“Have they started blowing the mines?” Thomas whispered to George.

“They’re not supposed to for another couple hours. That must have been an artillery shell or a bomb from one of our planes.”

George secured his grip on Thomas and started to walk again. At the other end of the gallery, Charlie gnawed on his fingers while Frederick held a squirming Max in his arms and Mole motioned for George to hurry.

Another tremor shook the ground surrounding them as explosions rocked the battlefield. “Come on, Shillings!” Mole ordered.

Keeping an eye on the creaking beams straining to hold back the tons of earth, sand, water, and clay above their heads, George walked faster. “Just another one of our wild adventures, eh, Timothy Bennett?” He chuckled, but his smile was strained, and Thomas could tell from how fast his friend kept talking that the London street urchin who’d scaled the chimneys of lit fireplaces and bet his hands in games with dockworkers was scared. “I’ll be honest with you, Tommy. I was hoping for a front-row seat to the fireworks tonight, but this is a bit too close for my liking. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed our time working the tunnels together, but I have no desire to spend eternity with you down here.”

Thomas managed a weak smile. “The feeling’s mutual.”

George stopped as another series of explosions fell on no-man’s-land. He and Thomas looked up as the beams lining the stretch of ceiling between them and the others started to snap.

“Watch out!” Mole yelled.

“It’s gonna fall!” Frederick screamed.

Losing his grip on Thomas, George stumbled backward as the ceiling above them collapsed in an avalanche of wood and clay.

THIRTY-EIGHT

SHARP PAIN LANCED through Thomas’s injured leg as he dragged himself away from the collapsed portion of the gallery.

“George!” he yelled, grabbing the overturned lantern.

“Over here,” a weak voice answered.

Thomas swung the lantern in the direction of the voice. George sat on the ground, his back pressed up against the tunnel wall. A broken beam lay beside him. The lantern cast George’s face in a jaundiced yellow, and as he bent forward to press up to his feet, he groaned in pain.

“Are you hurt?” Thomas asked.

George held his side. “Probably just a bruised rib. Nothing I can’t handle. How about you?”

“Nothing new.”

“Good.” George hobbled over to the wall of clay and timber.

“Do you think the others are all right?” Thomas asked.

“I hope so. We’re going to need them digging on the other side if we’re to get out of here before these mines blow.”

Thomas glanced down the stretch of gallery behind them to the wall of sandbags separating them from the charged mine.

George cupped his hands around his mouth. “Mole! Mouse! Eton!”

Thomas and he listened for a response.

“They’re not answering,” Thomas said.

“Either they can’t, or this wall’s too thick for us to hear them.” George put on his gas mask. “Either way, we need to start digging.”