Sad News, Sweet Memories

It wasn't a winter storm that blew open the door to Barracks 2 on Christmas Eve; it was only Sergeant Schultz carrying a bundle. All minds had been focused on the promise of a decent evening meal – perhaps some real meat in the stew, or some proper bread instead of the sawdust-laden loaf to which they'd become accustomed. But it was only 11 a.m. Supper was hours away. A distraction was welcome.

So shouts went up when the men saw what Schultz was clutching in his snow-dusted hands: Letters and a few small parcels. News from home.

"Let one be for me," every prisoner silently implored.

As the hubbub reached a dull roar, Colonel Hogan emerged from his office, trailed by his team. Before anyone could blink, Newkirk had elbowed through the mob, seized the letters, and bounced up to his bunk to hand them out his way.

"LeBeau—it's your mum, mate. So much for your lady friends. Addison—it's the missus. Colonel—two here for you, Sir. Broughton—it's the gas company again. Ha, joking. Kinch—your library books are overdue."

"It's my dad," Kinch smiled, jabbing at Newkirk.

"Hurry up!" Garlotti put in, jostling to the front of the crowd. "What about mine?"

"I don't smell garlic, Garlotti, but … oh, wait, the Ladies Guild of St. Rose of Lima is praying for your soul." Garlotti snatched the letter and rolled his eyes. "Wait a tick, son," Newkirk added. "Look, it's your sister what's writing, too."

"Quit being so nosy and just hand out the mail," Olsen said as Garlotti took his second letter.

"Speaking of nosy—Parker! Two for you!" Newkirk said. "Olsen, Goldman, one apiece. You won't have to share this time. Carter, letters from mum AND dad, lucky boy. LeBeau, one more for you, and it smells of" – he sniffed—"violets! And… well, I reckon that's it."

Newkirk jumped down from the bunk nonchalantly, but a look of disappointment crossed his face. Nothing this week. Well, he'd had two last time. Couldn't win the lottery every time. Not that he could call the sad news Mum had shared a win, he thought glumly.

Newkirk shook off his thoughts and squeezed in at the table to peer over LeBeau's shoulder and see what Yvette was up to. But between the French and the girl's extravagant handwriting, he knew he'd have to get the racy details out of his mate later. So he turned to Carter to see what was happening in Pineapple Junction or wherever the bloody hell he hailed from. He was just getting interested in the new foal when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Newkirk, you forgot these. They're for you," Schultz was saying. He placed two parcels carefully on the table. No one had ever seen Newkirk's face light up so fast.

At the table, all eyes on him, Newkirk opened the first small parcel reverently. It was from Mum, and it contained treasure. Two family photographs. Wool socks. Underwear without holes. A shaving kit. A new deck of cards. And, God bless Mummy, three packs of Players and a box of matches. He sighed contentedly and turned his unbelieving eyes to the second, smaller parcel.

It was postmarked "Windsor," and was addressed in a feminine hand that Newkirk didn't recognize. Curious, he dug in.

Inside was a small tin with a letter wrapped around it. He unfolded the letter and read silently:

October 17, 1943

Dear Peter,

I know your mother already told you, but I wanted you to know straight from me about Harold. The XX wrote last week to confirm that he died XXXXXXX. XXX and the children are with XX and me in XX, and will stay through XX.

Hal was so fond of you, and proud, too. No one else could beat him at cards or make his tricks even better. He was pleased to have taught you to cut and fit a suit and always said you'd be a fine master tailor if you ever set your mind to it.

Naturally, XXX is shattered. We went through Hal's effects and found one thing he knew Hal would want you to have. It's a old book by XXXXXXXXXX, called "Sharps and Flats." XXX assured me you'd know it. We found a photograph of you and Hal in the shop tucked inside. Your mum has the photo and book for safekeeping.

We think of you often, Peter, and pray for your safe return. I've sent along something that I hope you will enjoy. It isn't much, but perhaps it will remind you of XXXX.

Affectionately,

Lois Warsky Levine

Miss Warsky. His mind journeyed back to when he a boy, visiting her office at the Hackney Empire, craving her smile and a handful of lemon drops.

"A letter from one of your girlfriends, Newkirk?" Hogan said with a wink.

"You might say that, Guv," Newkirk replied. He could feel a mist gathering in his eyes, but he willed it away. "The first one, actually. She never forgot me."

He shook the tin, flipped it open, and smiled. He reached in for a sample, then held it out to his mates.

"Who wants a lemon drop, then?"

Notes: Miss Warsky is an OC from "In the Name of the Father," and is 12 years Newkirk's senior. Her brother-in-law, Hal, died in the British Army's Italian campaign. He taught Newkirk to deal, shuffle, perform card and magic tricks, and make a fine suit. Lois and her husband Sam are in Windsor for the war's duration. The book mentioned is a classic of card manipulation by John Nevil Maskelyne. A "Nosy Parker" is a busybody, poor Parker. "Players" are posher cigarettes than POWs usually received. The last censored word is HOME.