FOLLOWING A RESTLESS six hours of sleep, riddled with nightmares of flooded galleries and nameless graves, Thomas pulled on his boots and stood to join Charlie, Max, and George for their daily search of the trenches before their next shift. They were exiting the dugout when George stopped at the doorway. “You coming, Eton?”
The men looked up from their card game. Their curious gazes traveled from George to Frederick, seated on his bunk. Charlie braced himself for the snide remark Frederick would make before returning to his writing, but Frederick closed his book and silently followed George out of the tunnels.
No more invitations were extended after the first. None were needed. Charlie drew an extra sketch of James, and Frederick joined the boys every morning on their search of the trenches. After their first outing together, he brought along his notebook and jotted down information he thought might be important.
When the boys returned to their dugout after their third outing, Frederick reviewed his notes. “From the soldiers we’ve questioned, we can rule out James being along this stretch of the front any time after their arrival in December.”
“Of the soldiers we’ve talked to,” George said, pulling up a chair next to Thomas at the table. He handed Thomas a cup of tea.
“We’ve talked to hundreds,” Thomas said. He knew George was trying to help; they all were, but Thomas didn’t want to talk about their failed search for his brother. He wanted to curl up on his bunk with Max and wallow in his despair. He wished Bagger and the men hadn’t taken the terrier into the trenches for some friendly wagers. Petting Max always calmed his nerves when panic at the thought of never finding James overwhelmed him.
“But there are thousands we haven’t talk to yet,” Frederick said. “Hundreds of thousands.” Frederick had only been helping them look for five days. Reality hadn’t loosened his grip on hope like it had Thomas’s. Miles of trenches and hundreds of discouraging answers had only served to pull James farther from Thomas’s reach.
George understood Thomas’s disappointment, but he also knew wallowing in despair helped nothing. If he’d given in every time life kicked him in the teeth, he would have died years ago. He slung a bony arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “You know what you need?”
“To find my brother,” Thomas muttered.
“Besides that.” George retrieved a small leather cup and three six-sided dice from his kit bag. “You need to relax for a couple hours.” He shook the dice in the cup and then tossed them onto the table. “We all do. Get down here, Mouse. We need your artistic skills.”
Charlie closed the door to Poppy’s cage and lowered himself from his bunk into an empty chair next to Thomas.
“You too, Eton,” George said. “And bring that fancy fountain pen of yours and one of those handkerchiefs you use to polish your boots.”
Frederick closed his notebook and joined them at the table. “What are we playing?”
“Crown and anchor.”
“The army doesn’t allow that game. What about Bagger and the others?” Frederick asked.
“If they catch us, they’ll probably ask to play. Give me your pen and handkerchief.”
With some hesitance, Frederick passed George both items.
George drew a long rectangle on the cloth.
Frederick groaned. “I’ll never get that out.”
“Settle down, Eton,” George said, drawing another long line to divide the rectangle in half and then three vertical lines to separate the rectangle into six even sections. “It’s not like you don’t have a half dozen more in your kit bag.”
“Wait. You looked through my bag?”
“That’s not the point, Eton. The point is you can spare one.” George then passed the handkerchief and pen to Charlie. “Mouse, I need you to draw the symbols on the dice in the squares.”
Charlie picked up one of the dice. Crudely carved symbols marked each side. A heart, a club, a diamond, a spade, a crown, and an anchor. He copied one into each of the squares on the handkerchief and handed it back to George.
“Perfect,” George said. “Do any of you know how to play?”
The boys shook their heads.
“Not even you, Eton?”
“No.”
“What do they teach you in that fancy school of yours?” George asked.
“Not illegal dice games.”
“Well, they should. It could save your life.” He held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. “If it weren’t for crown and anchor, I’d be five fingers shy of a handshake.”
“Crown and anchor saved your fingers?” Frederick asked, unable to hide the skepticism in his voice.
“Sure did. After I’d escaped my job at the factory, I wandered down to the docks and talked my way into a game one of the managers was running out of his warehouse. The first few rounds didn’t go my way, and unfortunately, I’d exaggerated by a smidge how much money I had on me.”
“How much did you say you had?” Charlie asked.
“Five pounds.”
“Five pounds!” Thomas asked. “How much did you actually have?”
“Four pence.”
Thomas laughed. “You thought you could bluff your way into a game with dockworkers with four pence?”
“I did bluff my way into a game with dockworkers with four pence. My plan was to win enough that they’d never discover my lie, but my first few wagers didn’t go well, and when the man running the table learned I couldn’t settle my bets, he threatened to take my hand to teach me a lesson.”
“How’d you get out of it?” Charlie asked.
“Convinced him to let me play one more round, double or nothing.”
“You bet both your hands?” Thomas asked.
George glanced over at him. “I had nothing left to lose.”
“You had your hands to lose,” Frederick pointed out.
“But I didn’t lose, did I? Walked away with all ten fingers and ten crowns that night. Played so well, the owner gave me work and let me sleep in his warehouse. Crown and anchor kept me from starving for a few months. So you see, Eton, crown and anchor could save your hand or life someday, so pay attention.” He then explained the rules and declared he would be the banker and toss the dice for each round of play. The boys bet on each toss by placing coins on the symbols Charlie had drawn. As they played, they talked about everything—from what they thought the older crew members’ real names were to which nurses at the ADS were the prettiest.
“Confession time, boys,” George said, clearing the board of the winnings and losses. “What are your real birthdays? You first, Mouse.”
“October 12, 1902.”
“How about you, Eton?”
“December 6, 1901.”
“I’ve got you by five months,” George said. “Mine’s July 24, 1901. At least that’s what Miss Wachonick at the orphanage claimed it was. For all I know, I could be older than Bagger.”
“No one’s older than Bagger,” Charlie said.
Thomas laughed. It felt almost normal, but the moment of joy was quickly replaced by guilt. He shouldn’t be playing games or laughing. He should be looking for his brother.
George collected the dice and dropped them in the leather cup while the boys placed new bets. “Bagger claiming to be under forty years old is almost as believable as Thomas claiming to be eighteen. Fess up, Tommy. What’s your birthday? And don’t give us that line you tried on the recruiting officer at Trafalgar Square.” George stood up from his chair, squared his shoulders, and gave a crooked salute. “Timothy Bennett. March the first, 1602, sir.”
Everyone but Thomas laughed. “My birthday’s May 17, 1903.”
“May 17?” Frederick retrieved his notebook and opened to the page he’d been writing on when George called him over. He pointed to the top right corner. “That’s today!”
“Tommy! It’s your birthday?”
Thomas shrugged. “I guess. It’s hard to keep track of days down here.”
“Happy birthday, Thomas,” Charlie said.
Frederick quickly calculated the numbers in his head. “You’re fourteen today.”
“Not so loud,” Thomas said, his eyes darting to the doorway.
“Just think, Tommy,” George said with a wink. “In four short years, you’ll be eligible to join the army!”
The boys laughed again.
“Shut up and roll,” Thomas said, unable to hold back a smile.
With a flick of his wrist, George tossed the dice onto the table. “Now that we’ve established that I am the oldest of our little crew, I believe that means I outrank you all.”
Frederick shook his head. “That’s not how seniority in the military works.”
George passed Charlie three pence for his winning bet and collected the others’ losses. “Maybe not for the common soldier, but we’re not common soldiers, are we?” He shook the dice with a mischievous smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “We’re secret soldiers. We make our own rules, and I rule that as oldest, I deserve a promotion.”
“What kind of promotion?” Charlie asked. “Officer commanding?”
“No, I was thinking higher than OC.”
“How much higher?” Thomas asked. “Commanding officer?”
George drummed his fingers on the table. “CO George does have a nice ring to it, but as the oldest of our crew, I deserve the highest rank.”
“Field marshal?” Frederick asked.
“I was thinking more along the lines of king.”
“King George?” Frederick chuckled. “Britain already has one of those, and I don’t think he’ll be abdicating his throne to you.”
“King George the Fifth can keep his throne and rule aboveground. I’ll rule beneath it.” George ran a hand through his ginger curls. “I’ve always thought I’d look good with a crown.”
“There isn’t a crown large enough to fit your big head,” Thomas teased.
“Blasphemy!” George yelled, throwing one of the dice at Thomas.
Thomas dodged the first die, but the second struck him between the eyes.
George readied the last die. “You will not insult your king, peasant.”
Thomas held up his hands in surrender. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
“If you’re to be king, you do need a crown,” Frederick said. “Mouse, is there anything left in that Maconochie tin?”
Charlie grabbed the can next to him and looked inside. “No.”
“Toss it here.”
Charlie passed him the can that had contained the crew’s dinner, a beef stew of thin gravy, sliced turnips, carrots, and, if a soldier was lucky, a few chunks of fatty meat. Frederick held the tin above George’s head. “I, Frederick Chamberlain the Third, one hundred and fifteenth in line to the throne—”
George glanced up at him. “Seriously?”
“Yes, and don’t interrupt during a coronation. It’s uncouth.”
“I’ll give you uncouth,” George mumbled.
Frederick cleared his throat. “I, Frederick Chamberlain the Third, one hundred and fifteenth in line to the throne of Britain, crown you George, King of the Secret Soldiers.” With an exaggerated flourish, he placed the soup can on George’s head.
The small battered tin rested at an angle in George’s hair, and a drop of soup dribbled down the side of George’s face.
“Told you no crown would fit,” Thomas said.
Ignoring Thomas’s comment and the chunk of pale orange carrot sliding down his cheek, George puffed out his chest and lifted his head with an absurdly regal air. “Aren’t you supposed to bow to me now?”
Thomas bent forward, nearly brushing the floor with his hands. “Long live King George!”
“Long live King George!” Frederick and Charlie echoed between laughs.