Thomas picked a poppy. Max woke, sniffed the small flower, and then closed his eyes again. Thomas stared out at the horizon, where the promise of morning warmed the night sky in fiery reds and burnt oranges. He pictured his parents receiving his letter. His chest ached with the pain they would feel because of him, and then he knew what he needed to say: Dear Mum and Dad, I’m sorry.

Twenty minutes and three pages later, Thomas had explained why he’d left home and why he could not leave the war now. He’d told them of his search for James and the importance of their crew’s mission. He spoke of the things he’d seen and the friends he’d made. But mostly, he told them how much he missed and loved them.

When Thomas had said all he had to say, Frederick folded the pages and handed them to him. “You know when they receive that letter, they’ll tell the army your real name and age, and you’ll be sent home.”

“That’s why I’m not sending it.”

“What are you going to do with it?” George asked.

“I want you to take it.” Thomas held out the folded pages to George.

“Me?”

“Yes. I need you to promise that if I don’t make it home, you will deliver this for me.”

George backed away from the letter and request. “Come on, Tommy. You’re going to make it home. And when you do, you can give your family the letter.”

“Please,” Thomas said. “I need to know if something happens my family won’t be left waiting for me to come home. Promise me you’ll take it to them.”

“You do not want to entrust me with that. Remember, I’m a lyin’ thief. Give it to Eton or Mouse.”

“It needs to be you,” Thomas said.

“Why?”

The boom of cannons thundered over no-man’s-land.

“Because chances are, if any of us survives this war, it’ll be you. And like you said, you may be a lyin’ thief, but you’re a lyin’ thief who keeps his promises.”

George snatched the letter from Thomas’s hand. “Pretty low using my own words against me, Tommy.”

“Promise you’ll give it to them.”

George shoved the letter in his coat pocket. “I promise.”

“And my pay book too,” Thomas took out a small, brown-covered book he’d been issued when he’d joined the army to keep a record of all his active-duty earnings. “Make sure they get this, so they can claim what I’ve earned here. It’s always in this pocket.” He tucked the worn ledger back in his trouser pocket.

“What am I, the British Army Postal Service?”

“Promise,” Thomas pressed.

“Fine. You have my word.” George flopped down on the ground and lit a cigarette. “But nothing’s going to happen to you, so can we please stop talking about this?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Frederick said, turning to a new page.

“See, even Eton agrees.”

“No,” Frederick said. “Thomas is right. I should write a letter for each of our families. We could hold on to them for one another in case something should happen.”