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
“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
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