Free The Absolutist by John Boyne

briefly before stepping forward. I can sense the anxiety beneath the bravado. “And you, Mr. Rich,” he adds, pointing at his first interviewee. “Our resident pig in shit. The two of you, come up here, if you please.”
    The two men advance until they’re standing about six or seven feet away from the sergeant and about the same distance from the front line behind them. There is absolute silence from the rest of us.
    “Gentlemen,” says Sergeant Clayton, looking towards the assembled men. “In this army, you will all be trained, as I have been trained, to honour your uniform. To fight, to handle a rifle, to be strong and to go out there and to kill as many of the fucking enemy as you can find.” His voice rises quickly and angrily on that last phrase and I think,
There he is, that’s who this man is
. “But sometimes,” he continues, “you will find that you have worked your way into a situation where you have no weapons left and neither has your opponent. You might be standing in the centre of no-man’s-land, perhaps, with Fritz standing in front of you, and your rifle might have vanished and your bayonet might have disappeared and you will have nothing left to defend yourself with but your fists. A terrifying prospect, gentlemen, isn’t it? And if such a thing were to happen, Shields,” he says, addressing one of the recruits, “what do you think you would do?”
    “Not much choice, sir,” says Shields. “Fight it out.”
    “Exactly,” says the sergeant. “Very good, Shields. Fight it out. Now, you two,” and here he nods in the direction of Wolf and Rich. “Imagine that you are in that very situation.”
    “Sir?” asks Rich.
    “Fight it out, boy,” says the sergeant cheerfully. “We’ll call you the Englishman, since you showed a bit of spark, if nothing else. Wolf, you’re the enemy. Fight it out. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
    Both Rich and Wolf turn to each other, the latter with an expression of disbelief on his face, but Rich can tell where the land lies and he doesn’t hesitate, clenching his right hand into a fist and punching Wolf directly in the nose, a sharp jab forward and back, like a boxer, so quickly surprising Wolf that he stumbles backwards, tripping over his feet, holding his face in his hands. When he rights himself again he looks in shock at the blood pouring from his nostrils over his fingers. But then Rich is a big lad with strong arms and a neat right-hook.
    “You’ve broken my nose,” says Wolf, looking at all of us as if he can’t quite believe what has just happened. “You’ve only gone and broken my fucking nose!”
    “So break his in return,” says Sergeant Clayton in a casual tone.
    Wolf stares down at his hands; the blood has slowed a little but there is a lot of it already, gathered in thick swirls on his palms. His nose is not broken, not really; Rich has just burst a few blood vessels, that’s all.
    “No, sir,” Wolf says.
    “Hit him again, Rich,” says Clayton, and Rich jabs once more, this time to the right cheek, and Wolf stumbles back once again but manages to stay erect. He works his jaw, uttering a low cry of pain, and puts a hand to it, holding it there for a moment, massaging the bruise.
    “Fight him, Wolf,” says Clayton, very quietly, very slowly, enunciating each syllable clearly, and there’s something in Wolf’s expression that suggests to me that he just might, but he waits for twenty, thirty seconds, breathing heavily, controlling his temper, before shaking his head.
    “I won’t fight, sir,” he insists, and now he is punched again, in the stomach, then once more in the solar plexus, and he’s on the ground, cowering a little, no doubt hoping that this beating will soon come to an end. The men watch, uncertain how they should feel about the whole thing. Even Rich takes a step back, aware that it’s hardly a fair fight when the other fellow won’t stand his ground.
    “For pity’s sake,” says Sergeant Clayton,