John Boyne - The Absolutist

“Three, sir,” I say.

“It’s two, Sadler,” he insists. “We don’t count Bancroft. The yellow-bellied bastard. Two of you left, and this is how you conduct yourself? How are the new recruits expected to fight the enemy if they have the living shit beaten out of them by you?” His face is red and his tone grows more furious with every word.

“Obviously it wasn’t wise, sir,” I say.

“Not wise? Not wise? ” he roars. “Are you trying to be funny with me, Sadler, because I promise you that if you even try any of that nonsense with me, I’ll have you—”

“I’m not trying to be funny, sir,” I say, interrupting him. “I don’t know what happened to me. I went a little mad, that’s all. Marshall just rubbed me up the wrong way.”

“Mad?” he asks, leaning forward and staring at me. “Did you say ‘mad,’ Sadler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, don’t tell me you’re trying to get out of here on some spurious grounds of insanity because I won’t stand for that, either.”

“Out of where, sir?” I ask. “Out of your office?”

“Out of France, you bloody idiot!”

“Oh. No, sir,” I say. “Not at all. No, it was more of a temporary thing. I can only apologize. I tripped over him, words were exchanged, it all got a little heated. A bad mistake.”

“You’ve put him out of commission for the next twenty-four hours,” he tells me, his temper appearing to lessen now.

“I know I hurt him, sir, yes.”

“That’s a bloody understatement,” he replies, stepping away, putting one hand down the front of his trousers and scratching deeply at his crotch without any embarrassment, before taking a seat, sighing to himself as he does so and running this same hand across his face. “I’m bloody exhausted, too,” he mutters. “Woken up for this? Still,” he adds, softening his tone, “I didn’t know you had it in you, Sadler, if I’m honest. And that fool needed to be taken down a peg or two, I know that much. I’d have done it myself, the amount of gyp he gives me. But I can’t, can I? Have to set an example to the men. Ignorant little bastard’s given me nothing but trouble since the day he got here.”

I stand at attention, slightly surprised by this turn of events. I haven’t imagined that I would be seen as a hero in Sergeant Clayton’s eyes, although he is a man who is generally impossible to read. He’ll probably turn on me again in a moment.

“But look here, Sadler,” he says. “I can’t let this type of thing go unpunished. You realize that, don’t you? It’s the thin end of the wedge.”

“Of course, sir,” I say.

“So, what am I to do with you?”

I stare at him, unsure if this is a rhetorical question or not. Send me back to England? I feel like saying, but resist, sure that it will only reignite his anger.

“You’ll spend the next few hours in confinement,” he says finally, nodding his head. “And you’ll apologize to Marshall in front of the men when he’s back on duty tomorrow. Shake his hand, say all’s fair in love and war, that sort of thing. The men need to see that you can’t just start punching each other like that without there being consequences.”

He looks towards the door and shouts out for Corporal Harding, who enters a moment later. He must have been standing outside all along, listening to the conversation.

“Take Private Sadler into confinement until sunrise, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” says Harding, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he is uncertain what Clayton means by this. “Where should I put him, exactly?”

“In con-fine-ment,” the sergeant repeats, stretching out the syllables as if he’s speaking to an infant or a halfwit. “You understand English, man, don’t you?”

“There’s only the cell where we’re holding Bancroft, sir,” Harding replies. “But he’s meant to be in solitary.”

“Well, they can be in solitary together,” he snaps, ignoring the obvious contradiction as he waves us away. “They can nurse their grievances and get them out of their systems. Now get out of here, the pair of you. I have work to do.”

“You do realize that it’s the Germans you’re supposed to be fighting, not our own men, don’t you?”

“Very funny,” I say, sitting down on one of the bunks. It’s cold in here. The walls are damp and crumbling with earth; only a little light gets through from an opening near the ceiling and the barred cavity on the door.

“I must say I’m a bit surprised,” says Will, considering it, sounding amused despite the circumstances. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a scrapper. Were you like that in school?”

“On occasion. Like anyone else. Why, were you?”

“Sometimes.”

“And yet now you won’t fight at all.”

He smiles then, very slowly, his eyes focusing so tightly on mine that eventually I am forced to look away. “And is that what you’re here for really?” he asks me. “Was this all planned so you’d be thrown in here, too, and you might persuade me to change my mind?”

“I’ve told you exactly why I’m here,” I say, annoyed by the charge. “I’m here because that damn fool Marshall had it coming to him.”

“I don’t know him, do I?” he asks, frowning.

“No, he’s new. But look, let’s not worry about him. Clayton’s gone mad, anyone can see it. I think we can fight this thing if we try. We just need to talk to Wells and Harding and—”

“Fight what thing, Tristan?” he asks me.

“Well, this, of course,” I say in amazement, looking around me as if any further explanation were unnecessary. “What do you think I’m talking about? Your sentence.”

He shakes his head and I notice that he is trembling slightly. So he is afraid, after all. He does want to live. He says nothing for a long time and neither do I; I don’t want to rush him. I want to wait for him to decide on his own.

“I’ve had the old man in here a few times, of course,” he says finally, extending his hands out before him, turning them over to examine his palms as if he might find answers there. “Trying to get me to change my mind. Trying to get me to lift my gun again. It’s no good, I tell him, but he won’t wear it. I think he sees it as a slight on his own character.”

“He probably doesn’t want to have to report to General Fielding that one of his own men refuses to fight.”

“And an Aldershot man at that,” he replies, his head cocked a little to the side as he smiles at me. “The disgrace of it!”

“Things have changed. Milton’s dead, for one thing,” I say, wondering whether this particular piece of intelligence has made its way here. “So it doesn’t matter any more. You can’t bring him to justice, no matter what you do. You can give all this up.”

He thinks about this for a moment, considers and dismisses it. “I’m sorry to hear he’s dead,” he tells me. “But it doesn’t change anything. It’s the principle that matters.”

“It’s not, actually,” I insist. “It’s life and death that matters.”

“Then perhaps I can take it up with Milton in a couple of hours’ time.”

“Don’t, Will, please,” I say, horrified by his words.

“I hope there aren’t any wars in heaven.”

“Will—”

“Can you imagine it, Tristan? Getting away from all this only to find that the war between God and Lucifer continues up above? I’d have a difficult time refusing Him, wouldn’t I?”

“Look, stop being so bloody flippant. If you offer to get straight back into the thick of it then the old man will let you off. He needs every soldier he can get his hands on. Yes, you might be prosecuted when the war is over but at least you won’t be dead.”