Author's Note: This story is based on Corporal Barnes, the narrator of two earlier stories I wrote ("In the Cooler" and "Out of the Cooler"); he is a minor character who appears briefly in the episode "Reservations Are Required" and apparently lives in Barracks 2. You don't need to have read the earlier stories, though, for this to make sense. This story is for Sgt. Moffitt, who thought Barnes had more stories to tell. Happy Thanksgiving wishes for you all!

ooOoo

Wednesday, November 24, 1943

I shiver as I stand in line for morning roll call. I wish the sun was out to help warm me up a little. But the light is coming later every morning, now that it's so late in the year, and it's growing only slowly this morning.

I suddenly remember that tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

Last year I was home for Thanksgiving; this year I'm stuck in a POW camp.

Now, I know I got much luckier than most guys who got drafted last year. I'd finished basic training in Georgia and was set to do my training as a gunner. And of all places the Army could have sent me to train, they sent me home. I got to train at Spartan Aviation School at Hatbox Field in Muskogee, Oklahoma, that they'd renamed Muskogee Army Airfield. I mean, how many guys join the army, then get posted back home?

I had a real good CO at Spartan who let me have passes so that I could see my folks, sometimes even overnight. Most guys would use their passes to go into town, find bars (not a lot of those in my home town), and try to meet girls. But he knew that I used my passes to visit my Ma and Dad, to help them with the garage and filling station that my Dad owns. Passes were always for a short time, of course, but any work I could do helped my folks out so I always made the most of my time with them. My dad's getting on in years and it's hard for him to manage some parts of the business without me.

So Thanksgiving rolled around, and I got permission not just to go home for it but to take three of my buddies with me. My folks were real glad to have all of them, make them welcome. Food for Thanksgiving dinner was no problem. We have a chicken pen in the back yard and raise a couple of turkeys with our chickens every year, nice big fat hens, one for Thanksgiving and one for Christmas, so we had plenty of turkey to go around. Plus my family's always kept a big garden, so we had plenty to eat from there and didn't have to worry as much about the rationing system: mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes, and home-canned green beans, and glazed carrots, which all go so well with turkey and dressing and cornbread. Not to forget dessert afterwards: sweet potato pie, and pumpkin pie, and pecan pie made from the pecans from our trees. My buddies were as happy as I was to have my Ma's good home cooking after eating Army food for so long.

I remember sitting around the table that night. We'd put up our card table on one end of the dining table, so there was room for all of us, my folks and my sister Nora and her husband Dan and their baby, my aunt and uncle and cousins, and my buddies. My Dad had us go around and say what we were thankful for, and we were all pretty much grateful for the same things, being together and safe, and having a good meal to share, despite the war.

It's a lot harder to feel thankful this year, especially this morning, standing here in line and stamping my feet with my hands tucked into my armpits to try to keep warm while we wait—and wait—and wait for the Kommandant to come out of his office to receive the report that we're still all here at Stalag 13. Just like every other morning since I got here.

It's not that I don't have anything to be grateful for. I know I do. I'm alive, for starters, and not hurt. That's not true for all the guys who were on my plane when we were shot down. I don't like to think about that much, or how quick I got caught after parachuting down, or the time I spent in the Dulag Luft before being sent here. But I got lucky in making friends with Jim Davis while I was there, and he's become just about my best buddy ever, even if Garlotti does tease us about being Mutt and Jeff, with Davis so tall and me so short. Both of us were sent here to Stalag 13, and we both wound up together in Barracks Two, and that was lucky too. It'd have been real easy for any of those not to happen. So I am thankful for all that, that's for sure.

But I still miss home so much, and I'm worried about Ma and Dad, how Dad is managing our garage and filling station without me. I'm also worried about how much they're worried about me. They'll have heard my plane was shot down. But I don't know yet if they know I'm okay. I haven't heard from them yet, though I've written them of course. But there's only been a couple of mail deliveries since I got here, and I knew both times that it was too soon for me to have heard from them. It's been long enough now. Probably. But there's hasn't been any mail delivered recently. So I don't know yet if they know that I'm okay. I hope they do. It's going to be a hard Thanksgiving for them if they haven't heard from me yet.

I know Colonel Hogan's been trying to get the Kommandant to let us celebrate some tomorrow. The Colonel told us yesterday that he'd talked Klink into giving us an extra slice of bread for breakfast tomorrow, and some margarine. It's not much, especially not compared to Ma's breakfasts, but I'll take it. And the Colonel's told the guys who do the cooking in the mess hall to use some of the canned meat pooled from the Red Cross packages, so we'll each get some meat with our dinner. Again, it's not much, especially compared to Ma's turkey, but I'll take it. There won't be much and it'll taste lousy, but it's better than not getting any so I'll try to be thankful for it.

I think I've turned into an icicle by the time Klink finally comes out of his office, striding across the compound with that weird strut of his, his riding crop wagging side to side with each step. The whole effect is like one of our turkeys strutting around its pen.

I know I'm really hungry for breakfast if this is all I can think of. Given how chilly this morning is, I hope Klink won't drone on and on. I can see his breath fogging up in front of him as Schultz tells him we're all present and accounted for. Again.

I'm dreaming of eggs and bacon, biscuits with butter and honey, fried potatoes and onions, oatmeal with apples and cinnamon, when suddenly a sentence out of the Kommandant's gabbling registers with me.

"And tomorrow, to help those of you who are Americans celebrate your national holiday, there will be a mail delivery."

I cheer, everyone cheers! News from home! Surely there will be something from my folks this time. There just has to be. That'll make it a real holiday, and boy, will I be thankful.

ooOoo

Thursday, November 25, 1943

I'm on tenterhooks after breakfast. Thanksgiving morning! With mail coming! All the guys are in good moods, teasing each other. We'll get our mail early because our barracks number is so low.

Schultz lumbers in, with a big bag, and nearly gets mobbed by all of us, but Colonel Hogan calls everyone off. "Everyone pipe down! And back off! You'll get your mail faster that way!"

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan!" the big sergeant sighs as we each step back a small step or two. But we stay close. I can feel LeBeau practically vibrating next to me on my right, and Davis is jittering right behind me, as I bounce with impatience. I'm glad my last name is Barnes, so I'll get my mail right at the beginning.

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz calls out, handing the Colonel two envelopes.

Well, it figures the one officer gets his first.

"Davis."

Wait—what? I come before him! Not to mention Addison and Carter and Chapman! Schultz passes two envelopes over my and LeBeau's heads to Davis, who is reaching over us eagerly for them.

"Olsen."

"Kinchloe."

Well, that's not alphabetical. Geez, what's he doing, going by height?!

"Carter."

"Garlotti."

"Addison."

This order makes no kind of sense. Maybe he didn't put them in order?

"Pike.

"Saunders."

"Chapman."

He gets four envelopes. Geez.

"Greenberg."

"LeBeau."

"Newkirk."

They each seize their envelopes and pull back from the group, tearing into them as they head toward their bunks. It's just Foster and me left now.

And Schultz's hands are empty.

I realize there's nothing for me as Schultz sadly shakes his head. He does look genuinely sorrowful. I manage a nod, and head over to my bunk, blinking hard, unable to swallow past the big lump in my throat. It's at the back of the room, farthest from the stove, behind the bunk that's the tunnel entrance. I've usually thought it was the worst one, but right now I'm glad it's off in the corner. Davis is on top, above me, so absorbed in his letters that he doesn't notice me. Just as well. I huddle down in the corner of my bunk, pulling my legs up and hugging them to me, hoping no one else will either.

There's not much noise, with all the other guys so absorbed in their letters. I sit there and close my eyes, visualizing our gas station, white with dark green trim and bright red pumps in front, the red Texaco star against the white background on the big circular sign by the road; then our house off to the side, also white with green trim, big pecan trees shading the back yard and the chicken coop and run, with the garden off to the side where it can get full sun. The garden's plowed under now for the winter, I know. I wonder if the trees still have their leaves or if they're all gone by now. They can hang on till December sometimes, if the weather stays warm late in the season.

But I don't know if this fall has been warm or if the cold has come early this year. And right now I don't know when I'll find out. I can see the garage and the house in my head, but I can't bring myself to imagine my Ma or my Dad, or Nora. I can't image my baby nephew Jacky at all, because I haven't seen any pictures of him recently and he'll have changed so much since I saw him last year. I don't dare try to see any of my family in my head, or the lump in my throat is going to get too big to manage, and I can't . . . with all the guys here in the barracks, I just can't . . . .

It occurs to me that staying here on my bunk is a bad idea. I should get up, go out in the compound, walk around. It's chilly out there, but we're not confined to barracks. And most everybody in camp will be inside, reading their letters, so it'll be kinda quiet and private out there. More than usual, anyway. Yeah. That's what I'd better do.

I unfold my legs and swing them around to the floor, when suddenly Davis pops his head down from above. The look on his face is excited and he's about to say something till he sees mine. Next moment he's landed on the floor by me and is sitting down next to me on my bunk.

"Nothing?" he asks, real quietly.

I shake my head. I don't trust my voice.

He sighs.

He hesitates a moment, then he holds out his letters to me, offering to share them. There's three now in his hand, so two of them must have been tucked in the same envelope, probably from his mother and brother. I can see the writing on the top one is kinda scratchy, so yeah, it's probably from his kid brother, and the one on the bottom has real fancy loopy writing, which means it's from his girl, Lillie. He likes to talk about her a lot, and by now I know enough about her and their romance that I'd probably get most of what she's talking about in her letter to him. And it's real nice of him to offer. But I just can't. It's not right for me to see what she's written for him. She was thinking it was private when she wrote it. He'll probably tell me pretty much all that's in it eventually, read me bits of it, but that's different. And reading his brother's letter or the one from his parents—well, that'd still just rub it in that I didn't get anything. So I manage to smile just the tiniest bit and push them away, gentle as I can so as not to bend them or anything.

I stand up, planning to head to the door. I see Olsen sitting by Foster, sharing his letter. That's right—I wasn't the only one who didn't get mail. I can't see Foster's face, and I suddenly wonder how he's taking it too.

Before I can move, though, the door opens again, and this time Corporal Langenscheidt comes in, staggering a little, carrying several wrapped parcels of different sizes, tied with string. My heart almost stops, and I can just practically feel my hopes rise. I try to stomp on them. I don't need to be disappointed again. But my fists clench, and I'm trying to swallow again, past an even bigger lump than before, if possible.

Langenscheidt dumps the parcels on the table. There's five—four smallish packages and a bigger one. He holds up the smallest and stutters out, "G-garlotti?"

Garlotti snatches it with a big smile and an "Oooh, yes" of satisfaction.

"Addison?"

Addison takes his with a quiet smile. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. Everyone can see that he's happy.

"Foster?"

Foster's beaming as he comes forward, getting a slap on the back from Olsen as he does. I'm happy for him, but I'm more on edge than ever.

"Newkirk?"

This package is kind of soft and floppy, and Newkirk laughs, bending it back and forth. "Mavis 'as been at 'er knitting again. Scarf or mittens? Anyone want to take odds?"

I'm about to drive my fingernails right through my palms I'm clenching my fists so tight, staring at that last, biggest package sitting there on the table, halfway across the room from me as Langenscheidt squints at the address, trying to make out who it's for.

"B-barnes?" Langenscheidt stammers again, and I almost don't recognize my name between that and his accent and all of my worries and hopes, but Davis whoops and pounds me on the shoulder, and suddenly I'm grinning like crazy as I step over to the table and scoop up the box. I recognize Ma's handwriting on the label, and I'm suddenly so grateful that Thanksgiving seems to me like Christmas and Fourth of July rolled into one as I clutch that box to my chest.

"Oi, you should've bet on the scarf," Newkirk is saying to LeBeau, who rolls his eyes and retorts, "I don't need to wager on everything, Newkirk!"

"C'mon, open it up," I hear Davis say, and I look up at him, realizing I'm still clutching the box. I put it back down on the table and hear it rattle.

"Yeah," Carter adds. "What's in a box that big?"

"And making that noise?" Greenberg asks.

It's not really that large, maybe a bit more than a foot by a foot, but I think I know what's in it, given the noise I heard. Everyone's watching as I break through the string, then the tape, and pull the box open. And yep, I see just what I thought it might be.

Pecans, from the three big trees in our back yard, still in their light-brown black-streaked shells.

I bury my hands in them, overcome with a mix of homesickness and love and appreciation for my family who have thought to send me this taste of home, then pull out two fistfuls of nuts.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" LeBeau inquires, head tilted to the side, his hand reaching out to pick one from the box. He holds it to his nose, sniffing.

"They're pecans," says Pike. Only he says it wrong, pronouncing it "PEE-kans."

"Puh-KAHNS," I correct him.

He frowns. "Everyone says it my way where I'm from."

"My family calls 'em pick-Anns," says Foster helpfully.

"Well, everyone says it my way where these pecans grew," I tell them, but I'm grinning. I don't care how anyone pronounces the word. I'm just so glad to have the actual nuts, from home!

"So they are a nut . . . like walnuts?" LeBeau queries.

"Better than walnuts," I tell him. "Don't you know pecans?"

LeBeau shakes his head. "Non, I have never heard of them." He turns to Newkirk. "Do you have them in England?"

Newkirk shakes his head too. "Nah. So how do you eat them?"

"Pecan pie," I say dreamily.

LeBeau's eyebrows shoot up. "You make a pie with just nuts? Is it sweet or savory?" he asks dubiously.

"Pies are sweet!" I say in surprise, and he rolls his eyes.

"What is in it? How is it made?" he asks.

LeBeau's such a good chef—how can he not know how to make pecan pie? I think hard. "My Ma uses corn syrup, and uh, eggs, I think? Butter?" I've seen her make it, but never paid attention, really. "It makes a kind of custard, I guess, sweet and gooey with the pecans on top. And they get toasted by the oven as the pie bakes."

"'Corn' syrup?" LeBeau asks, even more dubiously, folding his arms. "Last summer Carter was telling us that he eats corn with butter and salt."

"Oh yeah, that's the best way!" Carter jumps in enthusiastically.

LeBeau regards him and me skeptically. "But now you make syrup with it?"

I shrug. "I dunno how they make it. I just know it's good in pecan pie, and on pancakes."

"So is that the only way you eat pecans?" asks Chapman.

At least he says it right. But if he has to ask, I guess pecans aren't real common in Canada either.

"You can eat 'em right out of the shell," Pike puts in. "They're good that way, or you can toast them and salt them. You've gotta be careful, though, 'cause they burn pretty easily."

Kinch says, "My grandmother likes to add them to cookies, and breads."

I look at him in surprise. "You get pecans in Detroit?" I'm thinking, that's right next to Canada, but Chapman didn't know about them.

Kinch just smiles, like he knows what I'm thinking. He's pretty smart, so he probably does. "My grandma is from Georgia," he says. "I've got cousins still down there who mail her a box of pecans just like this one, every Christmas."

Well, that explains it. And he says it right too.

"So, let's have some!" Carter says, then looks embarrassed. "That is, if you're willing to share. I mean, they're yours, and your folks sent them to you, so of course—"

He's floundering, he didn't mean to be rude, he's just excited. I know I can't possibly keep all these nuts to myself, that Ma would want me to share with my buddies here, especially on Thanksgiving, so I interrupt him.

"How about I set half aside for LeBeau to bake stuff with, and then we can share out the rest?"

LeBeau beams. "I will figure out something special to use them in!"

"But you can't feed it to Schultz," I insist. "It has to be for all of us."

"Oui! It is a deal!"

"How're we going to crack them?" Kinch asks the practical question, of course.

My face falls. We don't have a nutcracker, and pecan shells are tough.

"Didn't you say that painted statue on the shelf in Klink's quarters was a nutcracker, the last time we cleaned in there?" Carter asks Newkirk.

"One o' them fancy ones," Newkirk nods. "But I think it's just for show. I don't know if it'd work very well on real nuts. The wood wouldn't be strong enough and they'd scratch that fancy paint job. But let's try an old technique I use for walnuts." He picks up two of the pecans and puts them both in his right hand, then closes his hand around them, and takes his left hand to squeeze his right hand tightly.

Nothing happens. He tries again, squeezing harder.

"These pecans"—he pronounces it my way—"'ave 'arder shells than walnuts," he grunts.

"Let me try." Kinch picks out a couple more and copies Newkirk's movements in his bigger hands. It takes a couple of tries, but finally one of them cracks. I brighten, but look at the box. There's no way we can crack them all that way.

Kinch meantime is opening up the shell of the cracked pecan. He offers the two wrinkled halves to me, but I give them to LeBeau and Newkirk. They've never had pecans, and I can tell they're really curious. Newkirk pops his in his mouth, but LeBeau examines his carefully, blowing on it lightly to remove some dust before carefully placing it in his mouth.

Newkirk screws his face up. "Eeach! That's bitter!"

At the same time, a beatific smile appears on LeBeau's face as he chews. "Like butter," he whispers reverently.

"Sorry, Newkirk, I must not have gotten the nut entirely clean," Kinch apologizes. "You do have to get all the shell off or it does taste bad." Newkirk shrugs his shoulders in response with a slight grimace.

"We need something more efficient to crack the shells," LeBeau decides. "A hammer? Pliers?"

"Schultz confiscated the hammer after you fell off the roof in the rainstorm trying to fix the roof," Kinch says, shaking his head.

"But we could get one from down in the tunnels," Carter suggests.

Kinch scratches his head. "The Colonel says those are supposed to stay down there. Too much risk of the guards finding them if we bring them up, and they're hard to replace."

"Well, how about a can of something?" Davis suggests.

"There we go," Newkirk grins. "LeBeau, didn't you keep back that tin o' condensed milk from my last Red Cross package? That should be heavy enough."

"Oui!" LeBeau smiles and pushes past Chapman and Kinch to his footlocker. He kneels down and starts sorting through things in it, while I look at my box of pecans, fingering them gently.

Suddenly it occurs to me that Ma wouldn't have sent a box without a letter. I dig my hands into it, feeling around the edges carefully . . . and yes! There's an envelope that I pull out. It's fully addressed, even stamped: I guess she was worried that maybe the nuts wouldn't get through but wanted to give the letter a chance. I hold it, just staring at her handwriting that I know so well, and feel Davis squeeze my shoulder. I look up at him and I see how happy he is for me, so I grin, then carefully tuck Ma's letter in the pocket inside my jacket, to save for later.

LeBeau exclaims in satisfaction, and a moment later he hands the promised can of milk to me. I put a couple of pecans on the table, aim carefully, and bring the can down on them with a bang. I pull the can back and look, and sure enough, the nuts are cracked.

LeBeau and I pull the shells off, carefully making sure the wrinkles are free of any bits of the shell this time, and I pop mine in my mouth. Ohhh, that buttery, delicate, nutty taste as I crunch down on it . . . it tastes just like it did back home, and better than anything I've eaten since I left home!

We decide to set up a production line. We scrounge another can, so Carter and Kinch both crack the nuts down at the end of the table near the stove. Newkirk and Chapman and Pike put themselves in charge of cleaning all the bits of shell from the nuts, while I get to divide them up so we'll all have an equal amount.

After about the fifth or sixth bang of the can on the nuts, Colonel Hogan comes out of his office to investigate.

"What's going on out here? It sounds like artillery drilling!" he says. He sounds a little annoyed, but not too much.

"Barnes got a shipment of pecans from home, so we're cracking the nuts to share around," Kinch explains. I'm glad he does, because though I like the Colonel a lot and he's pretty easy-going for an officer, he's also intimidating when he gets annoyed.

The Colonel's face changes from peeved to interested. "Pecans!" (He says it like Pike, though.) He comes over and inspects the box, digging his fingers in and lifting out a handful, then letting them rattle back into the box. "That's a dandy gift," he smiles at me. "You sure you want to share it with all these ruffians?"

That's nice of him, making sure that I really want to share.

"Sure, sir," I smile. "It was my idea. After all, it's Thanksgiving and pecans just go with the day, even if we can't have pecan pie."

His eyes crinkle as he grins. "Well, I'm more used to turkey and pumpkin pie, but since we don't have either, these'll do nicely."

I nod in agreement. After all, we've always had those for Thanksgiving too. But if there's one thing we have less of than turkeys here at Stalag 13, it's pumpkins.

LeBeau frowns. "Last month you were wanting pumpkins as 'jack-o'-lanterns.' You said nothing about making them into pies."

"And I told you then, if you're wanting to carve a proper jack-o'-lantern for Halloween, get a mangel-wurzel or a swede as me Mum and 'er brothers did growin' up in Wales," Newkirk tells us. "They've done it there for centuries, far longer than you upstarts on the other side of the water," he adds with a grin for us Americans.

"And I still say that pumpkins have to be easier to use for a jack-o'-lantern than trying to hollow out a rutabaga," Carter says.

"Yeah," Pike adds. "At least pumpkins are already hollow. All you got to do is scoop out the seeds." He pauses a moment to inspect the pecan half he's been cleaning; deciding it's good, he hands it on to me so I can add it to the slowly growing piles of nuts. "Pumpkin seeds are good eating too."

Newkirk grins again. "So's a swede if Mum's cooking it. Even a mangel-wurzel tastes pretty good when we get 'ungry enough, though it's more like a beetroot than a turnip."

"They're both still weird things to try to carve into a jack-o'-lanterns, if you ask me," Carter says, sounding a little disapproving, just before bringing down the can with another bang on the pecans he just positioned for it.

"Well, we're past Halloween and it's time for Thanksgiving," Kinch says, clearly trying to move the conversation past the point of contention.

"A good New England tradition," the Colonel agrees.

"Except that the first Thanksgiving was in Virginia, of course," says Pike.

We all stop what we're doing to stare at him, even Newkirk and LeBeau. Pike's inspecting a shelled pecan with great interest, and a sly grin on his face.

"Virginia?" the Colonel asks, his tone loaded with disbelief.

"That's right. Before your Johnny-come-lately Pilgrims even arrived," Pike drawls.

The Colonel folds his arms. "That's not what the history books say."

"Well, they're wrong. And I'd like to know why they always overlook the Virginia colony and act like America started with the Pilgrims. Jamestown was founded in 1607. The Pilgrims didn't arrive till 1620. And the first Thanksgiving was on Berkeley Plantation in Virginia in 1619." Pike looks around, a little challengingly. "That's right up the road from where I grew up. We Tidewater Virginians know all about it."

"Well, we Canadians know that the explorer Martin Frobisher held a thanksgiving on Baffin Island back in 1578," Chapman counters. "Beat you Americans by 41 years, then."

Pike looks a little thrown. "But did he settle there? Have a big feast?"

Chapman shakes his head.

"So that doesn't count," Pike argues. "Besides, that's Canada. We're talking the United States."

Chapman shrugs. "We celebrate Thanksgiving too. But we don't wait as late as you Yanks do. Ours is in mid-October."

"That's because you Canadians are frozen in by late November," Pike teases.

Chapman shrugs and grins again. "At least we don't shrivel up and die at the first sign of frost, like you frail southern flowers."

"So tell us more about this supposed Virginia Thanksgiving," the Colonel says. He sounds a little annoyed still, and it's just short of an order.

Pike looks up at him and nods. "Sure. A ship came from England, the Margaret, and dropped off her passengers at Berkeley Hundred. It's on the James River, upstream from Jamestown. They held a thanksgiving when they arrived on December 4, 1619, and said they'd do it then each year afterwards. 'The day of our ship's arrival shall be yearly and perpetually kept as a day of Thanksgiving,' was how they put it, if I'm remembering my book right."

"No Indians?" Carter asks, kinda quietly.

Pike shakes his head. "Nope. Just the settlers."

"So how long did they keep this tradition going?" the Colonel asks, still skeptical.

Pike looks a little embarrassed. "Well . . . the Indians attacked three years later and the area was deserted for a decade or so before it was resettled."

"Doesn't sound like it should count that much more than Frobisher's thanksgiving on Baffin Island then," Chapman argues.

"Fine. The Canadian one is earlier," Pike admits in mild exasperation. "But Virginia is the site of the first Thanksgiving in the U.S. Sorry, sir," he adds look up at the Colonel, but his eyes are twinkling. "I know this has to come hard for you, Colonel, given that you're a Connecticut Yankee."

"Damn right, I am," the Colonel answers, but he looks more amused now. "But I'd still say that the Thanksgiving we celebrate now comes from the Plymouth, Massachusetts feast from 1621, when the Indians came to join the Pilgrims and everyone gave thanks for the harvest. That's why we have a special dinner with turkey and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and corn."

Carter speaks up again. "The Indians probably ate a lot of those at harvest even before the Pilgrims arrived." He bangs the milk can down to crack another set of nuts, then he adds, "I bet their harvest celebration had been going on for ages before they invited the Pilgrims to it." He looks around, a little challengingly.

The Colonel looks at him thoughtfully. "I'm sure you're right, Carter," he agrees, and Carter's face clears.

"We've got our own harvest to celebrate here tonight," the Colonel goes on.

"What?" Newkirk interrupts. "You mean all those potatoes we planted and dug up?"

"It's still a harvest," the Colonel shrugs. "And I wouldn't want to be facing the winter without it. Supplies are short enough."

We all look at each other and nod reluctantly, then keep working on shelling the pecans.

LeBeau changes the subject by asking, "So is there some special way you prepare turkey for your holiday?

"You brine it then deep fry it in peanut oil," Pike starts.

"Fry it!" the Colonel exclaims in dismay. "No, no, no, you couldn't stuff it if you did that!"

Pike looks at him with deep pity. "You don't put the stuffing in the turkey, sir. You serve it on the side."

Colonel Hogan regards him with an equally pitying look. "Corporal, you cook it in the bird, as the bird cooks. That's why it's called stuffing."

"We call it dressing," I chime in. "But I agree that you don't fry the turkey, sir. You rub it with butter and then bake it in the oven with onions and apples inside. Then you use the juices to make the dressing and gravy. But you don't cook the dressing in the turkey. The turkey would get too done before the dressing was cooked, so you cook it in a separate dish."

"No, turkey's best grilled," Davis insists. "You spread olive oil and salt and pepper over the skin and inside, then you cook it slow on a covered grill outside, get it nice and smoked that way."

"Nah," Olsen disagrees. "You rub it all over with a salt rub the night before you bake it. Makes the skin real crisp."

Garlotti's shaking his head. "You fellas haven't lived till you've tried my dad's recipe. He bones the turkey, then rolls it up with spices and wraps it in prosciutto."

"What's that?" Carter asks, puzzled.

"Like a real thin ham," Garlotti tells him. "It's Italian," he adds, unnecessarily, as if we couldn't tell from the name.

"That sounds good, but not much like Thanksgiving turkey," Carter frowns.

LeBeau looks over at Newkirk, who turns to Saunders, eyebrows raised, and gets a shrug back. I guess a Frenchman, an Englishman, and an Australian must think we're all crazy, with no agreement among us about this supposedly "traditional" meal. But they're polite enough not to say so—for now, anyway. Either that or they don't want to fan the argument.

As we debate the right way to prepare a Thanksgiving turkey we're getting toward the end of the pile of nuts we'd decided to eat for today. Carter and Kinch finish cracking the pile we'd set aside to eat this afternoon, and Pike and LeBeau and Newkirk hand over the last of the cleaned pecans to me.

I hold them for a moment before distributing them to their proper piles. I can't help thinking that these pecans grew on a tree in my backyard in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and now here they are in a POW camp in Germany. My Ma and Dad, and probably Nora, all picked them up out of the yard, cleaned them up, got them ready to mail to me. Who'd have thought they'd ever wind up here, to be eaten by men from all over the U.S., Canada, England, and France? By buddies of mine that I didn't even know a year ago—some who were already here then, and others who were still free. I didn't know them then, but I know that I'll think of all of them on every Thanksgiving from now on.

I hand all the nuts around, starting with Colonel Hogan and ending with my best buddy Davis, who gives me a big smile as I give him his share in the pecans. No one starts in on them till we all have our little handful.

The Colonel raises his, like a toast. "To the Barnes family, with thanks for their thoughtfulness and generosity."

"To the Barnes family!" say most of the guys, though I hear Newkirk and Saunders reply with "Hear, hear!"

As I pop the first of my share into my mouth and crunch down into its buttery savory nuttiness, I think of my family far away and all my buddies surrounding me here, and I silently give thanks.

The End

Author's Note: The credit for the first Thanksgiving is debatable, depending on who, where, and what you want to credit. There are a couple more contenders that I didn't include: the earliest was celebrated by the Spanish in what's now St. Augustine, on September 8, 1565. It's unlikely that anyone in 1943 would have known about it, since the scholarship that argues for it comes from several decades after World War II. Ditto the religious service held by Spanish explorers in Texas at San Elizario in 1598. Jamestown, Virginia held a Thanksgiving service in 1610, though that is not acknowledged in the Berkeley Plantation claim. The claim for the Charter of Berkeley Hundred differs in being codified as a requirement for the community; however, since the community disbanded after three years in the wake of the Second Anglo-Powhatan War, the tradition temporarily died with it. As Carter observes, though, the current American tradition stems at least as much from American Indian harvest festivals as from European harvest festivals and religious services. Almost all the traditional foods are native to the Americas. Canadians have officially celebrated Thanksgiving in October since the 1930s, fixed by Parliament on the second Monday of the month since 1957, though it is an optional holiday in the eastern maritime provinces.

Pecans are native to the United States and were not much exported to Europe before World War II, so it is unlikely that LeBeau or Newkirk would be familiar with them. Pronunciation of the nut varies by region, even more than the story suggests. Pecan trees grow in many people's yards in the American South; I remember collecting "yard nuts" from the lawn in my relatives' yard on visits back when I was a kid. But they were as good to eat as the store-bought ones. It's possible to crack pecans by hand as Kinch does, but I always found that too hard to do.

Americans carve pumpkins into jack-o'-lanterns for Halloween, a tradition thought to be derived from various Irish, Welsh, and English traditions of hollowing out and carving faces into mangel-wurzels (a kind of beet) or rutabagas (also called swedes) as lanterns with a candle inside.