An avalanche of letters had absorbed the attention of most of the occupants of Barracks 2 for most of the afternoon. Olsen, Garlotti, LeBeau, Addison, Harper, Kinch, Carter, Abrams, Bartoli, Goldman, and of course Hogan, had all received sweet-smelling envelopes from wives and girlfriends and newsy updates from their families.

On days when everyone had news from home, it was painful to end up empty handed, but once again Newkirk shrugged off disappointment, took his football, and went out to kick it around with a smattering of other British prisoners. An hour later, Newkirk was back inside, sweaty and as cheerful as possible under the circumstances. That is, until he realized Carter was nattering about his letter.

"It's hard to believe it's been over a year since I saw my mom. It's fourteen months, actually, now that I think about. Boy, I sure do miss her. I bet when I get home she'll make me my favorite meal... pork chops with roast potatoes and applesauce and..."

"Dijon mustard is essential. And I am sure you miss her," LeBeau said gently. "Fourteen months is a long time. But André, keep in mind that some of us have been here more than twice that long." He cast his eyes over at Newkirk, halfway expecting an explosion.

"Th-three bleedin' years," Newkirk interjected. He sat down heavily on the bench and deliberately shook his football boots out right in front of Carter's bunk. Dimwit, he thought, but he said nothing further.

"That is a long time, guys," Carter said sympathetically. "I just miss family time, you know? Sitting and talking with my mom, doing little things to help her, making her laugh. I miss that a lot."

"Of course you do," Kinch said. "I think we all miss our families."

"But mostly our moms. Because moms are special," Carter persisted. He scrubbed at his eyes, homesickness etched on his face. Then he looked at the mess Newkirk had made.

"Hey, let's clean that up, buddy," Carter joked. "Your mom's not here to clean up after you."

The words were like a dagger to Newkirk's heart. No, she wasn't. His mum hadn't been around for years and years—nearly 15 years, in fact. But he forced out a grin and nodded. "Sorry, mate, I'll tidy up," he said, rising to get a broom and dustpan.

A few minutes later, Newkirk was up on his bunk, loafing aimlessly while the other prisoners continued to chat about home. He turned on his side to face the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, determined to fit in a nap. Between an hour of brisk exercise in the cool air and the fatigue brought on by recent late night missions, he was asleep in no time, transported by his dreams.

A feverish face, a roomy lap, a soft breast. He was small, very small, coughing while nestled in his mother's arms as his big brothers and sisters rampaged through the snug flat.

"Shh, now, children. Your baby brother is very ill and he needs to rest. Mavis, see if you can't send Michael and Jamie outside to play and put Ellie and Lilly down for their naps, there's a good girl. Ask Emily to sing to them, that will settle her down. And bring me a bottle for Peter, dear."

"We haven't any milk, Mum. Can you just nurse him? That always calms him." Mavis replied. Only 12, she was mature beyond her years.

"There's hardly enough in me for Lilly," Mummy sighed. She hadn't been well or eaten much and her milk was drying up, even though she still had an infant daughter to feed. "Water will do for him, then, and mix in a spoonful of sugar if we have it, love," her mother replied, sounding exhausted. A moment later, Mavis was at her side, coaxing her brother, who was still a few months away from 3, to take the bottle.

Jamie and Michael bounded past their mother and brother on their way to the door. "Oh, look at the little baby drinking from his bottle," 11 year old Michael mocked. Jamie, just two years younger, laughed as they exited, slamming the door behind them. Peter shifted in Mummy's arms, flinching at the sound of his brothers' voices.

"That's enough, boys," Mummy said wearily. "You were little once too." She watched as they tumbled out the door. "Hush," she whispered to Peter, holding him close as Mavis stroked his arm.

Peter thought he might be getting too old for a bottle because Jamie and Michael said so, and Mummy and Mavis always tried to trick him out of it when he wanted it at bedtime. And he was getting so big—Mummy and Mavis and Emily and Ellie told him that all the time. But everything hurt and he wanted to melt into Mummy so she could hold him forever. And now she wanted him to have the bottle, so it must be all right, even for such a big boy. He latched on and closed his eyes, and soon a cool, sweet drink was soothing his aching throat as it trickled down.

He woke with a start, feeling thirsty, then remembered where he was. He rolled over lazily and saw his team at the table with Colonel Hogan. The smell of coffee—well, not the real thing, but something approximating it—wafted through the air. He'd never had a cup of the stuff before he became a POW and wondered for a moment what the real thing actually tasted like. Probably something like fish stew, since LeBeau spoke of both coffee and bouillabaise in tones of loss and regret, he thought with a snicker.

"Glad you got some sleep, Newkirk," Hogan smiled up at him. "We're discussing tonight's plans, and I'll need you again."

"Thank you, Sir, I do feel more rested," Newkirk replied. He sat up, yawned and stretched, then hopped down and slid onto the bench beside the Colonel, nonchalantly pushing Carter to one side before looking up at him with a grin.

"How's your fffamily Carter?" His stammer was waking up now too. It usually took a few minutes.

"Everyone's pretty good," Carter beamed. "How's yours doing?"

"What? Well, I d-didn't get a letter this time, Carter, so I don't ... know," Newkirk replied.

"Yeah, but you were thinking about them. I could hear..." Carter began. Suddenly his lukewarm beverage tipped over. It was LeBeau who spilled it as he reached around him from behind to put a mug down in front of Newkirk.

"Sorry, Carter," LeBeau said fiercely with a look that anyone but Carter would have promptly interpreted as "shut up right now."

"Yeah, don't mention that Newkirk was calling for his 'Mummy' in his sleep," Harper chipped in from his perch at the stove, where he was pouring himself a cup of the acorn coffee.

"It was kinda sweet, actually," Carter said, forging ahead cheerfully as he mopped up the mess with a cloth LeBeau handed him. Then he noticed that Newkirk was now on his feet, and spilling more drinks as he pushed away from the table.

"The funny thing is, he don't even stutter when he says it," Harper was saying just before Newkirk plowed into him. With his height advantage, Harper quickly got Newkirk in a headlock until Hogan stepped in to pry them apart. LeBeau pulled Newkirk away from the fracas as Hogan hauled Harper into his office for a dressing down. The lanky Texan seemed to have a homing instinct for any weakness Newkirk displayed and never missed a chance to remark on his stutter. Hogan had warned Harper and a few other men to back off on teasing Newkirk and his patience with them was running thin.

A moment later, Harper was back in the barracks room, head down and subdued, and it was Newkirk's turn to be bawled out by Hogan.

He shuffled into the Colonel's quarters sullenly, hands in pockets and head down. "Comportment, Newkirk," Hogan said softly, prompting the Corporal to pull his hands out of his pockets, straighten up, and state, "Sir, sorry, Sir."

"Sit," Hogan said wearily, waving Newkirk to sit on his bunk as he pulled up a stool. They'd had far too many of these conversations, but Hogan couldn't blame Newkirk. As often as not, he was simply defending himself.

"You know what I'm about to say," Hogan began. "So why don't you just tell me yourself."

Newkirk shrugged and made a start. "N-n-n-n..." he attempted. "N-n-n-n-n... N-n-n-n-n-n..." He was frustrated, embarrassed and badly stuck. His eyes glittered and pleaded with Hogan.

"You want help?" Hogan asked kindly. He hesitated to jump in when Newkirk was struggling, having learned that it was frustrating to any stutterer to be interrupted. But when it was just the two of them, there was a tacit agreement that it was all right for Hogan to help him break through a block. Newkirk nodded, so Hogan supplied the word. "No..."

"No fffffighting, Sir. Ignore him. P-p-p-put the mission fffirst. You'll deal with any bullying or wisecracks," Newkirk recited.

"Correct. Do you agree?

"Yes, Sir. C-completely, Sir."

"All right. Then why didn't you listen, Corporal?" He voice was kind, but firm.

"He cr-cr-cr-crossed a line, Sir."

Hogan couldn't stifle his sigh this time. Newkirk had more invisible lines than any man he'd ever met.

"Newkirk," Hogan began. "You have to try using your words and not your fists." As soon as he said it, he saw Newkirk's face crumple and realized how impossible that advice must sound to him. Words could be so hard for him but his fists were extremely effective communicators.

"No Sir! No! He w-w-was t-talking about mmmmy Mmmum, Sir," Newkirk said hotly.

The words "calm down" were about to tumble off Hogan's lips, but he stopped himself, knowing those particular words would only trigger more upset. Instead, he simply took one of Newkirk's hands and squeezed. At that touch, Newkirk was fighting to contain himself.

"You miss your mother," Hogan said softly. He rose to sit next to Newkirk on the bunk and wrapped an arm around him. Sometimes he had to remind himself that many of these men were barely out of their teens and had never been far from home. Newkirk had been places, but he'd always had a female-his mother, his older sister, his circus family-to look after him. And he was just damned complicated.

Newkirk opened his mouth, but only a few gasping sounds emerged. Finally, he pushed through it. "...Y-Yes, Sir. Every day," Newkirk replied.

Newkirk felt Hogan's arm tighten around him again. God, yes, he missed her. Sometimes when he was sleeping, he could feel her wrapped tightly around him, as if she would never let go. But she had. She couldn't help it. She had to go. It wasn't her fault.

Suddenly Newkirk's head was wobbling, he was doubling over and his palms were sweating. "I'm thirsty," he said with a big out-rushing of breath. "Please, Sir, could I have some w-w-water?"

"I'll get it," Hogan said quietly. He got up, went to the door, and gestured to LeBeau. A moment later, LeBeau was back, handing a glass to Hogan through the cracked-open door.

"Here you go," Hogan said, sitting down beside Newkirk again and pressing the glass into his hands. "Drink up."

But Newkirk's hands were shaking. He looked at Hogan anxiously as the glass chattered in his hands and water started to spill. Without a word, Hogan took back the glass and held it to the Corporal's lips.

Newkirk closed his eyes and let his head tip against the Colonel's shoulder as he took the sips he was offered. Hogan had his arm around Newkirk's waist, and Newkirk relaxed and drank again. The water had just a touch of sweetness and in this moment he was warm and safe. It was all right. Everything was fine. He took a deep breath.

But the moment didn't last; he couldn't let it. Newkirk straightened up self-consciously. He took back the glass and consumed the rest of the drink in two big gulps.

"S-sorry, Sir. I don't know what came over mmme. I ffffelt a bit dizzy all of a sudden," he said.

"It's OK," Colonel Hogan replied, looking at Newkirk with concern. "Do you feel all right now?" He looked at Newkirk's hands. "You're not shaking any more."

"Yes, Gov, I'm fine. I probably sh-sh-should have had some water to drink after I came in from all that running about," Newkirk assured his commanding officer. But inside he was scolding himself for panicking. "Don't be so bleeding wet," his inner voice was saying. "Not in front of your mates, and certainly not in front of the Colonel."

"OK. Well, go round up the other fellows and let's talk about tonight's mission in here," Hogan instructed Newkirk. The Corporal smiled and took off to perform his task while Hogan rose and began pacing, crossing his arms and looking concerned. That cold sweat had come on in the blink of an eye and vanished almost as quickly.