Instrument of Slaughter

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The meeting was held in secret. Though they had similar views and shared objectives, they did not want to discuss them in a pub where they were likely to be mocked and vilified. In a time of war, pacifism was a stigma for able-bodied young men. Each one of them had his own collection of white feathers, contemptuous glances and harsh reproaches. Pressure to enlist grew more intense by the day.

‘Where’s Gordon?’ asked Cyril Ablatt, impatiently.

‘He swore that he’d be here,’ said Mansel Price.

‘Then why isn’t he?’

‘God knows!’

‘He can’t have forgotten,’ said Fred Hambridge. ‘It’s not like Gordon to be late. Shall I go and look for him?’

‘No,’ said Ablatt, firmly. ‘We’ll wait.’

Ablatt was the leader of the group and they’d arranged to meet that evening in the shed at the bottom of his garden. Small and cluttered, it was used as a workshop by Ablatt’s father in his spare time. Hambridge, a carpenter by trade, was interested in the various tools on display, not that he could see them all by the light of the candles that provided the only illumination. There was no source of heat and it was bitterly cold. All three of them wore coats, hats, scarves and gloves. They’d been close friends at school and — though they’d gone off in different directions — war had brought them back together again. Ablatt was a tall, slim individual with striking good looks and a confident manner. He worked in the local library where he regularly fielded hostile questions about why he’d so far failed to join the army to fight for King and Country. He always defended his position in a polite but robust manner.

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