BARELY SIX INCHES remained between the tunnel ceiling and rising water. Thomas lifted his chin as high as he could and took a deep breath before his heavy clothes dragged him under again. He kicked harder, propelling himself upward to keep his face above the water. Unable to see in the darkness, he screamed for the others. “Charlie! Frederick!”
“I’m here,” Frederick whispered, his voice so close Thomas flinched. “You shouldn’t scream. The Germans could hear you.”
“Who cares? If they blast their way into this tunnel, they’ll drown with us,” Thomas said.
“Fair point. Can you swim?”
“Yes,” Thomas answered, thankful for the summer days James and he had snuck into St. Margaret’s Bay, where James taught Thomas how to swim. He kicked to keep his face in the shrinking pocket of air, and his nose scraped against a beam in the ceiling. He knew he should swim for the ladder, but he couldn’t leave the others behind. “Can you?”
“Yes, and I can still stand.” Frederick pushed up on the tips of his toes to keep his face in the pocket. “But we’ve got to get out of this chamber before it fills.”
“Where are George and Charlie?” Thomas asked, angling his head to lift an ear from the water to hear Frederick’s response.
“Charlie!” Frederick yelled, no longer worried about the enemy hearing. “George!”
The sound of loud, panicked splashing drew the boys’ heads in the direction of what had been the tunnel face.
“Over here!” George yelled.
His reply was echoed in the opposite direction, by the shaft. “Help!” Charlie called out with a gurgled plea. “Help!”
“Get George,” Thomas ordered Frederick, realizing the Eton student’s size would help in rescuing George. “I’ll help Charlie.”
With no time and little air left to argue, Frederick swam in the direction of George’s voice, careful to keep his arms stretched out in front of him, so he wouldn’t run face-first into George or a fallen beam. When his hands found George, Frederick lifted his face to the ceiling for air. “This way. Follow my voice.” He started back in the direction of the shaft, but George didn’t move.
“Come on!” Frederick yelled.
George answered from the darkness. “I can’t swim, and even if I could, half the tunnel face is on my right foot.”
“You’re stuck?”
The frustrated sigh that followed felt heavier in the darkness.
“Right,” Frederick said. “I’ll swim down and see if I can free it.”
George struggled to keep his face in the shrinking pocket of air. “Hurry. I can’t stretch any higher, and this water is rising fast.”
Frederick ducked beneath the water. His hands followed the line of George’s leg until they reached the mound of clay and sand pinning George’s foot to the floor. He dug around his leg but couldn’t remove enough to free George. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he resurfaced. “I need to get help.”
“There’s no time. You are the help.” Water lapped over George’s lips, and he began to choke. “Try again,” he said between coughs.
“The water’s coming too fast.” Frederick looked back in the direction of the shaft. In school, he’d been taught that junior officers were the first over the top and the last to retreat, but Frederick had no choice: George needed more help than he could offer, and if he stayed, they’d both drown. “Keep trying to work your foot free. I have to get help.”
“No!” George lunged in the direction of Frederick’s voice. “Please don’t leave me here!” His fingers grasped at Frederick’s shirt, but Frederick splashed out of reach. “Eton!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do it by myself. I’ll be back with help. I promise.”
As Frederick swam back to the shaft, he heard George scream one word.
“Coward!”
And then he heard nothing at all.
At the other end of the tunnel, Thomas had freed Poppy from her submerged birdcage and swum for the shaft, where Charlie stood on the third rung of the ladder. “Take her,” Thomas said, handing Charlie the canary.
Clinging to the ladder with one hand, Charlie stroked Poppy’s wet feathers, and the little bird released a string of loud chirps. As Thomas turned back toward the tunnel face, Frederick lunged from the water with a desperate gasp and grabbed hold of the ladder.
Hunched over and pulling in fast, greedy breaths, he pointed back down the tunnel. “George’s foot is trapped. Hurry.”
Before Thomas or Charlie could respond, Frederick dove back under.
“Go up and get Bagger and the others,” Thomas told Charlie. “Tell them George is in trouble.” Taking a deep breath, he followed Frederick.
When they found George, he was no longer fighting to get free. The chamber had flooded, and his body floated motionless beneath Thomas’s hands. Thomas feared they were too late. Pushing the thought aside, Thomas dove down and clawed at the clay trapping George’s foot, tearing away chunks and pushing aside heavy slabs while Frederick pulled at George’s leg, moving it back and forth to help dislodge it. Thomas’s chest burned. Frederick and he would need air soon, but to get any, they’d have to swim back to the ladder, and any chance of saving George would be lost.
Thomas dug faster and harder, ignoring the cramping in his muscles. Though he couldn’t see Frederick, he could feel his frantic tugs on George’s leg. Just as Thomas began to fear all three of them would drown under no-man’s-land, he felt the clay around George’s leg give way. So did Frederick, who yanked the leg free. Wasting no time, the boys grabbed George’s limp arms and kicked with their waning strength for the ladder.
When the two boys reached the rungs, pulling George along with them, large hands grabbed hold of their arms and hauled all three of them up the ladder. Mole laid George’s unconscious body on the floorboards of the upper gallery. George’s head hit the board with a dull thud. Clutching Poppy, Charlie winced at the sound, but George did not move.
George’s last word echoed in Frederick’s memory. George was right. He was a coward. A real soldier would have fought harder to free George’s foot before the water filled the mine. A real soldier would have stayed with his comrade until help arrived. A real soldier would have stayed even if help had never arrived. But Frederick was no real soldier.
He backed away from the group while the others huddled around Mole. The clay kicker took George by the shoulders and shook him. “Come on, Shillings! Wake up!”
George’s head lolled to the side. His eyes remained closed, and his lips fell open.
“Is he breathing?” Bagger asked.
Mole placed a large hand on George’s chest and shook his head.
Holding Poppy, Charlie began to pace while Thomas stood behind Mole, clutching his medals and whispering the Our Father.
“Come on, George,” Bats whispered. “Breathe.”
Mole and Bagger each grabbed one of George’s arms and legs. Holding his limp body between them, they lifted his legs toward the ceiling, so his head hung just above the floor. Securing their grip, they shook George up and down three or four times. “You’re a scrapper, Shillings!” Mole said. “You’re not going to let a little water claim you, are you? Bloody breathe!” He pounded a fist on George’s chest.
The jostling shook water and sand free from George’s mouth and nose. He suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes sprang open. He coughed violently, choking on the sand and water swamping his lungs. Mole and Bagger quickly eased him onto the floor, and Thomas sank against the wall.
“That’s it, Shillings,” Mole said, slapping his back. “You’re all right.”
George continued to cough, spewing water on the floorboards. “What happened?” he asked, when at last he found his breath.
“The tunnel face collapsed and trapped your foot,” Thomas said. “We thought you’d drowned.”
“You did drown,” Bagger said. “When we pulled you from the mine, you were as lifeless as a corpse. But it takes more than a little water to stop us, eh, Shillings?”
“You’re lucky your mates got you out when they did,” Boomer added, mussing up George’s hair.
George’s accusing gaze found Frederick standing back against the wall. “Yeah. Lucky.”