Suddenly everyone is writing Mother's Day stories. The author is not immune to peer pressure.
On a frosty February Friday in 1943, Colonel Hogan announced that the mail that would be going out on Monday could take three months to reach its destination. "So, men, when you're writing home this time, don't forget mom's special day."
Peter Newkirk and Louis LeBeau looked at each other, puzzled. What was he on about? Yes, the post took time. And they regularly wrote their mothers.
By Monday morning, outbound letters had piled up on the table in Barracks 2. Mrs. Kinchloe, Mrs. Olsen, Mrs. Addison, Mrs. Garlotti, Mrs. Hogan, Mrs. Goldman, Mrs. Broughton, Mrs. Hammond, Mrs. Foster, Mrs. Abrams… this week, it was all mothers.
Newkirk, a natural snoop, riffled through the letters like a pack of cards. Peculiar, he thought. All the Yanks, writing their mums. He shrugged and headed out to roll call.
After appell, LeBeau and Newkirk took a desultory stroll around the compound. "Is he going to tell us to whom we may write each week?" LeBeau groused, kicking at the accumulating snow.
"That'd be just like a Yank officer, wouldn't it?" Newkirk grumbled as he tugged his overcoat tighter. "I ought to write to my old man to spite him."
"You wouldn't write your father if your life depended on it," LeBeau said.
"True," Newkirk replied. "Though if he'd send me his black market smokes, I might do."
Newkirk stopped and lit a cigarette. "I just don't like being told what to do," he complained. "I've been writing letters from this dump for years, and I'll write who I bloody well please. I wrote my youngest sister in protest."
"I wrote to my Chantelle," LeBeau sighed. "The one with the lilac-scented note paper."
"Her letters make me sneeze. Warn me when her reply arrives, mate," Newkirk said, rolling his eyes. They wandered into the barracks to find Carter frantically finishing his letter.
"Hey guys," Carter greeted them. "Schultz is picking up the mail at 11 o'clock. Did you write your moms?"
LeBeau and Newkirk snorted.
"No, I did not write to my mother this week, Andrew, not that it's any of your bloody business," Newkirk said haughtily.
"We don't need reminders, André," LeBeau sniffed. "We've been here for years, and we have it down to a routine. I write my mother every two weeks."
Carter looked mystified. "Gosh, I just figured with Mother's Day coming, you'd want to make sure she got a nice letter from you."
LeBeau and Newkirk looked at each other. Huh?
"Qu'est ce que c'est, Mother's Day?" Louis asked.
"Yeah, what the bloody hell is that?" Newkirk growled. He was always testy when thrown off kilter by Carter logic.
"Oh, you guys know. The second Sunday in May, when we honor our mothers? It's a national holiday," Carter said. Then it registered. It was a holiday in the USA, Carter realized, but maybe not to these guys.
Newkirk felt flummoxed, and he hated that. So he tried to appear knowledgeable.
"I see. Gone a-mothering, eh?" he said.
"Huh?" Carter was genuinely baffled.
"For Mothering Sunday. Gone a-mothering? To the church?" Newkirk looked around. Hogan and Kinch had joined the conversation, and were looking annoyingly amused.
"'A-mothering?' Quaint phrase, Newkirk," Hogan smirked.
Blimey. Sometimes Newkirk wondered whether Americans had any culture at all. He decided speaking slowly might help.
"You said it's Mother's Day, Andrew. I believe that's what we call Mothering Sunday," Newkirk explained.
Carter nodded tentatively. "Could be."
"And it's the fourth Sunday in Lent. So you go to the church where you were baptized," Newkirk continued slowly.
"I always go to church where I was baptized. We've never moved," Carter replied. "But it's not..."
Kinch stepped in. "That's interesting, Pete. It's a church holiday in England?"
"Well, yes," Newkirk said, growing increasingly puzzled. "We were all baptized at Christ Church in Spitalfields, so we go there for Mothering Sunday, even though we lived in Whitechapel and Stepney."
Hold it. This was far too much private information for Peter Newkirk to disclose, starting with the fact that he had ever set foot inside any church."Not that I do much church-going meself, mind you, but I am familiar with the customs," he said.
LeBeau to the rescue. "We have something like Mother's Day," he said. "At the end of May, mothers of very large families may receive la médaille d'honneur de la famille française."
"What's very large?" Newkirk inquired. As the eldest of 10, this was something he had views on.
"You must raise eight or more children with dignity to qualify for the gold medal," LeBeau said. "Your mother would be most deserving," he assured Newkirk, who beamed in response. "I am one of four. My mother could receive the bronze award if someone nominated her."
"Well, let's do that right now, Louis, before Schultz picks up the post!" Newkirk said in a burst of enthusiasm. He was prepared to do anything to exit this conversation.
"It's a kind thought, mon pote, but she wouldn't want the award from the Vichy government," LeBeau said somberly.
Newkirk and LeBeau silently took a seat at the barracks table.
"Leave it to an officer to make me feel guilty for not writing me mum," Newkirk said. He and LeBeau sighed deeply and took up pencils as Hogan slid writing paper under their noses.
"Dear Mum," Newkirk began. "My Yank mates tell me they have a holiday called Mother's Day. While it's not British, it's still grand to honour our mums. So on the 2nd Sunday of May, I shall be thinking of you."