"Blimey, I'm 22. I should be over this by now. What the bloody hell is wrong with me?"

Corporal Peter Newkirk was silently berating himself as he leaned forward on a bench outside the camp recreation hall to have a think. It had been a rough morning, but a quick intervention by Colonel Hogan and Segeant Andrew Carter had saved Peter from profound embarrassment.

It was 1943 and in a POW camp in Germany, Peter Newkirk was fighting a personal battle with deep shame. For the third time in as many months, he had woken up drenched. "I'm a flipping bed-wetter," he lectured himself. "Disgusting." This had happened a lot when he was a child at home, a couple of times as a young man in the circus, and even once as a soldier in bootcamp. But not like this. Not in years. And certainly not in front of the best mates and best leader he'd ever had. They were probably all having a good laugh about him.

Peter was so miserable that he didn't notice the approach of his best mate, Corporal Louis LeBeau, until his brown boots appeared under Peter's nose. Peter looked up and managed a small smile. "Oh, 'allo," he said. "Come to tease me, 'ave you?" LeBeau hadn't been part of the cleanup crew, but he saw the pile of laundry that had suddenly materialized in the Colonel's office. Seeing that LeBeau understood immediately, Peter had swallowed hard and told him everything. He always confided in Louis.

LeBeau plunked himself down on the bench, arms tucked into his jacket. "I would never do that, mon pote," he said. "You know that."

Peter straightened up and leaned back into the wall of the rec room, but didn't look LeBeau in the eye until he felt an arm on his shoulder. Then he turned left to see LeBeau studying his expression. Peter looked about to see if anyone was nearby and, having decided there was not, leaned into LeBeau and sighed, resting his cheek on his friend's head.

They made an odd pair, the small Frenchman with the taller Englishman who was obviously the junior partner in this friendship. LeBeau kept his arm tight until Peter finally sat up. He lit a cigarette, handed it to LeBeau, and then lit up another one for himself. LeBeau watched as Peter took solace in his smoking ritual, taking a deep inhale as he placed the cigarette between his lips. He was calming down.

"Louis," he said, "I just feel so bloody em-em-embarrassed. I'm a m-man, not a little boy. I'm too old for this rubbish. I don't want to wake up wringing wet." He scrubbed hand over his face.

"Hmmm," LeBeau said. "Of course you are not a boy. You're a soldier, and a brave one, too." He paused for moment, "It doesn't happen because you are a child, Peter. We both know you're a man. It's for some other reason."

"Well, to hear Colonel 'ogan tell it, I j-j-j-j, j-j-j-just need to be more attentive to my toilet 'abits," Peter said with a snort. "'Nothing to d-d-d-drink after d-d-d-dinner. Use the latrine before bed time.' Like I'm a bleedin' baby. Cor, it's like he thinks 'e's mmme mum," Peter spat out.

"No, sorry, Colonel Hogan can't be your mum," LeBeau said. "That's my job." He poked Peter in the ribs and got an appreciative laugh.

"You're right about that m-mate," Peter said. "I reckon 'e's the papa in our 'appy little 'ome." Then his face fell. "But did I tell you 'e threatened to put mmme in nappies? 'E said it was a j-j-j-j-j. A j-j-j-j-j... A j-j-j-j..." He was stuck again and heaved out a big breath as LeBeau rubbed his back. "J-j-j-j-jo." God, he felt hopeless. Sometimes a single sound was like a brick wall. If he couldn't climb over it or barrel through it, he'd have to go around it. Peter gathered his breath again and zigzagged. "Well, 'e said 'e was k-kidding, but..."

As Peter wiped a sleeve across his face, LeBeau whispered, "That was not kind. The Colonel probably was embarrassed too and did not know what to say. He does not mean that."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. Louis was usually right and knew how to ease Peter's burden. The colonel was human, and that meant he wasn't always right, didn't it? Sometimes he said dumb things, didn't he? And he did apologize, before making that other awkward joke. Peter sighed and leaned his cheek on LeBeau's head again.

LeBeau took Peter's forearm and patted it. "What do YOU think causes it, Pierre? He added softly, "It's not always this hard for you to get words out, either."

Peter straightened back up. His face fell and he looked miserable. Whenever that happened, LeBeau knew a confession was coming.

"I think it's whatever's 'appening in mmmmme loaf, Louis," Peter said. He saw the puzzled look on LeBeau's face, and he tapped his head with a finger. "Mme loaf of bread. Me 'ead. I have too much trouble on mme mmmind. It's mmme thoughts wot causes it. I had it worse when I was a dustbin," he added. "Now his Cockney accent was kicking into high gear, too, LeBeau realized. Never a good sign if communication was the goal, because he could get pretty hard to understand fast. Dustbin? But at least Peter was talking.

"And what was on your mind?" LeBeau asked. Now Peter's face went blank, except for the angry lines around his eyes and forehead. "What is it, Pierre?"

"I 'ad another letter," Peter answered. "A letter from J-J-J-Jamie. His brother, who was somewhere in North Africa with the Army. He turned and looked at LeBeau. "Louis, I've got big trouble at 'ome. And it's all falling on Mavis because of me." He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an envelope stuffed with several letters. In the return address section, it was marked "J. Newkirk." He handed it to Louis.

Louis suddenly got it. Peter had lots of letters from his four sisters, his sisters in law, and his Granny, but not the men in his family. Yet last month there had been a letter from his father. The month before that, his oldest brother Michael, who was RAf ground crew. Or as Peter called them, M-m-m-m-Michael. D-d-d-d-Dad. J-J-J-J, J-J-J-Jamie. Louis had never heard Peter them say their names without stuttering. And sometimes he couldn't get Jamie's name out at all.

Peter plopped his check down on Louis' head again as Louis unfolded the letter. "Louis?" he said.

He looked. "Oui, Pierre?"

"Well, what if it happens again? I don't want to wake up like that again, mate" Peter said. "I bloody well wish I could mmmmmmake it stop."

Louis pulled him closer. "I know," he said. "I know." He looked up at his friend. "But I'm right here, Pierre. We'll talk to the Colonel, and together we'll think of something."

Just then a whistle blew, summoning the men back to the barracks. Peter stood and brushed himself off. Louis tucked the letter into his pocket. He'd read it later. He and Peter fell into a comfortable stride as they returned to their barracks.