AS TALKATIVE AS he was after their shifts, following his near-drowning George didn’t speak a word while working in the galleries. His silence crept beneath Thomas’s skin. When George was calm and comfortable enough to talk about everything from the woman with eleven fingers he’d met in London to the size and smell of his last bowel movement, Thomas’s anxiousness about being back in the tunnels decreased—at least a little. But George’s silence left too much space in Thomas’s thoughts. Space that fear, guilt, and grief eagerly filled. The unwelcome emotions dragged Thomas back to his conversation with George outside the tunnels.
As tough as it had been to hear, George had been right. In Thomas’s determination to find James, he’d given little thought to how his leaving would hurt his mum and dad and even less consideration to what would happen to them if, like James, Thomas never returned. The thought of dying beneath no-man’s-land, never to be found, terrified Thomas, but knowing his parents were thinking of him, even if they didn’t know where he was, gave him a small sense of peace. When fear kept him awake, he pictured his mum kneeling beside her bed, saying her rosary and praying for his safe return. But what had Thomas left behind for his mum to calm her fears? When she closed her eyes, she had only her imagination to fill in the many blanks he’d left, and Thomas knew how cruel imagination could be when stoked by fear.
After the flooding scare, every time the crew descended beneath no-man’s-land, Thomas remembered when he and James used to compete to see who could hold their breath the longest underwater. Time slowed when you were a breath away from death. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours. The crew’s eight-hour-shift felt like an eternity. By the hunch of George’s shoulders, Thomas knew he wasn’t alone in his dread.
To avoid another flooding, the crew was forced to dig lower to get beneath the wet-sand layer while carving out a new gallery and chamber. With their deadline looming, they doubled their efforts, muscling through the constant pain burning and twisting in their backs and shoulders.
Explosions trembled through the tunnel’s walls and ceiling. Clods of dirt and clay shook loose between the timbers and pelted their helmets. Thomas tried not to think about the shells hitting above their gallery or about how his decision to come to the Western Front might cause his parents to lose both their sons. Instead, he focused on his work.
Push, pull, bag, drag, raise.
The crew fell into the rhythm of their choreographed dance.
Push, pull, bag, drag, raise.
Push.
Push.
Mole’s large boots pressed against the spade, but it wouldn’t slide all the way into the clay. “Must have hit a rock,” Mole whispered, retracting the spade and placing it lower on the tunnel face. “I’ll try to get beneath it.” He motioned for Thomas to help.
Thomas moved into position.
Push.
The spade slid into the clay with ease. Mole pressed down with his heels to work the rock free. “It’s a big one,” he whispered, wiggling the spade up and down as he slowly extracted it from the wall.
Thomas grabbed a short slab of clay from the spade and handed it to Bagger, who placed it in a sandbag. Thomas then reached into the narrow hole with both hands. His fingers jammed against something hard.
“Do you feel it?” Bagger mouthed.
Thomas nodded.
“Can you work your fingers around it?” Mole whispered.
Thomas nodded again. The clay encasing the rock squished beneath Thomas’s fingers, so he dug them in deeper to strengthen his hold. He tried pulling the rock out, but it wouldn’t budge, so Mole carefully carved around Thomas’s arms and hands, widening the hole, while Bagger removed the clumps of clay holding the rock in place.
The men stepped back, and Thomas wedged his feet against the wall and pulled back on the rock. After several unsuccessful tugs, he looked at Bagger and shook his head. Bagger signaled for Charlie to bring him a light. Charlie scrambled over, lantern in hand. Thomas pulled his arms from the opening, and Bagger held the lantern up to the hole.
Thomas ducked beneath the lantern and peered into the opening. It took several impatient seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness after the glare of the lantern. As his vision continued to adjust, the darkness separated into varied shades of gray, and outlines took shape.
Thomas squinted, straining to make sense of the shapes, but his mind couldn’t puzzle the pieces together. In all his years in the mines, he’d never seen a rock like this before. He waved the light closer.
Bagger adjusted the lantern. Light and shadow swept through the opening, casting movement over the wide curves, sharp corners, and flat holes of the rock. When the swing of the lantern settled, a shaft of light cut above Thomas’s head into the opening, sending the shadows on the rock scattering, and the pieces fell into place.
Thomas scrambled back from the wall, knocking Bagger over. Mole reached down to help Bagger up, and the others gathered around.
“What’s wrong, Tommy?” George whispered.
Thomas couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He needed air. Pushing past George, he sprinted to the shaft and upper galleries. Dan’s words echoed in his mind with each panicked step.
If we don’t bury our dead, the war will, and us with them.
Thomas stumbled out of the tunnels and into the support trench. And then he vomited.
Back in the gallery, George grabbed the lantern and peered into the opening. “Oh, no,” he whispered as the light fell upon the object they’d mistaken for a rock.
A dented helmet.
Cracked goggles.
A gas mask.
And tufts of blond hair. The same shade as Thomas’s.