even know he was married.”

“No particular reason why you should. But yes, he had a wife and three daughters.”

“Won’t Sergeant Clayton be writing to his wife, sir?” I ask, for that is the usual way these things work.

“Yes, I expect so. Only I knew Martin better than anyone else. I thought it might be best if I wrote, too.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding again, and as I lift my mug, I feel an unexpected weakness in my arm and spill tea across the table.

“For pity’s sake, Sadler,” he says, putting the paper and pen aside before they can be spoiled. “Don’t be so damn nervous all the time, it gets on my wick. How are you, anyway? All better?”

“Quite well, thank you,” I say, wiping the tea away with my sleeve.

“Thought we’d lost you at one point. Last thing we need, another man going down. There’s not a lot of your original Aldershot troop left, is there?”

“Seven,” I say.

“Six by my count.”

“Six?” I ask, feeling the blood drain from my face. “Who’s been killed?”

“Since you fell ill? No one as far as I know.”

“But then it’s seven,” I insist. “Robinson, Williams, Attling—”

“You’re not going to say Hobbs, are you? Because he’s been sent back to England. He’s in the nuthouse. We don’t count Hobbs.”

“I wasn’t counting him,” I say, “but that still leaves seven: Robinson, Williams and Attling, as I said, and Sparks, Milton, Bancroft and me.”

Corporal Wells laughs and shakes his head. “Well, if we’re not including Hobbs, then we’re not including Bancroft,” he tells me.

“He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“Probably in better condition than any of us. For the moment, anyway. But look here,” he adds, narrowing his eyes a little, as if he wants to get a better reading of me. “You and he were tight once, weren’t you?”

“We had the bunks next to each other at Aldershot,” I say. “Why, where is he? I’ve been keeping an eye out for him in the trenches ever since I came back to the line but there’s no sign of him.”

“You haven’t heard, then?”

I shake my head but say nothing.

“Private Bancroft,” begins Wells, stressing each syllable as if it carries a great weight, “made an appointment for a conversation with Sergeant Clayton. He brought up that whole business of the German boy again. You’ve heard about that, I imagine?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply. “I was there when it happened.”

“Oh, that’s right. He did mention it. Anyway, he wanted Milton brought up on charges, insisted on it in no uncertain terms. The sergeant refused for what must be the third time of asking and this time the conversation grew rather heated between the two. The upshot of it all was that Bancroft surrendered his weapons to Sergeant Clayton and announced that he would take no further part in the campaign.”