CHAPTER 33: RÉCUPÉRER BIEN
Somehow the conversation with Kinch and Wilson made a difference. Wilson made his way back to his quarters via the tunnels, and Kinch and Newkirk headed above deck. They found LeBeau putting the finishing touches on a meal that Newkirk had some time ago named "brown slop." There were beans, which he liked. There was spam, which he loathed. And there were potatoes, which he loved.
They sat at the table as LeBeau dished out the meal. He plopped the food on Newkirk's plate and took care to make sure nothing touched. He served the rest of the team—Colonel Hogan, Carter, and Kinch—and made sure nothing touched on their plates, either. Newkirk noticed and smiled and winked at LeBeau. It was nice not to be different for a change.
LeBeau invited the rest of the men in the barracks to help themselves to what remained on the stove, and they divided the leftovers cheerfully, then headed off to supper in the mess hall. Hogan's team chatted amiably at the table and cleaned their plates.
After the Colonel and Carter had left on a mission that night and while Kinch minded the radio, Newkirk pulled LeBeau into Hogan's office to talk privately.
Newkirk confided in LeBeau that eating unfamiliar foods filled him with bad memories and that comments about his picky eating habits made him feel like a helpless five-year-old again. It was nothing LeBeau didn't already understand; he had pieced it together months ago.
The important thing was that Newkirk was able to say it. "It's like I'm bracing for a hammer to come down," Newkirk explained. "When I'm eating, I j-j-just want to be left in peace."
"Colonel Hogan spoke to everyone and asked them to back off. Do you think that will help?" LeBeau asked.
Newkirk sighed. "It would, would be better if he hadn't had to talk to them at all, wouldn't it? If they never noticed in the first place."
"Well, it's too late for that. Nous avons vendu la mèche," LeBeau said.
"We done what?" Newkirk asked, puzzled.
LeBeau laughed. "How do you say it in English? 'Sold the fuse…'" Suddenly, he had a flashback to an English class. "Oh, no, it's 'We let the cat out of the bag.' That poor animal! You English are so cruel."
Newkirk let LeBeau have his fun; denigrating the British was an old, familiar pastime, and normally Newkirk would fight back. But Louis had put up with enough of his rubbish lately. So he just smiled sheepishly and allowed LeBeau to rib him.
LeBeau finally quit laughing and asked, "Pierre, what do you want to say to people when they comment on how you're eating?"
"Other than mind your own business?" Newkirk huffed. LeBeau gave him a skeptical look, and Newkirk got the message right away. Yes, he could say that, but it wouldn't solve anything. Some men might shrug off a "get lost" response, but others would talk behind his back, and that would upset him even more.
"I suppose I could say I know I need to eat b-better, and I'm working on it."
"That's a start. And if they persist?" LeBeau asked.
"I'll tell them they remind me of my Granny. That should shut anyone up."
LeBeau laughed. "You really didn't like her."
"Are you kidding? I loved her, but she terrified me. I don't think she meant to do. She was an old lady with seven kids on her hands after Mum got ill, and I'm sure I was a right pain in the arse."
LeBeau snickered his agreement. "I'm sure you were a handful," he said. He added silently, you were also a hurt and frightened child. There was no point in spelling that out to Newkirk, though. He knew all too well.
"I think the other men get jealous of us getting proper meals, Louis," Newkirk said as he puffed on a cigarette. "Sometimes they look like those slave workers—all big, pleading eyes. Isn't there something we can do for them?"
"There's only so much food to go around, mon pote," LeBeau said. "And it's not as if we are eating it to get fat. We're burning it off with all the extra work we do. Colonel Hogan and Carter will be covering ten kilometers tonight, and that's an easy night."
Newkirk sat back and blew out a smoke ring. "It's ffffunny being on the other side, you know? In my whole life, I never had anything anyone else wanted. I was always the one with the big eyes and the empty stomach, wishing I could have more." He bit his lip and thought for a moment. "Louis, what's one thing we always have a lot of?"
"Lice," LeBeau replied. "And fleas."
"Granted, we do have lice and fleas. But that's not what I meant," Newkirk replied, rolling his eyes. "Try to focus. We're talking about food, mate. What do we always have?"
"Potatoes," LeBeau grunted. "Every single day, potatoes. When I start my restaurant, I promise you, I won't have potatoes on the menu for at least a year. I never want to look at…."
"Louis," Newkirk interrupted. "What's one thing everyone likes?"
"What is this, a guessing game? Are you asking me riddles?"
Newkirk rolled his eyes again. "Everyone, French, American, and British, likes one thing."
"Sex," LeBeau said, nodding enthusiastically. "Well, maybe not Carter."
"Louis! We all like chips, mate."
"Pommes frites. Oui, they're good. We don't have enough oil to make them regularly, though."
"Could you make them once in a while, though? Like, on a bloke's birthday?" Newkirk asked.
LeBeau suddenly remembered a conversation from weeks earlier. He was hustling Newkirk—and a plate of pommes frites—out of the barracks room and into Colonel Hogan's quarters. Olsen had wanted to know where they were going with all the "French fries." The Colonel had replied that it was Newkirk's birthday—a transparent lie, but one Olsen didn't pick up on.
LeBeau realized Newkirk was onto something. He couldn't make more food appear. But he could make sure that every man got something special and something extra now and then to keep spirits up and hunger at bay. After all, it worked with Schultz. And it had certainly worked with Newkirk. LeBeau had always been sure that food had the power to lift men's souls. But he didn't think Newkirk understood that. It turned out he was wrong about that.
"That's a good idea, Pierre. Yes, I think I can make that work," LeBeau replied.
There were ups and downs as the week ticked along. More than once, LeBeau had to coax Newkirk to finish a meal; more than once, Hogan had to intervene before comments got out of hand. But the improvement was evident. It was as if Newkirk had shed a heavy burden simply by saying what made meals so distressing to him. He got it out of his system and stayed focused on getting back on the team.
Four days later, right after roll call, Colonel Hogan grabbed him by the elbow and steered him across the parade field toward the infirmary.
"You d-don't have to escort me, Sir," Newkirk said, feeling embarrassed. "I've been reporting in for br-breakfast in the infirmary for weeks now. I know the way."
"No doubt, Newkirk," Hogan said. "But today's a special day."
"Wh-what's special about it?" Newkirk did not like surprises or changes in routine in any way, shape, or form.
"You're due for a weigh-in," Hogan replied.
"Yes, Sir," Newkirk replied. "B-but I thought I had a few more days to hit my t-target."
"Corporal, I've seen you put away those chocolate bars. You could put Schultz to shame," Hogan jibed.
Newkirk sighed. Once inside, he and Colonel Hogan sat together in Wilson's small office to devour an infirmary breakfast of eggs, stewed apples, toast, and coffee. Invalid rations were definitely a cut above.
Then they traipsed down the hallway inside the infirmary to the small alcove where Wilson kept the scale. Newkirk stepped on it and closed his eyes.
"All set, Corporal," Wilson said. Newkirk stepped down and anxiously opened his eyes, squinting in case he didn't like what he saw and needed to shut them again.
"That's two and a half pounds this week, Corporal. You're up nearly nine pounds from your low weight. It looks like you're back in business," Wilson said with a smile. "You've got to keep gaining weight, but as of now, I'm authorizing you for active duty."
Newkirk managed to save his jubilant, two-fists-in-the-air, feet-off-the-ground "Yes!" until he got outside.
"When can I start, Colonel?" he asked as he bounced back to the hut.
"I've got something for you, me, and LeBeau tomorrow," a smiling Colonel Hogan replied. Finally, after weeks of disruption, he was about to have his team reassembled.
The incident with Olsen and the pommes frites was in Chapter 4.