Chapter 12:
Carter swallowed a knot in his throat and hesitated to speak.
"...New...Newkirk?" He finally asked.
The Englishman turned to look at his best friend, hung his head, then returned to staring out into the night.
"Go away, Andrew," he said sadly.
The young sergeant was not easily fooled. He made his way closer and stopped standing beside him on the left.
"Newkirk...please tell me what's wrong...I wanna help you, buddy...we all do."
"You can't help me, mate...not this time…" The Englishman fell silent and kicked the dirt up with his feet.
"Well...maybe if you talked about it?" Carter prodded.
Newkirk shook his head.
"I don't wanna talk about it, Andrew."
"But that's what's causing the problem, Newkirk. Come on, buddy, please don't shut me out. You would do the same for me."
"You don't understand, mate...you don't understand what I saw...what I did that night."
"It's only gonna get worse, buddy. Please, Newkirk...I don't want you to get schizophrenia."
The Englishman turned to look at his best friend. The young sergeant's eyes were glistening with water in them. Newkirk smiled small and put a hand gently on Carter's shoulder.
"Don't worry, mate. I'm not gonna get schizophrenia...I just…" He sighed heavily. "I just need to be alone for a while, alright?"
Carter let out a sad breath of air and nodded. As he made his way back to barracks two, he turned to make one more check on Newkirk. The Englishman just stood there looking at nothing. Something was amiss in his eyes, his facial complexion. Newkirk looked more pale than usual, his eyes had lost their glimmer. Instead of a sparkling, bright green they once held, they were now a dim fog of gray. Light did not seem to enter them nor exit them. Newkirk looked sick. He was sick.
The young sergeant sighed again, shook his head gently, then sulked his way into the barracks.
"Italy? You sure, General?" Kinch asked, anxious.
LeBeau stood beside his friend biting his fingers in anticipation. Had they struck luck finally?
"Dr. Jacques Prudhomme; born and raised in Paris, France, graduated from UC-San Francisco Medical School with a degree in cardiothoracic surgery and cardiology, carried a 3.745 GPA all seven years of schooling, one of the top rated surgeons in all of France, and currently works for the cardiology section of Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. As of now, he is working in a hospital in Naples, Italy treating wounded Italian soldiers and civilians." Berkman replied, via the radio.
"How soon can you get him here to Germany?"
"More importantly, why is he in Italy helping the filthy bosche?" LeBeau questioned, disgusted that one of his own countrymen were serving under the enemy.
Ignoring him, Kinch went back to listening to the old American general.
"Right now, we're trying to maintain contact with him. Known as a loyal Frenchman and Ally member. Also associated with the Italian underground it looks like. Once we do, we will have him flown to Germany first class and meet up with one of your underground contacts, Otto. He'll bring him to a meeting point you two establish."
"How long do you think that will take, General? The Colonel's running out of time quickly. He suffered a major heart attack earlier tonight. On top of that, we got an assumed dangerous Gestapo major, Major Schneider, on our tails. One of the Colonel's eagles were found at the site the explosion took place a little over a week ago," Kinch reported.
The old general did not answer. For a moment, the two of Hogan's men thought that the line had disconnected.
"General Berkman, are you there?" Kinch finally asked, worried.
The old general was heard letting out a deep, saddened breath.
"Do not worry, mon General. Colonel Hogan will get better. Dr. Prudhomme will not disappoint us," LeBeau said, certain.
"I wish I felt your optimism, Corporal...I can't shake these...horrid thoughts out of my mind," Berkman said tiredly.
"The Colonel's gonna get better, General Berkman...your men will get in contact with Dr. Prudhomme, and he'll be here faster than you can say 'London'." Kinch tried encouraging the man. Berkman sounded like he was not taking Hogan's medical condition fairly easy.
"We will handle Major Schneider, too. You will see, General." The little Frenchman added.
"...if you excuse me, I have some, uh...paperwork to do. Let me know if Otto contacts you," Berkman said, monotone.
"Sure thing, General. Take it easy, sir. It's gonna work out." Kinch answered, with sympathy.
"Yes, well...General Berkman out."
Before Kinch could respond, the line went dead. The radioman heaved a sigh and shook his head. He turned to look at LeBeau, who had begun to frown.
"I don't think the General's got any paperwork needed to be attended to," Kinch said.
"Poor General Berkman...there must be something we can do for him," LeBeau suggested.
"The only thing General Berkman wants is for the Colonel to get better again. That, unfortunately, is out of our hands. Sure sounds like it's hitting him hard."
"Oui."
Carter climbed down the ladder and made his way to the radio room. He met his friends with the same saddened look on his face as theirs.
"You alright, Carter?" Kinch asked, concerned.
"I'm just numb is all," the young man softly said.
"You're not the only one."
"How's Pierre?" LeBeau asked.
"...quiet. I tried getting him to talk, but he just wanted to be by himself." The young sergeant answered.
"How do we get him to talk to us?"
"I don't know," Kinch said, starting to think. "Newkirk can be more tight mouthed than an oyster sometimes."
Carter nodded then realization hit him. What were his two friends down in the tunnels for?
"Wait a minute...why are you two here in the first place?" The young sergeant questioned, puzzled.
"General Berkman was just on the radio a little while ago. He says they found a doctor trained to help the Colonel in Italy. London's trying to make contact with him as we speak. A doctor from Paris named Prudhomme. He sounds promising," Kinch said.
"Hey! That's great!" Carter cried, smiling for the first time in a while.
"It will be great if London manages to get a hold of him. He's currently treating wounded Italian civilians and soldiers in Naples."
"How long might that take?"
Kinch fell silent for a moment before answering.
"Unfortunately, that's what makes the news bad; we don't know how long it could take. The Colonel could succumb to his injuries before we even hear back from this guy."
Carter began to frown again.
"Well, that's a downer," he said, depressed.
"Tu peux répéter ça," LeBeau said, in response.
"What's that mean, Louis?"
"You can say that again."
Kinch was about to speak, when the radio came to life with beeping. The radioman snapped his attention and almost knocked over the stool trying to sit on it. Kinch put his headset on and started writing down the coded message quickly.
"Holy cats." Kinch gasped, with no expression.
"What is it, Kinch?" Carter asked, worried.
"Is it about mon Colonel?!" LeBeau cried.
Kinch waved them off trying to get the rest of the message. The transmission ended, and Kinch put down his headset. He stood and made his way to LeBeau and Carter with a small smile.
"It's from Prudhomme. Says 'Urgent message received, short time to talk. Getting next flight from Rome to Germany, meeting with underground man named Otto,'!"
The three of them started cheering.
"The Colonel's gonna make it, guys!" Carter rejoiced.
"Oui! I need to start working on a 'Welcome Home' party!" LeBeau cried, with glee.
"Alright, guys. Settle down. We still need confirmation from Otto and make plans for a rendezvous," Kinch said, calming the group. It was hard, however, for him to do so. He was ecstatic about the news as much as his friends were.
"We have to let General Berkman know!" The little Frenchman cheered.
"Was thinking the same thing, Louis," Kinch said, with a wink. He got back on the radio and made contact with London. "Papa Bear to Mama Bear, Papa Bear to Mama Bear, over."
"Mama Bear here, Papa Bear. What is it?" A female's voice asked.
"Put me on with General Berkman. We have important information for him."
"Hold for one moment, Papa Bear." The line went silent for a minute or two, when an older man's voice was heard. It sounded tired and despondent.
"General Berkman speaking."
"General, it's Sergeant Kinchloe. I'm here with Corporal LeBeau and Sergeant Carter."
"What is it, Sergeant? I've got many papers to go through."
"We just got a message from Italy. It's from Prudhomme."
"What did he say?" The general seemed anxious, suddenly.
"Says that he's received word from London and is getting on the next flight from Rome to Germany and contacting Otto as we speak."
"Is it true, Sergeant?"
"It's true, General. Prudhomme's on his way here."
"Well, ain't that something. I can't believe it...Robert's going to make it," Berkman said. It sounded like he was smiling.
"He sure is, General. We just wanted to inform you, sir."
"Thank you, Sergeant. Take care, you three. General Berkman out."
"Papa Bear out."
Kinch ended contact and shut down the radio for the night. He turned back to LeBeau and Carter with a smile.
"Now what, Kinch?" The young sergeant asked, eager.
"Now," Kinch said. "We wait."
Prudhomme arrived in Germany two days later and met with Otto. The underground agent made contact with Kinch and planned a rendezvous with each other. Carter and LeBeau were assigned to go out and retrieve the doctor, while Newkirk and Kinch stayed behind and made sure everything at home was set and ready for the doctor.
The Englishman's leg and cut on his head had made a nice recovery, though his hand remained in a cast and treated regularly by Wilson. The camp medic told Kinch that his hand may permanently be scarred, but would not know for sure for a bit longer or until a more trained medic had a look at it. The radioman made plans for Prudhomme to check Newkirk's hand once during his visit.
Kinch and Newkirk sat in the radio room waiting for LeBeau and Carter to return with the French doctor. The staff sergeant sat on his stool, as he watched his British friend pace back and forth worried sick for their friends.
"Newkirk, you're gonna make yourself ill if you keep doing that," he said finally.
"I don't know why you didn't send me out with them. What if one of them are hurt?" The Englishman asked, ornery.
"You know very well why I didn't send you out, tonight. Wilson's strict orders are for you to remain in camp and mentally recover from…" Kinch was cut off.
"Don't bring it up, mate!" Newkirk hissed. His eyes burned with fury.
The radioman slid back in his spot and went back to reading his magazine. After reading the first paragraph of the page he was on, Kinch put down the magazine and looked at his friend with concern.
"Newkirk, what happened that's so bad for you to remember?"
Newkirk stopped and froze in his spot. He shuddered and never turned around to make contact with his friend.
"I don't want to talk about it, mate," he said softly.
"You'll feel better talking about it."
The Englishman shook his head.
"No...I won't."
Kinch was about to question his friend again, when footsteps were heard. Carter and LeBeau entered wearing their blacks with someone behind making their way behind them. All that was seen was a shadow of the figure. The radioman put his magazine down and made his way to his friends quickly.
"How did it go?" He asked.
"Kinch, allow me to introduce Dr. Jacques Prudhomme. France's most renowned cardiac surgeon!" LeBeau presented proudly. He and Carter stepped to the side to reveal a man about in his late 30s'-early 40s' made his way into the radio room. He had brown hair, light blue eyes, and was wearing black shoes, black pants, and a white lab coat carrying a black medical bag with him.
"Doctor, it's a pleasure to meet you. Sergeant Kinchloe, but you can call me Kinch, sir," the leading sergeant said, shaking the man's hand.
"Pleasure is all mine, Kinch." Prudhomme answered, with a smile.
"This is our other member to the team, Corporal Newkirk," Kinch said, gesturing to the British man.
"'Evening, mate," Newkirk said, smiling small.
Prudhomme raised an eyebrow, spotting the English corporal's hand.
"What happened to your hand there?" The doctor questioned.
The Englishman swallowed a knot and suddenly froze. His eyes began to cloud over, and his skin began to pale. Newkirk's breathing started to become uneasy and fast.
"Newkirk?" Carter asked, worried.
After another minute of nothing, Newkirk began to scream and ran away to another tunnel.
"Newkirk!" The young sergeant cried.
Prudhomme snapped his head towards the three men remaining in the room.
"I thought you said my patient was in dire need of cardiac attention!" The man hissed.
"He is, sir. Sorry about that. Corporal Newkirk's been...not taking this time so well," Kinch said softly.
The French doctor raised an eyebrow.
"What's wrong with him?" He asked, intrigued.
The three of Hogan's men fell silent for several minutes. Finally, it was LeBeau who answered their guest.
"Pierre souffre de ce qui est connu comme un 'trouble psychotique'."
Prudhomme shook his head and gave his fellow countryman a look of sympathy.
"Cela est très mauvais."
"Oui."
Carter leaned towards Kinch.
"What are they saying?" The young sergeant asked softly.
Hearing his curious friend, LeBeau turned around to face he and Kinch.
"I told him that Pierre has psychotic disorder, and he said that is very bad."
"We're on the lookout for a psychiatrist currently for him. We would have asked General Berkman, but the Colonel's current condition is taking quite a toll on him enough as it is," Kinch said, turning to the doctor.
"The Colonel," Prudhomme said, surprised.
"Colonel Robert Hogan, mon ami. He's your ailing patient. He needs a very complex open heart surgery to repair near fatal injuries to it...we will lose notre Colonel if you do not help him." The last part, LeBeau fought back on the tears that threatened to fall. Losing Hogan would shatter him. He refused to listen to any other commanding officer other than Hogan. No one could take his place no matter how hard London tried to find a new officer to take over Hogan's position.
Prudhomme raised an eyebrow.
"What's an American colonel doing in a Luft Stalag?" He asked, chary.
"That, mon ami, is a long story for another time." LeBeau answered him.
The old doctor nodded.
"Fair enough," he said. Prudhomme turned his attention to Kinch. "You're the current man in charge?"
"Yes, sir," the radioman said.
"Where is my patient as of now?"
"At a hospital in a city outside of Hammelburg: Schweinfurt."
"That's a 30 minute drive from here, if I'm correct."
"Correct, Doctor."
"When do you want me to get there?"
"We first have to find a way for you to get into camp and present yourself to our Kommandant."
Prudhomme swallowed a sudden knot in his throat.
"You're gonna put me in front of some drug induced, psychotic Kraut?!" He gasped, astounded.
Hogan's men bursted into laughter.
"Kommandant Klink?! The only psychotic thing about him is that he fears his own shadow!" LeBeau cackled.
"A coward of a German." Prudhomme scoffed. "Now that's something I have yet to see."
"You'll see soon enough, Doctor." Kinch replied. The radioman snapped his fingers at that moment. An idea sprang onto him out of nowhere. "Hey...that's how will get Prudhomme into camp."
"How, buddy?" Carter asked.
"We'll bring him in saying that Richard notified doctors in nearby areas in Germany and bordering countries. Dr. Prudhomme will have been the one to answer that call and is escorted by two men from the Luftwaffe to present himself to Klink and gain access to the Colonel."
"Hey! I like that idea!" The young sergeant cried.
"Me, too!" LeBeau cheered.
"Alright. I'll get on the radio, tell Otto and Richard what the plan is." Kinch put on his headset and began radioing the two underground contacts. While doing so, Newkirk appeared again, but looked worse than he had before. His eyes were fogged over, his skin had grown pale, and there was the beginning of dark circles forming around his eyes.
Carter, LeBeau, and Prudhomme noticed another man had entered the room and were taken aback after finally turning to face the Englishman.
"Newkirk...are you alright?" Carter asked, worried.
"Yeah, mate...I'm just...tired is all...I think I'm going to sleep." With that, Newkirk left without another word.
The young sergeant was about to get up and go after him, when he decided against it. He did not know whether it would upset his best friend more than he already was or not.
Prudhomme shook his head and let out a heavy sigh.
"It's bad, isn't it, mon ami," LeBeau said, dreading what would be the doctor's response.
"Worse than bad," Prudhomme said softly. "The man's sick."