Sometimes people get in a bad mood. Everyone does, really. Well, everyone except Andrew Carter.
Carter was the most placid and easy-going member of Colonel Hogan's team. It goes without saying that Newkirk and LeBeau were testy and acid-tongued. Hogan himself had his moody moments and could be cynical and mocking. Even Kinch could be sarcastic now and then, even if he was never rude.
But Carter seemed to have his own personal supply of sunshine and lollipops. He was a stranger to derisiveness, and even bad news never got him down for long.
Ok, sure, sure. There was that time Mary Jane sent him a Dear John letter and he got pretty upset. There was the time Newkirk and LeBeau got on his nerves whooping around the barracks in a bad movie imitation of brave Native warriors, even though he never mentioned why it was annoying or why he was so skilled at carving a bow and arrow. And then there was the time they dunked him in the well and made jokes about transferring him to the Navy as a frogman. But none of those incidents kept him down for long. And nobody could remember a time when Carter was really, really sore.
Not until November 28, 1943, anyway. It was a Sunday, and even Carter was usually extra nice on Sundays. Of course, Sunday was the one day of the week that Newkirk made a real effort not to swear, which pretty much lifted everybody's mood.
It was a particularly cold week, a time when the nip in the air suddenly made the tip of your nose tingle with the certainty that winter was approaching, and when you could smell snow, even if you couldn't see it yet. Baseball had given way to football, and shirtsleeves to jackets and coats, and everybody was rubbing their hands together in formation and wishing they had gloves. And people were getting nostalgic. Christmas was on its way, and that was a little something to look forward to, because the folks at home and the Red Cross would do something to make it a little nice. They always had, the long-timers reassured the newcomers.
Oh, yeah, and Thanksgiving had come and gone. That got everybody thinking about home and mom and cooking, except of course the British and the French and the Canadians and… well, OK, everyone but the Americans. But there were a lot of them and they were noisy and loud and they dwelled on things.
November 25 wasn't much of a Thanksgiving, but LeBeau mashed some potatoes and came up with some gravy, and cobbled together an apple pie, and that seemed to help.
Come to think of it, that was the day Carter started getting a little testy. So testy that at one point he had actually snorted—dismissively one might even say. It happened late that night when Addison started explaining to Newkirk and LeBeau what Thanksgiving was all about.
"It all happened in Plymouth, not far from where I grew up," Addison began.
"Winthrop Hayborough Addison III," Garlotti joked. "Makes total sense. I figured you were on the Mayflower."
Addison ignored the joke and decided not to mention his Mayflower Society credentials. "The Indians had been warring, attacking the Pilgrim settlements, but they were able to set aside their differences and share a big meal. Which of course had turkey and sweet potatoes although I'm guessing no pumpkin pie." Addison was proof positive that a fancy pedigree and private education was no guarantee that you'd have a brain, because he was kind of a dope.
"I'm sorry, I'm n- not sure I'm getting this," Newkirk put in. "You lot invaded America, and the Indians j-j-just wanted to sit down and have lunch with you?"
"Yeah, they did. And they helped the Pilgrims survived the winter, teaching them how to plant stuff… and stuff like that," Addison said vaguely.
"Oh, very specific. Righto, and then what? They lived side by side in happy harmony?" Newkirk asked.
"No, stupid. They gave up the land and went west. The end," Addison said.
"Oh. That makes perfect sense, then," Newkirk said with his patented, gigantic eyeroll.
That was when Carter made the sound. It was deep and guttural and nasal all at once, and it sounded like he'd suddenly had an attack of phlegm. It was such an odd sound emanating from Carter that people just assumed he was catching cold.
Except for Newkirk, whose perceptive ears caught the note of derision embedded in the grunt. He figured Carter was laughing at him, and immediately took offense.
"What, Carter?" Newkirk asked irritably.
"Nothing," Carter replied. "Just forget it." Then he stood, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.
LeBeau, who had been sitting silent but amused as Newkirk deconstructed Addison, was plainly startled by that sight. What was this madness? Exasperation, impatience and disdain were not in Carter's vocabulary. In shock, LeBeau toppled his chair backwards, and it was only swift thinking by Kinch that prevented him from cracking his head open on the floor.
"Something is bothering you, Carter," Kinch said as he returned LeBeau to an upright and locked position. "Come on, spit it out."
"They weren't 'The Indians,' they were Wampanoags," Carter said. "There's more native tribes than you realize. And they didn't all 'go west.' Some are still in Massachusetts. There's a powwow in Mashpee every July." He let out a breath. "That's all I'm saying."
"Mashpee?" Newkirk chortled. "Blimey, we eat those in England, you know. That's a real place?"
"Yes, it's a real place with real tribes," Carter said wearily. It was getting late, so he got out his kit and brushed his teeth and got ready for bed.