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.

By the time they pulled into the station in Poperinge, Frederick wanted nothing more than to disembark the smelly train he’d been stuck on since their ferry had docked in France so he could distance himself from his traveling companions, but the lieutenant who met them on the platform prior to their transport to the town of Ypres had other plans.

After a quick meal consisting of a bowl of bland stew and a stale biscuit and an even quicker bathroom break, the lieutenant led the recruits to the main road, where Frederick expected to find a row of vehicles waiting to transport them to the front.

“It’s rained for over a week now, making the roads impassable by vehicle,” the lieutenant announced, “so we’ll be marching to Wipers.”

“I believe the town’s name is pronounced e-pris, sir,” Frederick said.

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed on Frederick. “I didn’t ask for a lesson in linguistics, soldier. Now get marching!”

Frederick’s feet sank seven inches into the mud and manure with every step of the eight-mile trek to the Allied front, positioned two miles outside the town of Ypres. His teeth chattered from the frigid early-morning air, and his legs burned with the effort it took to march through the cold, thick sludge. He knew he would never be able to wipe his boots clean, but he held his head high and marched on, always staying several steps ahead of the other soldiers.