CHAPTER 18: HOT AND BOTHERED IN THE COOLER

At roll call the next morning, the men were treated to a droning lecture by Klink about the futility of their position as captives and warnings about rocks and other missiles, complete with bad analogies and circular references to David, Goliath and a slingshot. Hogan found himself tapping his foot and wondering if Klink recalled that David slew Goliath and cut off his head. Probably not, he decided. The Nazis had probably rewritten it to make sure that the Jewish kid lost.

Hogan was not surprised when Klink summoned him to his office for a talk.

"Colonel Hogan," he began as the American settled into the chair and put on his most patient mask, "the Englander is out of control. At the last rollcall, he shouted out that my mother wears combat boots, and she most emphatically does not. She has orthopedic shoes and in these difficult times it's not her fault that they only come in black. Colonel Hogan, you must bring make that Englander respect me and obey the guards or he will face much worse punishments than a week in the cooler."

"He's unhappy, Sir. Maybe if you could serve tea and scones in the mess hall once in a while, that would lift his spirits. But don't go to any trouble, like conquering England."

"Enough, Hogan. Before you got here, he barely spoke. Even when he did cause trouble, he did so quietly. Now he's brazen and loud. I blame you for this."

"He was bound to come out of his shell eventually, Sir. With his stutter, he only talks around people he's comfortable with. And clearly, that's you, Sir. I know it seems like he's mouthing off, but he's just showing how much he likes you," Hogan said. "He's your number one fan, Sir."

"He likes me?" Klink puffed up at that suggestion. "Really, Hogan?"

"Oh, yes, Sir. When I visited him in the cooler last night, the first thing he said was that he knew you would be so disappointed in his behavior. He idolizes you, Sir. I think it's your Prussian bearing."

Minutes later, Hogan had negotiated for Newkirk's early release as Klink decided that two more nights in the cooler should suffice to send a clear message to such a well-intentioned young man. "Can I see him now? I'll let him know of your merciful decision, Sir," Hogan asked meekly.

"No," Klink said. "Allow me to go with you. I'll tell him myself."

Ugh, Hogan thought. He really, really had to remind himself not to overplay his hand.

XXX

The sound of a tin plate and cup clattering on a stone floor rang through the cooler as Hogan and Klink made their way down the corridor to the last cell where Newkirk was locked up. Schultz was dodging out of the cell, dripping with water and God knows what else, and shaking a chubby finger. "Newkirk! You must be nice! I bring you food. You must not throw it at me!"

"What's that on your uniform, Schultz?" Klink asked Schultz as he drew closer.

"Das ist Haferbrei, mein Oberst," Schultz replied to Klink. Then, turning to Hogan as he wiped off a clump with a finger, he added, "I believe the English call it porridge. I thought Newkirk liked it. I even put sugar on it for him."

"That's it—he's attacking my guards with porridge! I'll teach him to be so incorrigible!" Klink sputtered as he strode toward the cell. Schultz and Hogan each caught him by an arm and tugged him back.

"Don't do it, Herr Kommandant," Schultz warned. "He's hurling food and dishes about like a chimpanzee. I don't know what's got into him."

Klink peered toward the cell, then drew himself up nice and tall. "Hmmph!" he said. "Hogan, get in there and calm down your man." He shouted over his shoulder, "You'll be in there for two weeks if you don't settle down, Newkirk!"

"Don't bloody care, you great twit!" Newkirk roared back.

Hogan sighed and ventured toward the cell, taking care not to slip on a patch of porridge. Newkirk was right where he left him the night before, only he was standing up this time, surrounded by a colossal mess. Porridge everywhere, a crumbly sandwich in the corner, puddles of water, and in the corner, a tipped-over slops bucket. Nice touch, Hogan thought as a mouse darted by.

At the sight of Hogan, Newkirk slid back down to his spot on the floor and assumed his thousand yard stare, looking past Hogan as if he wasn't even there.

Hogan studied his young Corporal. His hair was a mess, his face was grubby, his clothes were wet and dirty from porridge and water and possibly mustard, his nose looked raw and his cheeks were bright red, probably from the cold.

"Peter," he said softly.

Newkirk flinched and looked at him. "Don't talk to me," he said sullenly.

Well, that was something, Hogan decided. At least he was responding.

"I'm trying to get you out, but you're not helping," Hogan said, keeping his voice even. He didn't want Newkirk to think he was angry.

"I'd rather stay in here and rot," Newkirk replied.

"Or starve," Hogan said, surveying his surroundings. "You have to eat something."

Newkirk just shook his head defiantly. No, he absolutely didn't have to eat, he thought. And no one was going to make him. Especially when his throat was on fire. He tucked his hands under his armpits to warm them up as Hogan continued to speak quietly to him. Gradually, a fist found its way under his nose and he began stroking the corner of his mouth with the top knuckle of his thumb.

Hogan watched in dismay. Newkirk looked utterly woebegone, Hogan thought. He wanted to reach out and take him by the hand to get his attention, but he knew Newkirk would lash out, so he held back.

"I know you're angry with me," he said as gently as possible. "And you're right. I've failed you. If I could keep you here at Stalag 13, I would. But the best I can offer is safety. And your friends want to see you before you go."

Newkirk gulped hard at the mention of his friends, then winced. He let out an involuntary moan. His throat was so raw.

"What's the matter?" Hogan asked. "Are you hurt? Did they…?"

"I'm not hurt," Newkirk said. He was tired of fighting, tired of being angry, and just plain tired. "Just a bit of a sore throat." He heaved out a sigh. "I'll be good. I wwwwawnt to see mmmy mates."

"Good man. Now, listen, why don't you rest on the bunk instead of here on the floor," Hogan suggested.

"Because it's c-c-covered in vermin," Newkirk replied. "And the mmmmice have nested inside it. I've slept on fffffloors before." He sat and rubbed his neck, still wincing.

"All right. Let's see what we can do to fix that," Hogan said. He called Schultz down to the cell and quickly explained the problem. Schultz promptly handed in a broom and dustpan, and headed off to see what he could do about the bunk. Hogan swept up the food and watched Newkirk doze against the wall.

After about 15 minutes, Schultz reappeared with Corporal Langenscheidt, carrying a straw-filled mattress between them. It wasn't much to look at, but it wasn't filthy and it wasn't full of holes or crawling with critters. They laid it down on the bunk and Langenscheidt took away the old mattress with orders from Schultz to burn it. Schultz was the enemy, but he was also humane and did his best to live by the golden rule.

Hogan shook Newkirk awake, got him on his feet, and led him to the bunk. "There now," he said. "You rest. If you can stay calm, I'll have you out in two days, all right?"

Newkirk's combativeness had given way to sheer exhaustion and defeat. He laid on the bunk and let Hogan pull a blanket over his shoulder. He watched through tired eyes as Schultz returned with a canteen of fresh water and as Langenscheidt came to swap out the slops bucket and mop the corner of the stone floor where he'd spilled the last one.

He was already asleep when Hogan departed, frowning, worried, and wondering what to do next.

XXX

Hogan ran into Sergeant Wilson on his way back to Barracks 2. Oh, yes, Carter, he remembered. He'd been sick for two days now.

"How's Carter?" Hogan asked.

"Try Carter, Broughton, and Garlotti," Wilson replied. "Not great, and it looks like strep throat for all three of them. I wish I had room in the infirmary for them, Colonel, but we've only got ten beds and they're all full. This infection is spreading like wildfire-I've got eight guys with strep as it is. See if you can separate your sick guys into one corner so I don't have to quarantine the whole barracks, OK? I've got to check on Barracks 3. Billings says they've got two sick guys."

"Is there anything that will help?" Hogan asked.

"Bed rest, gargling with warm water, and aspirin every four hours. I don't have any other tricks up my sleeve," Wilson shrugged. "Sorry. Keep their dishes and utensils separate, and make sure everyone's washing their hands."

Hogan thought for a minute. "Newkirk's in the cooler. He says he's got 'a bit of a sore throat,'" Hogan said, making quote marks with his fingers.

"Newkirk says he's a bit sick? That's like saying London gets a bit of fog," Wilson said. "I'll get in there to see him."

XXX

Klink, however, had better things to do than talk to Wilson. There was an afternoon coffee to attend at the home of Graf von Leiningen. By the time he rolled back into camp, it was 5 PM and he wanted his supper. By the time Wilson got into the cooler to see Newkirk, it was after evening roll call.

With Schultz leading the way, Wilson and Hogan entered the small cell and found Newkirk on his bunk, shivering. His evening meal, delivered by cooler guard, Private Dürr, was untouched. His canteen had spilled. The light was so poor that Wilson couldn't look at his throat, but he was hot to the touch and obviously ill.

"This man is sick," Wilson said bluntly. "Schultz, he needs to be released. Please inform the Kommandant."

Schultz looked alarmed and scurried off to the Kommandant's quarters to advise him of the medic's concern, but he when he returned, he was downcast. Klink was in his bath and had left strict orders not to be disturbed. Newkirk would have to stay put until morning.

"Not good enough," Hogan said. "Come with me, Schultz." He took off down the corridor and tore across the compound to the Kommandantur, with Schultz panting behind him. Up the stairs he went, and he pounded at the locked door.

Klink appeared at the door in his bathrobe. "What is it, Hogan?" he asked angrily.

"Newkirk is in the cooler, and he's very sick. Wilson is requesting that he be released at once," Hogan said.

Klink smirked. "At 9 o'clock at night? Hogan, is this one of your games? This can wait until morning." He began to shut the door in his face, but Hogan pushed it back open.

"Sir, we're already got 13 cases of strep—eight in the infirmary, two in Barracks 3, and three in my barracks," Hogan protested. "You can't leave a sick man overnight and untended in those conditions."

"Fine. Take him out of the cooler, Schultz," Klink said. "Return him with Colonel Hogan to Barracks 2. And quarantine that barracks." He was clutching his throat as Hogan stalked off.