Secret Soldiers

by Keely Hutton

  Am I still on the battlefield? Why can’t I see or hear? Why can’t I move?

  Adrenaline surged through his veins, burning off the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts. He choked on the fluid pooling in his throat. His stomach convulsed, forcing vomit into his mouth.

  Breath one produces coughing.

  Breath two, confusion.

  Breath three renders you unconscious.

  Breath four, death.

  How many breaths had he taken?

  The memory of the officer, eyes bulging and body contorted in pain on the trench floor, surged forward in the soldier’s panicked thoughts as another wave of vomit flooded his throat. His body tensed, and in his mind he screamed, Please, God! I’m not ready to die!

  Hands grabbed his shoulders and legs. In his tomb of darkness and silence, he couldn’t see who it was. As he continued to heave and choke, he fought to pull free, but their grip was too strong. In one clean jerk, the hands thrust him onto his side. Vomit spewed from his mouth and burned through his nostrils. He coughed and sputtered until he drew a wheezy breath. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as more memories of the war flashed before his unseeing eyes.

  Machine guns firing. Soldiers falling.

  Shells exploding. Comrades burning.

  Gas clouds descending. Brothers drowning.

  Brothers—the young soldier clung to the word like a life raft.

  When the retching stopped, the hands eased him onto his back again and wiped his mouth and face clean with a cool cloth. His heartbeat and breathing calmed.

  A hand took hold of his arm. The prick of a needle and the heavy pull of morphine followed the gentle touch. As the young soldier slipped back into unconsciousness, images of the battlefield receded like the tide, revealing calmer memories.

  Of chalk-white cliffs and clean sea breezes.

  Of a brother, a plan, and a promise.

  FOURTEEN

  THOMAS DIDN’T RECALL the walk back to the tunnels. He got lost twice and had to backtrack to find the path to the support trenches and tunnel entrance. Max sensed the tension in Thomas and stayed at his heels the whole way, his ears and tail low. He didn’t even give chase to the rats scurrying along the trench floor.

  His mind numb with shock, Thomas passed other soldiers on the way, but did not stop to ask them about his search. His thoughts were seized with grief for his brother as he surrendered to the truth Johnny had shown him.

  As he neared the turn for the tunnel entrance, Thomas could feel the dam he’d constructed to hold back his tears begin to crack. He reached down for Max. “Come here, boy.”

  Max jumped into his outstretched arms and licked his face.

  Thomas fed him a piece of biscuit from his pocket. Max gulped it down in one bite. “You don’t even chew, do you?” He hiked Max up higher in his arms and stepped through the tunnel entrance. He paused several yards inside to allow his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Max squirmed in his arms, anxious to get down, but Thomas held him tighter. “Sorry, boy. I can’t have you running ahead and waking the others.” Thomas hurried toward the dugout but stopped at the sound of a voice behind him.

  “Sneaking out again?”

  George pushed off from the tunnel wall near the entrance, where he and Charlie had been waiting. He sauntered toward Thomas. “And here I thought I was the rule-breaker of our merry band. I underestimated you, Tommy.” He scratched Max behind his ears. “How much did you pull today?”

  “Pull?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. How much did you win?”

  “I didn’t win anything.”

  “That’s tough luck. It’ll probably take a few goes before you and Max work well together. Does Bagger know you borrowed his ratter?” George looked down at Thomas and smiled. “I thought about sneaking out too, but never considered taking Max.” He glanced back at Charlie. “Mouse, how come I didn’t think of that?”

  Charlie shrugged.

  Thomas shook his head. “I didn’t take Max anywhere. He followed me.”

  George’s smile widened. “I like that. Sneak the dog some scraps, and you don’t have to take him anywhere. He’ll follow you wherever you go. Seriously, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I didn’t … it’s not like that.”

  “You’re telling me you didn’t take Max to compete in rat hunts?”

  Thomas adjusted his hold on Bagger’s dog. “No … I mean, yes, that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

  George lit a cigarette. “You’re getting a little flustered, Tommy. What’re you hiding?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then where have you been for the last four hours?”

  “Nowhere.” Thomas turned to escape to the dugout, but George slung an arm over his shoulder and steered him back to the tunnel entrance. Charlie followed a few steps behind.

  “Look,” George said. “I just want you to tell me next time you sneak out to the support trenches with Max, so I can come along and place a few bets of my own.”

  “I wasn’t in the support trenches.”

  “What? You went to the front-line trenches?” He smiled at Thomas. “I’m impressed, Tommy. I thought for sure I’d be the first of us to break one of Bagger’s rules. So, Mr. Rule-Breaker, when are we sneaking out with Bagger’s ratter again?”

  Thomas sank against the wall of sandbags until he was seated on the duckboards lining the trench floor. “I’m not sneaking out again.”

  Charlie’s shoulders dropped as he gave a relieved sigh and sat down beside Thomas.

  “Why not?” George asked, sitting on Thomas’s other side. “We’ll be careful and make sure Bagger doesn’t find out. Mouse’ll be our lookout, won’t you Mouse?”

  Charlie swallowed hard.

  “As for the others,” George continued, ignoring Charlie’s obvious discomfort with his plan, “they won’t care where we go as long as we show up for our shifts and work hard. The only one we’ll have to worry about is Eton and his big mouth, but I can handle him.”

  Thomas shook his head. “I’m not worried about Frederick.”

  “Are you afraid of losing your earnings? Because with me at your side, you’re guaranteed to walk away with money.”

  Charlie reached over and petted Max. The dog rolled onto his back in Thomas’s lap and offered up his tummy for a rub.

  “I wasn’t in the trenches looking to make money,” Thomas said.

  “What do you need? Cigarettes?” George pulled a pack from his pocket and offered it to Thomas.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Then what has you sneaking out?”

  Thomas was too tired, too shattered, to lie. “Not what. Who.”

  “Who?” George shot Charlie an amused look and nudged Thomas in the ribs with his bony elbow. “You got a girl you’re visiting in one of the neighboring villages? You cad, you.”

  Thomas pushed him away. “No. I wasn’t visiting anyone. I was looking for someone.”

  George smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “Calm down, Tommy. I’m just teasing.”

  “Who are you looking for?” Charlie asked.

  Thomas handed Mouse his photograph. “My brother.”

  George’s teasing smile withered into a confused frown.

  “Your brother’s here?” Charlie asked, not looking up from the photograph.

  “He was.”

  Charlie handed the photo to George. “What happened to him?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “You look like him.”

  Thomas felt the prickle of tears building in his eyes and tried to steer the conversation away from James. “Do you have any brothers?”

  Charlie nodded. “One. Henry. He’s eleven.”

  “Does he know you’re out here?”

  “I couldn’t leave without letting him know where I was going. He swore he wouldn’t tell, but my father has a way of making you reveal your secrets.�
�� His voice and eyes trailed off to a distant point beyond the trenches, and Thomas thought back on the promise James had made him keep.

  George handed Thomas the photograph. “Your necklace. The one with the old medals.” He pointed to James in the photo. “He’s the brother you said you had to return the necklace to—before you called me a lying thief?”

  “Yes.” Thomas grimaced. “And sorry about calling you that.”

  “Why? It’s accurate. Those two skills kept me alive. I don’t apologize for them, so why should you?” George took a final drag from his shrinking cigarette. “What’s so special about those medals anyway?”

  Thomas pulled on the chain until the medals toppled over the collar of his shirt. He held up the Saint Barbara medal. “This one my mum gave me.” He dropped the medal and held up the Saint Joseph one. “This was my brother’s. He gave it to me before—”

  His voice choked off. His tears were still too close to the surface. He waited until he’d regained some control before continuing.

  “He gave it to me before he left for the war.” He ran his thumb over the medal. “He said it would keep me safe, but he should have taken it with him. He was the one who needed protecting. Not me.” He tucked the medals back under his shirt.

  “Let me get this straight.” George stubbed out his cigarette on a damp sandbag. “Your brother left you and your family to fight in the war, then he went missing, and you thought it was a good idea to risk not only your freedom but also your life to join up so when you’re not digging tunnels under a battlefield, you can search the trenches for him?”

  Hearing someone else explain his plan made it sound so much more foolish. “Yes,” Thomas admitted.

  “I’m all for playing the odds, Tommy, but the odds on this bet are pretty long.”

  Thomas’s head dipped forward. “It’s stupid, I know. I didn’t realize how many miles of trenches there were.”

  George stared at Thomas as though he were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. “Then why do it?”

  Thomas looked up at George. Tears welled in his pale blue eyes. “It’s what brothers do.”

  FIFTEEN

  PHYSICALLY EXHAUSTED AND emotionally drained, Thomas could feel his body begging for sleep, but his mind refused to rest. Hours after George, Charlie, and he had snuck back into the crew’s dugout, Thomas lay awake on his bunk, listening to the discordant rumblings of his crew’s sleep and replaying the numerous mistakes he’d made since the day James had told him of his plans to join the army. With every secret he’d kept, every lie that he’d told, he’d dug himself deeper, yet as he stared up at the bottom of George’s bunk, it wasn’t the many lies he’d told that he feared would bury him, but the one truth he’d shared.

  Sleep was a skittish visitor, sneaking in for short stays, only to scurry away when frightful memories of no-man’s-land and anxious imaginings of when and how George would tell Bagger about Thomas breaking his rules returned. Thomas tried to convince himself that George wasn’t selfish enough to want Thomas transferred just to win some bets using Bagger’s ratter, but by the time the rest of the crew woke, George sat at the table feeding Max pieces of dried meat and smiling at Thomas.

  When George asked Bagger if he could have a word with him, anxiousness roiled through Thomas’s stomach in nauseating waves, and when they exited the dugout to talk in private, Thomas began to pack his bag. They returned minutes later, and Thomas stood, prepared to face the consequences of his mistakes.

  “I hear you’ve been keeping a secret, Dover,” Bagger said.

  Thomas swallowed hard and shifted in his stance.

  “Might as well fess up, lad. Shillings already let the cat out of the bag.”

  Thomas glanced at George, who had the nerve to smile. He’d expected George to snitch on him, but was surprised, and a little hurt, that George found such amusement in the betrayal. He looked to Charlie, seated on his bunk next to Feathers’s cage. Charlie had a brother—he had to understand. Charlie kept his eyes locked on his sketch pad.

  Bagger reached down, and Max jumped into his arms. “Or should I say he let the dog out of the bag?”

  Unable to meet the old clay kicker’s disappointed gaze, Thomas stared at his boots and silently scolded himself for letting down his guard around George. He never should have trusted the London street urchin, but the damage was done. All that was left was to face his punishment.

  He tightened his grip on his bag. “Are you sending me to France to dig trenches?”

  Bagger’s bushy eyebrows knit in confusion. “For what? Sneaking out to take Max for a walk?” He pressed a hand to his lower back and stretched. “You’ve saved me the hassle of taking him topside.”

  Thomas’s head snapped up. He glanced at George, whose smile widened. Before he could respond, Bagger took Thomas’s bag, tossed it back on his bunk, and handed him the small dog.

  “Just tell me before you go, so I know the little guy is with you,” the grizzled clay kicker said. “Understand?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Good.” Bagger turned to face the rest of the crew. “Let’s head to the trenches and see if we can scare up something better to eat.”

  Thomas watched in stunned silence as Bagger, Frederick, and the men filed out of the dugout. When only Charlie, Max, and Thomas remained, George clapped his hands.

  “So what are we waiting around for, Dover? Let’s go find your brother and return his Saint Joe medal.”

  “We?” Thomas asked.

  “Why not? Like I said, I like playing the odds. Big risk, big reward. Besides, Mouse and I have nothing better to do. Right, Mouse?”

  Charlie lowered himself from his bunk and handed Thomas three sheets of paper. “I drew some sketches of your brother, so we each have a picture of him to show when we look.”

  Thomas stared in disbelief at the drawings. “Thank you.”

  Charlie gave him a meek smile.

  “See, Tommy. We’re all in.” George leaned closer and whispered as though he were divulging sensitive military plans. “It’ll be our secret mission.”

  “You really want to help me find James?” Thomas asked.

  “Sure. It’s not like I’m going to be participating in any rat hunts.” George shot a disappointed glare at Bagger’s dog. “Even if I had more scraps, it doesn’t look like I’d be able to lure Max away from you.” He took one of the drawings of James. “So, let’s get started.”

  “Now?” Thomas asked.

  “No time like the present. Besides, thanks to me, we no longer have to wait until the crew’s asleep to sneak out. They’ll just think we’re taking ol’ Max here for a walk.” He patted the dog’s head. “Won’t they, Max?”

  Thomas stared up at the boy who, just minutes before, he’d been certain had betrayed him. “Thank you, George.”

  “No problem,” George said, heading for the doorway. “Now let’s go find Jim.”

  “James,” Thomas corrected.

  “That’s what I said, and don’t worry, Mouse and I promise we won’t say a word about your secret trips to the front lines. I may be a lyin’ thief, Tommy,” he said with a teasing smile, “but I’m a lyin’ thief who keeps his promises.”

  * * *

  George kept his word. He and Charlie accompanied Thomas into the trenches after each shift. With Max trotting ahead of them, the boys showed Charlie’s sketches to soldiers in the front-line and support trenches and asked if they’d seen James. Some ignored them. Others chased them off with language so colorful it tinted Charlie’s ears. Those who did answer, did so with an apologetic shake of the head.

  Unaware of what Johnny, Richard, and Dan had shared with Thomas about the true fate of missing soldiers, George’s optimism about their secret mission never dimmed. He walked the trenches whistling and greeting every soldier they passed, but as days stretched into weeks, Thomas’s hope faded. He started to look forward to their shifts in the tunnels, away from the trenches and the constant stream of disappointment awaiting him there. />
  SIXTEEN

  AFTER THREE WEEKS with the clay kickers, the boys settled into their monotonous routines. Frederick helped Bagger load the sacks of spoil on a trolley, which George, the unit’s trammer, pulled to the tunnel entrance.

  While they waited for George to return with the trolley and timber, Frederick sat on the tunnel floor next to Feathers’s cage. The team’s canary was the only member of their unit foolish enough to make any sound, except for George, of course, who somewhere along his trip to the entrance and back always forgot about the crew’s silence rule and offered some ridiculous comment or uncouth joke on his return. His forgetfulness was answered with an icy glare from Mole and a swift slap to the head from Bagger.

  Frederick was convinced that if George didn’t learn to keep his big mouth shut, he’d end up with a permanent impression of Bagger’s large hand on his skull. Not that Frederick thought it would matter to George. The London street rat would probably boast to anyone who’d listen about his misshapen, hand-imprinted head like it was a badge of honor.

  While Frederick waited for George to return with the lumber, he ignored Feathers’s tiny chirps and watched Bats and Charlie huddle close to the tunnel wall. Armed with a notebook, pencil, compass, and geophone, Bats used the two mercury-filled disks attached to a stethoscope to listen for and track enemy movement beneath the battlefield. One hand signal from Bats, and the entire unit froze. No one dared breathe while they waited for the listener to indicate where the enemy was: to their right, their left, above their heads, or below their feet.

  The moment Bats pointed out the direction, Boomer and Thomas abandoned their work helping Bagger fill sacks and quietly bored a hole into the clay wall in the direction of the enemy. The rest of the crew, including Feathers, retreated to a safe distance to protect themselves should the blast fire back into their gallery instead of through the wall into the enemy’s. With the hole finished, Boomer eased a cylinder charge called a torpedo into the opening. Thomas would then pack the opening behind the explosive with sandbags to direct the blast toward the enemy and away from the crew. Work was performed swiftly and silently—that is until the torpedo exploded, and everyone prayed their gallery would hold and the enemy’s gallery would collapse. When the dust settled, Bats and Charlie would listen for proof that the explosion had hit its mark. Silence meant success. Noises meant failure and that Boomer and Thomas had to quickly bore another hole before the Germans detonated their own torpedo.