“Let the yank go,” an Irish-accented voice said.
“Mind your own business, paddy. We’re just messin’ around.”
“Call me a paddy again. See what happens.”
“All right. Get your spud-eatin’, bog-lovin’, paddy as—”
Commotion broke out around Lockhart. Winded and eyes watering, he couldn’t make out the action, but heard grunts and groans and the slaps of knuckles pounding flesh. Disorientated and feeling the effects of the wine, he hardly noticed when two sets of gentle hands lifted him to his feet and guided him away. It was like he blinked, and suddenly, he was sitting at a table in the mess, a plate of food before him and a steaming mug of coffee beside it. He glanced up and studied the shaved-headed soldier across from him devouring his meal, while a much stockier one shook his head, face
