11th June: Returning with gifts

Freddie listened intently, then nodded, absentmindedly tickling the chick. "Schauspieler. To ... play ... for ... show." Lord, he hoped that did make any sense. "Spielen is ... play ... like ... ", he mimicked throwing a ball with one hand, "but is ... act? ... too. On a Bühne."

He started to to use both hands to indicate a large stage, but a protesting chirp made him instantly go still again. Apologetically clucking at the chick, he cupped his one hand a bit to allow Peggy to settle down comfortably again and dug with his other into his satchel again to find a piece of biscuit to apologize with.

Vickery nodded. "To act in the theatre, on stage. In einem Theater, auf der Bühne. An actor, ein Schauspieler."

Quite how or why the two young Riflemen had got to discussing the theatre, a place Vickery was willing to bet neither of them had visited, was beyond the officer. He was perfectly happy to provide translations for either of them when needed, but wasn't entirely sure how much either of them knew about the theatre.

Freddie gave the Captain a grateful look and repeated "On Stage!" to commit the words to memory. He wasn't sure whether he would ever need them again, but the words the captain of your company taught you, you remembered.

Finally finding his iron reserve of biscuits in his satchel, he offered a morsel to Peggy, trying to work up enough courage to inquire after some words he might use in his new position tomorrow.

Cotton had busied himself with beginning preparations for dinner, and had to hide a smile as the Captain gave various translations for things to do with the theatre. Quite why the lads had got to discussing the theatre, Cotton couldn't say - he had certainly never been to the theatre and he would be very surprised if either of the young lads had, either.

"You're gettin' to be good, Rottländer," he said, finally lifting the pot onto the fire.

Looking up to see what Cotton had meant - the grammar was once more beyond him - Freddie saw what the older batman was doing. He winced and exclaimed: "Captain Torrington ... dinner ... I have to cook."

Gently ruffeling Peggy's feathers a last time, he whispered in German, "With you, little one, I completly forgot the time!", before he set her down in front of Pye again and sprang up.

There was of course the slight problem that Captain Vickery was still present. What was it one was supposed to say under these circumstances? Freddie drew himself up to attention, facing the Captain, and managed with only a slight squeak in his voice:

"Permission ... to ... to go ... to Captain Torrington, Sir?"

Vickery looked up at Rottländer. "Certainly, Rifleman."

Cotton glanced up from the pot. "You bring Captain Torrington's food here, and cook it with ours, then take it to him. It'll be easier for you." He couldn't manage to say all that in German and looked over at his own officer for help.

Vickery noticed his batman's glance and translated his words for the younger man, adding, "It's a suggestion, not an order. You don't have to if you don't want to."

Freddie nodded, an eager look in his face, and answered rather breathlessly: "Thank you, Captain!"

He looked gratefully at Cotton, mouthing a "Danke!" in his direction, too, graped his rifle, then dashed off at his usual high speed, only to be seen a short time later coming back laden with not only stuff for dinner, but Captain Torrington's coat as well.

Vickery smiled as Rottländer returned, laden with various items, including a coat. He couldn't help raising an eyebrow at that. "I must admit to never having wool-flavoured stew before," he said. "It looks as though it would be rather indigestible."

The only word in this particular sentence that made any sense to Freddie was 'stew', but the raised eyebrow and the inflection suggested that the Captain had asked him something.

A little unsure, Freddie halted, juggling various packages, a small kettle and a pan, and came to attention, all the time trying to prevent the coat from slipping to the floor.

"Uhm ... Sir?"

"At ease, Rottländer," Vickery said hastily, detecting a fleeting moment of panic. He switched to German. "Relax. I said that I must admit to never having wool-flavoured stew before," he said. "It looks as though it would be rather chewy."

Unable to hold on to all the different items any longer, Freddie let them slide down in a more or less orderly fashion, barely managing to stifle a whoop of laughter at the picture Captain Vickery had conjured up; the coat he draped carefully over a convenient post.

"Um, no, Sir, I guess there would be too much sand between the teeth at the moment", he answered in the same language. "I want to brush it while the stew's cooking."

Recollecting that he probably shouldn't talk back like this to an officer, he then quickly ducked his head. The tips of his ears shining red, he mumbled "Sorry, Sir!", and started to cut vegetables into the kettle.

Pye observed them quietly, having nothing to add, and little to say. He glanced over at Cotton and then averted his gaze from the food, willing himself not to notice neither it, nor the fact something delicious would be made from it, that an officer would eat.

Instead of thinking about that, he placed more of his attention on his chick, which he petted gently in his hand, humming to himself and a bit perhaps also to her.

Freddie snipped away silently for a time, but when the Captain didn't appear to remonstrate, he dared to take in his surroundings again.

Pye had been silent for some time now and looked a bit forlorn. Freddie didn't like it; he wanted his new friend to be happy. After listening to his humming for a time, Freddie asked in a low voice:

"That song ... what is it? Of your home? It is ... traurig."

"There is no need to apologise," Vickery said in German, pleased that Rottländer had overcome his shyness enough to start teasing back. "If I have started joking with you, it is only fair that you can joke back." He reached for a package that Rottländer had dropped a moment ago and held it out. "Here."

He turned to Pye, and switched back to English. "He means the song is sad, Pye."

Traurig? Pye looked up, bemused. It was for Vickery to help out with a translation and had the lad nod ever so slowly. "Oh... M' sorry." He spoke apologetically. "I didn't mean for it ter be ..." Loud enough that it would disturb the others. He glanced at Vickery and then turned to look at their new batman. "Little Rosie used ter sing it." He answered.

Freddie took the package the Captain held out and gave a quaint little bow. "Thank you, Sir!"

He opened it and carefully retrieved some silver green twigs which he added to the mixture in the kettle. Setting it over the fire, he busily started to stir. Soon the smell of roasted onions, vegetables and wild sage wafted around him.

Continuing to stir occasionally, he looked at Pye. He wanted to learn more about him, also to learn the song, but he didn't want to be inquisitive. Hesitantly he asked Pye: "Is Rosie your ... friend?"

"Rosie is dead. But she was a good lass." Pye nodded and fought the urge to look at the kettle from which such a delicious smell was just coming. He licked his lips and shook his head turning his attention mostly on Friedrich.

"She died couse o' fever."

Freddie drew in his shoulders, his face lined with sympathy. "I am sorry." He certainly hadn't wanted to stir up any bad memories.

He silently added the beef to his kettle. As the meat browned, he recalled that Pye had seemed interested in food before. Food always lifted the spirits in Freddies experience.

As off-handedly as he could, he asked: "Can I cook ... for you ... later? I have Zwiebel übrig ... left? I cook them in your wine?"

Cotton winked at Pye. "He's a good cook, is Herr Rottländer. You won't regret sayin' yes."

Now, where had that half-onion gone? He knew he hadn't used it all up yesterday. He had to start turning most of his breadbag out before he found it. He wiped his folding knife on his jacket before starting to slice the onion up. "Hate choppin' onions," he remarked off-handedly. "Allus make me cry, they do."

Pye perked up. Did the batman just offer to cook him something. He had no idea what he had left, but whatever it was if it was edible and it could be eaten Pye was all for it. He glanced at Cotton, but need not have himself to be told twice.

"Yes.., yes if possible. Please." He agreed and looked so grateful that it could as well have been that Friedrich had offered him a mountain of gold. Food was equal if not a better offer.

Freddie laughed. "Good!" Pye looked so grateful that Freddie was a bit unsure whether he had missed something. He loved to cook, so why shouldn't he do it for his friends? And the onions wouldn't keep for long anyway.

Jumping up occasionally to further stir the contents of his kettle and to add water or spices, Freddie crouched down besides Pye again and began to brush the coat.

"Do you need help with that?" Now , at the promise of good food, the young rifleman was more than eager to be of assistance in anything the other, German boy, needed or supposed he could have a pair of spare hands to use. Be it at brushing a coat, at stirring the contents of the kettle or anything other that he could not pinpoint at first glance.

Food. Pye was grinning at the mere thought of it.

Freddie thought for a moment. He didn't think he needed help at the moment. The food needed stirring only occasionaly, and the coat could be brushed only by one.

Tipping a small, half-filled sack over to Pye with his foot, he asked: "Can you ... clean ... the Zwiebeln?"

Pye leaned down to pick the sack up. He wondered what Zwiebeln were, and what he was about to clean. Peeking in he paused. "Oh, jus' want 'em cleaned or cut too?" He asked.

Freddie paused for a moment until he had unravelled the question. He still had trouble understanding the slurred way Pye sometimes spoke.
Then he shook his head: "No, just make away ... the skin. We cook them with wine and the ... fat from here." He tapped the wooden spoon against the kettle. "They are then ... good."

For a moment his customary grin twisted into a longing smile. The dish had been a popular one back home, where onions grew aplenty and were always some leftover wine that wasn't good enough for sale could be found. He usually didn't miss his homeland; his life had certainly been more interesting than it would ever have been back there. But for a brief moment he sorely missed the gentle landscape and the smell of cherries that would hang in the air at this time of year.