Free The Absolutist by John Boyne Page B

says.
    “Tristan Sadler.”
    “Looks like we’re to be neighbours for the next couple of months. You don’t snore, do you?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, having never considered it. “No one’s ever said so. What about you?”
    “I’m told that when I lie on my back I could raise the roof, but I seem to have trained myself to turn over on to my side.”
    “I’ll push you over if you begin,” I say, smiling at him, and he laughs a little and already I feel a camaraderie between us.
    “I shouldn’t mind it,” he says quietly, after a moment.
    “How many brothers do you have, then?” I ask, assuming that there must be some if he has been told about his nocturnal habits.
    “None,” he says. “Just an older sister. You’re an only child?”
    I hesitate, feeling a lump in my throat, unsure whether to answer truthfully or not. “My sister, Laura,” I say, and leave it at that.
    “I was always glad of my sister,” he says, smiling. “She’s a few years older than me but we look out for each other, if you know what I mean. She’s made me promise to write to her regularly while I’m over there. I shall keep that promise.”
    I nod, examining him closer now. He’s a good-looking fellow with a mess of dark, untidy hair, a pair of bright blue eyes that look poised for adventure, and round cheeks that crease into dimples when he smiles. He’s not muscular but his arms are well toned and fit his vest well. I imagine that he has never had any difficulty finding bed-companions to roll him over on to his side if he grows too noisy.
    “What’s the matter, Tristan?” he asks, staring at me. “You’ve grown quite flushed.”
    “It’s the early start,” I explain, looking away. “I got out of bed too quickly, that’s all. The blood has rushed to my head.”
    He nods and we stride on, bringing up the rear of our troop, who don’t seem quite as enthusiastic or spirited at this early hour as they did when we descended from the train yesterday afternoon. Most of the men are keeping themselves to themselves and marching along quietly, their eyes focused more on the ground beneath their feet than the medical hut up ahead. Wells keeps time for us, calling out a fierce “Hup-two-three-four!” at the top of his voice, and we do our best to keep some sort of order but it’s pretty hopeless really.
    “Here,” says Will a few moments later, looking directly at me, his expression growing more perturbed. “What did you make of friend Wolf, then? Pretty brave of him, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Pretty stupid,” I reply. “Annoying the sergeant on his first day here. Not a good way to make friends with the men, either, is it?”
    “Probably not,” says Will. “Still, you have to admire his balls. Standing up to the old man like that, knowing that he’ll probably get a pasting on account of it. Have you ever known any of those fellows? Those … what do you call them … conscientious objectors?”
    “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Why, have you?”
    “Only one,” he replies. “The older brother of a chap I went to school with. Larson was his name. Can’t remember his Christian name. Mark or Martin, something like that. Refused to take up arms. Said it was on religious grounds and old Derby and Kitchener needed to read their Bible a little more and their rules of engagement a little less, and it didn’t matter what they did to him, he wouldn’t point a rifle at another of God’s creatures even if they locked him up on account of it.”
    I hiss and shake my head in disgust, assuming that he, like me, thinks the man a coward. I don’t object to those who are opposed to the war on principle or wish for its speedy conclusion—that’s natural enough—but I am of the belief that while it’s still going on, it remains the responsibility of all of us to join in and do our bit. I’m young, of course. I’m stupid.
    “Well, what happened to him?” I ask. “This Larson fellow. Did they pack him off