This piece was born solely out of extreme final exam induced stress. I would like to apologize in advance for this. It can be seen as a companion piece for my other story, but I can easily see it standing on its own, coming back to haunt me one day.

Have fun! I certainly had fun writing it.

If there was one thing that Newkirk didn't understand, it was Carter.

The English corporal, despite his consideration that the young American was his best mate, was often confused and more often greatly annoyed by the antics his pal got into. Usually, there was a simple explanation for these things, ones that made sense to Carter and rarely to anyone else.

He couldn't wait to hear the explanation for this one.

xxxxxxx

The day had started off normal enough. Roll call, breakfast, hearing from the coffee pot that Klink was planning on bringing in a psychic to find out if the prisoners were planning a new escape. The usual.

He had been laying on his stomach on his bunk re-reading a letter from his sister when Carter came up from the tunnel with a laundry bag in his hands. The American sergeant looked around nervously before darting out of the barracks door. Newkirk had thought nothing of it.

Later that day, Newkirk was down in the tunnels with Olsen, who was helping him press the staggeringly large collection of German uniforms he had made and acquired during his stay at lovely Stalag 13. It was dull work, but uniforms had to be kept up to German military standards if they were to remain believable.

It was dull work that is, until they began on the private's uniform that Carter had been wearing on his mission from last night.

Newkirk had been been in the middle of pressing the collar of the jacket when he heard a snort come from Olsen's direction, where the man was working on the uniform's trousers.

"What's so funny?" the Englishman asked, annoyed.

"Oh, nothing," Olsen chuckled, reaching into the trouser's pockets, "just this."

Newkirk looked up, only to be hit in the chest with something that Olsen had sent ala slingshot in his direction.

He picked the object up in disbelief and examined it, confusion clouding his face. Olsen was still laughing, having doubled over in hilarity at both his discovery and the expression currently on Newkirk's face.

Newkirk, a gamut of emotions wrestling for control of his face, shoved the offending object in his pocket and made his way up the ladder and out of the tunnels, leaving a very amused Olsen behind to complete the work.

The Englishman vaulted out of the tunnel, hitting the lever that moved the bunks covering the entrance back into place. He headed toward the barracks door, but was stopped by Foster, who was sitting at the table, currently ensnared in a hand of gin with LeBeau.

"Whoa, what got you all riled up?" Foster asked, placing a card down. The window in the barracks, open to let in the fresh air, almost blew the card away.

"This!" Newkirk exclaimed, pulling the object out of his pocket and dangling it in front of the men, exasperated.

LeBeau, who had just taken a swig of coffee, started choking on it. Foster stood up and hit him on the back a few times in an effort to help his friend clear his airways.

"Nice, Newkirk. Where'd ya get it?" Foster asked, casually sipping his cup of coffee.

"Carter's pocket," Newkirk answered, leaving the barracks.

It was Foster's turn to choke on his drink.

xxxxxx

Newkirk, still reeling, made his way over to where Carter was doing the washing. The American was oblivious to the fact that he was being watched, focused on the task at hand. It was an unseasonably warm day, perfect for doing laundry outside.

Newkirk tapped his younger friend on the shoulder, and was greeted with a friendly, "Oh, hi pal! I didn't see you back there!"

"Oh, you didn't see me. Well," Newkirk said, laying on the sarcasm heavily enough so that even Carter could pick it up, "I'm guessing you saw the owner of this!"

Carter's expression remained impassive, despite the fact that his English friend had just whipped out from his pocket possibly the laciest, scantiest bra ever created.

"Oh, you found it! Thanks!" Carter plucked the clothing item from Newkirk's fingers and threw it in the wash with the rest of the clothes, never missing a beat.

If there had been anything stronger than a breeze that day, it would have knocked the English corporal down flat.

"Wha-! Carter! What? I need details, mate! Who? How?" Newkirk's verbal diarrhea was cut off when his confused friend took a ladies blouse from the wash and wrung it out.

"Are you okay, Newkirk? You look flushed, and that vein in your forehead looks like it's gonna burst!" the American remarked.

"Carter! Where the bloody hell did this women's clothing come from?" asked Newkirk, gesturing at the wash bucket with his arms.

"Oh. They're from Sleeping Beauty. She's one of our contacts in town," Carter explained evenly, "I had some information and some maps to pass on to her last night."

"And what is her clothing doing here?" Newkirk asked slowly, as if he were trying to coax information from a stubborn child.

"Well, after I got the information to her, her roommate came home. Her roommate's German, you know," Carter added.

"Bloody fascinating, mate. Go on."

Before Carter could resume his explanation, Foster made his way out of the barracks and clapped the American on the back.

"You dog," Foster said with grin, amusement and possibly a hint of respect shining in his eyes. He let out a chuckle, and ambled away, headed for the mess hall.

Carter looked confused. "What was that about?"

"Never mind! Tell me about the clothes!" exclaimed Newkirk, his frustration growing.

"Well, her roommate was real suspicious of what I was doing there. I couldn't tell her why I was really there, you know, so I had to think of an excuse. So I told her the first thing that came into my head. That I was picking up Sleeping Beauty's laundry, 'cause that's how I make money on the side. She understood right away and gave me a bag of her clothes. You know, a private's salary is not something that-"

Newkirk's eye twitched.

"What's wrong, buddy?" Carter asked, looking concerned.

The Englishman scrubbed his face with his hand, and smiled at his friend. "Nothing, mate, nothing," he said, a wry smile playing on his face. He should have known, with Carter, that it would be something inanely innocent. It was Carter, after all.

"I had to take the laundry with me, or else she'd get really suspicious. I couldn't think of anything else," the American elaborated.

Newkirk smiled at his friend. "Good thinking, mate." The Englishman patted Carter's shoulder and headed back towards the barracks, not knowing whether he should be relieved or disappointed.

He dropped down onto one of the chairs and poured himself a much-needed cup of coffee. He would have preferred tea, but after the morning he had, he felt he needed some caffeine.

Newkirk was about to take a sip when he was suddenly struck with a barrage of confusing thoughts.

Why, if Carter was just doing laundry, was the bra in his pocket?

Why hadn't Sleeping Beauty put it in the bag with the rest of her clothing?

Why did Carter recognize it?

Blimey! Nothing here adds up!

Newkirk looked out the window at his friend casually doing the wash. Carter, who had turned to hang something on the line, caught Newkirk's expression.

Much to the Newkirk's complete and utter shock, Carter's only response was the absolute smuggest wink the Englishman had ever seen.

So, what do you think? Has Carter been snagging some major tail in town right under his buddies' noses, or is he as innocent as he claims? You decide for yourself!

Note: This was written for fun. It really wasn't meant to be taken seriously. Also, I was THIS CLOSE (fingers an inch apart) to calling this "Panty Raid!" but that craze hadn't started until around 1948. Dang.

If you got even a little smile out of this, let me know. It'll make my day.