May 7, 1944, was a gorgeous spring Sunday, one of those rare days when we had little to do. We were lolling outside the barracks in the sunshine, my core team and I, when Newkirk was dragooned into playing football for England in a match against Scotland.

At least that was what I could glean from his brief conversation with Sgt. Daniel Bowes, an imposing Geordie and career airman who had both the thickest accent and the most persuasive arm-lock of any man in camp. Newkirk's protests that he was tired and had things to do went unheeded.

"Wuh nee't a canny midfieldor an' yas the blurk," Bowes said, thumping Newkirk in the middle of his chest with a meaty fist. "I'll see yee thor, Pete," he tossed over his shoulder as he trotted energetically to the football pitch on the west side of the camp. "Divvint be late fo' practice. Yee want England tuh win, divvint yee?"

"Fine," Newkirk grumbled as he rubbed his chest. "I'll get my cleats." He went into the barracks and emerged a few minutes later with football shoes slung over his shoulders. He patted down his pockets. "Matches. I need matches," he said irritably.

"You're going to smoke during le match de football? No wonder you can hardly run," LeBeau tutted.

"Leave off, I can run just fine," Newkirk said. "I just don't like to exert myself unnecessarily. I don't bloody well want to play, but Bowes will have my arse if I don't show up."

As the senior POW, I could have overruled Bowes, but sometimes I liked to see Newkirk brought into line by someone other than me. Plus the fresh air always did him good when he was in a mood, which he pretty clearly was. Who knew what was eating him. It was better not to ask.

Carter tossed Newkirk a lighter.

"That's not matches," Newkirk groused. "Clean the muck out of your ears," he snapped at Carter, who shrugged off the insult. Newkirk dug deeper into his breast pocket and fished up a box of matches, then smiled at Carter in what I knew was an attempt at an apology.

"Come watch us crush the Scots," he said as he headed off to the soccer game. "But first I'm going to have a nice long smoke."

H=H=H=H=H

Fifteen minutes later, I'd gone over Carter's inventory of supplies with him and instructed him on what I thought we could reasonably request, then left him to draw up a list with Kinch. I checked my watch as I emerged from the bunk bed entrance. Almost noon. Knowing that old drill sergeant Bowes, the football match would be starting at 12 on the dot. There was time to get there to see some of the practice and watch the kickoff.

I ambled across the compound, past the kitchens and the rec hall and the delousing station. There, idling on a bench outside the shower house, was Newkirk. I watched as he struck a match and watched it burn down, and then did it again.

I stood for three solid minutes and observed him, wondering what the heck he was up to. I didn't like to see him wasting time sitting alone. Newkirk's moods worried me, and we had talked about the importance of being among friends and getting fresh air and exercise to keep his spirits up. Of course, that was after Armistice Day, six months ago. Maybe he needed a reminder.

So I squared my shoulders, put on a smile, and headed toward him as he struck another match and stared at it while it burned. He turned his head and scrambled to his feet when he saw me.

"Good afternoon, Guv," he greeted me. "Lovely day."

"It certainly is. I thought you had a football match to get to," I answered. "What are you doing sitting here by yourself?" I gestured at the space behind the shower hut, where it was always damp and muddy. Nobody hung out here on purpose.

"What am I doing? Ahh, just striking some matches, Sir," Newkirk replied.

"I can see that, Corporal. I thought you had better things to do. This is a pretty boring way to pass time."

"No, I'm not bored. Not really. Just thinking, Sir," Newkirk replied.

"Mm-hm. And what is it you're thinking about, other than ways to burn the camp down?" I smiled, but my tone told him I was serious. I wanted to know.

"Well, there's a lot going on when you strike a match, Guv," he said. I recognized one of Newkirk's dodges when I heard one, but this sounded like one of the more creative ones.

"Oh, really?" I replied. "And you're going to tell me about it, are you?"

"Oh, yes. Carter explained it to me once," he replied. I had to laugh at that point, knowing how Newkirk seethed when Carter explained anything. He immediately took offense at my response.

"And yes, sometimes I actually am listening when he's nattering on and on," Newkirk said seriously. "Well, Sir, a match head is all chemistry, it turns out. So naturally Andrew would know all about it, in nauseating detail. Look, I'll show you."

Strike, flare, burn. "Eleven," he said. Why was he counting?

"You can smell the sulphur, can't you? It's like rotten eggs. And there's potassium something-or-other and powdered glass, if you can believe it. And gelatin, like what your Mum puts in a wobbly jelly. The jelly's a binder," he said.

I listened in some amazement as he went on and on about the properties of the match head and the composition of the striking surface. He was channeling the garrulousness of Carter, but merging it with the showmanship that only Newkirk could muster.

Strike, flare, burn. "Twelve," he said as he struck another match.

"… and that phosphorous is so volatile that it ignites in the air and turns white," he concluded.

I just looked at him, and I'm sure I looked completely baffled. What in the heck was he doing?

"Oh. You're wondering why I'm lighting match after match, are you? Well, it's May 7, isn't it?"

That didn't explain anything, but he was so absorbed in his little match-burning ritual that I didn't interrupt.

"Look at it, Sir. The way it dies down. It starts out so bold and strong. Then it just fades."

I stared at it with him. Yes, sure there was something mesmerizing about watching it burn, I had to admit.

"Just look," he said, almost dreamily, before he was roused back to consciousness by the flame.

"Ow. Not again," he said. He had burned himself, and I guess it wasn't the first time.

Strike, flare, burn. "Thirteen," he said.

"All right, Newkirk, this is all very interesting. But what's significant about May 7?" I asked.

"May 7? Oh, I see, I didn't explain, did I? Well, I'm remembering someone, Sir. Someone important. To me, at least," he said, not taking his eyes off the match.

Then he turned, looked at me and spoke earnestly. "You know how you might go to church and light a candle? Well, I can't very well do that, can I? And we're low on supplies. So I thought, matches. I've got plenty of those."

"Um, OK, Newkirk." Plenty for what? "Are you almost done here? I thought you were playing football." I was pretty befuddled. He seemed so calm and yet so distracted.

"Oh, not much longer, Sir. Just nine to go," he replied.

Strike, flare, burn. "Fourteen," he said.

I was starting to worry about his mindset and his intentions. Had he snapped? Had I missed it? "Newkirk, are you planning to start a fire? This is not the safest place to light all these matches. These buildings are all made of wood."

"Me, Guv? A fire raiser? No, no, of course not. I'm not going to set fire to anything. Not at all, Sir."

"Is something bothering you? You're not acting like yourself."

"No, nothing's troubling me. Just thinking," he said as another match burned out. He reached into his pocket to get the matchbox out again, but I stopped him with a hand on his forearm.

"Thinking of what?" I asked him as I gripped his wrist.

"It's not what, it's who, Sir," he replied. He looked down and then his eyes cut past me, like he was looking for an escape. "My uncle, Sir," he said quietly.

In a snap, he had that matchbox in his hand again. Strike, flare, burn. "Fifteen," he said, grinning at me sheepishly.

"Ooh, big flash, that one," he said.

It was an impressive flare. As it died down, I asked, "What are you thinking about your uncle, Newkirk?"

He'd mentioned a few uncles before. I hadn't really focused on any of the stories, though. He told a lot of tales when he was in a good mood and it was hard to know which were true and which were made up for pure entertainment value. I was aware from Newkirk's personnel files that there was one old codger of an uncle whose job was moving scenery in a theater. Newkirk seemed to like him.

"Because he'd have been 50 years old today, Guv," Newkirk said. "Normally I just light a candle. But like I said… Cor, that one was pretty."

Strike, flare, burn. "Sixteen," he said.

He's speaking of him in past tense, I thought, so it's his late uncle. Possibly a real one. "Were you close to this uncle?" I inquired.

"Close to him? No, Sir. I never met him. Well, maybe once when I was a baby. But I don't recall," he said. His eyes were still on the flame.

I was getting irritated with the guessing game. What the heck was he doing, and what did this supposed uncle that he didn't even know have to do with it?

"Wrap it up, Newkirk. Let's get to the soccer match," I said as gently as I could, given my annoyance level.

"Just six more, Guv. Please?" He sounded almost desperate. Whatever he was doing might actually mean something to him, even though I couldn't fathom what it was. I just sighed, crossed my arms, and nodded my head. Six more, fine.

Strike, flare, burn. "Seventeen," he said.

I tried to tamp down my annoyance, but it wasn't working. I was steamed. It was a gorgeous day, and here I was having a completely incomprehensible discussion with Newkirk as he struck match after match behind a musty, mucky shower hut.

"This is ridiculous, Newkirk. You're supposed to be playing football. Instead you're sitting in a muddy alley, lighting matches and watching them burn."

"No, it's not ridiculous. Really, Sir, it's not. It just helps me concentrate, that's all. Like burning a candle," he said.

"Just put it out," I finally said. My irritation was showing now. "Enough is enough."

"No, I don't want to extinguish it. I just want it to burn out." He looked frail in that moment, and a rise in his voice made him sound as vulnerable as a child. He was so busy pleading with me that he didn't notice the fire licking at his thumb.

"Ow. Blimey, Guv. You distracted me. Sir. I meant Sir," he added apologetically.

He lit another one before I could protest. Strike, flare, burn.

"Eighteen. Just four more after this, Guv. I'll be all done," he said. His eyes were wide. He was imploring me. Now I was sure that this odd ritual mattered to him. It wasn't a game or a dodge.

Eighteen plus four, I thought. "Just explain it to me, Newkirk. What are you doing? Why are you lighting 22 matches?"

"Why 22? Well, because that's how old he was. When he vanished. In the Great War," Newkirk replied.

"Your uncle's birthday was today?" I asked. He nodded, seeming relieved to finally be understood. Oh, I thought. It makes some sense now. I remembered suddenly that on Armistice Day he had mentioned an uncle who fought in the war and never came back. He had sounded bitter, but he wasn't bitter now. He looked tired. Sad. Haunted.

"He vanished? Do you know what happened? How he died?" I kept my voice soft now, moving closer to him. I remembered our doughboys marching off to war in Bridgeport, and how much I wanted to be like them. Of course, I was a kid of 12 when we entered the Great War. If I only knew.

He shrugged as he ground out another match with his boot. "Charging the enemy, I suppose. I never got the whole story. My old man wouldn't tell me. He was there when it happened. They were in the same unit," he said. He was looking down, avoiding my eyes, his voice hitching. "Me Da says he went over the top and just never came back."

Da. I'd never heard him call his father that before, and it tugged at me. "Give me the matches, Newkirk," I said quietly. He handed the box to me without even looking at me, looking like he'd just had a terrible scolding. I felt lousy about that. Actually, my heart ached for him.

I'd known Newkirk for two years, long enough to realize there were some things he could never simply come out and say. There were times when his impulses just took over, and he did things—usually stupid, wreckless things— that maybe he didn't even understand. But even if he didn't get it, I finally realized what he was doing. He was honoring a man whose death had cast a shadow over his life. His father's brother, no less. His unreliable, remote father's brother.

"Let me help you out with this," I said. He looked up, surprised.

"You want to… what? You're lighting the next one?" He smiled a little. "All right then. Have at it."

Strike, flare, burn. "Nineteen," I said.

"Careful, Guv. You're holding that match a little high," he said.

Yeah, when I felt the flame I knew I was holding it wrong; other than the occasional cigar, I really don't smoke and I wasn't in the habit of playing with matches. But Newkirk needed solidarity. He needed to know I understood why he was watching all those matches burn. He needed to know I sensed there was something sacred in it.

"Told you," Newkirk said collegially. "It's all right. I already burnt myself several times. We'll live."

Strike, flare, burn. "Twenty," I said. "We could say a prayer for him," I told Newkirk.

"You don't have to, Sir. But I'm glad of the company." We were sitting on the bench now, shoulder to shoulder.

"I'll keep it short," I said. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. May he rest in peace." I turned to Newkirk and smiled. "That was it. Short and sweet." I looked at the match in my hand, glinting in the breeze. "It's pretty," I said, feeling strangely drawn into Newkirk's ritual.

"Yes, it is beautiful, Sir, watching it flicker away," Newkirk said.

"Ow," I said, throwing the match to the ground.

"Burnt yourself again, did you? We're a fine pair," Newkirk said.

I laughed. "It's not bad. I'll light another one," I said.

"Yes, go ahead. Do the next one," he said, sounding calmed by not to have to explain it anymore.

Strike, flare, burn. "Twenty-one," I said. "What was your uncle's name?"

"His name? Oh. Well, it was Peter Newkirk, Sir. Same as me," he replied. "Wish I'd known him. Me Da said he was clever and a bit of a pain in the arse." He gave a tight laugh. "Ruddy good at football, too. He might have played with me, taught me a few ..." He trailed off, nibbling his lip and staring at the flame.

I looked at him and could see him flushing. Newkirk didn't often disclose his feelings. How had I not known he was his uncle's namesake? Of all the stupid things NOT to be in his personnel file... I fought an urge to hug him, and then suppressed the impulse to make a joke about how the world couldn't handle two Peter Newkirks. I had a feeling that if we talked a little more, he'd eventually beat me to it. We had that in common, the tendency to shrug things off with humor.

"Let me do the last one, all right?" he said very quietly.

"Of course," I said. I rested my right arm around his shoulder as he lit the last match. Very casual. Not at all a hug.

"Right then," Newkirk said. Strike, flare, burn. "Twenty-two."

He stared at the flame. I studied his face. He was biting his lip harder. His eyes were moist. He was fighting his emotions with everything in him. I squeezed his shoulder. He gulped, and then breathed deeply.

When he spoke, his voice as clear and firm.

"It's awfully young, isn't it? Twenty-two. I was older than that when I went into the RAF," Newkirk said.

"War is hell, even when the cause is just," I said. "The sacrifices are incomprehensible."

"A bloody shame. Flickered away like a flame, he did," Newkirk said as he dropped the burnt out match. His voice flickered too. He was struggling to compose himself again. I just sat there with my right arm around him, saying nothing until I was sure he was OK. He leaned into me for a long moment, then finally straightened up.

"All done for now?" I asked.

"Yes, Sir. That's it for me. Till next year," Newkirk said with a small laugh. He reached across me, took my left hand in his left hand and clutched it for the barest moment. Then he pulled it close and inspected the fingers. He shrugged my right arm off his shoulder and did the same. Then he showed me his scorch marks and the blisters that were forming on his fingers. I examined his right hand, squeezed it and nodded.

"We might need to tape our fingers up, Sir. I'm sure Wilson can help us out after the football match," he said. "Let's go. Bowes is going to be on my arse for being late."

"I'll tell him we had something important to do," I said as we walked along. "Something that couldn't wait."

—END—

Author's Note. Geordies are from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Bowes says "We need a good midfielder, and you're the bloke. I'll see you there, Pete. Don't be late for practice. You want England to win, don't you?" Among other things, this is a response to the "Stuck on Bandaids" challenge, explaining why Newkirk and Hogan both had Bandaids on their fingers in "Never Play Cards with Strangers" (s4e7). Also, I have this idea that Newkirk, while having the inclinations of a slug, was actually pretty good at football and not awful at rugby and cricket. There is one episode, I wish I could remember which one, that starts with him displaying pretty solid ball handling skills in soccer, and at least two episodes where he and Carter are tossing a baseball, which (combined with his propensity toward cricket analogies) makes me think he's played some cricket too.