Thomas snuck Max a small piece of meat under the table. “I’m not hungry.”

“You sick?” George asked, lighting a cigarette.

“No.”

Max nudged Thomas’s hand for more food. He broke off a small chunk of biscuit for the dog before pocketing the rest in case he managed to find his lost appetite in the lower galleries.

“Were you hoping for some rat instead this morning?” George said with a chuckle. “I’m sure Max can chase one down for you.”

Frederick looked up from his book. “The British Army would never feed its men rat.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Eton,” George said, motioning around the dugout with a cigarette, “the British Army is not serving us crumpets with jam. We’re living corpses digging our own graves. If things get bad enough, we’ll be eating whatever they give us.”

“I’d never eat rat,” Frederick said.

“That’s because you’ve never been hungry,” George retorted.

“Yes, I have,” Frederick said, returning to his reading.

George’s smile soured. “No. You haven’t.” He tore at a strip of meat with his teeth and turned his attention back to Thomas. “What’s wrong, Tommy?”

“Nothing,” Thomas lied.

“He’s probably tired from your escapades in the trenches,” Frederick said.

Thomas shot George a worried glance. He’d been certain Frederick was asleep when he left the dugout to look for James, and when George, Charlie, and he had returned an hour later, Frederick had been in the same position as when he’d left, snoring loudly.

“You spying on us, Eton?” George asked.

Frederick closed his book and stood. “Just paying attention.”

“Pay attention to this,” George said. “What we do is none of your business.”

“I disagree,” Frederick argued, plucking a biscuit from the table. “Like it or not, we’re all part of the same unit now. I’m here to make sure you don’t get in any trouble that could reflect poorly on the rest of us.”

“Bagger didn’t say we couldn’t leave the tunnels,” George said.

“He said we could leave to get some food or use the latrine, not to muck about in the trenches.”

“What’s wrong, Eton?” George teased. “You afraid if you go back in the trenches you might vomit again or get some dirt on those shiny boots of yours?”

Frederick nudged his boots farther beneath his bunk with his heel. He’d spent the hour after the boys had snuck out cleaning the mud, clay, and manure from them.

“Just because you take no pride in your appearance or in the British Army uniform you’re wearing doesn’t mean the rest of us have to lower ourselves to your abysmal standards.”

Charlie climbed onto his bunk and huddled close to Feathers’s cage. While the quarrel continued, he turned his back to the boys and sketched in his notebook.

“Who died and made you head of the crew?” George asked, his voice growing louder.

Thomas glanced toward the dugout entrance. “Keep it down. Bagger’ll be back any second now.”

Ignoring Thomas, Frederick looked down at George with disdain. “I have five years of military training, which is five more than any of you or the rest of this crew can claim. If you want to survive this war, you’d be wise to follow my lead.”