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.

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.”