Hogan spent most of the morning arranging a way to cover for the high priority patients that Wilson and Olsen, dressed as Luftwaffe Medical Corps officers, were supposed to be treating in the rec hall. To keep up appearances he scheduled a regular flood of runners taking supplies and food into and out of the rec hall every other hour.
"About how long are we gonna keep this up, Colonel?" Wilson asked after his twelfth game of table tennis. The runners had been doing most of the work with no real patients to tend in the hall.
"Till tonight. I'll have to steal a truck from town and come into camp through the main gate. We'll transfer you and your patients out then, ditch the truck and the dummies, and get back before morning roll call."
Wilson shook his head, ducking his chin to his chest, without responding.
"Sergeant..?" Hogan prompted, waiting.
"Just seems like an awful lot of work, sir. I know why we have to do it, but…"
"Missing civilian life, are you?" Hogan asked, fully aware of just how strange and stressful the double life in the stalag could be.
Wilson gave a sarcastic laugh through his teeth.
"I'll see what I can do to get the war ended faster." Hogan said smirking, then clapped the man on the back. "For now, I've made an official request for you to be allowed to tend to my 'sick' men in Barrack 2. Klink gave the okay."
"Right, sir." Wilson nodded, and the two were soon crossing the compound.
Inside Hogan's quarters Wilson focused his attention on Carter, waking him up gently.
Carter had rolled onto his back in his sleep and Wilson carefully guided him onto his side, pulling at the edges of the tape that held the bandages in place.
"He bled through." Wilson said, peering at his stitches and the swelling and redness around the wound. "But he's doing better than I expected. The penicillin you brought in last night made most of the difference, Colonel."
Hogan said nothing, watching Carter intently as he gradually swam back to wakefulness.
"Carter, how are you feeling, buddy?" Wilson asked once he saw the light colored eyes open.
Carter tried to roll toward the voice but Wilson stopped him, even as Hogan stepped toward the head of the bed and went to one knee.
"You're alright, Carter. You're in my quarters."
"H-how did I get here?"
"What's the last thing you remember?" Hogan asked, watching Wilson work out of the corner of his eye.
Carter thought for a few minutes, his eyes squinting. Hogan wasn't sure if it was because the memories were vague or the pain that he had to have been feeling as the painkillers wore off. "Railroad tunnel?" Carter finally tried.
"That's where Kinch and LeBeau found you. Then Wilson and Olsen went out in a truck and brought you and Newkirk into camp."
"Newkirk…he ok?"
"Yeah, Carter. He's fine. I'm about to go yell at him for being out of bed." Wilson said, before he warned Carter that the next step would be painful. Hogan braced the sergeant's back with a hand carefully placed on his uninjured shoulder, and winced as Wilson cleaned the wound with iodine.
A second later, Carter asked, "What are you gonna do?"
Surprised Hogan and Wilson stared at each other, before the medic asked, "You didn't feel that, Carter?"
"Feel what?"
"Oh no…" Wilson whispered, then shifted to the end of the bed, throwing the blanket off Carter's legs. He pulled a pin from his kit and jabbed at the sergeant's toes, waiting for a response that never came.
"Carter, lift up your arm for me." Hogan said, holding his breath until he saw Carter's head move, then one hand, then the other.
"Hey, what's goin' on guys?" Carter was breathing harder, becoming more agitated.
Wilson looked to Hogan, his face washed with distraught helplessness, and Hogan stuttered, "Nothing Carter. You're just fine. But you gotta hold still so that Wilson can finish patching you up."
Carter was silent for a few minutes, facing the wall. He didn't see Hogan pushing Wilson back toward the patient, or pacing away looking pale and shaken.
"You're the one who told me to move my hands, Colonel." Carter said finally, sounding a little put out.
A few minutes later he piped up again, "Hey, you know those pain killers work great, I can't feel a thing."
By then Wilson had applied a fresh bandage and gently rolled the patient onto his back again. He injected the penicillin, but decided against the painkiller for the time being. When he stood, giving Hogan a miserable look, the colonel gestured sharply over his shoulder with his thumb, then said, "You rest easy, Carter. I'll send LeBeau in here with some of the soup from last night."
"Thanks, Colonel." Carter said. "D-don't worry about me, Wilson. I feel just fine."
The minute the door closed Wilson turned, trying to spill half a dozen words out of his mouth at once but Hogan cut him off. "Not here. You have patients to look after in the rec hall, don't you, Doctor?" Hogan said sternly before he led the way back out to the yard.
Once they were out of earshot of Barrack 2, Hogan started talking rapidly. "Once we're inside the rec hall you're going to tell me exactly what just happened, and then you're going to tell me how bad off Carter is. And then you're going to tell me why you didn't say anything last night."
"But Colonel.."
Hogan didn't respond, but the look on his face forced Wilson into silence until the rec hall door had closed behind them. Inside the near empty room were two dummies that had been set up to replace Carter and Newkirk. Both were covered with blankets and surrounded by medical supplies that they would never need. Hogan perched on the edge of one of the tables then crossed his arms and waited.
Wilson gave him a helpless look again, then jerked off the kraut hat and coat angrily. "Colonel, what do you expect from me? I'm a field medic, not a surgeon! I can deal with broken bones, the common cold, and I'm a whiz in triage. That bullet fragmented before it hit Carter. It went in laterally, which means that the metal got very close to his spine before it stopped. There are clusters of nerves there that I couldn't begin to pinpoint.
For all I know the tissue is swelling, putting pressure on the nerves or the spine, and that's why he can't feel the injury or his legs. It's just as possible that I did…damage." Wilson's voice cut off, the fire going out of him as he looked to the floor. He would readily admit if he'd made a mistake. He had probably made a hundred in his military medical career. He could easily blame it on the astonishing dearth of medical equipment and supplies, but-
"Why didn't you bring this up before?" Hogan asked, his voice still deadly flat.
"Colonel!" Wilson began, then started to pace. "Look, I'm not a spy. I'm not an actor. I don't do the weird, psychological voodoo that you do. I can't bamboozle like your men can. I'm just a doctor. Not much of one at that."
"What's your point, Wilson?" Hogan couldn't do much about the anger and irritation in his voice, though he regretted not disguising it.
"My point is that I was so worked up about pretending to be a Kraut yesterday, knowing that Klink or one of the guards could have walked in at any time, my hands were shaking. Worse than ever before. I knew what I was doing was delicate work, and I needed to be steady, so I…"
"So you what-"
"So I took a drink. I had a flask with me from the moment I put on the uniform, just to keep myself from losing my mind. It was one sip. Just one drink."
Hogan sat perfectly still for a few minutes, watching Wilson pace. Weighing the situation carefully, before he asked, "If we were to get Carter to a hospital in the next twenty-four hours, would it help his chances?"
Wilson stopped pacing long enough to pick up one of the table tennis paddles, out of habit, then put it back down again when he reminded himself that he was addressing a senior officer. "With the wide array of nothing that I have at my disposal, Colonel." Wilson said, beyond caring that he was making flagrant use of sarcasm. "...I have no way of knowing if the damage is permanent or not. Both Carter and Newkirk should be in a hospital, sir, but I don't see how that can happen so-"
"That's why I'm here, Wilson. To see that it happens. That's why, when a medic of mine is too nervous to do his job without taking a drink, he should tell me before he does, so that I can make these decisions sooner."
"Yes sir." Wilson said, finally coming to attention and staring at the wall.
"This isn't an easy job, I get that. But I need men who can cut it. If you don't think you qualify, tell me now, Wilson, so that you and I can both stop putting other men's lives at risk. Soon as we have things cleared up here I'll send you back to London and you can start your own private practice, where you can drink all you like." Hogan finished his tirade, blindingly angry, then marched out of the rec hall and headed back for Barrack 2.
Olsen, who had been sitting in the corner playing a game of chess against himself, stepped out into the open as Wilson slumped onto the corner of the ping pong table. It took Wilson a moment to notice him, and he stood, bracing himself for another tirade, figuring he deserved it.
"He's just worried, you know." The man said instead, and Wilson visibly relaxed.
"What, and he thinks I'm not? If I made a mistake I'll do anything I can to fix it but…somethings just can't be fixed." Wilson said, angrily, tossing the paddle in his hands across the room. The wooden racket bounced off a shelf containing throwing darts, spilling them to the ground and taking the loosely balanced shelf with it.
