First of all, I want to say that I got the idea for this one from a fanfic called "The Dig," by M. Vernet. The characters of Sammy and the grandpa are hers; I just borrowed them with her permission. Well, technically I only asked permission to use the grandpa, but I am giving her full credit for Sammy, who honestly is just a passing mention anyway, so if you are offended, M. Vernet, please don't sue me.
Second of all, I looked up Lakota funeral rituals to make sure I wrote about it correctly, but I'm sorry if I offend anyone by making any big errors (such as outdated rituals or something) or coming off as racist; I swear I don't mean to. Anyway, tallyho!
Roll call was mercifully over, and the prisoners slipped back into the barracks to escape the frost outside which heralded the coming winter (and get a much better breakfast than they would in the mess hall, courtesy of Corporal Lebeau).
Carter, unusually, seemed more interested in going back to sleep than eating. He leaned his head on one hand as he sat at the table, and his blue eyes drooped. In fact, he was leaning further and further askew, when a hand tapping his shoulder startled him awake.
"Huh?!"
Sergeant Kinchloe frowned in concern as he withdrew his hand. "Carter? You okay?"
The other sergeant smiled up at him. "Oh, hi Kinch. Sorry, I had trouble sleeping. Weird dreams."
Kinch nodded in understanding, and passed him a mug of coffee. "Maybe this will wake you up."
"Thanks."
He sipped the coffee thoughtfully.
"Really weird dreams…" he murmured again.
Hogan decided to humor him.
"What about?" he asked, leaning over so Carter would know he was paying attention.
He only needed to answer with one word. "Grandpa."
"Oh, no…" Newkirk groaned.
Some time after revealing that he was part Sioux, Carter had started bending everybody's ears who would listen about his beloved grandfather. Grandpa Sam, also known by his Lakota name Wambleeska (White Eagle), had been instrumental in the raising of Carter, his older brother Sammy (named after the old man), and Angry Rabbit whenever the latter came to visit. If Carter was to be believed, his grandpa was the best fisherman, best hunter, best storyteller, and best general person in the entire world, leading Newkirk to grumble after another gusto-filled tale about him that he should have a ruddy movie contract or something.
Carter didn't seem to notice the jibe.
"Can't remember much," he mused. "Just that he was there, and...I think we were in a flying shoe? Something like that."
Hogan snorted. "You remember your dreams better than I do."
Carter went back to his breakfast, and seemed to more or less forget about the dream.
A week later, Schultz reluctantly entered the barracks to distribute mail-instantly he was mobbed by prisoners starving for news from home.
"Please! Colonel Hogan, make them stop!" he wailed, as men hungrily snatched the letters from his hands, nearly tearing them in their eagerness.
Hogan purred, "Relax, Schultz, you'd only be in danger if you had a stamp and an address written on you."
"Ha ha, jolly joker," Schultz grumbled. After Carter eagerly retrieved his letter from his father, the big man retreated to safety, slamming the door behind him. Then the men dissipated to their preferred reading spots to catch up on their families and/or friends. For Carter, this was downstairs, in his lab.
Ever since he'd woken up one afternoon to find his toenails painted bright green with little pink hearts, Newkirk had been thinking of ways to get back at Carter. Admittedly, it wasn't the worst thing in the world he could have done; it was also for a good cause. But the Englander's masculinity had been compromised; this insult could not go unavenged.
Not anything disproportionate, though; Newkirk was not a cruel man, and he would also (secretly, he hoped) rather cut off his own hand than do anything to actually hurt Carter. So this required a great deal of thought and strategy.
The solution he finally hit upon was the good old 'snake-on-a-spring-hidden-inside-a-cracker-box' trick. It was unexpected, out of the ordinary, and would cause equal measures of shock and annoyance-in every way, the punishment fit the crime.
Grinning to himself, Newkirk found out from Lebeau where Carter was, and slipped down the ladder into the tunnel.
Of course, he wouldn't just offer him the box; that would be too obvious, make him suspicious. Besides, it didn't have the right kind of finesse.
No, Newkirk was going to be far more diabolical. He was going to go into the lab and make idle small talk, make sure Carter wasn't blowing himself up, then leave the box there and slip out. Carter would probably think he'd brought it down himself at some point-he was always bringing snacks with him-and open it when he got hungry, and then: boom!
With a slight snicker the Englander slipped around the corner, and started to enter the lab-
All remains of his grin dropped from his face.
Carter was sitting on the floor, crying.
Well, at least Newkirk assumed he was crying; his head was buried in his curled-up knees, and his shoulders were shaking, and small, shuddering breaths were coming from his mouth. As he quietly stepped further into the lab, he could tell that they were sobs; Carter was crying.
What's going on? What 'appened?
Newkirk's gaze landed on the letter lying on the floor in front of him, looking like it had been dropped from shocked, nerveless fingers.
Something bad back 'ome, then.
The cracker box slid into his pocket without a second's hesitation. Now was no time to be thinking about petty revenge; his friend was in pain.
Hesitantly, Newkirk crossed the room until he was able to lever himself to the floor beside Carter. Then, with a touch of embarrassment but thinking it was what needed to be done at the moment, he slipped an arm around Carter's back, gently pulling him against his side. Carter jumped a bit when he first felt his touch, but then, seeming to realize who it was without looking up, he relaxed against his side, and went on crying.
Newkirk said nothing, didn't ask any questions. He just waited, and continued giving his one-armed hug, occasionally patting his shoulder.
When Carter finally calmed down a bit, Newkirk asked softly, "Bad news?"
Carter took a moment to snuffle, and rub his face on his sleeves. Then he raised his teary face and whispered, "Grandpa's dead."
Newkirk felt his stomach twist. After a second, he asked, "Do you know 'ow?"
A small shrug. "He was old. Mom went in one morning to wake him up, and-" Another sob.
After a second, he went on, "Before I left, I had the feeling he might die while I was gone. He'd been around so long, and he was getting so tired. But I didn't think-I-it's so stupid! I wasn't there-I didn't get to say-"
He buried his face in his knees again.
Newkirk had not been that close to his own grandparents. His father's mum and dad died before he was born, and his mum's folks were still in Wales, so he'd only met them a few times. So he couldn't say he understood exactly what Carter was feeling right now. But he'd had loved ones die before, so he at least knew how that felt. And he knew there were no real words for something like this. So he once again kept his mouth shut while Carter wept.
When this fresh wave of grief subsided, Carter finally uncurled himself. "Sorry, you probably didn't want to hear all this since you get so sick of me talking about him."
It was a bit like a kick in his already-tormented stomach. "Andrew-"
"I-I'm upset and kind of taking it out on you. Sorry," Carter said again, this time with less bitterness.
"You don't 'ave to apologize, mate. Not for this." Newkirk pulled a comparatively clean handkerchief (which he'd nicked from Schultz during the mail rush) out of his sleeve, which he proffered to the younger man. Carter began rubbing his face into it, and blowing his nose.
When he saw that Newkirk seemed to have no objection to his continuing to speak, he went on, "Pop says they're keeping some of his things for me. Things he wanted me to have. But they're worried the Krauts will steal them or something if they try to send them to me now. And my aunt's gonna be the Keeper of the Soul."
At Newkirk's questioning look, he explained, "It's a ceremony where they take a lock of the dead person's hair, wrapping it in a buckskin, to make a Soul Bundle. The Keeper watches over it for about a year, and during that time has to live without conflict." His face scrunched up. "If I'd been there, I would have been the Keeper. But-it's not a good idea for me to try to have a harmonious life right now."
Despite his clumsy awkwardness and tendency to get into no end of trouble, Newkirk privately admitted that Carter would have been perfect for that role. All he said out loud was, "I'm so sorry, Carter."
Platitude though it might be, it was the best thing he could think of to say.
They sat in silence, one offering comfort, one trying to accept it. Then Carter cleared his throat. "There's a full moon tonight."
Newkirk glanced at him. "Yeah?"
"I want to go out."
"...Huh?"
Carter nodded, looking more serious than he'd ever seen him. "To say goodbye. Find a good place to have a wake for him. I missed the funeral."
Newkirk knew better than to try to talk him out of it; Carter needed the opportunity. And if such a thing had ever happened to him, he'd want a chance to have a funeral too. A private, home-away-from-home funeral. He was prepared to go with Carter to ask Hogan's permission, prepared to argue the man's ear off if he had to.
He wasn't prepared for Carter to ask, "Would you come with me?"
The Englander blinked. "Me? What-why me?"
"You're my friend," was the simple reply, which secretly warmed Newkirk's heart. "And it would be safer than me going out by myself."
"Then yeah, sure. I don't mind." After a second of thought, Newkirk asked, "You planning on telling the colonel?"
Carter shook his head no, to Newkirk's surprise. "I don't know if he'd understand. He'd probably say it's too dangerous for a 'silly funeral rite' or something like that."
"I don't think you give me enough credit," said Hogan.
Both Carter and Newkirk jumped, and leaped to their feet when they saw him standing in the entryway of the lab. His normal impertinent grin was replaced by a sympathetic frown, and he said gently, "I'm sorry about your grandpa."
The tech sergeant gave him a weak smile. "It's fine, colonel. It hurts, but it's fine."
That's not contradictory at all, Newkirk thought.
Hogan stepped inside and squeezed Carter's shoulder. "You think you can be back by morning roll call?"
"Yeah."
"I don't need to tell both of you to be careful?"
"No, sir," chorused both men.
"Good. Then you have my blessing."
"This is a good place," Carter murmured.
They stopped in a grove about twenty minutes from Stalag 13, where they could easily see the moon shining. Carter looked around to make sure all was relatively quiet, and then sat down on the ground. He picked up a piece of hollow log he'd found earlier, which he smacked with his hand. Then he began to sing.
It was like nothing Newkirk had ever heard; Carter had explained that it was a Lakota memorial song, and normally it would be accompanied by a drum and sung a lot louder, but he didn't want them to get shot or captured, so he was forced to improvise with the log and singing at indoor voice level.
Despite not being any sort of understandable speech (not to the Englander, anyway), it expressed the feeling of grief and loss perfectly. Apparently it was a prayer for Grandpa Sam to find peace, as well as a tribute to his memory. Without getting too maudlin about it, Newkirk felt himself tearing up a little bit as he listened.
When it ended, Carter set down the log, before pulling a knife out of his pocket.
Newkirk stared at it in slight alarm.
"What's that for?"
He'd heard stories about how some Indians would cut their arms and legs after a loved one died; he wasn't sure the colonel would appreciate it going that far-
Carter took a lock of his own hair in his other hand, and chopped it off, before letting the pieces scatter in the slight breeze.
"Oh."
After a second, Newkirk pulled out his own knife, making it Carter's turn to be surprised.
"You don't have to-"
Newkirk held up the clump of hair for Carter to see, letting it dissipate from between his fingers.
"What are friends for, if not shows of solidarity? Besides, I think-I think I'd 'ave liked your grandpa, if I'd ever met 'im."
A small, timid smile touched Carter's lips.
"Thanks, Newkirk."
As they trudged back to camp, Carter started singing again in Lakotaese, or whatever the word was for the Lakota language, Newkirk didn't know. It was different this time; gentler, more playful.
"What's that?" Newkirk asked.
"Grandpa made it up for me. It's a lullaby he used to sing for me at night when I was a kid." Carter cleared his throat. "In English, it goes like this:
Run, little deer.
Run faster than the wolf.
Hide, little deer.
Hide better than the fox.
Fly, little deer.
Fly higher than the eagle.
Eat, little deer.
Eat more than the rabbit."
Newkirk snorted with laughter.
"It...loses something in the translation." Carter laughed softly too.
"Angry Rabbit must 'ate the last part."
"Yeah, he always complained that I was Grandpa's favorite, and that's why it's in there…"
Another mourning ritual is apparently driving pegs through your limbs, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go quite that far with Carter. Yes, this one is sadder than the others, but I figure that way it makes these vignettes a little more diverse.