They weren't ready to move Newkirk yet. He needed to be checked by the medic. Wilson was summoned to the barracks, since no wanted to risk walking Newkirk back across the camp.
"I've been in this camp for four weeks, and I've now seen you three times," Wilson announced as he entered Barracks 2. "And I've seen your file," he muttered as he dropped his medical bag on the bench. "The previous medic... Oliphant?"
"That prat," Newkirk snapped.
"Yeah, well 'that prat' left me a note. 'Look out for this one. He'll make you old before your time,' and I ain't no spring chicken to begin with. Why are you bleeding?" he asked, waving a hand in the direction of the handkerchief Kinch was holding to Newkirk's head.
"I suspect it's connected somehow to the c-cut on my head," Newkirk diagnosed.
"Move your hands out of the way," Wilson said to Kinch. Kinch obeyed, but Wilson grabbed his wrist and inspected his fingers. "OK, fine. These look clean." He dropped Kinch's wrist and lifted up one of Newkirk's for an inspection, then shook it in Newkirk's face. "Don't you touch this wound, though," he admonished. "Your hands are filthy."
"He fell in the dirt on the way over here, and he hasn't had time to clean up," Hogan informed him. "But this cut is from hitting his head on the table when he was trying to get up in his bunk."
"Why am I not surprised. Oliphant..."
"That prat."
"...Oliphant said you were trouble. You have a thick file."
"It goes with his thick head," LeBeau put in. Newkirk glared at him. Hogan and Kinch suppressed the urge to laugh and/or high-five LeBeau.
Wilson smirked. "Good one. I'll remember that. So Oliphant... that prat," Wilson continued as Newkirk joined in on the phrase. "Why'd he transfer to Stalag 6, anyway? Trying to get away from you?"
"Half the British prisoners transferred to Stalag 6 to make room for you Americans. He volunteered to go," LeBeau said. He had his back to the others, and was focusing on preparing soup to avoid seeing the blood.
"I rest my case. He was trying to get away from you." Wilson nodded decisively while examining Newkirk's scalp. "You're definitely bleeding."
"Yes, that would explain all the red stains," Newkirk said. He saw LeBeau flinch and added, "Sorry, Louis."
"You need a few stitches," Wilson said. Then he started muttering again. Apparently he talked to himself a lot. "Alright, OK. I remember how to do this. We start by clipping the hair..."
Twenty minutes later, after enduring a lecture from Newkirk on how to properly space stitches and lots of fussing and swearing on both sides, Wilson had placed five sutures in Newkirk's scalp.
"That oughta hold you," Wilson said. He packed up his bag and tossed a wad of bloody gauze in the potbelly stove as LeBeau stared in horror. "Aspirin, fluids, and rest should take care of your other symptoms, but there's no treatment for stupidity." He turned to Colonel Hogan. "Get him to bed and keep him there until I come by tomorrow, Sir. No unnecessary walking, and absolutely no climbing for this man. He's collected a few injuries since he turned up in the infirmary, and that was barely an hour ago."
"That doesn't speak very highly of you, does it?" Newkirk snapped. He swung his legs under the bench and rested his head on his crossed arms.
"We'll look after him, Wilson," Hogan said. "Thanks for stopping by."
Wilson grunted at LeBeau as he left. "Put a cold compress on that cheek," he muttered. "And for God's sake get some of that dirt off of him."
Hogan snapped the door shut behind Wilson, and made a mental note to swing by the infirmary to see if all the patients received such cheerful treatment. Then he turned to face Newkirk at the table. "Alright, Corporal, you're bunking with me until you're better." He waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. "Newkirk? Newkirk?"
"He's asleep, Colonel," Kinch said.
"Well, let's not take any chances. Wake him up before he falls over," Hogan replied.
To Hogan's bewilderment, LeBeau and Kinch hissed through clenched teeth in unison. But they shook Newkirk awake. He jolted back into consciousness and nearly toppled the bench over, but Kinch caught him in time.
They got Newkirk settled on Hogan's bottom bunk, and the whining commenced. His ear throbbed. His throat hurt. He was bruised and sore. The stitches were tight and itchy. His fever was blazing. And he was going to throw up again.
Which he did. All over LeBeau, who did not complain. He just sighed and said that he needed to change, and left to find his spare trousers and fish his old blue pullover out of the bottom of his footlocker.
While LeBeau tidied himself, Newkirk flopped back on the bed, a picture of misery. The fever was practically radiating off him. Hogan stood in the doorway with the stunned expression of a man who'd never had to take care of anyone or clean up a mess before. He backed into the main barracks room to let Kinch pass. He was juggling a basin, a sponge, and a bucket of warm water.
Hogan coughed as he stepped tentatively back into his own quarters and pulled the door shut. "You fellas have this under control?" he asked Kinch quietly as the sergeant arranged his supplies neatly on a stool. There was a little waver in Hogan's voice, a hint of anxiety that the men hadn't heard in their short time together.
Kinch stopped what he was doing and looked Hogan squarely in the eye. "He'll be fine, Sir. We know what to do. LeBeau is very good at getting him settled. You'll be able to sleep in your bunk tonight."
"I'm not worried about me," Hogan said. "Just… you fellas have done this before? Taking care of a, uh, patient?"
Newkirk groaned from his bed. "Ooh, Kinch, my head hurts and my throat's on fire. What's taking LeBeau so long?"
Kinch gently replied, "He'll be back, Peter. Give him a minute to clean up. I'll be right with you too."
But he rolled his eyes as he looked at Hogan said quietly, "Patient isn't the word I would use, Sir, but we look after each other. LeBeau and Newkirk have for years, and they've seen me through a couple of rough times too." Like his arrival from the Dulag, Kinch added silently. As one of the first Negro flyers to land in Nazi hands, he wasn't exactly welcomed with open arms or treated gently. Newkirk and LeBeau had personally tended to his wounds, and not just the physical ones.
"OK. Well, just tell me what you need." Hogan's arms were crossed, and he nodded, looking serious and a little worried. He was building a team. He'd already sized up Newkirk's skills and had plans for him. He didn't want to lose him. He had to stop himself before those thoughts went too far. Men didn't die of ear and throat infections. Probably. Not at home, they didn't. Right?
Kinch leaned in and spoke quietly to Hogan. "You've already given him what he needs, Sir. Privacy. Like I said, he's a stubborn cuss, but he's also pretty sick and he's got some injuries, and he's still young. He trusts LeBeau 100%, and he probably trusts me almost as much. Newkirk's complicated, but he's a good man."
Hogan nodded, not sure what to say. He inched the door open and saw LeBeau, who was giving Garlotti instructions on finishing the broth and handing his trousers off to Garth for help in laundering them. Then he closed the door and turned back to Kinch. "Can I, uh, sit with him? Can I help?"
"Of course, Sir," Kinch said. He pointed to a stool to Newkirk's bedside and patted it, then sat down on the bunk and rested his hand on Newkirk's stomach.
"Wilson said it's the earache that's making you throw up, buddy," Kinch said softly. "It's also why you're dizzy. It'll pass soon, Pete."
Pete. As he took his seat, Hogan realized he hadn't focused on any of his men's first names. He couldn't remember Kinch's.
"Thanks, Kinch," Newkirk said. He slid his hand under Kinch's, holding on briefly to two fingers, and then let go when he registered that the Colonel was there too.
"We're going to get you cleaned up," Kinch continued. "Louis will be back in a minute, but I've got some soap and water here…"
"Unnnhh," Newkirk moaned. But he put up no resistance as Kinch cleaned his hands and arms and then started working on his face and neck. In fact, he looked almost serene as Kinch took charge, wiping away a morning's worth of grit and grime.
"Much better. You looked like a circus elephant fresh from his dust bath," Kinch joked as he squeezed out the sponge and slid the basin under the bed to be cleared away later. "You've got to stop playing in the dirt, Peter."
Newkirk smirked and closed his eyes. Kinch could see bump coming up on Newkirk's cheek and forehead where he'd landed earlier, and brushed each one gingerly with his fingertips. "Does that hurt?"
"It doesn't tickle," Newkirk said, wincing. "Where's Louis gone?" He looked sideways at Hogan and smiled tightly, not wanting to betray too much worry in the new senior POW's presence.
"I am right here, mon pote," LeBeau said, entering Hogan's quarters with a mug and closing the door behind him. "I was preparing your tea."
LeBeau stopped behind Hogan, who was still seated beside Newkirk, looking unsure of himself. After barely a moment's consideration, he placed the mug into the Colonel's hand. "Colonel Hogan can help you with your tea while I get your soup. It's almost ready," LeBeau said. He squeezed the Colonel's shoulder and then bustled off to his kitchen.
"Uh, sure. Sure I can." Kinch was already pulling Newkirk into a more upright position. Hogan put the mug to Newkirk's lips and tried to remember the last time anyone had done this for him. He'd been in the infirmary at West Point with appendicitis. His father was there when he woke up.
"Little sips," he said. "Nice and slow."
