"There," Wilson said as he finished casting Newkirk's left arm. "Six to eight weeks and you'll be good as new."
"Eight weeks? How am I gonna go eight weeks like this?" Newkirk attempted to wave his arms in the air but it was too painful to lift them both. Plaster was surprisingly heavy.
"You're obviously going to need a little help," Wilson snickered, but no one else was laughing. No one had imagined Newkirk would break both arms in a simple little assignment involving a trip to Klink's quarters to wind cuckoo clocks. The drop from Klink's window had been a doozy.
Hogan and LeBeau were with Newkirk in the infirmary, wearing matching expressions of concern.
"He's going to need a LOT of help," Hogan observed. "He can't even get himself dressed."
"Actually, Sir, it's w-worse than that," Newkirk said. "I need to take a slash right now."
Hogan face-palmed himself as Newkirk squirmed uncomfortably. "LeBeau..." Hogan moaned.
LeBeau looked around. A slash - what on earth did that mean? And why was Newkirk wriggling like that? Suddenly the penny dropped. Non, pas question!
"You need to... you want me to... to what? Oh mon dieu, surely you're joking!"
"Well, I'm not doing it! I'm an officer!" Hogan snapped.
"Someone help me or you'll be mopping the floor. And worse," Newkirk said through gritted teeth.
"Fine," LeBeau snarled. "Come on, Newkirk... wait." He stopped, thought, and closed his eyes in prayer. "Oh no. No. Not that."
"Not at the moment, no. But eventually," Newkirk said, comprehending and sounding miserable. "But LeBeau, first things first."
"All right. But we're doing it right here, with witnesses," LeBeau said as he unbuttoned Newkirk and fished him out. Wilson helpfully provided the appropriate receptacle. Soon the room was singing with two sounds: a rapid, wet hiss and Newkirk's sighs of relief. LeBeau handed the vessel off to Wilson with an angry expression and turned away to attend to Newkirk's fly.
"There, that wasn't so bad," Wilson said cheerfully.
"Speak for yourself," LeBeau and Newkirk said in unison.
"How many more hours of this?" Hogan asked the sky.
"Ten minutes down. That leaves 1,007 hours and 50 minutes to go, Sir," Wilson said. "Assuming he heals fast."
"Oh, he is going to heal in record time," LeBeau snapped. "You're drinking milk, mon ami," he muttered. "Liters and liters of milk."