CHAPTER 19: FEVER

Hogan and Wilson walked Newkirk back to Barracks 2 by the dim light of a last quarter moon, holding him between them as he stumbled along. As they entered the room, Newkirk cast his eyes up at his bunk and got in position for the climb, but Hogan grabbed him around the arm and stopped him.

"Uh-uh," he said. "The other side of the room."

The men had disassembled two of the bunk beds to create four single beds, which they had crammed into a corner, separated with improvised curtains. It wasn't much of an isolation ward, but it was the best they could come up with under the circumstances.

Hogan led Newkirk to the bed next to Carter's and watched him tumble down, still dressed. LeBeau came into the curtained area behind them and stood observing silently as Wilson examined his patient in somewhat better light. LeBeau was trying not to fret, but it wasn't easy. His Pierre had been in the cooler many times and usually emerged considerably worse for the wear. But this time it had only been two days, and he looked terrible.

Wilson stuck a thermometer in Newkirk's mouth while he palpated his neck. "Very swollen glands," he mumbled to himself. He sat watching Newkirk drowse, then withdrew the thermometer. "102," he said, shaking his head. "Let me have a look, son," he said, gently prying his mouth open to peer at his throat with a small flashlight. "I'll run a test in the morning, but I don't think there's any doubt, with this strep infection going around. That's strep," Wilson said to Hogan and LeBeau as Newkirk drifted off. "I'll check on him and the rest of these men first thing in the morning," he added, standing up to leave.

LeBeau hovered over his friend as Hogan saw Wilson out the door. "Colonel," he whispered as Hogan reappeared, "we should get him out of his clothes." All four sick men were sleeping and he didn't want to wake them.

"Let him rest, LeBeau. We'll help him undress when he wakes up," Hogan said.

LeBeau sighed. "Alright. At least let's get his jacket and boots off." Together he and Hogan peeled Newkirk out of outer layer, yanked off his boots, and covered him up.

"I don't like it," LeBeau said. "Look how red his cheeks are—the others don't look like that."

"People respond to fevers differently, LeBeau. He's sleeping. Let him rest." Hogan beckoned to him to follow and LeBeau did, but he was looking over his shoulder at Newkirk as he left.

Newkirk passed the night restlessly, his throat throbbing with pain. In the wee hours of the morning, he woke up and felt a hand on his forehead, gently smoothing back his hair. "Mum? Mavis?" he asked.

He heard a small chuckle. "No, mon pote, it is your friend Louis. Here, sit up and drink."

LeBeau levered him into an upright position and held a glass to his lips, but it was hard for Newkirk to swallow. An oil lamp at the bedside was flickering, sending patches of light around the small space they occupied. LeBeau could see the water dribbling down Newkirk's neck.

"Oh, no," LeBeau said. "Let's get this shirt off and put your nightclothes on, oui? You will be much more comfortable," Newkirk nodded and held up his arms as LeBeau yanked off his pullover.

That was when LeBeau saw it—the redness of a sunburn on Newkirk's neck and chest. Frantically, he checked his arms, his back, his belly—it was everywhere, and it was hot and rough like sandpaper. LeBeau recognized this from his childhood.

"Mon Dieu," he said, "c'est la scarlatine." Who else had it? He inspected Carter's face, neck and arms as he slept. Nothing. Garlotti and Broughton—still nothing. Only Pierre.

He tucked Newkirk under a blanket, still shirtless, and went to wake the Colonel. He was back at Newkirk's bedside when he heard Hogan at the barracks door, imploring Langenscheidt, who was on night duty, to send for Wilson immediately.

XXX

Wilson took one look and knew what he was dealing with. "Scarlet fever," he said simply. "Colonel, he's got to be isolated—really isolated—or we're going to have an epidemic on our hands."

Hogan didn't hesitate. "My quarters," he said. "Now."

By this time, Kinch was awake. He pushed his way to the bedside and lifted Newkirk up.

"Kinch, be careful," Hogan said. "We can't have you down."

"I've had this, Sir," Kinch replied. "I don't think I can get it again."

"Moi aussi," LeBeau said.

"It's not like measles or chicken pox," Wilson said. "It doesn't work that way. You can get it more than once, so put him down and go scrub up," he told Kinch.

"What's going on?" Newkirk groaned as Kinch lowered him onto Hogan's spare bunk.

"Shh. Just getting you settled in a different bunk, Pete. Everything's going to be fine," Kinch said. He and LeBeau left the room to wash, but they were back again in minutes.

Wilson examined Newkirk again as he laid on Hogan's bottom bunk, shivering. His tongue was swollen like a strawberry. His throat was raw and oozing. The rash was bright red and it was spreading. His cheeks were scarlet but a circle around his mouth was pale white.

"How did he get this on top of the strep?" Hogan asked.

"This is the strep, Sir. It's a complication, though you usually only see it in kids and teenagers," Wilson said. Hogan, LeBeau and Kinch, standing at a safe distance across the room, all exchanged looks.

"Wilson, um," Hogan said, "We found out some information about Newkirk last week. He was underage when he enlisted. He's only 17."

Wilson rarely gave much away with his expressions, but he jolted at that explanation, then recovered quickly. "That makes sense, then." After a moment, he looked back at Hogan. "Cripes Colonel, what are you doing with 17-year-old in your operation? He can't…"

"I know he can't," Hogan said. "We've made arrangements to get him home. He leaves April 1 for the journey to the coast."

"April 1? That's in four days. He's not going anywhere for at least two weeks, Sir," Wilson. "I will not allow it."

"Well, that means it'll be four weeks, because they only move small boats and subs across the Waddenzee when the skies are dark," Hogan replied. "Kinch, you'd better alert London that we have to scratch his transport on April 2."

"Best news I've heard all month, Sir," Kinch said. He took off for the tunnel.

XXX

Throughout the day, and for five days afterwards, Newkirk's fever spiked and fell over and over. His throat ached. His rash itched. His head hurt and his body throbbed from his neck to his toes. He was absolutely miserable.

LeBeau stayed by his side, and when the delirium and pain peaked, he held him tight. Nestled in LeBeau's arms, Newkirk listened to his heart beat and tried not to cry, but it was hard. He hurt so much, he was so scared, and he knew that soon he'd be alone again. So he clung to LeBeau and didn't care who saw him holding on and whimpering. He didn't have to be tough because it just didn't matter anymore. He let LeBeau tend to his every need, and allowed himself to settle into Colonel Hogan and Kinch's arms during the brief spells when LeBeau couldn't be at his side.

Then very late one night the fever finally broke. Newkirk awoke and found himself tucked under Colonel Hogan's chin, wrapped in his arms, the clean smell of rain hanging in the air. "When am I leaving, Sir?" he managed to whisper. "Is it time to go?"

"Shhh. Just rest, Peter," Hogan replied. "You're staying right here with us. You're not leaving—not if I can help it."

Newkirk was confused. "Is it my birthday?" he asked. "That was fast."

"No," Hogan chuckled. "Not yet. But we're going to find another way. I promise, you won't have to go."

Kinch, standing in the doorway as Newkirk drifted back to sleep, was smiling. But he sidled up to the Colonel and asked the obvious question. "How are you planning to do that, Sir?"

"I have no idea," Hogan said. "But I'll come up with something."