A/N It can get hot in Germany. Like, 104 degrees hot. And since Newkirk has never (to my knowledge) been subjected to this type of torture, I thought "Why not?". *evil smile*

4.

Newkirk had never come back from his supposedly routine mission last night (although there were no such things for Hogan's men). Kinch had been searching into the next afternoon, hoping that the Colonel could come up with a suitable excuse for Klink. It took almost the entire day to find the slumped form in the distance.

The Nazis had tied him to a post in a large field. And wherever this was going, he wasn't looking forward to it. Though it was just past midnight, he could see their retreating figures as the Nazis left him. "You'll be glad for death by the time we return." He could hear the diminishing voices betting on how long it would take for this mysterious force to break him.

"If you weren't already almost dead, I'd kill you." Kinch complained as he untied Newkirk's limp wrists. The raw flesh under the rope testified to how Newkirk had struggled, and Kinch was pretty sure there wasn't supposed to be so much swelling in someone's hand. But, Newkirk always had been an overachiever. His battered face was lax in unconsciousness; his skin was cool compared to the sun beating down on them. Wait a minute. Cool. Why was his skin so clammy? Newkirk even had goosebumps!

Now, Kinch wasn't a swearing man, but when he really stopped and looked at Newkirk, a profanity was the only way to completely express his feelings in the moment. "Dammit! What did they do?"

Now he knew what Private Moore meant when he said "It's hotter than hell and half of Georgia". He'd never been to the Yank's state of Georgia, but if it was even a quarter as bad as this, he'd rather be in Hell. He had been trying to free himself of the rope holding him down, but had only managed to damage his hands. So he had sat in sullen silence, watching the sky lighten. The sun had slowly risen, and with it, the unquenchable need for water, shade, anything that would cool him off. He'd never known Germany could be so hot.

As Kinch lifted Newkirk's sagging form, he noticed the Englishman's rapid pulse. This only served to bolster Kinch's firmly entrenched fears that there was something wrong besides just physical abuse come from the Germans. He searched Newkirk's body for any wounds, but other than his wrists and bruised face, there were no observable injuries. And his wrists weren't infected, so what was causing … Kinch looked to the sky.

He was bathed in fire. If there was any moisture left, it slowly dissipated with his hopes for rescue. It was hard to remember why he was there, or why he had his own private drum corps performing in his aching skull. His head pounded in time with his rising heartbeat. Then, the brightness was all he could sense; nothing else existed. Just him and the inexorable flame. He could feel little else …

Kinch had never understood the longing to hurt inanimate objects until now. He glared at the sun for a whole five seconds before he had to look away. Grumbling in anger, he turned his attentions to Newkirk.

His sweat-logged clothes dragged him down to visit the darkness of unknowingness. He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, unmoving, but his ever-present enemy was still tracking the sky when he returned to the land of the living. Or dead. It really depended on how you viewed life at this point. But it didn't matter when lost consciousness again.

It took 10 minutes to drag Newkirk to the forest's edge. Newkirk had been less the half a mile from freedom. Knowing his friend's restless spirit, Kinch could just imagine how hard it would have been to sit with no visible boundary to your goal; your need.

But enough with imagination. Newkirk needed real help, not sympathy. The trek back to the stalag passed in a blur, and Wilson's frantic attempts to reduce Newkirk's temperature were only a fuzzy memory. Kinch could however, unfortunately remember Wilson's diagnosis. "He has heat exhaustion. It means his body can't cool itself any more. Thankfully he didn't have a heat stroke, but he still could have dizziness, weakness, thirst, coordination issues, and trouble concentrating for a few hours after he wakes."

Apparently, Newkirk + Sun = Bad Things.

"Don't worry too much. If he drinks plenty and stays cool for the rest of the day, he'll be fine. We just need to make sure he is no longer dehydrated, then he can do whatever he wants."

Hogan shook Wilson's hand. "Thanks, Wilson."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I know it's too much to ask that he rests, so force him to take it easy, sir."

The Colonel smiled. "You can rest assured we will do so."

Kinch was distracted from Wilson's exit by a soft groan issuing from the barely clothed man lying on the cot. "C'mon, Pete. Look me in the eyes and tell me what idiotic thing you did this time."

Though his eyes remained shut, a grin ghosted across Newkirk's drawn face. "'m not shure ya wanna know," he drawled, heavily.

Kinch smiled. "Try me."

"It was a trap. There were Gestapo or somthin' there. You shou' warn Underground. If they get caught..."

"Shhh." Kinch soothed Newkirk's attempt at slurred speech. "Just go back to sleep. You can't cause trouble that way," he joked.

Newkirk graced Kinch's worried ears with a gravelly chuckle before he turned over. The Englishman fell asleep immediately, and the low snores were one of the sweetest sounds Kinch had heard in a while.