NOTE: In this story (and most of my stories) Newkirk has the stutter that he has in the German-dubbed version of the series. But since he doesn't talk that much in this story, it's not a major element. Just wanted readers to be aware of this.
CAROLING, CAROLING
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree…
The barracks was empty at half past 12 on a sunny Christmas Day, except for Newkirk and Hogan, who were fussing at the table, and LeBeau, who was fussing over them. Outside, a merry group of choristers was intent on spreading Christmas cheer.
"Bloody c-carolers," Newkirk groaned.
"Durn down da soun," Hogan moaned, his head dropping to rest on his forearms.
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…
"Beautiful music is uplifting. Medicine for the soul, a balm for the spirit," LeBeau practically sang as he placed a steaming mug in front of each man. "And there's no better time to raise our voice in song than in dark December, as we celebrate the birth of our holy Lord, the bringer of light, our sav …"
"Shut up, you bloody ph-philosopher," Newkirk snapped. Then he sneezed and hacked. Unshaven, dressed in a grimy nightshirt, with a blanket around his shoulders, he looked pitiful, shivering there on the bench.
On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…
Hogan, seated beside Newkirk, was even more bedraggled, with red, rheumy eyes and a clogged nose that seemed to have swollen his sinuses to twice their normal size. With his chipmunk cheeks and stubble, not even his burgundy silk pajamas could make Hogan look dapper. Or human.
"Oh, my bleeding head," Hogan said.
"You don't say 'bleeding,' Sir. That's me," Newkirk replied testily.
"Don't care," Hogan groaned.
Both men had avoided the nasty cold that was going around the barracks until it finally caught up with them on Christmas Eve. Hogan was sure his head weighed a hundred pounds.
On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…
"Just sit and drink your tea, both of you," LeBeau counseled with a swat to the back of his English friend's head. He resisted the temptation to do the same to Colonel Hogan. "You'll feel better tomorrow, or the next day at the latest."
"Ow," Newkirk complained. "Didn't your mum ever t-teach you to keep your hands to yourself?" He eyed the mug warily. "What's in this, then? Looks like something you c-c-collected from a drain pipe."
"What's dat fwoating awound in it?" Hogan asked. His enunciation had been shot to hell by congestion and he sounded like a toddler with a baritone.
Great, LeBeau thought. Two of them with speech defects.
At that moment, the door flung open and fifteen carolers flooded into the barracks, determined to convey goodwill. Carter and Kinch were among them. Newkirk and Hogan sat bolt upright.
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five go-old rings! Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…
The carolers all noticed the two men sitting miserably at table, staring at them coolly, and the Frenchman standing behind them, angrily waving a spoon.
"Go away," LeBeau said menacingly.
"Weave us awone," Hogan said, punctuating the sentence with a sneeze. He was trying to sound commanding, and not succeeding in the slightest.
With wide eyes and moving as one, the choir backed out of the door. Kinch quirked an eyebrow at LeBeau, who waved him off ferociously. "Bah," LeBeau said. "Go sing somewhere else!"
LeBeau breathed a sigh of relief as they left, then peered in Newkirk's mug. He adopted the soothing voice one uses with a small child.
"It's tea, as I said," LeBeau said gently. "With fennel and coriander seeds. Nothing to worry about. The main ingredients are tea and honey and some lavender..."
Newkirk made a disgusted face. "I can't drink this swill, Louis. There's too much going on in this mug." Newkirk waved a hand vaguely over the drink and pouted, "I don't even like it when the cabbage touches the potatoes on my plate."
"… and I put in some brandy."
"Hmmm. How much brandy?" Hogan was looking somewhat more interested, and Newkirk was peering around his shoulder to see what LeBeau would say.
"Quite a bit," LeBeau replied. "It's one-third brandy. Nice and warm, too. Drink up. Then go rest in your bunks."
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, six geese a-laying, five go-old rings! Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves…
"W-why is that song about b-birds anyway?" Newkirk mulled as he sipped. "Who'd want a bleedin' bird for Christmas?"
"I fought you wiked birds," Hogan mumbled.
"Not the kind that flies," Newkirk answered. "They're the w-worst birds."
Thankfully, the song was fading. LeBeau tipped an ear to the sound. "They're heading toward the higher-numbered barracks."
"Fank God," Hogan wheezed. Then he paused and looked at Newkirk. "What come after six?"
"Seven," Newkirk said.
"No, how many birds?" Hogan was trying his best, but it came out "buuuuds." He took a long drink.
"Seven," Newkirk repeated.
Hogan glared at him, so Newkirk elaborated, "Seven swans a-swimming, Sir. We're nearly at the end of the buuuuds. I mean b-birds."
"Den what?" Hogan coughed.
Newkirk counted off on his fingers. "Eight mmmmaids a-mmmilking. Nine ladies dancing. Ten lords a-leaping. Eleven p-p-pipers piping…" Sneeze.
"Then twelb dwummers dwumming. Get dem back for dat part, WuhBeau," Hogan commanded. "It's my favowite." His head was sliding off his elbows and he was starting to drool a little.
"D'accord, mon Colonel," LeBeau lied. He draped a blanket around Colonel Hogan's shoulders and checked his mug. Empty. Perfect.
The Colonel's head hit the table, and the snoring commenced. Newkirk, judging from the glazed look in his eyes and the silly smile forming around his lips, wasn't far behind.
That was when LeBeau heard it, coming toward them.
Es ist ein Ros entsprungen aus einer Wurzel zart…
The Germans were coming.
(to be continued…)