Newkirk was moved into Hogan's quarters, to hide his condition from the German guards. Klink was told that Newkirk had 'non-contagious pneumonia', and the gullible colonel believed them and agreed to excuse the Englishman from roll call until Wilson's say-so. London quickly notified them that penicillin would be brought to their stalag that night by a local underground agent, and expressed their surprise at the safe being empty. It annoyed Hogan when London didn't tell them what was supposed to be in it.
Newkirk, meanwhile, woke up coughing about an hour after Wilson had finished treating him. He groaned, finding that his throat had added itself to the list of things that hurt. An arm suddenly slid itself under his shoulders, and someone gently lifted him up, pressing a glass to his lips.
Opening his eyes, Newkirk found that it was Carter. He drank the water, surprised at the unexpected taste of sugar in it.
"How you feeling, buddy?" Carter asked.
Newkirk drank the entire glass before answering. "Like someone dropped a bomb on me," he croaked, blinking his eyes as Carter laid him back down. "We're back?"
Carter nodded, placing the empty glass on the nearby table.
Relieved, Newkirk closed his eyes again. He tried to shift his position, and pain screamed up and down his entire arm, making him gasp, which made him cough again.
Carter put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "Hey, you shouldn't move."
The door suddenly opened and Hogan walked in, with LeBeau and Kinch behind him.
Newkirk finally stopped coughing; keeping his eyes clenched shut against the pain in his body. For a second, he wondered why his head was throbbing and his throat was aching, until he remembered that he wasn't only shot, but he was sick too.
Carter patted Newkirk's shoulder, glancing back at the others, who stood quietly, wanting to ask Newkirk how he felt, but no one having the heart to make the Englishman talk.
Newkirk hadn't heard the others come in, and he raised his good arm to rub his eyes, before he suddenly remembered what was wrong with him. Wait a minute…did the colonel really say I have measles?
Snapping his eyes open, he was surprised to see everyone standing there. "Oh. 'Ello," he said. "The gang's all 'ere."
Everyone smiled and walked closer.
"How do you feel?" Hogan asked.
"Just dandy," Newkirk replied, looking at his injured arm, which was splinted and wrapped.
"Is your rash itchy?" LeBeau asked. "I might be able to make something that you can put on it."
"No," Newkirk said, rubbing his eyes again. "Should it be?"
"It probably will, later," said Hogan. "If it's anything like mine was."
Newkirk rubbed his eyes so hard that he made them hurt. He blinked at the others a few times to clear his vision, before suddenly realizing something. "Who did I bloody catch this from, an' 'ave ya all 'ad it?"
Everyone nodded, which was a relief to Newkirk.
"It wasn't anyone in the camp, according to Wilson," Carter said. "It must've been someone you had contact with outside the stalag."
Newkirk tried to think, but his brain was too fuzzy. He started coughing again, trying to hold it in when it hurt his throat even more.
Carter again fed him more water, and Newkirk took a big gulp, expecting the sweet taste of sugar…but that's not what he got.
"Gah!" he sputtered. "What'd ya put in it?"
"It's salt," said Carter. "Wilson told us to."
Newkirk drank it much slower. "Remind me ta do the same thing ta 'im behind 'is back."
Everyone smiled, though they were worried at the fact that Newkirk seemed to be acting quite odd.
Hogan felt the injured man's forehead, finding it hot with fever.
Newkirk closed his eyes and shivered at the feel of Hogan's 'cold' hand.
Hogan patted his shoulder. "Just rest, Newkirk. You'll be better soon."
But Newkirk didn't hear him, having fallen asleep.
Carter sighed, worried.
"He'll be all right, Andrew," said LeBeau, refilling the water glass and leaving a pitcher on the table. "It's suppertime…do you plan to stay in here?"
Carter nodded.
"I'll bring you a dish then, and some for Newkirk too, in case he wakes up again."
"Good idea," Carter said, his eyes lighting up. "Maybe he'll feel better after he eats."
"He will," said Hogan, looking at his watch. "The underground agent is supposed to meet us in two hours at the tree stump. Kinch, you meet him, and LeBeau, make sure Wilson's here."
"Will do, Colonel," Kinch said.
"Yes sir," said LeBeau.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Thankfully, nothing prevented the underground from dropping off the penicillin, providing the men with much-needed relief that Newkirk's bullet wounds wouldn't get infected and make him sicker than he already was.
"Can't the penicillin help the measles?" Carter asked.
Wilson shook his head as he prepared to give Newkirk the shot. "It doesn't do a thing to help viruses, only bacteria."
"Darn."
The sting of the needle woke Newkirk, predictably, which gave them a good excuse to shove food down his throat. He wasn't hungry, which wasn't surprising to Wilson, but it greatly worried the men.
"You gotta eat, Newkirk," said Carter. "How else will you get strong again?"
"I made soup!" LeBeau told him.
Newkirk kept his eyes closed, feeling miserable. His head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, which was only a little better than the way his injured arm felt. He also found that the arm had started to itch, and he had to fight himself not to reach over and scratch it. All in all, he simply didn't want to move. "Please, fellas…" he mumbled around a thermometer. "Later."
Wilson took the thermometer out of his mouth and tsked at it. "102.3." He put a wet cloth on Newkirk's forehead and looked at LeBeau. "Put some soup in a cup. Drinking it will be a lot easier than eating it."
LeBeau nodded and went to fetch it.
"How's your arm feel?" Hogan asked, eyeing the splint.
One side of Newkirk's mouth lifted slightly as if he thought it a silly question. "Like it was shot. An' broken. An' 'as measles on it."
Hogan smiled back, but inwardly, he sighed.
LeBeau returned with a mug and Hogan took it, waving at Carter to move away from the side of the bed. "Take a break, I'll help him."
Carter obediently stood, but he didn't leave the room. Hogan knew that the sergeant still felt guilty about 'leaving' them in the woods.
Hogan lifted Newkirk up slightly, trying not to let his left arm move. "Here, drink this."
Without complaint, the Englishman did, grateful that Louis hadn't made it too hot.
Hogan handed the cup back to LeBeau, who said, "Is there anything else I can get you?"
Newkirk shook his head, coughing again.
"What he needs now is sleep," said Wilson, standing and shooing everyone out.
"I'll stay," Carter said.
Each of Newkirk's friends wanted a chance to sit with him, but they all knew that Carter was still blaming himself, so no one complained.
Once the door was closed, Carter rewet the cloth on Newkirk's forehead, and sat back down in the nearby chair with a sigh.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Later that night, Sgt. Schultz patrolled the stalag, consoling himself with thoughts of LeBeau's strudel—which the Frenchman had promised to make the next day— when he suddenly heard the sound of coughing coming from barracks two. He knew that Newkirk had been shot while outside the stalag in the middle of some 'monkey business', and Wilson's report of the Englishman being sick had seemed like a convenient excuse to keep his injury hidden. Schultz had naturally not said anything to Klink, not only afraid that he would face a firing squad himself for 'allowing' the prisoners outside the stalag, but he had a soft-spot for Hogan and his men, and feared what would happen to them. He often professed to know 'nothing', but he actually knew quite a lot...including the fact that the constant sabotage in the immediate area was due to the antics of this small group. The men always came back to the stalag, so what could he really do? Deep inside, Schultz couldn't blame them for what they were doing. War was war, and each side hoped to win.
Walking towards barracks two; he could still hear the coughing, which didn't appear to be stopping. He quietly opened the door and walked in, surprised to hear some of the barracks' other occupants snoring through the noise. The coughing was coming from Colonel Hogan's quarters, and he quickly opened the door.
Hogan and Carter looked up when Schultz came in, relieved to see that it was only him.
The Englishman was coughing into a towel, trying to muffle the sound as to not wake anyone. He'd apparently rolled onto his right side, probably because it was easier to cough that way, and Hogan was gently holding his splinted arm to avoid further injury.
Carter was crouched on the floor beside the bunk, holding a glass of water.
Schultz frowned at the sight, realizing that Newkirk really was sick…apparently very sick.
Newkirk didn't hear Schultz come in. All he knew what that he could not stop coughing. His chest and throat were on fire, and his head throbbed to the point of explosion. He gasped when stars suddenly erupted in his vision.
Carter gave a shocked cry when Newkirk suddenly went completely limp, the coughing coming to an abrupt halt.
Hogan carefully rolled the unconscious Newkirk onto his back again, gently setting down his broken arm. "Schultz, go get Wilson!"
Without hesitation, the German guard obeyed and rushed out of the room.
TBC
