Two hours into their spell in the cooler, Hogan and Newkirk were passed out on a single cot, their trousers loose and unbuttoned, bits hanging out. Newkirk was sleeping on Hogan's chest with a slack jaw, damp hair, and a silly grin, the very picture of contentment.
Hogan gave him a shake. "Come on, wake up," he said. "Newkirk! Rise and shine! That's an order!"
Newkirk awoke with a start. "Who? When? Where?" he spluttered as he broke through the haze of unconsciousness.
"What are you, a journalist?" Hogan grunted with a shove. "Get off of me. You're crushing my arm."
"Sorry, sir," Newkirk said, sitting up to brush off his uniform while squashing Hogan's leg and yawning. He rubbed his eyes as Hogan pried himself from out under the Corporal, who was continuing: "But honestly, sir, if you hadn't worn me out with 40 solid minutes of mutual…"
"Right, right," Hogan groused with a final push to Newirk's arm. "It's always the officer's fault." Finally free, he stood up and stretched, and then realized he needed to tuck himself in and button up. Newkirk saw his trousers were in the same sorry state of affairs, so he stood up and followed suit until Hogan swatted his hands out of the way. "Let me do that for you," Hogan said with a smile, buttoning up Newkirk's fly. He patted him on the waist with both hands as he finished up and stood back to admire his efforts.
"Blimey, sir, I've been dressing myself since I was four. Are you ever going to let me do it again?" Newkirk whined.
"Hmmmm," Hogan said thoughtfully. "I'll let you know."
"Is that the same as 'ask your mother'?" Newkirk snapped back. He sat down with a sulk on his face. Hogan's silence was a pretty good answer to his question. The man was obsessed with making it his job to take off and put on Peter's clothes whenever he could get him alone.
Time to change the conversation. "Well, this morning's pastime was certainly very nice, sir. But we can't keep it up all day," Newkirk said.
"Are you sure?" Hogan said with a leer.
"Sir, I am quite sure. You're 35 years old. You need time to recover," Newkirk replied. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a packet of cigarettes and lighter. From his trouser pocket, he drew a deck of cards.
"All right, deal," Hogan said. "What are we playing? Dealer's choice."
"Well, it's easy, then," Newkirk said with a grin. "Strip poker."
Hogan groaned. This was going to be a very, very tiring five days.
XXX
It was the sixth hand of five-card draw in what had become a one-sided strip poker game, and Colonel Hogan was getting cold.
"Let's see," Newkirk said. "Shoes. Socks. Jacket. Shirt. Vest. I think you can see where this is going, Sir."
"Pants," Hogan grumbled.
"Oh, no, we're not there yet, Sir. But soon," Newkirk said confidently.
"Not underpants, Newkirk. Good old American pants. Trousers, as you would put it," Hogan said with annoyance. "You sure you won't accept my belt?"
"A belt is not an item of clothing. It's an accessory. And strictly speaking, we've already bent the rule for shoes and socks," Newkirk said thoughtfully. "No, sir, trousers it is. Off with them."
Hogan sighed and dropped his pants. "You pick them up," he told Newkirk irritably.
"My pleasure, sir," Newkirk answered, rising from the bunk to help the Colonel out. He folded the trousers neatly and laid them on Hogan's cot with the rest of his uniform.
"Deal," Hogan said with an air of resignation. "You sure you don't have any cards up your sleeves?"
"Seriously, sir?" Newkirk said. "You've been all up my sleeves and over every other part of me lately."
"Naw, I know you don't. I was just being my usual sunny, optimistic self, hoping for an out," Hogan said. "This game would have worked a lot better for me if we could fold, you know," he added.
"Never in a two-person game, Sir. It's just not sporting," Newkirk replied. "Would you like a pity round, Gov? I don't mind."
"Oh, shove it, Newkirk." Hogan said. As he spat the words out, a surge of optimism rose in his heart. He had three queens, a jack, and an eight. Surely the God who had locked him in a cell with this exasperating, exhausting, entrancing Englishman would throw him a bone in the next three draws.
His luck was in. Hogan drew a jack on the third draw and slapped down a high full house. Newkirk looked stunned, shook his head sadly, and laid down his cards on the overturned slops bucket that served as their card table.
Four kings and a 10. Oh, for crying out loud.
"Sorry, old chap," Newkirk said with a smirk. "Off with them."
Hogan stood, let out a deep sigh, and unbuttoned the top button of his shorts when suddenly inspiration struck. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said. "What about my crush cap?"
"Accessory," Newkirk said, shaking his head in a bad imitation of regret. "Ineligible as collateral."
"Aw, come on, Peter. Just this once?" Hogan pleaded.
"Mm. Well, if you're going to beg," Newkirk said.
Hogan sat beside Newkirk on the bed. "All right, I'll beg," he said, leaning in for a kiss. Newkirk rolled his eyes and puckered up, growing a bit more interested as Hogan flicked and twirled his tongue in his mouth. They explored each other for a bit, hands starting to wander, until Newkirk abruptly pulled back.
"Right, time, Gentlemen. Back to the game," Newkirk said crisply, eyes on his shuffle as his trousers bulged. Then he looked at Hogan through his eyelashes and smiled ever so slightly. "But as a show of appreciation for that pleasant interlude, I shall accept the cap. Just. This. Once."
Hogan smiled and plopped his beloved crush cap down on Newkirk's bare head while his Corporal dealt out another hand, then inserted his own hands in his pockets. "It's very cold in here, Sir," he said innocently. "As you well know."
Hoping for a miracle, Hogan ignored whatever Newkirk was up to and picked up his cards. His face instantly fell. Jack of spades, eight of diamonds, seven of hearts, six of spades, two of clubs.
"Bad hand, Sir? Not like you to give the game away so early," Newkirk teased as he rummaged around in his pockets.
"Nah, I'm just a little cold," Hogan said. "Shut up and play."
But Newkirk had a faraway look in his eyes.
"Oh for Pete's sake, take your hands out of your pockets'" Hogan said, crossing his arms. "This is poker, not pool." Newkirk withdrew his left hand.
"Both of them," Hogan warned.
"Sorry, Sir, I forgot I 'ad two hands," Newkirk grumbled, removing the right. "Happy?"
Hogan grinned. "Yep. Don't forget, I'm here to teach you discipline." Plus he needed to focus on the game, not get distracted by Newkirk's hobby.
On the first draw, Hogan discarded the two of clubs for a six of clubs. OK. Now he had a pair.
Second draw: Discarded seven of hearts for a 10 of spades. Hmm, possibility of a straight or a flush.
Third draw: Discarded eight of diamonds for a six of hearts. Great, three sixes! He just needed another six or a jack.
Then Newkirk slapped his cards down. "Straight flush!" he declared. Queen, Jack, 10, 9, and 8 of hearts.
"Gee, thanks, God," Hogan muttered under his breath.
Newkirk held back a squeal as he stretched his arms up and then behind his head. "Sorry, Sir, but the moment of truth has arrived," he said. "Drop 'em"
Hogan just shook his head and stared off to the horizon as he stripped away his last bit of dignity. Off came his shorts. Hogan threw them right at Newkirk.
Newkirk caught the drawers, folded them neatly, and then leaned forward to appraise the man who stood before him in all his glory.
"You weren't joking when you said you were cold, were you, Gov?" he offered.
"Newkirk!" Hogan yelled. He grabbed his crush cap off the Corporal's head and smacked him with it. Then he smiled and pulled his Corporal up to his feet. "Come here, Peter."
Moments later, Colonel Hogan was not the only naked person in the cell. And they had two hours until Schultz would come back.
