NINE

THOMAS’S STOMACH DROPPED. He’d let himself get distracted and hadn’t asked one soldier about James. At best, he’d be reprimanded and sent back to the dugout until their shift started. At worst, he’d be sent to dig trenches in France. Either way, he’d failed his brother and his parents.

Several lame excuses stumbled through his brain as he turned to face his punishment, but when he raised his eyes to meet what he expected to be the stern glare of the crew’s listener, he was instead met with the amused smirk of the London street urchin who’d followed him to the Western Front.

“Good God, Tommy.” George chuckled. “You should see your face. You’d think a Fritz had snuck up on you.” He dropped his voice to mimic Bats. “You didn’t wet yourself, did you, lad?” His gaze dropped to the front of Thomas’s trousers.

Thomas bristled at George’s continued use of James’s nickname for him. “Stop calling me Tommy.”

George rubbed the patchy stubble on his chin and cheeks and cleared his throat to imitate Bagger. “Out here, you’ll answer to whatever I call you. Understand?”

Thomas shoved him away from the cluster of soldiers and back toward the path to the tunnel entrance. “No. And you didn’t scare me. You surprised me. What are you doing out here anyway?”

“I saw you sneaking out. Thought you were hitting the latrine, but when you didn’t come back, I figured I should come looking for you and make sure you hadn’t decided to catch the next train back to London. Brought Mouse along to help drag you back if you had.”

Behind George, waiting at the corner of the trench, Charlie gave Thomas a timid wave, then returned to gnawing on whatever was left of his nails.

George leaned in closer. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you, Tommy? ’Cause I hear they shoot deserters.”

Thomas started to explain that he just needed some air, when a soldier called out. “Two minutes!”

“What’s going on here?” George asked, peering past Thomas to the gathering of men clogging up the trench.

“Some kind of competition.”

George pushed forward to get a better look. “This I need to see.”

Johnny and Dan had climbed onto a wooden plank lining the trench wall, careful to keep their heads below the sandbags. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the piece of bread on Johnny’s bayonet. Suddenly, a long brown rat scurried along the trench floor.

“There’s one!” a soldier yelled.

The rat stopped, and Johnny shot the soldier a threatening glare, silencing him.

“I sure hope that’s not dinner,” Thomas groaned.

“Wouldn’t be the first rat I’ve eaten,” George whispered. “Bet you’ve had a few too, eh, Mouse?”

Charlie, whose curiosity had lured him closer, didn’t answer.

“Don’t worry,” George said, when he noticed the embarrassed blush tinting Charlie’s face and ears. “Norton-Griffith’s recruiter promised real food for our work.”

The rat’s head swept side to side, nose twitching. Its beady black eyes locked on the hunk of bread. Perched on the bench, Johnny nodded to Dan, who tossed a clot of soil at the trench wall behind the rat. It exploded in a spray of dirt, and the rat bolted forward, picking up speed as it neared the bread. The clay kickers and soldiers leaned in, blocking Thomas’s view. He ducked down to peer between their legs just as the rat, its mouth wide open to snag the bread in its retreat, impaled itself on the bayonet. Johnny jumped down and jammed the blade deeper, and the infantrymen cheered.

Boomer kicked at the ground, and Bats groaned as Johnny lifted his weapon for everyone to see. Blood dripped from the speared rat’s mouth and its legs twitched twice before falling limp.

“What’s the count now?” Johnny asked.

Two soldiers lifted the ends of a wooden beam. A line of dead rats hung below the board, like prisoners dangling beneath a tiny gallows.

“That one makes nine!” Dan yelled. “We’re up by two.”

“Pay up, boys!” Johnny shook his weapon, sending the dead rat’s legs into a drunken jig. “Our undefeated status lives on!”

The infantrymen cheered louder.

George reached into his pocket and pulled out two shillings. “I’ve got to get in on some of this action.”

“You can’t,” Charlie whispered, his voice tight with panic.

“Sure I can. Coin is coin. These chaps won’t care who places a bet as long as he can pay, which I can.” He jingled the shillings in his hand. “And if I play the odds right, which I always do, between my wages and winnings, after the war, I’ll be strolling back into London with enough coin to pay off my debts and buy myself off the streets.”

He started toward the men but stopped when Charlie grabbed his arm. George’s eyes narrowed on Charlie’s hand clutching his sleeve.

Charlie let go and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he mumbled, backing away.

“Charlie’s right,” Thomas said. “If Bagger catches you, he may never let us out of the tunnels again.”

With a frustrated groan, George shoved the coins back in his pocket. “What good is finally having money if I can’t enjoy it?”

Up ahead, Johnny plucked the rat from his bayonet and tossed it to Dan. “You ready to surrender, tunnel rat?”

“Clay kickers never surrender,” Bagger replied.

In the excitement, Thomas had forgotten the crew leader was still standing at the end of the trench.

“How much time left, Richard?” Bagger asked.

A soldier holding a pocket watch answered. “Twenty seconds.”

Bagger smiled and turned his attention back to his partner. “Plenty of time.”

“Best you can do is tie us,” Dan said as he strung the rat up by its neck next to the other dead rats. “Might as well give up now.”

Bagger ignored him. “Come on, Max! You’ve got this! That’s it!”

“Ten … nine … eight…” Richard’s voice grew louder with each second.

Bagger knelt on the trench floor and pounded his fists on his thick thighs. “Come on, Max! Get ’im!”

Thomas tried to catch a glimpse of Bagger’s partner, but the trench wall blocked his view.

“Seven … six … five…”

“Yes!” Bagger yelled.

“Four … three … two…”

“Come on, Max!”

“One.”

Bagger reached out his hands, and a small blur of white-and-brown fur flew into his arms. Bagger had told the boys that the rats in the trenches could grow as large as cats. By the size of the animal squirming in his arms, not only had the clay kicker not been exaggerating, but Max also had not killed the rat. Bagger’s rule about keeping any food stored as high as possible moved up Thomas’s list of warnings to heed in the tunnels.

“Time!” Richard yelled.

“Good boy, Max!” Bagger said. He turned around, but it wasn’t a large rat squirming in his arms. It was a small dog. The white terrier, with brown spots encircling its eyes and covering its small, floppy ears, wagged its tail with pride over Bagger’s praise. Clamped in its teeth was a dead rat. Bagger patted the dog’s head, and Max dropped the rat into Bagger’s hand. The clay kickers cheered.

“Settle down,” Johnny said, re-counting Bagger and Max’s haul, including the new rat. “You’re still down by one.”

Bagger smiled and held up two more dead rats. “Make that up by one.”

As the clay kickers and soldiers settled their wagers, Johnny spotted the boys watching. He turned, seeming about to say something to Bagger, but just at that moment Dan handed him his rifle and pulled him into a conversation about their hunting strategy.

“We better go before anyone else sees us,” Charlie whispered to George.

“Fine,” George said. With a disappointed groan, he followed Charlie toward the tunnel entrance, but Thomas stayed behind. He still hadn’t asked anyone about James and hoped an infantryman would break off from the group before the rest of the crowd disbanded.

“Hey,” George called out to him softly from a corner of the trench. “You comin’?”

Thomas hesitated.

“Your funeral, Tommy.”

Thomas pressed a frustrated fist to his chest until he felt the hard edges of his medals burrow into his skin. I will find my brother, he vowed. Then he turned and trailed George back to the crew’s dugout.