“Was he now? Sounds like Edward. He didn’t join with you, did he?”

“No,” Frederick said. “Last I saw him, he was still at Eton.”

“Good,” William said. “That’s good.”

Frederick motioned again to the rifle. “How many kills have you recorded?”

“Marked my thirty-second this morning. Had thirty-three in my crosshairs when you arrived. How about you?”

Frederick sighed. “Like I said, it’s top secret.”

William nodded. “Right.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Frederick asked, motioning again to William’s rifle.

“Not at all.” William stepped aside, and Frederick climbed up on the fire step. “Keep your head low,” William warned. “The Germans have snipers too. Bloody good ones.”

Frederick ducked down and pressed his right eye against the scope. His view of no-man’s-land was magnified. The enemy line appeared close enough to reach out and touch.

“See the trench corner, to the left of that high ridge?”

Frederick adjusted the angle of the scope. “Yes.”

“There’s a tall Fritz whose head keeps slipping above the parapet. See him?”

Frederick’s pulse pounded with anticipation as he scanned the lip of the trench, but there was no movement. His eyes swept back along the edge again, and he saw it. The domed helmet of a German soldier. “There he is! Wait. He’s gone again.”

“Give it a second.”

A minute later, the helmet reappeared. “He’s back!”

“Do you have a shot?” William asked.

“I think so.”

“Take it.”

Frederick pulled back from the scope. “I don’t want to take your thirty-third kill from you.”

“Go ahead. Another Fritz will find himself caught in my crosshairs soon enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“Anything for a fellow Eton.”

Frederick’s nerves crackled with excitement. This was his way out of the tunnels. He could feel it. If he killed the German with one shot, William would undoubtedly recommend he be transferred from the tunnels to the infantry, where he belonged. Frederick couldn’t help but smile as he pressed his right eye back up against the scope. The steel helmet was still visible above the trench line, but now Frederick could also see the profile of the soldier’s face. He didn’t have a mustache like William or Bagger, and his cheeks were round with youth.

“Can you still see him?” William asked.

“Yes.”

The soldier was talking to someone below the trench wall.

“Do you have a shot?”

“I think so.”

The German soldier’s hands and face were animated with broad movements and exaggerated expressions. Frederick wondered if he was telling a story or perhaps a joke. Frederick’s hands, slick with sweat, struggled to maintain a firm grip on the weapon.

The soldier laughed. His broad smile swelled his cheeks, making him look even younger. Frederick flexed his fingers to break up the tension building in his muscles.

“Don’t hesitate if you can take him out,” William said.

Frederick wiped one hand and then the other on his trousers, grateful for the first time in days for the terrible weather. He hoped William would assume his hands were wet from the rain and not from nervousness. He repositioned them on the rifle, but they were already damp with sweat again.