PETER AND ANJA, CHAPTER 24: BACK FROM THE DEAD
I know a few people are reading and reviewing this steadily and I am really grateful to them. If there's anyone out there who is lurking and reading, it would mean a lot to get even a little feedback about what you think. There are a few more chapters to go.
April 4, 1944
Influenza was a nasty business. Newkirk spent three days in bed, in a foggy squall of aches, pains, fever, coughing, wheezing, a runny nose, and a dodgy stomach to boot. The flu storm finally started blowing out to sea on the fourth day, leaving him wind-whipped and as weak as a puppy cowering in the rain.
That morning, he woke to the low hum of conversation. Words were floating in and out as his eyes flickered open.
"… Too many late nights," someone was saying. "…More rest…"
"… Run down," said another voice.
Newkirk got up on an elbow and croaked out a word. "Louis?"
Wilson, Hogan and LeBeau turned to face him, and LeBeau flew to his side. Sitting on the bed, he gently prodded his friend to lie back down, and met no resistance. "Repose-toi," he said, brushing a hand over Newkirk's forehead. He turned to Wilson to report, "He's not as warm as he was."
"Leave off, Louis, I'm alright. I'm just thirsty," Newkirk rasped, though the weakness in his voice made his words less than convincing. "Did I miss rollcall?"
"Only eight or nine of them," Hogan replied, slipping into LeBeau's spot as the Frenchman got to his feet and scurried off to fetch a drink. "Nothing to worry about, Peter. Klink knows you're sick. You made a definite impression."
"…Right on the floor in his office. Ugh," Newkirk groaned as his mind flipped back to the last time Colonel Klink dressed him down. "Sorry about your shoes, Sir."
"Don't apologize, you couldn't help it," Hogan said as he verified for himself that Peter's forehead was a little cooler. "Corporal Mallory cleaned them up. Apparently nothing surprises him in his line of work." Mallory, an orderly in the camp infirmary, had been dispatched by Wilson to check on Newkirk right after he turned him away from the infirmary for lack of a bed. Once Mallory was done with the patient, he noticed Hogan's shoes where he had slipped them off and without a word he tended to those. There was no mess he hadn't cleaned up without the slightest complaint.
LeBeau returned with a tin cup of water. "I'm making tea, but you should drink this first," he said. Hogan pulled Newkirk up to a sitting position as LeBeau knelt down and administered a few sips from the cup.
Wilson watched patiently, then tapped Hogan on the shoulder. "Let me in there, Sir," he said. He shooed LeBeau away, too, though he only retreated a few feet.
Taking Hogan's place on the bed, Wilson popped a thermometer under Newkirk's tongue and began to examine him. He probed the glands under his jaw and felt along his neck, then tapped his belly before getting him back into a sitting position to examine his throat and listen to his back and chest.
"How's your throat feeling?"
"Better, I think," Newkirk replied. "It no longer feels like I've been gargling with broken glass, at any rate."
"That is an improvement," Wilson said dryly. "Your chest is still a bit congested, but it's definitely clearing up. You should get up and move today, because that'll help. But you still need to rest until the fever's been down for 24 hours. And right now you're at 100.2°."
"Is that a lot?" Newkirk asked.
"No, it's just a little elevated. Normal is 98.6°. It'll probably go up this afternoon, but that's to be expected." He turned to LeBeau. "Check it every few hours and keep writing it down, LeBeau. I want to see it below 99° before he can leave this sickroom for more than a few minutes." He patted Newkirk and stood to leave. "You're in good hands, Newkirk. Listen to LeBeau. He's the boss. You can go to the table in the barracks room and back, but you're sleeping in here, got it?"
Newkirk huffed out a small sound of irritation, but inside he was grateful. Of course he would listen to LeBeau, even if he gave him a little lip. He always listened to LeBeau, didn't Wilson know that? He shrugged his shoulders in agreement, because it wouldn't do to give in easily.
LeBeau sat back down as Wilson vacated his spot. He said nothing, but he stroked Pierre's hair and squeezed one hand in his own. Together, they had outrun the devil again. Newkirk gazed up, feeling a rush of warmth and affection. He knew that LeBeau would take good care of him even when he acted like he didn't need help.
Hogan saw Wilson to the door, then returned to the bedside to have a look at Newkirk. He'd had a rough go of it, with a fever that kept spiking and dipping, and he'd veered between exhaustion and delirium for three solid days, with bouts of nausea to break up the tedium. Now he was subdued, washed out, and a little stubbly, but a spark was returning to his eyes.
"Gov? What happened to the Witmans?" he asked Colonel Hogan, who was hovering behind LeBeau as the Frenchman gave Newkirk the rest of the water. As he drained the cup, LeBeau got up to prepare the tea, and Hogan took his seat again.
"They did just fine, Peter. The sea was smooth as glass that night. The passage is never easy, but it was better than usual, and they landed on British soil at 10 o'clock in the morning. They're being processed by intelligence, and they'll be in Edinburgh—excuse me, Edin-bur-row—in two weeks."
"Oh, good. And the little ones?"
"Hannelore and Joshka are glad to be out of that tin can," Hogan said, dabbing with his handkerchief at a trickle of water on Newkirk's chin. "Joshka's decided to be 'Johnny Whitman,' and he's staying with the family until Cronus can come for him. Oh, hey. Hannelore left you something. I'm sure Kinch will bring it to you later."
"What is it?"
"Honestly, Peter, I have no idea. It's wrapped."
Newkirk filed that thought away, then asked eagerly, "How's Anja?"
"About the same as you are. I spoke to Mathilde yesterday, and she said she was as sick as a dog for a few days, but she's getting better now, just in time." As soon as Hogan said the last three words, he regretted them.
"J-just in time for what?" Newkirk asked.
"Ahh. Peter, you know she was on break from her studies at the university."
"Oh," Newkirk said. "Yes. She goes back after Easter." He already looked frail, but now he was crestfallen too.
"Easter's in four days. She'll be here for another week after that," Hogan said gently. "I'll make sure you see her."
Newkirk bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgement, but his eyes were far away as if he was searching for what to say, or think, or feel. He suddenly felt adrift.
LeBeau came back in the room at that point with a piping mug of tea. "Just how you like it," he said cheerfully as he approached Newkirk. Then he saw his expression. "What's wrong? Does something hurt?"
"No," Newkirk said quietly as he sat up to have his tea. "I was j-just, I was um… I was thinking about Anja. When does she leave, Gov?"
"Lectures resume on April 19, so probably a day or two before then."
"In Munich? That's about 200 mmmmiles, isn't it?"
"It is. It's not close," Hogan said. He reached out to ruffle Newkirk's hair. "Don't overthink it. You have a little time before she goes."
"Righto, Sir," Newkirk said solemnly. He hadn't really known Anja all that long, but he … well, he adored her, didn't he? She was soft and pretty and nice and easy to talk to, and he felt so safe and warm with her.
He wanted more time, though he knew it was silly… silly and immature… to expect it.
And it was very important to be mature, because Newkirk was quite sure he hadn't been terribly grown up over the past few days. He never was when he was ill. He winced when he remembered how he and Anja had squabbled on the train. He remembered bickering like that with his sister Nora, who, now that he thought about it, was almost exactly the same age as Anja, less than two years older than him. Of course, he and Nora always kissed and made up quickly, too, though a peck on the cheek from his sister was nothing like the kisses he shared with Anja.
He sighed as LeBeau held the mug of tea to his mouth to take a sip. He wanted the tea and he appreciated the help. But he also knew LeBeau had babied him while he was ill, which everyone probably saw, and now they would all be thinking of him as a child again. He'd fought so hard to be accepted as an equal by older men. So even though he was craving just a little more of LeBeau's tender care, he took the mug into his own hands, and with a shy smile, he had a sip.
"This is perfect, mate. Thank you," he said politely.
"Of course," LeBeau said. He leaned closer. "You need a shave, and a shower wouldn't hurt either."
Newkirk rubbed his hand across his chin. Louis was right; his cheeks were sandpaper. "Do you think Schultz would let me have a shower?"
"Not before Saturday," Hogan replied. "But we can wrangle some hot water from the mess hall." He leaned out his door to see who was still inside when they should have been enjoying the early spring sunshine. Only Foster was there, writing a letter at the table, and Hogan dispatched him to bring back two buckets.
Hogan came back in to see Newkirk. "Peter, you need to rest, you understand? We can't afford to have you out of commission. So focus on getting better."
"Yes, Gov," Newkirk replied seriously. Truth be told, he wasn't feeling perky enough to be defiant.
"OK. I need to check in with the guys who are on watch," he said. Hogan was halfway out the door when he turned around. "I nearly forgot. Peter, can you give Mills and Garlotti a lesson in misdirection? You can do it in here."
"What sort of misdirection?" Newkirk asked apprehensively.
"A motorcycle courier will be here from Luftwaffe regional headquarters right around 1 P.M., and we need to get a look at the papers he's carrying," Hogan said. "We know the type of envelope the official papers come in, and we've got a replacement pack ready to go, but we need to be able to make the switch."
"With those two?" Newkirk inquired, deep concern coloring his voice. "With all respect, Sir, they're not ready for that game."
"You've been training them, haven't you?" Hogan asked. He had directed Newkirk earlier in the year to pick a few men with a talent for stealth to develop some additional skills. Picking pockets wasn't easy, and Hogan knew it, but he had faith that if anyone could teach it, it would be Newkirk.
"Yes, Sir, but… either one of them would be alright as a stall, but neither one knows how to locate, and they certainly don't have the hook down. And locating and hooking are the hardest parts."
"The envelope will be in the messenger bag, won't it? They just need to get it away from him for moment to make the switch."
"Maybe yes, maybe no, Sir," Newkirk replied. "It might be one of those large envelopes they usually send, but it could be also in a C-5 envelope, and that would fit in a breast pocket or coat pocket. I'd want to fan him first to be sure. You'd need three lads, any road. One to locate, one to stall, one to hook, and he'd hand off to the first lad."
"Why three? You never need three people for a job like this," Hogan said.
Newkirk gave him a shrewd look. "Well, I work alone, Gov, but I've been at this for a while. It's second nature to me."
He'd picked his first pocket at the age of five, trained by his old man, and he had perfected his talent into skill and then expertise through years of practice, but he wasn't sure even Colonel Hogan could completely understand that. No point lingering on that, though, Newkirk thought as he blew out a breath through pursed lips and formulated his thoughts.
"You certainly need a stall for this j-job. You can't get anything off a person as long as he's thinking about it. You've got to get his mind off it," he explained patiently. "I don't feel good about either of them trying to hook the goods, Sir. They don't have the touch. Not yet, and they might never have it."
Hogan slumped. "Alright. Alright. We'll think of another way."
"No, Sir, just put me in. If they can get his attention, I can do the rest."
"I can't, Newkirk. You're not completely on your game," Hogan said.
"I know I'm not, Sir. That's why I'll need both of them to be the stall. Look, it will work, Sir. You can have Kinch take me out for a walk when I'm sniffling and wheezing, saying I need the fr-fr-fresh air, doctor's orders. I'll have my great coat on even though it's warming up, because I'm still ill, so I can hide whatever we're swapping. I'll stumble into the messenger and fan him, and once I've located the goods, the other lads can distract him while I make the hook. Normally, I'd try to p-pass off the goods at that point, but if any Krauts come near me, I'll j-j-just cough on them and I guarantee they'll back off. I'm sure I can hack up something from my lungs, Sir."
Hogan had to remind himself to close his mouth all the way. Sometimes there was no arguing with Newkirk, and this was one of those times.
"Mon Colonel, please," LeBeau interjected. "He's not up to this. Pierre, est-ce que t'es taré?"
"No, I'm not crazy, LeBeau," Newkirk said with an elaborate roll of his eyes. With the next breath, he launched into a coughing fit.
"No, of course you're not. Mon Dieu, at least lie down," LeBeau commanded, rolling his eyes right back. Pierre was incorrigible.
Newkirk sighed dramatically, but did as he was told. He was just getting comfortable when there was a knock at the door.
"Hot water," Foster announced. He smiled warmly, deposited two steaming buckets, and left.
"Time for a shave and a bath," LeBeau said. "Stay right there or I'll tell Carter he's helping you," he added. He disappeared into the barracks to gather up soap, a razor, and towels.
Not Carter, Newkirk thought anxiously. After three days in bed, he knew he was getting somewhat fragrant. He also knew that Carter would want to help if he caught wind of the fact that Newkirk needed any help at all. There was no doubt in Newkirk's mind that he would end up with nicks all over his chin if Carter got anywhere near him with a razor, and he certainly wasn't going to submit to the indignity of being washed by him. No, he'd let Louis give him a shave and then bathe himself when the water was not so hot.
"Clean up, Newkirk," Hogan said. "I'll bring in Garlotti and Mills to see you when you're done, and we'll work out the ruse." And, he thought as he left the room, there was the small matter of making sure Wilson didn't eat him alive.
Newkirk smiled with satisfaction. Hogan wasn't calling him by his first name; it was Newkirk now. This was business. He knew the Colonel was counting on him, and he wasn't going to let him down because of little bout of flu.
1) Corporal Mallory is the unflappable orderly in the camp infirmary in my story "Fussy." 2) In a pickpocketing scam, the STALL is the person who creates a distraction. The HOOK is the person who actually grabs the wallet or whatever. Either one of them can LOCATE what they're going to steal, or a third person can do it. 3) It should be clear in context, but when LeBeau says 'Pierre, est-ce que t'es taré," he is accusing Newkirk of being crazy for volunteering for a job when he's sick.