High above the battlefield, thin smears of clouds inched across a crisp morning sky, yet within the trenches, the air was a sour stew of damp earth, cigarette smoke, body odor, and worse. Frederick pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose and mouth to stave off the reek of rot and death, but it clung to every breath. He glanced back at the boys pulling up the rear. Tommy held a hand over his nose, but George and Mouse walked along as if unaffected by the putrid odors.

No doubt boys like them are accustomed to such a stench, Frederick thought as he quickened his pace. After several shaky steps, his mockery of their resistance to the nauseating scents turned to envy as he ripped off his helmet and heaved the contents of his stomach into the protective headgear.

George laughed, and Mouse looked away, but Tommy stepped forward. “You all right?”

Frederick waved him off, took one whiff of his vomit combined with the smell of the trenches, and puked again into his helmet.

“Breathe it in, boys,” Bagger said with a humorless chuckle. “That’s the smell of glory.”

When nothing remained in Frederick’s stomach, Bagger grabbed the helmet from his hands, dunked it in a puddle at the base of the trench wall, gave the dirty water that filled the helmet a quick swirl, and then dumped the water, along with the vomit, back into the puddle.

“Don’t worry, lads,” he said, jamming the helmet back onto Frederick’s head. “Out here you eventually get used to the stench—or you get killed. Either way, you won’t be minding the smell anymore.” He chuckled again at the look that flashed across Frederick’s pale face before continuing to lead them through the trench.

Bagger navigated the narrow path like he was walking through a minefield, stepping over and around puddles of fetid water oozing up beneath the wooden planks lining the trench floor. “And if you like your feet, watch your step. Keep ’em dry or lose ’em.”

Frederick yanked his foot out of a puddle and shook the water from his boot. He’d heard stories of soldiers losing a foot or leg to gangrene. He did not intend to be one of them.

They were quiet after that, even George, whose cocky grin had fallen into an unamused scowl. Frederick tried to keep pace with Bagger as they trudged through a communication trench that connected the reserve trenches to the support and front-line trenches, but a sleepless night and miles of marching through the mud finally took their toll. His feet dragged, and his eyelids drooped.

Bagger led them into a section of the support trenches, where he finally stopped. He turned to face the boys, and Frederick collided with the man’s barrel chest.

“Sorry, sir!” Frederick said, stepping back and standing at attention.

“I told you, call me—”

“Yes, sir, Bagger, sir.”

“What’s your name?” Bagger asked.

Frederick raised his chin and pulled back his shoulders. “Frederick Chamberlain, sir—Bagger.”