Note: I changed the original ending of this story because of reviewer feedback. Why stop now? Here's the changed (and significantly better because of ya'lls input) version of Chapter 7. Changes begin at the line of asterisk.
Chapter 7
In which some hard decisions are made, and none of them by Hogan
Newkirk looked towards the door, noticing it standing an inch ajar. Without a word he moved towards it and swung it open to face the questioning faces of his barracks mates. Carter's eyes captured his and demanded, in their own gentle and irresistible way, some sort of explanation. Newkirk could not give him one.
"Watch the windows, would you?" he asked evasively, protectively. "The last thing we need right now is an unwanted visit from the Krauts, even the ones we like."
"Newkirk…."
"Just watch, Andrew."
There was something in his friend's voice that made him comply, something that Carter had never heard in it before. It was only much later that he would identify the emotion he heard underscoring Newkirk's words: despair. Carefully and quietly, the Corporal closed the door to Hogan's room, confident that Carter's honest nature would keep him from listening in.
Kinch nodded in approval at Newkirk's actions. If Füchschen's reaction was any indication, the news she was about to give was not something he wanted Carter to hear. He knew Carter looked up to him, envied his strength and serenity, and he had to admit that a part of him thrived on the adoration. He did not want to disillusion the young man by showing weakness. The war had already done enough shattering of Carter's dreams.
"Doctor," the sick man prodded calmly. "What's the diagnosis?"
She looked at the two men in front of her and ran a hand over her eyes. If they could remain calm and professional, the least she could do was reciprocate. "A simple test will confirm my suspicions, but the odds of me being mistaken are minimal. You have contracted tuberculosis."
"And the prognosis?" Kinch pressed when she hesitated to go on.
"It's…it's most likely terminal."
Their reactions were subdued, much to her surprise. The dark-skinned man nodded, as if his own suspicions had finally been confirmed. The other man closed his eyes tightly, his mind whirring through the ramifications of the information. He could not fathom how the team would survive such a crushing blow. He had a feeling it wouldn't.
"How long?" Kinch asked calmly, as if merely asking London to repeat a transmission to double check his accuracy. It appeared to Newkirk that his comrade could not, or possibly would not, process the information. A closer look at his comrade changed his mind, however, when he noticed how tightly the sergeant's hands were clasped together above the blanket that covered his lower body. Even his firm grip could not stop his hands from shaking.
"It depends on the time of infection, which could have happened at any time. Many times carriers of tuberculosis have harbored the virus for years, dormant, unaware that they could pass on an active form to someone else. With the turnover rate in the stalags and the shuffling of personnel and prisoners that happens on a daily basis there's no telling where it came from," she explained, carefully avoiding an answer to his true question. She should have known that someone as thorough and methodological as Padua would catch her evasion.
Disentangling his hands, he laid one supportively over hers which fidgeted nervously in her lap. 'He's so strong,' she thought admiringly. Life truly was cruel and arbitrary at times.
"Doctor," he prompted again, "how long?"
"A year, a week--it is hard to know. It depends on too many factors. It appears that you will survive this attack which brought me here in the first place. There is no telling when you will lose the war."
Digesting the doctor's words left a sour feeling in Newkirk's stomach that he doubted would ever leave. As he mulled over Füchschen's words he, of all people, remembered a turn of phrase that gave him hope. His close association with Carter must have rubbed off on him. "You said 'most likely terminal' before. Does that mean there is a cure?"
Füchschen looked at him pityingly, taking no pleasure in deflating his optimism. "I have heard of a vaccine being developed in France. Before the war there were promising results but…"
"We'll get it," Newkirk assured her, tightly grasping the opportunity to do something to fight the nightmare he saw developing. His hands balled into determined fists at his side. "If there's a way, we'll find it."
"I hope you do," Füchschen replied, trying to hide her disbelief. These men were miracle workers, to be sure, but some things were unequivocally impossible. She knew the state of Nazi controlled medical research, at home and in occupied territories. The health and welfare of the sick was the very least of its concerns. Nevertheless, she also knew the power of a placebo, physical or mental, and could not bring herself to tell him of her doubt.
"Newkirk," the RAF man looked over at the sound of his name and found himself staring into Kinch's intense gaze. "Can I trust you?"
It seemed like a strange question, but Newkirk answered without hesitation. "What are you talking about, mate? Of course you can."
*****
Kinch smiled slightly at his friend's affronted tone, but it did not reach his eyes. He was about to ask Newkirk to do one of the most difficult things he could imagine. "Then I need you and Dr. Füchschen to do something for me."
Newkirk couldn't help but mirror the sick man's strained smile, knowing how hard it was for Kinch to ask for help. Of course he would help track down and recover the cure, regardless of the personal danger. But that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate watching Kinch humble his pride a bit to ask him.
Filled with his assumptions of what would happen next, Newkirk was completely dumbfounded when Kinch requested, "Don't tell the Colonel about this, not yet. Let me tell him. And…let's wait to tell Lebeau and Carter. Okay?"
"What are you talking about? Not tell Andrew and Louis? Why shouldn't I? Don't you think they have the right to know?" Newkirk demanded loudly. If he had been in the same position as his non-com friends he would be furious upon learning that Kinch had kept something so important from him. It almost gave the impression that…Kinch didn't trust them. By proxy, it hurt.
Though she was more subdued, Füchschen's disbelief was just as strong. "Your Colonel needs to be kept apprised of this situation. As talented as you may be in the coordination of espionage, I believe I would be the best to explain the situation to Hogan." she tried to reason. "As for your friends, I hazard to guess that it would cause more problems than it would solve to keep them ignorant. They want to help you. Let them."
Kinch shook his head, unsurprised and touched by the vehemence of their reactions. It wasn't that he disagreed with them. Rather, he had another, more pressing, agenda that trumped their rationales. "Peter, my good friend, sit down," Kinch gestured towards the only available seat left on top of Hogan's trunk, "and let me explain. Then you can decide what you're going to do."
Newkirk hesitated, aware of the subtle word games Kinch could play when given the opportunity. He had seen it work countless times on unsuspecting German officers over the radio and, when it was absolutely necessary, against a certain stubborn Colonel. He had no doubts that it could work against him as well. With the doctor's prognosis still reverberating in his mind, however, he knew he could not deny Kinch his simple request. He sat.
"Fine. Please explain your implied insult," the Englander huffed. Kinch raised his eyebrows in interest, prompting Newkirk to elaborate, "That Louis and Andrew are not important enough to be privy to your condition. And that I probably wouldn't either if I hadn't been in the right place at the right time." Füchschen placed a restraining hand on his knee and shot him warning look.
"Peter, I—"Kinch pausing to cough again, highlighting his condition. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "Peter, I'm not doing this to offend you and I don't mean any insult to you, or Lebeau, or Carter. I'm doing this for me."
'Lair,' Newkirk thought, but opted not to interrupt. "You're not doing this for yourself. I'd bet you're doing this for them, out of some perverse sense of protection. And I don't make bets I don't win."
"But I also refuse to let everything we have worked for here become compromised because Carter and Lebeau are too distracted over a serum that may or may not exist. When they're distracted they tend to make mistakes. The Colonel…I only want to make sure that he knows that I expect no special treatment because of my condition. " He glanced over at Newkirk, "We both know the Colonel wouldn't let this go. Not unless I talk to him. He'll tear himself apart trying to decide whether to take the risk inherent in saving me, or live with the guilt of playing it safe. I need him to understand that the decision is not his to be made. It's London's—for the good of the mission. That's the most important thing: the mission."
"You are part of the 'mission'," Newkirk argued. "When Hogan comes up with an outrageous plan, you keep him grounded enough to make it plausible and keep us believing that it will somehow work. If you're not around, do you really think that I, or Carter, or Lebeau can keep things under control? You're an idiot if you think so."
Kinch looked at him sharply. Unapologetically, Newkirk stared back, daring the sergeant to dispute him. But he couldn't. "I don't want to leave," Kinch admitted softly. "But it's not my decision. If we weren't at war, if we weren't in the Army, maybe it would be. But we are. And it's not my choice." They both knew it was true.
"And the Gov'nor? What you going to say to him? Are you going to lie and tell him you want to go home to make his decision easier?" Newkirk asked. The Colonel's job was to use all of his men to the best of their abilities to hamper the German war effort. If Kinch could no longer fulfill his duties, it was the Colonel's obligation as an officer to remove him from duty.
"Most people would jump at the chance to get out of this place," Kinch scoffed, finding the whole situation terribly ironic. "If you'd asked me during my six months here I know I would have left without a single glance back. I never thought," Kinch finally looked away, "that I would ever be able to make a difference on this kind of scale. I always wanted to, but…those kinds of opportunities don't come around for African Americans from Detroit."
"Or rotten con-men from Whitechapel," Newkirk interjected.
"Or disgraced daughters of communist dissidents from Düsseldorf," Füchschen added, reminding the men of her presence.
Kinch couldn't stop himself from grinning. "We're all loose ends here, aren't we?" he mused. Sobering, he continued with his original thought. "I don't want to be decommissioned into a semi-embalmed cocoon of safety in London. Not even for my own protection. Maybe I can devise a way of presenting things to him that don't seem quite so…hopeless. A way that doesn't send him into an obsessive quest for a cure but also doesn't force him to choose between me and the mission. I just need time to think of a plan that won't compromise anyone or anything. Please, don't take all of this away from me by talking to him before I've had a chance to come up with a plan."
"Kinch…I…" Newkirk punched the trunk he sat on, "Dammit! What am I supposed to say after something like that?"
"Say that you'll do what I ask. Just be patient, Peter."
Füchschen said nothing, knowing she would only interrupt the delicate moment. She would follow the lead established by the Englander. If he opted to tell the Colonel immediately, she would support him and explain everything to Hogan. If he vowed to let Kinchloe break the news in his own time, she would wait.
"You've known me long enough to know that patience is not my strongest suit. I honestly respect Colonel Hogan," Newkirk said slowly, judging each word he used carefully. "And I can't help but feel like I'm being a bit deceptive by not running down to him right now."
"But you won't."
The corporal sighed, closing his eyes tiredly. "No, I won't. I'll let you do it, and I'll keep your secret from two of my closest friends."
Kinch lay a hand on his British compatriot's knee, the only part he could reach from the bed, and squeezed it in thanks. "Not for long," Kinch reassured him. "Just until I can figure out what to do."
"And to keep everyone's mind on the mission," Newkirk added. "So they don't get hurt."
The doctor let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The decision was made. 'Then why is my mind still in turmoil?' she asked herself. Her heart answered without hesitation, 'Because I can't ignore that little voice that keeps insisting that Padua will die and none of this will really matter.'
Despite her pessimism and the unease it caused her, the two men were the calmest she had seen since her arrival. Apparently what they needed was a course of action to give them direction, no matter what that direction might be. Once their course was set, there was no waffling. They were men of action. At least, they would be if a gigantic yawn didn't steal across the sergeant's face and Füchschen didn't notice her patient's eyes struggling to stay open. The emotion of the past hour had drained any energy he had stored from his long hours of sleep.
Reaching into her bag once again to recompile the injection that had been flung across the room earlier, she shot the Englander a look before ordering Kinch, "You, sir, need to rest. At present, there is nothing more that I can do. To confirm my hypothesis, I would like to inject you with tuberculin. In 48-hours you will need to check the injection site. If there is a bump under your skin," she took a deep breath to maintain her composure, "you have tested positive. Inform me immediately of the results. In the intervening time, I expect you to take care of yourself, recover your health as best you can, and take every precaution."
"Don't worry, Doctor, I'll make sure your orders are carried out to the letter," Newkirk assured her. He punched Kinch lightly in the shoulder. "For once I get to order you around."
Without missing a beat, Kinch punched him back with enough force to make Newkirk wince. "Don't let it go to your head," the sergeant chided.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Newkirk assured him. "It would corrupt my charming personality."
"Your what?" Kinch could not resist the dig. On a more serious note he added with his characteristic uncensored honesty, "Newkirk, thanks, for everything. Of all the men I expected to rely on, I'm not afraid to admit that you were not the highest on the list. I was wrong in my evaluation of you. You've been a good friend to me, Peter. I wish it hadn't taken me this long to realize it."
Newkirk smirked. "Any time, Old Man. It's been a long time coming, but I'm glad you've finally given in."
"Given in?" Kinch questioned as he sunk down to lay comfortably on the lumpy mattress again and bared his arm to the doctor.
Pausing dramatically, Newkirk waiting until Füchschen was poised and ready to insert the needle. As she inserted it, the Corporal added insult to injury by saying, "You told me once that you could 'handle' anything thrown at you, alone. I disagreed. You stormed out. Looks like you finally admit I was right."
Kinch rolled his eyes. "I suppose it was bound to happen eventually."
"And I'm honored, really."
"Me too."
In the companionable silence that followed, Füchschen packed up her things. She couldn't begin to claim that she understood them. Though she worked in an underground organization herself, the camaraderie she held with her compatriots was based on professionalism. Theirs was based on trust and, though she hesitated to label it as such, her heart knew that there was love involved as well. She was jealous.
"I must leave," she stated, standing. "But do not think I am abandoning you. As soon as I return to Düsseldorf I will use every resource I have to investigate the cure I have heard of in Paris. Perhaps if we are very lucky the Nazi's have exported it from France to somewhere in Germany. If so, I may be able to get it there. If not, I don't know what—"
As Newkirk led her towards the door, he interrupted her uncertainty with a stalwart, "If it exists and you find it, we'll get it. It doesn't matter where it is."
She looked at him skeptically, unaware of how elaborate and extensive their operation truly was. Kinch had already closed his eyes to rest, zoning out of the conversation and losing himself in his own thoughts. As Füchschen and Newkirk left Hogan's office, they tried to creep noiselessly across the room. Successful as they were, the mechanisms that lifted the false-bottom bunk woke some of the lightest sleepers. "Is everything okay?" Carter's soft voice eked out of the darkness.
"Of course," Füchschen's answer was a little too fast and a little too high pitched to be completely truthful. Luckily for them, Newkirk knew, Carter was not very adept at identifying the signs of deception. It came from his naturally trusting nature.
Peeking down into the abyss of the tunnels, Newkirk hesitated before bring the doctor down the ladder. When no immediate screams or smells of death surfaced, Newkirk assumed it was safe to descend. Whatever happened between Hogan and Lebeau must have passed over.
"Have a safe journey back," Carter wished her, "and thank you."
"Any time young man."
Carter rolled over on his mattress, away from the rest of the room. He didn't want Newkirk to see him in the darkness. If he did, the young man feared his own deception would be revealed. Still slightly miffed from his conversation with Hogan, he hadn't been able to keep himself from listen at the door to the Colonel's office. He didn't want to be left out of the loop, protected but unable to help, any more. Now, he wished he hadn't.
He knew, and if he tried to help, they would know he had been eavesdropping. They might never trust him again. The only thing worse than not knowing, he now knew, was knowing when wasn't supposed to. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Author's Note:
Sorry for the long delay. Real life and all that. Also, I blame the Whitechapel quip on watching the same special on Jack the Ripper 3 times within 5 hours. This week is WWII week, which means lots of video violence. Hopefully that stays out of the story in Chapter 8!
Next time:
Being the leader means you have to make the tough decisions. Decisions that can condemn a person's future. That's what we call responsibility. It's not fun.
