"Here, Carter, drink." Newkirk prompted the barely conscious man, pushing the open mouth of the canteen against his lips. Eventually the American did as he was told, waking up enough to swallow without choking. Newkirk made sure he'd taken at least ten sips before he let him rest. The next step would involve pain, and bandages and sulfur and none of it would be much fun.

Stalling a bit the Englander gently put the canteen into the hands of the little girl but she only stared at it, as if she'd never seen it before. "Like this, sweetheart…" Newkirk prompted, then took his own sip from the container, before handing it back.

The girl's hands were tiny against the wool cover of the vessel. The mouth covered her nose entirely as she latched her top teeth over the lip and tilted. She spilled on her front, but got a few good gulps, that turned into a few more when Newkirk tried to take the canteen away. It was as if she had suddenly been reminded that she was an organic being in need of liquid to survive.

The Brit got the idea that the need for food would follow and he dug some of the canned biscuits and jelly out of the emergency pack next, trying to force shaking hands to the delicate task of opening the tin. The girl watched, closely, once more pressed in tight against Carter.

When Newkirk dipped a cracker into the flavored gelatin, she craned her neck a little, hyper focused on just what was in the mysterious can. Newkirk handed her the biscuit and she took it, tasting a corner before she shoved the whole biscuit in her mouth, never taking her eyes of the Englander.

That is until the sugar and starch reached her brain and her eyes widened, her tongue reacting to the taste. Newkirk put the crackers and the tin beside her and waited until she had reached for another biscuit, dipped it into the jam and popped it into her mouth.

"That's the way love- no Carter, come on mate, stay awake."

The American's head had listed to the side, and his body was beginning to go with it, sliding away from the girl and down toward the ground. Newkirk braced his broken rib with his arm and sat on Carter's free side keeping the man upright and tapping his cheeks gently until Carter's eyes swam back into his head.

"Hey, Newkirk." Carter slurred, smiling a little.

"Hey Carter…" Newkirk muttered, leaning forward until he could reach the strap of the bag the supplies were packed in, dragging the whole thing closer to him. The move took his breath away and shifted something inside him making the underlying pain just a little worse.

The Englander was forced to rest against the wall, wishing that it was the buoyant chest of a pretty Fraulein instead.

"You okay, Newkirk?"

Peter had closed his eyes, his face tight with the pain until it subsided, but he could hear the concern in Carter's voice, and he knew that talking to the American was the way to keep him awake. He wasn't sure why awake was so much more important than asleep but he knew it was.

"Be alright, chum." He responded weakly.

"She sure likes them crackers."

Newkirk gave a breathless laugh, then picked up the canteen again, trying to alleviate the desert in his throat that breathing continuously through his mouth had caused. "Yeah…figured it would go with the tea and crumpets."

He felt the American shift beside him, then heard a soft grunt and opened his eyes to find a single flower floating in front of him. The hand that held it was familiar and tiny and Peter turned his head to see the little girl now sitting in Carter's lap, proffering him one of the treasures that she had been collecting all morning.

He took it, appreciating the delicate beauty of the frail thing, then blinked when the girl put her fingertips to her nose and sniffed intentionally.

His face was still caked with blood, his nose swollen to twice its size and he was developing two black eyes undoubtedly. The absolute last thing that he could do was smell a flower, let alone pretend to smell a flower.

"That's alright I'm…'lergic. Hay fever." He tried, giving the flower back.

The girl seemed nonplussed, accepting the bloom and leaning against Carter's chest as she studied the flower, turning it lazily in her hand. Carter's good arm eventually made its way around her, and the two men sat in pain and in silence, perfectly content to do nothing but watch her.

"Wonder what kinda flower that is?" Carter asked eventually, his tongue thick in his mouth.

"It's a cornflower, or chicory if you like."

"Huh."

"Carter…stay awake." Newkirk warned, shoving Carter a little even as the girl's eyes were starting to close. "You too, then." He said, knocking his fingers gently against her barely shod feet. She jerked awake, her eyes going wide with alarm, and yanked her feet out of his reach. Newkirk frowned apologetically. "Sorry love, but you gotta stay awake. Help me keep my mate Carter here…there's an idea. Look here…this is Carter."

Newkirk pointed a finger at the American's chest, then shook him gently until Carter groaned and moved his head about again. "You can call him Andrew. He's very informal. And I'm Peter."

The girl actively followed his finger, and Newkirk did it again, pointing to Andrew, then himself and repeating the names. The third time the girl mimicked the pointing, poking gently against Carter's chest, then leaning over to poke Newkirk.

"Right." Newkirk said, trying to smile around the gruesome swelling of his face. "And you are?" He poked the girl's chest next and she grinned at him, but didn't respond.

"Happy." Carter responded and grinned weakly. "That's what she is, happy."

The Englander smirked at the pudgy cheeks, sticky with jam and shook his head. "No doubt, mate."

"Carter, Newkirk!"

The voice whispered loudly from the hill atop the railroad cut and Newkirk found himself silently promising to never complain about French cooking ever again.

"LeBeau, we're in here, mate." He responded and listened happily to the string of French curses that filtered down into the rail road tunnel as dirt cascaded down the hill.

When LeBeau appeared he was armed and cautious, searching the shadows carefully before his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he caught sight of the two men leaning against the wall. Almost immediately he turned away.

"Oh no…Kinch, get down here, vite!"

"Carter's been shot, Louie." Newkirk explained as quickly as he could, then put his hands out for the girl, who willingly climbed into his lap. The move swept a cloud of darkness over him for a moment but he sucked oxygen into his lungs and did his best to stay awake.

LeBeau kept a string of French going, and his back turned. His involuntary response to the sight of blood would help nothing.

"My god, Newkirk, what the hell happened?" Kinch asked, understanding Louie's posture the instant he entered the tunnel and saw the wash of blood on the Brit's face.

"Long story, Carter's been shot. In the back, the right shoulder."

"I got it." Kinch said, moving to kneel in front of Carter before he tossed a handful of orders over his shoulder. "Get back to camp, Louie. Fast as you can. Let the colonel know where we are and that we got two wounded men. Anybody chasin' you guys?"

"Not anymore." Newkirk responded. "And we tossed the goods, nobody caught us with 'em."

"Good. Get goin', LeBeau."

The command was unnecessary. The Frenchman was already out of the tunnel and scrambling back up the hill by the time Kinch finished talking. The American staff sergeant took one long look at Newkirk, wincing in sympathy before he turned his attention to Carter, supporting the man before leaning him forward.

There was a wet patch of blood on the wall, the corduroy soaked through on the bottom edge, but when Kinch started to pull the patch away from the wound he met resistance. "The blood's gone through, but it's started to clot."

Newkirk breathed a sigh of relief, the adrenaline that had been keeping him awake, flooding out of his limbs in a rush.

"What about you?" Kinch asked, unable to avoid staring at the little girl who was investigating his darker skin tone closely.

"Bloody krauts used me for a piñata, busted a rib." Newkirk's eyelids were starting to sag and Carter was already unconscious again, only upright because Kinch was holding him that way.

"Hold on, Newkirk. Help's comin'."

The Englander nodded, his eyes slipping closed.

"And how are you?" Kinch asked, his voice going up an octave as the little girl leaned back into the comfort of Newkirk's lap, in awe of the imposing black man.

For a moment Kinch was afraid she might cry, or scream, or try to run away, but the wide eyed stare eventually turned into a grin and like the two men before him, Kinch instantly fell in love.