The Absolutist

by John Boyne

“But you’re probably aware that there are some men of your generation who feel no obligation to defend their country. Objectors, they call themselves. Chaps who examine their conscience and find nothing there to satisfy the call of duty. They look like other men, of course. They have two eyes and two ears, two arms and two legs. No balls, though, that’s a given. But unless you whip their pants off and make the necessary enquiries it can be fairly difficult to distinguish them from real men. But they’re out there. They surround us. And they would bring us down if they could. They give sustenance to the enemy.”

“Don’t tell me,” says Will. “The war’s over and we all get to go home.” “Who do you think won?” I ask. “Nobody,” he replies. “We both lost.

I’ve done six nights of stretcher-duty in a row, if you can believe it, and I’m still alive, which I suspect is something of a record. Unless I’m dead and so are you and this is hell.”

I break with my orders for a moment and turn my box-periscope towards the sky, watching as the sudden bursts of electric sparks signify the dropping of bombs on the heads of German or English or French soldiers—it scarcely matters who. The sooner everyone’s killed, the sooner it’s all over.

“I couldn’t give two figs for polite society,” he replies with a bitter laugh. “Why would I, if this is what it represents?