O'Keefe shrugged, worry and tension evident in the motion. "And I should have insisted that we play for cash," he quipped, smiling at Newkirk. But the smile was only half-hearted.
Neither of the two were paying attention to the game, even though they'd now been playing for the better part of two hours. The cards were just an inadequate distraction from what was really occupying their thoughts.
O'Keefe sighed, looking over at MacIntyre. Carter was still sitting beside the bunk, his eyes anxiously watching for any indication that his charge was finally gong to awake. It was a vigil that they were all keeping, but Carter was the only one who wasn't attempting to distract himself. It was a double sign of the sergeant's strength of will. O'Keefe knew that Carter's own injuries would no doubt have left him exhausted and dizzy, probably with a splitting headache. But the sergeant was still sitting ramrod straight on his stool.
"You know, it's times like these that I wish the title weren't just honorary," O'Keefe admitted. "I shoulda finished my schoolin' before I enlisted. Then maybe I'd actually be able to do somethin'." He was frustrated that at his own helplessness, but inwardly he knew that even if he'd finished his medical training, he wouldn't be able to offer any more help. In fact, he'd probably be able to offer less. Doctors were classified as non-combatants and weren't normally imprisoned in POW camps. And even a fully qualified neurosurgeon probably wouldn't be able to do anything with the scant supplies that the camp had to offer.
Newkirk just nodded at O'Keefe's comment. There really wasn't much of anything that he could say in response. The entire barracks was anxious to know what was going to happen to MacIntyre, but it was the worst for O'Keefe and for Carter. Those two had taken the weight of the unconscious man firmly on their shoulders. And Newkirk knew quite well how much he weighed.
Finally, he said the only thing that he could. "It's your turn, Doc," he said, making a point of emphasizing the title, even if it was just honorary.
O'Keefe smiled tightly, grateful for Newkirk's efforts to reassure him. Reaching out to draw a card from the centre stack, he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting over to MacIntyre again. The man was tossing fitfully on the bunk, so close to waking, but not yet awake. The waiting was by far the worst part. There was nothing that O'Keefe could do to ease the man's pain until he'd awoken and been examined. But there was nothing that O'Keefe could do to hurry the awakening.
Kinch looked up from his book, his dark eyes following the path of the medic's blue ones. "How's he doing, Carter?" the radioman asked.
Carter shrugged miserably. "He's okay, I guess," he answered morosely.
"I can come and sit with him for a while if you wanted to take a break and lie down or something," Kinch offered kindly. His sharp eyes hadn't missed the times that Carter had reached up to rub at his temples, even though Carter hadn't thought that anyone was watching him.
"I'm fine," Carter asserted firmly. "A-okay."
"The offer still stands," Kinch said, returning to his book. Only he was still watching Carter over the top edge of the page.
LeBeau waited for a few minutes, quietly stirring a fresh pot of soup on the wooden stove. After he'd scorched the first pot of bouillabaisse, he'd started a second. He knew that no matter what happened with MacIntyre, they would all have to eat some time, so he was paying more attention this time. "André, why don't you let Kinch sit with him for a few moments?" LeBeau suggested. He saw Carter's spine stiffen and quickly added, "Just while you have something to eat. You missed breakfast this morning while you were being examined."
"No thanks," Carter told him. O'Keefe's discerning eye caught the sergeant paling a little. He was still dizzy and that was no doubt making him a little nauseous. "I want to be here when he wakes up."
LeBeau bit his tongue. He wanted to say that the Canadian might not wake up for hours, if he woke at all. The German doctor hadn't been optimistic the night before. But this was not the time to say such things. So long as hope remained, LeBeau wouldn't say anything about that. It would only make Carter feel worse than he already did.
"We canna tell when he'll be wakin', Carter," O'Keefe started. "It might still be a while before anythin' further happens. I'm sure that he woulda begrudge you a cup of soup."
"I said I'm fine," Carter repeated. "I want to be here when he – Hey!"
O'Keefe instantly shot to his feet, unsure of what was happening. "Carter?" he asked sharply. At that point, he didn't know whether he'd be rushing over to treat MacIntyre or Carter.
"He's awake!" Carter exclaimed excitedly.
O'Keefe dropped his cards to the table and hurried over. Kinch, book still in hand, crossed the barracks for Hogan's office. Although Hogan was waiting as anxiously as anyone else for news of the airman, he did still have a camp and an operation to run. The colonel had had to retreat back into his office to deal with those things, but Kinch knew that he would want to be called to greet this newest prisoner.
"Why don'tcha fetch him a cuppa water?" O'Keefe suggested, knowing that the man would probably be confused about what was happening. He was going to be in a completely foreign environment, surrounded by people that he'd never seen before. Having Carter hovering over him probably wouldn't improve the situation.
Carter hurried to obey. O'Keefe noted that his steps were still a little unsteady, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. The object of his concern was blinking rapidly, either trying to figure out where he was or trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden transition from dark to light. It was probably a combination of the two.
"I'm Flying Officer Sean O'Keefe," O'Keefe introduced himself, making a point of speaking a little slower and a little more clearly than usual. "I'm chief medic here at LuftStalag 13."
"Stalag?" MacIntyre whispered weakly.
"Unfortunately, you've been made a guest of the Luftwaffe for the duration," Hogan replied, coming out of his office and crossing to stand near MacIntyre's bunk. "I'm Colonel Robert Hogan, formerly of the US Army Air Corps, most recently senior officer here."
"Do you remember what happened last night?" O'Keefe asked gently, accepting the cup of water that Carter offered. "Drink up before you try answerin'." He held the cup up to the man's lips and let the Canadian drink.
"I don't remember much," the man answered, "but I suppose that I must have been shot down. What was I in? Couldn't have been a Stringbag."
Hogan, O'Keefe, and Carter kept their gazes on MacIntyre, but the rest were looking at one another. "It, um, looked like a Lanc," Newkirk offered, even as he exchanged a glance with LeBeau.
"Do you know what day it is?" O'Keefe asked in concern.
"If I was shot down last night, then today would be Tuesday," he answered after a second's thought. "May 21, if I'm not mistaken." He had the date right. "But don't bother asking me the time, I flooded my watch the last time I was shot down. Haven't gotten a new one yet."
"You've been shot down before?" Hogan asked, eyebrows rising. He knew that Air Command didn't usually let returned evaders return to active status over Germany; there was the chance that they'd be shot down again and forced to reveal who had helped them the first time.
"Had to ditch and spend a couple of hours in the North Sea," MacIntyre answered. "Got picked up by a couple of Scotch fishermen." He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the bunk, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in his leg and his shoulder. "Didn't get quite so banged up that time."
"I don't imagine the ground is quite so soft as water, squadron leader," O'Keefe commented lightly, fairly sure that the man's memory was intact. He might never remember exactly what had happened the previous day, but that wasn't overly unusual.
"Squadron leader?"
O'Keefe managed to keep his face from betraying any emotion. "Do you remember your name?" he asked evenly. How could he have made such an amateur mistake? Surely he hadn't completely forgotten how to assess someone's mental state.
"Of course, it's Philip MacIntyre. More commonly called either Phil, Jamie, or Mac, depending on who's doing the calling."
Hogan stepped forward, seeing the look on the medic's face. O'Keefe clearly wasn't sure how to address the man before him. And perhaps most importantly, how to address the issue of the man's actual rank. "If I can just get your name, rank, and service number, I can get the kommandant to file your paperwork with the Red Cross. The sooner he does that, the sooner your family finds out where you are."
"Sure," MacIntyre responded. "Philip James MacIntyre, V145117, Lieutenant-Commander."
"Okay," Hogan answered calmly. "Kinch and I will go and see what we can do about filing that paperwork."
Kinch put his book down on his bunk and followed Hogan outside. "What do you make of it, colonel?" Kinch questioned once the door had closed behind them.
"I don't know," Hogan replied, shaking his head. "We saw him parachute out of a Lancaster, and he was wearing an RCAF uniform, because there would have been no time for him to change. But he's giving us a naval rank. Something's not right."
"What are we going to do about it?"
"Radio London," Hogan ordered. "We've got too much going on right now to close things down, but we can't do anything until we've figured out if he's a German plant that's had his brain scrambled by a bad knock on the head."
"I'll use the entrance in Barracks Five," Kinch responded quickly.