CHAPTER 1: THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

"Hey! Well, whaddaya know!" Private Garlotti eagerly snatched the small parcel Sergeant Schultz was extending to him. Mail call was always exciting, provided you got something, but mail call with a package was extra special.

It was so special, in fact, that everyone expected you to open your parcel right there in the middle of the room, at the table that, at least in theory, they all shared. Even if most of the time that table was occupied exclusively by Colonel Hogan's core team.

"Budge up, mate," Newkirk said to Carter, who was beside him on the bench. "Let Tony have a seat 'ere with us." Newkirk tried at all times to maintain an air of cool detachment, but he couldn't hide the sparkle in his eyes at the very thought of a package. He wanted to be right there when Tony opened it.

Garlotti tore through the brown paper, pried open a cardboard box, and delicately extracted a white leather globe slashed with red stitches. He grinned broadly.

"Two-point-nine-six inches in diameter, with 216 stitches," Garlotti announced. "This, gentlemen, is a brand new, sparkling white, regulation, Major League baseball."

The room erupted in whistles and whoops of approval and nods of respect as Garlotti passed the ball around. Spring was in the air, even here in a dreary POW camp.

"V-very nice stitching, that is," Newkirk observed as it arrived in his hand, leaning close for a look with the discerning eye of a tailor. "W-what's the point of that, anyway?"

Garlotti looked stumped for a moment and bit his lip. Sergeant Kinchloe, seated across from Garlotti, took the pristine object in his hand and studied it with a professorial air.

"Pitching a ball is about the drag caused by the interplay between the stitching and the air, Pete," he said. He leaned over to Newkirk to show him a grip. "The way the pitcher controls the position of the stitches and the speed of the ball's rotation lets him throw quite a few different pitches. A curve ball, a change-up, a sinker, a fastball…" He handed the ball back to Garlotti. "It's a beaut, Tony. If it warms up, we can get out there and knock the cover off it."

Newkirk nodded, baffled yet impressed as hell by Kinch's ability to make something as simple as a baseball sound like a scientific wonder. Then again, this was a guy who could construct listening devices out of tin cans, old felt and bent washers. Newkirk snatched the ball back from Garlotti and grinned. "H-h-how, how would you throw a googly with this thing, Tony?"

Garlotti, Harper, Olsen and Carter laughed simultaneously. "A what?" Garlotti said.

"A g-g-g-g-googly," Newkirk stammered. He was turning pink and regretting having spoken up. "Y-you know…"

"What the hell's a googly?" Olsen sneered.

"Goo-goo-googly," Harper said, apparently impressed with his own brilliance. "Goo-goo-ga-ga-googly."

Newkirk felt like sinking under the table until Hogan finally spoke up.

"You fellas don't know what a googly is? It's a cricket player's prize weapon – a crazy, wobbly throw that catches the batter off guard," he said, commanding the room's full attention. "It's like a curve ball on a mission—am I doing this justice, Newkirk?" He smiled down at Newkirk, and could see the young corporal rebound from the teasing he'd just received. "I watched a bit of cricket on the village green when I was detailed as an instructor to an RAF unit in Wiltshire right before the Americans got in the war," Hogan added.

"Not much else to do in Wiltshire, Sir," Newkirk joked. "And yes, a googly l-l-l-looks like a normal lllleg-spinner, but it turns towards the batsman like an off-break instead of breaking away ffffrom the bat," Newkirk explained earnestly. "When it's bowled pr-properly, a googly is almost undetectable. You d-deliver it out of the back of your hand, with the wrist flat to the ground." He looked up and smiled at Hogan with gratitude and relief for the rescue.

Kinch was nodding, always impressed by Newkirk's passion for sports. He thought of him as a soccer guy, but apparently he knew a thing or two about cricket, too.

"The expert has spoken," Hogan said, clapping a hand down on Newkirk's shoulder. At that sign of protection and approval, no one would dare to tease Newkirk for at least five minutes. Hogan, still clasping Newkirk's shoulder, turned to Garlotti. "What's the occasion for this present, soldier?" he asked.

Garlotti bobbed his head, and then came out with it. "It's my birthday next week. My dad sent this. Back home, we'd be planning to go to the Yankees opening day in April when the season starts. My dad always got tickets for me and him and my brothers for my birthday. We always have the best time." He stopped and pursed his lips. "Damn. I miss home. My mom would be making me a special cake for this one, lemme tell ya."

Happy birthday greetings filled the barracks with shouts and murmurs, along with a round of enthusiastic handshakes for the birthday boy. He was shaking out his arm in mock pain when Carter spoke up.

"Special cake? What's special about it?"

Newkirk shook his head, wondering why Carter always had to ask awkward questions that punctured the jovial mood. Newkirk hated Carter's questions.

Garlotti puffed out his chest. "I'm turning 30, guys. I'm an old man!" He wagged a finger at all of them. "You better show me some respect!"

"Hey!" Hogan responded with a grin. "I object to that!"

"Well, how old are you, Sir?" Garlotti asked.

"Thirty-four. Give me a couple more months and I'll be half way to 40," Hogan said, shaking his head.

"It's all right, Sir," Newkirk piped in. "Kinch and Carter are both excellent at whittling. They can mmmake you a very nice walking stick." His droll delivery cracked up Hogan, who reached around Newkirk's shoulder and pulled him into a hug. He sat with his arm draped around Newkirk as the banter continued.

"Hey guys," Carter said. "I've got an idea! Let me start a list of all the birthdays so we can celebrate them!"

"How would we celebrate, Carter?" Olsen snorted. "An extra turn in the delousing station?"

More laughter. They didn't have many afternoons like this, where everyone was relaxed and no missions were calling them away.

"Certainement," LeBeau said. "Let's start the list." He scrabbled around in his pocket, pulled out a nubby pencil, and handed it over to Newkirk, who rolled his eyes and passed it to Carter.

"OK, let's start with you, Garlotti," Carter said.

"Garlotti, Antonio Francesco Adriano. Confirmation name," Garlotti said apologetically to Carter. "March 25, 1913."

"Colonel Hogan?" Carter continued.

"Hogan, Robert E. July 6, 1908." The men whistled and repeated OH-EIGHT as it was ancient history.

"LeBeau, Louis. March 1, 1911. I just turned 32." He looked at Garlotti. "Beat you! And since I'm probably the next-oldest, I think I should be Colonel-in-training."

"Yeah, you keep thinking that, LeBeau!" Garlotti said.

LeBeau rolled his eyes.

"Addison, Winthrop H. October 9, 1915."

"Winthrop? What's the 'H' for?" It wasn't like Kinch to be rude, but this was Addison. He was overdue for a ribbing.

"Winthrop Hayborough Addison III," Addison apologized. "Sorry. People call me Trip."

"Trip, for triplicate, huh?" Hogan grinned in that shark-like way he sometimes had as Addison nodded in embarrassment. Hogan hid it well, but he didn't much care for the upper-crust of American society. His mother came over from Ireland in her girlhood as a maid on Park Avenue, and boy did she have stories.

"Well, um, that's interesting," Carter said in his usual smooth way. "Who's next?"

"Kinchloe, James I. April 6, 1913. We're practically twins, Garlotti," he said, and planted his tongue firmly in his cheek. Rollicking laughter.

"Harper, Stanley. September 17, 1910. You're outta luck, LeBeau. I get to be colonel-in-training!"

LeBeau punched Harper playfully and with surprising strength, sending him reeling into Olsen, who looked extremely bothered.

"Olsen, Brian C. May 22, 1917. You guys are jerks." He seemed to be directing his comments at LeBeau and Harper, but then he clarified. "All of you," he said, and smiled to show he didn't mean it. Possibly.

"Finally, some young blood!" Hogan grinned. "I was starting to think I was commanding a geriatric unit!"

"Not as young as me, Sir. Carter, Andrew J. February 20, 1919. Just turned 24!"

"Alors, quel enfant. He wasn't even born during the last war!" LeBeau marveled.

"My baby brother's older than you, Carter," Garlotti said.

"Then I take it back," LeBeau said. "Quel bébé." Everyone was doubled over at that, except for Carter, who was trying to grin gamely, and one other man. The others were laughing so hard that they didn't even notice the look of apprehension that was crossing Newkirk's face.

Carter ears were pink as everyone wiped tears of laughter from their eyes. He noticed that Newkirk was the only one not laughing and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for his loyalty. He smiled at Newkirk and finally said over the din, "Well, how about you, Newkirk? When's your birthday?"

Hogan, LeBeau, Kinch, Harper, Garlotti, Addison, Olsen… everyone turned to Newkirk expectantly.

Divert. Deflect. Misdirect. Newkirk was frantically running through alternatives in his head while desperately trying to maintain his cool. It wasn't easy. Feeling everyone's eyes on him always rattled him and made his stammer ten times worse. He could just lie, but he wasn't sure he could get it out. He had to find some words he could actually say, and fast.

"W-w-what date did you say your birthday was, Harper? Because I think that's our Mavis' birthday too." He had no idea what Harper had said, but it didn't matter, because as of right now, that was when Mavis' birthday fell.

"September 17, 1910? No kidding!" Harper said. "Is she the same age as me?"

"Um, I th-think she mmmight be a bit younger. I think she's just gone 30. You know, I'm never sure with my sisters. They've been known to withhold important fffacts," Newkirk grinned. He was climbing out of the hole he'd fallen into.

"Over 30? Your sister's an old maid, Newkirk!" That, of course, was Olsen, who took every opportunity he could find to get under Newkirk's skin.

"Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh," Newkirk began. Olsen started snickering, and Harper and Addison fell right into line. "Sh-sh-she, she, she has a young man, b-b-but he's in the Royal Navy. I th-thought they should have got mmmmarried before he shipped out b-but no one asked me."

"Yeah, 'cause it would have taken you a week to answer," Olsen shot back. Newkirk rolled his eyes and Garlotti cuffed Olsen on the back of the head.

"Who's the jerk around here?" Garlotti said as Hogan shot a warning sign to Harper, Addison and Olsen.

"Mademoiselle Mavis is very beautiful—I've seen the pictures," LeBeau interrupted. "If that lovely girl is an old maid, then I'll take two, please," he added. Newkirk smiled gratefully. He didn't want to have to thump Olsen if he could avoid it, but no one was going to pick on Peter Newkirk's big sister and get away with it.

A lively discussion ensued about the marital prospects of women in their late 20s and early 30s, and Newkirk was feeling quite confident that he'd dodged a bullet. But Carter was nothing if not persistent and methodical.

"Hey, Newkirk we still didn't get your birthday," Carter said.

"Blimey, Carter, what do you need it for? I swear, you're like a ruddy dog with a bone."

"Yeah, but I need it for my list. We want to be able to celebrate you!" Carter said enthusiastically.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "You don't want to do that, mate. All the adulation would j-j-j-just go to my head and I'd become impossible to live with." Trap set. Diversion under way.

"You're already impossible to live with," Olsen started in. "You leaves cigarette ashes everywhere, you drink all the coffee, you're lousy at washing dishes…"

"Yeah, and let's not even mention that nighttime activity of yours," Harper said, piling on. "God almighty, Newkirk, it's gonna fall off if you don't leave it alone!"

"Oh? I assume you speak from experience, Harper?" Newkirk jutted out his chin, but his eyes were twinkling and his tongue was firmly in his cheek. He liked the way that came out, without a stumble. And he'd heard Harper going at himself plenty of times.

"No fighting, fellas, back off," Hogan said.

"Yeah, just tell me your birthday, Newkirk," Carter said. "I want to get this organized and put a list up on the wall!"

Bloody hell, Carter, don't you ever stop? "Leave off. I d-don't c-c-c-c-celebrate my bleeding b-b-b-birthday," Newkirk said evenly, staring angrily at Carter. "J-j-j-just sh-shove your st-stupid list." His arms were crossed, his cheeks were flushed, and he was boiling over.

It wasn't hard to tell when Newkirk had had enough, and Hogan knew that moment had arrived. "That's enough, guys. Carter, he can tell you in private."

Carter was starting to apologize when Addison jumped in.

"What is it with your birthday, Newkirk? Is it a suh, a suh, a suh, a suh, a suh secret?" Addison persisted.

"Shut up, Addison! My st-st-st-stammer doesn't sssssound like that!" Newkirk snapped. He stood and rushed Addison, head-butting him in the stomach. Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed his great coat and stomped outside.