(Six months earlier)
"… And as you know, we have some new arrivals this week in Barracks 23 and Barracks 24," Hogan said as the morning meeting drew to a close. "Kinch has talked to the barracks chiefs on that side of camp, and everything checks out with these guys. I'm not ready to brief them on the operation, but it'd be a good idea to start getting acquainted with them so we can size up any talents they might have."
"Any particular qualities you're looking for, Sir?" Olsen asked.
"German language skills, obviously. We could always use more scroungers to help us gather supplies. And some coal miners would be a lucky find," Hogan joked. "Quite seriously, fellas, just get to know them. We can't work with them if we don't know who they are." He saw Carter nodding eagerly and smiled at the young American. "Carter, can I count on you to learn everyone's name and start building profiles?"
"Sure thing, Sir. I was just thinking we could use some guys who could help us in the motor pool, and boy if we found another tailor or two that would sure make things easier for Newkirk, and…"
"I'm ffffine, Andrew," Newkirk said irritably. "I'm getting everything done. I d-d-don't need no help."
"That's not what you said last week when you were trying to get six sets of civilian clothes ready for the guys from Stalag 8," Carter said. "You were just saying…"
Hogan cut him off. "We'll find all kinds of skills, I'm sure, Carter. You go first. Take Newkirk with you," he said with a look at the Englishman that left no wiggle room, and "start getting to know them. Garlotti and Olsen, you can stop by later this afternoon." He searched the faces again. "Addison, you'll be the record-keeper. The rest of you, coordinate any observations with him. Dismissed, men. LeBeau, join me in my office to talk about the dinner tonight. Kinch, we could use you for this…"
As the crowd dispersed, men busied themselves with chores and activities. Several gathered up their laundry to take advantage of the sunny day for drying clothes. Others settled into their bunks to read or write letters. Carter and Newkirk lingered at the table, sipping coffee. One man was eager to go out and make new acquaintances; one was not.
Carter deliberately kept his tone cheerful "OK, let's head over to Barracks 23 when we finish our coffee, Newkirk. Boy, that's a big barracks. They must have 40 guys crammed in there. You know, we're kind of lucky we got here first, 'cause…"
"We're not lucky," Newkirk snapped. "We've been here the longest, and I've b-b-been here a lllot longer than you've done."
"Yeah, but our barracks is smaller. That makes it better."
"It's also older," Newkirk grumbled. "The wood's turning to pulp. Every time it rains, I wake up in a bleeding puddle."
"Well, you know, there's treatments for that," Carter said, venturing a joke. It went over like a lead balloon.
"That's not what I bleeding meant," Newkirk replied. "Go by yourself," he added.
"The Colonel just said the both of us should go," Carter replied firmly. "I don't think he meant 'if you feel like it.' Listen, Newkirk, I'm sure they're all really nice guys. We need to create a skills inventory, and we should be friendly, like the Colonel said."
"Go off and be fff, uh, ffff, uh fff-fffriendly, then," Newkirk answered. "I have enough mates right here."
Carter chewed on his bottom lip while Newkirk grumbled and sulked. Finally the American spoke up.
"You don't want to talk to them?" he asked.
"Blimey, give that man a B-B-Butlin's gold mmmmedal," Newkirk said. "You're bloody br-br-brilliant, you are."
"You don't have to be obnoxious, Newkirk," Carter said. He tipped his head and looked at Newkirk with big eyes. "Why don't you want to talk to them?"
"Well, Carter, it may have eluded your notice, but I have a tendency to get a bit st-st-st…" Newkirk began. He looked down, shaking his head, then attacked the word again. "St-st-st-st-st-st…" He was blinking now, unable to break through until he slammed both hands down on the table. "Stuck!" he shouted. Then he went quiet. "I don't wwwwant to get st-stuck. That's all."
"I could do the talking," Carter said.
"Right, and I'll do charades, or semaphore, perhaps," Newkirk grumbled.
"It's OK if you stutter, Peter. You've said so yourself."
Newkirk was cradling his head in his hand now, looking as if he was in some pain. "Andrew," he moaned. He searched for an explanation. "They'll think I'm stupid if I don't talk. And they'll think I'm stupid if I do talk. I j-j-just can't go there."
"Nobody thinks you're stupid," Carter said definitively. He reached across the table, tipped Newkirk's coffee mug toward him and saw it was empty, so he took it to the sink with his own and washed them both out. Then he returned to the table to face his friend, who looked stubborn as heck, with his arms crossed in front of him.
"Come on, I'll do most of the talking, and you just chime in when you can," Carter said. "But we have to go. The Colonel's counting on us."
"Ffffine," Newkirk replied, getting to his feet. "B-but you have to say mmmmmy name. I'm not d-doing it."
"Roger that," Carter said.
"It's P-P-Peter, not Roger," Newkirk said, cracking a smile.
XXX
"That was awful," Newkirk said as they walked back to the barracks.
"Ah, it wasn't so bad," Carter replied.
Newkirk was frowning. "Oh, no, of course it wasn't bad. They weren't sn-sn-sniggering at you, mmmmate."
Carter walked alongside Newkirk, trying to keep his spirits high. "I didn't notice anyone laughing, Newkirk. And you told them right off the bat that you stammer. That was good."
Newkirk ground to a halt and rounded on Carter. "I didn't say they were laughing. I said they were sniggering. Cl-clean your ears out!"
Carter braced himself. He knew the meeting in Barracks 23 had gotten under Newkirk's skin, but he didn't think it was that bad. Although it was bad enough that they had thrown in the towel before they got to Barracks 24, so maybe…
Carter forced himself to stop yapping and just answer. "I'm not sure I know the difference between laughing and sniggering, Newkirk," he said cautiously.
"That's because you're dim, ain't it? Because it's obviously different. Sniggering is how p-p-p-people act when they're trying to hide their amusement, laughing into their hands and hoping I won't notice. They were laughing at me, Carter. And I'm fed up." Newkirk got the words out, as he often did when he was very angry. But his face was turning red, and he was shaking. Carter was a stranger to emotional outbursts, so he didn't know how to react.
"Alright," Carter said in resignation as Newkirk marched ahead of him, barging into Barracks 2 and not even stopping to hold the door open. Carter felt the gust of a door slamming in his face and decided that staying outside suddenly seemed like a much better idea than going inside. So he lit a cigarette and slumped down on the bunk outside Barracks 2.
Five minutes later, the door swung open and LeBeau exited, looking for all the world like a man who'd been flung outside by a hurricane. He saw Carter on the bench and approached him, shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.
Carter offered him a smoke, which LeBeau accepted. He inhaled and gradually settled down.
"What's the matter, Louis?" Carter asked.
"Don't ask me. Ask Pierre," LeBeau replied. "Il est en une colère noire. What do you call it? A black rage. I can't reach him when he's like this." He puffed out a smoke ring. "What happened?"
"We went to meet the guys in Barracks 23 like Colonel Hogan said. He was doing fine, but then he tripped on some words and started stuttering."
"He always stutters," LeBeau said.
"Yep," Carter replied.
"Was it that bad?" LeBeau inquired.
"Well, I didn't think it was, but maybe it was for him. Somebody asked how long he'd been in camp, and he was just gagging over the answer. I was hoping he'd think to hold up three fingers. That would have done the trick."
"He's not a child. He doesn't want to count with his fingers," LeBeau said wearily. He exhaled and shook his head. "I wish this was easier for him. He struggles… and then he takes it out on us."
"Yep," Carter said. There wasn't much to add. They sat silently for a few minutes, when LeBeau piped up.
"He's made a lot of progress."
"Yeah?" Carter replied.
"Definitement. When I first knew him, taking to anyone was difficult. The first words he ever spoke to me were, 'Oh, fuck, it's you.' That and 'sod off' were the main words in his vocabulary. It was days before we had a real conversation. He was a wild animal."
"That sounds right," Carter said with a little laugh. "He wasn't much nicer to me."
"No, he wasn't. But now he talks to everyone in our barracks, and he has his football friends and a few RAF friends. I wonder if he realizes the progress he's made."
"Probably not," Carter replied. "I think he mostly sees what he can't do."