Chapter 1: The Messengers

"Don't worry about it, Newkirk. Your message got through just fine," Sergeant James Kinchloe was saying as Colonel Robert Hogan entered the radio hut below Stalag 13. Corporal Peter Newkirk, dressed in a Luftwaffe Sergeant's uniform, was standing before him, glaring at his crossed arms, with a similarly clad Sergeant Andrew Carter by his side.

"You communicated the message to Alpine Swift and Nightjar? No problems?" Colonel Hogan asked. Newkirk and Carter swiveled to face him.

"We got the word across, Sir," Newkirk said, shifting his eyes away from the Colonel's gaze.

"Good, good. Who did the talking?" Colonel Hogan asked.

"C-Carter, Sir. I um…" Newkirk exhaled and cut his eyes over to Carter. He nodded.

"Newkirk kind of got stuck on the part about troop 'migration,' Sir," Carter broke in as they started to strip off the uniforms. "But it was OK. Really, Sir. We got it done."

"OK, good job. That's why we send you out in pairs, so you can cover each other," Hogan said reassuringly. "Well done, men." He looked to Newkirk, who was struggling to say something. His mouth was open, but the words weren't coming. Hogan, Kinch and Carter just waited expectantly, knowing that Newkirk would eventually find his voice.

"Take your time, Newkirk. We're listening," Hogan said patiently.

"—I wasn't literally expecting two birds," Newkirk finally got out. "Blimey, who makes up these c-code names? Well, they were both so pr-pretty. And when I had trouble st-st-sta, starting, they were giggling like they thought I was k-k-k-kidding around. Then, it was like someone j-j-j-j-jammed a st-st-st-st-st-st-stopper in my throat, and it got, got, got worse from there, Sir." He hung his head down and pulled at the hem of his shirt. "C-Carter came through, C-C-C-Colonel."

"All right. OK. No harm. It's a good thing you had a partner tonight, Newkirk," Hogan said. He was surprised at the sudden severity of Newkirk's stutter; he had been speaking with increasing confidence and fluency for months, and rarely stumbled over his friend's names.

Hogan had worked with Newkirk long enough to resolve his initial reservations about using him to communicate urgent and sensitive messages. When Newkirk went out on his own, some deep instinct seemed to kick in that made it possible for him to say and do whatever he needed to in pursuit of his mission, and he had never failed to perform. And when he went out with a partner, he had someone to lean on just in case. Speech impediment or not, Hogan had concluded he needed him on the team for his stealth and special talents, including his verbal skills as an actor and impersonator.

"Maybe if you just tried to slow down, a little, Newkirk," Carter said quietly as he hung up his uniform. "Just relax. Don't think too hard."

Newkirk, who had just finished changing, opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He snapped it shut and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"More practice, maybe," Hogan said. "This mission came up suddenly. We only went over the message once."

"Maybe the word 'die Migration' was a bad idea. We know how hard the letter M is for you," Carter said. "If you could just try to breathe, Newkirk, that'd help."

"Brilliant advice, Carter. I never realized breathing would matter," Newkirk replied, rolling his eyes.

Carter missed the snarky tone. "And like I said, maybe talk slower. If you rush, it's probably worse."

"You're not the bleedin' st-stammering expert, Carter," Newkirk snapped. "It doesn't work that way! If I was deaf, would you tell me to listen harder? If I was blind, would tell me to squint so I could focus better?"

Now Kinch had joined the group. He clamped a hand down on Newkirk's shoulder.

"Well, you're not stuttering now," Carter said with a smile. "So I'm doing something right. Gee, maybe I'm an expert after all!"

Carter started to giggle just as Newkirk lunged toward him. Kinch pulled the British corporal back into line as Carter backed away in shock. "Settle down," Kinch said. "Carter's not the enemy."

"Don't laugh at me! It isn't funny!" Newkirk roared at Carter.

"I'm not! I'm just …. Jeez, Peter, I don't know what to make of you sometimes. You're always making jokes, but if I do it…"

"I don't j-j-j-jo," Newkirk started. "J-j-jo. I don't j-j-j-jo-jo-joke about this! And you'd better not either!"

Newkirk twisted out of Kinch's grip and stood with his arms crossed, eyes down. "Right. I'm done talking," he said to no one in particular.

LeBeau was on his way down the ladder, checking to see what was taking everyone so long. It was risky for so many men to be out of the barracks at once, even at night. A mission debriefing rarely took more than five minutes, but the Colonel had gone down below 15 minutes ago.

"Is everything OK?" LeBeau asked as he landed at the bottom of the ladder. One look at Newkirk, and he had his answer. "Did something go wrong out there, Pierre?" he asked.

Newkirk just nodded his head angrily.

"Nothing went wrong. The mission was accomplished," Hogan said firmly. "Newkirk, Carter, you did your part." He turned to LeBeau. "Everything went smoothly until they got back here and had a little disagreement. I'm sure they'll solve it between themselves," he said with a pointed look at his two youngest staff members. "Now everyone, up to bed. I think you need some sleep, Newkirk. Don't argue with me."

Carter scrambled up the ladder. Kinch gave Newkirk a push, then started up after him, glancing over his shoulder at Hogan, who gritted his teeth and nodded. Yes, we have to talk, was the clear message to Kinch.

LeBeau stood back at the Colonel's elbow.

"Let me guess," LeBeau said. "He had trouble speaking."

Hogan nodded. "Yep. He's mad at himself. He'll get over it. They did just fine. He worries too much."

"He's spent his whole life worrying about speaking fluently, mon Colonel," LeBeau replied. "It's a hard habit to break."

"No doubt," Hogan said, nodding and waving a hand toward the bunk bed ladder. At that gesture, LeBeau headed up the ladder with the Colonel at his heels.