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 you 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.”