by Keely Hutton
* * *
The next morning, Frederick woke to the sound of crying. Disoriented, he jolted up and slammed his head on the bottom of Charlie’s bunk before scrambling to his feet. Rubbing the knot swelling on his forehead, he put on his glasses and looked for the source of the sobs. Except for George’s loud snoring, the dugout was silent. The men were not on their bunks, and Max was no longer snuggled up next to Thomas.
At first, Frederick thought the crying was coming from Charlie, who he’d heard sniffing back tears before Frederick fell asleep, but when he peeked at the upper bunk, he found Charlie sleeping quietly, his fingers resting against the birdcage.
Convinced he’d dreamed the noise, Frederick had started to lie back down when he heard more panicked whimpers and incoherent mumbling from across the room. He crept over to the lower bunk where Thomas, in the grip of a nightmare, twitched and thrashed in his bed.
“Thomas,” he whispered.
“No,” Thomas mumbled in his sleep.
Frederick shook his shoulder. “Thomas.”
Thomas’s eyes sprang open. “James, no!” He flinched away from Frederick’s hand. Except for a couple of stubborn cowlicks, his blond hair stuck to his sweaty forehead in dark clumps, and his chest heaved with stuttered, panicked breaths.
“It’s okay,” Frederick whispered. “You were having a nightmare.”
His eyes wide and unblinking, Thomas stared at Frederick. “Where am I?”
“In the dugout. There was an accident. Do you remember?”
“An accident?” Thomas repeated, his voice hollow and his brow furrowed in thought. He squeezed his eyes closed and kneaded his forehead with unsteady fingers.
“Yes, but we’re safe now.”
Thomas nodded as lingering images from his nightmare vanished and memories of the day reemerged. “Feathers died.”
Guilt squeezed around Frederick’s chest at the memory of Charlie’s face as he pointed to the small canary lying motionless at the bottom of the cage. “Yes. But the important thing is you’re all right. You just need rest.” He grabbed a flask of water from the table. “And something to drink.” He offered the flask to Thomas.
Thomas took a small sip and handed it back. “We buried him.”
“Who?” Frederick asked. “Feathers?”
Thomas nodded again, shaking the last cobwebs of poisoned sleep from his brain. “He was part of our crew, so George, Charlie, and I buried him.”
“Oh.” Frederick glanced up at Charlie asleep on his bunk, his hand still resting against the new canary cage. With a heavy sigh, he placed the flask back on the table. “Thomas, about what happened down in the gallery—”
The bunk above Thomas creaked beneath George’s shifting weight. “We all know what happened in the gallery,” George said, swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk and landing beside Frederick. “You almost got Tommy killed.”
“I didn’t—”
“Do your job? We know, so why don’t you go back to your bunk and leave Tommy alone?”
“He was having a nightmare. I was just trying to help.”
“He doesn’t need your help, Eton.”
Charlie sat up, awakened by the heated conversation.
“George,” Thomas said, “leave it alone.”
“No. He nearly got you killed. He almost got us all killed. Someone needs to tell Eton what he is.”
“Enlighten me,” Frederick said, bracing himself for another fight with the London orphan. This time there’d be no clay kickers to stop them. “What am I?”
George leaned forward until his freckled nose almost touched Frederick’s. “You pretend to be a tough British soldier, but I’ve met guys like you before. All talk and bluster, but when things get rough, when it really counts, you run away because under all that talk, you’re nothing but a coward.”
Frederick’s eyes narrowed. “Take that back.”
“Bagger and the crew know it,” George continued.
“That’s enough, George,” Thomas said.
George motioned to Charlie and Thomas. “They know it, and I’ve known it since Charing Cross.”
Frederick’s hands began to shake. “I said take it back!” He shoved them into his pockets, where his fingers brushed up against the white feather he kept hidden there.
“What’s wrong, Eton?” George pressed. “No one in your pampered little life had the nerve to tell you how spineless you are before?”
Frederick turned to storm out of the dugout—just as Bagger stepped through the door.
“Are you two at it again?”
“I was just making sure Thomas was all right—”
George plopped down on a chair at the table and lit a cigarette off a candle. “You wouldn’t have to make sure Thomas was all right if you’d done your job in the first place.”
“If you hadn’t hit me with that beam—” Frederick had started to retort when Bagger grabbed him by the ear.
“That’s it!” the clay kicker roared. Still gripping Frederick’s ear, he strode over to the table and grabbed hold of one of George’s ears.
“Hey!” George yelled, dropping his cigarette as Bagger yanked him to his feet. “What are you doing?”
“Ending this,” Bagger announced. Stubbing out George’s cigarette with his boot, he dragged both boys out the doorway, toward the trenches. Thomas and Charlie scrambled off their bunks to follow.
“Let go!” Frederick yelled, trying to pull his ear free from Bagger’s hold. “Where are you taking us?”
“Where you can settle this without getting the rest of us killed.” Tightening his grip, Bagger led them through the communication trench toward the reserve trenches. Soldiers, playing cards and resting in their dugouts, pointed and laughed at the spectacle. A few abandoned their games to follow.
Frederick’s face burned with humiliation at being disciplined like a schoolboy. “Let go!” he demanded again.
Bagger didn’t answer. He didn’t speak again until he’d dragged both the quarrelsome boys out of the trenches and behind the Allied lines, to a field outside the town of Ypres, where sniper bullets and artillery shells couldn’t reach. Only then did he release their ears. “Now, you two will settle this feud like gentlemen.”
George rubbed his sore ear and motioned down the field to a group of soldiers kicking a ball toward a makeshift goal. “You want us to play football?”
“No.” Bagger bent down and plucked two pairs of dusty brown leather gloves from the ground. He tossed a pair to George. “Put these on.” He tossed Frederick the other pair.
“You want us to box?” George asked with a chuckle.
“That’s how we end arguments on the Western Front,” Bagger said. “Settle them in a fair match off the battlefield, so you don’t get someone killed on or under it.” His hard gaze settled on Frederick.
“Sounds good,” George said.
“This is ridiculous,” Frederick scoffed. “I am not going to box with him.”
“Why not, Eton?” George asked. “Scared you’ll lose?”
“Scared?” Frederick huffed. “Of losing to you? I bet you’ve never even held a pair of boxing gloves before, much less worn them.”
“You’re right,” George said, pulling on a glove. “I’ve always boxed bare-knuckled.”
Frederick’s smug smile crumbled under the amused laughter of the soldiers who’d gathered around the boys.
“Enough talking,” Bagger said. “Get your gloves on and let’s get started.” He tossed two more pairs to Thomas and Charlie.
“We’re all boxing?” Thomas asked.
“A few rounds in the ring will get rid of the nerves and anger you lads have built up in the tunnels. You’ll feel better after. I always do.”
Thomas shrugged and started pulling on the gloves, but Charlie didn’t move.
“What’s wrong, Mouse?” Bagger asked. “Gloves don’t fit?”
“No, they’re fine. It’s just—” Charlie swallowed hard and, without looking up
at Bagger, handed the gloves back to the clay kicker. “I’d rather not fight, if that’s all right.”
Bagger huffed and shoved the gloves back into Charlie’s hands. “You’re a soldier, Mouse. This is war. You need to be ready and willing to fight at all times.”
Charlie stared down at the gloves. “But I don’t know how.”
“All the more reason for you to get in the ring.” Bagger pointed back toward the trenches. “Because when we come across the enemy in those galleries, which we will, if you don’t fight, you’re dead, and you’ll probably take some of us with you. Now put on the gloves.”
Minutes later, Bagger stood in the center of a large circle of soldiers eager to place bets on the next fight.
“We’ve got some rookies here today, fellas,” he announced. “So I’m gonna give them a few pointers before we get started.” He motioned to Charlie. “You first, Mouse.”
Charlie tried to step back, but George shoved him inside the circle of soldiers. “Go get ’im, Mouse!”
“Keep your hands up at all times.” Bagger said, grabbing Charlie’s gloved hands and lifting them in front of the boy’s chest and face. “You drop your hands, you give your opponent a target.” Releasing the gloves, he stepped back into a defensive stance, facing Charlie. “Don’t plant your feet. Keep moving.” He began to bounce on the balls of his feet, dancing around his terrified opponent. “A moving target is harder to hit.”
“Come on, Mouse!” George yelled. “You can outmaneuver that old man!”
Bagger shot George a warning glance. “Watch it, Shillings. You’re next.”
George smiled. “Looking forward to it, sir, Bagger, sir.” He gave him a cockeyed salute before winking at Frederick.
Frederick glared back.
Bagger addressed the boys as he started dancing around Charlie again. Hands shaking, Charlie pivoted in a circle, following the crew leader’s movements and shrinking into himself like a scared turtle.
Bagger placed his gloved hands on Charlie’s shoulders and gave him a rough shake. “Stay loose, Mouse. It looks like your ears are trying to eat your shoulders.”
Everyone laughed except Charlie, whose face turned sallow and clammy.
Bagger bobbed to the right, then weaved to the left. Charlie struggled to keep up with the quick changes in direction.
“While you’re moving, throw some fakes to get your opponent to drop his guard and give you a target.” Bagger threw two short jabs. One high. One low.
Charlie’s eyes widened. He failed to block the jabs and stumbled over his own feet in a panicked retreat.
The laughter around the circle grew louder as Bagger pressed forward, continuing to throw fake jabs, while Charlie scurried back.
“Always look for an opening.” Bagger threw another jab to Charlie’s chest, and Charlie dropped his guard.
“Then strike!” Bagger lunged forward and threw a reverse to Charlie’s head, stopping inches from his nose.
“No!” Charlie dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. “Please don’t hit me again. Please. No more.”
The laughter stopped, and Thomas rushed to Charlie’s side. “Mouse, you all right?” He placed a hand on his friend’s back.
Charlie recoiled from his touch.
“I didn’t hit him,” Bagger said. “I swear. I didn’t even touch him.”
Slowly, Charlie looked up from the protection of his arms. The soldiers standing around the circle stared down at him with expressions ranging from confused concern to unabashed amusement. A mortified blush burned away all traces of Charlie’s ashen complexion.
George knelt before him. “What happened, Mouse?”
His hands still trembling, Charlie struggled to take off the gloves.
“Are you hurt?” Frederick asked.
Charlie threw his gloves aside. “I don’t want to talk about it!” Pushing to his feet, he shoved his way through the crowd and ran back to the tunnels.
Worry creased Bagger’s forehead as he watched Charlie leave. “I think we’re done for today, boys.”
“I don’t get to fight Eton?” George asked.
“Not today,” Bagger answered, taking off his gloves.
“Come on, Bagger,” George pleaded. “We’ll be fast, I promise. It’ll only take two hits. Me hitting Eton, and Eton hitting the dirt.”
“I said, not today.”
NINETEEN
TENSION IN THE crew’s dugout worsened after Bagger’s failed boxing lesson. Charlie refused to talk to anyone but the crew’s new canary, and everyone’s mood soured when heavy rains kept them trapped in the tunnels for the next two days. George couldn’t sit still. When he wasn’t pacing the length of the small dugout, his fingers drummed on the table like they were sending out frantic messages in Morse code.
“Can’t we just box in here?” he asked Bagger on day three of their weather-imposed confinement.
“There’s not enough room,” Bagger answered without looking up from his breakfast.
“If we move the table into the tunnel, there would be.”
With an exasperated sigh, Frederick glanced up from his notebook. “Would you please just shut up?”
George stopped pacing. “What’s wrong, Eton? You afraid to fight me?”
“No. I’m just tired of hearing your mouth run.”
“Then why don’t you try and stop it?” George tapped a finger to his chin. “Come on. I’ll even give you the first hit.”
Frederick shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.” Grabbing his coat and boots, he exited the dugout, but George’s voice chased him out of the tunnels.
“You’ve got plenty of time,” George yelled. “We all do! What you lack, Eton, is the courage!”
Frederick didn’t stop until he reached the front-line trenches. He didn’t care if Bagger caught him and transferred him from Ypres. In fact, he hoped Bagger did. Digging trenches in France would be preferable to working alongside George and the others for one more minute. At least in France he’d be above ground with real soldiers and have a chance to serve his country like a true Chamberlain. The thought quickened his pace and reinforced his resolve to get himself kicked off Bagger’s crew.
He came across a lone soldier standing sentry on a fire step in a parapet, watching the enemy lines through his rifle’s telescopic sight. The soldier’s profile looked familiar, and as Frederick drew closer, he recognized the sniper as William Gentry, an Eton graduate and the older brother of Edward Gentry, one of Frederick’s classmates.
“William?”
The soldier turned to face Frederick. He’d grown a mustache since Frederick had last seen him, but it was definitely the oldest Gentry brother. William smiled. “Frederick? What the bloody hell are you doing out here?”
“Fighting for crown and country, just like you.”
William scrutinized Frederick’s uniform. “I have to admit, you’re the last person I thought I’d ever see on the Western Front.”
The admission stung, far more than all of George’s barbs, but Frederick schooled his expression. He was an Eton student. He was a Chamberlain. And despite his age and lies, he was a British soldier.
William abandoned his rifle and held his hand out to Frederick. “Bloody good to see you, Chamberlain.”
Seeing a familiar face, a friendly familiar face, infused Frederick with a confidence George and the clay kickers had worked hard to stomp out of him. Frederick grabbed hold of William’s outstretched hand. “Good to be seen.” He squeezed tight and tugged William toward him with a quick, firm jerk.
William stumbled forward a step, but quickly recovered. With a shake of his head, he chuckled and looked Frederick up and down. “Does your father know you’re out here?”
“No. And I’d like to keep it that way—for now.”
“I understand. You’re not the first undergrad I’ve seen on the front line, and if this war continues to drag on, you won’t be the last. What unit are you with?”
“It’s
classified. My unit is working on a top-secret mission.” It wasn’t really a lie. The clay kickers’ mission was a secret. So secret, in fact, even Frederick didn’t know what it was.
William’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I guess it doesn’t hurt to be a Chamberlain, even at the front.”
Before William could question him further, Frederick pointed to the older boy’s rifle. “I see the army recognized your marksmanship. I’m not surprised. Edward was always bragging about how you were the best marksman in your class.”
“Was he now? Sounds like Edward. He didn’t join with you, did he?”
“No,” Frederick said. “Last I saw him, he was still at Eton.”
“Good,” William said. “That’s good.”
Frederick motioned again to the rifle. “How many kills have you recorded?”
“Marked my thirty-second this morning. Had thirty-three in my crosshairs when you arrived. How about you?”
Frederick sighed. “Like I said, it’s top secret.”
William nodded. “Right.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Frederick asked, motioning again to William’s rifle.
“Not at all.” William stepped aside, and Frederick climbed up on the fire step. “Keep your head low,” William warned. “The Germans have snipers too. Bloody good ones.”
Frederick ducked down and pressed his right eye against the scope. His view of no-man’s-land was magnified. The enemy line appeared close enough to reach out and touch.
“See the trench corner, to the left of that high ridge?”
Frederick adjusted the angle of the scope. “Yes.”
“There’s a tall Fritz whose head keeps slipping above the parapet. See him?”
Frederick’s pulse pounded with anticipation as he scanned the lip of the trench, but there was no movement. His eyes swept back along the edge again, and he saw it. The domed helmet of a German soldier. “There he is! Wait. He’s gone again.”
“Give it a second.”
A minute later, the helmet reappeared. “He’s back!”