Disclaimer: Don't own them, just playing with them again. Maybe I'll get them for Christmas.
Author's note: I know it's a little early for a Christmas story, but I thought I'd post this while "The Bridge" was still fresh in your minds. During his interview, Kinch stated that their holiday was a strained one and this came to me the other night when I was having my own bout of sleeplessness.
And To All A Good Night
As he tossed and turned in his bunk, Peter Newkirk tried to tell himself that it was only because he was cold. Or because his blanket was scratchy. Or that it was because Carter had kept him up for so long with his own tossing and turning in the bunk below him that now he was too annoyed to sleep.
He rolled over again, uncomfortable because a part of him recognized that last one as being a little too close to the truth.
It had been a bad day. Possibly the worst Christmas he'd ever spent in this rat hole, he reflected; only his first Christmas here came close. Lebeau slaved away for hours, trying to make us all a nice dinner, and then what did I do? I went and made a right hash of it.
Irritated, he yanked on his blanket, trying to pull it closer. It's bloody Kinch's fault, he thought. Him and that damn story. How'd they think a bloke's going to feel, hearing something like that? Having to think and dream about…things.
That's what had really set him off when he had barked at Carter that afternoon. He had spent all day watching Carter moving stiffly and rubbing his forehead like he still had a headache; even wincing when he'd got out of bed that morning for roll call. Newkirk was sick of it. Just can't leave off, can you? he had thought angrily. You've just got to remind everybody what happened. Got to make everybody believe that stupid bleeding story of Kinch's.
And then at dinner, Carter had been picking at his food. Enough to make himself the center of attention to the point where Lebeau had to ask him about it. Carter had tried to wave it off, telling Lebeau he was fine and making a show of digging in with more enthusiasm when he saw that they were all looking at him, but then he'd been at it again a few minutes later.
"Carter! Will you eat your damn dinner!" he had suddenly snapped out of the blue.
The entire table had stared at him, taken aback. Then Carter had looked down, ashamed, and had begun to mumble and stammer out an apology to God only knew who when Kinch snapped back, "Leave him alone Newkirk. If he's not hungry, he's not hungry."
"Lebeau spent all day cooking this dinner! The least 'e could do is make a bloody show of appreciating it!"
"It's alright, mon ami," Lebeau had started to say, but then he'd cut him off.
"No, it's not alright! Sitting 'ere, moping around like that and bringing everyone down. And what did 'e contribute? He was supposed to get the drinks! Well, 'e must've thought we weren't worth bothering about because all we've got is water and what little whiskey the Colonel's got left for after."
"Shut up Newkirk," Kinch said. "You're the one bringing everyone down. And you know damn well Carter's the one that made all of us being together possible. Don't yell at him just because you're too scared or ungrateful to believe it!"
"Alright, that's it!" Hogan had finally interrupted. "This is not how we're going to spend Christmas! Now, we have a wonderful dinner in front of us, so shut up and eat it! And if you have trouble with that, think about all the men in other camps right now who don't have what you have."
The rest of the meal was finished in silence; enough of a silence in fact that they were able to hear the celebration going on in the guard's hut across the compound. While the rest of the barracks had looked at one another in complete confusion, he and Kinch had frowned at each other across the table, with Colonel Hogan glaring at both of them and furiously cutting up his food the whole time. Lebeau had sat there, painfully uncomfortable and feeling sorry for Carter, who was staring at his plate, a picture of absolute misery.
After dinner, there was no carol singing like there had been in other years, and what half-hearted talk a few of the others attempted quickly died down in the tense atmosphere. The Colonel, though not exactly in the mood for sharing a cordial drink, pasted a smile on his face and graciously doled out the half a bottle of whiskey he had found between the few who asked for some. Newkirk could see him thinking that it wasn't fair to punish the rest of the barracks just because a few of his men had apparently decided to ruin the day.
Feeling resentful, he had climbed into his bunk and turned around to face the wall so he wouldn't have to look at the others. Of course I got a bit shirty with the stupid sod, he thought, meaning Carter. He was asking for it, playing for sympathy like he was. And Kinch is a great one for talking! As if he wasn't bringing the Colonel and Louie and me down with that blasted rubbish of his. Making me think I'm supposed to be dead. Making me have nightmares all bloody night long.
Nightmares about how, if not for some frighteningly unbelievable miracle, he'd be dead right now. He'd be gone - not here having a terrible holiday, but gone. Gone, with his sister and his friends all left having to grieve for him.
Nightmares about the sound the truck made as it hit - whoever. He remembered that moment from last October. But it damn well wasn't Carter! he protested to himself. It was someone else. Or maybe something else - a deer or something. That's more likely, isn't it? And since it wasn't on the road, it's not as if I even hit it hard enough to really hurt it. There's no reason at all to feel guilty.
Nightmares about that screaming, sickening plunge into the river.
Oh God.
No! It was just a nightmare! Just a dream caused by listening to that story of Kinch's!
But it was so real!
It was dark now, and he had spent hours arguing to himself that he had every right to be angry and that what had happened at dinner wasn't his fault, to the point where he had convinced himself that his feelings were completely justified. But he still couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned some more, before finally giving up in frustration. Sitting up, he quietly eased himself out of his bunk.
He looked at Carter laying there, dead to the world, and rolled his eyes. The younger man had unconsciously curled up into a tight ball trying to keep warm, and yet his blanket was half draped onto the floor. Silly bugger can't even take care of himself, Newkirk thought as he straightened it for him.
The searchlight outside passed over the barracks and a few slivers of light shone through the cracks under the door and the window shutters, giving Newkirk a chance to look at his watch. He hesitated. He couldn't quite make out the time exactly, but it was late, after midnight. There's really not a whole lot of point to doing it now, he thought.
But he had to say it. He needed to say it. He gently placed his hand on Carter's shoulder.
"Happy Christmas mate," he said softly.
Now he could sleep.