Hands shaking, Thomas pushed back from the periscope and climbed down from the fire step. “Those soldiers aren’t missing. They’re dead.”

“Yes. But until they’re identified, the army can’t verify their deaths,” Johnny explained.

“Why don’t they retrieve their bodies?”

“We can’t,” Richard said. “Raise even a finger over that parapet, and a sniper will shoot it off.” He took a long drag from his cigarette. “Until both sides agree to a ceasefire to retrieve their dead, there’s nothing we can do. And if we get many more nights like last night, it won’t matter.”

“What do you mean?” asked Thomas.

“Explosions from heavy artillery bury most of the dead before we can get to them—or to what’s left of them,” Richard explained. He lit a cigarette and offered it to Dan, who took it between his trembling fingers.

Echoes of the artillery shells striking the earth above the tunnels shuddered through Thomas’s memory. How many dead or wounded soldiers had lain on the battlefield as the shells fell? How many now lay beneath it, and was James among them?

“I pray you find your brother,” Dan said, taking a drag, “wherever he may be. If there’s one hard truth I’ve learned on the Western Front, it’s if we don’t bury our dead, the war will, and us with them.”

THIRTEEN

DARKNESS PRESSED DOWN on the young soldier as he lay on his back. His body ached, and his head thrummed with pain. A thick paste of bile and something else, something metallic, coated his tongue. Blood. He blinked, but the darkness did not soften or clear. The soldier didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or where he was, but he sensed something was very wrong.

He listened for gunfire and explosions, but the only sound he heard was a low, ringing noise like a distant alarm. Cries for help tore from his throat but suffocated in the darkness, never reaching his ears.

The musty, charcoal-tinged air from his gas mask had been replaced with the sharp, burning smell of chemicals. The memory of charging across no-man’s-land and an artillery-shell blast came back in a rush. He took a shuddering breath. It scratched like hot sand in his nose and throat, triggering a violent coughing fit that pulled fluid from his lungs.

Had he lost his mask in the explosion?

He had to get away. He tried to roll over but couldn’t move. His head lolled to the side. He opened his eyes wide but saw only darkness. The coughing continued. He couldn’t get enough air. The dark world, holding him hostage, tipped. He could no longer tell if he was flat on his back or falling. He tried to scream for help again as more questions assaulted his muddied mind.

Am I still on the battlefield? Why can’t I see or hear? Why can’t I move?

Adrenaline surged through his veins, burning off the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts. He choked on the fluid pooling in his throat. His stomach convulsed, forcing vomit into his mouth.