HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY!!! GOD BLESS AMERICA AND ALL THOSE WHO SERVE FREEDOM!!!


Chapter 11--Precious Paper

"Just write the good stuff Pierre."

"Oh yeah, that'll work: Dear Mr. Special Ops General; don't pick me because I was really just a poor misguided lad who stole from 'bout every 'ouse in West End at one point or another an' was on one gang that was known for numerous unsolved murders. Good day mate!"

LeBeau sighed. "Can you never not be sarcastic?"

"That wouldn't be me mon ami," remarked Newkirk.

"Please, I do not want to 'ear your 'orrible French," groaned LeBeau.

"I was just rhymin'," pouted Newkirk.

"Rhyme in some other language," demanded LeBeau.

"Fine…ABC, die Katze lief im Schnee.
Und als sie dann nach Hause kam,
da hatt´sie weiße Stiefel an.
ABC, die Katze lief im Schnee."
(1)

"What was that," asked Kinch, looking disturbed.

"I dunno," said Newkirk. "Some rhyme I remember readin' in one o' those books Wilson would bring me while I was in the infirmary."

"I'm sorry," said Kinch.

Newkirk snorted. "Gee, it's 'elpin' now."

"We are trying to 'elp you," said LeBeau with frustration. "Write what you told me down. There was nothing wrong with that. It was 'onest."

"Well, you're one o' me best mates who I've lived wif for almost four years," argued Newkirk. He pushed the pencil and paper across the table from him. "Writin' all this down for some ruddy General who already thinks I'm mud is different! Besides, the Colonel already said I'm in the clear."

"But we don't know for sure," said Kinch. He pushed the pencil and paper back to Newkirk. "So write something down Newkirk. For your own sake. Whoever reads this'll probably forget it all after while anyway, there's so much going on. Now write!"

Newkirk snatched up the pencil, glaring at Kinch. LeBeau rolled his eyes and went back to the stove where he had been cooking their early dinner. When he turned, he noticed Carter perched up on Newkirk's bunk writing as well.

"And what are you writing Carter," he asked.

"Oh, just a letter," said Carter.

"Too who," asked Kinch.

"Mary Jane."

"You're not still on 'bout 'er, are you," asked Newkirk. "You never decided to dump 'er?"

"Never," said Carter. "I'm goin' back home to marry her when this is all over. She said she was sorry. And she is. She's never done a mean thing in her life and really mean it. Not even when were were younger, when we—"

"Walked 'ome from school everyday an' you carried 'er books an' so on," said Newkirk. "Oh yea, an' you carried 'er when the snow got 'igh. We remember."

"Don't be too hard, Newkirk," said Kinch.

"I won't," replied the Englishman furtively. He looked up at Carter. "An' why are you on my bunk? Wot's wrong wif yours?"

"It's not inspiring enough," said Carter.

"Inspiring enough for what," asked LeBeau.

"To write to a girl," answered Carter.

"Gee, thanks," said Newkirk. "I'm glad you think so 'ighly o' me in that regard. But if I find one thing wrong wif me bunk tonight, then you'll be tossed outside. I don't trust you anymore Andrew. You might make my blanket explode or somethin'."

"Hey, that's a good idea," said Carter.

"Andrew," warned Newkirk.

"I think you inspired him the wrong way," said Kinch.

"Don't worry," said Carter. "That would be a bit out there."

"Blowing up a sewing kit was out there," muttered LeBeau darkly.

"No, that was clever," corrected Kinch. He looked at Newkirk and patted the piece of empty paper. "Write Peter. This is due today."

"You sound like a ruddy teacher," complained Newkirk as he picked up his pencil again. "This would be one o' the reasons why I ditched school."

"Just get it over with already and stop complaining," said LeBeau.

"Okay, okay," said Newkirk. "Stop naggin' me about it. This isn't your life story we're tellin'."

LeBeau chose not to remark, because he knew Newkirk would just talk back and nothing would ever be written in time. Newkirk was supposed to be writing down what he had been convicted for, in his own words, because then it would go back to London with Hogan and Morrison. All the selected men were doing this, so that there might be something that could be found to help them. In LaMarque's case, it was hopeful. LeBeau did not know everyone's stories, but he did know that none of them were cold-blooded murderers or anything else that was cruel or sick. Most of them were like Newkirk's; growing up in a situation where they were surrounded by criminals and poverty, and just trying to find a way out without very much guidance. Then, of course, they had had a turn of bad luck when finally caught. Or good luck perhaps in some cases, because some, like Newkirk, had changed. The bad luck was now, where their records said they had gone to prison.

There were other prisoners in the camp that had some shady backgrounds as well, too. In a camp this large, there were bound to be people with all sorts of backgrounds. Colonel Hogan had tried to wheedle out anyone that would definitely not fit, but there was only so much he could do. There had been Williams, a total disgrace to the uniform, not because of any background, but because of his rotten attitude. That was what everyone liked about Colonel Hogan. He did not worry about your past, but rather thought in the present and what he thought one was capable of at the time. It was that kind of thinking that had him select the people he had selected to be on his team; the kind of thinking that had made other men think twice about messing with other people because there was no point.

Now, it was a wonder to the men in this camp that London could not see it like they did. They knew everyone was not a Colonel Hogan but why could people not try to do thing differently? They knew someone had to get this job done, but why were people singled out for such reasons? The past was the past; leave it there.

Only a short half-hour later, Newkirk finally put his pencil down, looking satisfied. The eraser on the pencil was rubbed down to the hilt, and Newkirk had had to sharpen the pencil quite a few times. But he had only taken the front of the paper.

"There," he announced. "All done."

Kinch, ever the scholar, snatched it up, and looked it over with a fine critiquing eye. "You misspelled neighborhood."

"I did not," snapped Newkirk, snatching the paper away. He scanned quickly through it. "That is definitely how you spell it!"

"There is no u in neighborhood," argued Kinch.

"There is in the correct form," Newkirk argued back. "As in the proper English. Not that stuff you ruddy Yanks speak."

"I do not think you 'ave room to talk," remarked LeBeau. He took his pot off the stove and put it under Newkirk's nose. The Englishman leaned back with a repulsive expression.

"I don't wanna taste it," he said. "Ask Kinch, he knows more about your culinary delights than I do. As long as you don't ask him to spell it."

"Ha, ha," said Kinch sarcastically. "What is it LeBeau?"

"Cassoulet," answered LeBeau with passion. "Pork, du veau, and some white beans."

"That doesn't sound so bad," said Newkirk. He leaned forward some.

"One more move and it goes all over your paper," warned LeBeau quickly.

Newkirk jumped up with his paper. "Fine. See wot compliments you get when I finally get a bite."

"No one listens to you talk about food anyway," said Carter, still up on Newkirk's bunk.

Newkirk noticed him again. "You still up there, mate? Quite some letter you're writin'." He noticed that Carter's pencil was in the same condition as his own.

"Well," said Carter. "I haven't written to her in awhile, since we've been so busy. And she sent me a letter over a month ago. I just want this one to be perfect."

"Yeah," said Newkirk disinterestedly. "Say, while you're up there, can you do me a favor an' put this in me cupboard?"

"Sure," said Carter, carefully placing his letter aside. He took Newkirk's paper and turned around to face the wall. Newkirk's "cupboard" was actually a hollow space in the wall where he had removed one board. He kept some letters and pictures in the space between the inside board and the outside board. Carter placed the paper inside and put the board back in place.

When he turned back around, he saw that Newkirk had already gone back to the table and was trying to get Kinch into playing a round of gin. LeBeau was back at the stove, muttering on about something Kinch had said about his food. The other men were starting to gather back inside, sensing that the meal was almost complete. And Colonel Hogan came out from his office, and found himself dealt into the game of gin. Carter smiled, enjoying the 'normal' scene before him. It was normal because this was what they should normally be doing as prisoners of war. But it was not normal because by all rights, none of them should have been forced into this hole.

Comfortably, though, Carter went back to writing his precious letter.


(1) …ABC, that cat ran in the snow. And as it then home came, there hatt´it white boots at. ABC, that cat ran in the snow

Okay, that's a crazy rhyme I know. But it's real! There's more to it, because it's about teaching the alphabet. That's just the first stanza.