CHAPTER 29: THE THIRD DEGREE
Peter Newkirk learned early in life that the best way to protect oneself is to always be on guard, keep the enemy in view, and never, ever let them get behind your back. He followed these guidelines reflexively, and on the rare occasions when he let his guard down, it was only in the presence of LeBeau, Kinch or Colonel Hogan.
But today he was the last one in the shower, and he could relax just a bit. Or he thought he could, until Garlotti came barreling into the stall.
"I barely made it," Garlotti panted as he pushed his way under the trickle of water that passed for a spray. "I was in the motor pool working on Klink's staff car. Sorry, Pete. Just let me get some of this water on me before they shut it off."
Newkirk stepped to one side to give Garlotti his best shot at cleanliness. He'd already enjoyed a nice long rinse, so he focused on gathering up his soap and sponge when Garlotti spoke up.
"What the hell are those marks?" Garlotti asked.
"What marks?" Newkirk replied.
"On your backside. Don't tell me you don't know about them."
Think fast, think fast, Newkirk told himself. "Why the hell are you looking at my arse, Tony? I didn't think you b-bent that way."
"Shut up. You know I don't. I mean it, man. What are all those marks? Who did that to you?"
Newkirk swallowed hard. Why did this have to happen? "I d-d-don't know, pr-probably something to do with that scarlet ffffever I had," he mumbled.
"Are you sure?" He pulled him over by one shoulder. "Is somebody bothering you, Pete? I know some of the older guys have given you a rough time, but this is way beyond teasing."
"No!" Newkirk protested, twisting away "Don't take on so, Tony. It's nothing to wwwwworry about."
"Hm. Well, you towel off and we'll go see Wilson about that," Garlotti answered.
"Ffforget it! I'm not showing W-Wilson or anyone else my arse!" Newkirk protested.
"If it's nothing to worry about, then why are you worrying?" Garlotti asked. He was drying off and pulling his clothes on. "I mean it, Pete, you're coming with me," he said firmly, sound every inch an older brother.
XXX
Wilson took one look and sent Garlotti to get Colonel Hogan.
"Pull 'em up," he told Newkirk, who complied instantly.
"Why d-do you have to tell him?" Newkirk complained.
"He's your guardian on top of being your CO," Wilson said. "He needs to know."
Hogan arrived in the infirmary with Garlotti, and saw Newkirk sitting on the examination table, his hair wet and his clothes damp from the shower, and a scowl plastered to his face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Peter, are you OK?"
"He's got burns, Sir," Wilson began.
"Burns? How did you do that?" Hogan rushed to Newkirk's side and started examining his hands, arms and face. "Where?"
"They're on his posterior, Sir. Old burns. Dozens of them," Wilson said.
"What do you mean?" Hogan asked. He looked at Newkirk, but there was no connection. He was sitting perfectly still, except that his fist was back under his nose and the thumb knuckle was stroking the corner of his mouth. Hogan took the hand and held it firmly. "Peter?" he asked. Newkirk's only response was try to pull away, though Hogan did not let him go.
Wilson sighed. "I'm not going to force him to show them to you, Sir, but they're cigarette burns. They leave a very distinctive mark. Someone did this to him a while ago, and the fact the burns left scars probably means they were second or third degree. Garlotti noticed them in the shower and thought they might be something that happened recently."
"They look bad to me, Sir," Garlotti said.
"You shouldn't be looking at me bum," Newkirk snapped.
Wilson ignored him. "They might be more noticeable now because his skin peeled after he had that bout with scarlet fever." He turned to Newkirk. "You need to tell us who did this to you, Corporal."
"What difference does it make?" Newkirk replied.
"It matters to me, Peter," Hogan said softly. "I want to know how it happened. Was it in the Dulag?"
No reply, although Newkirk was silently evaluating the potential of that particular explanation.
"I've seen many injuries from the Dulag, Sir, but not this type, and anyway, these look old," Wilson said, blowing that excuse out of the water. "But someone did this on purpose. I've seen this before back home, and it's never an accident." He turned to Newkirk again. "Did it happen all at once or over time?"
Newkirk just frowned.
Garlotti broke in. "Listen, Peter, you've got all of us looking out for you. And nobody's OK with people hurting you, even if it was a long time ago," Garlotti said.
"Sometimes you need to be t-taught," Newkirk mumbled. "When you're bad, you need to learn lessons."
"Cigarette burns on your backside are not a lesson, pal," Garlotti said firmly.
"Define 'lesson,'" Newkirk said angrily. "If someone teaches it to you and you remember it, it's a lesson."
"So you do remember who did this," Hogan said quietly. "Who?"
No reply.
Hogan had a strong and sickening hunch, but he wasn't going to force the issue—not when Newkirk was so obviously distressed by the discovery. He looked at Wilson. "Does it need to be treated?"
"No, there's nothing for it. They're old scars. But as his guardian, you need to know someone deliberately hurt him, Sir," Wilson replied.
Hogan turned to Newkirk. "Do they hurt?"
"Nnnno," he replied. Then after a long pause he added, "Not now."
"Show me," Hogan said. "I need to see this." He took Newkirk's hand, squeezed it, and quietly added, "please."
Newkirk sighed, shook his head, and climbed down from the examination table. He turned around and loosened his trousers and lowered them so Hogan could see. He heard a hiss as Hogan breathed in sharply through his teeth.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God," Hogan murmured. Newkirk quickly pulled them up and then turned around. As he did, Hogan grabbed him by the shoulders.
"You know this wasn't your fault. You realize that, right? There's nothing you could do to deserve this," he said.
Newkirk looked at him, squinting his eyes. He was baffled. "Oh," he said. "Oh."
No, that thought had never occurred to him. He was sure he deserved it.