Re Man Down

a/n: the original work is a wonderfully relentless catalogue of mishap and malady. GrrraceUnderfire has created a young and complex version of Newkirk…very recognisable from the series, but with some characteristics uniquely her own; meticulously and plausibly put together and her tales are well worth a look.

She requested this tale told from LeBeau's point of view. The verse pattern evolved from one of her lines :-)

A rasp, a cough, a sniffle, and a curse; the signs are ominous…

He's hot, and cold, and shivering; can barely stand at all.

No germs resist the urge to strike, to see what they can do to him;

He shoves my hand away, erects a sullen, spiky wall.

I move a little closer, I may have to break his fall.

~0~

Despite rejecting reasonable support, we have to carry him;

In reach of the infirmary, before he hits the dirt.

Infections of the throat and ear, well, that explains the dizziness,

And also why the medic needs to go and change his shirt.

I stay, despite his words; I know how much this has to hurt.

~0~

This stupid, stubborn Englishman is whiny and cantankerous;

Complains about his symptoms and complains about his care.

There's shame and fear and misery behind his tough exterior;

That spiky wall, designed to drive the staunchest comrades spare.

But this is when he needs me most of all, so I'll be there.

~0~

Of course he brushes help away, on leaving the infirmary;

We watch him pull his coat back on and light a cigarette,

Then down he goes…but Kinch and I had edged towards him, thankfully.

The odds of further accidents? I'd say, a certain bet.

It's clear that I will have to stay as close as I can get.

~0~

He yells at me for tea, although it goes against my principles;

He tells me just how long to steep the weak, insipid brew.

I'm really not surprised when he acquires another injury;

Too weak to reach his bunk, and too crack-brained to think it through.

He needs a calmer place to spend the night…more private, too.

~0~

The medic's back, his bedside manner frankly needs some polishing;

I note this patient's file is thick enough to match his head.

As Newkirk starts to criticise his method of scalp stitchery,

I turn away from bloodstains and prepare some soup instead.

It's up to me to make quite sure that Peter stays well fed.

~0~

The Colonel's room, trapped audience, a mournful, endless litany;

Sore throat, sore ears, high fever and his sutures itch and burn.

His muscles ache and throb, he has the impulse to throw up again;

I step aside, not soon enough; perhaps, next time, I'll learn.

I change; Kinch takes my place to soothe my friend, till I return.

~0~

The next few hours are full of woe; he sleeps and wakes erratically;

Too hot, too cold, too dark, too bright; his fever's off the chart.

His bed's too hard, he takes offence at "granny's ruddy remedy",

My culinary efforts are derided, pulled apart.

Just sleep my friend…and rest your head, your body and your heart…

~0~

The medic once again returns, the door is opened suddenly,

And Newkirk wakes abruptly; hits the bunk and hits the floor.

A bleeding nose, he turns his head, I back away quite hastily;

We have one down already, and we do not need one more.

Kinch will keep an eye on me, he's seen this all before.

~0~

The calm before the storm, a sip of tea, a moment's harmony,

Then screams of sheer frustration; tea-soaked nightshirt, burning eyes.

I rush to check my friend…another ailment? Quite impossible…

Alas...the Fates have added yet another grim surprise.

I hope, for Peter's sake, that this is all that they devise.

~0~

I leave to wash my hands, sufficient time for more calamities;

An opened door, a mistimed step, and Newkirk bites the dust.

It's really quite impressive, when I calculate the frequency

With which my hapless friend, in one short day, has been concussed.

A night of constant vigilance ahead of me, I trust.

~0~

The medic's diagnosis is, to one and all, quite obvious;

A nasty eye infection and a fever rising still.

Apart from soothing ointments, our supplies are strictly limited;

No magic pharmaceuticals, no mould-based wonder pill.

If anyone can get the goods we need, the Colonel will.

~0~

Sulfa powders wrangled from a source quite veterinarian;

The medic seems delighted he can give my friend a shot.

But…now there's panicked gasping and there's swelling where there shouldn't be;

An allergy to what we hoped would cure him? Surely not…

You're having such a grim, exciting time of it, mon pote.

~0~

There goes my irreplaceable supply of bitter orange oil,

And any chance of making any decent marmalade,

And, now he's praising fruitcake, only Brits could deem it edible.

A second shot of something, and the gasping starts to fade.

Relief at true catastrophe and tragedy waylaid…

~0~

The Colonel's timely chat, about concealment of an allergy

Is swiftly interrupted by a sudden cry of pain;

A bitten tongue, now bleeding, and a sudden bout of nausea…

Now Kinch is in the firing line, must change his clothes again.

A footstool at his bedside, he can swear at me in vain.

~0~

But…nothing lasts for ever, rising fevers fall eventually;

My sweaty, grubby comrade lives to curse another day,

Objects to every step I take to help in his recovery,

As though he wants to keep his friends' concern, and love, at bay.

I know what lies behind the act, so here is where I'll stay.

~0~

And Newkirk truly wouldn't want it any other way…

~0~