Chapter 4

Morning came a bit early to Barracks 2 the day after Newkirk's return. Usually the men would stay in their beds as long as possible, leaving the meager warmth only when prompted by a guard's abrupt banging and shouting. On this day, however, shortly before roll call Hogan crept quietly into the outer room, thinking to wake Newkirk early as he would need a little more time to get going. He wasn't the only one with that idea, apparently, for when he entered the room, he found several other men up as well.

"Still asleep?" he whispered to Sergeants Turner and Kinchloe, who were standing by Newkirk's bunk.

They nodded at Hogan, but made no move to disturb their sleeping comrade.

He understood their hesitation when he joined them and looked down at the Englishman—even in the pale grey light of early morning, he could tell that Newkirk was unwell. Asleep, none of Newkirk's personality could mask the result of months of misery. Thin and pale, he looked positively frail, curled on his side with his hands tucked up by his cheek.

In fact, he looked so weary that Hogan was tempted to let the man sleep and make excuses again for him again at roll call. They could bring him back something to eat as before. But no. One of Klink's immutable rules was for all prisoners to be at roll call and the Kommandant would hardly be moved by the Christmas spirit two days in a row. He might therefore take Newkirk's repeat absence as a sign that the 'English troublemaker' hadn't learned his lesson and dump him back in the cooler. Hogan didn't think Newkirk was up to another cooler stay at the moment, so he nodded to the others to go ahead and Sgt Turner reached down and gently shook Newkirk's shoulder.

"Hey, Newkirk, time to get up," he said softly.

Though he didn't waken, Newkirk frowned in his sleep and pulled away from the touch with a low moan.

"Guess Peter still wants more beauty sleep," said Kinchloe with a sympathetic smile.

Hogan shook his head and said quietly, trying not to wake up the rest of the barracks, "He can climb back in bed as soon as we're done, but he needs to stand for roll call. Whoever's next to him can help him."

Hogan didn't understand the look the two sergeants exchanged, but was diverted when Turner shook Newkirk harder and was successful this time.

"Cor," said Newkirk in a sleep roughened voice as he blinked slowly and looked at the hovering men, "this isn't a dream, is it? I really am back with me mates?"

"You sure are buddy," said Kinchloe, patting his friend's shoulder. "And it's time to get up. Roll call in about ten minutes."

"Roll call? Now there's somethin' I didn't miss," he said with a sigh. "All right then. Give us a 'and up, will you?"

Both sergeants took a hand and gently pulled him up, not letting go until Newkirk stopped swaying.

Closing his eyes and leaning forward, Newkirk rested his head in a hand and said, "Blimey."

"Maybe we should see if you can stay in bed again," said Kinchloe with a worried frown. "You look beat."

Newkirk pushed aside the hands that were once more steadying him and forced himself to straighten. Scowling slightly, he said, "Leave off, Kinch. Just sat up too fast. Nothing wrong what a bit of breakfast can't fix."

Grabbing the frame of the top bunk to pull himself up, Newkirk's actions belied his words, for it was clearly a monumental effort to slowly and stiffly make his way to the table.

Hogan watched all the proceedings silently. It was interesting that none of the men offered to help although they clearly wanted to. He understood why when Newkirk gently lowered himself to the bench and Chapman, who'd been watching from the table, grabbed his elbow to help him.

Jerking away in annoyance, Newkirk hissed, "I said leave off! I can do it meself."

Clearly someone was inclined to get testy over hovering.

Chapman backed off, his hands raised in surrender. "All right. I know, I know. Little Petey can take care of 'imself. But I'll warn you, if little Petey's stubborn arse falls on the floor, don't go lookin' for me to kiss what 'urts."

Newkirk tried to glare at his friend, but humor beat out indignation and a twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. "That's charmin', mate. Real charmin'," he said with a snort.

Their conversation, although quiet, woke the remaining men and within a few minutes, most had rolled out of their bunks and joined the others around the table, taking the opportunity to chat with their returned barracks-mate before roll call.

It was only a few minutes later that Sergeant Zimmerman flung open the door and started shouting, not caring it was unnecessary as the men were already up. They tumbled out the door and into formation, Newkirk a little slower than the rest but getting there on his own steam.

When Newkirk fell in beside Hughes, Hogan glanced over and quirked an eyebrow. He would have thought the corporal would have chosen a less obvious position in the back of the formation.

Hughes explained, however, with a quiet, "The worst troublemakers get a front row view…and this one knows he's earned himself a permanent spot, right next to me."

Based on the evil look directed at Hughes, Newkirk heard the murmured remarks, but said nothing. Clearly there was no love lost between these two.

Roll call was mercifully short, with the Kommandant once again refraining from any of his long-winded speeches thanks to the bitter cold. Thus, within minutes the men were dismissed.

Hogan looked over to Newkirk's spot, about to suggest the corporal go back indoors and let someone bring him breakfast, but Newkirk was already heading off with the others. With a shrug, Hogan followed.

The morning's meal was the usual unappetizing oatmeal, barely warm, but none of the men complained as the bowls were ladled out. When there was never quite enough to satisfy, you weren't picky about what you got.

Hogan kept an eye on all the men as he sat down at Barracks 2's table. Since that unexpected epiphany yesterday that the prisoners of Stalag 13 truly were his men and his responsibility, he'd been seeing them in a different light. No, he still wouldn't be putting any of them in the same category as his former crew or squadron mates, but fresh eyes allowed him to reassess them. Maybe they had issues with morale and military courtesies, but he'd been too quick to write them off and was now determined to get to know them better. Furthermore, he wanted to see what he could do to turn things around before he escaped.

As he watched, he was amused by the men's careful treatment of Newkirk. Although he was still unsteady and gingerly lowered himself into his chair, they made a point not to fuss and deftly ignored his shaking hands as he brought his spoon up to his lips.

Despite the unappealing nature of the food, the meal was one of the best Hogan had had since arriving. With the men in uncharacteristically good spirits, they engaged in a round of storytelling as they regaled their returned friend with humorous anecdotes of the goings-on in the camp since he'd been locked up. It was only when the men were just about finished eating that Hogan noticed with concern that Newkirk was only picking at his food.

"Corporal, are you feeling all right? You've barely touched your food."

The shuttered look that Newkirk turned on Hogan took the colonel aback. Just seconds ago, Newkirk had been openly smiling at one of the stories being told. Unconsciously sharing in the pleasure of the men with the return of their friend, Hogan had somehow forgotten that he and said friend weren't on the best of terms.

"Not feelin' particularly 'ungry this mornin', but you're right, I shouldn't let it go to waste. Thank you for noticin', sir," he said coldly.

Hogan swore the temperature in the room dropped at least ten degrees for where there had been lighthearted banter, the conversation died and the men were all carefully looking at no one.

Then Sergeant Jones slapped the table and said, "Well, it's all good. If you don't want your porridge, I'm sure the fellas will help finish it for you."

Nodding tightly, Newkirk shoved his bowl to the center of the table and the nearby men quickly scooped out spoonfuls until it was gone. That done, without word the men pushed away from the table and took their bowls to the dishwashing window and walked out, leaving Hogan alone with Hughes. Bewildered, Hogan wondered what minefield he'd just stepped in.

He received a clue when Hughes said disdainfully, "Ungrateful sod, never appreciates what he has. Looks like he's forgotten once more that we don't waste food here. Guess I'll just have to reinforce that lesson again."

Not wanting to get into the history of that comment at the moment, Hogan objected, "I'm sure he's just not feeling well. Probably a lingering effect from yesterday. As thin as he is, I expect once he gets his appetite back he'll be ravenous."

"As you say." Shaking his head at the clueless American, Hughes excused himself and gathered his bowl, leaving Hogan abruptly alone where just minutes ago there had been a table full of laughing men.

"Huh," he said to himself, and then he, too, stood up and disposed of his dirty dishes.

On his way back to his barracks, Hogan caught up to the rest of the men. Normally they wouldn't linger in this weather, but they were all keeping pace with their slower companion, who was determinedly walking without aid.

Hogan grinned, his humor returning with the obvious evidence of the stubbornness of the man. Newkirk was being foolish not to let the others help him, but Hogan felt a sympathy for the man, understanding the need to stand on your own feet, especially in this kind of environment. He kept behind the lot all the way back to their barracks, enjoying watching the men trying to be solicitous without being overly obvious.

By mid-morning, though, they had an even harder time hiding their desire to help, for their friend's stubborn pride couldn't cover the fact that he was leaning heavily on the table, looking wretched and unable to sit up straight.

Hogan was wondering what the reaction would be if he intervened himself when the decision was taken out of his hands.

"Why don't you lie down for awhile, man. You look done in," said Private Harper, a young GI who had been watching with impatience the other men's reluctance to tell their barracks-mate he was being ridiculous.

"Well, 'o asked you?" snapped Newkirk, forcing himself up straight again.

"I'm just saying you should rest for awhile. My dad always said there's no shame in showing weakness when you're not feeling well. Sitting here while you're miserable isn't fooling anyone."

From the universal reaction of winces, rolled eyes, closed eyes, shakes of heads, and hands to foreheads, Hogan knew the young pup had said the wrong thing.

"I'll show you who's weak, mate," growled Newkirk, as anger-fueled strength allowed him to shove to his feet.

"Hey, take it easy," said Harper, backing up when Newkirk invaded his space.

Newkirk poked him in the chest and said, "Well maybe you need to take it easy and 'ave yourself a wee nap. No one asked for your advice so do us all a favor and shut your mouth."

"Fellas," Hogan interrupted, not waiting for things to escalate. He was shocked, though, when he received a dark look not just from Newkirk, but from Harper as well.

"Sir?" asked Newkirk, his tone making the word anything but deferential.

"Is there a problem, sir?" added Harper coolly, although his tone was more respectful.

"Just making sure there isn't one, Harper."

"Oh, no sir. No problem," said Harper. "Is there, Newkirk?"

"No...no problem at all," answered Newkirk while he stared at Hogan, a hint of the same contempt he showed in the cooler coming through his tone.

"Good," said Hogan, his own sharp tone warning Newkirk to watch himself. He sat back down, forcing himself not to sigh. The men were closing ranks against the intruder. In a way he was angry at himself for hoping for more. He was well aware that Newkirk still saw him as the enemy and hadn't expected any better from him, but after yesterday he'd hoped he'd made some progress with the other men and was stung to realize that he was still firmly on the outside.

Harper and Newkirk sat down at the table together, Hogan catching Newkirk wordlessly apologizing to Harper for his temper with a contrite expression. A quick smile of understanding from Harper ended the issue.

Of course, that led Hogan back to his original concern, regardless of his opinion of Newkirk's behavior, the man was still unwell but unwilling to admit it. Standing on your own two feet was well and good, but there came a point when you needed to forget your pride and do what was necessary to get better. Once again, however, before Hogan could to do anything about Newkirk, someone else intervened. This time it was in the shape of a small Frenchman who'd burst into the room with abandon.

"Pierre! They said you were at breakfast, but I didn't believe them. Mon ami, I'm so glad to see you!"

A red blur few across the room and wrapped itself around the startled Englishman.

"LeBeau. Blimey!" said Newkirk, tentatively wrapping his own arms around his friend.

LeBeau pulled back, keeping his hands on Newkirk's shoulders as an ear-to-ear grin split his face.

"I can't believe you are finally out of that filthy hole. Let me look at you."

The grin faded somewhat as Lebeau took in Newkirk's appearance and the careful way he moved.

"Are you all right, mon ami? What did they do to you?" he ask, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.

"Don't fuss, Louis. You know 'ow it is with all this cold weather. Took a bit of a chill yesterday. Stiffened up the bones, is all."

Lebeau scoffed and rolled his eyes, unconvinced, but he apparently decided to let it go, for the happy grin came back and he said, "Well, I brought you something that should warm you right up. I've been saving some cans of vegetables from Schultz and I made some nice, hot soup. Here, try some."

He uncovered a small bowl he'd placed on the table before he'd thrown his arms around Newkirk, revealing a thick vegetable soup. Hogan's mouth watered when the smell wafted over to him and felt a twinge of jealousy as he thought about his own unappetizing breakfast.

Newkirk adjusted himself on the bench to face the table, but once again his movements were too slow and careful for LeBeau's watchful eyes.

He frowned and put his hands on his hips. "You're hurt, aren't you? What's wrong?"

"I told you. Just a bit stiff."

LeBeau rattled off several annoyed-sounding phrases in French that Hogan had no way of following, but the meaning was clear enough.

Scowling, Newkirk said testily, "I thought you wanted me to eat your ruddy soup. You going to stand there natterin' on or give me the spoon?"

"Newkirk…" LeBeau started out loudly, but stopped himself with a shake of his head. He continued on in a normal voice, "You're lucky I'm so happy to see you, mon pote, or I'd give the soup to someone else. Luckily, today you get a free pass." He handed over the spoon and added, "Go go ahead and try it."

With the first sip all tension drained from Newkirk. "Oh Louis, this is marvelous. I can't remember the last time I 'ad something this good."

Delighted, LeBeau said, "You like it? Of course it isn't your usual boring English food."

"Boring English food? I'll 'ave you know my 'boring English food' tastes better than 'alf that ruddy stuff you make what can't even be pronounced."

"Barbarian," LeBeau scoffed, but he ruined any chance of being taken seriously due to the great smile he couldn't keep off his face.

Hogan moved to the far end of the table with the book he'd been reading for the past few days. Even if they still didn't exactly welcome him, sitting amongst the men made him feel a little less isolated, and so he settled in for a quiet morning.

Quiet reading wasn't really in the cards, however, for in contrast to the usual dispirited, muted atmosphere Hogan had come to expect from the men, the banter between LeBeau and Newkirk got louder and louder and soon several others were good naturedly joining in. They were ganging up on LeBeau, who was forced to fight back on his own until Newkirk unexpectedly switched sides and teamed up with the Frenchman against the others. The quips and insults were hilarious and Hogan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He didn't know how they'd react if they thought he was paying attention, but certainly didn't want to spoil their fun.

Newkirk was so relaxed by the good food and good company that after awhile, without any prompting, he conceded, "I think I might lie down awhile before next roll call. Not really tired, but wouldn't mind warming up a bit under a blanket before we have to go outside."

"You're still cold?"

"Newkirk!"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Here, let me help you up."

A flurry of voices followed his statement.

"Easy now, I'm all right," broke in Newkirk with a grin. "You're not goin' to start fussin' again, are you?"

"Course not," said Chapman, putting a hand under Newkirk's elbow as he started to rise. "'o would want to fuss over an ornery bloke like you?"

"That's real touchin', mate," said Newkirk, distracted enough by the friendly insult that he forgot to object to Chapman helping him over to the bunk.

When he got there, he stopped and sighed, staring up at his bunk. It had been a long time since Newkirk had slept in his own bunk, but it appeared to be too much of a challenge to get up there.

"Oh, sorry. Don't mind me," said Carter, who jumped up from where he'd been sitting on the lower bunk. "I should'a told you. You can just use my bunk. I'm happy to switch until you're feeling better."

Newkirk looked longingly at his own, then reluctantly nodded.

"'preciate it, mate," he said with a sad smile for Carter, again not objecting when both Chapman and Carter helped ease him down.

He rolled over onto his side and pulled a blanket of him, closing his eyes the second his head hit the pillow, his energy deserting him now that he was finally down.

LeBeau had joined them as well and smirked, "Not really tired, huh?"

Popping open one eye, Newkirk snarked, "I told you….just gettin' warm."

Chapman hunched down, only inches from Newkirk's face. "The truth is that you can't keep your eyes open, mate. Now stop showin' your stupid side and go to sleep for awhile."

Newkirk opened his mouth to argue, but a giant yawn came out instead and his eyes slipped closed of their own volition. Huffing in annoyance at his own traitorous body, he muttered something uncomplimentary about so-called friends, but unable to help himself, gave in to his fatigue and was asleep in moments.

In the meantime Carter had been gathering up the blankets from several surrounding bunks and now spread them over the Englishman.

When the others looked at him, he said, "What? He said he was cold, you know. Just because he was actually tired doesn't mean he wasn't cold too. And he'll sleep better if he's warm."

"It was a good idea," said LeBeau. Then he stuck out his hand. "I'm LeBeau. Louis LeBeau. From over in Barracks 3. Merci for looking after mon ami."

"Hi. Andrew Carter. I'm from Bullfrog. That's in North Dakota. Well, or maybe I should say I'm from Barracks 2 now. Uh, but you guessed that, right? Anyway, it's good to meet you. You seem to know Newkirk well. I only met him yesterday, but all the other fellas have talked about him, so I kinda feel like I know him."

"He was assigned to my barracks when I got here. So I've known him…oh…almost a year and a half now."

"Wow. That's a long time. How come he's assigned to this barracks, then? I didn't think they moved guys around much."

"Only when they're troublemakers," said Chapman, breaking in. "Gents like me and Newkirk were given the special privilege of living with 'is 'ighness, Group Captain 'ughes. 'e 'ad all the troublemakers put in 'ere."

"Troublemakers? Gosh. I didn't know that and I've been assigned here the whole time. Does that mean I'm one too?" asked Carter, wide eyed.

Chapman smirked. "Did you do anythin' durin' intake? Upset anyone?"

Carter shook his head vigorously. "No. Honest. Well…" he paused, thinking carefully, "no…nothing."

"Then you're probably just fillin' an empty bunk. Don't worry…if you 'ang around long enough with the lot of us, you'll find some trouble, I'd wager."

Hogan kept looking at his book, not watching but listening to everything. The barracks for troublemakers, huh? That was interesting. It might explain why this particular group of men didn't fit the mold of other soldiers he'd known. Now he was curious about the rest of the camp's inmates. If his barracks mates were an unusual group of men, maybe he'd misjudged the rest and could possibly find the right sort for his operations, after all. Out of all the hundreds of men here, there would have to be some who…..he cut himself off, shocked at his own thoughts. When did he even begin to consider staying and setting up operations? No. His mission was to escape. Period. Disturbed by the direction of his thoughts, he got up and took his book into his own room. If nothing else, sitting in there with Hughes would reinforce the idea that he needed to get out.

OoOoO

Hogan was glad to see that Lebeau's concoction and the nap perked up Newkirk enough that by noon roll call, he had a lot more energy and no problems making it through formation and to lunch.

Once more quietly listening to the men while they ate, Hogan marveled at the change in them. The grim, dispirited apathy from before gave way to smiles and friendly conversation. He even noticed the men at the surrounding tables had been infected by it and were far more lively than he'd ever seen them before. It was astonishing and Hogan worked to figure out why the return of just one man had made such a difference. For whatever reason, the Englishman was a polarizing figure in the camp and Hogan was perplexed by it all.

Studying the men quietly, Hogan began to understand—the Englishman had a bright presence that drew in others around him. Hogan had seen it himself when he'd visited the cooler. Despite Newkirk's shockingly insolent and disrespectful behavior, Hogan had been forced to admit to himself that he'd admired the man's spirit in the most wretched of surroundings. Now, under better conditions, the angry energy had been replaced by smiles, quips, good-natured insults, jabs at the guards…Newkirk made the men laugh and brought life to the camp in a way it had been missing. He was sarcastic and mouthy and irreverent, but his attitude somehow reminded the men that they were more than just prisoners, they were still men.

After lunch, Hogan broke away from the others and made his way to Klink's office. Waiting for once to be announced by the Kommandant's secretary, Hogan entered the office and saluted.

Returning the salute automatically, Klink looked back at his papers and said distractedly, "Col Hogan, what is it you want? We're expecting visitors next week and I must concentrate on these requisitions."

"I don't want anything, Kommandant, except to thank you."

Looking up in surprise, Klink said, "Thank me? For what?" Turning suspicious, he added, "Hogan, is this some kind of trick?"

"No trick. I haven't had a chance to thank you yet for letting Corporal Newkirk out of the cooler and I wanted to let you know how much the men and I appreciate it."

"Oh, well…" Klink seemed almost embarrassed. "I believe in firm discipline, but Newkirk had served his sentence and it was Christmas."

"Well it was a nice surprise for the men and it really cheered them up. I'm curious, though, what made you change your mind?"

"I considered your request to release Newkirk and decided to check on him Christmas morning." Klink's face reflected a trace of the disgust he felt when remembering the condition of the man. "After a very stern conversation with him, I was convinced he understood what he had done was wrong, so I had him released."

Hogan would have loved to have been a fly on that wall during that conversation, imagining Klink blustering to Newkirk's contemptuous attitude. Then again, since he had convinced Klink he could be released, Newkirk was probably clever enough to know how to manipulate the German colonel and had behaved properly. The thought was disturbing. The Englishman would bear watching.

"I'm sure your talk helped, and I'll do my best to see to it that he behaves, Kommandant," said Hogan, although wondering if his best would be good enough to keep Newkirk in line.

"See that he does," said Klink. Then distracted by his paperwork, he added, "Is there anything else?"

"No. That was it. I'll leave you to your paperwork, then. Thanks again Kommandant."

Following an exchange of salutes, Hogan returned to the barracks and spent the rest of the afternoon with the men. He'd gone into his room a couple of times, but found Hughes' company more and more stifling as both of them were coming to the conclusion that their approaches to leadership were in direct conflict with one another and an air of tension permanently resided between them.

The men, Hogan found to his regret, remained wary around him. Through words and actions he could see that they were more accepting of him than Hughes—when the British officer entered the room, the men positively clammed up—but they still didn't treat Hogan as one of them like they had that one brief moment on Christmas Eve.

Hogan laid the blame for their continued unfriendliness somewhat in Newkirk's lap. While the rest of the men were beginning to at least tolerate him, Newkirk was unreservedly cold towards Hogan. Other than that brief hint during the incident with Harper, he wasn't contemptuous like he'd been in the cooler, but he made it clear that he considered Hogan another officer whose presence he endured only because he had no other choice. Hogan was confident if he was there long enough he'd eventually get Newkirk to accept him as his leader, and felt certain that once he had his respect, it would go a long way towards gaining a firm control over all the men.

Despite the lack of welcome, Hogan was relatively content the rest of the afternoon, sitting in a chair near the woodstove and reading a book. He actually did get into the book after awhile and only vaguely paid attention to the comings and goings of the men. A lot of prisoners from other barracks came by to see Newkirk, confirming once again Hogan's impression that the cocky corporal was a well-known figure in the camp.

His focus was caught deep within the book when the most surprising visitor of the day entered. It wasn't another prisoner, though. It was the guard from Barracks 3, Sergeant Schultz, who caused Hogan to put his book down.

"What can we do for you, sergeant?" asked Hogan, standing up.

"Please, Col Hogan, I just want to see how the Englander is."

Hogan was fairly certain who he was referring to, but asked anyway, "Englander? We have a lot of them here. Which one did you mean?"

"Corporal Newkirk, of course. I came to see how he was."

"Newkirk? Why?"

"Col Hogan, Newkirk has been here over two years and I have been his main guard the whole time until he moved in this barracks. He's a nice boy and I like to make sure he's okay."

Hogan blinked. He didn't know how to reply. A nice boy? That was the last thing he'd ever expect one of the Germans to say about Newkirk considering the reputation he had. And was he supposed to believe that a guard actually cared about a prisoner?

"'e's fine, Schultzie, come over 'ere and see for yourself," said Chapman quietly. "But don't make too much noise. 'e's takin' a nap and we don't want 'im woken up."

Hogan glanced over to Chapman, surprised to see that he was right and Newkirk was once again asleep. He'd been so involved in the book that he hadn't noticed Newkirk laying back down.

The big guard smiled his thanks at Chapman and went over to the bunk where Newkirk lay under a pile of blankets. When he bent over and looked at the prisoner, though, he frowned in concern.

"He doesn't look very good. Are you sure he's all right?"

"'e's a bit run down from bein' in the cooler so long, but 'e'll be right as rain soon enough. A little bit of sleep and good food and 'e'll be sorted before you know it."

Straightening up, Schultz smiled again. "That's very good. I am glad he is okay. You will tell me if he does not get better?" he asked, honest concern reflecting in his expression.

"Sure," said Hogan, getting back into the conversation. "We'll let you know."

Hogan didn't know why the big man cared, but seemed that Schultz's concern was genuine and he would do what he could to ensure the guard stayed sympathetic to them.

After Schultz left, Hogan walked over to where the Englishman was sleeping—Schultz had been correct when he said Newkirk wasn't looking very good. He was once more curled up on his side, pale and looking ill. Hogan went back to his chair and picked up the book, but his thoughts had been derailed and he found it hard to focus on the story. He flipped pages without really comprehending the words he'd read, waiting for roll call and hoping the nap would once again help his fellow prisoner.

OoOoOoOoOoO

By evening roll call, Newkirk had woken, but the extra energy he'd had earlier in the day had abandoned him. Although he was able to stand roll call and went with the others to the chow hall, he ate almost nothing and had to be helped back to the barracks where he went straight to bed.

By the morning, it was clear things weren't any better. Newkirk climbed out of bed with the help of a couple of men, not even pretending he could do it on his own. And at roll call, Sgt Carter, who stood behind him, had to steady him a couple of times when he started swaying. None of his friends even considered going to breakfast, but instead they practically carried the stumbling, shivering man back in the barracks and helped him to Carter's bunk where he collapsed. Hogan went along with them.

"Colonel, the corporal here is in a bad way. We need to get him some help," said Sgt Turner, turning to the senior officer.

For a split second, Hogan basked in the realization that one of the men had naturally and respectfully looked to him for leadership. It was about time. Then the more pressing need shoved that thought to the back of his mind.

"I understand there's no doctor on staff here and no infirmary. What's the standard procedure for medical help when a prisoner's sick here?"

"Usually we just take care of our own," said Chapman, sitting on the edge of the bunk next to Newkirk. "But sir, 'e's got a fever, and 'e wasn't exactly up to snuff already."

A fever? That wasn't good. Hogan was well aware of how run down Newkirk was and if he'd caught anything, he wouldn't have a lot of reserves to fight it.

"Has the Kommandant ever called in a doctor if one of the men was really sick?" asked Hogan, his mind immediately running through all possible ways to address this situation.

Turner shook his head. "No. They don't care if we're sick or even die. Figure we're enemies, so why bother?"

Hogan frowned. His impression of Klink was that the man was weak, but not cruel.

"Has anyone ever asked him?"

"Not Klink. That was Schwartz's rule, though. He was the previous Kommandant. Hated us and wasn't shy about letting us know."

"Hmmm. Well, I'll leave that as a later option if we can't help Newkirk ourselves. How are we supplied for aspirin? I know we got some with the last Red Cross packages. Do we have a enough left to help ease the fever?"

The men quickly scrounged amongst themselves and came up with over a dozen tablets that they brought over.

Hogan turned to Kinchloe, who was calmly standing by, ready to do what was needed to help his buddy.

"Kinch," he said, without thinking adopting the nickname Newkirk had used for the man, "go find the medic, Wilson. Check the chow hall and if he's not there, go to his barracks. Keep it quiet, though. Don't want the men to get worked up thinking there's anything wrong. And as far as we know, there isn't. Newkirk could just be run down and caught a bug."

"I'm on it, sir," replied Kinch, grabbing his hat and hurrying out the door.

Hogan turned back. "Chapman, you and Carter get Newkirk out of his jacket and boots, but leave the rest on for warmth. Turner, bring over a glass of water so Newkirk can take some aspirin. Harper, get a bucket of water. Turner, a cloth. A cool cloth on his forehead should help him feel better."

The men scurried to do Hogan's bidding, responding without hesitation to his easy authority as though all previous tension had never existed.

Within a few minutes, Newkirk was settled under blankets, had taken the aspirin, and Chapman was placing the dampened cloth on his forehead.

The sick man was drifting in semi-sleep when Kinch returned with Wilson.

Having been filled in on the situation by Kinch, the medic went straight over to the bunk and took the seat that Chapman vacated. He took the cloth away and placed the back of his hand on Newkirk's cheek and then forehead, checking his fever in the time-honored fashion before gently tapping on the side of his face to get his attention.

Newkirk startled awake.

"Easy, old son," Wilson said calmly. "Just let me see what's going on here."

Newkirk blinked up at the unfamiliar face guardedly. "'o are you?"

"I'm Joe Wilson. Your friendly neighborhood medic. Arrived while you were on your little vacation. They asked me to come to take a look at you."

"You're not Joe," Newkirk mumbled, frowning.

"What?"

"Hmm?" Newkirk wearily shook his head. "Uhm…sorry. I knew a Joe once. He…." he trailed off.

"S'okay," said Wilson. "How about you call me Wilson? Everyone around here does."

When Newkirk merely stared at him with glassy eyes, Wilson continued, trying to keep his patient focused. "I've been wanting to meet you, you know."

Newkirk's forehead scrunched up as he tried to follow what Wilson was saying. "What? Why?"

"Heard a lot about you."

"Nothing good, I wager."

"I'll never tell."

"Hmm." Newkirk started drifting again and Wilson lightly shook him.

"Hey, buddy, don't go to sleep. You need to tell me what's bothering you and if anything hurts."

Not answering, Newkirk closed his eyes.

"Come on," said Wilson, shaking his shoulder harder. "Not yet. I need to know how you're feeling. Newkirk…" He tapped the side of his face. "Hey! Does anything hurt?"

Newkirk roused and blinked a couple of times while processing the question. "Hurts?..."

Then his eyes cleared and the corner of his mouth turned up.

"Me...uhm...me left thumb."

It was Wilson's turn to be confused.

"Your left thumb hurts?"

"Nah, me left thumb is the only thing that doesn't," said Newkirk with a touch of a smirk before once more closing his eyes.

Wilson grinned, pleased that the man was aware enough to show a spark of humor. "That good, huh? Well let's see what the rest of you looks like," he said and started to lift Newkirk's shirt.

Newkirk's eyes flew open and cleared as he glared at Wilson, "Back off mate. What do you think you're doin'?"

"Newkirk…Peter…I'm a medic," Wilson explained patiently. "I just want to see if I can find what's making you so sick."

Fully awake, Newkirk started to push Wilson away, but a strong shudder overtook him and instead he curled up with a low moan.

Wilson tried to gently push his patient onto his back, but Newkirk batted at his hands.

"Stop."

A little less patiently, Wilson explained again, "I just need to examine you. Is it your stomach that hurts? I'll do my best to make sure I don't make it feel worse, okay?"

Curling up tighter, Newkirk shook his head. "Stomach's fine. There's nothin' you can do. Leave me alone."

"Peter, I can help you. Just relax."

"Was relaxed until you got here," Newkirk muttered tiredly, trying unsuccessfully to scoot back on the bunk away from the pestering man. "Just want to sleep."

Frowning at the man's recalcitrance, Wilson decided to try a new tactic. "Corporal, you're going to let me look at you and find out what's the matter. That's an order."

Newkirk blinked up at him. "Order?..."

"Sure…sergeant stripes, see?

"Order? Hmf. Not even in the same bleedin' army," Newkirk murmured, firmly establishing what he thought of Wilson's authority.

The medic put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder in order to push him onto his back, but the patient struck out again with unexpected strength, forcefully pushing Wilson away and then tucking his hands under his arms.

"Go away."

Lips tightening with annoyance, Wilson looked up at the men standing behind him. His eyes caught sight of someone who could help. "Colonel…"

Hogan nodded. Knowing what the English corporal thought of him, he'd stayed back, hoping Newkirk would respond to Wilson. Since that didn't work, though, it was time for him to take charge.

"Corporal Newkirk," he said, his voice firm, but not angry, "you're sick and Sergeant Wilson here is a medic. Now I'm ordering you to cooperate with him so he can help you."

Even the glaze of fever didn't hide that Newkirk thought even less of Hogan's order than he had of Wilson's. "What part of 'no' is so 'ard for you to understand?" he asked sarcastically.

"Corporal…" Hogan warned, but then stopped. He caught a quick, worried look as Newkirk flicked his eyes over the other men who were hovering around the bunk. What? Could that be contributing to his unwarranted defiance? His audience? Army life made privacy a thing of the past and, given their circumstances, even the thought of it was laughable—it was ridiculous to think Newkirk would care. Hogan was tempted to just physically force him to cooperate, but then again, the man was genuinely ill and Hogan preferred to make things easy on him if possible.

"Wilson, how about we take Corporal Newkirk into my office? Might be easier if you have more room to work."

Hogan didn't miss the surprised look of relief on Newkirk's face before the man masked it with a scowl. Hiding a smile at guessing right, Hogan reached down and with Wilson's aid, helped Newkirk into his room and onto Hughes' bunk, grateful the English officer was out at the moment doing something with his two cronies, Wells and Mitchell.

Hogan considered staying to see firsthand what was wrong, but thought his presence might make things worse so decided to leave Wilson to take care of matters. He joined the men in the main barracks, none of whom were doing anything other than sitting around waiting to find out what was wrong with their friend.

It was only ten minutes or so later that the door opened and eleven concerned heads looked to Wilson for answers.

None were forthcoming. Instead, Wilson called out, voice tight, "Colonel, could you give me a hand in here."

OoOoOoOoO