Anger welled up inside of Hogan. What was Newkirk saying? How could he value himself so little? And how could he imagine that Hogan thought the same? Newkirk was looking on quizzically as Hogan struggled to tamp down the fury he felt inside. His heart was in his mouth when he finally spoke.
"Teaching you something is not a bother, Newkirk. It's my duty as your commanding officer to be involved in your development. It's also a pleasure to see you grasp things so quickly. And even if you weren't as smart as you are, you'd be worth my time, because you are a good man," Hogan said firmly. "Now get ready for bed, and get a good night's sleep. We don't often get a night off, and I need my best men strong and rested."
Newkirk didn't budge; it was his turn to look agape. Finally he snapped his jaw back into place, gave a brisk nod and turned to leave. But as he reached Hogan's door, he pivoted back.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Newkirk?" Hogan replied, turning in his direction.
Newkirk stood ramrod straight and snapped off a salute. "Thank you, Sir. And good night." Then he dipped his head, gulped, and looked up bashfully at Hogan. "Th-thank you fffffor caring about, um, all of us, Sir," he said softly.
Hogan smiled affectionately as Newkirk disappeared into the barracks. He knew what Newkirk was trying to say. "All of us" was true, too, and it was easier for him to grasp than "me."
XXX
The next morning was sunny and bright, with the crispness of fall starting to assert itself as the last days of August faded. As the men gathered in the main room for the coffee and hunks of dry bread that constituted breakfast, Hogan pulled Kinch aside. Nothing had come in from London for the day ahead; the full moon was still hindering routine night missions.
"Time for some team building, then," Hogan said softly to Kinch. He slipped him a note. "Take this to the barracks chief in 19," he said. "We'll get a soccer game going after chores are completed."
"Nineteen, huh?" Kinch said. "Are there enough Europeans in there to play the game right?"
"A couple. But mostly Americans," Hogan replied. "We're going to teach them."
"Us?" Kinch asked, his eyebrow climbing. "Define 'us,' Sir."
"Mostly Newkirk with a little help from Garlotti, LeBeau and Olsen," Hogan replied.
XXX
As soon as Hogan announced plans for a friendly football match with another barracks, Newkirk wasted no time suiting up for it. While the other men lingered over their coffee to avoid their chores, Newkirk gulped down his drink, performed his KP duties, and then fished his shorts and jersey out of his footlocker. He was in his kit and standing by his bed juggling a ball between his feet until LeBeau prevailed on him to stop.
"Please, mon pote, wait until we're outside. You remember the Coffeepot Incident of 1941," LeBeau said. "The others are still eating."
"That was rather a mess," Newkirk conceded with a wince, as visions of a football flying through the barracks came crashing back. "All right, then."
So Newkirk sat down on Carter's bunk, lit a cigarette and settled for rolling the ball back and forth under his foot. He turned his thoughts to who might be on the Barracks 2 roster. There weren't many men with the right skills; the best formation they could hope for would probably be eight a side. He and Garlotti were both solid players, and Kinch was a natural athlete. LeBeau knew how to handle a ball. His on-field tactics consisted mostly of calling out other players' names, but still, he'd be all right. Carter was scrappy and interested; he'd do if he could just keep his bloody hands off the ball. Well, somehow they would manage to scrounge together a side from the rest of the barracks. Maybe the colonel would concede to play for once.
Finally it was time to go. Newkirk jogged across the parade ground and waited for the other team to assemble. Colonel Hogan hadn't mentioned that it would be Barracks 19, and as soon as Newkirk saw Olsen rounding the corner, he felt irritation, offset by a surge of optimism. He didn't like Olsen, but he could beat him any day, he thought.
Newkirk was one of a handful of men with a pair of cleats that actually fit, courtesy of a Red Cross shipment the previous fall, before Hogan and the rest of the Americans had arrived. He dug them into the ground to scrape out the pitch lines as the teams assembled.
He and two other Englishmen, Hopkins and Padgett from Barracks 19, were just touching up the penalty lines when Hogan called everyone to center circle. Barracks 2 gathered on one side of the center line, Barracks 19 on the other.
Hogan smiled. "Nope," he said, "you've got it wrong, fellas. We're not playing barracks against barracks. We're gonna mix it up this time."
He started calling out names. "LeBeau, Garlotti, Hopkins, Hanrahan, Foster, Antonelli… you're on offense."
"Newkirk, Parker, Greenberg, Padgett, Mills, Olsen… defense. OK, each team, pick your captain and then choose the rest of your roster."
"Side, sir," Newkirk muttered.
"What's that?" Hogan responded.
"Each side, Sir, not each team," Newkirk said sourly. "We have sides in football." He immediately regretted saying it, because the colonel had been so kind to him and Newkirk knew he shouldn't correct him publicly. But the fun was rapidly going out of this match and he wasn't doing a good job hiding his frustration.
"Duly noted, corporal," Hogan said cheerfully. "Since you're so knowledgeable, you should captain your side. Any objections, men?" There were none—Newkirk probably would have been picked anyway on the strength of his skills.
"All right then," Hogan said. "Padgett and …" he took his time looking over the assembled men "Olsen. Yes, Padgett and Olsen will assist you, Newkirk. Other team? Garlotti's captain; LeBeau and Hanrahan can assist. Now, pick your team names."
"The Yankees," Olsen said smugly.
"No baseball names," Hogan overruled. "Try again."
"The Highwaymen," Padgett piped in. Newkirk nodded in approval.
"Bandits," Garlotti responded. LeBeau slapped him on the back agreeably.
"OK, men. Five minutes, then kickoff," Hogan said. "And remember—teamwork matters."