Wilson crouched by the bunk of his patient and began to wrap Newkirk's leg with a sterile bandage. He grimaced at the redness and swollenness exhibited by the display. Definitely infected, he thought to himself ruefully. Thankfully, it wasn't any worse. All that sweat and dirt must've gotten into the wound on their way back. He glanced around at the faces of the men beside him, intent on telling them his prognosis. They all deserved to know.

Andrew Carter sat on the colonel's chair, staring at his shoes and his newly-wrapped ankle. "How is he, doc?" He looked up then, and the worry he had tried so carefully to hide—from Newkirk, from the others, from himself, even—was now so clearly visible that Wilson could feel his resolve shatter.

"It, uh . . . He should get better soon, Carter. He needs a lot of rest in order to heal." His words, cautiously chosen, were enough to banish that tinge of anxiety Carter had shown since coming back from the mission. As far as Wilson could tell, though, the tech sergeant didn't completely believe everything he'd said. Still, Wilson had decided that he'd not volunteer any more information until he could talk to Colonel Hogan alone.

Carter smiled, relieved. "Okay. How long do you think it'll be until he wakes up?"

Wilson shrugged. "With the concussion, it could be anywhere from minutes to hours. I do expect him to sleep for a while, though."

After nodding slowly, Carter left the room, Kinch not far behind him. When Carter returned, he was carrying his blanket from off his bunk. With a determined look on his face, he plopped down on the floor beside Newkirk. He blinked, apparently realizing he had forgotten something. "Colonel?"

Hogan leaned forward. "Yes, Carter?"

"C-can I keep him company? Make sure he's okay until roll call?" The blond almost seemed shy. "He doesn't remember any of you yet, and I think he'd like to recognize someone when he wakes up."

Colonel Hogan's mouth stretched into a wide smile. "Sure, you can. Just make sure that you get some sleep. Can't have you falling asleep during roll call."

"Yes, sir!" Carter wrapped his threadbare blanket around his slight frame, uniform shirt slightly visible through the holes.

Once the blond was settled, Wilson raised his hand to get the colonel's attention. He motioned to the other side of the room. After making his way there, he stated in a low voice, "I need to tell you the full extent of his injuries. The bullet went all the way through his leg, which is why it was bleeding so much. Although I did clean it out and bandage it, it's beginning to show signs of infection. Usually I would give him a shot of penicillin, but I just realized that we used up the last of it after that one mission a few weeks ago. I had planned to tell you after the mission, maybe ask you to request some from London, just in case we'd need some, but I caught that bug that was going around, remember? With all the craziness, I completely forgot. I'm sorry." Wilson resisted the urge to tilt his head downward like a penitent child. He was an adult—hang it all!—and he was going to act like one. "We don't have any more penicillin here. I don't suppose you would be able to . . . acquire some, would you, Colonel?"

Brow furrowed in thought, Hogan shook his head. "London owes us for that last mission. I'll get Kinch on that."

Kinch, who had just returned to the room with LeBeau in tow, lifted his head at the mention of his name. He raised an eyebrow in question.

With a look, Colonel Hogan caught Kinch's eye. He mouthed, "Penicillin. London."

Kinch nodded and made his way out of the room. For a moment, the room was silent. Carter sat by Newkirk's bunk, dead tired and yet unwilling to cease his vigil in favour of sleep. LeBeau took the spot on the colonel's chair that Carter had recently vacated.

Hogan quirked an eyebrow. "What else, Wilson?"

Wilson sighed. The truth was that he was stumped about the amnesia. "He needs to be awoken every hour on the hour to see that he doesn't slip into a coma. Ask him his name, his rank, his serial number, the date, where he is, things like that. . . I am, however, worried about his amnesia. It's a tricky thing. His memories might be restored by the time he wakes up next. It could be months before they come back. I hate to say it, but he may never regain them. The most we can do is let him rest, remind him of his past, and . . . well, pray, sir. There's nothing more that can be done."

Colonel Hogan's shoulders slumped. He appeared to be trying to compose himself, to push away the disappointment that had no doubt begun to creep into his mind. Wilson knew the feeling well. After a moment, Hogan lifted his head and visibly steeled himself. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, steady, as though almost nothing was amiss. "Anything else?"

"Well, he'll need a new pair of pants," Wilson joked halfheartedly, the corner of his mouth quirking into a lopsided grin. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "He has a slight fever, but the penicillin should take care of it. I want to let him rest, try to get some energy before the fever saps it all. After he wakes up, I'd like to examine him more thoroughly, see if he's remembered anything else. From what Carter said, he was out of it for most of the trip back. We'll see how his concussion's doing then."

Hogan nodded slowly. "Thanks, Wilson. I'll let you know when he wakes up."

Wilson glanced once at the bunk with his two patients. Newkirk was fast asleep, and from the looks of it, Carter wasn't too far behind him. "I'll be back after roll call to make sure the two of them are all right."

~\*/~

For the third time in two minutes, Colonel Hogan stared at his watch. They had arrived at the camp shortly after 3. Well, he supposed it was actually closer to 3:30. Either way, with all that had gone on afterward, by the time Wilson had examined his two patients and Newkirk had been carried up to the colonel's room, a full thirty minutes had passed. Now that Wilson had examined Newkirk and Carter, he could at least put his mind at rest. And of course there would only be an hour or two till roll call.

He sighed. No matter. He had survived on much less sleep before. It wasn't as though he wanted to repeat that one day when the mission had caused him to get only forty-one blessed minutes of sleep, but at least he knew he could do it.

He gently shook LeBeau, who had fallen asleep in the chair, and murmured, "Go back and get some rest. You deserve it."

LeBeau blinked at him slowly. Just when Hogan was starting to think he might have to restate his order, the Frenchman nodded, saying, "Mais oui, mon colonel," before standing and practically stumbling out the room.

Now that that's done, I might just be able to snag about thirty minutes of rest before we have to wake up Newkirk. . . Colonel Hogan slumped into his chair, exhausted. He propped his head up on his hand. It had been a long and stressful day. Surely it wouldn't matter if he just closed his eyes until the thirty minutes were up, right? What could it hurt?

~\*/~

As much as he tried to stop it, a sigh escaped Kinch's mouth. He had, on the spur of the moment, decided to stay in the camp for another two hours, torture though it had been. However, he was now thankful that he had chosen such a course of action. Had he been traipsing through the snow in search of his missing men, he wouldn't have been there when they got back.

He had been so close to missing them. He would've caused the whole operation to fail had he been caught. Why had this mission been so difficult for him? Waiting was something he was used to.

Ugh, why was I so worried? The colonel can usually trust me to be steady, not to act without thinking. Rubbing a hand across his face as though to erase all the thoughts, Kinch stood. He was tired. They were all tired. They had been completing missions nonstop for two weeks. Maybe that's why it hit me so hard. I hope London gives us a break soon. At least there's no roll call today. . .

~\*/~

LeBeau looked at his watch, letting a curse slip when he remembered it was too dark to tell time. No matter. It had to be time for him wake up Newkirk to ask him the questions.

He put a hand on Newkirk's shoulder and shook it slightly. There was no response. After another shake, he began to worry that maybe Newkirk had fallen into a coma, just like Wilson had warned. But surely such a thing couldn't have happened in between the colonel's shift and his, right?

Just before he could truly panic, he heard a soft moan. "Whazzat? Andrew? Is that you?"

The familiar Cockney lilt, slurred though it was, did wonders for calming LeBeau's nerves. "Non, mon pote. C'est moi, Louis."

In the barest of light, LeBeau was able to see Newkirk's eyes widen. "What?! Who're yo—" He paused then, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Almost as soon as it appeared, however, it vanished again. Had LeBeau's eyes not finally adjusted to the dark, he would've missed the transformation. Newkirk glared at him, distrust written all over his face. Truthfully, his expression would've been more intimidating had he been able to focus his eyes on his target.

Quoi?! Peter, tu ne peux pas être sérieux! Je suis votre ami. It took everything within him not to contest the account. Instead, he held up his hands in surrender. "I-I am one of your friends, one of André—Andrew's—too."

Newkirk's eyes narrowed warily. After a second, he paused and raised a hand to his head. "Well, then, is Andrew here? Where are we? What are we doing here? Are we still in the snow?"

In response, LeBeau gestured to the foot of the bunk where Carter sat, deeply asleep. His head leaned against the bunk, and the rest of him was curled up on the floor. To even make it to Newkirk's bunk, LeBeau had needed to step over a sleeping Carter while being quiet enough not to rouse the colonel. Well, he remembers what happened, at least. He said, "It's okay, Pierre. Don't worry about it. You're here in the stalag with us. Andrew brought you back to us." Even as he was talking, Peter's eyelids began to droop. It was then that LeBeau noticed the tiny spots of red high on his friend's cheekbones. "Pierre? Peter?"

Newkirk blinked slowly. "Eh? Sorry, mate. I'm—" He yawned—"right knackered. And what did you say your name was again?" But before LeBeau could answer, Newkirk's eyes shifted over to the corner of the room. "Now, I don't know what you're going on about, china plate, but I do know my onions when it comes to . . . well, using my special services, even at car boot sales and all that. Everyone says to be careful around such things, and no one's to half-inch even the one with the most padding in his pocket. Ha! Why, ol' Alfie was brilliant, he was! And you should've seen him in action . . ."

Confused and disturbed, LeBeau stared as Newkirk rambled on and on. "Newkirk are you feeling okay?"

Newkirk glanced up at him, eyes wide with curiosity. "What are you nattering on about, Mavis? Y'know, it's awfully late. I think I'm about to flake out." He yawned once more, lifting a hand to hold his head. "Why's my head hurt?"

LeBeau forced himself to smile. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words to say. He finally settled upon helping Newkirk lie down. The Cockney man had no more put his head on the pillow (a luxury afforded only to officers) before he had fallen asleep. Sacre chats! I have to tell Colonel Hogan about this, LeBeau thought.

I think this chapter should be about good. :D Hope you enjoy it! Um, I'm not French, nor am I good with French, although I do dabble in languages for fun. French just isn't one that I've put much time into. If it's wrong, please tell me. Google Translate is hardly ever accurate, in my experience. So, yeah. .

Poor feverish Newkirk! I'm so evil. :3 (Special thanks to Ponchygirl, by the way, for letting my ramble on about this story and my ideas for it. Ponchy, you're quite good for bouncing ideas off of!) And if it needs to be edited, I'll probably get to that while my kids are out at recess.

Well, my kids are about to come. I must be off. Auf Weidersehen! :3

Soli Deo gloria!

~LHDD