CHAPTER 6

The doctor arrived several hours later. His face was grim as he examined the injured man. His first inclination was to simply amputate the infected arm but it was not a procedure he relished. He held no true ill-will against the allied soldiers. He had studied in Britain, earning his medical degree at Oxford and had no love for the Nazis. He looked up to where the camp Kommandant and senior POW officer stood waiting. He rose and slowly walked over to them.

"Well, Doktor?" asked Klink impatiently.

"Herr Kommandant," relied Dr. Hoffman slowly, "The prisoner is very ill and badly injured. My first inclination is to amputate the infected arm but I would prefer to try medication first. It may be the penicillin I brought can save his arm as well as his life. In addition to the severe infection and loss of blood, he has numerous broken and cracked ribs and his kidneys are very badly bruised. I believe he has a mild concussion. He has also developed pneumonia. Any one of these is serious enough by itself but adding the effects together may very well prove to be fatal."

Klink sighed. "Well, do what you can, Doctor. I must get back to work. Sergeant Schultz will assist you with anything you might need." With a last glance at Newkirk, Klink turned and strode from the infirmary.

Dr. Hoffman turned to Colonel Hogan. "I will do what I can for your man, Colonel," he said solemnly. "But you must understand my resources are limited. I have brought what little penicillin I possess. It is very dear and not generally available for prisoners. I must get what I can from the Black Market so this will have to be enough. If it does not arrest the infection, then I will have no choice but to amputate his arm and hope it is not too late." He paused. "If you prefer, I can amputate now. It may increase his chances or possibly not." He shrugged.

Hogan frowned in thought as he studied Newkirk's fever-flushed face. He knew that Newkirk would prefer to take his chances and save the arm if at all possible. "Let's try the penicillin first," he said softly.

Hoffman nodded and returned to Newkirk's side. Opening his bag, he pulled out a syringe and quickly administered the medication then with soft sigh, he began to tend the Englishman's numerous injuries. He shook his head in disgust. He was all too familiar with the handiwork of the Gestapo and it never failed to anger him. Removing the bullet from Newkirk's arm took him longer than he would have liked due to the swelling and infection. The American medic assisted him as needed which Hoffman accepted gratefully. He bandaged the arm and then the ribs.

"We must elevate his head," Hoffman said looking for something to use. "It will help him breathe." Wilson and Hogan gathered the extra pillows from the adjacent cots. They were rather hard and flat but were sufficient for the purpose. When all was arranged to his satisfaction, Dr. Hoffman stood erect and turned to Wilson. "Get him to drink whenever possible and change the dressings as needed. I will try to return in a few days." Wilson nodded listening carefully.

"What are his chances?" asked Hogan stepping forward.

Hoffman turned to put his instruments away, giving him a moment to think. He sighed. "It could go either way, Colonel, however if the penicillin does not work, then his survival is unlikely. Good day to you."

As Dr. Hoffman turned to go, Hogan handed him a small sack LeBeau had delivered to him earlier. "Doctor, I hope this helps you in your work. Thank you for what you've done for Newkirk." Hoffman stared at Hogan for a moment before reaching for the bag. Glancing inside, he blinked in surprise at the contents. He saw coffee, chocolate, and cigarettes, more than enough to replenish his dwindling medical supplies from the Black Market.

He glanced again at the American officer. "Danke, Herr Colonel." He nodded to the other men then quickly departed. He hoped the Englander survived but if he didn't, well, he'd done all he could.

Hogan moved closer to Wilson. "So, what do you think, sergeant?"

Wilson shrugged. "He did a good job, colonel and I think he's right about Newkirk's chances. It all depends on how well he responds to the penicillin. All we can do now is wait."

Hogan nodded and sighed as he turned back to Newkirk. The British corporal was quiet now, almost too quiet although his harsh, rasping breath indicated he still lived. Hogan sank into the chair near the end of the bed as Wilson settled into another nearby. It would be a long night.

It was the deep seated hatred that kept Newkirk alive in the end. It fed the small flickering spark of life as his reserves were quickly depleted fighting the infections that ravaged his body. Deep within his soul he could hear Millie crying out for revenge against the barbarians that had savagely murdered her and her family. There was no one but Peter Newkirk who could answer that call. He alone knew of their fate and he would not allow the killer to go unpunished. He must survive in order to carry out his quest for vengeance.

Those around him, keeping a round the clock vigil, had no idea what demons Newkirk was fighting within. They watched in dismay as he went from deathly still to wildly delirious, screaming bloodcurdling invectives at unseen enemies, his blank eyes dark with fury. Other times, he whispered the name, "Millie". His friends shook their heads. Obviously, a woman had been involved in all of this somehow but would they ever find out who she was?

Sergeant Carter was most disturbed by his friend's bursts of unbridled rage. "Colonel," he panted after one especially violent session. It had taken two of them to hold Newkirk down. "What is he so upset about? I've never seen him this mad before. Ever!"

Hogan shook his head wearily as he wiped the sweat from his brow. That was the question, wasn't it? Ever since he had returned from his most recent escape, Newkirk had displayed uncharacteristic anger. "I don't know, Carter," he finally replied. "I'm worried if he keeps fighting like this, he's not going to have enough strength to fight off the infection."

Carter's face creased with concern as he carefully placed a cool, damp cloth on Newkirk's flushed brow. "Do you really think he's gonna make it, sir?"

Hogan gave a short laugh as he settled back onto his chair. "Carter, something has kept him alive this long and I have the feeling he's not going to let go until he's taken care of it. Let's just hope his body cooperates."

Carter nodded slowly. "I think you're right, Colonel. Newkirk is tough. He'll beat this."

Newkirk slowly opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was or what day it might be. He wasn't sure he had the strength to even turn his head so he let his eyes wander where they would. Well, he wasn't in the cooler any longer. He was pretty sure that was the last place he remembered being. He frowned. It wasn't the barracks. The infirmary, perhaps? Yes, he decided, it must be the infirmary. He'd only been in there a couple of times but it seemed the most likely place. Well, that was good then, wasn't it? He wasn't dead and the Gestapo no longer had him. Yes, all in all, things were looking up. He closed his eyes again.

"Newkirk?" His eyes blinked open once more now looking up into the anxious face of a dark haired man hovering above. "Newkirk? Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

Newkirk blinked a few more times as his brain mulled over the words. He frowned in concentration. "Wilson?" he rasped finally, his voice sounding painful even to him.

Wilson smiled in relief. "That's right! Welcome back! You had us worried, Corporal!"

Newkirk said nothing. He was still trying to process what was going on. He looked at Wilson again. He tried to speak but his throat felt like it was full of cotton.

"Hold on!" Newkirk felt his head being gently lifted and a tin cup held to his lips. Cautiously he sipped at the cool water then gulped more greedily as it brought some relief to his parched throat. "Slowly, Newkirk! Slowly!" Wilson warned. When the cup was empty, the medic carefully lowered Newkirk's head back onto the pillows.

Newkirk swallowed again, then coughed deeply. He winced at the pain in his ribs and abdomen. When the spell had passed, he looked to Wilson sitting beside him. "How long?" His voice was barely above a breathless whisper.

"How long have you been here?" Wilson asked. Newkirk nodded. "Six days." Newkirk closed his eyes again. Six days! He pictured little Millie's body lying exposed to elements for over a week. He groaned softly. He had to get back to the farm and take care of her! The farm had been burned leaving little to attract looters so he doubted anyone had ventured near the accursed place. It was his fault Millie had been murdered and so it was his responsibility to give her a decent burial. His jaw clenched in growing anger and frustration and he could feel his breath coming faster and faster. He needed to get out of here now!

Wilson watched with growing concern as Newkirk's face went through a series of unexpected transformations, from puzzled to furious. Again, the unexplained anger. "Corporal?" he asked softly, leaning closer. "Is there something wrong?" Newkirk opened his eyes again to find Wilson staring at him in concern. Taking a slow breath, he attempted to calm himself. Newkirk shook his head in response to the sergeant's query and tried to smile. It would do no good if he got everyone riled up. This was something he had to do himself. But he couldn't wait too long. Animals might get to the body and he couldn't bear the thought of that sweet little girl being mangled and mauled. She was depending on him. Wilson studied him a few minutes longer, his brow furrowed with unease. He laid a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "The colonel will want to know you're awake," he said softly. "I'll be back in just a few minutes, OK?"

Newkirk nodded again and watched as the sergeant hurried from the room. When he was gone, Newkirk took inventory of his injuries. He still had his arm he was happy to see. He had worried he would lose it. It seemed well bandaged and secured in a sling. He moved it tentatively and painful though it may be, it was considerably better than it had been. That was good. If he was able to use it before, he could use it now. He knew his ribs were still sore but again, they had had almost a week to heal and he felt he could manage. One handed, he tried to push himself up to a sitting position but stopped as the room began to spin. Bloody hell. This wasn't going to work! He collapsed back onto the pillows panting with exertion. He pounded the bed weakly in frustration. Just that little bit and he was exhausted by the effort. It would take him forever to regain his strength and return to the farm! Again, the anger rose in him giving him the strength to sit up and swing his legs over the side. With a grunt of effort he pushed himself to his feet taking a few steps towards the door, but his strength failed him and he collapsed with a cry of pain and anger. Lying helpless on the floor, coughing deeply, he felt sick and defeated.

"Corporal Newkirk!" Newkirk looked up wearily to find Colonel Hogan and Wilson standing in the doorway, their mouths open in shock. "Newkirk!" cried Hogan again hurrying to the man sprawled on the floor. "What the hell do you think you're doing!" Without waiting for an answer, Hogan quickly lifted Newkirk and resettled him into his bed while Wilson deftly wiped away the sweat dripping from the injured man's face.

"Colonel, he shouldn't have enough strength to sit up much less get out of bed!" muttered Wilson in disbelief as he carefully checked over Newkirk's injuries. "I never would have left him if I'd thought he'd pull a stunt like that!"

Hogan looked down at the man in the bad and shook his head. "Newkirk?" he said more softly now. "Are you OK?"

Newkirk coughed painfully and gave a small, rueful smile while deep inside, he was seething at the delay. "I'm fine, Colonel," he said slowly. "Not sure what I was thinkin'. Guess I thought it was time for bloody roll call!"

Hogan and Wilson exchanged glances. Hogan knew there was something more going on but now was not the time to pursue it. Newkirk needed to regain some of his strength before Hogan would feel comfortable confronting him about his unexplained anger as well as an explanation of exactly what had happened while he was out of camp. Newkirk, in the meantime, meant to bide his time and keep his secrets. He was ashamed and guilt-ridden by what he had done. Not only had he had endangered his mates here in Stalag 13 by bringing in that Gestapo informant but by his own selfish actions, caused the death of three innocent people. As far as he was concerned, he had but two tasks to accomplish before he died: care for the remains of Millie and her family and kill Major Reinhardt.

Kinch, Carter and LeBeau arrived later in the day, anxious to see their friend. "It's about time you quit goldbricking, you faker," grinned Kinch. "We're tired of doing all your work!" Newkirk smiled in response, but Hogan noticed it never reached his eyes.

"I will make you some of your favorite dishes, mon ami," sighed LeBeau with a slight scowl. "Even thought it will kill me to have to make your 'orrible English food! Are you sure you wouldn't like a nice crêpe?" He looked hopeful.

"I knew you'd make it, Newkirk," said Carter solemnly. "You don't give up that easily."

For the first time, Newkirk gave a genuine laugh. "You're right about that, Andrew. Besides, I couldn't leave you lot on yer own. Someone's gotta keep you out o' trouble!"

It wasn't long before Wilson shooed them all away. Newkirk was fading and they certainly didn't want to overtire him. Hogan and his men headed back to the barracks in a thoughtful silence. Finally, Kinch turned to Hogan. "You're right, Colonel. Something is different. I mean he seemed happy and all but there was something bothering him."

"You could see it in his eyes," said Carter looking back towards the infirmary. "It was like he was always looking someplace else."

Hogan glanced at Carter in surprise. The young sergeant might be a whiz at explosives but Hogan never thought of him as particularly insightful. But he was right. All the time they were in visiting with Newkirk, the Englishman never seemed entirely there.

"Have you asked him about what happened while he was gone, mon Colonel?" asked LeBeau.

"Or about that Millie girl?" piped in Carter.

Hogan shook his head. "I don't think he's quite ready for any of that yet. I'll give him a few days to get stronger and if he hasn't brought it up on his own, I'll ask him. Obviously something happened."

"Well, obviously the Gestapo had him for at least few days, Colonel," frowned Kinch. "Who knows what they did to him."

Carter looked unhappy. "But he's gonna be OK now, right? I mean even if something did happen, he's with us now and we can fix him right up."

Hogan rubbed his eyes wearily. "Carter, we have to face the possibility that it might not be anything we can fix. Sometimes a person is pushed too far and he can't bend any further and if that's the case we might lose him. Even if he recovers physically, well…" Hogan paused sadly as he turned away from Carter's earnest gaze, "This time his spirit might not."