CHAPTER 50: EIGHTEEN AT LAST

On behalf of my collaborator, Valashu, and myself, a sincere thank you to everyone who joined us on this journey! She had a concept that was fascinating and challenging to me: To make Newkirk much younger than he is on the series. We had a great time talking about this story and debating how to be true to the canon character while exploring some different possibilities. We exchanged hundreds of messages to discuss what would and wouldn't be in character and what experiences would help to showcase Newkirk's growth. This story would not have been possible without Valashu's ideas and constant input and feedback.

The story is intended to be a hero's journey in the classic sense, though the journey was undertaken by our heroes from within the confines of a POW camp. We published around 90,000 words in two months! We're grateful for all the supportive comments we've already received, and would love your feedback on this story now that it is complete.

One reason we particularly want feedback is that two sequels are already in progress. (As well as one or two missing scene stories.) The first is a revised version of the story Peter and Anja, which is already partially published here on . The second story will be about Newkirk and (mostly) Hogan and LeBeau in the post-war era. We'd welcome ideas about developments that intrigued you that perhaps we could expand upon!

Finally, a note about the German words used in this story: At one point, Newkirk says "Promise me?" to Schultz and he replies "I promise you." The second bit of German is just Schultz wishing Newkirk a happy birthday.

And the government actually did announce on December 22, 1943, the new policy that has Schultz so worried.

Happy reading!

Newkirk was up early on the morning of December 22, just waiting for someone to say something. All around him, men were getting dressed, brushing their teeth, and jostling for hot water and a turn at the mirror so they could shave. He sat at the table, shuffling his cards, riffling them, fanning them, and quietly keeping tabs on his mates. Everyone was busy, and the edges of his old pack of cards were brown, tatty and sticky, making shuffling more difficult and less satisfying.

Carter sat opposite him and lit a cigarette. "G'morning, Newkirk," he said with a grin.

"Morning, Andrew," Newkirk replied.

"You know I was just thinking about today…" Carter said.

"Yes?" Newkirk said expectantly.

"We ought to go over to the rec hall once we're off detail and look through the new records from that Red Cross shipment that came in yesterday," Carter said. "Our old ones are really worn out. I'll bet there's some good new stuff. Maybe there'll be some Glenn Miller or Harry James."

"Or Dizzy Gillespie, or Charlie Parker," Kinch put in as he passed by with his shaving gear.

"I don't know," Newkirk said glumly. "I don't even really like j-j-jazz, Andrew," he added.

"Jeez, Newkirk, that's un-American!" Carter said.

"What's your point, Andrew?" Newkirk said wearily. This day was not off to a great start. "Fine. I'll go with you. I probably won't have anything better to do."

Newkirk glanced up and could have sworn he saw Carter winking. He peered over his shoulder and saw LeBeau darting by, lining up to shave. Wankers, he thought. Neither of them remembered.

"You don't need to shave, Andrew?" Newkirk asked.

Carter swiped a hand over his face. "Nah, I shaved yesterday. I can go until tomorrow." He leaned across the table to study Newkirk's face. "You could use one, though."

"What, me?" Newkirk said in surprise.

"Yeah, when's the last time you shaved?" Carter replied.

"I don't know. About five days ago," Newkirk said petulantly.

"Well, any day now, pal," Carter said.

The door flung open, and with his usual impeccable timing, Hogan emerged from his quarters just in time to greet Schultz.

"Five minutes, boys," Schultz bellowed. "Everyone get ready for roll call. No one can be late." Schultz usually had a gleam of cheer in his eyes in the mornings, but this morning there was nothing but gloom.

"What's up, Schultzie? You look down in the mouth," Hogan said.

"Something you ate Schultz? You really need to stay away from that ruddy Kraut food in the mess hall," Newkirk quipped.

Schultz looked so forlorn that he ignored the insult. He edged over to the table, where Colonel Hogan was now hovering over Carter. "Our government announced this morning that all boys 16 and over will have to register for military duty starting in January," Schultz said quietly. "My oldest boy was 16 last month. I thought we might have a chance of ending this war before he was drafted."

Newkirk's expression had turned serious, and he was looking up at Schultz, trying to form words. Hogan felt an ache in his heart as he looked at Newkirk. He knew all too well what it meant to leave home so young.

Carter spoke up first. "That's a shame, Schultz. Sixteen is much too young. I mean, he's just a little kid. Sixteen is barely…" Carter ran out of steam as Newkirk tried to assert himself.

"If, if, if," Newkirk said. "If, if, if…"

Schultz looked at him with a patient and paternal expression. "Ja, Newkirk?"

"If, if, if, if he does have to go, I hope he serves under a g-g-g-good officer, Schultzie," Newkirk said. "Th-th-th-that would make a d-difference."

"Ja," Schultz said. "It would."

"Boys can be very resilient, Schultz," Hogan said. "Sometimes we worry more about them than they worry about themselves."

"Ja, and that is the problem," Schultz said. "They think they're indestructible."

Newkirk was on his feet now and walking toward Schultz. "You, you tell him, then. You tell him you need him to come home. You tell him you wwwant him back in one piece, Schultzie. M-m-make sure he knows that you love him and will miss him. I, I, I wish my old man had t-told me that, that, that he wanted me home," he said, adding quietly, "Or told me anything, really. I don't think he c-cares that I'm gone, but, but you care, Schultzie. So, so mmmake sure he knows."

Schultz regarded Newkirk with surprise. He'd heard Newkirk joke around, but he'd never heard him speak from the heart, or say so many words at once. "That's very wise, Newkirk."

"Versprichst du es mir?" Newkirk asked. "And, and tell him not to be scared. A g-good officer cares about his men, even the young ones."

"Especially the young ones," LeBeau said. He had been listening intently. So had Colonel Hogan.

"Versprochen," Schultz replied. He smiled, then turned to LeBeau. "Cockroach, after rollcall, you are needed in the kitchen."

LeBeau grumbled, but Hogan didn't say a word. In fact, Newkirk thought, he seemed to be enjoying LeBeau's reaction, if the merry look in his eyes was any indication.

XXX

After rollcall and a quick breakfast, the men dispersed to perform their details for the day. Hogan had put Carter and Newkirk on the snow detail, working with a group of twenty men to brush three inches of snow that had accumulated overnight off steps, walkways, and roofs all around camp. It was heavy work that would keep them busy for hours. They came back to the barracks, hoping to find LeBeau had prepared a lunch, but were disappointed to find that he was on kitchen duty and hadn't been able to cook. So they went to the mess hall, ate wretched bowls of soup and hunks of stale bread, and went to the recreation hall, as Carter had suggested, to sort through records.

All the while, Newkirk was getting edgy. It was a bloody important day to him, and no one even cared. That put him into exactly the sort of mood that frequently started making him pick on Carter.

"Stupid records. Stupid Yank music. Why are we wasting our time on this? I don't listen to this rubbish," Newkirk grumbled. He sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette. "You do it," he grumbled.

"Aw, c'mon, buddy, I could really use the help," Carter said.

"I'm not your buddy. If I was your buddy, you'd bleeding well remember…" Newkirk cut himself off.

"Remember what?" Carter prompted.

"Nothing. There's nothing worth remembering. Look, I've already forgotten," Newkirk sulked. "Why do you listen to this stupid music anyway?"

"It's fun to dance to," Carter said with a shrug.

"Dancing with other lads doesn't sound like any fun to me," Newkirk grumbled. "Dancing is with girls."

"That's 'cause you're shy about these things," Carter said. "I could teach you." He walked over to Newkirk and grabbed his arm. "Come on, get up."

"Leave off!" Newkirk snapped. "I'm not dancing with you, you stupid git."

"Hey! I don't know what a 'git' is, but I can tell by the way you say it that it's not nice," Carter said. "What's eating you, Peter?"

"Nothing," Newkirk grumped. "Leave off." He had a good sulk going, but he looked up long enough to notice Carter gazing out the window, his eyes tracking someone or something, then a nod. Suddenly Carter straightened up and put all the records away quickly.

"OK, I'm all done here for today," Carter said. "We should go."

"Fffffine," Newkirk said, rising to his feet. He was following Carter sullenly as they ambled back to the barracks when Colonel Hogan dashed up to them.

"Peter! The very person I was looking for!" Hogan slung an arm around Newkirk's neck and steered him in a different direction. Newkirk heard LeBeau's footfall—because he'd know it anywhere—scurrying past and tried to look to see him, but Hogan literally reached over and pulled his chin toward him as he was beginning to turn. "Got any plans for tonight, Peter?"

"No, Sir," Newkirk said optimistically. Good, one person hadn't forgotten! Even if he hadn't wished Peter a happy birthday, at least he was going to offer him a mission or some other assignment. Wasn't he?

"Great! Because LeBeau is catering a meal for Klink's visitors, and we need a waiter," Hogan said.

"I don't want to be a bloody waiter on my b…" Newkirk began to protest. But a stern look of surprise crossed Colonel Hogan's face, and he changed his tune. "Yes, Sir, of course, Sir. Whatever you want."

"Good boy," Hogan said, patting him firmly on the back. He turned and, with his arm still firmly around Newkirk's shoulder, he steered him toward Barracks Two.

It was already past three o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been up for hours hoping someone, anyone, would at least acknowledge that this was the day that Peter Newkirk had turned eighteen. Nobody cared. Despite Colonel Hogan's warm embrace, Newkirk was feeling sorry for himself as he pushed open the door to Barracks Two.

And then his jaw dropped.

"Surprise!" all the inhabitants of Barracks Two—and a few visitors to boot—yelled in unison. Hogan had to push Newkirk into the barracks to shut out the snow that was beginning to blow through the compound.

There, at the table, stood LeBeau in his chef's hat, smiling broadly as he stood beside a layer cake with pink icing, white sprinkles, blue letters that spelled out "Happy Birthday Newkirk," and eighteen small white candles. Three small packages were on the table beside the cake, neatly wrapped in brown paper.

"How, how did you make it pink?" Newkirk asked in amazement.

"I mixed strawberry jam with the confectioner's sugar, and it's between the layers, too," LeBeau said with a shrug.

"The bigger question is, why is it pink?" Olsen joked.

"I like pink icing!" Newkirk protested. "What?" he said with a grin as the men around him laughed. "It's pretty, and I'm man enough to admit it!"

"It's very cheerful, and I can tell you as LeBeau's official taster that strawberry was an inspired choice," Hogan said, putting an end to any objections anyone may have had to the color. "Happy birthday, Newkirk," he added. "Carter, light the candles, and let's shut the light in here."

At that moment, the door swung open. In came Sergeant Schultz. His radar-like ability to detect the presence of sweets had not failed him. And it was he, after all, who got permission for LeBeau to use the kitchen and who bartered an extra cake for himself and one for the Kommandant in exchange for the necessary eggs, flour, sugar and butter.

"Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, Newkirk," Schultz said.

"Gluck-wunch to you too, Schultzie," Newkirk replied, deliberately mangling the German.

Newkirk blew out the candles, and pieces of cake were sliced and passed around. Mugs were filled with a champagne and burgundy punch, and Newkirk was allowed seconds and then thirds. He was wobbling a little when he plopped down on the bench, briefly landing on Hogan's knee before the Colonel carefully re-positioned him on the level wooden surface. Then Hogan held onto Newkirk's elbow to make sure he didn't tip over.

Garlotti took over as master of ceremonies. "Pete… that is, Corporal Newkirk… we have a few things for you," he said. "First, a gift from LeBeau."

LeBeau handed over a small package, which Newkirk carefully unwrapped. Inside was a small brown hinged case. Newkirk opened it to find a brand new Gillette razor with a bakelite handle.

"You'll need it more and more, mon pote," LeBeau told him proudly.

Next, Garlotti handed him a flat, dense package. "Must be a bowling ball," Newkirk joked. It was in fact a book of Shakespeare's tragedies, which Kinch had scrounged up from goodness knows where.

"This one's from me," Garlotti said as he handed him a square box. Newkirk bounced it in his hand; it was heavy. As he opened it, he saw a red leather orb with white stitches.

"A cricket ball!" Newkirk exclaimed as he lifted it out of the box.

"You're going to teach me to throw a googly," Garlotti said.

Olsen passed up a small package. Newkirk didn't even need to unwrap it to recognize what it was. "A new pack of cards! Thanks, mate!" he said cheerfully.

Carter stepped forward with a woolly bundle. "I knit you some socks, Newkirk. It's getting cold out, and I was knitting a pair to send home my kid brother… I mean, my other kid brother… not that you're a kid, because in a lot of ways you're older than me, and you're definitely more mature than Davey even though he's already eighteen—and hey, did I mention he's in the Navy now?"

"Carter?" Newkirk asked.

"I know, I know, shut up," Carter replied.

"No. Thank you very much. My socks have holes in them." He smiled his most sincere smile.

"I have something for you, too. But Schultz, you're going to have to excuse us for this part," Hogan said. "Why don't you take a little walk and come back soon?"

Schultz's eyes grew wide, and he left protesting, "I know nothing! Nothing!"

Hogan withdrew a long box from inside his jacket. "This is something very special for you," he told Newkirk seriously. "You have to promise to keep it carefully hidden at all times, and use it with great care."

Newkirk nodded solemnly as he accepted the package. He opened it and pulled out a shining object in complete awe. Kinch let out a low whistle and LeBeau his hand, saying "oh, la, la."

"It's a Smith and Wesson tactical knife, designed to be concealed in your boot or behind your neck," Hogan said. "I want you to learn how to use it, Newkirk."

"I can throw a knife, Sir. I learned when I traveled with the circus as a lad," Newkirk said as he ran his finger up and down the blade.

"Good. That's a start. I'll teach you everything I know starting tomorrow."

"Hey, is there something on the handle?" Carter said. "It looks like it's inscribed."

Newkirk looked closely, then smiled shyly at Colonel Hogan and bit his lip. "Yes, there's a message on it for me," he said. He tucked the sheathed knife into his shirt behind his shoulder blades. "I think I'll keep it right here. Every good lad needs a pencil sharpener handy," he added with a grin.

Then Hogan quieted the room down. "I have a few words I want to say," he said. "We're all on a journey in life. Over the past nine months, Peter Newkirk has been on an extraordinary journey toward becoming the man he was meant to be. He's had some trials and tribulations along the way, but he has conquered them, one by one. I just want to say how very proud I am of him and to wish him a happy 18th birthday."

Kinch interjected. "Meeting the person that can help you in your journey is how you start to cross the thresholds," he said. "Colonel Hogan, you've been that person for Peter."

"Yes, he has," Newkirk added. "And you have, Kinch. And LeBeau and Carter and Olsen and Garlotti. And even you, Addison, because you made me face my fears. I'm grateful to all of you, but most of all, my Governor." His voice broke a little as he added, "I've never had a birthday party, and I'm dead chuffed."

Soon Schultz was back and polishing off what remained of the cake. The men were sitting around laughing and talking, and debating whether Newkirk was more like Jim Hawkins, the boy hero of Treasure Island, or Bilbo Baggins, the Hobbit who didn't know his own worth, or the Emperor Claudius, who surprised everyone, including himself, with his ability and talent. Kinch argued strenuously for the analogy to King Henry V, who transformed himself from an irresponsible youth to a wise and capable king, but LeBeau resisted. He could not look past Agincourt.

Later that evening, after supper and rollcall, the men were getting ready for bed. Newkirk took a moment as he leaned into the table to examine his new knife.

LeBeau elbowed him. "You like what Colonel Hogan gave you, eh? He has a great deal of confidence in you, mon pote."

"He does," Newkirk said. "Would you like a closer look?" He held out the knife, handle first.

"I would be honored," LeBeau said, taking the blade and carefully unsheathing it. He held the handle to the light and he read the inscription silently.

"To my son Peter on his eighteenth birthday. Like a weapon, stay sharp and seek balance. Your loving father, REH." He looked at Newkirk and recognized that they both had tears in his eyes. "You have a very good Papa," he said softly.

The LeBeau smiled as he re-sheathed the knife and handed it back to Newkirk. "Come here," he said. He laid his hands on Newkirk's arms and pulled him down so he could plant a kiss on each cheek. "Happy birthday, Pierre. I'm pleased I knew you when you were a boy, and I'm proud to know you as a man."

Newkirk wrapped his arms around his friend, held on tight, and asked softly, "You'll still look after me, won't you? Because I'll look after you too."

"Of course," LeBeau said. "Just as we always have, frérot. Brothers look after one another."

Suddenly the bunkbed tunnel entrance rattled open and Hogan emerged with Kinch on his heels.

"Break it up, you two," Hogan said in an amused tone to the hugging comrades. "And forget about bed. I've got a little job for you tonight. Newkirk, you'll be a Heer lieutenant, and LeBeau, you're a private. You'll be meeting a contact in the courtyard of the inn that's opposite the Luftwaffe field office in Hammelburg..."

The smile that crossed Peter Newkirk's face could have lit the darkest night. He was back in business.