He didn't know it himself, but there was a little part of Peter Newkirk that wanted... or possibly needed ... someone to take care of him.

On the surface, he was always tough. Beneath the layers, he was still quite strong and independent. But deep, deep down in a part of himself he didn't know how to look at, he craved tenderness.

He was an impossible patient because he was at war within himself. The worse he felt, the harder he fought it, until he wore himself out and had nothing to fight with. Then he was sulky, snappy, and miserable.

And that, LeBeau had figured out, was when he needed to be cared for the most. Sulking preceded whining. Snapping preceded breaking. Misery preceded tears. Tears led to shame and shame triggered fury. Fury yielded hostility and isolation. It was a ridiculous vicious cycle, but LeBeau understood it and tried to break the flow before Newkirk could plunge off the deep end. Several visits to death's door and extended stays in the cooler had laid Newkirk's soul bare to him.

So when Newkirk got sick, which happened regularly, LeBeau was his self-appointed caregiver. He ladled broth down his throat and dabbed his head with cool cloths. He talked to him kindly and gently even when he was biting heads off. He killed him with kindness, or his feisty French version of it, until Newkirk could accept the help he needed.

It was a bizarre dance that no one on the outside looking in quite understood. Kinch was the most perceptive. He pulled Hogan aside.

"The best thing to do, Sir, is take Newkirk back to Barracks 2 and stick him on your bottom bunk. Then close the door and let LeBeau look after him. He'll get him settled."

"LeBeau? He's ticked at LeBeau," Hogan replied. He glanced toward the hospital bed where Newkirk was swatting at LeBeau's efforts to get him to drink something.

"LeBeau's got this, Sir," Kinch replied. "For some reason, he understands Newkirk."

"Alright," Hogan said skeptically. "I guess we'd better load him onto a stretcher and take him back."

"Oh, he won't do that, Sir. He's going to insist on walking."

"Kinch, he collapsed twice from that fever just getting here!" Hogan protested.

"Yep. That's what he does," Kinch said. "He's one hard-headed Englishman."

It began as an uneventful trip back to the barracks. Newkirk, fueled by pride, got to his feet, pulled his overcoat back on, and lit a cigarette. He shrugged off all attempts by the other three men to assist him, so they hung back just a bit and gave him some space.

LeBeau and Kinch started at a respectful distance, but Hogan noticed that as they walked, they sped up ever so slightly, closing the gap. Newkirk was almost in reach when he faltered again. Kinch and LeBeau dodged left and right and each grabbed an arm just before his head could hit the ground. It was like they knew his every move.

"You weren't kidding, Kinch," Hogan said as he crouched behind Kinch, who along with LeBeau was on his knees next to Newkirk, waiting for him to move or groan or something. "He is one stubborn guy. Enough is enough, though. Let's get the gurney now."

That was when Newkirk muttered nasally into the dirt. "I just needed a moment. I can bloody well walk."

LeBeau let out a mocking laugh. "Oh, yes, excellent walking, Pierre. Certainement, let's continue our stroll."

Once again, Newkirk was back on his feet, swatting at LeBeau's hands as he attempted to brush the dirt off his coat. He ignored the fact that Kinch was holding him up by one arm. Inside the barracks, he sat down heavily, back to the table, and groaned. Then he pursed his lips in irritation. He didn't wish to be associated with the sound he'd just made.

LeBeau put the kettle on, then turned to his friend. "You are the stupidest, most stubborn, most impossible Englishman I've ever had the misfortune to know," LeBeau began.

"Leave off, LeBeau," Newkirk said. "Are you making tea for me?"

"Ouais, I am making your horrible, insipid excuse for a beverage. Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

As LeBeau lectured him, Newkirk was removing his coat and staggering toward his bunk.

"Anywhere to get out of the range of your voice. Make sure the leaves steep for four minutes. Not three. Not five. Four." As he spoke, Newkirk was levering himself up to his bunk with his usual single bounce.

He almost made it. The table broke his fall, but not before leaving a gash on his scalp.

"I've seen enough," Hogan said. "Kinch, keep some pressure on that wound. Then bring this..." He stopped the word "idiot" from crossing his lips. "Bring this soldier into my quarters."