The next swim lesson had been more than a little discouraging, Carter thought. He was now reliably able to tread water, with or without the life preserver. That was good. Kicking his legs was self-explanatory. Good. He could manage the hand-over-hand motion of the crawl. Also good. Timing it so that he turned his head to catch a breath when his arms weren't in the way was a somewhat spottier proposition. Not so good. And doing all of those things at the same time was becoming harder the more he tried, rather than easier. Also not so good.

Carter, the dictionary definition of the eternal optimist, was losing faith in his ability to learn to swim. Not good at all.

"All right, Andrew, let's take a break, shall we?" Newkirk, looking about as frustrated as Carter felt, towed Carter back to the shore yet again. "You just… you just rest for a few minutes. I'm going for a quick lap across the pond and back before me muscles cramp up."

"Sure thing," Carter said gloomily, as he watched Newkirk set off across the water, with crisp, clean strokes that made Carter feel even more inadequate than he already did. He picked up a pebble and threw it into the water; it sank like the stone it was, or like Carter himself.

Newkirk was probably disappointed in him. And, when they got back to camp, the Colonel was going to be disappointed in him, too. Carter didn't know which was worse. Both of them were worse. And he was disappointed in himself, and that was worse, too.

Newkirk reached the other side, turned around, and began the return leg. He was probably going to tell the Colonel that it was no good, Carter was too clumsy, too uncoordinated, too dumb to learn. And he'd be right. He should tell the Colonel. The Colonel needed to know if one of his men couldn't cut the mustard, and if Carter couldn't be counted on to do the job, then by gosh he deserved to be kicked off the team and replaced by somebody who could. The Colonel would have no choice but to send Carter back to London. And it was a measure of how upside-down and backwards this whole crazy war had become that he was heartbroken at the idea of being shipped off to freedom, while some other mug—one who knew how to swim—took his job, and his bunk, and his spot in the roll-call.

He already hated that theoretical other fellow, whoever he would turn out to be. Boy, he really hated his rotten guts. And Newkirk—

And Newkirk had let out a yelp, right in the deepest part of the pond, and clutched his side, right before sinking underwater. Carter shot to his feet, heart pounding like a drum and eyes wide. "Newkirk? Newkirk!"

Newkirk thrashed his way to the surface, long enough for one frantic gasp, before going under again. The water churned for a moment, then went still.

Carter didn't even think about it. He couldn't think. He just threw himself into the water, kicked away from the bank, his arms slicing the water like a piston. There was no time to think, no time for anything; there was only the need to move, to get across the treacherous expanse, and force the pond, force the dark waters, force God or Fate or whoever was running this show to fix this terrible mistake before something unbearable happened, something there would be no fixing. Carter took a deep breath and dove, grabbed at a pale figure floating motionless in the cool water, and dragged him to the surface.

They had been in the water since lunchtime; they were both chilled, and Carter couldn't tell if Newkirk was colder than an hour in the water should have left him. He couldn't be dead. Carter wouldn't let him be dead. He would tow him back to shore, and everything would be all right. It had to be. He crooked an arm around Newkirk, began swimming back to shore. One stroke. Another.

"Fair warning, Carter—if you try to give me the kiss of life we'll both live to regret it."

Carter was so shocked that he promptly got water up his nose and choked.

"Easy, mate," Newkirk said, reaching to steady Carter as he got his breath back. "Deep breath. That's right."

"You… you weren't drowning?" Carter's panic converted to anger at roughly the speed of light. "You were never drowning at all? You—you rat fink! That was an awful thing to do!"

"Worked, though, didn't it?"

"That was mean, Newkirk! That was really mean!" Carter was not amused. "You scared me!"

"I meant to," Newkirk said. "I know you, Andrew. If you needed to swim because you needed to swim, we'd be 'ere till doomsday. If you needed to swim because I needed you to swim, you'd be outdoing Johnny Weissmuller before you could say knife. And you did."

Carter opened his mouth, closed it again.

Newkirk lay back in the water, treading effortlessly. "That's always 'ow you are. You get the wind up, you second guess yourself, you fret… and the minute you're wanted, you forget all about being nervous and do a smashing job. Every ruddy time. You're that sort; you'll always come through for a mate." He smiled. "I knew you could do it. All you needed was a reason to forget that you couldn't. So I gave you one."

"…Oh," Carter said. "Thanks. I think."

"Don't mention it," said Newkirk. "But now that you're a swimmer, I can say that if you duck me again, there'll be 'ell to pay."

Carter blushed. "You knew I did it on purpose that last time, huh?"

"Where else would I've gotten the idea to fake a drowning? Turnabout's fair play."

Carter felt his cheeks burning redder still, then, suddenly, he laughed. "You're right. I guess it is," he said. "Say, Newkirk? Thanks. For everything."

He flipped a hand expansively. "Any time, Andrew. Now let's get out of this sodding mud puddle and back to camp."

As they walked back to camp, soggy but in far better spirits than the last time, Carter was unwontedly quiet. Newkirk didn't hand out compliments all that readily; Carter wanted to savor this one. The minute you're wanted, you do a smashing job. You'll always come through for a mate.

He sneaked a look at Newkirk, striding doggedly along, eyes darting from side to side, intently watching for danger, and grimly ready for it when it came. You're that sort, too, aren't you? Carter thought. You'll always come through for a pal.

They made it to the tree stump, cracked it open. Carter hopped nimbly into the tunnel and down the ladder, head abuzz. He would tell the Colonel that he could swim now; the Colonel would probably be really happy to hear it. And he wouldn't send Carter back to London after all. He could stay here, with his buddies. In Germany. In jail. Cold and hungry, digging tunnels half the day and doing dangerous stuff half the night. Spies and saboteurs, and never more than thirty seconds away from a firing squad. All of them. Together.

Boy! I've got to be the luckiest guy in the world.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: All right, full disclosure; according to Wikipedia the all-knowing, the 'kiss of life' method of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation wasn't introduced until after the war, and the reference is a complete anachronism. I admit it. That said, the image of Carter trying to perform such- and Newkirk's likely response upon waking to a sight like that- amused me too much to cut the line.

Johnny Weissmuller was an Olympic champion swimmer in the '20s. He also played Tarzan in the movies, but it was his swimming prowess to which Newkirk was referring. One can only hope that Carter didn't feel moved to attempt Weissmuller's famous Tarzan Yell, at least not until they were back in camp.

Carter does strike me as the sort to always come through in a pinch. He can dither and panic before and after, but when his friends need him, in scheme after scheme, (especially when dressed in a German uniform of some sort,) he's always self-assured and steady as a rock. That's a quality I respect, and I think Newkirk would, too.