"Peter, stop moving your food around on the plate. Eat or leave the table."

Five year old Peter Newkirk sat with his arms crossed. He didn't care what his Nan said. The Brussels sprouts were touching the potatoes. The tripe looked disgusting. He'd rather starve.

"He's not leaving until he has eaten every bite," his father growled. "I work hard to feed all of you."

"Waste not, want not," Mavis said helpfully, with a smile that was meant to coax Peter. She took up the fork, mashed up a bit of potato with the tines, scooped it up, and held it out to her little brother. He'd never eaten well, and he'd grown fussier each time Mummy left for another stay in hospital. Reluctantly, Peter took a bite. But when his father thumped his first on the table, Peter jumped and the fork poked the roof of his mouth.

He would have cried if he was not so terrified. "I said eat," his father roared. "That doesn't mean to feed him, Mavis."

"He's not a baby, Mavis," Nan said softly. "He doesn't need your help. Go on, Peter, love, do as Daddy says and eat like a big boy."

XXX

"That smells good, LeBeau," Hogan commented as the Frenchman whipped up supper. The core team had to eat. Their missions were physically demanding.

"Spam," LeBeau snorted. "Ugh. I don't know how I'm going to get Pierre to eat."

"Easy," Hogan replied, "he'll eat what everyone else eats."

LeBeau snorted again. "Or he'll starve. I'll make a separate plate for him so the foods are separate. He won't eat if he doesn't know what he's getting."

"Suit yourself," Hogan shrugged, "but maybe if you didn't cater to him he'd just eat."

"Newkirk doesn't 'just eat.' He'll live on coffee and cigarettes, and then he'll get sick. I don't know how he was raised to be so picky, but French children, we did not get to choose our foods." He paused for a moment, a dreamy look crossing his face. "Of course, our food was appetizing, unlike English food or anything found in Germany, especially in this filthy pit."

XXX

Peter speared a potato and slowly raised it to his lips. He put it in his mouth and instantly started to gag. It tasted of slimy, smelly Brussels sprouts. He coughed out the potato onto his plate.

His father was out of his chair in an instant, hauling Peter out of his seat and whacking the back of his bare legs as he squirmed and fought. Roughly, he placed him down on a chair in the corner. "If you want to waste my wages, you won't have any food at all," he snarled, clouting the boy on the back of his head. He turned to face his family. "I'm going to the pub," he announced.

Peter sat and thought: Which is it? Do I have to eat every bite, or am I getting no food at all? He turned to look at Mavis, but she shook her head silently. Nan saw it and responded fiercely.

"Now look what Peter has gone and done," she lectured the children at the table. "He's made your father very, very angry because he is wasting the food that man works so hard to put on the table. Mavis, you are not to feed him, and that goes for all of you. He'll be having Brussels sprouts and tripe for breakfast."

Now Peter was crying, and as he cried, he could feel a wet spot spreading across the front of his shorts. Now he was really in for it with Nan. At least Daddy was gone. He'd be too drunk to notice when he came home.

He said nothing. There was nothing to say, and even if there was, he'd never get the words out. He sat in his chair, wet and hungry, until he fell asleep.

XXX

"Newkirk, will you please eat? You're just pushing the food around with your fork."

"Sssssssorry, Louis, I'm n-not that hungry."

"You don't have to separate the foods. I made sure they're not touching," LeBeau said with exasperation. "What is wrong with you English?"

"Actually, I think you're generalizing, LeBeau," Carter said helpfully. "I've seen the other English prisoners eat, and they just eat. No fuss."

"I'm not 'ffffussing,' Carter. I said I'm j-j-j-just not hungry," Newkirk snapped.

"Calm down," Hogan said. "Newkirk, you do have to eat. And LeBeau's made an excellent meal. Tastiest spam sauté I've ever had," he grinned.

Newkirk pushed the plate away. "Sorry, mmmmate," he said to LeBeau. "N-Nothing wrong with the ffffood—I j-j-j-j-j-j-just don't have n-no appetite." He got up and headed for his bunk. He lit a fag and took a deep breath.

He was stammering unusually hard, LeBeau noticed. That was never a good sign with Pierre. He looked over at Colonel Hogan, who nodded. Hogan's concern was evident, but LeBeau knew that nod. It meant, "You're going to have to deal with it, because I have no idea."

XXX

Peter woke up in the morning, dry and smelling of powder, and curled up beside Mavis in her bed.

He was ravenous.

Mavis spoke softly to him as she helped him dress for school. "Try to eat it, Peter. You know Nan will let you off the hook if you at least try."

"I d-d-don't like it w-when all the fuh, fuh, fuh, fuh foods are touching," Peter said. "And I don't like g-green fffood."

Mavis sighed. What a stubborn little nipper. She took him by the hand and let him to the kitchen for his misery.

As promised, there it was, his uneaten supper from last night. It looked even worse, the tripe's honeycomb a sickening grey. It was so slippery, and he did not like slippery foods. As his sisters and brothers devoured toast and tea, Peter tried not to cry onto his plate.

"...And I see you wet your shorts again," Nan was lecturing as Peter's ears turned pink. "You're lucky your big sister doesn't mind cleaning up after you, you dirty little boy," she scolded. "Five years old and still wetting yourself, it's disgraceful. I raised nine children and all of them were done acting like babies long before they were in school." Michael and Jamie were snickering; Emily, Ellie, and Lilly were just staring, fear in their eyes.

Nan stood over him as he gagged down a potato and a sliver of tripe, then sent him on his way to school with a hard smack across his legs. Mavis took Peter and Ellie by the hand as she did every morning to walk them to school as Emily walked beside them.

Peter was ashamed. His legs were smarting, and he was very, very hungry. He hoped the school lunch would not be too wretched.

But it was. Potatoes and onions and cabbages, all mixed up in a hot gooey mash. He didn't eat. And after lunch he fell asleep, at his desk.

XXX

Newkirk felt his stomach growl as he stretched out on his bunk, but he ignored it as he did so often. He didn't mind eating, not really, but he hated when people talked about food to him, or commented on what he was or wasn't eating. If he could just have what he wanted—something simple—then he could eat in peace. It was like talking — if people didn't pay so much attention to how he talked, it would be much easier to just say his words.

Fish and chips. Tea and toast. A puffy Yorkshire pudding. A good thick porridge. A slab of bacon. Some boiled carrots, not mushy. A slice of apple, if it was red or golden. Nothing slimy. Nothing mixed all together in a big glop. Nothing green. What was so hard about that? He wasn't fussy. He just knew what he liked.

XXX

When he woke, the classroom was quiet, but he could hear the sounds of children playing in the school yard. He straightened up. Miss Walker, his teacher, was beside him, her smooth face full of concern.

"Peter, do you feel all right?" she asked softly. She had taught in the East End for five years. She had wanted to be here, to make a difference in the lives of poor children. Peter, with his bright eyes, fierce stammer and shabby clothes, had touched her heart. "Are you ill?" she asked.

Peter only shook his head. Answering was hard.

"All right. Do you want to go outside and play, then?"

He shook his head again. No. Definitely not.

She looked him over. His skin was drawn. He had dark circles under his eyes. Clearly, he wasn't sleeping enough the poor tyke. And he looked so frail. There was one problem that was common to many of the children she taught, and she named it.

"Do you need to eat, Peter?"

He nodded his head vigorously.

"Well, them, how about a nice cup of tea?" she asked with a smile. "Stay here."

Peter put his head down on the desk. When Walker returned from the teachers lounge, she was carrying a piping hot cup of tea and two currant biscuits. She place them in front of the boy and watched his eyes grow wide.

XXX

Newkirk dozed on his bunk as the cleanup clattered. He was drifting. As the room quieted down, he felt a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes and saw LeBeau.

"Get up. I've got something for you." His voice was soft and encouraging, as if he was sharing a wonderful secret.

The barracks room was quiet. The other men were outside, taking in the last of a summer day's sunshine.

At the table, there was a steaming mug of tea. A plate with a slice of toast.

And retrieved from somewhere deep in LeBeau's pantry, two currant biscuits.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hi, a note from me, your friendly writer! I mentioned Newkirk's food aversion very briefly in "Caroling, Caroling" when he complained to LeBeau about a medicinal tea having too many ingredients and said he didn't like it when his food touched other food on the plate. So I thought I'd return to this with a story, even though I keep saying I AM NOT STARTING ANY NEW STORIES.

In this story, Peter is 5, so here are the ages of his other siblings: Mavis, 14; Michael, 13; Jamie 11; Emily, 9; Eileen (Ellie), 7; and Lilly, 3. "Nan" is his grandmother, who is helping to care for the children because their mother is in and out of hospitals with TB. I've written about these characters (who except Mavis of course are originals) in several other stories including Done Talking and Behind the Rain.