TENSION IN THE crew’s dugout worsened after Bagger’s failed boxing lesson. Charlie refused to talk to anyone but the crew’s new canary, and everyone’s mood soured when heavy rains kept them trapped in the tunnels for the next two days. George couldn’t sit still. When he wasn’t pacing the length of the small dugout, his fingers drummed on the table like they were sending out frantic messages in Morse code.
“Can’t we just box in here?” he asked Bagger on day three of their weather-imposed confinement.
“There’s not enough room,” Bagger answered without looking up from his breakfast.
“If we move the table into the tunnel, there would be.”
With an exasperated sigh, Frederick glanced up from his notebook. “Would you please just shut up?”
George stopped pacing. “What’s wrong, Eton? You afraid to fight me?”
“No. I’m just tired of hearing your mouth run.”
“Then why don’t you try and stop it?” George tapped a finger to his chin. “Come on. I’ll even give you the first hit.”
Frederick shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.” Grabbing his coat and boots, he exited the dugout, but George’s voice chased him out of the tunnels.
“You’ve got plenty of time,” George yelled. “We all do! What you lack, Eton, is the courage!”
Frederick didn’t stop until he reached the front-line trenches. He didn’t care if Bagger caught him and transferred him from Ypres. In fact, he hoped Bagger did. Digging trenches in France would be preferable to working alongside George and the others for one more minute. At least in France he’d be above ground with real soldiers and have a chance to serve his country like a true Chamberlain. The thought quickened his pace and reinforced his resolve to get himself kicked off Bagger’s crew.
He came across a lone soldier standing sentry on a fire step in a parapet, watching the enemy lines through his rifle’s telescopic sight. The soldier’s profile looked familiar, and as Frederick drew closer, he recognized the sniper as William Gentry, an Eton graduate and the older brother of Edward Gentry, one of Frederick’s classmates.
“William?”
The soldier turned to face Frederick. He’d grown a mustache since Frederick had last seen him, but it was definitely the oldest Gentry brother. William smiled. “Frederick? What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”
“Fighting for crown and country, just like you.”
William scrutinized Frederick’s uniform. “I have to admit, you’re the last person I thought I’d ever see on the Western Front.”
The admission stung, far more than all of George’s barbs, but Frederick schooled his expression. He was an Eton student. He was a Chamberlain. And despite his age and lies, he was a British soldier.
William abandoned his rifle and held his hand out to Frederick. “Bloody good to see you, Chamberlain.”
Seeing a familiar face, a friendly familiar face, infused Frederick with a confidence George and the clay kickers had worked hard to stomp out of him. Frederick grabbed hold of William’s outstretched hand. “Good to be seen.” He squeezed tight and tugged William toward him with a quick, firm jerk.
William stumbled forward a step, but quickly recovered. With a shake of his head, he chuckled and looked Frederick up and down. “Does your father know you’re out here?”
“No. And I’d like to keep it that way—for now.”
“I understand. You’re not the first undergrad I’ve seen on the front line, and if this war continues to drag on, you won’t be the last. What unit are you with?”
“It’s classified. My unit is working on a top-secret mission.” It wasn’t really a lie. The clay kickers’ mission was a secret. So secret, in fact, even Frederick didn’t know what it was.
William’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to be a Chamberlain, even at the front.”
Before William could question him further, Frederick pointed to the older boy’s rifle. “I see the army recognized your marksmanship. I’m not surprised. Edward was always bragging about how you were the best marksman in your class.”
“Was he now? Sounds like Edward. He didn’t join with you, did he?”
“No,” Frederick said. “Last I saw him, he was still at Eton.”
“Good,” William said. “That’s good.”
Frederick motioned again to the rifle. “How many kills have you recorded?”
“Marked my thirty-second this morning. Had thirty-three in my crosshairs when you arrived. How about you?”
Frederick sighed. “Like I said, it’s top secret.”
William nodded. “Right.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Frederick asked, motioning again to William’s rifle.
“Not at all.” William stepped aside, and Frederick climbed up on the fire step. “Keep your head low,” William warned. “The Germans have snipers too. Bloody good ones.”
Frederick ducked down and pressed his right eye against the scope. His view of no-man’s-land was magnified. The enemy line appeared close enough to reach out and touch.
“See the trench corner, to the left of that high ridge?”
Frederick adjusted the angle of the scope. “Yes.”
“There’s a tall Fritz whose head keeps slipping above the parapet. See him?”
Frederick’s pulse pounded with anticipation as he scanned the lip of the trench, but there was no movement. His eyes swept back along the edge again, and he saw it. The domed helmet of a German soldier. “There he is! Wait. He’s gone again.”
“Give it a second.”
A minute later, the helmet reappeared. “He’s back!”
“Do you have a shot?” William asked.
“I think so.”
“Take it.”
Frederick pulled back from the scope. “I don’t want to take your thirty-third kill from you.”
“Go ahead. Another Fritz will find himself caught in my crosshairs soon enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“Anything for a fellow Eton.”
Frederick’s nerves crackled with excitement. This was his way out of the tunnels. He could feel it. If he killed the German with one shot, William would undoubtedly recommend he be transferred from the tunnels to the infantry, where he belonged. Frederick couldn’t help but smile as he pressed his right eye back up against the scope. The steel helmet was still visible above the trench line, but now Frederick could also see the profile of the soldier’s face. He didn’t have a mustache like William or Bagger, and his cheeks were round with youth.
“Can you still see him?” William asked.
“Yes.”
The soldier was talking to someone below the trench wall.
“Do you have a shot?”
“I think so.”
The German soldier’s hands and face were animated with broad movements and exaggerated expressions. Frederick wondered if he was telling a story or perhaps a joke. Frederick’s hands, slick with sweat, struggled to maintain a firm grip on the weapon.
The soldier laughed. His broad smile swelled his cheeks, making him look even younger. Frederick flexed his fingers to break up the tension building in his muscles.
“Don’t hesitate if you can take him out,” William said.
Frederick wiped one hand and then the other on his trousers, grateful for the first time in days for the terrible weather. He hoped William would assume his hands were wet from the rain and not from nervousness. He repositioned them on the rifle, but they were already damp with sweat again.
Still laughing, the soldier turned and looked out over no-man’s-land.
Frederick curled his pointer finger around the trigger and took a deep breath. He lined the crosshairs of the rifle between the soldier’s eyes. It was the perfect shot. His ticket out of the tunnels. All Frederick had to do was squeeze his finger.
But Frederick was in no danger. The laughing soldier wasn’t aiming a rifle at him. He didn’t even have a weapon in his hands. In that moment, he wasn’t Frederick’s enemy.
Frederick’s finger eased off the trigger, and he backed away from the scope.
“What’s wrong?” William asked.
Frederick climbed down from the fire step. “He ducked.”
“Not to worry,” William said, climbing onto his perch and pressing his face to the scope. “He’ll be back.”
“I better return to my unit,” Frederick said, but William’s full attention was focused on the enemy trenches.
“There you are, thirty-three.”
Frederick did not say goodbye or look back. As he walked away from William and his chance to get out of the tunnels, he slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the white feather. He crushed it until he felt the spine snap.
Behind him, a bullet exploded from William’s rifle.
Across no-man’s-land, a laughing boy died.