“Pardon,” he said. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

The men looked up from their food but kept eating. “Depends on what kind of help you’re looking for,” one of the soldiers mumbled through a mouthful of beef.

“Have you seen this soldier?” Thomas pulled the family photograph from his coat pocket and pointed to his brother. “His name is James Sullivan.”

The men licked off their fingers and passed around the photo.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Doesn’t look familiar.”

“Sorry.”

The same scene played out over and over during the next two hours. Most soldiers he asked were nice enough to look at the photograph, but not one recognized his brother.

Drained from his work in the tunnels and from the disappointment in the trenches, Thomas had decided to head back to the dugout when Max let out an excited yip and ran around the corner to the next trench segment.

“Come on.” Thomas groaned. Bagger would have him digging trenches in France if he learned Thomas had snuck out to the front-line trenches, but the burly clay kicker would bury him beneath no-man’s-land if Thomas returned to the tunnels without his ratter. He stepped around the corner and spotted the terrier trotting toward a trio of soldiers. Thomas recognized the men from the rat hunt the day before. Two of them, Johnny and Dan, had been the team Bagger and Max had beaten. The third had kept time.

Thomas ducked back behind the corner, hoping the men hadn’t noticed him. He was certain Johnny had seen him at the rat hunt. He couldn’t take the chance that Johnny or his friends would tell Bagger they’d seen him sneaking around the front-line trenches.

“Max,” he whispered.

The dog stopped and glanced back at him. He knelt and patted his thighs quietly, like he’d seen Bagger do during the hunt. “Come here, Max.”

Max cocked his head.

“Good boy. Come on.”

Max took a couple of steps toward him.

“That’s it,” Thomas whispered, patting his thighs faster.

Max took one more step toward Thomas, lifted his nose, sniffed the air, and turned tail back toward the soldiers.

“Stupid dog,” Thomas hissed. He hid behind the corner, watching and waiting for the terrier to return.

Max sat begging at the feet of Johnny, the oldest soldier.

“Do the tunnel rats know you’re out here begging for food, Max?” he said, patting the dog’s head.

Max sat up on his back legs. His stubby tail thumped against the duckboards.

“I don’t have anything to feed you, boy. Barely have enough to feed myself.” Johnny fished a biscuit from his pocket and tapped it on the wooden bench. “And what I do have is barely edible.”

“Dunk it in some tea,” Dan said. “They soften up right fast.” Unwrapping his own biscuit, he dipped one end of the stale ration in his tin cup. “Tell him, Richard.”

“That’s not tea,” Richard argued. “It’s weak, cold, and smells like piss.”

“Just like the rest of us,” Dan said with a chuckle.