Right after morning roll call, the soccer players were on their makeshift playing field to run through their drills. Newkirk wanted nothing more than to simply play and take direction from Sergeant Lindsey, but today was the day he was to take charge. His heart was in his throat.
"… and Corporal Newkirk will be your captain," Lindsey was informing the other players. Half of them nodded in approval; the others looked skeptical. Newkirk could play, but could he lead? More to the point, could he talk? They all liked him, but several had never heard him speak a complete sentence.
The goalie, "Gunner" Gilfoyle, was the first to speak up. "Righto, let's hear it for our new captain. Hip-hip-"
A chorus of "hoorays" followed. Newkirk tried not to blush, and then tried even harder not to wince as Gilfoyle slapped him on the back with his big, beefy paw.
"Keep your directions simple and your voice loud," he reminded himself. Sage advice, especially for people who don't stammer. Blimey, what had he got himself into, and why did Hogan and Lindsey think this was a good idea?
The cheers died down and Newkirk realized his teammates were all looking at him. So were the spectators, including Hogan and the rest of his team.
"Alright, Newkirk, it's all yours," Lindsey prompted.
Newkirk's mouth hung open for what felt like an eternity before the words started to flow. Then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, he was shouting out commands.
"….Rrrrighto, what are you lot waiting for? Kick the ball! B-Bentley, Swinton, I know you can trap it – but you've got to shorten that b-b-backswing if you're going to pass downfield! And break it up—nobody glued you two together. You'll cover more of the field if you'll spread apart. P-Pendleton! Play with both feet, mate! Chin up and away from your chest so you can see wh-where you're going! Robbins, small touches, j-just small touches. Strike it low with your foot like a we wedge. Good lad, you've got it."
Hogan, arms crossed and leaning against the barracks, was laughing to himself. Kinch leaned over. "I think he's in his element, Colonel," he said. No one, literally no one, had ever heard so many words flow so fluently out of Newkirk's mouth.
"He's stuttering a little," Carter said. "Is that going to be OK when Burkhalter's here?"
"He'll stop. You'll see," LeBeau said proudly. "It's mostly names and a few Js and Ws. Names are always hard for him to say the first time, but they become easier with repetition."
"And what few mistakes are left over at that point shouldn't show," Hogan added. He was beaming too.
Newkirk was utterly absorbed in the game, trotting down the touchline to monitor the drills and think about strategy for a winning game against the guards.
"Come on, Allerton," he roared. "You head the ball; the ball doesn't head you. Up and away when you're on the defensive!" Yelling is good, he reminded himself. Yelling isn't talking so yelling isn't scary.
"Yes, Cappie," Allerton replied in tones of awe as Newkirk jogged over to show him how it was done.
After 30 minutes of practice, and having worked up a good layer of sweat, Newkirk gathered his teammates in the "visitors" penalty area. Visitors, indeed, he thought. We're the ones who bloody well live in this rubbish tip." But it had the advantage of being as far away as possible from the guard towers and other stations where their rivals could easily overhear them.
"All right, you lot. Listen up. Like it or not, we're not playing a bunch of clueless toe-stubbers who can't go more than 20 feet on either side of the m-m-midfield," Newkirk began. "These Krauts are good and quite a fffew of them are ffffast. Schneider and K-Kaufmann, they're tall and wwwwwiry and very strong players. You've also got to look out for G-G-Gephardt. I've seen him chip the ball into the net straight over the goalie."
The men were nodding, impressed with Newkirk's analysis of their competition.
"What I need you to do is create spaces and chances for your t-t-teammates to score. And if we're having a tough time, you've got to be wwwilling to get in there and change the game. All right?"
"Right, Cappie," the men replied in unison. The sudden surge in volume was enough to throw Newkirk off his stride for just a moment. He hung there, trying to start on a word as the men listened in rapt attention.
"….J-J-J-J-J-Jennings, you're a righty, ain't you?" J's were hard; names were harder. But to Newkirk's immense relief, he had pushed through and said it, and to his complete amazement, no one seemed bothered. They were actually listening to his words and not to his stammer.
Jennings, a dark-haired steeplejack from Sheffield was a small midfielder with the confidence of a giant, and any man nimble enough to scale church towers was up to the job Newkirk had in mind.
"Righto, J-Jennings, you're gonna chop the ball – you hop over it with both ffffeet, left foot in front, then hit it with the inside of your right foot. You take the fffirst opening when the defender flies by…"
XXX
Half an hour later, with practice over, the English players dispersed their barracks for a tea break. When Newkirk arrived in Barracks 2, he was overwhelmed by the spread LeBeau had prepared for him. A piping hot pot of tea, prepared by the resident Irish-American, Hanrahan, was on the table, alongside a pile of buttery toast and jam.
"Who's all that for?" Newkirk asked in amazement.
"It's for you. You need your strength after playing so hard," LeBeau said. "Sit."
"It's too much for one person," Newkirk replied, stuffing piece of toast into his mouth. "Blimey, is that mmmarmalade? Where did you get that?"
"I bartered for it with some of the Australians in Barracks 17," LeBeau shrugged. "I thought you might like it. Eat some cheese, too. You need protein." He pushed forward a brick of cheese.
"Is … is… is that cheddar?" Newkirk asked tentatively.
"Did you even wash your hands before you stuffed your face?" LeBeau asked. He pointed to the sink and followed Newkirk there as the Englishman sheepishly obeyed the implied order. Even as he supervised the handwashing, LeBeau kept up his patter. "Cheddar? That's what the Aussies called it. I couldn't tell you myself," he said. "All English cheeses taste the same to me."
"What, even Stilton? That's a blue cheese, that is," Newkirk said, his hands clean and his spirit primed for battle.
"Bleu cheese? Please. It has no aroma. Unlike you. You're all sweaty from running around."
"You mmmean it doesn't stink like your ruddy Ruck-a-furt?" Newkirk sat at the table and grinned.
"Stop slaughtering my language! You mean Roquefort, you barbarian? You English could never appreciate the spicy, sour, piquant flavor…"
Carter, Kinch and Hogan watched from a safe remove inside the Colonel's doorway as the argument intensified.
"What the heck are they doing? LeBeau made a nice meal for Newkirk, and now they're arguing about cheese?" Carter just couldn't understand those two sometimes. Especially times like now, when LeBeau was sputtering in French and Newkirk's Cockney accent was becoming incomprehensible.
"It's strategy, Carter, my boy," Hogan said confidently.
"What kind of strategy is that? The kind that gives you indigestion?" Carter protested.
"Louis's just keeping Newkirk revved up, Carter," Kinch said. "When he shouts and argues, he doesn't stutter."
"Why are you English so obsessed with toast, anyway? If you had fresh bread, you wouldn't need to toast it," LeBeau was carping at Newkirk.
"It's uncivilized to eat untoasted bread," Newkirk asserted. "It's a pity we haven't any bangers," he added with an air of sorrow.
"What do firecrackers have to do with anything?" Le Beau said archly. He knew exactly what Newkirk meant.
"Sausages, mate. Lovely English sausages." He sighed dramatically.
"Oh, you mean those mealy, bready things you eat? A bit more meat would be nice…"
Hogan steered Carter and Kinch back into his office. "Let's leave the Battle of Agincourt to the French and the English," he said. "Everything is under control and going according to plan."
