To Love a Traitor by JL Merrow Page A

from your intrepid scaling of that tree earlier, I imagine you were off somewhere doing something fearfully brave.” He flopped back in his chair, seemingly unaware of the bombshell he’d just dropped.
    George’s gut twisted. He’d been so focussed on Matthew, he’d almost forgotten such a question would be inevitable, given the topic of conversation. “I’m not brave. Not in the least.” He paused, a horrible sick feeling squirming inside him. But hadn’t Sheila said a confidence invited reciprocation? He swallowed and stood to stare into the fire. “I’m not the least bit brave,” he repeated. “While you were fighting for King and country, I was cowering back in England. In quod with all the other Conchies.”
    There was a silence. Oh God. Was this to be the end of their friendship?
    Matthew’s tone, when he spoke, was unwontedly sombre. “A good friend of mine from school became a conscientious objector. I’ve always thought it must take a lot of courage to stand up for one’s beliefs in the face of so much opposition.”
    “Beliefs! Cowardice, more like. It was in my case, at any rate.” George stared resolutely into the flames, unable to bear seeing his friend’s expression turn from compassion to derision, but equally unable to stop himself from confessing all, now the subject had at last been broached. “Perhaps I should have lied at the tribunal. Said it was against my religious beliefs to go and fight. But I doubt they’d have been deceived. I’ve never been much of a church-goer, and I’m certainly neither a Quaker nor a Christadelphian. Really, I was just too much of a coward.” His view of the fireplace blurring, he carried on, driven by a strange compulsion to get it all, finally, off his chest. “I’ve never been able to stand guns, you see. Not since my first grouse shoot. There was an accident—one of the beaters got into the line of fire. I didn’t know he was there… I wasn’t paying enough attention, most likely. He took a blast in the stomach and died right in front of me—they said nobody could tell who killed him, but he was right in front of me. They were just being kind. I know it must have been my shot that killed him. His screams… I still have nightmares, sometimes, about his screams. And God, his poor wife. I just couldn’t bear to do that to anyone ever again.”
    George flinched as a hand touched his shoulder, and struggled to comprehend as it squeezed gently and stroked in a soothing manner. “How old were you?” Matthew asked softly.
    “Eleven.” He’d been so proud to be entrusted with a gun at last. As if he were a grown man, at least in his father’s eyes.
    Matthew’s voice shook slightly. “George… I saw a lot of dreadful things in the trenches, but you know what the worst of it was? Watching men—friends—go to pieces from the horror of it all. And God, man, you were only a child! It’s no wonder such a terrible accident left you with a lasting dread of firearms.”
    “It was over a decade ago! Only a coward still runs from the things he feared as a child!”
    “Only a fool isn’t scared of death and blood and horror!” Matthew’s tone was so sharp that George whirled in shock, throwing off the arm around his shoulder. “Do you really suppose that the men who survived the trenches will ever forget what they saw? Do you suppose I will?” He sighed, his gentle, cheerful nature unable to sustain the fury for long. “There were men like you on the battlefield, George. Men who’d seen too much, and couldn’t bear it any longer. One of them…one of them was a chap in my brigade. Popular fellow, always ready to share a cuppa and a joke. But the noise out there, from the guns and the shells… God, the noise. It never ends. He’d just had enough of it one day, and when it came time to go back into the front-line trenches, he had a sort of fit, put his hands over his ears and said he wouldn’t do it. They shot him for cowardice—marched