That's No Spy, That's My Back Pocket
A more light-hearted take on that infamous cold opening. After the Gestapo fire at the gang and appear to miss them, all seems well until LeBeau realizes, to his great embarrassment, that he's carrying around a bit of lead in his keister. Very brief one shot. Er, you know what I mean...
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I disown the title. Not my best.
It was supposed to be a routine mission. Pass information to Danzig to pass along through the underground. And then the Gestapo had to interrupt just as the spy was leaving.
LeBeau dove for cover first as the Gestapo sprayed the woods with bullets. As he hit the dirt, he felt something slam into his rear end. The next thing he knew, the weight of two men had him pinned down.
The shots, shouts and footfalls ceased, and once Colonel Hogan gave the all clear, the men began picking themselves up.
"Everyone alright?" Hogan asked.
"I think so," Carter responded.
"Cor, it's a good thing the German army can't shoot any better than the French army," Newkirk teased as he and Baker pulled themselves up off of LeBeau and brushed themselves off.
"Oh yeah?" LeBeau shot back as he started to lift himself up. "If that's the case, we're all extremely lucky they mi—OW!" He sank back to the ground as a burning pain shot up and down his leg and lower back. He tried to twist his neck around to see what had happened, but couldn't move far for the pain. "Colonel?" he whimpered.
"What happened?" Hogan asked.
Newkirk crawled over to LeBeau's other side to inspect his injury. He ran a finger over the wound, coming up with blood. He glanced up at Hogan, concern etched over his features. "Colonel, my li'l mate's been 'it," he said. "And from the looks of it, 'e won't be sittin' proper for a while."
"What?!" LeBeau yelped. "Oh, nonononono! Let me...ow!" He twisted around to try and feel the wound for himself, but any movement sent pain reverberating through his lower body.
"Calm down, LeBeau," Hogan said. "We'll get you back to Stalag 13 and have Wilson take a look at it."
"Boy, hit in the butt," Carter said. "That's gotta be embarrassing."
"You should try it sometime," LeBeau griped.
"Don't worry, Louis, it ain't bleedin' too 'eavily," Newkirk offered. "I've lost more blood than this shaving."
To emphasize his point, Newkirk waved his gloved, bloody fingers in front of LeBeau's face. The moment LeBeau laid eyes on the dark red liquid glistening in the moonlight, his breath hitched, his vision darkened, and his head fell to the ground.
Baker blinked. "What happened? Is he okay?"
Hogan checked the little Frenchman's pulse and eyes. "I think he fainted," he said with a slight smirk.
"Can't stand the sight of blood!" Newkirk muttered.
Hogan shook his head. "Well, let's get him up and back to camp."
Once they had carefully maneuvered LeBeau down the tunnel entrance, they laid him on his stomach on a table in the radio room. Newkirk and Baker carefully exposed the gunshot wound.
"Carter, there's some sulfa in my footlocker," Hogan said. "Go get it for me."
"Right, sir," Carter said, heading down the tunnel to his barracks.
"Here, Colonel, 'ere's where the bullet 'it," Newkirk said as he wiped away some of the congealed blood.
"Doesn't look like it went in too deep," Hogan said.
"Might still 'ave to dig for it," Newkirk said.
"We'll get Wilson to do that."
LeBeau began to stir. "Get Wilson to do what?"
"Dig the bullet out of your backside," Baker supplied.
LeBeau whimpered and put a hand to his face. "How humiliating."
Suddenly, the radio crackled to life.
"Papa Bear come in, please. Papa Bear come in."
Hogan picked up the receiver. "This is Papa Bear. Go ahead."
"Our leader Danzig has received a bad bullet wound, und we are in need of penicillin."
"Roger that. In the meantime, can any of you deliver the information to the underground?"
"No, they won't accept it from anyone but Danzig."
"Roger. We'll get the penicillin to you as soon as possible." He hung up the receiver and turned to his second radio man. "Baker, ask London to arrange a drop. We'll pick it up tomorrow night."
"Yessir," Baker said.
Just then, Carter came around the corner, followed by Sergeant Wilson. "Here's the sulfa, Colonel," he said, handing his CO a metal container. "Wilson was over checking on Davis' ingrown toenail, so I let him know what happened."
"Great timing, Joe," Hogan said in greeting. "Probably been a while since you've had to deal with casualties of war."
"The one benefit of being in a POW camp," Wilson said as he leaned over LeBeau, who still had his face hidden in his hands.
"Please, someone just put me out of my misery," LeBeau muttered.
"You shouldn't be in that much pain," Wilson said as he inspected the wound. "This extraction will be easy."
"Oui, but I'll never hear the end of it. So to speak."
"Who said you had to broadcast the news?" Wilson asked, pulling some tools from his med kit and applying rubbing alcohol to them. As he wet a piece of gauze and wiped the wound clean, LeBeau tensed and sucked in a breath.
"People are going to ask where I got shot," LeBeau whined. "What am I supposed to tell them?"
Newkirk walked around to LeBeau's head and crouched down to his friend's eye level. "I'll tell you, mate. You look 'em dead in the eye and tell 'em, 'I got shot in the butt.'"
"Oh, yeah, and I'll be a laughing stock," LeBeau griped. "Thanks for nothing, mon pote."
"Gettin' shot ain't no laughing matter, mate," Newkirk said, his voice level. "You gave us a right scare, Louis. Could've been a lot worse, you know. And if anyone gives you problems, you can be sure ol' Newkirk 'as your back."
"Not to mention they'll have to deal with an irate colonel," Hogan added.
LeBeau gave a small smile. "Merci, mes amis," he said.
"Glad we've got that out of the way," Wilson said. "Now, LeBeau, brace yourself. I'm afraid I don't have any anesthetic."
Newkirk stood. "Got a better idea. 'and me that rag."
Puzzled, Wilson handed over the rag Newkirk had used to wipe up some of LeBeau's blood.
"Louis, just so you know, this 'urts me more than it 'urts you." With that, Newkirk flashed the blood-stained rag in front of LeBeau's face.
And on cue, LeBeau gasped and fell unconscious.
Newkirk grinned at Wilson. "There you are, Sergeant, instant anesthesia."
Wilson chuckled, shook his head and set to work.
As LeBeau came to, he found himself on his stomach on a lower bunk.
"'ow you feelin', mate?" Newkirk said, looking up from a card game he was sharing with Carter.
"Sore," LeBeau muttered. "Did Wilson get the bullet out okay?"
"Said it was the easiest surgery 'e's ever performed," Newkirk answered. "You'll be up and runnin' in a couple of days, and there shouldn't even be a scar."
"What time is it?"
"Almost morning roll call," Carter said. "We're gonna tell Schultz you fell out of bed last night and hurt your leg. Maybe he'll let you stay in."
"We could always get you the week off by saying you caught hepatitis," Baker suggested.
"Right, and they put 'im in with Kinch, and 'e catches hepatitis for real," Newkirk replied.
LeBeau shrugged. "I'll be fine in a couple days," he said. "Just don't let Schultz bug me for strudel or anything else."
"You got it, mate," Newkirk replied, glaring at Carter as the American threw his cards down and declared gin.
LeBeau snuggled down in his blanket, wincing a bit at the throbbing in his rear. Might as well catch up on some sleep. Le colonel is probably going to need me for that mission to get penicillin to Danzig.
As the thought of penicillin occurred to him, LeBeau suddenly popped his head up. "Colonel?" he called.
Hogan appeared from his office, holding a cup of coffee. "What is it, LeBeau? You alright?"
"Well, sir, I was thinking...would it be too much to ask, when we get the penicillin, to spare a little for me?"
"...LeBeau?"
"Yes sir?"
"Go back to sleep before I have Newkirk put you out again."