It was bound to happen sooner or later. Corporal Peter Newkirk had a track record.
A sniffle, a cold, a little rasp. Every germ he encountered wheedled its way into his system. Every time it happened, he went into instant denial.
"You look awful," LeBeau nagged as they shuffled outside for roll call. "Your cheeks are red. You must have a fever." The Frenchman reached out a hand to check and got a hard shove on the shoulder for his troubles. As LeBeau steadied himself, he heard a loud sniff and then a throaty complaint.
"Stop fffussing, LeBeau. I'm perfectly fine," Newkirk snapped as they fell into formation. "And keep your ruddy hands to yourself." He shoved his own hands deep into his pockets and glared straight ahead.
The outburst earned him a sideways glance from the new senior POW, a Yank named Hogan. "You OK, Corporal?" the Colonel asked.
"Yes Sir," Newkirk replied. "Not to worry." He shot daggers with his eyes at LeBeau but said nothing. The last thing he needed was to look weak in front of the new officer. He had some unusual plans developing, and while Newkirk wasn't yet certain he was on the level, he wanted to be on the team if things got as interesting as Hogan suggested they could.
"If you're under the weather, go to the infirmary as soon as we're done here," Hogan said.
"I'm fine, Sir," Newkirk replied, stifling a cough until he couldn't hold it back. Then he sputtered, earning an exasperated look from LeBeau.
"Tu es têtu comme un âne," LeBeau muttered. From the back row Kinch snickered and added, "You got that right."
If it hadn't been a bitterly cold morning, and if Klink hadn't taken his sweet time turning up for Appell, that insult might have been the end of it. But rollcall dragged on and on. Everyone was shivering. Everyone was stamping his feet.
Newkirk was hot and cold and hot and cold. His ear was pulsing with pain. His throat was on fire. He was sweating and eventually he was wobbling.
Eventually, Klink's front door swung open and he shouted out, "Repooooor!" The Kommandant was gracing them with his presence at long last. The sooner he finished with them, Newkirk told himself, the sooner he could go inside and throw himself on the mercy of his bunk. So straighten up, he advised himself. As Newkirk pulled himself up taller, he locked his knees. Bad idea. As soon as he did, he could feel himself slipping. Everything was white and tingly and suddenly he was face down in the dirt.
Through a daze, Newkirk could hear Sergeant Schultz mutter, "Not again." He could feel hands turning him onto his back, and then someone was patting his cheek. He blinked as a face came into focus. LeBeau, of course. He would never hear the end of this.
"Shut up, LeBeau," Newkirk grumbled as Hogan and LeBeau pulled him into a sitting position.
"What did I say? I didn't say anything!" LeBeau protested.
"No, but you were thinking it," Newkirk snapped as the men got him on his feet. Hogan brushed dirt off Newkirk's coat and held onto his arm as Schultz continued his headcount.
Klink looked on, unable to mask concern, though he tried to be stern. "There will be no fainting, Newkirk," the Kommandant said. "I have enough to do without adding accident reports to my list."
"Yes, Sir," Newkirk replied. He looked right, saw Hogan studying him, and smiled weakly. "I'm fine, Sir," he said.
"You keep mentioning that," Hogan said, tightening his grip. "You're coming with me."
Roll call broke up quickly after that, and Hogan led Newkirk in the direction of the infirmary. "Sick call," he commanded.
Newkirk sighed, but he knew it was coming. With LeBeau trailing behind him, he stayed on his feet until the infirmary was 10 yards away. Then he felt his knees buckle again, and he let Hogan lower him to the ground. He closed his eyes for just a moment, and heard the voices around him start to warble and waver. He was just about to flutter his eyes open when he felt two sets of hands gathering him up. Kinch had him under the arms and LeBeau had his feet. With Hogan leading the way, they whisked him inside.
"Sergeant Wilson, we've got a man down," Hogan announced as the entered the converted barracks. It was far and away the cleanest building in camp.
"Bed 3," the medic grunted. It was a busy morning and he didn't even look up.
Newkirk was scowling again as they settled him onto a bed. He didn't need this rubbish. He didn't need the new senior POW seeing him looking weak. So he decided to sit up.
He promptly crashed to the floor, practically toppling the bed over as he plunged.
"Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn," Kinch sighed as he scraped Newkirk back up.
"What did Schultz mean, 'not again'?" Hogan inquired as Kinch and LeBeau got Newkirk resettled. "Does this happen a lot?"
"Yes," Kinch said with a hard laugh. He saw Hogan's look of alarm. "Well, now and then. But only because he refuses to admit defeat, even to the common cold."
"My mum was always telling me not to be common," Newkirk interjected as LeBeau held a cold washcloth to the bump forming on his head.
"You're intrepid," Hogan grinned. Newkirk looked at him in alarm. What did that mean? Was it an insult?
Kinch read the look. "Fearless and unstoppable, sometimes to the point of being stupid. If the shoe fits, Newkirk..."
Now LeBeau looked confused. "He wears boots, not shoes. They fit correctly, don't they, Pierre?"
Newkirk and Hogan both laughed. LeBeau looked miffed as Kinch promised to explain later.
"One-oh-three," Wilson muttered as he shook down the mercury in the thermometer. The shaggy haired medic had shambled over to the bed where Newkirk was resting.
"What's that in Celsius?" LeBeau asked anxiously.
"I don't know," Wilson shrugged, "40? 50? Something like that." He busied himself peering into Newkirk's throat, made a face, then checked his nose and ears.
"50?! That's impossible!" LeBeau was looking frantic. How sick WAS Newkirk?
"Cool it, LeBeau. It's closer to 40. A little less. Why do you say things like that, Wilson?" Kinch asked.
"I don't like Celsius. It's imprecise," Wilson growled.
"It's elegant!" LeBeau protested.
"I'm gonna throw up," Newkirk groaned. And he did. Wilson caught the brunt of it, and nobody minded but him.
"Sorry, mate," Newkirk said.
"Just be quiet and lie down," Wilson answered. He turned to Colonel Hogan to deliver his considered diagnosis: "He's sick."
Hogan squinted at him. "You're not really a doctor, are you?" he asked.
"Nope." Wilson shrugged again. It was what he did.
"OK, so now?" Hogan prompted.
"Well, I have to change my shirt," Wilson replied, looking disgusted.
Hogan allowed a tiny bit of exasperation to cross his face. "Not you. Him." He paused, then continued before Wilson could start. "First, define sick."
"Ear infection, sore throat, probably infected. The ear infection explains the dizziness and the puking. Don't get too close to him if he gets that look," he said, pointing with his chin. "Not unless you have a few extra sets of clothes. Keep a bucket handy."
"OK... so back to the barracks with him?" Hogan asked.
"Of course. Where else? You don't think I'm looking after him here, do you?"
Hogan glared. "Silly me. I was thrown by the sign that says 'Infirmary.' Remind me how you got this job, Wilson?"
"I took an Army personality test," Wilson replied. "I scored high on empathy. Take him and go, willya?"
