Secret Soldiers

by Keely Hutton

  “How much time left, Richard?” Bagger asked.

  A soldier holding a pocket watch answered. “Twenty seconds.”

  Bagger smiled and turned his attention back to his partner. “Plenty of time.”

  “Best you can do is tie us,” Dan said as he strung the rat up by its neck next to the other dead rats. “Might as well give up now.”

  Bagger ignored him. “Come on, Max! You’ve got this! That’s it!”

  “Ten … nine … eight…” Richard’s voice grew louder with each second.

  Bagger knelt on the trench floor and pounded his fists on his thick thighs. “Come on, Max! Get ’im!”

  Thomas tried to catch a glimpse of Bagger’s partner, but the trench wall blocked his view.

  “Seven … six … five…”

  “Yes!” Bagger yelled.

  “Four … three … two…”

  “Come on, Max!”

  “One.”

  Bagger reached out his hands, and a small blur of white-and-brown fur flew into his arms. Bagger had told the boys that the rats in the trenches could grow as large as cats. By the size of the animal squirming in his arms, not only had the clay kicker not been exaggerating, but Max also had not killed the rat. Bagger’s rule about keeping any food stored as high as possible moved up Thomas’s list of warnings to heed in the tunnels.

  “Time!” Richard yelled.

  “Good boy, Max!” Bagger said. He turned around, but it wasn’t a large rat squirming in his arms. It was a small dog. The white terrier, with brown spots encircling its eyes and covering its small, floppy ears, wagged its tail with pride over Bagger’s praise. Clamped in its teeth was a dead rat. Bagger patted the dog’s head, and Max dropped the rat into Bagger’s hand. The clay kickers cheered.

  “Settle down,” Johnny said, re-counting Bagger and Max’s haul, including the new rat. “You’re still down by one.”

  Bagger smiled and held up two more dead rats. “Make that up by one.”

  As the clay kickers and soldiers settled their wagers, Johnny spotted the boys watching. He turned, seeming about to say something to Bagger, but just at that moment Dan handed him his rifle and pulled him into a conversation about their hunting strategy.

  “We better go before anyone else sees us,” Charlie whispered to George.

  “Fine,” George said. With a disappointed groan, he followed Charlie toward the tunnel entrance, but Thomas stayed behind. He still hadn’t asked anyone about James and hoped an infantryman would break off from the group before the rest of the crowd disbanded.

  “Hey,” George called out to him softly from a corner of the trench. “You comin’?”

  Thomas hesitated.

  “Your funeral, Tommy.”

  Thomas pressed a frustrated fist to his chest until he felt the hard edges of his medals burrow into his skin. I will find my brother, he vowed. Then he turned and trailed George back to the crew’s dugout.

  TEN

  THOUGHTS SCURRIED THROUGH Thomas’s weary brain like trench rats, numerous, insatiable, and each one chased by death. When exhaustion finally claimed his mind, guilt and fear plagued his sleep, and his family haunted his dreams.

  Dad. Working in the coal mine. Fighting for every breath. Coughing into his bloodstained handkerchief.

  James. Clutching at a wound. Writhing on the battlefield. Lying unconscious in a hospital.

  Charlotte and Letitia. Crying out in hunger. Begging for scraps on the streets. Shivering in the cold.

  Mum. Nursing her ailing husband. Praying for her missing sons. Weeping over an empty picture frame.

  Thomas felt her tears on his face. He tried to wipe them away, but they continued to fall. He rolled over and burrowed his face in his coat, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep, but her tears persisted. This time dripping down the back of his neck.

  Thomas lifted his head to tell Mum everything would be all right, but instead of staring into her pale blue eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Max, Bagger’s rat-catching partner from the trenches. The terrier gave him a lick on the tip of his nose. Remembering how many rats the dog’s mouth had killed the day before, Thomas pulled his wool blanket over his face before the ratter could land another lick.

  “Rise and shine, Dover!” Bagger said, yanking off the blanket. “It’s 8:40. Our shift starts in twenty.”

  Cold, damp air flowed over Thomas, and Max scrambled forward to continue his lick assault on Thomas’s neck and chin. “I’m up. I’m up,” he said, scratching Max behind the ears. “So you’re a ratter and a rooster.”

  The dog’s stubby tail thumped against his leg.

  “Max has many jobs down here,” Bagger said, picking up the dog. “He runs messages for command, keeps the rat population under control, wins me money in the trenches, and wakes soldiers when they’re almost late for their shift.” He plopped the terrier onto the upper bunk, where the furry alarm clock went to work rousing George.

  When Max had finished waking all four boys, Boomer gave them ten minutes to visit the latrine, grab some food, and join him in the tunnel for the start of their shift. At the table, George and Charlie scarfed down strips of dried meat and dunked hard biscuits into cups of water to make them edible while Frederick sat on his bunk, sipping a cup of weak tea and reading the copy of Aeschylus’s play about Prometheus that he’d brought with him from Eton. Thomas picked at his food.

  George reached over and grabbed one of Thomas’s biscuits. “Aren’t you eating, Tommy?” he asked, dipping the hard army ration into his water before popping it in his mouth.

  Thomas snuck Max a small piece of meat under the table. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You sick?” George asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “No.”

  Max nudged Thomas’s hand for more food. He broke off a small chunk of biscuit for the dog before pocketing the rest in case he managed to find his lost appetite in the lower galleries.

  “Were you hoping for some rat instead this morning?” George said with a chuckle. “I’m sure Max can chase one down for you.”

  Frederick looked up from his book. “The British Army would never feed its men rat.”

  “If you hadn’t noticed, Eton,” George said, motioning around the dugout with a cigarette, “the British Army is not serving us crumpets with jam. We’re living corpses digging our own graves. If things get bad enough, we’ll be eating whatever they give us.”

  “I’d never eat rat,” Frederick said.

  “That’s because you’ve never been hungry,” George retorted.

  “Yes, I have,” Frederick said, returning to his reading.

  George’s smile soured. “No. You haven’t.” He tore at a strip of meat with his teeth and turned his attention back to Thomas. “What’s wrong, Tommy?”

  “Nothing,” Thomas lied.

  “He’s probably tired from your escapades in the trenches,” Frederick said.

  Thomas shot George a worried glance. He’d been certain Frederick was asleep when he left the dugout to look for James, and when George, Charlie, and he had returned an hour later, Frederick had been in the same position as when he’d left, snoring loudly.

  “You spying on us, Eton?” George asked.

  Frederick closed his book and stood. “Just paying attention.”

  “Pay attention to this,” George said. “What we do is none of your business.”

  “I disagree,” Frederick argued, plucking a biscuit from the table. “Like it or not, we’re all part of the same unit now. I’m here to make sure you don’t get in any trouble that could reflect poorly on the rest of us.”

  “Bagger didn’t say we couldn’t leave the tunnels,” George said.

  “He said we could leave to get some food or use the latrine, not to muck about in the trenches.”

  “What’s wrong, Eton?” George teased. “You afraid if you go back in the trenches you might vomit again or get some dirt on those shiny boots of yours?”

  Frederick nudged his boots farther
beneath his bunk with his heel. He’d spent the hour after the boys had snuck out cleaning the mud, clay, and manure from them.

  “Just because you take no pride in your appearance or in the British Army uniform you’re wearing doesn’t mean the rest of us have to lower ourselves to your abysmal standards.”

  Charlie climbed onto his bunk and huddled close to Feathers’s cage. While the quarrel continued, he turned his back to the boys and sketched in his notebook.

  “Who died and made you head of the crew?” George asked, his voice growing louder.

  Thomas glanced toward the dugout entrance. “Keep it down. Bagger’ll be back any second now.”

  Ignoring Thomas, Frederick looked down at George with disdain. “I have five years of military training, which is five more than any of you or the rest of this crew can claim. If you want to survive this war, you’d be wise to follow my lead.”

  George stood so abruptly, he toppled his chair. It crashed against Bagger’s bunk, startling Charlie, who pressed closer to the dugout wall.

  Thomas remained in his seat, sneaking Max pieces of meat under the table. He’d seen enough arguments between miners back home to know they rarely ended in a throw-down fight. Tensions always ran high underground.

  George walked around the table. “You think you can teach me to survive?” He stopped before colliding with Frederick, who took a step back. “When you were four years old, learning your letters and numbers and which silver fork goes with which food, I was learning to scale chimneys.”

  “You’re a liar,” Frederick said. “The government outlawed climbing boys years ago.”

  “You think the man who snatched me off the streets or his customers looking for a cheap chimney cleaning cared about any law?”

  Frederick didn’t answer.

  “By the time I was five, I was sweeping chimneys just like the ones in whatever manor your kin calls home.”

  Frederick’s face flushed a purplish red. “You know nothing about my family or my home.”

  George poked him in the chest. “That’s where you’re wrong. See, all those chimneys I climbed for all those years were in the homes of spoiled rich boys just like you.”

  Frederick didn’t answer. He seemed intent on refusing to acknowledge anything the London street rat said about him or his upbringing, no matter how close to the mark it hit.

  George shook his head with feigned pity. “It must have been so difficult living under such horrific circumstances. Tell us, Eton, how did you survive?”

  Frederick crossed his arms over his chest so George couldn’t poke him again. His lips pinched tight with muted outrage.

  “My master liked to light fires beneath me to keep me climbing. Nothing like the fear of falling to a fiery death to keep a five-year-old moving, though the smoke did make it difficult to breathe during the climb.” George took a long drag of his shrinking cigarette and blew the smoke in Frederick’s face.

  Frederick didn’t blink or wave it away, but his eyes watered and he began to cough and sputter.

  “That’s what I thought,” George said, taking another drag. “While you and your Eton chums were playing soldier, boys like Mouse, Tommy, and me were fighting to survive another day.” Without taking his eyes from Frederick, he questioned Thomas. “Tommy, what time did you get up in the morning to walk to work in the coal mines?”

  “Three,” Thomas answered.

  “And how many hours were you in the mines?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Mouse,” George called out. “The peeling skin on your hands, that’s from the lime powder used to bleach the fabrics at the textile factory, right?”

  Charlie pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

  “And the scars lining your back,” George continued, “those were from punishment for being late or making a mistake.”

  Charlie’s face and ears burned bright red. He looked back to the wall and his notebook to hide his shame.

  “Don’t worry, Mouse,” George said. “I’ve got a matching set on my back from my short employment in a factory. After the supervisor beat me unconscious for fainting from the chemical fumes, I ran, but the scars never leave, do they?”

  Charlie stretched one of his peeling fingers into the birdcage and stroked the canary’s soft feathers.

  “You boys ever see someone die?” George pressed.

  Thomas’s head bowed with the memory of the night Grandad Sullivan’s persistent, phlegmy cough quieted forever. Neither Charlie nor he answered George. Their silence was affirmation enough.

  “How about you, Eton?” George said, snuffing out his cigarette under his boot.

  Frederick’s response was barely audible. “That’s none of your business.”

  “What’s that?” George asked, leaning closer.

  Frederick lifted his chin and stared George in the eye. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Finally, something we agree on.” George dusted off the shoulders of Frederick’s uniform. “You can save your lectures on survival. We’ve already been well schooled on the subject.” He snatched the biscuit from Frederick’s hand, righted his chair, and sat back down at the table as Bagger appeared in the doorway.

  “Let’s go, ladies!”

  The boys scrambled to their feet.

  “You remember what I told you yesterday. No talking in the lower galleries. We communicate through hand signals.” He reached out, and Max jumped into his arms. “Our shift ends at five, before sunrise. You have until then to move as many bags of clay out of these galleries as possible. You boys are to haul the bags our crew fills and the bags the other two crews filled in the shifts before ours.”

  “Why do we have to haul their bags too?” George asked. “Don’t their crews have trammers?”

  “Yes, but we don’t move spoil out of the tunnels during daylight.”

  “Why not?” Frederick asked.

  “The less movement seen coming in and out of these tunnels, the better, so sandbags are hauled out of the tunnels at night, which is during our shift. PBIs will meet you at the tunnel entrance.”

  “What are PBIs?” Frederick asked. “I’ve never heard of that rank before.”

  “Poor bloody infantry,” Bagger answered. “When they’re not dodging bullets in the trenches, they’re helping us haul spoil. Give them the bags. They’ll use some of the bags to fortify the forward and back walls of the trenches, but most of them will be put in the storage dugout near the tunnel entrance or taken far beyond the trench lines. We don’t want many visible changes to the trenches. The Germans are always watching. We need to keep our mission a secret.”

  “What is our mission?” Frederick asked.

  “Eton, your mission is to haul spoil and watch Feathers.”

  Before Frederick could ask another question, Bagger motioned for the boys to follow. “The gallery we’re working is deep. We don’t want the Germans seeing us moving bags of clay, especially blue clay, or they’ll know we’re not digging new trenches or dugouts and they’ll shell the hell out of us. That’s why we need to remove as much clay from these tunnels as possible at night. Get the full bags to the PBIs and then get back to the crew with timber beams to support the newly dug portion of the gallery and empty bags to fill. Any other questions? Ask ’em now or save ’em until after the shift.” His heavy-lidded eyes scrutinized each boy’s face, searching for uncertainty or confusion.

  Thomas shifted from one stockinged foot to the other. How was he to know if he was doing his job if Bagger didn’t tell him what that job was? And why keep the mission a secret, especially from the soldiers ordered to carry it out?

  A secret can be a friend or a weapon, Thomas. Take care how you use it.

  Staring up at Bagger, Thomas had no doubt the secret of their mission was a weapon; he just hoped he wouldn’t find himself on the wrong end of it.

  Bagger stood before Frederick. “What about you, Eton? Any more questions or commentary?”

  “No, sir—Bagger.”

>   “Blimey, Eton! King George hasn’t knighted me yet. Call me Bagger if you want me to respond.”

  George failed to stifle a laugh.

  Frederick’s cheeks bloomed bright red, but he bit back any retort.

  “The rest of the crew is already at the tunnel face. When we get down there, you’re to help haul spoil and timber. When you’re not hauling, watch and learn. Follow your supervisor’s lead. I’ll signal when you can break for a quick bite or to use the latrine. Otherwise we’re working straight for eight hours, so I hope you got plenty of rest. You’re going to need it.”

  Frederick glared at George, and for a moment Thomas feared he was going to tell Bagger about them sneaking into the trenches, but Frederick said nothing.

  “All right, ladies. Follow me.”

  As the boys trailed Bagger into the tunnel toward the first shaft, George called over his shoulder. “Don’t forget your supervisor, Eton.”

  Cursing under his breath, Frederick returned to the dugout to fetch Feathers.

  ELEVEN

  THOMAS HATED WORKING in silence. It squeezed the tunnel and stretched the hours, but he started praying for silence when the first artillery shell hit. The explosion aboveground echoed like distant thunder in the gallery and trembled through the earth, shaking loose clots of clay that rained down from between timber beams onto the tunnelers’ bowed heads and hunched backs.

  Frederick let out a startled squeak and ran for the shaft ladder at the first blast, but George, who had returned with a timber beam, blocked his escape. Charlie covered his ears, and Thomas dropped his sandbag and threw his arms over his head. He remained in that position, waiting for the explosions to stop, but they continued to pound the battlefield. He had no way of knowing whether the artillery shells were being fired from the cannons of the Central Powers or the Allied forces, but he knew it didn’t matter. If a shell hit directly above them, whether it be English or German, French or Austro-Hungarian, the explosion would inflict the same amount of damage.

  As the barrage of artillery fire increased and the tunnel walls and ceiling continued to tremble, Bagger handed Thomas his dropped sandbag and motioned for the boys to keep working. Thomas quickly filled his bag and ran to the ladder. He hurried up the shafts to the tunnel entrance, eager to be free of the quaking gallery. When he handed a sandbag to one of the PBIs, the soldier told him it was the Allies who’d started the firefight and that they tended to last for hours.