Chapter 1: A Quarter Century

"Gee, it's hard to believe it's been 25 years," Sergeant Andrew Carter was saying as he rinsed out his socks and t-shirts in front of Barracks 2 in Stalag XIII. "I mean, I don't even remember. I was so young. But my mom and dad always talked about it. My dad, well, he couldn't go into the Army, because he had a bad limp from that time he got kicked by the horse. Her name was Sally. She sure was a sweetheart, that old mare. Well, when I knew her. Anyway, I guess farmers needed to keep farming to help win the war. But they talked all the time about how exciting it was for the war to end, and how everyone was looking forward to the doughboys coming home, and…"

Corporals Louis LeBeau and Peter Newkirk had just finished hanging out their laundry, and they lolled against the barracks wall on an unusually mild November morning, watching wordlessly as Carter finished his wash. LeBeau took one glance at Newkirk and knew storm clouds were gathering.

"You know what I'm looking forward to, Carter?" Newkirk said, interrupting the stream of consciousness. "Two minutes of silence." He checked his watch. "In about … 25 minutes. Unless you want to get a head start."

"Oh,yeah!" The hint sailed right over Carter's head with a whoosh. "We had two minutes of silence every year at school. Every year on November 11, at 11 am. Yep. We sure did. Did you do that in England too, Newkirk?" He wrung out his socks, hung them on the makeshift clothesline, and turned to face his friends.

"Yes, Andrew," Newkirk replied wearily. "Prayers and silence. Louis, too, I'm quite sure, right, mate?" He straightened up long enough to dig a packet of fags out of his breast pocket, hand one to LeBeau, and light up for both of them before resuming his slouch.

LeBeau had opened his mouth to answer, but not in time. Carter was off and running again as he turned back to the washtub.

"Sure, 'cause two minutes of silence helped everyone remember. 'Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour.' That's what our teachers said. When you think about it, it's pretty funny that they called it the 'War to End All Wars,' isn't it? Wow, I guess that turned out wrong, huh? Nothing 'Great' about it, either." He laughed at the irony of it, and didn't even notice Newkirk coming toward him.

"Funny? Shut up, Carter. For the love of God, please shut up. You don't know anything," Newkirk snapped. He shoved Carter on the shoulder, pushing him backward just hard enough to topple the washtub off the bench where it stood, sending the washboard clattering. LeBeau grabbed a handful of Newkirk's jacket to yank him back into line as Carter stared, slack-jawed, first at Newkirk, then at the soapy water pooling around his ankles.

"Jeez, Newkirk, why'd you do that? Well, I was almost done anyway, but I sure wish you…" Carter complained. But neither Newkirk nor LeBeau was listening.

"Laisse tomber, ça n'en vaut pas la peine. Il était trop jeune pour savoir, " LeBeau said softly but firmly. Newkirk caught about half of that, but he wasn't convinced that young was an excuse for stupid. He shook his head in disgust and tried to stalk off, but LeBeau grabbed his arm firmly, said "Reste ici, Pierre" and stepped forward to catch Carter's eye.

"André, put down your laundry for a minute," he said gently, "How old were you when the last war ended? Two years old?"

Carter nodded as he set the washtub back on the bench and glared at Newkirk. LeBeau turned to Newkirk. "And you, Pierre? Four?"

Newkirk shrugged, head down. That was a yes. He was not really that much older than Carter, LeBeau thought, and yet…

"Well. I was a grand old man of ten. And I remember that day vividly," LeBeau began.

Notes

1 "Let it go, it's not worth it. He was too young to know."

2 "You stay here, Peter."