“What’s so funny?” George asked.

Thomas threw the fistfuls of clay behind him. “Nothing really. I just can’t believe, after everything, we’re stuck down here.”

“Well, I don’t intend to stay stuck down here, so keep digging.”

Thomas lifted a clay-covered hand to his forehead in a crooked salute. “Yes, sir!”

George shot him a strange look that made Thomas laugh louder.

As Thomas pulled another clump of clay from the pile, the memory of finding the dead British soldier in the tunnel walls shuddered through his body. His fingers chilled at the thought of the soldier’s flesh beneath them, but he drove them deeper. James could be trapped in the clay, waiting for Thomas to join him. The grief and guilt that had consumed his every thought of James for months morphed into overwhelming relief and a strange euphoria as he felt the seconds of his own life ticking down. If he died in the tunnel, he would finally see his brother again. Maybe it was the fate of every Sullivan to dig his own grave.

He chuckled to himself and started humming “It’s a Long Long Way to Tipperary.” “Hey, George, do you remember the day we met?”

“How could I forget?”

“Remember when I told you I didn’t need help from the likes of you?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Look at me now!” He threw out his arms. “I’m trapped under no-man’s-land, yards away from a mine packed with almost one hundred thousand pounds of explosives that could detonate at any moment and look who’s here to help me.” He pointed a clay-covered finger at George. “You! The lying, thieving street urchin from London.”

“What’s your point?” George answered. “Aside from insulting me.”

“My point is I was wrong. About you. About everything. And I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here to help me and I’m glad you’re coming home to Dover with me after the war. It’s like you said when we met. You’re my guardian angel.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go nominating me for sainthood yet. Who says I’m trying to save you? Maybe I’m just trying to save my own hide.”

Thomas laughed. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be stuck down here if it wasn’t for me.”

“Then we’re even,” George said, “because you wouldn’t be on the Western Front if it wasn’t for me.”

Thomas laughed again. “That’s true. Tell you what, if we get out of here—”

“When we get out of here,” George corrected.

“When we get out of here, let’s make a pact to never lie about our ages to join a war again.”

“Deal. And let’s get that clasp on your necklace fixed.”

“Deal.”

The boys continued digging, and Thomas resumed his humming. After a few bars, his humming morphed into singing, but then he stumbled over the words, pausing between and slurring the well-known lyrics. George stopped digging when Thomas started repeating the same four lyrics over and over.

“Tommy?”

“It’s a long way … it’s a long … it’s a—” Thomas swayed on his uninjured leg.