WITH THEIR LETTERS written and pacts made, the boys headed back to the tunnels to complete their mission, but time was not their ally. Their deadline was less than three weeks away, and the command center demanded daily progress reports and responded with the same directive: Work faster.
Tension in the tunnels and trenches swelled with the news that the Germans had increased their daylight raids on London and the surrounding towns. Charlie became so concerned about his brother, he asked Frederick to write another letter, which he sent to his family’s pastor, inquiring about Henry’s safety and imploring that he tell no one he had heard from Charlie, especially his father.
One morning, as the crew neared the end of another long shift in the tunnels, Boomer, Thomas, and George carried the last bags of spoil to the PBIs waiting at the entrance. The remaining crew members had started to gather their tools when Bats, who was listening at the wall, held up his hand.
Careful not to make a sound, he placed the geophone to the right and lower on the wall. His brow furrowed, and his glasses slid down his nose, but he made no move to fix them. With slow, silent steps, he inched his way toward the tunnel face. Charlie stepped back to make room as the listener inched closer to where Bagger waited. Poppy flapped on her perch and let out a high-pitched trill. Bagger signaled to Charlie, who crept over to the cage and stroked Poppy’s head, quieting the canary. Sweat trickled down the sides of Charlie’s face. He didn’t dare move to wipe it away, fearful that any motion might be heard by the enemy.
Everyone strained to hear what Bats heard, but the tunnel was silent. Still holding an empty sandbag, Frederick swallowed hard. Their enemies were unaware of the stealthy techniques of the clay kickers. The German tunnelers were miners, like Boomer and Thomas. The Germans dug faster than the Brits, chopping at the clay with picks and shovels, but their speed came at a price. Bats had been tracking their noisy digging and conversations for days. He could hear the scrape of their shovels up to seventy feet away. Their voices he could detect from up to fifty feet. Over the last two days, both had grown louder. The news had made the crew nervous, but Bats assured them that as long as he could hear the enemy, they were safe. Noise followed by silence meant one of two things: Either the enemy had succumbed to carbon monoxide or they were preparing to fire a charge.
Bats pulled his glasses from his face with a quick jerk and closed his eyes. He moved the geophone lower on the wall, and his forehead wrinkled in concentration. After a taut minute, Bagger tapped Bats on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows in question. Bats shook his head, and Bagger mouthed a few vulgarities that would have made Charlie’s dad blush and then he signaled for everyone to exit that section of the tunnel.
Frederick, who was positioned closest to the exit, turned and ran. Charlie, still holding Poppy’s cage, and Mole had just moved to follow when an explosion tore through the clay wall where Bats and Bagger stood. The blast threw the crew to the ground as clots of clay and splintered wood rained down on them.
A high-pitched ringing filled Charlie’s ears, and smoke filled the gallery. Charlie fumbled around blindly for Poppy’s cage, which he’d dropped in the explosion. His fingers found the metal cage, and he pulled it into his lap. He coughed and wheezed, fighting for a clean breath, but Poppy’s muted chirps and fluttering assured him that despite everything polluting the tunnel’s air, at least carbon monoxide wasn’t present—for now. He pulled on his gas mask, just in case.
A trickle of warmth crept down the side of his face. He touched his head, and when he pulled back his fingers, they were wet and sticky. Holding Poppy’s cage close to his chest, he peered in the direction where Mole, Bats, and Bagger had stood seconds before, but smoke and dust obscured his view.
Screams echoed in the darkness. “Geh! Geh! Geh!”
Charlie did not recognize the voices or words. Pulling off his mask to see better, he pressed to his feet and stared at the gaping hole in the clay wall. A stocky man holding a shovel peered through the opening. Charlie’s panicked gaze swept the area, searching for anything he could use as a weapon, but all he had was Poppy’s birdcage, which the canary still occupied.
The man with the shovel noticed the cage and smiled at Charlie. The smile held no warmth or mercy. Charlie had witnessed many such cruel smiles throughout his short life. They lived in the night and reeked of barley and hops. They slurred their words and proclaimed harsh punishments for crimes Charlie never committed. They tasted of blood and tears.
The man stepped through the opening, and Charlie set down the cage. He would not cower before this man or his taunting smile. He was a soldier. He would never cower before any man again. He brought his trembling hands out in front of him, like Bagger had taught him in their short boxing lesson. He was preparing to throw a punch when Mole charged out of the rubble and crashed into the German miner. As the two men grappled atop broken timbers and chunks of clay, fighting for control of the shovel, a second enemy stepped through the blast opening.
He was smaller than the first. His German uniform draped loosely over his narrow shoulders, and his freckles and rounded cheeks reminded Charlie of Henry. Charlie lowered his fists, a move he reversed the second the boy pulled a knife from his belt and lunged at him.
With little space to move in the narrow tunnel, Charlie pivoted, pressing his back against the wall and sucking in his stomach. The knife sliced across the front of his uniform, tearing fabric and severing a button. Both boys froze and stared at the front of Charlie’s shirt. A faint line of crimson appeared across the fabric, but Charlie felt no pain, only adrenaline and anger. He grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted his arm until the boy cried out and dropped the knife.
“Never again,” Charlie snarled. Then he hit the boy. Closed fist. Hard.
One.
Two.
With every ounce of the fear and rage his father had beaten into him for fourteen years, Charlie struck his attacker. Every word he’d ever wished to scream burst from his mouth at once, in a primal cry that buried the sound of Mole’s fight raging yards away.
Three.
Four.
Charlie’s attacker held up his hands. Words, foreign to Charlie, rushed from the boy’s lips. Charlie didn’t understand or care. The German had tried to kill him.
Five.
Six.
His enemy fell to the ground. Charlie and his fists followed.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Over and over.
Until he lost count.
Until he lost control.
Until one word paralyzed his fists.
“Mama.”
His attacker mumbled the word through bloodied lips.
Charlie blinked rapidly to clear his vison and to remember where he was. To remember who he was. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning down to help the boy.
The boy recoiled.
“I’m so sorry.”
Charlie looked down at his hands, still balled into fists. His knuckles were swollen and smeared with blood. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or the boy.
“Never again,” he said. He unclenched his fists, wincing at the pain throbbing through his knuckles. He stared at the boy cowering on the floor and pointed to the hole in the wall. “Go.”
The boy didn’t move.
“Go,” Charlie repeated.
Mole had subdued the larger German and was digging in the rubble for Bats and Bagger.
“Go!” Charlie yelled.
The boy scrambled to his feet.
Charlie had bent down to fetch his gas mask so he could help Mole dig when he heard his name.
“Mouse!”
Charlie turned to see Frederick rushing toward him with a spade raised in his hand.
“Duck!” Frederick yelled.
Charlie fell to the ground, and Frederick swung the spade. There was a sharp smack of metal striking flesh, followed by the thud of a body collapsing behind him. Charlie looked over his shoulder at the German boy, lying on the floor inches from him. Blood spilled from a gash on the boy’s forehead.
“What did you do?” Charlie screamed as Thomas and George skidded to a halt behind Frederick, followed by a winded Boomer. “He was retreating!”
Frederick, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock, pointed to the dead boy’s outstretched arm and the knife gripped in his hand.