WHEN GEORGE CALLED Frederick a coward, Thomas had expected Frederick to slap George with a glove and challenge him to a duel. He couldn’t believe the Eton boy’s pride would allow such an insult to stand, but hours after Frederick had stormed from the dugout, he returned without a word. He demanded no apology, nor did he offer one. His head bowed, he took off his muddy boots and, without wiping them clean, tossed them aside. He then lay down on his bunk and scribbled in his notebook until Bagger ordered the boys to the lower galleries for their next shift.
The feud between George and Frederick appeared to have reached a stalemate. Everyone embraced the reprieve, no one more than Charlie. The constant tension between the two boys had strained his already frayed nerves. His frustration over their petty arguments had curdled into anger over the weeks, and when Boomer had carried Thomas’s unconscious body from the tunnels, Charlie had wanted to scream at George and Frederick until his throat bled. He knew which words to use. Which words would stun into silence and which would leave scars so deep they became part of you, as familiar and identifying as your name. But they were Charlie’s secret to keep, passed down from grandfather to father, and from father to son. He refused to continue the cruel tradition. No matter how hot his rage boiled. The secret might someday kill him, but it was a secret he was determined to take to his grave.
So Charlie said nothing. Instead, he scratched his thoughts and anger into drawings in the notebook George had given him from his kit bag, along with an unused pencil after Charlie had worn down his own. He’d offered to pay George for the items, but George waved his pence away. “Take them,” he’d said. “They’re no use to me.” But Charlie had insisted on paying him something, and when he’d offered George his cigarettes, George gladly accepted the trade. “Now those I can use.”
When the boys weren’t working the galleries, searching the trenches, or sleeping, Charlie passed the long, boring hours capturing life on the Western Front in his drawings. He drew soldiers sleeping in dugouts, husbands and sons writing letters home, rat hunts and card games in the trenches, and football and boxing matches in the fields far behind them. He sketched snipers on fire steps, injured soldiers on gurneys, and bodies on the battlefield. He drew every member of their crew, including Max and the new canary that Charlie, despite Mole’s warning about getting too attached, had given a new name.
“Don’t forget Feathers,” Bagger would remind Frederick every time they left the dugout.
“Her name’s Poppy,” Charlie would correct.
With a pitying shake of his head, Bagger finally gave up, and the crew started calling the new canary Poppy.
A few days after Thomas’s carbon monoxide poisoning, Charlie woke to find himself alone in the dugout. It was the first time he’d been alone since he’d joined the army. At first, he thought he should look for the others, but instead he lit a hunk of solidified alcohol in Mole’s Tommy’s Cooker, a small, smokeless portable stove, and made himself a cup of tea from the tunnelers’ rations before climbing back onto his bunk. Ever since he’d drawn the sketches of James for Thomas, Charlie had longed for a picture of his own brother, Henry. Taking advantage of the quiet, he opened his notebook and started to draw.
An hour later, Thomas and George returned to the tunnels after watching a raucous football match between several tunneling crews. As they neared the dugout, they heard a scream and rushed inside just as Charlie hurled a tin cup across the room. Thomas jumped back, and George ducked as it struck the beam above his head.
“Blimey, Mouse! What was that for?” George picked up the cup and attempted to reshape the dented side. “We all know the tea is rubbish, but no need to take it out on the cups.”
Charlie’s face blanched. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to…”
Thomas stepped into the dugout. Dozens of crumpled balls of paper littered the floor. Charlie jumped down from his bunk and, apologizing again, scrambled to pick them up. “I didn’t mean to make such a mess.”
“What is all this?” George asked, snagging one before Charlie could. He straightened out the paper. Dark scratch marks partly obscured the image of a boy’s face.
Charlie snatched the sketch from George. “It’s none of your business!”
George held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Mouse.”
Clutching the paper, Charlie slumped down in a chair at the table and stared at the ruined sketch. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. It’s not your fault.”
George and Thomas pulled up chairs next to him. “What’s going on, Mouse?” George asked. “Who’s the boy in the sketch?”
Charlie placed the drawing on the table. “It’s supposed to be my brother, Henry, but I can’t get it right.”
“What’s wrong with it?” George asked.
“It doesn’t look like him.”
Thomas grabbed two more tin cups and poured tea. “You’ll get it right, Mouse. You’re an amazing artist. You did a great job with the sketches of my brother.”
“But I had your photograph of James to look at.”
“Do you have a photograph of Henry you can use?” George asked.
Charlie shook his head. “My father never had any taken.”
Thomas placed a cup in front of Charlie. “That’ll make it harder, but you’ll get it right. It’s just going to take some time.”
Charlie pushed the cup away. “You don’t understand. I don’t have any more time. I should have drawn him as soon as I got here, but thinking about him was too hard.” Charlie grabbed the sketch and tore it in half. “I waited too long.”
“Nonsense,” George said. He fetched Charlie’s notebook and pencil from his bunk and placed them on the table. “You can still draw him.”
Charlie slammed his fist on the table, snapping the pencil. “I’ve tried, but it’s too late!” He dropped his head into his folded arms on top of the notebook. “I’ve already forgotten what he looks like.”
Listening to Charlie, Thomas stared into his cup of pale tea. He knew how painful it was when the memory of someone you lost started to fade. It had happened to him shortly after his grandad died. One day he could remember the sound of his grandad’s voice, and the next it was gone. It was the same with James. A week after James enlisted, Thomas could no longer recall how his brother’s laugh sounded when Thomas told him a corny joke. It was like losing them twice. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too, Mouse,” George said, patting Charlie on the back.
Charlie looked up. A tear slid down his cheek. “I knew when I left it would happen someday. I just never thought it would happen so soon.”
Thomas pushed back from the table and walked over to his bunk. A few seconds later he returned with the unused pencil from his kit bag. “Talking to you and George about my brother helped me remember things about him I thought I’d forgotten.” He placed the pencil on Charlie’s notebook. “Tell us about Henry.”