What am I to do? I do not believe that war is right. Men should not kill one another just because their governments tell them to. Because I work on a farm, I can probably be excused from the Army; New Zealand farms are vital in producing the meat and cheese to feed Britain. But should I stay safe at home when so many young men I know are putting their lives at risk?

After I crossed the river this morning, I lifted the axe onto my shoulder and set off towards where our orchard will be planted. The rocks of our swimming hole glowed in the early sun. A bridge will be built near there some day — but not until the war is over, so money and men are here to start it.

The ground I’d cleared over the past three weeks lay ahead. I felt proud at how much I’d done, yet sorry that the tall totara and kahikatea (Uncle Niall knows all their names; Haare taught him) have to fall. Plums, apples and pears will stand in their place. Mother already imagines herself and Jess bottling the fruit. ‘Why just us?’ my sister wanted to know. ‘Why can’t men learn to do such things, also?’ Those are the sorts of strange ideas she comes out with.

I reached the kahikatea I was going to fell first today, leaned my axe against its trunk, and took off my coat. But instead of beginning the cut, I stood gazing into the cool bush. Arthur Smale, from two miles up the valley, left to start his army training last week. He’s just the latest from our district. His brother, George, has been fighting in France for two years now; he wrote home that he’d met Scottish soldiers who came from the Highlands where Mother’s family used to live. Mother was silent for a whole day when she heard.

And here was I, still trying to decide whether to enlist. I knew how Mother felt; she said it nearly broke Mrs Smale’s heart when both her sons joined up. But … I sighed as I stood and stared around.

The war has been raging for nearly four years now, and everybody says the Germans and their allies are being pushed back everywhere. Our forces have won huge areas of land back from Turkey; Italy has defeated the Kaiser’s Austro-Hungarian supporters; Germany itself is running out of men and supplies. ‘We’ve got the Hun on the run!’ people sing at fund-raising concerts.

Millions of men — and women and children — have died. My father and Uncle Niall shake their heads when they talk of it. What shall I do? Killing is wrong, yet I have a duty to my country and the British Empire.