by John Boyne
“No, of course not,” I say, having momentarily forgotten the sainted Reverend Bancroft, preaching his sermons back in Norwich. “I only meant that Wolf sees the good in everyone, that’s all.” It’s a pitiful response, designed to imply that I hold Wolf in high esteem, which I don’t, for no other reason than that I suspect that Will does.
“Not the priesthood, no,” says Wolf, apparently enjoying my discomfort. “I thought politics.”
“Politics,” I reply, laughing. “But there’s no chance of that, surely?”
“And why not?” he asks, turning to me and, as ever, giving nothing away in his expression.
“Look, Wolf,” I say. “I don’t know whether you’re right or wrong in your convictions. I won’t presume to judge you on that.”
“Really? Why not? You do most days. I thought you agreed with all those other fellows that I was a feather man.”
“It’s just that even if you are right,” I continue, ignoring this, “you’ll have a difficult job convincing anyone of it after the war. I mean to say, if a fellow were to stand for Parliament in my constituency and told the voters that he objected to the war and refused to fight in it, well, he’d have a tricky job making it off the platform intact, let alone garnering enough votes to win a seat.”
“But Arthur isn’t refusing to fight,” says Will. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
“I’m here training,” insists Wolf. “I’ve told you, Will, that once we’re shipped out, I’ll refuse to fight. I’ve told them that. They know it. But they don’t listen, that’s the problem. The military tribunal was supposed to make a decision on my case weeks ago, and still nothing. It’s extremely frustrating.”
“Look, what exactly are you objecting to?” I ask, not entirely sure that I understand his motivations. “You don’t like war, is that it?”
“Nobody should like war, Sadler,” says Wolf. “And I can’t imagine that anyone really does, except for Sergeant Clayton, perhaps. He seems to relish the experience. No, I simply don’t believe that it is right to take another man’s life in cold blood. I’m not a religious man, not much anyway, but I think it’s up to God to take us or leave us as he pleases. And anyway, what do I have against some German boy who’s been dragged away from Berlin or Frankfurt or Dusseldorf to fight for his country? What does he have against me? Yes, there are issues at stake, political issues, territorial issues, over which this war is being fought, and there are legitimate grounds for complaint, I dare say, but there is also such a thing as diplomacy, there is such a thing as the concept of right-thinking men gathering around a table and sorting their problems out. And I don’t believe those avenues have been exhausted yet. Instead we’re all simply killing each other day after day after day. And I object to that, Sadler, if you really want to know. And I refuse to be a part of it.”
“But, my dear fellow,” says Will, a note of exasperation in his tone, “then it’ll be the stretcher-bearer’s job for you. You can’t want that, surely?”
“Of course not. But if it’s the only alternative.”
“Small use to politics you’ll be if you’re picked off by a sniper in ten minutes flat,” I say, and Will turns on me then, frowning, and I feel ashamed of what I’ve said. We make a point, all of us, of never talking about the consequences of the war, the fact that few of us, if any, are likely to live to see the other side of it, and it’s against our code of conduct for me to make such a vulgar remark. I look away, unable to bear my friend’s disapprobation, my boots stamping loudly on the stone beneath my feet.
“Something the matter, Sadler?” asks Wolf a few minutes later when Will has advanced again, this time laughing with Henley about something.
“No,” I grunt, not even turning to look at him, my eyes focused firmly ahead at yet another prospective friendship that might push my nose even further out of joint. “Any reason why it should be?”
“You seem a little … irritated, that’s all,” says Wolf. “A little preoccupied.”
“You don’t know me,” I say.
“There’s really nothing to worry about,” he replies in such a casual tone that it infuriates me. “We were just talking, that’s all. I’m not going to steal him away from you. You can have him back now if you want.”
I turn and stare at him, unable to find any words to express my indignation, and he bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he marches away.
Later, as punishment for my insensitivity, Will pairs off with Wolf again when we begin to train with the Short Magazine Lee-Enfield rifles—the Smilers, as we call them—and I find myself stuck with Rich, who has an answer for everything and considers himself the great wit of our group, but is known as something of a dunderhead when it comes to learning anything. He holds a rather curious position among us, for although he drives Wells and Moody to distraction with his idiocy and incurs the wrath of Sergeant Clayton almost every day, there’s something pathetic about him, something likeable, and no one can ever be angry with him for long.
We each receive a rifle, and complaints that we are still wearing our civilian clothes, which are washed every third day to rid them of the caked mud and the stench of sweat that they bear, fall on deaf ears.
“They just want us to kill as many of the enemy as possible,” remarks Rich. “They don’t care what we look like. We could go over in our birthday suits for all Lord Kitchener would care.”
I agree with him but think the whole thing is a bit much and say so. Still, it’s something of a sobering moment for all of us when at last we are handed our Smilers, and an uneasy silence falls among us, terror that we might be called upon to use them, and soon.
“Gentlemen,” says Sergeant Clayton, standing before us and stroking his own rifle in a perfectly obscene fashion, “what you hold before you is the means by which we will win this war. The Short Magazine Lee-Enfield rifles have a ten-round magazine, a bolt mechanism which is the envy of armies around the world and, for a short-range attack, a seventeen-inch bayonet attached to the end for the moment when you leap forward and want to spear the enemy in the face to let them know who is who and what is what and why the price of cabbage is the price of cabbage. These are not toys, gentlemen, and the chap that I see acting as if they are is the chap who will be sent on a ten-mile march with a dozen of these fine instruments tied to his back. Do I make myself clear?”
We grunt that he does, and our basic training in the use of the rifle begins. It’s not easy to load and unload the mechanism and some are quicker to master it than others. I would say that I am about halfway down the pack on ability here and I glance across at Will, who is conversing with Wolf once again as they fill their magazines, empty them again, attach the bayonet, release it. Catching Wolf’s eye for a moment, I grow convinced that they are discussing me, that Wolf can read me like a book, can see through to my very soul, and is telling Will all my secrets. As if I am shouting this aloud, Will turns at that very moment and looks at me, breaking into an elated smile as he waves his rifle dramatically in the air, and I smile back, waving mine in return, and receive a box on the ears from Moody for my troubles. As I rub them in pain, I see Will laughing in delight, and that alone makes it all worth the trouble.
“I can see that we have a few men who are faster learners than others,” announces Sergeant Clayton when enough time has passed. “Let’s have a little test of skill, shall we? Williams, step up here, please.” Roger Williams, a fairly mild-mannered member of our troop, stands up and makes his way to the front. “And … Yates, I think,” he continues. “You, too. And Wolf.”
All three men gather at the front for what has become Wolf’s daily ritual of humiliation. I can sense the delight of the men as he stands there, and I glance across at Will, who is frowning heavily.
“Now, gentlemen,” says Sergeant Clayton, “the last man to take his rifle apart successfully and put it back together will …” He thinks about it and shrugs. “Well, I’m not sure yet. But I dare say it won’t be much fun.” He smiles a little and so
me of the sycophants among our company giggle in appreciation of the pathetic joke. “Corporal Wells, count them down if you would.”
Wells gives them a “Three-two-one-begin!” and to my astonishment, as Williams and Yates struggle with their rifles, Wolf takes his apart without any bother at all and reattaches the whole thing in about forty-five seconds flat. There’s a silence among the men, a potent disappointment, and his two opponents stop for a moment and stare at him in disbelief before rushing quickly to finish second.
Sergeant Clayton stares at Wolf in frustration. There’s no question that he has done what has been asked of him and has completed the task in good time; there’s simply no way that he can be punished for it now: it wouldn’t be sporting and every man would know it. Will can’t keep the smile off his face, I notice, and seems only a little shy of breaking into a burst of applause, but thankfully he manages to restrain himself.
“It astonishes me,” says Sergeant Clayton eventually, sounding as if he genuinely means this, “that a man who is afraid to fight should show such skill with a rifle.”
“I’m not afraid to fight,” insists Wolf with an exasperated sigh. “I just don’t care for it very much, that’s all.”
“You’re a coward, sir,” remarks Clayton. “Let us at least call things what they are.”
Wolf shrugs his shoulders, a deliberately provocative gesture, and the sergeant grabs the rifle out of Yates’s hands, checks that it isn’t loaded, and turns to Moody once again. “We’ll have one more go at it, I think,” he announces. “Wolf and I shall take each other on. What do you say, Wolf? Can you stand a challenge? Or does that offend your finely honed moral convictions, too?”
Wolf says nothing, simply nods his head, and a moment later Moody gives another “Three-two-one-begin!” and this time there’s no question about who the victor will be. Sergeant Clayton disassembles and reassembles his rifle with such astonishing speed that it’s really quite something to observe. Many of the men applaud him, although I add only a perfunctory clap to the embarrassing din. He turns and looks at us, delighted by his victory, and grins at Wolf with such a proud expression that it makes me realize what an infant this man really is, for all he has done is best a recruit at something that he has been doing successfully for years. There is no real victory in that. If anything, the challenge itself was shameful.
“Now, Wolf,” he says, “what do you think of that?”
“I think you handle a rifle better than I ever shall,” he replies, finishing the reassembly of his Smiler and taking his place back in line next to Will, who reaches his hand behind him and pats his back in a well-done gesture. Sergeant Clayton, however, cannot seem to decide whether Wolf’s comment was meant as a compliment or a slight, and remains alone on the ground after he dismisses us, scratching his head and no doubt wondering how soon it will be before he can punish Wolf again for some perceived infraction.
The day that our uniforms finally arrive is the same day that Will and I have been rostered for guard duty and we stand together by the gates of the barracks in the cold night air, excited by our brand-new standard issue. Every man in the troop has been given a new pair of boots, two thick grey shirts, collarless, and a pair of khaki trousers, which are pulled high on our waists and kept in place with a neat set of braces. The socks are thick and I believe that for once my feet will be kept warm throughout the night. We’ve each been given a heavy overcoat, too, and it is in this fine new set of clothing that Will and I stand side by side, patiently scouring the expanse in the unlikely event that a battalion of German soldiers might appear over a hill in the middle of Hampshire.
“My neck hurts,” says Will, pulling the shirt away from his skin. “It’s a bloody rough material, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But we’ll get used to it, I dare say.”
“After it’s left a permanent ring around our necks. We’ll have to imagine that we’re aristocrats in the French Revolution and are giving Madame la Guillotine a clue for where to slice our heads off.”
I laugh a little, seeing my breath appear before me. “Still, they’re warmer than what we had before,” I say after a moment. “I was dreading another night on guard duty in my civvies.”
“Me, too. What about poor Wolf, though? Did you ever see anything as disgusting as that in all your life?”
I think about it before replying. Earlier in the day, when Wells and Moody were distributing the uniforms, Wolf found himself with a shirt that was too large and a pair of trousers that were too tight. He looked rather like a clown and the entire troop, save Will, was reduced to tears of laughter when he put them on and displayed himself for our merriment. I only stopped myself from joining in the hysteria through my desire not to have Will think badly of me.
“He brings it on himself,” I say, frustrated by my friend’s constant need to stand up for Wolf. “I mean, really, Will, why do you always take his side?”
“I take his side because he’s in the regiment with us,” he explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, what was it that Sergeant Clayton spoke to us about the other day? Espert … what was it? Espert something?”
“Esprit de corps,” I remind him.
“Yes, that. The notion that a regiment is a regiment, a singular object, a unit, not a collection of mismatched men all vying for different levels of attention. Wolf may be unpopular among the men but that’s no reason to treat him as if he were a monster of some sort. I mean he’s here, isn’t he? He hasn’t run off to some hideaway in, I don’t know, the Scottish Highlands or some godforsaken place. He might have run off up there and laid low till the war was over.”
“If he’s unpopular it’s because he makes himself so,” I explain. “You’re not trying to tell me that you agree with the things he says, are you? The things he stands for?”
“The man talks a lot of sense,” replies Will quietly. “Oh, I’m not saying that I think we should all hold our hands up and call ourselves conscientious objectors and head off home to bed. I’m not stupid enough to think that that would be a good idea. The whole country would be in a terrible mess. But damn it all, he has a right to his opinion, doesn’t he? He has a right to be heard. There are some chaps who would have just scarpered and he didn’t and I admire him for that. He has the guts to be here, to train with the rest of us while he waits to hear what the result of his case will be. If they ever get round to telling him. And the result of that is that he’s subject to the bullying and despicable behaviour of a bunch of clots who don’t have the sense to think that actually killing another human being is not something we should simply do on a whim, but is a most serious offence against the natural order of things.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a Utopian, Will,” I say, a tone of mockery in my voice.
“Don’t patronize me, Tristan,” he snaps back. “I just don’t like the way he’s treated, that’s all. And I’ll say it again if I have to. The man talks a lot of sense.”
I say nothing now, simply stare ahead and narrow my eyes, peering forward as if I’ve noticed something moving on the horizon when, of course, we both know full well that I haven’t. I don’t want to pursue this conversation any further, that’s all. I don’t want to argue. The truth is, I actually agree with what Will is saying; I only hate the fact that he sees in Wolf a chap whom he respects and even looks up to, when I am no more to him than a friend to pal around with, someone he can talk to while he’s going to sleep and double up with when it comes to joint activities, for we are each other’s match in terms of speed, strength and skill, the three factors, according to Sergeant Clayton, which separate British soldiers from their German equivalents.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say after a long silence. “I quite like Wolf, if I’m honest. I just wish he wouldn’t make such a song and dance about things, that’s all.”
“Let’s not talk about it any more,” says Will, blowing into his hands noisily, but I’m pleased to note that he doesn’t say this in an aggressive tone
. “I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Well, I don’t want to argue with you, either,” I say. “You know how much your friendship means to me.” He turns to look at me and I can hear him breathe heavily. He bites his lip, looks as if he’s about to say something, then changes his mind and turns away.
“Here, Tristan,” he says after a moment, conspicuously changing the subject, “you’ll never guess what today is.”
I think about it for a moment and know immediately. “Your birthday,” I say.
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“What did you get me, then?” he asks, his face bursting into that cheeky smile that has the power to dissolve all other thoughts from my mind. I lean forward and punch him on the upper arm.
“That,” I say as he cries out in mock pain and rubs the injured area, and I grin back at him for a moment before looking away.
“Well, happy fucking birthday,” I say, imitating our beloved Corporal Moody.
“Thanks very fucking much,” he replies, laughing.
“How old are you, then?”
“You know full well, Tristan,” he replies. “I’m only a few months older than you, after all. Nineteen today.”
“Nineteen years old and never been kissed,” I say, without really thinking about the words and ignoring the fact that he is not in fact a few months older than me but nearly a year and a half. It was a phrase my mother always used whenever anyone declared themselves to be a particular age. I don’t mean anything by it.
“Steady on, old man,” he says quickly, looking at me with a mixture of a smile and a hint of offence in his tone. “I’ve been kissed all right. Why, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” I say. Sylvia Carter had kissed me, after all. And there had been one other. Both utter disasters.
“Now if I was at home,” says Will then, stringing out the words for a long time, playing a game that we always indulge ourselves with when we’re on guard duty together, “I expect my parents would be throwing some sort of dinner party for me tonight and inviting all the neighbours in to throw presents at me.”
