Mess could hardly be called a feast but when one was hungry, it could certainly be presumed a feast. His stomach growled loudly as he looked at the plates surrounding him.

LeBeau set a plate on the table then sat down beside him. He gave him a look begging forgiveness. “Mon pote, you know we have to eat.”

He sighed from the back of his throat, just about the only sound he could make currently. He gently placed the side of his head in his hand and closed his eyes. He let his thoughts wander back to just a day ago…

Newkirk sat on the bench outside Barracks 2, fag dangling from his lips. He watched the Americans play their football and folded his arms, scowling past the cigarette. He would never understand their fascination with the so-called sport.

Even though Newkirk despised the game, he watched, his full attention on the game. It was a good thing he was as the football was thrown, well over the head of the man receiving the pass, and headed straight for where Newkirk sat. He had the wherewithal to stand just in time and make a great catch. The Americans applauded and hooted.

Newkirk took the bait. He walked over to them, football tucked under his arm. “You mates use another player?”

They drew him into the game and started back up. Soon the game drew a large crowd of bystanders including the rest of the members of Barracks 2. Carter and LeBeau sat on the bench Newkirk had vacated to join the game. Kinch stood beside the bench and turned when the Barracks’ door open and Hogan stepped out.

“What’s going on—?” Hogan began but stopped when he spotted a flash of blue stopping to catch a pass. He turned towards his mates no long enough to wave and grin, then run back into the game.

“How the hell did they get Newkirk to play American football?” Hogan asked, incredulously, his tone of voice raising to match his level of surprise.

“Don’t know, Sir, but he’s certainly making a show of it,” Kinch replied. He stood, leaned against the building, hands in his pockets and smiling faintly.

“Mon dieu!” LeBeau gasped as Newkirk made a sideways catch that he was sure he’d miss.

“Who knew Pete was good at playing football!” Carter exclaimed, rhetorically.

They continued watching the game, cheering and crowing as the Englander never seemed to tire. He didn’t even seem to be breathing hard, despite his constant need for cigarettes.

Newkirk eventually started to go after plays the other men were doing, effectively forcing himself into every ounce of the game.

The Americans were regretting their decision to include a certain feisty Englander in their game.

Both sides huddled to talk strategies. Newkirk led his team while the other team talked about Newkirk instead of strategy.

The teams broke and spread out. The next play began and Newkirk grabbed the ball. Two men on the other team rushed him from behind and literally mowed him over. One came up with the ball as the ran down the chosen field.

Newkirk was flat on his face on the ground, unmoving.

LeBeau jumped to his feet. “Sacre bleu! Pierre is not moving!”

The quartet from Barracks 2 rushed the field. Hogan and Kinch rolled Newkirk onto his back. LeBeau spotted a trickle of blood from Newkirk’s lips and turned away.

“Oh boy, we gotta get him to Wilson!” Carter voiced the one thing all four were thinking.

Kinch hefted Newkirk up and Hogan took one of his arms around his shoulders then Kinch followed suit. Carter and LeBeau led the way, even ignoring the two men that ran over their friend.

The pair exchanged looks of guilt. They hadn’t intended to knock the Englander unconscious. They just wanted him to stop enjoying the game so much. They frowned at each other then started arguing, one blaming the other.

Wilson joined Hogan and his men as they settled Newkirk on a cot. “What happened to him this time?” he asked, a bit exasperated as he saw Newkirk more often than most of the other men added together.

“Over eager football players,” was Hogan’s response.

“Yeah, they ran him over like a steamroller!” Carter supplied.

Wilson sighed. “Colonel, fellas, let me work on him. Give me a little while before you come back. Please?”

Any time Hogan or any of his core cree ended up needing medical attention, the others tended to hover and got in the way, though not intended, of course.

Hogan nodded. “Sure, Wilson. Come on, fellas. Not much we can do here anyway.” He steered them out and was just out the door when he heard Wilson sigh in relief.

When they returned a half hour later they were all shooed away except for Colonel Hogan. Wilson took him aside and spoke in hushed tones, explaining Newkirk’s situation. As Wilson spoke, Hogan’s eyes widened.

“You’re kidding?!” Hogan asked, voice raising an octave.

Wilson simply shook his head and stepped away.

Hogan crossed the camp in a bit of a daze. He didn’t even believe himself when he explained it to Kinch, Carter, and LeBeau.

Newkirk’s jaw was to be wired shut, which meant the Englander would be silent and unable to smoke for far longer than any of them thought possible.

Newkirk sighed as a liquid was placed in front of him. The two men that bowled him over had brought a peace offering. He listened as they apologized and had just the right amount of guilt on their faces that he believed them. Finally, Newkirk nodded, and the pair walked away from the table.

Indeed soon, Newkirk would feast on LeBeau’s food… even if it was fish stew. Maybe.

-End-