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Peter Newkirk strolled into Barracks 2 as if he owned the place and took in a deep breath. Whatever was cooking wasn’t completely appalling. “How’s our evening meal coming along, LeBeau?” he asked as he kicked his football under the bunk and turned toward the table.
“What evening meal?” LeBeau asked innocently. He was comfortably seated inches from Newkirk, writing a letter to his mother.
“The one what’s b-bubbling in that pot on the stove, that’s what.” Newkirk rolled his eyes as he slid onto the bench. “At least it doesn’t smell like f-fish stew. What is it?”
“Something we used to eat all the time at home, Newkirk,” Carter said. “You’ll see.”
Newkirk reeled around and there was Carter, hands on hips and spoon in hand, wearing LeBeau’s white apron and chef’s toque. “Oh really? Well, who asked you? I was talking to LeBeau here,” Newkirk snapped. He rolled his eyes again in case anyone had not picked up on the fact that considered them all idiots.
“I’m cooking, Newkirk,” Carter said. Then he and LeBeau started to laugh maniacally.
“Wh-what? What are you two laughing at?” Newkirk protested.
“The look on your face. It’s priceless,” LeBeau said. He pulled a mug in imitation of how Newkirk looked—eyebrows up, mouth hanging open. “I am Pierre and I am so shocked,” he said in a ridiculously bad imitation of a Cockney accent. “This is great. I never get to imitate you. It’s a variation on a theme.”
“Why is he cooking?” Newkirk demanded, completely ignoring LeBeau’s antics and Carter’s presence.
LeBeau shrugged. “It’s another variation on a theme. We shift the melody a bit, we alter the counterpoint…”
“Stop with all them bleeding bourgeois words and answer the question before I belt you!” Newkirk snapped. “Why can’t you cook?”
“Why should I? You hate my cooking, and I deserve a break. Besides, I have no idea how to prepare this cut of meat,” LeBeau said. He waved Newkirk off airily.
Newkirk was afraid to ask, but he couldn’t risk showing it, so he forged ahead. “Oh, good, at least that means it’s not a French recipe. What cut of meat is it, then?” he demanded.
“Roadkill,” Carter said. “We eat it all the time at home!”
“Roadkill,” Newkirk said flatly.
“Yes,” Carter said. “Ein Rehbock, to be specific.”
“A roe buck?” Newkirk said. “What, like in that hunting book? Bambi?”
“Exactly,” Carter said cheerfully. “By the way, that’s a movie now. I took Mary Jane to see it just before I shipped out. I never saw so many people crying at the same time,” he said, smiling inanely at what appeared to be a pleasant memory.
“That’s lovely, that is, but where’d it come from?” Newkirk asked.
“The movie? Oh, California. Walt Disney Studios,” Carter said.
“Not the film, Carter. The animal,” Newkirk snapped.
“Oh that? Like I said, roadkill.” Now it was Carter’s turn to sound like he was speaking to a simpleton. “It got hit by a car down the road. The minute I heard about it, I knew what we were having for dinner. Bloody Mary Jerky!”
Newkirk blanched. That sounded horrible. “Is it made with … actual blood?” he inquired.
“Naw, that would be venison blood sausages. For this, you just need the leanest cuts of venison, cut into thin strips, and doused in Bloody Mary mix, which you may recall stealing from the NCO club?”
“That wasn’t me. That was LeBeau,” Newkirk said. “It's usually the other way around, innit? Another variation on a theme, I suppose.”
Newkirk sniffed the air again. “So let me get this right,” he said. “The buck got knocked down by a motorcar? There was no anguish of the hunted? No deceit and cruelty of the savage? Not patience and devotion of the mother to her young? No fury of rivals in love? No grace and loneliness of the great princes of the forest? Nothing at all to evoke the book? Just Bambi and a bad driver?”
“Yeah, the car swerved and got him. And we got the meat.”
“Alright then, well, let’s tuck in, shall we?” Newkirk said.
“You’re not going to make a fuss and insult his cooking?” LeBeau said. “That’s rude. You always insult my cooking.”
“No, I see where he’s coming from, LeBeau,” Carter said. “Variation on a theme.”