“I wasn’t in the trenches looking to make money,” Thomas said.

“What do you need? Cigarettes?” George pulled a pack from his pocket and offered it to Thomas.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Then what has you sneaking out?”

Thomas was too tired, too shattered, to lie. “Not what. Who.”

“Who?” George shot Charlie an amused look and nudged Thomas in the ribs with his bony elbow. “You got a girl you’re visiting in one of the neighboring villages? You cad, you.”

Thomas pushed him away. “No. I wasn’t visiting anyone. I was looking for someone.”

George smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

“It’s not like that!”

“Calm down, Tommy. I’m just teasing.”

“Who are you looking for?” Charlie asked.

Thomas handed Mouse his photograph. “My brother.”

George’s teasing smile withered into a confused frown.

“Your brother’s here?” Charlie asked, not looking up from the photograph.

“He was.”

Charlie handed the photo to George. “What happened to him?”

“He’s missing.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “You look like him.”

Thomas felt the prickle of tears building in his eyes and tried to steer the conversation away from James. “Do you have any brothers?”

Charlie nodded. “One. Henry. He’s eleven.”

“Does he know you’re out here?”

“I couldn’t leave without letting him know where I was going. He swore he wouldn’t tell, but my father has a way of making you reveal your secrets.” His voice and eyes trailed off to a distant point beyond the trenches, and Thomas thought back on the promise James had made him keep.

George handed Thomas the photograph. “Your necklace. The one with the old medals.” He pointed to James in the photo. “He’s the brother you said you had to return the necklace to—before you called me a lying thief?”

“Yes.” Thomas grimaced. “And sorry about calling you that.”

“Why? It’s accurate. Those two skills kept me alive. I don’t apologize for them, so why should you?” George took a final drag from his shrinking cigarette. “What’s so special about those medals anyway?”

Thomas pulled on the chain until the medals toppled over the collar of his shirt. He held up the Saint Barbara medal. “This one my mum gave me.” He dropped the medal and held up the Saint Joseph one. “This was my brother’s. He gave it to me before—”

His voice choked off. His tears were still too close to the surface. He waited until he’d regained some control before continuing.

“He gave it to me before he left for the war.” He ran his thumb over the medal. “He said it would keep me safe, but he should have taken it with him. He was the one who needed protecting. Not me.” He tucked the medals back under his shirt.

“Let me get this straight.” George stubbed out his cigarette on a damp sandbag. “Your brother left you and your family to fight in the war, then he went missing, and you thought it was a good idea to risk not only your freedom but also your life to join up so when you’re not digging tunnels under a battlefield, you can search the trenches for him?”