The Absolutist by John Boyne

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 togetherwill …” 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 some 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