Chapter 12
Throughout the rest of the day Newkirk showed additional signs of improvement—stronger heartbeat, deeper breathing, and even a few more times when he opened his eyes. He didn't speak, but simply the return to consciousness made his friends happy, especially after Wilson confirmed during his last check of the day that Newkirk's fever was definitely dropping.
It was in the late morning the next day, however, that the young corporal truly woke and for the first time was aware of what was going on. LeBeau was trying to feed him some broth when Newkirk opened his eyes and frowned, weakly batting at the spoon.
"Pierre!" LeBeau shouted, spilling the contents of the spoon on his friend in his excitement.
Hogan, who'd been at his desk reading, walked to the bunk and arrived just in time to hear LeBeau say quietly, "Oh, I'm sorry, mon ami, was I too loud?"
"What…what're you…" The voice was barely a whisper.
LeBeau smiled softly at his friend.
"Shhh, you're okay. You've just…"
The door flew open and a jumble of men burst in to the room, voices tripping over each other as they all tried to speak at the same time.
"What happened?" "Is he alright?" "Did he wake up?"
"Ça suffit!" LeBeau hissed, leaning in front of Newkirk as if to protect him from the bombardment of noise.
"Men…" Hogan added sternly.
"Sorry, sir" whispered Kinch, obviously embarrassed that he'd been part of the rabble. He turned to the Frenchman. "Why did you shout? What happened?"
LeBeau leaned back again, exposing a wide awake, although definitely confused Newkirk.
Kinch flashed a brilliant smile at LeBeau then kneeled down and put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "Hey buddy. Glad to see you awake," he said gently.
"Kinch? Louis? Why…wha…"
"You've been a bit sick, but you're getting better now," explained Kinch. "Louis was just feeding you some of his broth to help get your strength up."
Newkirk's eyes slowly went from Kinch to LeBeau, finally resting on the bowl the Frenchman was still clutching in his hands.
"…not eatin' that," he said with a pout.
Hogan stood back, content to merely observe. Kinch, he saw, stifled a laugh, while LeBeau pretended to be annoyed.
"You need this to regain your strength. I cooked it especially for you. That's just like an ungrateful Englishman!" said LeBeau with a huff.
A second later, Hogan saw LeBeau drop the act as Newkirk closed his eyes.
"Pierre?...Pierre?"
Newkirk was out again.
LeBeau looked up worriedly at Kinch, then Hogan.
"Let him sleep for awhile," said Hogan. "You can try again in a bit, but I think waking up wore him out."
LeBeau cast a troubled look at the colonel, but agreed reluctantly, "Oui. Wilson wanted him to finish the bowl, but he didn't say it had to be now."
Hogan was surprised when Kinch snarked, "Maybe if you made it taste better he'd eat more."
He understood what Kinch was doing, however, when the worried expression disappeared from LeBeau's face to be replaced with irritation.
"Taste better?"
What followed was a long tirade of French that Hogan couldn't understand, but was probably a stinging description of Kinch's questionable tastes. The colonel couldn't help but grin…Kinch had known exactly how to get LeBeau's mind off of their ailing friend. He glanced down at Newkirk and was surprised to see a hint of a smile on the Englishman's face even though his eyes remained closed. So maybe he wasn't completely out after all. Still, he needed his rest.
"Fellas."
LeBeau broke off in mid rant at the quiet interruption.
Hogan tilted his head towards Newkirk and all three men saw the very definite grin on Newkirk's face now.
LeBeau rolled his eyes at his friends while Kinch grinned and said, "Think I'll come back later, sir."
With a respectful nod, Kinch and the other men who'd been hovering silently in the background left, closing the door behind them to leave the room quiet once more.
Hogan watched for a moment as LeBeau grabbed a cloth and began wiping up the spoonful of broth he'd dumped on Newkirk earlier. Newkirk opened his eyes at that and, after sharing a look with LeBeau, shut them again wearily, appearing to fall asleep for real this time.
When LeBeau was done, Hogan sat back down at his desk and tried once more to read, but eventually stopped to look at the Frenchman, who was sitting still, doing nothing but looking at his sleeping friend.
"I think he'll be alright," reassured Hogan quietly.
LeBeau turned to the colonel and shrugged one shoulder despondently. "I know he seems better. But I'll believe it when he can stay awake for more than a minute. He's not supposed to be so still. It's not…Newkirk."
Wanting to distract the corporal from his worry, Hogan decided to use Kinch's technique and said, "Well your broth seemed to get a reaction from him. I take it he doesn't like the taste much?"
It didn't work. In fact, if anything LeBeau looked upset by the question and answered with a bare honesty. "I don't know if he likes it or not."
"What? But earlier when Kinch said…"
LeBeau shook his head and interrupted almost angrily, "It's all just a game. A game we play to keep our sanity. We fuss and argue about stupid things so we can pretend that's what's important and not think about being stuck in a prison camp with our lives in the hands of men who would be happy to kill us. We all play the game, but it doesn't matter. Even pretending we're mad about stupid things is better than thinking about the real problems."
Hogan blinked. It was the most blunt and sober thing he'd ever heard LeBeau say. Moreover, it was undoubtedly true. His opinion of the men moved up another notch. These men were survivors, pure and simple.
He stood and walked to LeBeau, putting a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "You're doing a pretty good job at addressing the real problems. Newkirk's getting better because of you—how all of you have pitched in taking care of him."
LeBeau relaxed under the colonel's touch and gave him a real, if somewhat sad smile.
"I think you had something to do with it, too. But yes, we all take care of each other. And Pierre does his part every time." He snickered. "He would make a good nurse, but don't tell him I said so. Some of the barracks even ask for him specifically when they're all sick."
Hogan frowned. He wasn't stupid and of course had assumed that illness was something he'd have to contend with as the head POW, but LeBeau was making it sound like it was a frequent occurrence. "The men get sick a lot?"
LeBeau looked at him with surprise. "Oui, bien sûr. Uh, of course. We live so close together that anytime one of us gets sick, many of us do. It's better now with the Red Cross packages, and Klink isn't as bad as our first Kommandant, but sometimes there are more sick men than healthy ones. Especially at first, we were always sick." He shook his head. "Our first summer here was bad. Very bad. The camp was a lot worse than now. It was hot and filthy and there were only a few barracks built so it was crowded and awful. Many of the men became very sick." He wrinkled his nose, remembering. "Ugh, for many, nothing would stay down. It was coming out both ends and those who weren't sick got almost no sleep for weeks trying to help them drink, trying to keep them clean. Even so…even so many men died. That's the first time I made the broth. We gave it to the worst ones, to the ones that couldn't keep anything else down."
Hogan grimaced, hating the war all over again at the thought of these good men suffering in wretched conditions with only some homemade broth to help keep them alive.
He sighed. "Well, this broth is keeping Newkirk alive now, so even if he doesn't want it, we'll have to find a way to make him take it.
LeBeau actually grinned. "That's easy. When he's asleep he doesn't mind. And when he's awake…when he's awake, there are plenty of volunteers to force him. Jones and Chapman are especially good at making him do what he doesn't want to do."
Hogan winced. That was another problem he would have to solve soon enough. It had to be freezing in the cooler and he wasn't about to let Klink keep all those men locked up in there for too much longer. They'd just end up with more sick men if he did. Of course, he wasn't looking forward to dealing with Hughes just yet. He gave a mental sigh. He'd always been told he was a natural leader, but some days he would give anything to just be one of the guys.
OoOoOoOoO
Over the next few days, life drifted towards a new sort of 'normal' for Hogan. With Newkirk's crisis averted and Hogan's own reenergized desire to lead, he decided to take the time to really get to know his men. All his men. With that in mind, he began spending the afternoons visiting the each barracks one-by-one again, so he could get a sense of who these soldiers really were, more than just their names this time. He also started visiting Klink for any little reason he could think of. Klink seemed to be something of a fool, but he was a fool who could mean life or death for the prisoners if he chose, and Hogan knew that developing a good relationship with the Kommandant would be vital not only to the well-being of his men, but also to their operations.
What Hogan didn't find himself doing was spending any time with Newkirk. A week after Newkirk had been given the lifesaving penicillin and subsequently turned the corner, Hogan was becoming more and more comfortable with his new role, but hadn't been able to spend any time getting to know the man who had inadvertently been the catalyst for his change. Despite his improvements, Newkirk was still a sick man and spent most of his time sleeping. Furthermore, even when awake there were always other men around so Hogan hadn't had any real opportunity to talk with him more than just a cursory "how are you feeling" or "do you need anything."
Their first real interaction, in fact, occurred in the wee hours of the morning when Hogan awoke to the sounds of rustling from the bunk below him. He dropped his head over the edge and in the darkness could make out Newkirk struggling to sit, so Hogan jumped down and lightly landed beside the corporal.
"What are you doing, Newkirk? Do you need anything?"
The Englishman stopped moving and shook his head. "No, sir."
Hogan figured he should be pleased that Newkirk could sound properly respectful, but at the same time, perversely wished he didn't sound quite so respectful. Newkirk's tone was the careful one used with a complete stranger of a higher rank. Somehow it seemed to negate all that had transpired in the last few weeks.
"Are you sure?" he murmured lowly, not wanting to wake up the men outside his room. "If you're hungry I've got an apple over here that Shultz brought by for you."
He could barely see Newkirk, but caught a flash of the man's teeth as he smiled, "Shultz is a good…" Newkirk cleared his throat and started again, stiff and cold, "That is, no thank you, sir. I'm sorry I woke you."
Hogan frowned, knowing Newkirk couldn't see him in the dark. He should be happy that Newkirk seemed to have put aside the rudely disrespectful attitude from the cooler, but it frustrated him that he'd made such progress with the rest of the men but hardly any with the one he'd risked his life to save. Hogan didn't know if Newkirk's problem with him stemmed from their first encounter or some other reason. Resolving to eventually solve that riddle, Hogan turned his thoughts back to the here and now.
"Are you warm enough then? Need some help with the chamber pot?"
Hogan barely heard the sigh.
"No sir, I'm fine."
"Newkirk?"
"I said I was fine!...sir."
Hogan smiled in the darkness. Ah yes, there was that testy attitude. He shook his head at himself. Yes, ironically he actually preferred this to the stiffly proper tones, as it somehow seemed a more honest representation of the edgy corporal. Of course, he wouldn't accept outright rudeness or disrespect, but Hogan wanted to get to a place where this man gave him real respect, not just the obligation of military courtesy.
He squatted down beside the bunk and squinted in the dark, trying to get a better sense of what could be going on. Testiness aside, Hogan had heard an underlying tension in Newkirk's voice that sounded more like pain than irritation.
Giving in to his own preference for a more, literally, hands on approach, Hogan reached over and felt Newkirk's forehead, keeping his hand there even when he felt Newkirk jerk in surprise.
"Fever doesn't seem any worse," he said matter-of-factly. "You thirsty?"
He slid his hand to the corporal's shoulder when Newkirk shook his head and said cautiously, "no sir."
Hogan continued, "Okay then. So you're not hungry or thirsty. You don't need the chamber pot. Your fever isn't worse. What else is keeping you up then? Headache?"
This time Newkirk shook his head, but didn't speak.
"I'm not a mind reader," Hogan said mildly. "But I'm going to stay here until you tell me what's keeping you up."
Newkirk jerked his shoulder out from under Hogan's hand, but a swiftly indrawn breath betrayed him.
Leaning closer to try to see better, Hogan frowned. "Hey, I heard that. Something's hurting you. What's going on?"
Hogan heard more rustling before Newkirk blurted out, "I can't sleep. My side 'urts somethin' awful where I've been layin' on it for so long…" He paused to take a deep breath, "…but I can't lay on my stomach without feeling like I can't breathe and I can't lay on me back without that 'urting like the blazes and I..."
Newkirk abruptly stopped talking and Hogan heard him curse under his breath.
"Sorry sir, nevermind that. I'm fine," he said, once more retreating into formality. Then he slipped as he almost begged, "Please go back to sleep. I won't bother you again."
But Hogan wasn't going to have it. Not when he knew what was bothering his stubborn, temporary roommate.
"Let's just get you settled first," he said kindly, reaching up to his bunk and snagging his pillow, dropping it to the floor beside him.
In the darkness he could just see Newkirk shaking his head, "Sir…"
"Enough," Hogan ordered, but kept the tone friendly. "Here." He reached down and carefully pulled the man into a sitting position. Hogan had seen Wilson and the others doing it over the past few days, and he knew how dizzy Newkirk would be. He gently steadied the shaking man against his shoulder, while he grabbed up his pillow and placed it on the bed. He took Newkirk's pillow in addition to the one that had been placed behind Newkirk's back to help keep him on his side and arranged them all until he was satisfied with their placement.
"Hang on. Almost done," he said softly when he heard a stifled moan in his ear and lowered Newkirk back down.
In addition to the pillow for Newkirk's head, one pillow and been placed just barely under a shoulder and another at his hip, allowing Newkirk to lay on his back, but be tipped sideways just enough so his back wasn't touching the bed at the spot of the worst injury, but not so much that he was putting pressure on the same points that he'd been laying on.
Hogan tucked the covers under Newkirk's chin, then grinned with success when the Englishman abandoned his cool formality completely and sighed with heartfelt gratitude as he said, "Oh that's marvelous. Sir, I…" he swallowed, "Thank you."
Hogan allowed himself a smug sense of triumph to have broken through the man's walls for once, but it was quickly drowned out by genuine pleasure at helping his injured comrade. It was that pleasure that colored his tone as he said, "I'm glad it worked. Now you try to get some sleep, okay? And wake me if you need anything else."
Hogan smiled as he heard a big yawn in response followed by a sleepy, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
He hopped back up to the top bunk, reaching blindly for his pillow before realizing he'd just given it to Newkirk. Laughing soundlessly at himself, the colonel wrapped his blankets around him and within moments, he too had fallen asleep.
OoOoOoOoO
The colonel woke up just a couple hours later to the usual morning symphony of shouts and banging. He covered his head with his arms for just a moment before grunting in annoyance and tiredly throwing back the covers and dropping to the floor. He really had to figure out a way to get Schultz as his barracks guard. Waking up to the harsh, angry tones of the bullying Sergeant Zimmerman every morning was a lousy way to spend the war.
He paused just long enough to peer over at Newkirk and see that the man was deeply asleep before he threw on his clothes and grabbed his hat. The men were already filing outside when he opened the door to the outer barracks and he quickly joined them in the frigid morning.
"Prisoners of Stalag 13…"
Hogan refused to grimace as the Kommandant puffed up his chest, but couldn't help a small eye roll. It was cold, he was tired, he had the beginnings of a headache due to his interrupted sleep, and he didn't feel like listening to another one of Klink's eternal speeches. And did he mention that he was tired?
"….Diiissss-missssed!"
Hogan blinked. His mind had wandered somewhere around the 10 minute mark and he wondered if it was possible to actually fall asleep with your eyes open and standing up. Shaking himself to unthaw his frozen limbs, he followed the rest of the men to the mess hall, hoping they had some decent coffee for once that would help him wake up.
Half an hour later, feeling more human after a tasteless, but surprisingly filling breakfast, Hogan returned to the barracks, his mood improving even more when he heard the cheery sounds of the men laughing inside.
"…and then he said, 'how many tires do I have to change?"
The men roared in laughter as the punchline to some joke was delivered as Hogan walked in.
Nodding a greeting, the colonel smiled at their general good humor as he walked to his room. He was reflecting on the change in them since he first met them as he entered his room, happy to see Wilson there quietly chatting with a wide awake Newkirk.
"Hey doc, how're things this morning?"
"Pretty good, sir. Pretty good," said Wilson, proud satisfaction evident in his voice. "I think this old scoundrel is going to make it, despite my best efforts."
Hogan grinned. It seemed that good moods were infectious this morning.
"Sorry to hear that," Hogan quipped. "Guess we'll just have to put up with him awhile longer then."
"Yes, sir. Or at least, you won't have to put up with him much longer. Not in here anyways. If he keeps this up, I'd say he might be ready to go back to his own bunk in just a few days. Or that is, one of the lower bunks out there."
Newkirk had fallen silent when the colonel entered, but he was following the conversation closely and Hogan could see a gleam in his eyes that had been missing since he'd fallen so ill. Yes, you'd have to be a blind man to not see just how much better he was doing, not just physically, but mentally as well.
Bringing Newkirk in to the conversation and testing out the thaw from last night, Hogan asked, "So, what do you think, corporal, you about tired of these accommodations? Ready to rejoin the guys out there?"
"Yes, sir," he answered. "Ready to go right now if Joe 'ere would let me." Newkirk's eyes lit up at the thought, but Hogan didn't need to hear Wilson opinion when he heard Newkirk's voice. The Englishman might look a lot better, but the weakness left from his near-death illness was evident.
"Just hold your horses," drawled the medic before Hogan could say anything. "I said a few days. Maybe. And that's only if you do everything you're told. Everything. Up to and including drinking whatever we give you. Even if that means LeBeau's broth," he warned.
Newkirk glared at the man. "Not if I can 'elp it."
"Peter…"
"You ever taste that ruddy stuff? I heard 'e uses 'essence of old shoes' to give it that special little flavor."
Hogan laughed out loud, happy that Newkirk was improved enough that his sarcastic wit was returning. Although truthfully, maybe Newkirk hadn't been playing a game when he refused the broth earlier. Hogan had smelt it when LeBeau had brought some in for Newkirk the other day and was rather repulsed by it himself.
Newkirk flicked his gaze at the laughing colonel, but switched it back to Wilson when the medic teased, "Well I've heard that some of the guys are pretty good at making you drink it anyways."
Newkirk shrugged one shoulder, unconcerned. "Maybe, but they all know that payback is 'ell. Not many of them want to risk it. Though I suppose…" He stopped and frowned, looked at the door, then back to Wilson and Hogan in alarm.
"Joe, where's Chappy?" he asked apprehensively. When the medic didn't answer, he asked again, forcefully, "I said, where's Chappy? I 'aven't seen 'im since I woke up. I didn't realize before. 'ow could I not notice? What 'appened to 'im? Chappy's me mate! 'e'd be 'ere if 'e could! If 'e's not, it's 'cause somethin's wrong! Was 'e shot? Is e' dead?"
Both Wilson and Hogan rushed forward to try to settle Newkirk as he became more and more agitated and started to struggle to get up.
"Settle down," ordered Hogan. "He's fine."
Newkirk batted the hands away, resisting their efforts.
"Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself. He's fine," Hogan affirmed again.
Maybe it penetrated this time, for Newkirk stopped struggling. But then a surprisingly strong hand gripped Hogan's arm. "You're not just sayin' that? 'e really is okay?"
Gently removing the hand and helping Wilson to make Newkirk comfortable again, Hogan said truthfully, "He got himself into a bit of trouble and earned a spot in the cooler. He might have some bruised knuckles, but that's it."
Looking at Wilson as if to confirm the colonel's story, the tension melted out of Newkirk. "The cooler's a bloody awful place, but Chappy's no stranger to it. 'e'll manage."
Along with the tension, Newkirk's temporary energy also dissipated and he closed his eyes wearily. Then they popped back open with new urgency. "But not for long, right? A few days is all? Any longer than that and your bones start to freeze. Then the cold 'urts so bad you can't even move."
Hogan winced sympathetically at the thought. He knew Newkirk was speaking from long experience, although it didn't seem like he was conscious of any appeal for sympathy for himself. He was foremost worried about his friend.
"I'm going to do what I can to get him out soon. I promise," Hogan said, realizing that he needed to stop thinking about it and do something for those men stuck in the cooler.
"Yeah, you just rest now, so when he does get back, he doesn't kick your backside for working yourself up," Wilson added.
Newkirk looked at Wilson, then Hogan, his expression serious. Apparently seeing what he was looking for, he nodded once and then closed his eyes, drifting off into an exhausted sleep.
OoOoOoOoO
That evening after roll call and before lights out, Hogan sat at his desk, his fingers drumming against the wood. He'd gone to Klink that afternoon to talk to him about the men in the cooler, but hadn't had any luck convincing the Kommandant that they should be let out early. He'd have to come up with some more creative way of getting them out.
A noise disturbed his plotting and he looked over at Newkirk. He had simply moved in his sleep, shifting against the pillows that Hogan had arranged the night before.
Hogan took the quiet of the moment to study Newkirk as he slept. The man was a troubling enigma. Hogan had been encouraged to see Newkirk's deep concern for Chapman. He had even started seriously thinking what kind of role Newkirk might be able to play on his core team. But then, during his continuing meetings with the other men under his command that afternoon, he'd heard some things that concerned him.
Hogan had remembered what Hughes had said about Newkirk's reaction to the young teenager, Phillips, being sent to Stalag 8, but Hogan had chalked up the comments to Hughes' prejudice against Newkirk. Then, this afternoon several of his conversations had included anecdotes about Newkirk. Apparently, with little else to do, the men liked to gossip and the well-known corporal who had returned from the brink of death had been ripe fodder. So Hogan had learned a lot more about the man than he'd expected, some of which had disturbed him. Foremost was confirmation that, yes, Newkirk had been extremely close to Phillips, acting as a surrogate brother, but then simply written him off once the boy had been sent away. It seemed like a terribly callous attitude. Were Newkirk's loyalties that transitory? Loyalty of convenience would never do for any of Hogan's team, nor even one who simply lived in the same barracks with them.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. The headache from the morning had been a nagging nuisance off and on and was returning with a vengeance after a long day.
He'd also heard from Private Walker, the young man whose cake Newkirk had stolen. Needless to say, Walker was no fan of Newkirk's and had plenty of stories about the selfish attitude of the Englishman. Even considering the rather biased source, others had confirmed some of Walker's statements and it seemed that there might be more truth in what Hughes had said than Hogan was comfortable with.
If nothing else, both sides—those who liked Newkirk and those who didn't, there weren't many without an opinion—seemed to agree that Newkirk was an opportunist. That might not necessarily be a bad thing. Someone with good motives who knew how to take advantage of opportunities would be invaluable on sabotage missions. However, someone who cared primarily about number one and used opportunities for their own gain would be trouble with a capital "T."
Hogan had to figure out into which category his English corporal fell, and he was going to have to get the measure of the man sooner rather than later. He had to be a hundred percent convinced of the loyalties of every man on his team and those near enough to be in the know. Living in the same barracks would mean that Newkirk would be privy to whatever shenanigans Hogan's team was part of, even if he didn't participate himself, and that could be dangerous if he used that knowledge to his advantage, perhaps with the Germans to gain special privileges.
No. Hogan shook his head. He'd seen enough of Newkirk's interactions with the men to feel confident that Newkirk wouldn't betray them. And the others weren't all naïve fools either. The concern and loyalty they felt for him couldn't be bought with charm and quick wits. He had to be the real deal for them to care for him the way they did.
The colonel continued his reflections, his hands steepled in front of him until a bang on the barracks door signaled lights out.
OoOoOoOoO
