Poor saps, Frederick thought as he watched them leave. How embarrassing to wear the uniform but not be a real soldier.

With most of the other recruits headed to their assigned posts, Frederick glanced around to see what officer he’d have the honor to serve. A block of a man with a shaggy gray mustache sprouting beneath a bulbous, ruddy nose that looked like he’d plucked a red potato from the ground and smashed it onto his face was all that remained.

“Guess that means you boys are with me,” the man said.

Frederick stepped forward and saluted. “Major Norton-Griffith, sir. It is an honor to meet you. I was wondering if I might have a word with you in private.” He cast a disgusted glance back at the other boys. “I have a few concerns I believe you will want to address immediately.”

The man adjusted his metal helmet to get a better look at Frederick. “I’m not Hellfire Jack, so you can save your salutes and concerns. I’m Bagger.” He then tossed each boy a burlap sack.

Stunned by the man’s response, Frederick stared down at the coarse bag and tried to figure out how best to address a superior who refused to tell you his rank.

“Put on your helmets and follow me,” Bagger ordered.

He didn’t wait for the boys to dig their helmets from their kit bags before plodding in the direction of the reserve trenches, two trenches back from the front line. “First rule in the trenches: keep your head down at all times. You even think of putting a hair above those”—he motioned to the wall of sandbags that lined the top of the trench—“and Fritz will try and give you a close shave. Our front line may be two hundred and fifty yards away from the Germans, but their snipers seldom miss.”

The boys jammed on their helmets and, keeping their heads below the top of the trench, scrambled to catch up with their new superior. The squat man lumbered down the long, muddied stretches and sparse wooden duckboards lining the floor of the zigzag path, his broad shoulders hunched and head low.

Carved into the Ypres farmland, the trench ran ten feet deep and six feet wide, allowing just enough space for two soldiers to pass each other.

Bagger didn’t look back as he explained the number of ways one could get maimed or killed on the Western Front. His voice, flat with boredom, droned on as though he were running down a list of items the boys were to pick up for him at the market. “Eggs, bread, milk … influenza, tuberculosis, pleurisy, pneumonia, trench fever…” Frederick tried to pay attention to the numerous warnings, but the sights, sounds, and smells of the trenches held his senses hostage.

Soldiers, their skin and uniforms caked with dried mud, huddled against shallow wooden benches pressed into the clay walls and took long drags on cigarettes clutched between filthy fingers. They cast the boys the barest of glances as they passed. Between the benches, small dugouts, carved into the trench walls, cocooned sleeping soldiers. Surrounded by dirt, with their eyes closed and bodies still, they looked like freshly buried corpses. Frederick averted his eyes, shaken by the thought.