John Boyne - The Absolutist

“What does that mean?” I ask. “What happens next?”

“Sergeant Clayton told him that he was an enlisted man and he could not refuse to fight. To do so would be a dereliction of duty for which he could be court-martialled.”

“And what did Will say?”

“Who’s Will?” Wells asks stupidly.

“Bancroft.”

“Oh, he has a Christian name, does he? I knew you two were friends.”

“I told you, we just bunked next to each other in training, that’s all. Look, are you going to tell me what’s happening with him or not?”

“Steady on, Sadler,” says Wells cautiously. “Remember who you’re addressing.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say, running a hand across my eyes. “I just want to know, that’s all. We can’t… we can’t afford to be another man down. The regiment…” I say half-heartedly.

“No, of course not. Well, Sergeant Clayton told him that he had no choice, he had to fight, but Bancroft announced that he no longer believed in the moral absolute of this war, that he felt the army was engaged in tactics which are contrary to the public good and God’s laws. Has he ever displayed a religious fervour, Sadler? I wonder whether that might explain this sudden rush of conscience.”

“His father’s a vicar,” I tell him. “Although I’ve never heard Bancroft talk about it much.”

“Well, either way it won’t do him much good. Sergeant Clayton told him that he couldn’t register as a conscientious objector out here, it was too late for that nonsense. No military tribunals to hear his case, for one thing. No, he knew what he was signing up for, and if he refuses to fight then we’re left with no alternative. You know what that is, Sadler. I don’t need to tell you what we do with feather men.”

I swallow and feel my heart pounding wildly in my chest. “You’re not sending him over the sandbags,” I ask. “A stretcher-bearer?”

“That was the general intention,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders, as if this is a perfectly normal thing. “But no, Bancroft wouldn’t have that either. He’s gone the whole hog, you see. Declared himself an absolutist.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“An absolutist,” he repeats. “You’re not familiar with the term?”

“No, sir,” I say.

“It’s one step beyond conscientiously objecting,” he explains. “Most of those men oppose the fighting part of things, the killing and so on, but they are willing to help in other ways, in what they might deem to be more humanitarian ways. They’ll work in hospitals or in GHQ or whatever. I mean, it’s terribly cowardly, of course, but they’ll do something while the rest of us risk life and limb.”

“And an absolutist?” I ask.

“Well, he’s at the far end of the spectrum, Sadler,” he tells me. “He won’t do anything at all to further the war effort. Won’t fight, won’t help those who are fighting, won’t work in a hospital or come to the aid of the wounded. Won’t do anything at all, really, except sit on his hands and complain that the whole thing’s a sham. It’s the thin end of the wedge, Sadler, it really is. Cowardice on the most extreme level.”

“Will is not a coward,” I say quietly, feeling my hands curling into fists beneath the table.

“Oh, but he is,” he says. “He’s the most frightful coward. Anyway, he’s registered his status so now the only thing left is to decide what to do with him.”

“And where is he now?” I ask. “Has he been sent back to England?”

“For an easy life? I should think not.”

“I should think that if he was he would be imprisoned,” I point out. “And I can’t imagine there would be anything easy about that.”

“Really, Sadler?” he says doubtfully. “The next time you’re crawling on your belly across no-man’s-land with the bullets whizzing past your head, wondering when you’re going to be picked off like Martin Moody, you just remember those words. I expect at such a moment you might rather relish a couple of years in Strangeways.”

“So is that where he’s gone?” I ask, already feeling heartsore at the idea that I might not see him again, that like Peter Wallis, Will and I parted as enemies and I might die without our ever being reconciled.

“Not yet, no,” says Wells. “He’s still here at camp. Locked up at Sergeant Clayton’s discretion. Court-martialled.”

“But there hasn’t been a trial yet?”

“We don’t need a trial out here, Sadler, you know that. Why, if he was to lay down his gun during the fighting itself he’d be shot by the battle police for cowardice. No, there’s a big push coming over the next twenty-four hours and I’m sure he’ll come to his senses before then. If he agrees to get back into the thick of it, all will be forgotten. For now, at least. He may have to answer for it at a later date, of course, but at least he’ll live to tell his side of the story. He’s lucky, when you think about it. Were it not for the fact that every last man has been helping with the advancement or working on entrenchment he would have been shot by now. No, we’ll hold on to him where he is for the time being and send him out when the battle begins. He’s full of fine talk about never fighting again, of course, but we’ll knock that out of him in time. Mark my words.”

I nod but say nothing. I’m not convinced that anyone could ever knock anything out of Will Bancroft once he has an idea in his head, and want to say so but keep my peace. After a moment, Wells drains his mug and stands up.

“Well, I’d better get back to it,” he says. “Are you coming, Sadler?”

“Not quite yet,” I say.

“All right, then.” He starts to walk away, then turns back and stares at me, narrowing his eyes again. “Are you sure that you and Bancroft aren’t friends?” he asks me. “I always thought you were thick as thieves, the pair of you.”

“We just had bunks next to each other,” I say, unable to look him in the eye. “That’s all we are to each other. I barely know him really.”

To my astonishment, I see Will the following afternoon, seated alone in an abandoned foxhole near HQ. He’s unshaven and pale; there’s a lost expression on his face as he unsettles the dirt on the ground with the tip of his boot. I watch him for a moment without making my presence known to see whether he looks any different now that he has taken his great stand. It might be minutes later when he jerks his head up abruptly, then relaxes when he sees that it’s only me.

“You’re free,” I say as I approach him, not bothering with any greeting despite the fact that we haven’t laid eyes on each other for some time. “I thought they’d locked you away somewhere.”

“They have,” he tells me. “And they’ll take me back there in a bit, I dare say. There’s a meeting of some sort taking place in there and I expect they don’t want me to hear what they’re talking about. Corporal Wells told me to wait here until someone came to fetch me.”

“And they trust you not to run off?”

“Well, where do you think I might go, Tristan?” he asks, smiling at me and looking around. He has a point; it’s not as if there’s anywhere to run off to. “You don’t have a cigarette on you, by any chance? They took all mine away.”

I dig around in the pocket of my coat and hand one across. He lights it quickly, his eyes closing for a moment as he takes the first draw of nicotine into his lungs.

“Is it very awful?” I ask.

“What?” he asks, looking up at me again.

“Being held like this. Wells told me what you’re doing. I expect they’re treating you horribly.”

He shrugs his shoulders and looks away. “It’s fine,” he says. “Most of the time they just ignore me. They bring me food, take me to the latrine. There’s even a bunk in there, if you can believe it. It’s a lot more comfortable than being left to rot in the trenches, I can promise you that.”