“Never again,” Charlie snarled. Then he hit the boy. Closed fist. Hard.

One.

Two.

With every ounce of the fear and rage his father had beaten into him for fourteen years, Charlie struck his attacker. Every word he’d ever wished to scream burst from his mouth at once, in a primal cry that buried the sound of Mole’s fight raging yards away.

Three.

Four.

Charlie’s attacker held up his hands. Words, foreign to Charlie, rushed from the boy’s lips. Charlie didn’t understand or care. The German had tried to kill him.

Five.

Six.

His enemy fell to the ground. Charlie and his fists followed.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Over and over.

Until he lost count.

Until he lost control.

Until one word paralyzed his fists.

“Mama.”

His attacker mumbled the word through bloodied lips.

Charlie blinked rapidly to clear his vison and to remember where he was. To remember who he was. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning down to help the boy.

The boy recoiled.

“I’m so sorry.”

Charlie looked down at his hands, still balled into fists. His knuckles were swollen and smeared with blood. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or the boy.

“Never again,” he said. He unclenched his fists, wincing at the pain throbbing through his knuckles. He stared at the boy cowering on the floor and pointed to the hole in the wall. “Go.”

The boy didn’t move.

“Go,” Charlie repeated.

Mole had subdued the larger German and was digging in the rubble for Bats and Bagger.

“Go!” Charlie yelled.

The boy scrambled to his feet.

Charlie had bent down to fetch his gas mask so he could help Mole dig when he heard his name.

“Mouse!”

Charlie turned to see Frederick rushing toward him with a spade raised in his hand.

“Duck!” Frederick yelled.

Charlie fell to the ground, and Frederick swung the spade. There was a sharp smack of metal striking flesh, followed by the thud of a body collapsing behind him. Charlie looked over his shoulder at the German boy, lying on the floor inches from him. Blood spilled from a gash on the boy’s forehead.

“What did you do?” Charlie screamed as Thomas and George skidded to a halt behind Frederick, followed by a winded Boomer. “He was retreating!”

Frederick, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock, pointed to the dead boy’s outstretched arm and the knife gripped in his hand.

THIRTY-THREE

AFTER THE CAPTURED German miner was treated and taken into custody and Charlie’s cuts were bandaged, Boomer detonated a second explosion to seal off the opening, and the surviving clay kickers buried the dead a mile behind the Allied reserve trenches, in a field crowded with row upon row of fresh graves.

Bats.

Bagger.

Even the German boy.

Mole, Boomer, and the boys were joined by several infantrymen, including Johnny and Dan, who shared memories, recited prayers, and sang Bagger’s favorite song, “Danny Boy.” Standing before the graves, Thomas remembered his brother singing the song while their dad played the tin whistle and his mum, sisters, and he sat around the fireplace after Sunday dinner. His mum used to say James had vocal cords plucked straight from an angel’s heavenly harp. What Thomas wouldn’t give to hear his brother’s voice lifted in song again. Grief, hard and unmoving, ached in his throat, choking off the lyrics. George reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. He gave Thomas an understanding nod and then raised his voice louder for both of them.