Crouching behind the delousing station, Newkirk looked both ways before pulling out the cigarette box and lighter. Shaking the box, he cursed. It was almost empty. He pulled it open and found a single, lonely fag.
Well, there went the plan to stand (well, crouch, anyway) there and have a good, long smoke. He'd been going through his packs rapidly, far more rapidly than the Red Cross packages arrived, and with that came the increased irritability and hunger that made him an even greater ray of sunshine than usual in the barracks. This in turn meant that when he and Lebeau got into their friendly spats, it was no longer clear to Newkirk, Lebeau or the rest of camp whether they were really friendly anymore.
As for getting new cigarettes, there were only so many times a man could "borrow" from someone on the promise of repayment before not only getting turned down, but shoved out the camp black market on his behind. There was, of course, always stealing, but he didn't fancy kipping in his bunk only to find it lit on fire by some chap who wanted to get retribution. Or that was what Newkirk told himself. In reality, though he's never admit it, Newkirk would never force the desperate feeling of needing calm, a fix, but being unable to get it, on anybody else.
Sighing, he plucked out the last cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply, letting a brief and far too short bit of peace and contentment wash over him.
"Ahem."
Newkirk nearly jumped out of his boots. Turning around, he found what, or rather, who, he'd been avoiding while crouching standing beside him. He muttered another curse.
Kinch raised an eyebrow. "Weren't we working on that chain smoking habit?"
Newkirk winced. "Don't have a clue what you're talking about."
They, in fact, were. Not that Kinch didn't smoke. About everybody in camp did. It was just that few had Newkirk's penchant for going through two or three packs a day. And as Newkirk had been morosely considering earlier, a habit like that was hard to afford.
Kinch glanced down at the ground. "Well, I see you just started. Come on, let's go get a game of cards started. I'm gonna break you out of this habit if it kills me."
Newkirk sighed and got up, stubbing out the light and carefully putting the remains of the cigarette in the empty box. "It sure feels like it's killing me."
Kinch snorted as they started walking back to the barracks. "Smoking is killing you, Pete. And I don't mean your lungs. One of these days, Olsen's finally gonna get tired of waiting for you to pay him back, and just get his money's worth humiliating you."
For all the sergeant's talk, when Newkirk found a fresh pack of cigarettes tucked in his blanket that night, he knew who they were from.
