He searched the reserve trenches for any soldier who was awake, but every infantryman he passed was taking advantage of the brief reprieve from artillery fire. Some lay curled up in muddy dugouts. Others slept sitting upright, leaning against sandbags and one another, steel helmets strapped to their heads, weapons within reach. Thomas crept past, studying as many faces as he could. He knew how desperately they must need the rest and he didn’t want to risk startling an armed soldier.

After forty minutes of searching, he realized if he didn’t head back to the crew’s dugout soon, Bagger and the other men would return to find him missing. The clay kicker had been very clear about his expectations. The new recruits were to get as much sleep as possible, so they’d be rested and alert for their first shift. Not wanting to anger Bagger, Thomas made his way back to the communication trench that led to the support trenches and tunnel entrance. When he reached the last stretch of trench before the tunnel opening, he decided he couldn’t leave with no information about his brother, so he cut left instead of right. He stopped by a sleeping soldier and cleared his throat. The man didn’t stir. Thomas stepped closer and coughed, but the soldier remained motionless.

Thomas coughed louder.

Nothing. Not a twitch of his eyelids, no annoyed groan.

If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of the soldier’s chest, Thomas would have thought him dead. Thomas shook his head. No amount of coughing was going to wake a soldier who was used to sleeping through artillery fire. Disappointed, he had turned to leave when he heard voices and laughter in the distance. He glanced toward the tunnel entrance and then reached up and grabbed hold of his medals. “Just five more minutes,” he whispered to himself.

The voices led him down another section of the support trench that zigged and then zagged its way farther from the tunnel entrance, where a cluster of soldiers gathered. Their backs to Thomas, they taunted one another and placed bets on two pairs of soldiers working at the far end of the trench. As Thomas drew closer, he recognized the voices of his crew among the infantrymen.

“Bagger and Max have it this time,” Boomer boasted.

“You tunnel rats are crazy,” an infantryman with a hard, square jaw said as he stubbed out a cigarette on the duckboards.

“Get it right, Harry,” Mole said. “We’re sewer rats.”

Harry laughed. “Digging beneath the streets of Manchester, you may have been sewer rats, Mole, but out here, you’re tunnel rats. Not that it matters. Either way, you’re losers. Johnny and Dan are undefeated.”

“Double or nothing, they lose today,” Mole challenged.

“You’re on,” Harry said, and the men shook hands.

“Count me in with Mole,” Boomer said, tossing five shillings into the waiting hands of an infantryman with a steep forehead and weak chin.

“Anyone else?” the infantryman asked.

Thomas looked for Bats, but the clay kicker’s listener was not among the cluster of men.