PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 16: THE KICK-OFF

March 30, 1944

It was a beautiful day for sea travel, and for football. The Witmans' journey would take place this evening, and most details were finally pinned down. But for now, this morning, Stalag 13's cadre of Londoners had challenged other RAF men to a short match, and Peter was free. He was still riding high after the previous day's mission, his too-short dalliance with Anja, and a fantasy-fueled aftermath in the privacy of his sewing hut. He'd slept well last night, despite a growing case of the sniffles punctuated by some coughing fits.

By the time the RAF players chose up sides, their two-hour outdoor exercise period was ticking away. They settled on an abridged match, with two 30-minute halves and a 10-minute break, to ensure that they would finish before they were shooed inside.

Carter and Kinch were busy with mission preparations, but LeBeau was available for a change, and Peter dragged him off to cheer for the London side. The opponents were well matched, and Louis had cheered the Londoners as they vied for domination throughout the first half, barely eking out a 2-2 tie. As the second half got underway, he was observing intensely from a bench on the sidelines when he felt the weight shift beneath him as someone sat down. He turned to see who it was. It was David Garrett, the American sergeant who directed many of the camp's plays.

"Ah, bonjour, Garrett. I didn't know you were a football fan." He gestured to the field. "It's London versus the rest of England, apparently. They're tied at two goals apiece."

"I'm an all-around sports fan," the dark-haired Yank said with quick lift of his shoulders. "Baseball, volleyball, basketball. Ice hockey, man. Speed and agility—that's the best." He always had a grin on his face that made him look like he was about to tell a joke. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "We don't have this kind of football at home. At least, I never saw it."

LeBeau looked at him with pity. "Everyone in the world but Americans knows football. I don't understand how your country missed out on it."

"I don't know either, but I'm catching up," Garrett said agreeably. "You know, in baseball there's a lot more standing around, waiting for things to happen. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Baseball is only boring if you lack imagination or patience. It is a game of inches. It's all about positioning and strategy moment to moment."

"I'll take your word for it," LeBeau said. He was about say he found baseball incredibly dull, but after that enthusiastic explanation he didn't want to sound like whatever the sports version of a Philistine was. "I'm not really well informed about sports, other than football and horse racing," LeBeau offered.

They went silent and watched as the London team charged downfield, driving the ball toward the net. "How's your buddy Newkirk doing?" Garrett asked. He jutted his chin in Peter's direction. "He's a good player. Very athletic."

"He's fine, and yes, he is athletic, once you get him moving. But mostly, c'est un fainéant," LeBeau said. He didn't want to pursue that line of inquiry. Garrett's interest in Peter was an uncomfortable subject. In addition to an enthusiastic member of several sports teams, Garrett was devoted to theater, and he was keenly interested in casting Peter in one of his plays. But Peter had been unnerved by him the first time they met. Garrett had raved about his performance of a poem, The Highwayman. Peter wasn't used to attracting favorable attention, and he was too nervous about stuttering in front of his fellow prisoners to even consider appearing in a play. He'd made a few costumes for productions and helped copy scripts, but that was that.

And there was another thing. The men of Barracks 9, where Garrett lived, had banded together for a reason. LeBeau didn't have any problem with their open secret, but he did not want Pierre exposed to it. Not at his age, and not in his position as a member of Colonel Hogan's team. He had bluntly told Garrett as much, and had asked him—no, warned him—to give the young Englishman some space.

Garrett and LeBeau hadn't discussed the matter in the intervening months. But, sitting beside LeBeau on the bench, Garrett looked down at the ground, then turned to face him. "I haven't talked to him, LeBeau. Not once, not since you and I spoke," Garrett said. "He's young, and he's on Hogan's team. I get it."

"Thank you for that," LeBeau said. "He's doing fine. He's interested in a young lady," he added pointedly.

"I've seen her," Garrett said, nodding in approval. "She's a knockout."

LeBeau wasn't expecting that, and his face probably told Garrett so. "What? I know a beautiful woman when I see one, LeBeau. I've dated quite a few of them, actually." He grinned again and spread his hands apart. "A good looking guy like me? Come on! The ladies love me."

LeBeau couldn't disagree with Garrett's self-assessment, which didn't even sound vain given how he was laughing when he said it. The man was in fact classically handsome, with chiseled features that were balanced and proportionate, and he had a good strong chin. But LeBeau looked at him quizzically, held back for a moment, and then just decided to ask what he was wondering. "Are men just a temporary interest for you, then? While you're a POW?"

Garrett sputtered. "Well, that's kind of a personal question, LeBeau." He looked him up and down. "But you're a nice guy. You've always leveled with me. No, it's not temporary. I've tested the waters on both sides of the shore, and I've had some good times with the ladies. But I always come back to the guys. It's just how it is with me." He paused. "So Newkirk likes that girl, huh? Schnitzer's daughter?"

"His niece. Yes, he likes her very much," LeBeau said with a smile.

"Young love is the best," Garrett said warmly. "More power to him." He stood and watched as the ball floated in Peter's direction in the midfield. Peter and an opposing midfielder named Marlowe both jumped for the header—and both fell, face first, into the wet grass.

"Ouch," Garrett and LeBeau said simultaneously as they watched the opponents scramble to their feet and slap each other on the backs in a display of good sportsmanship. Garrett looked at LeBeau, shaking his head. "That had to hurt."

"He's indestructible," LeBeau laughed.

Soon, the ball was back in play, and the clock had run down to 15 minutes. For the next 12 minutes, as the two men watched quietly, neither side could pierce the other's defense. The ball barely moved out of the center of the pitch as players swapped it back and forth.

It was looking very much like the match would end up in a draw, when suddenly there was a quick dash, a pass, and a flick. Then out of the blue, Peter was on the attack, dribbling downfield and sliding the ball past three defenders toward the goal. In a flash, a burly center fullback was in his path and Peter had a split-second decision to make: Take it home and run straight into that guy, or pass and get out of his way. He didn't like his odds against a fullback who outweighed him by half, and he opted to drive the ball left to his team's second-striker, a tall chap named Mullins, who picked it up with his instep and waltzed it straight into the goal, taking the team to a 3-2 victory.

Mullins slid to his knees in a goal celebration as Peter and three other players slammed into him for a group hug. From the sidelines, LeBeau and Garrett cheered like maniacs, and when Peter and a few other players jogged up to LeBeau, they both pounded them on the back.

Peter smiled at LeBeau, but hung back cautiously from Garrett. He was still given to bouts of extreme shyness when venturing beyond his comfort zones of Barracks 2, a few other RAF men, and his football mates.

"Good game," Garrett said.

"We call it a mmmmatch," Peter said, almost involuntarily. He had this discussion every time he talked football with a Yank, along with "It's not a field, it's a pitch."

"Well, good match, then," Garrett said with grin. "Cigarette?" Peter nodded and accepted one from Garrett, who then lit it for him while studying Newkirk's face. Little streams of sweat were dripping from his forehead, his cheeks were flushed, and his hair was damp and sticking up in spots.

"Did you make all the uniforms?" Garrett wanted to know. The Londoners all had red shirts with white sleeves, and most of the men had white shorts, though some looked permanently dirty.

"These? Uh, no. They came fffffr, uh, ffffffr, uh, fffff, fffffrom the British Red Cross," Peter replied. "Arsenal FC rrrrred."

"You OK?" Garrett asked. His look had turned to one of genuine concern.

"Yeah," Peter snapped. "I j-j-j… j-j-j…" He heaved out a sigh, knowing "just" was not making it over his lips. "You, you know that I st-st-stammer," he said irritably. "I'm not nnnervous, if that's what you th-th-think."

"Right, I knew that," Garrett said. He hadn't spoken much to Peter, and while he did know he stuttered, he'd also heard him recite poetry almost flawlessly. He had assumed Peter was nervous, and he didn't know what else to say. So he did what guys so often did: He punched Peter on the arm, then shook his hand. "Well, OK. Hey, good match, man. You're a very talented player. That was quite a run at the end there."

"Ta, mate," Peter replied with all the confidence he could muster. "Mullins is an amazing striker. We, we, we play regularly on Sundays and Wwwwwednesdays."

"I'll be sure to check you out," Garrett said. "The whole team, I mean," he added, with a pointed nod with LeBeau.

"Side," Peter said. Then he dipped his head down, embarrassed at correcting a Sergeant, and looked up through his eyelashes. "Sssssorry. It's j-j-just that it's called a sssside in fffff, fffootball, not a team," he said, rubbing anxiously at the corner of his mouth, before pulling his hand back. He was trying not to do that.

Garrett smiled at the winsome display of shyness, nodded, and walked off. LeBeau watched as he wandered away and noticed his shoulders slump slightly as he went. He was satisfied that Garrett, whether he liked it or not, still got the message LeBeau had communicated. He turned to Peter, who had pulled up his shirt to wipe off his face, revealing a well-toned mid-section. LeBeau said a silent prayer that Garrett would not look back.

"Do you want him to come see you play?" LeBeau asked, genuinely curious.

"Nnnno, I don't c-care if he does or not," Peter replied. "I was j-j-j-j…j-j-j-juh…" God, that word was killing him today. He had to stop trying to say it. "I was only being p-p-polite. It's nice when Yanks take an interest in fff, fffootball, don't you think?"

LeBeau nodded. All of that made sense, but the uptick in stuttering bothered LeBeau. Peter might be getting a little rundown. Anja had sounded congested yesterday, and Peter had been coughing a lot.

"I wish I could have a shower," Peter said as they ambled back to the barracks.

"I wish you could have one too," LeBeau teased back, dodging as Peter aimed a punch at his arm. "I'll warm up some water for you and you can wash up. You might want to get some rest before tonight. It's a long journey to the coast."

"It does take a while, but at least we get to smell the sea," Peter said. "There's nothing like it."

"It smells better than you do," LeBeau observed. Peter just rolled his eyes and kept walking.

XXX

A warm basin of soapy water improved things considerably as Peter began to strip off his football kit in the quiet barracks. LeBeau tossed his shirtless friend a sponge. "Si tu ne fais rien d'autre, s'il te plait lave tes aisselles," he said quietly, not expecting to be heard, let alone understood. He had miscalculated on both counts.

"I'm doing that," Peter said with a grin as he raised an arm up and washed there. "Do you really think you need to remind me, Louis? Blimey, you think you know a person."

LeBeau laughed. A year or two ago, the answer to that question would have been a definite yes, but Pierre had matured in many ways. "Just make sure you use soap. It doesn't work without soap," he said, slapping his friend with a towel he had fetched for him.

Peter was busy rolling his eyes and drying himself off when a chill made him shake. Blimey, he was cold even though the days were warming up and he'd just been running. He tugged his undershirt and pullover on, then changed out of his grubby soccer shorts and finished cleaning up. He was just buttoning up his trousers when the bunkbed entrance began to rumble. Kinch climbed out.

"How was the football match?" Kinch asked amiably.

"We won, 3-2," Peter replied.

"And Pierre set up the final goal," LeBeau put in.

"…Which Mullins scored," Peter added. "He's a hell of a striker. He's giving Jamie Sutton a run for his money," he added, referring to the London side's best striker, who was sidelined with an injury.

Kinch was looking intently at Newkirk. "You're pink. Too much sun?"

"I've just been running for an hour," Peter said. He camouflaged a cough and sniff by clearing his throat. "What time are we off tonight?" he asked.

"1930 hours," Kinch replied. "You'll be 'escaping' an hour and a half before rollcall, and by 2100 hours the Colonel should be on his way to conduct a 'search.' It could take you as much as twenty-four hours there and back with all the checkpoints and waiting-around time, Pete. I hope you're ready for a week in the cooler when you've been recaptured."

"Banged up again," Peter said with a shrug. "At least I'll catch up on sleep." He was strapping his watch back onto his wrist when he looked up at his bunk. "I could use a bit of a kip right now," he said.

"Do it," Kinch said, slapping him on the shoulder. "You'll be glad you did."

Peter placed his hands on his mattress and muscled himself up to his top bunk, then flopped down on his back and stared for a moment at the ceiling. His head felt heavy and his throat was scratchy as he let his eyes flutter shut. A little rest would do him a world of good.

Garrett appeared in Chapter 47 of "A Minor Problem," and the episode mentioned in that story is described in more detail in "Flirting with Danger," which is available only on AO3. When LeBeau describes Newkirk as "un fainéant," he is saying he is a lazybones. He is also muttering that "if you do nothing else, for heaven's sake wash under your arms."