FREDERICK LOOKED UP from his notebook when Thomas entered the dugout. He was relieved to see Thomas alive and well, but his shame over neglecting his duties in the tunnel and nearly costing Thomas his life strangled the apology he knew he owed.
After reassuring Bagger and the rest of the crew that he was fine, Thomas collapsed on his bunk with Max curled up next to him. He was asleep before the others finished eating. George glowered at Frederick as he hopped up onto his bunk, and Charlie refused to look Frederick’s way as he placed the old cage on the floor by the wall before climbing onto his own bunk, where he silently stared into the new birdcage. Charlie only looked up once, when Mole announced they’d call the new canary Feathers.
“He should have his own name,” Charlie said, dropping a biscuit crumb into the cage.
“Fine,” Mole said. “We’ll call him Feathers the Second.”
“Actually,” Boomer said, ticking off numbers on his stubby fingers, “he’d be Feathers the Seventh.”
“You’ve lost six canaries?” George asked.
“I think so. This is our seventh, right, Bagger?”
Bagger shrugged.
“He deserves his own name,” Charlie said between clenched teeth.
Bagger smiled. “Look at little Mouse standing up for himself. You might have to give him a new nickname, Shillings.”
George stared at Charlie with an expression of shock and amused admiration. “I just might.”
“Call the bird what you want, Mouse,” Mole said, opening a can of bully beef. “But down here, it’s wise not to get too attached.” The words of advice, spoken with kindness, struck Charlie like a punch to the gut. Turning away from the advice and the rest of the crew so they wouldn’t see his tears, Charlie fed the new canary another crumb.
The next morning, Frederick woke to the sound of crying. Disoriented, he jolted up and slammed his head on the bottom of Charlie’s bunk before scrambling to his feet. Rubbing the knot swelling on his forehead, he put on his glasses and looked for the source of the sobs. Except for George’s loud snoring, the dugout was silent. The men were not on their bunks, and Max was no longer snuggled up next to Thomas.
At first, Frederick thought the crying was coming from Charlie, who he’d heard sniffing back tears before Frederick fell asleep, but when he peeked at the upper bunk, he found Charlie sleeping quietly, his fingers resting against the birdcage.
Convinced he’d dreamed the noise, Frederick had started to lie back down when he heard more panicked whimpers and incoherent mumbling from across the room. He crept over to the lower bunk where Thomas, in the grip of a nightmare, twitched and thrashed in his bed.
“Thomas,” he whispered.
“No,” Thomas mumbled in his sleep.
Frederick shook his shoulder. “Thomas.”
Thomas’s eyes sprang open. “James, no!” He flinched away from Frederick’s hand. Except for a couple of stubborn cowlicks, his blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead in dark clumps, and his chest heaved with stuttered, panicked breaths.
“It’s okay,” Frederick whispered. “You were having a nightmare.”
His eyes wide and unblinking, Thomas stared at Frederick. “Where am I?”
“In the dugout. There was an accident. Do you remember?”
“An accident?” Thomas repeated, his voice hollow and his brow furrowed in thought. He squeezed his eyes closed and kneaded his forehead with unsteady fingers.
“Yes, but we’re safe now.”
Thomas nodded as lingering images from his nightmare vanished and memories of the day reemerged. “Feathers died.”
Guilt squeezed around Frederick’s chest at the memory of Charlie’s face as he pointed to the small canary lying motionless at the bottom of the cage. “Yes. But the important thing is you’re all right. You just need rest.” He grabbed a flask of water from the table. “And something to drink.” He offered the flask to Thomas.
Thomas took a small sip and handed it back. “We buried him.”
“Who?” Frederick asked. “Feathers?”
Thomas nodded again, shaking the last cobwebs of poisoned sleep from his brain. “He was part of our crew, so George, Charlie, and I buried him.”
“Oh.” Frederick glanced up at Charlie asleep on his bunk, his hand still resting against the new canary cage. With a heavy sigh, he placed the flask back on the table. “Thomas, about what happened down in the gallery—”
The bunk above Thomas creaked beneath George’s shifting weight. “We all know what happened in the gallery,” George said, swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk and landing beside Frederick. “You almost got Tommy killed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Do your job? We know, so why don’t you go back to your bunk and leave Tommy alone?”
“He was having a nightmare. I was just trying to help.”
“He doesn’t need your help, Eton.”
Charlie sat up, awakened by the heated conversation.
“George,” Thomas said, “leave it alone.”
“No. He nearly got you killed. He almost got us all killed. Someone needs to tell Eton what he is.”
“Enlighten me,” Frederick said, bracing himself for another fight with the London orphan. This time there’d be no clay kickers to stop them. “What am I?”
George leaned forward until his freckled nose almost touched Frederick’s. “You pretend to be a tough British soldier, but I’ve met guys like you before. All talk and bluster, but when things get rough, when it really counts, you run away because under all that talk, you’re nothing but a coward.”
Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “Take that back.”
“Bagger and the crew know it,” George continued.
“That’s enough, George,” Thomas said.
George motioned to Charlie and Thomas. “They know it, and I’ve known it since Charing Cross.”
Frederick’s hands began to shake. “I said take it back!” He shoved them into his pockets, where his fingers brushed up against the white feather he kept hidden there.
“What’s wrong, Eton?” George pressed. “No one in your pampered little life had the nerve to tell you how spineless you are before?”
Frederick turned to storm out of the dugout—just as Bagger stepped through the door.
“Are you two at it again?”
“I was just making sure Thomas was all right—”
George plopped down on a chair at the table and lit a cigarette off a candle. “You wouldn’t have to make sure Thomas was all right if you’d done your job in the first place.”
“If you hadn’t hit me with that beam—” Frederick had started to retort when Bagger grabbed him by the ear.
“That’s it!” the clay kicker roared. Still gripping Frederick’s ear, he strode over to the table and grabbed hold of one of George’s ears.
“Hey!” George yelled, dropping his cigarette as Bagger yanked him to his feet. “What are you doing?”
“Ending this,” Bagger announced. Stubbing out George’s cigarette with his boot, he dragged both boys out the doorway, toward the trenches. Thomas and Charlie scrambled off their bunks to follow.
“Let go!” Frederick yelled, trying to pull his ear free from Bagger’s hold. “Where are you taking us?”
“Where you can settle this without getting the rest of us killed.” Tightening his grip, Bagger led them through the communication trench toward the reserve trenches. Soldiers, playing cards and resting in their dugouts, pointed and laughed at the spectacle. A few abandoned their games to follow.
Frederick’s face burned with humiliation at being disciplined like a schoolboy. “Let go!” he demanded again.
Bagger didn’t answer. He didn’t speak again until he’d dragged both the quarrelsome boys out of the trenches and behind the Allied lines, to a field outside the town of Ypres, where sniper bullets and artillery shells couldn’t reach. Only then did he release their ears. “Now, you two will settle this feud like gentlemen.”
George rubbed his sore ear and motioned down the field to a group of soldiers kicking a ball toward a makeshift goal. “You want us to play football?”
“No.” Bagger bent down and plucked two pairs of dusty brown leather gloves from the ground. He tossed a pair to George. “Put these on.” He tossed Frederick the other pair.
“You want us to box?” George asked with a chuckle.
“That’s how we end arguments on the Western Front,” Bagger said. “Settle them in a fair match off the battlefield, so you don’t get someone killed on or under it.” His hard gaze settled on Frederick.
“Sounds good,” George said.
“This is ridiculous,” Frederick scoffed. “I am not going to box with him.”
“Why not, Eton?” George asked. “Scared you’ll lose?”
“Scared?” Frederick huffed. “Of losing to you? I bet you’ve never even held a pair of boxing gloves before, much less worn them.”
“You’re right,” George said, pulling on a glove. “I’ve always boxed bare-knuckled.”
Frederick’s smug smile crumbled under the amused laughter of the soldiers who’d gathered around the boys.
“Enough talking,” Bagger said. “Get your gloves on and let’s get started.” He tossed two more pairs to Thomas and Charlie.
“We’re all boxing?” Thomas asked.
“A few rounds in the ring will get rid of the nerves and anger you lads have built up in the tunnels. You’ll feel better after. I always do.”
Thomas shrugged and started pulling on the gloves, but Charlie didn’t move.
“What’s wrong, Mouse?” Bagger asked. “Gloves don’t fit?”
“No, they’re fine. It’s just—” Charlie swallowed hard and, without looking up at Bagger, handed the gloves back to the clay kicker. “I’d rather not fight, if that’s all right.”
Bagger huffed and shoved the gloves back into Charlie’s hands. “You’re a soldier, Mouse. This is war. You need to be ready and willing to fight at all times.”
Charlie stared down at the gloves. “But I don’t know how.”
“All the more reason for you to get in the ring.” Bagger pointed back toward the trenches. “Because when we come across the enemy in those galleries, which we will, if you don’t fight, you’re dead, and you’ll probably take some of us with you. Now put on the gloves.”
Minutes later, Bagger stood in the center of a large circle of soldiers eager to place bets on the next fight.
“We’ve got some rookies here today, fellas,” he announced. “So I’m gonna give them a few pointers before we get started.” He motioned to Charlie. “You first, Mouse.”
Charlie tried to step back, but George shoved him inside the circle of soldiers. “Go get ’im, Mouse!”
“Keep your hands up at all times.” Bagger said, grabbing Charlie’s gloved hands and lifting them in front of the boy’s chest and face. “You drop your hands, you give your opponent a target.” Releasing the gloves, he stepped back into a defensive stance, facing Charlie. “Don’t plant your feet. Keep moving.” He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, dancing around his terrified opponent. “A moving target is harder to hit.”
“Come on, Mouse!” George yelled. “You can outmaneuver that old man!”
Bagger shot George a warning glance. “Watch it, Shillings. You’re next.”
George smiled. “Looking forward to it, sir, Bagger, sir.” He gave him a cockeyed salute before winking at Frederick.
Frederick glared back.
Bagger addressed the boys as he started dancing around Charlie again. Hands shaking, Charlie pivoted in a circle, following the crew leader’s movements and shrinking into himself like a scared turtle.
Bagger placed his gloved hands on Charlie’s shoulders and gave him a rough shake. “Stay loose, Mouse. It looks like your ears are trying to eat your shoulders.”
Everyone laughed except Charlie, whose face turned sallow and clammy.
Bagger bobbed to the right, then weaved to the left. Charlie struggled to keep up with the quick changes in direction.
“While you’re moving, throw some fakes to get your opponent to drop his guard and give you a target.” Bagger threw two short jabs. One high. One low.
Charlie’s eyes widened. He failed to block the jabs and stumbled over his own feet in a panicked retreat.
The laughter around the circle grew louder as Bagger pressed forward, continuing to throw fake jabs, while Charlie scurried back.
“Always look for an opening.” Bagger threw another jab to Charlie’s chest, and Charlie dropped his guard.
“Then strike!” Bagger lunged forward and threw a reverse to Charlie’s head, stopping inches from his nose.
“No!” Charlie dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. “Please don’t hit me again. Please. No more.”
The laughter stopped, and Thomas rushed to Charlie’s side. “Mouse, you all right?” He placed a hand on his friend’s back.
Charlie recoiled from his touch.
“I didn’t hit him,” Bagger said. “I swear. I didn’t even touch him.”
Slowly, Charlie looked up from the protection of his arms. The soldiers standing around the circle stared down at him with expressions ranging from confused concern to unabashed amusement. A mortified blush burned away all traces of Charlie’s ashen complexion.
George knelt before him. “What happened, Mouse?”
His hands still trembling, Charlie struggled to take off the gloves.
“Are you hurt?” Frederick asked.
Charlie threw his gloves aside. “I don’t want to talk about it!” Pushing to his feet, he shoved his way through the crowd and ran back to the tunnels.
Worry creased Bagger’s forehead as he watched Charlie leave. “I think we’re done for today, boys.”
“I don’t get to fight Eton?” George asked.
“Not today,” Bagger answered, taking off his gloves.
“Come on, Bagger,” George pleaded. “We’ll be fast, I promise. It’ll only take two hits. Me hitting Eton, and Eton hitting the dirt.”
“I said, not today.”