by Keely Hutton
“Find Tommy, Max!” George said when they exited the tunnels. The terrier raced through the communication trench past the reserve trenches toward the fields behind the Allied lines. When the boys caught up to Max, he was curled up in Thomas’s lap beneath the elm tree where they’d buried Feathers. The month of May had ushered in warmer temperatures and sunny skies that coaxed thousands of poppies from the fertile ground. The small red flowers carpeted the field. Thomas petted the dog’s head in distracted, halfhearted strokes. His hand paused between the terrier’s ears when he heard the boys approaching.
“It’s not James,” Charlie said, sitting down next to him.
Thomas picked at the clumps of blue clay clinging to the worn knit of his soiled socks. “I know. But for a moment I thought—”
Frederick sat to his other side. “Bagger notified the Fiftieth that we’d found one of their men. They helped remove the body, and their corporals identified the soldier.”
“It was a bloke from Alnwick,” George added.
Thomas’s shoulders sagged with relief. “But it could have been James. He could be buried under that battlefield, and if he is, I’ll never find him.” Tears slid down his cheeks. Embarrassed that the others were seeing him cry, he tried to wipe them away, but they only came faster, so he gave up and let Max lick them from his face. “James never should have joined this stupid war. He should have stayed home. Our parents and sisters needed him. I needed him. And now I’ll never see him again.”
Charlie reached up and rubbed his brow to shield his own tears from the others. He was no better than Thomas’s brother. No, he was worse. James had left his family to earn enough to build them a better life. Charlie had left for no one but himself.
“We’ll find him, Tommy,” George said.
“But you said the chances of him surviving this war—”
“I know what I said, and I shouldn’t have.” George dug the toe of his boot into the soft soil.
“But you were right,” Thomas said. “That could have been James. Next time, it could be me. What if I don’t make it home? For the rest of their lives, my parents will be wondering where I am and what happened to me. It’s been torture for them not knowing what happened to James. How can I do that to them again?”
“Are you thinking of leaving?” George asked.
“I can’t, can I? Not without admitting I lied. Besides, we have a mission to finish.” He turned to Frederick. “But before I go back in those tunnels, I need you to write a letter for me.”
Frederick stood. “I’ll be right back.” He returned minutes later, notebook and pen in hand, and sat down next to Thomas. “What do you want me to write?”
Thomas picked a poppy. Max woke, sniffed the small flower, and then closed his eyes again. Thomas stared out at the horizon, where the promise of morning warmed the night sky in fiery reds and burnt oranges. He pictured his parents receiving his letter. His chest ached with the pain they would feel because of him, and then he knew what he needed to say: Dear Mum and Dad, I’m sorry.
Twenty minutes and three pages later, Thomas had explained why he’d left home and why he could not leave the war now. He’d told them of his search for James and the importance of their crew’s mission. He spoke of the things he’d seen and the friends he’d made. But mostly, he told them how much he missed and loved them.
When Thomas had said all he had to say, Frederick folded the pages and handed them to him. “You know when they receive that letter, they’ll tell the army your real name and age, and you’ll be sent home.”
“That’s why I’m not sending it.”
“What are you going to do with it?” George asked.
“I want you to take it.” Thomas held out the folded pages to George.
“Me?”
“Yes. I need you to promise that if I don’t make it home, you will deliver this for me.”
George backed away from the letter and request. “Come on, Tommy. You’re going to make it home. And when you do, you can give your family the letter.”
“Please,” Thomas said. “I need to know if something happens my family won’t be left waiting for me to come home. Promise me you’ll take it to them.”
“You do not want to entrust me with that. Remember, I’m a lyin’ thief. Give it to Eton or Mouse.”
“It needs to be you,” Thomas said.
“Why?”
The boom of cannons thundered over no-man’s-land.
“Because chances are, if any of us survives this war, it’ll be you. And like you said, you may be a lyin’ thief, but you’re a lyin’ thief who keeps his promises.”
George snatched the letter from Thomas’s hand. “Pretty low using my own words against me, Tommy.”
“Promise you’ll give it to them.”
George shoved the letter in his coat pocket. “I promise.”
“And my pay book too,” Thomas took out a small, brown-covered book he’d been issued when he’d joined the army to keep a record of all his active-duty earnings. “Make sure they get this, so they can claim what I’ve earned here. It’s always in this pocket.” He tucked the worn ledger back in his trouser pocket.
“What am I, the British Army Postal Service?”
“Promise,” Thomas pressed.
“Fine. You have my word.” George flopped down on the ground and lit a cigarette. “But nothing’s going to happen to you, so can we please stop talking about this?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Frederick said, turning to a new page.
“See, even Eton agrees.”
“No,” Frederick said. “Thomas is right. I should write a letter for each of our families. We could hold on to them for one another in case something should happen.”
“Well, I don’t have a family, so that’ll save you some ink and paper.” George placed his hand on the wad of bills bulging his pocket. “And I plan to spend every shilling of my wages and winnings.”
“What about you, Charlie?” Frederick asked. “Do you want me to write to your brother?”
Charlie nodded. He had far less to say, so his letter barely filled a page. The boys then lay back in the field and watched the sun creep higher in the morning sky while Frederick wrote a letter to his own parents. When he had finished, he folded his pages, and he and Charlie traded letters, both promising to deliver the other’s should one of them be killed.
“Everyone feeling better now?” George asked, stretching from his rest. “Because we have a brother to find, right, Tommy?”
“Right,” Thomas said. “Thanks, George.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously. It makes me uncomfortable. Besides, nothing is going to happen to us. And when our mission is over and we get out of here, I’m giving this back.” He patted his jacket pocket. “And you can deliver it to your family yourself. Deal?”
“Deal. And if we do get out of here—”
“When,” George corrected.
“When we get out of here,” Thomas said. “I think you should come to Dover with me.”
George sat up. “Dover? What would I do in Dover?”
“After your experience in the tunnels, you’d easily get a job in the coal mines, or if you want, you could help James and me start our shipping business.”
“It’s going to be your family business. You don’t need me mucking it up.”
“You said you had experience working the London docks. You probably have more knowledge of boats than James and I combined.”
“That’s true.” George reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Still. Dover?”
Max rolled over in Thomas’s lap, and Thomas scratched the dog’s belly. “You said it yourself, there’s no one waiting for you in London except that bobby who chased us to the train station.”
“Fair point,” George said. “And his anger won’t have calmed while I was gone.”
Frederick closed his notebook and tucked his pen behind his ear. “All the more reason not to return to London after the war.”
&n
bsp; “But where would I stay in Dover?”
“With my family,” Thomas said, “you know, until you’ve saved enough to get your own place.”
“Your parents wouldn’t want me around.”
“Sure they would. My sisters would love you, and Mum’s always happy to have company, especially company that helps around the house and compliments her cooking. And Dad’s happy as long as Mum’s happy.” Thomas moved Max off his lap and stood. “Think about it.”
George smiled. “I will.” But his smile faltered as they walked back to the tunnels. As much as he wanted to believe that Thomas’s family would welcome him into their home, he knew the truth. Every person he’d ever met had made sure he knew it: No family would ever want George.
THIRTY-TWO
WITH THEIR LETTERS written and pacts made, the boys headed back to the tunnels to complete their mission, but time was not their ally. Their deadline was less than three weeks away, and the command center demanded daily progress reports and responded with the same directive: Work faster.
Tension in the tunnels and trenches swelled with the news that the Germans had increased their daylight raids on London and the surrounding towns. Charlie became so concerned about his brother, he asked Frederick to write another letter, which he sent to his family’s pastor, inquiring about Henry’s safety and imploring that he tell no one he had heard from Charlie, especially his father.
One morning, as the crew neared the end of another long shift in the tunnels, Boomer, Thomas, and George carried the last bags of spoil to the PBIs waiting at the entrance. The remaining crew members had started to gather their tools when Bats, who was listening at the wall, held up his hand.
Careful not to make a sound, he placed the geophone to the right and lower on the wall. His brow furrowed, and his glasses slid down his nose, but he made no move to fix them. With slow, silent steps, he inched his way toward the tunnel face. Charlie stepped back to make room as the listener inched closer to where Bagger waited. Poppy flapped on her perch and let out a high-pitched trill. Bagger signaled to Charlie, who crept over to the cage and stroked Poppy’s head, quieting the canary. Sweat trickled down the sides of Charlie’s face. He didn’t dare move to wipe it away, fearful that any motion might be heard by the enemy.
Everyone strained to hear what Bats heard, but the tunnel was silent. Still holding an empty sandbag, Frederick swallowed hard. Their enemies were unaware of the stealthy techniques of the clay kickers. The German tunnelers were miners, like Boomer and Thomas. The Germans dug faster than the Brits, chopping at the clay with picks and shovels, but their speed came at a price. Bats had been tracking their noisy digging and conversations for days. He could hear the scrape of their shovels up to seventy feet away. Their voices he could detect from up to fifty feet. Over the last two days, both had grown louder. The news had made the crew nervous, but Bats assured them that as long as he could hear the enemy, they were safe. Noise followed by silence meant one of two things: Either the enemy had succumbed to carbon monoxide or they were preparing to fire a charge.
Bats pulled his glasses from his face with a quick jerk and closed his eyes. He moved the geophone lower on the wall, and his forehead wrinkled in concentration. After a taut minute, Bagger tapped Bats on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows in question. Bats shook his head, and Bagger mouthed a few vulgarities that would have made Charlie’s dad blush and then he signaled for everyone to exit that section of the tunnel.
Frederick, who was positioned closest to the exit, turned and ran. Charlie, still holding Poppy’s cage, and Mole had just moved to follow when an explosion tore through the clay wall where Bats and Bagger stood. The blast threw the crew to the ground as clots of clay and splintered wood rained down on them.
A high-pitched ringing filled Charlie’s ears, and smoke filled the gallery. Charlie fumbled around blindly for Poppy’s cage, which he’d dropped in the explosion. His fingers found the metal cage, and he pulled it into his lap. He coughed and wheezed, fighting for a clean breath, but Poppy’s muted chirps and fluttering assured him that despite everything polluting the tunnel’s air, at least carbon monoxide wasn’t present—for now. He pulled on his gas mask, just in case.
A trickle of warmth crept down the side of his face. He touched his head, and when he pulled back his fingers, they were wet and sticky. Holding Poppy’s cage close to his chest, he peered in the direction where Mole, Bats, and Bagger had stood seconds before, but smoke and dust obscured his view.
Screams echoed in the darkness. “Geh! Geh! Geh!”
Charlie did not recognize the voices or words. Pulling off his mask to see better, he pressed to his feet and stared at the gaping hole in the clay wall. A stocky man holding a shovel peered through the opening. Charlie’s panicked gaze swept the area, searching for anything he could use as a weapon, but all he had was Poppy’s birdcage, which the canary still occupied.
The man with the shovel noticed the cage and smiled at Charlie. The smile held no warmth or mercy. Charlie had witnessed many such cruel smiles throughout his short life. They lived in the night and reeked of barley and hops. They slurred their words and proclaimed harsh punishments for crimes Charlie never committed. They tasted of blood and tears.
The man stepped through the opening, and Charlie set down the cage. He would not cower before this man or his taunting smile. He was a soldier. He would never cower before any man again. He brought his trembling hands out in front of him, like Bagger had taught him in their short boxing lesson. He was preparing to throw a punch when Mole charged out of the rubble and crashed into the German miner. As the two men grappled atop broken timbers and chunks of clay, fighting for control of the shovel, a second enemy stepped through the blast opening.
He was smaller than the first. His German uniform draped loosely over his narrow shoulders, and his freckles and rounded cheeks reminded Charlie of Henry. Charlie lowered his fists, a move he reversed the second the boy pulled a knife from his belt and lunged at him.
With little space to move in the narrow tunnel, Charlie pivoted, pressing his back against the wall and sucking in his stomach. The knife sliced across the front of his uniform, tearing fabric and severing a button. Both boys froze and stared at the front of Charlie’s shirt. A faint line of crimson appeared across the fabric, but Charlie felt no pain, only adrenaline and anger. He grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted his arm until the boy cried out and dropped the knife.
“Never again,” Charlie snarled. Then he hit the boy. Closed fist. Hard.
One.
Two.
With every ounce of the fear and rage his father had beaten into him for fourteen years, Charlie struck his attacker. Every word he’d ever wished to scream burst from his mouth at once, in a primal cry that buried the sound of Mole’s fight raging yards away.
Three.
Four.
Charlie’s attacker held up his hands. Words, foreign to Charlie, rushed from the boy’s lips. Charlie didn’t understand or care. The German had tried to kill him.
Five.
Six.
His enemy fell to the ground. Charlie and his fists followed.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Over and over.
Until he lost count.
Until he lost control.
Until one word paralyzed his fists.
“Mama.”
His attacker mumbled the word through bloodied lips.
Charlie blinked rapidly to clear his vison and to remember where he was. To remember who he was. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning down to help the boy.
The boy recoiled.
“I’m so sorry.”
Charlie looked down at his hands, still balled into fists. His knuckles were swollen and smeared with blood. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or the boy.
“Never again,” he said. He unclenched his fists, wincing at the pain throbbing through his knuckles. He stared at the boy cowering
on the floor and pointed to the hole in the wall. “Go.”
The boy didn’t move.
“Go,” Charlie repeated.
Mole had subdued the larger German and was digging in the rubble for Bats and Bagger.
“Go!” Charlie yelled.
The boy scrambled to his feet.
Charlie had bent down to fetch his gas mask so he could help Mole dig when he heard his name.
“Mouse!”
Charlie turned to see Frederick rushing toward him with a spade raised in his hand.
“Duck!” Frederick yelled.
Charlie fell to the ground, and Frederick swung the spade. There was a sharp smack of metal striking flesh, followed by the thud of a body collapsing behind him. Charlie looked over his shoulder at the German boy, lying on the floor inches from him. Blood spilled from a gash on the boy’s forehead.
“What did you do?” Charlie screamed as Thomas and George skidded to a halt behind Frederick, followed by a winded Boomer. “He was retreating!”
Frederick, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock, pointed to the dead boy’s outstretched arm and the knife gripped in his hand.
THIRTY-THREE
AFTER THE CAPTURED German miner was treated and taken into custody and Charlie’s cuts were bandaged, Boomer detonated a second explosion to seal off the opening, and the surviving clay kickers buried the dead a mile behind the Allied reserve trenches, in a field crowded with row upon row of fresh graves.
Bats.
Bagger.
Even the German boy.
Mole, Boomer, and the boys were joined by several infantrymen, including Johnny and Dan, who shared memories, recited prayers, and sang Bagger’s favorite song, “Danny Boy.” Standing before the graves, Thomas remembered his brother singing the song while their dad played the tin whistle and his mum, sisters, and he sat around the fireplace after Sunday dinner. His mum used to say James had vocal cords plucked straight from an angel’s heavenly harp. What Thomas wouldn’t give to hear his brother’s voice lifted in song again. Grief, hard and unmoving, ached in his throat, choking off the lyrics. George reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. He gave Thomas an understanding nod and then raised his voice louder for both of them.
