by Keely Hutton
He still couldn’t believe he was headed to the Western Front. Two weeks earlier, when he’d followed George through the back alleys of London to Dorset Street, he’d feared the street urchin planned to sell him to some factory owner. When they’d reached Dorset Street, they were greeted by a man in a suit and bowler hat. After George whispered something in the man’s ear, the man had dropped a couple of coins in George’s outstretched hand, and then, without asking Thomas a single question, the man led the boys into a building where several other recruits waited. Thomas recognized many from Trafalgar Square. Some were old. Some were young. But like him, all had been pointed left by the army recruiter.
That evening, the man with the bowler hat gave Thomas an army uniform and a kit bag that contained a helmet, a gas mask, boots and polish, a blanket, a notebook and pencil, a mess kit, an entrenching tool, a water flask, cigarettes and matches, a bar of chocolate, and several items Thomas couldn’t identify. The kit had everything a soldier needed for the front line, except a weapon. Thomas had hoped the man would assign him a rifle before sending him to the Western Front, but during his brief orientation, the man made no mention of what Thomas would be using to fight the enemy or when he’d receive it. He’d simply announced that the recruits now belonged to a special unit under someone he called “Hellfire Jack,” and then they lined up for a warm meal of stew, dumplings, and fresh-baked biscuits.
When George slipped out the door that evening after eating two helpings and pocketing several biscuits, Thomas had assumed it would be the last he’d ever see of the street urchin, but George returned the next morning in time for breakfast. He stuck around to watch the first day of training, and when they filed into line for dinner, George joined the queue in front of Thomas with an army uniform tucked under one arm and a kit bag slung over his shoulder.
Thomas had been stuck with a view of George’s back ever since. In line for food. On their daily marches. During every drill. Even now, as he sprinted across Trafalgar Square.
“Hurry up, Tommy!” George yelled. “Or we’ll miss the train!”
* * *
At Charing Cross station, the army transport train’s whistle pierced the din of rumbling trolleys, pounding footsteps, and shouting voices. Pulling his coat collar up to shield his face, Charlie Barnett sank lower in his seat at the back of the train and peeked out the window to the platform, where women and children clung to men in uniforms—husbands, fathers, sons—bidding them teary goodbyes.
For the tenth time since Charlie had boarded the train, he checked the platform’s large clock: 5:15 P.M. The train should have left by now. He picked at the torn, dry skin around his thumbnail. He’d never been on a train before, but he’d heard adults say they could set their watches by them. Something was wrong. Charlie switched from picking the skin around his thumb to worrying it with his teeth as a swarm of frightening possibilities buzzed through his mind.
It had been three weeks since he ran away from home. Had his brother, Henry, broken his promise and told their dad of his plan? What if he’d notified the police or the army? What if their dad had sobered up long enough to look for him?
Charlie glanced back at the clock and gnawed a hangnail until it tore free. Blood oozed from the cut and dripped onto the open notebook on Charlie’s lap. He tried to wipe the blood off the pencil sketches he’d drawn while waiting on the train, but managed only to smear the drop, leaving a crimson streak across the unfinished image of a soldier hugging a little boy goodbye on the platform. Closing the notebook, Charlie moved on to his next finger.
The conductor hollered the final boarding call, and the soldiers on the platform gently pried themselves from their loved ones’ embraces and hurried over to the train. With the last man boarded, the whistle blew out three short bursts. Charlie flinched as memories of the textile-factory whistle twitched through his muscles. He hated the piercing sound, always chastising him and his brother when they were late for their shifts. Each shrill whistle warning them of the punishment that awaited them at both the factory and at home. After echoes of the last whistle faded from Charing Cross, Charlie sagged with relief. The train was finally leaving the station, taking him far from London and his father’s reach.
As a group of older soldiers filed past, Charlie inched lower in his seat and feigned sleep. Ignoring the three empty seats around him, the soldiers headed to the front of the car.
A younger soldier with short, tidy black hair, a barely there mustache, round-framed glasses, and a pristine uniform boarded the train after them. His head held high, he strode past, looking down his upturned nose at the train’s musty, stained seats and their temporary occupants. His disdainful gaze glided past Charlie like he was part of the worn upholstery.
Charlie was not surprised. There was nothing remarkable about him. His average height, slight build, gray eyes, and dingy brown hair made him forgettable, which was fine with Charlie. He preferred to blend into the scenery, where he could watch, but not be forced to interact with the world. In fact, the only aspect of Charlie that stuck out were his ears, which he was convinced he’d never grow into, even if he lived to be one hundred and two.
When the tidy soldier looked back in his search for a seat, Charlie averted his eyes and pulled his thin, straight hair down over his ears. Thankfully, the soldier chose a seat midway down the car, distancing himself from both the soldiers at the front and Charlie in the back. Charlie watched the soldier wipe the city streets from his shoes with a handkerchief before returning his attention to the world outside the window.
The train shuddered and lurched forward. The people on the platform waved and clutched one another for support while their eyes scoured each window, searching for a final glimpse of their loved ones. Bile rose in Charlie’s throat as he scanned the crowd for the one face he prayed to never see again, but only strangers stared back. With a relieved sigh, he rested his head against the back of his seat and watched the station platform inch by. As the cars groaned and tugged against the pull of the engine, Charlie noticed two boys in uniforms running onto the platform with a bobby hot on their heels.
The taller of the two soldiers spotted Charlie watching. “Stop the train!” he yelled.
Charlie sank lower in his seat, praying the train would keep going. He had to get out of London before his father found him. He stared down at his bleeding fingers clutching the scratchy cloth of his army trousers. He shouldn’t have looked out the window. He knew better. Make no sound. Make no trouble. Make no eye contact. That was how he’d survived the last fourteen years. He took a deep breath and opened his notebook to a clean page. Drawing always calmed his nerves. He placed the tip of his pencil on the paper and looked around the car for something or someone to sketch. He’d settled on drawing the tidy soldier when a hand slapped against his window, sending him scrambling over his armrest into the next seat.
The banging continued, and Charlie peeked at the window. The tall soldier was running alongside the train. He locked eyes with Charlie. “Stop the train!”
Charlie nodded and glanced to the front of the car, where the conductor was collecting tickets. He started to stand and call out to the conductor, but his legs tingled with numbness and his voice seized in his throat. Sweat blossomed on his upper lip and forehead. He sank down into the seat, swallowing hard before looking back to the window. The soldier was gone.
The train found its rhythm as the engine cleared the station platform, leaving an expanding plume of white smoke in its wake. One by one, the cargo and passenger cars followed the engine from the shadows of the covered platform into the early-evening light. Charlie slid back over to his seat and peered out the window. Both boys were still screaming and chasing the train, but only the taller one kept pace with the last car. As the back platform of the car slid within the boy’s reach, he jumped up, grabbed the side handle, and swung himself onto the shallow metal grate, where he waved frantically for his friend to join him. Gripping the side handle with one hand, he leaned out over the bac
k of the train, extending his other hand to his friend. The bobby, still pursuing the pair, kicked up his pace.
Charlie pressed his face against the window, desperate to see if the second boy would make it before the last train car cleared the platform.
* * *
Hanging off the back of the car, George screamed, “Jump!”
The command died beneath the grinding screech of the locomotive’s wheels on the steel tracks, but Thomas obeyed. Clutching his kit bag, Thomas reached out for George’s hand and leaped from the edge of the platform. The bobby’s fingers grazed the cuffs of his trousers but couldn’t grab hold. Thomas’s body hung suspended in the air for two frantic heartbeats before gravity pulled him toward the steel tracks below.
“Tommy!” George screamed as he thrust his chest out over the railing and grabbed Thomas’s arm. Jamming his feet against the base of the grate, he heaved Thomas over the railing and onto the back of the car. Thomas collapsed in a trembling heap while George smiled and waved to the bobby shaking his truncheon and screaming threats at the boys from the end of the platform.
“Told you we’d make it,” George said, slapping a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “And you were worried.”
Struggling to catch his breath, Thomas shot George an exasperated glare before pressing his lips to his brother’s Saint Joseph medal and whispering a prayer of thanks for his protection.
* * *
Inside the train car, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief that the short boy hadn’t plummeted to his death. When he heard the creak of the back door opening, he shoved his notebook and pencil in his kit bag and sank lower in his seat. As the footsteps drew closer, he shut his eyes, hoping the tardy soldiers would walk past like the others, but they stopped in the aisle beside him.
“What do you think, Tommy? Did he faint from exhaustion from not helping us?”
The only reply was the scrape of a match being lit and the pungent smell of sulfur.
“Leave no man behind. Isn’t that what they drilled into our skulls for the last two weeks, Tommy? Guess this one thought that only applied on the battlefield.”
Charlie kept his eyes squeezed shut, hoping the boys would find other seats, but a body plopped down in the seat to his right. Opening one eye, he peeked over at the tall, red-headed boy lounging next to him. Blood trickled down his freckled cheek in a broken line from a gash on the bridge of his crooked nose, and a wave of guilt surged through Charlie.
“Hey!” his new seatmate exclaimed. “He’s awake! Thanks for giving us a hand, mate.”
Charlie scooted away, shifting in his seat until his back was pressed up against the window.
Unfazed by his reaction, the tall soldier stretched out his long legs and rested his feet on the empty seat across from him. “So,” he said, staring at Charlie, “how long until we get to Belgium?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
The red-headed soldier glanced over at his short friend who remained in the aisle, his face pale and his hands still shaking from his brush with death. “We may have found someone who actually speaks less than you, Tommy.” He returned his attention to Charlie. “What’s your name?”
Charlie’s gaze fell to his lap.
“Blimey, you’re quieter than a mouse, aren’t you?”
Charlie flinched as the boy slapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy there, Mouse. I’m not going to hurt you. That’s what we’ll call you. Mouse. It’s fitting, don’t you think, Tommy?”
Tommy, who’d stepped over his friend’s legs and taken the seat across from Charlie, shrugged.
“This is going to be a boring trip if I have to talk to myself the whole time,” the tall soldier said in a voice loud enough for the whole car to hear.
The tidy soldier, five seats ahead, turned and glared at him like he was filth he wished to wipe from his shoe and discard. The red-headed boy took a long drag from his cigarette and winked at the soldier, who looked away in disgust.
“Think I’ll take a stroll and ask the conductor what time we’ll be reaching Dover to catch the ferry across the Channel.”
The little color that had returned to Tommy’s face vanished. “We’re stopping in Dover?”
“Of course. Where else are we going to cross the Channel?”
Tommy shifted in his seat.
“What’s wrong, Tommy? You afraid of water or something?”
Tommy shook his head, but his color did not return.
“All right then. I’ll be back in a bit.” The tall soldier looked over at Charlie and smiled. “Don’t go having any big, life-changing discussions without me, Mouse.”
He paused next to the tidy soldier on his way to the front of the car and blew a stream of smoke over his head. It settled like a fog around the soldier, who coughed and waved a hand before his face.
“Don’t mind George,” Tommy told Charlie. “He likes to hear himself talk, nonstop, all the time.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Thomas.”
Charlie tucked his bloody fingers under his legs and lifted the corners of his mouth in what he hoped was a passable smile. “I’m Charlie.”
Thomas pulled back his hand, surprised by the deep timbre of Charlie’s voice. For a mouse, his voice was less squeak and more rumble. “Good to meet you, Charlie.”
“You too. I’m sorry I didn’t help before. I…” Charlie didn’t have a good excuse, so his voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.
“It’s not your fault we almost missed the train. We ran into someone looking for George on our way to the station.”
Remembering the cop chasing the pair on the platform, Charlie considered the strong possibility that George might not have suffered his injury during his jump onto the train. As he pondered what type of trouble Thomas and George might be in, Charlie noticed Thomas looking over his uniform.
“You part of Major Norton-Griffith’s new recruits?” Thomas asked.
Charlie nodded.
“Us too. I don’t remember seeing you with our group at Regent Street.”
“I was trained with recruits in West Ham,” Charlie said.
Thomas turned and looked toward the front of the train car, where George was enjoying a laugh and cigarette with a group of older soldiers Thomas didn’t recognize. “Norton-Griffith’s recruiters must be training men all over London, if you can call what we did for the last two weeks training. Did you get a weapon?”
Charlie shook his head.
“Neither did we. Makes you wonder how they expect us to fight the Germans. March them to death?”
Charlie smiled. It felt more genuine. He hoped it looked it. He’d wondered the same thing during his short training. Aside from the uniform, he felt no more a soldier than he had before he skipped his shift at the factory, lied about his age, and joined Major Norton-Griffith’s recruits headed to fight on the Western Front.
He looked back out the window as the train pulled away from the crowded London streets. Charlie had never known any place but London. He’d been born there and always thought he’d die there, most likely at his father’s hand. As the train snaked its way through the surrounding countryside, London shrank on the horizon until it vanished from view. Charlie wondered what awaited him on the Western Front and what Major Norton-Griffith had planned for a gang of underage, undertrained, unarmed soldiers on the front line of the war they were saying would end all wars.
FIVE
THOMAS JOLTED AWAKE at the sound of the train whistle heralding their approach to the station in Belgium. Stepping over George’s outstretched legs, he made his way to the back of the car. He knew James wouldn’t be waiting for him at the station, but he wanted to see the country he’d be calling home for the next several months.
He slipped out the door and stood on the grate. It would be hours before the sun rose, but he leaned over the side railing and looked toward the front of the train. The sting of the cold night wind racing along the train drew tears from his eyes, but he kept them open, searching for any sig
n of the Allied front. Along the horizon, the night sky pulsed with brilliant white and yellow light. A thunderous rumble followed each flash, like a distant storm.
When the train pulled into the station, Thomas hurried back to his seat, grabbed his kit bag, and followed George and Charlie onto the platform, where a lieutenant ordered them to line up.
George squeezed in between Thomas and the tidy soldier. “I could definitely get used to traveling by train,” he said, lighting up a smoke.
He’d been excited to learn the army supplied soldiers with cigarettes. Thomas was certain the free cigarettes and meals were influencing factors in George’s decision to join.
“Good smokes, good sleep, and good company,” George said, blowing his smoke above their heads.
Beside him, the tidy soldier coughed and fanned the smoke away from his face. “Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” George said with a smile. “That’s why I smoke.”
“Gutter rat,” the soldier muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” George asked, but the soldier didn’t answer. He simply stepped to the left, leaving a wide gap between him and the other boys.
* * *
Frederick Chamberlain doubted he’d ever had a worse day. The train was late leaving London, the conductor had refused his reasonable request to be moved to a car with soldiers who behaved in a more civil manner, and he’d been accosted by the boor in a uniform blowing smoke in his face. And that was all before they’d cleared London.
The rest of the eight-hour trip he’d spent failing to ignore the incessant chatter of soldiers with far less intelligence, military experience, and decorum than he possessed; vomiting over the side rail of the crowded ferry that transported them across the Channel to France; and unable to sleep due to the uncomfortable seats and inescapable stench of cheap cigarettes and unwashed masses clogging up the second transport train.