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Then there's the Conchies what 'as a easy time in clink if I see a Conchy in civvy life, I'll knock 'is bloody 'ead orf, struth I will. And the civvies gorblimy when I was 'ome on leave they kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet? an' 'When are yer goin' back? But d'yer think they care a damn Not they, you bet yer life on it!
"Why have you come back?" she asked. He hesitated, keeping his eyes upon the ground. "I don't suppose you will agree with me," he said. "Somehow I felt I had to." A Conscientious Objector. She might have guessed it. A "Conchy," as they would call him in the Press: all the spiteful screamers who had never risked a scratch, themselves, denouncing him as a coward.
"It's some poor devil of a Conchy, I expect. Must have a damned sight more pluck than I should." It was the fear that had been haunting her. She did not know how white she had turned. "I think it is someone I know," she said. "Won't you help me?" The crowd gave way to them, and they had all but reached him. He was hatless and bespattered, but his tender eyes had neither fear nor anger in them.
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