by Keely Hutton
The PBI was not exaggerating. The shelling continued well after the boys’ shift ended. Poor Feathers was so agitated by the constant noise, Charlie couldn’t coax him to eat when they returned to the dugout. The boys made quick work of the cold stew Bats spooned into bowls for them. Exhausted from their first shift, they collapsed onto their bunks with pained groans. Thomas wondered if he’d be able to lift his arms by their next shift, much less lift full sandbags.
Max pawed at Bagger’s leg, trotted over to the dugout doorway, glanced back at Bagger, and whined.
“Not now, boy,” the clay kicker said, pressing his hands into the small of his back and stretching. “I’m too sore to take you for a walk.”
Max whined again, but when Bagger made no move to get up from his chair, the dog trotted over to where Thomas lay, jumped onto his bunk, and curled up next to him.
As the men sat at the table playing cards, Thomas stroked the short fur on the dog’s back, his weary eyes following the lines and angles of the metal mesh of George’s bunk above him, fighting to stay open. He had to return to the trenches, but first he had to wait until the rest of his crew fell asleep.
Charlie had climbed up onto his bunk as soon as he finished eating. Resting on his stomach, his face inches from Feathers’s cage, he sketched the men playing cards. He whispered to the canary as he drew, but the voices of the men buried whatever secrets he shared.
Frederick also retreated to his bunk, where he turned his back to the room and wrote in his notebook. Thomas couldn’t see what he was writing, and even if he could, he wouldn’t know what it said, but it was obvious by how fast Frederick scribbled and how hard he pressed down his fountain pen that whatever words Frederick was writing were angry, and, Thomas suspected, about George.
George didn’t notice. His full attention seemed focused on the card game. He perched on the edge of his bunk with his long legs dangling above Thomas, hoping the men would invite him to play.
But they extended no invitation, and after three hands of cards, they dimmed the lamps and retired to their bunks, a clear signal that the boys were expected to sleep now too.
Max leaped from Thomas’s bunk and curled up on top of Bagger’s rounded belly. Thomas missed the dog the second he left, taking his warm body and calming presence with him.
After several minutes of bodies shifting in search of comfortable positions, the dugout quieted, and the snoring began. It started with Frederick. Exhausted from his first stint of manual labor, the Eton student fell asleep almost as soon as the room darkened. His mouth hanging open and drool dribbling down his chin, he snored, assuring Thomas that Frederick would not be monitoring his movements today. The men and George soon joined Frederick, slumber rattling through their throats. Even Max’s sleep rumbled with soft snores. Only Charlie remained quiet. Either he was still up, or he was as quiet asleep as he was awake. To be safe, Thomas waited a bit longer before attempting to leave.
Ten minutes later, Thomas stepped from the shadows of the tunnels into the glaring light of day. Squinting his eyes until they adjusted, he raised his face to the sky and drew in a deep breath to purge the stagnant stench of the tunnels from his lungs. He coughed at the smell of smoke hanging thick in the morning sky, a hazy reminder of the artillery fight that had raged during his shift. Thomas hesitated at the mouth of the communication trench that would take him left to the reserve trenches or right to the front-line trenches. The firefight had ceased for now, but the Germans could renew their assault at any moment. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and his fingers grazed his family photograph. He’d made a promise that he would find the answers to what had happened to James. It was a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep if he stayed cowering in the tunnels. As he stared down the trench leading to the front line, searching for the courage to move, something butted against his calf. He looked down to find Max staring up at him.
He knelt to pet the dog. “What are you doing out here? You should be asleep with the others.” He glanced back at the tunnel entrance, expecting to find Bagger lumbering toward him, but the entrance was empty.
“Go back to bed,” he ordered Max.
The terrier licked Thomas’s hand and wagged his stubby tail.
“Go on.” Thomas stood and waved him away, but Max barked and wagged his tail faster.
“Shhh.” Thomas hushed the dog, afraid his barking would draw unwanted attention. “Fine. Come on then.” He motioned for the dog to follow, grateful for the company.
They walked the support trenches for two hours. Most of the soldiers they encountered were sleeping. Those who were awake did not recognize James in Thomas’s photograph. Frustrated by another unsuccessful search, Thomas headed back to the tunnel entrance with Max trotting along beside him. When they arrived at the intersection where the communication trench crossed the support trench, Thomas once again stared down the path leading to the front line. Distant voices and laughter rumbled through the forbidden trenches. He stopped and looked down at Max, sitting at his feet.
“What do you think? Should we head back to the dugout, or see if any of the soldiers in the front-line trenches know what happened to James?”
The dog stared up at Thomas and then stretched a hind leg to his head to scratch behind his right ear. Thomas glanced back at the tunnel entrance. No movement stirred within its shadows. No sounds echoed from its cavernous throat. “We’ll just go for a minute,” he told Max. Keeping his head low, he turned right and hurried down the communication path.
When Thomas and Max entered the front-line trench, they came upon a group of soldiers sharing a tin of bully beef, slicing pieces of the congealed, shredded pink meat with a bayonet.
“Pardon,” he said. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
The men looked up from their food but kept eating. “Depends on what kind of help you’re looking for,” one of the soldiers mumbled through a mouthful of beef.
“Have you seen this soldier?” Thomas pulled the family photograph from his coat pocket and pointed to his brother. “His name is James Sullivan.”
The men licked off their fingers and passed around the photo.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Doesn’t look familiar.”
“Sorry.”
The same scene played out over and over during the next two hours. Most soldiers he asked were nice enough to look at the photograph, but not one recognized his brother.
Drained from his work in the tunnels and from the disappointment in the trenches, Thomas had decided to head back to the dugout when Max let out an excited yip and ran around the corner to the next trench segment.
“Come on.” Thomas groaned. Bagger would have him digging trenches in France if he learned Thomas had snuck out to the front-line trenches, but the burly clay kicker would bury him beneath no-man’s-land if Thomas returned to the tunnels without his ratter. He stepped around the corner and spotted the terrier trotting toward a trio of soldiers. Thomas recognized the men from the rat hunt the day before. Two of them, Johnny and Dan, had been the team Bagger and Max had beaten. The third had kept time.
Thomas ducked back behind the corner, hoping the men hadn’t noticed him. He was certain Johnny had seen him at the rat hunt. He couldn’t take the chance that Johnny or his friends would tell Bagger they’d seen him sneaking around the front-line trenches.
“Max,” he whispered.
The dog stopped and glanced back at him. He knelt and patted his thighs quietly, like he’d seen Bagger do during the hunt. “Come here, Max.”
Max cocked his head.
“Good boy. Come on.”
Max took a couple of steps toward him.
“That’s it,” Thomas whispered, patting his thighs faster.
Max took one more step toward Thomas, lifted his nose, sniffed the air, and turned tail back toward the soldiers.
“Stupid dog,” Thomas hissed. He hid behind the corner, watching and waiting for the terrier to return.
Max sat begging at
the feet of Johnny, the oldest soldier.
“Do the tunnel rats know you’re out here begging for food, Max?” he said, patting the dog’s head.
Max sat up on his back legs. His stubby tail thumped against the duckboards.
“I don’t have anything to feed you, boy. Barely have enough to feed myself.” Johnny fished a biscuit from his pocket and tapped it on the wooden bench. “And what I do have is barely edible.”
“Dunk it in some tea,” Dan said. “They soften up right fast.” Unwrapping his own biscuit, he dipped one end of the stale ration in his tin cup. “Tell him, Richard.”
“That’s not tea,” Richard argued. “It’s weak, cold, and smells like piss.”
“Just like the rest of us,” Dan said with a chuckle.
Johnny bit down on the hard biscuit, but it didn’t break. “Take it,” he said, dropping it in front of Max. “Maybe if you crack some teeth, you won’t catch so many rats.”
Max snatched up the hard treat and trotted away with his prize.
“What? No thank-you?” Johnny called after him.
“You think Bagger and his crew have hot tea in those caves they’re digging?” Dan asked.
“Don’t know. Why don’t you ask ’im?” Johnny jutted his grizzled chin toward the corner of the trench, where Thomas hid. “Bagger’s sent one of his new rats to spy on us.”
TWELVE
THOMAS COULDN’T TALK his way out of this one. They’d never believe that he’d been assigned to the front line, and he was too far from the tunnels to claim he’d become lost looking for the latrine. He was considering making a run for it when Johnny called out, “We know you’re there, son. Might as well come out and introduce yourself.”
Cursing his luck and Max, Thomas stepped out from behind the wall.
Dan pushed back his steel helmet. “You one of Bagger’s crew?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dan smiled. “You hear that? He called me sir.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Richard said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s already the size of an overripe pumpkin. Get any bigger and it’ll be an easy target for snipers.” He looked Thomas up and down, his thick brows knitted in confusion over the rims of his glasses. “How old are you, son?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Johnny laughed. “And I’m the King of England.”
“Be nice, John,” Richard said. “No need to accuse the boy of lying.”
“Eighteen,” Johnny scoffed. “I’ve got hair on my backside older than this lad.” He looked past Thomas, expecting to see Bagger or one of the other clay kickers. “You out here alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Bagger send you down here with his mongrel to taunt us, or is he looking for a rematch?”
“Neither, sir.”
“Then what are you doing wandering the front trenches with his ratter?” Johnny asked.
“I’m looking for someone. Max tagged along.”
“You won’t find any of your tunneling buddies out here,” Richard said.
“Actually, I’m looking for an infantryman.” Thomas handed him his family photograph and pointed to his brother. “Do you recognize him?”
Richard flicked the ash from his cigarette as he studied the photograph. He looked up when he recognized a younger version of the boy standing before him in the family portrait. “Is he your brother?”
Thomas nodded.
Richard handed the photograph to Dan, who gave it a fleeting glance before passing it to Johnny.
“What battalion is he with?” Richard asked.
“I don’t know.”
Richard took a drag from his cigarette. “Do you know where they were headed?”
“The Western Front.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, son,” Johnny said, examining the photo. “The Western Front covers over four hundred miles, with over twelve thousand miles of trenches weaving along it.”
Thomas paled. He’d never be able to search twelve thousand miles of trenches. He’d barely searched one. “In his last letter, all James said was they were headed near Ypres.”
“When was that?” Dan asked.
“Seven months ago, sir. The army sent word two months ago that he is missing.”
Johnny shook his head and handed him the photo. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.”
Thomas carefully tucked the photograph back in his pocket. “My brother’s not dead, sir. He’s missing.”
“Same difference out here, I’m afraid,” said Johnny.
Richard flicked the remnant of his cigarette at him. “Let him be, John.”
Johnny pressed the smoldering stub into the duckboards with the toe of his boot. “What? Am I lying?”
Richard pulled a new cigarette from his pocket but didn’t answer, and Dan suddenly became very interested in his cup of cold tea.
“No,” Thomas said. “You’re wrong. If James were dead, the army would have said as much in their letter, but they didn’t, which means there’s a chance my brother’s still alive.”
“Of course there is,” Richard said. He looked pointedly at Johnny and Dan. “Right?”
Johnny sighed. “Son, there are thousands of missing soldiers in this war, and the army knows exactly where they are.”
“They do?” Thomas tried to catch Dan’s eye for confirmation, but the young soldier refused to look at him. “Where are they? In field hospitals? Where can I find them? I know my brother is with them. He has to be.”
Johnny stood and motioned for Thomas to join him.
“John, don’t,” Richard warned.
“Richard’s right,” Dan said. “He’s just a boy looking for his brother. Let him be.”
“He may have been a boy before he raced his friends to the recruiter’s table, but the second he put on that uniform, he became a soldier. If he can’t handle the truth, he doesn’t belong on the front line, or under it.” He led Thomas to the front wall of the trench and pointed to a periscope fed through a small opening in the parapet. “Most missing soldiers are out there.”
Climbing onto the fire step running along the front wall of the trench, Thomas pressed his face against the periscope. The mirrors inside the rectangular tube reflected images of no-man’s-land, the same battlefield Thomas had been digging beneath just six hours before. Twenty yards in front of the Allied trenches, two rows of wooden posts extended along the battlefield in both directions. Miles of barbed wire, which the infantry called devil’s rope, stretched between the posts in tangled curls, like giant metal thorn bushes. On the other side, large craters pocked the earth. Hazy smoke drifted up from the deepest of them, and a chill stole through Thomas at the thought of how close those artillery shells had come to reaching his crew in the tunnels. The only remnants of what must have once been rich Belgian farmland and countryside were splintered trees, stripped of their bark and branches, jutting from the soil like wooden stalagmites.
Life no longer existed on no-man’s-land, except for the flies swarming over the dead and the maggots feasting on the bloated carcasses of horses and men, mowed down by machine guns or torn apart by artillery. The field was littered with them, no matter which direction Thomas looked. The uniforms, caked with dirt and blood, camouflaged the fallen soldiers’ allegiances. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? It no longer mattered. Only the dead remained.
Hands shaking, Thomas pushed back from the periscope and climbed down from the fire step. “Those soldiers aren’t missing. They’re dead.”
“Yes. But until they’re identified, the army can’t verify their deaths,” Johnny explained.
“Why don’t they retrieve their bodies?”
“We can’t,” Richard said. “Raise even a finger over that parapet, and a sniper will shoot it off.” He took a long drag from his cigarette. “Until both sides agree to a ceasefire to retrieve their dead, there’s nothing we can do. And if we get many more nights like last night, it won’t matter.”
“What do yo
u mean?” asked Thomas.
“Explosions from heavy artillery bury most of the dead before we can get to them—or to what’s left of them,” Richard explained. He lit a cigarette and offered it to Dan, who took it between his trembling fingers.
Echoes of the artillery shells striking the earth above the tunnels shuddered through Thomas’s memory. How many dead or wounded soldiers had lain on the battlefield as the shells fell? How many now lay beneath it, and was James among them?
“I pray you find your brother,” Dan said, taking a drag, “wherever he may be. If there’s one hard truth I’ve learned on the Western Front, it’s if we don’t bury our dead, the war will, and us with them.”
THIRTEEN
DARKNESS PRESSED DOWN on the young soldier as he lay on his back. His body ached, and his head thrummed with pain. A thick paste of bile and something else, something metallic, coated his tongue. Blood. He blinked, but the darkness did not soften or clear. The soldier didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or where he was, but he sensed something was very wrong.
He listened for gunfire and explosions, but the only sound he heard was a low, ringing noise like a distant alarm. Cries for help tore from his throat but suffocated in the darkness, never reaching his ears.
The musty, charcoal-tinged air from his gas mask had been replaced with the sharp, burning smell of chemicals. The memory of charging across no-man’s-land and an artillery-shell blast came back in a rush. He took a shuddering breath. It scratched like hot sand in his nose and throat, triggering a violent coughing fit that pulled fluid from his lungs.
Had he lost his mask in the explosion?
He had to get away. He tried to roll over but couldn’t move. His head lolled to the side. He opened his eyes wide but saw only darkness. The coughing continued. He couldn’t get enough air. The dark world, holding him hostage, tipped. He could no longer tell if he was flat on his back or falling. He tried to scream for help again as more questions assaulted his muddied mind.
