The next morning after roll call, Wilson paid a visit to Barracks 2. Newkirk was still asleep after a restless night as the medic set about his work.

"There," Wilson said as he withdrew the hypodermic needle from Newkirk's backside. "Boy, he's easy to treat when he's quiet, you know? I think old Oliphant would be jealous of me."

"That prat," Newkirk groaned.

"You woke him up, Wilson," LeBeau said in an accusing tone.

Newkirk rolled over and gazed up at LeBeau through his oily eyes. "Getting stuck in the bum with a sharp object tends to have that effect on me," he said, his jaw tight. "What was that for, anyway?"

"It's sulfa, an antibacterial drug. It's good for throat and ear infections."

Newkirk huffed out a big breath of annoyance. "Ffffine," he said. He was all out of snappy retorts.

Hogan couldn't contain his excitement. "We, uh, we snuck out of camp last night and got it."

"Now you're making up stories," Newkirk said.

"No, it's true, mon pote. We really left camp. We got this from the vet—you know, the one who takes care of the dogs?"

"The vet?!" Newkirk looked furious. "You injected me with drugs for dogs?"

"We've always said your bark is worse than your bite. Now we're going to find out for sure," Kinch said. "It's the same drug a human would get, Peter. Don't worry about it."

"Fffine," Newkirk said again. Only this time he said with sort of a choking sound.

Hogan was the first to broach the matter. "Um… are his lips supposed to swell up like that, Wilson?"

"Don't think so," Wilson said.

"What about that sound he's making?"

"Gasping for air? Yeah, that's not ideal."

"Any idea what's going on, Wilson?" Hogan was practically squealing now.

Newkirk was actually squealing. Or maybe, more accurately, squawking. "Al-ler-gic re-ac-tion," he wheezed with some effort. "Help."

"Ah, mon Dieu. Il y a tellement d'histoires avec toi. Nous avons essayé de t'aide. Et que se passe-t-il? Une catastrophe!" LeBeau stormed out of the room.

"What is he saying?" Hogan asked.

"He's a little annoyed, Sir," Kinch said.

LeBeau stomped back in with a small vial in his hand. He squeezed the dropper and held it out.

"Open! Stick out your tongue!" he ordered Newkirk. With wide eyes of terror, Newkirk obeyed.

"What are you doing, LeBeau?" Wilson asked. "What the heck is that?"

"Bitter orange drops, and it pains me to waste them on this imbecile, but they will help. If you have some medicine for this swelling, go get it now."

Wilson hung back, but Hogan ordered him, "Go!" So the medic raced off. He was pretty sure he had some epi- something or other.

With Wilson out the door, LeBeau continued grumbling. "So much for making marmalade."

"No one likes marmalade, LeBeau," Kinch noted. "Same goes for fruitcake."

"I like marmalade AND fruitcake," Newkirk managed to squeak. Kinch and LeBeau answered him simultaneously:

"You have to say that. You're English," Kinch pointed out.

"Well, you're not getting any marmalade! You and your stupid allergic reaction ruined the chances of that!" LeBeau snapped.

By the time Wilson returned with his syringe, Newkirk was breathing better, but he was still swollen and quite wary of LeBeau's rage.

LeBeau gleefully helped roll Newkirk over and pulled his nightshirt up. "There! Stick it right there, in the same exact spot as the other shot!"

"That's going to hurt him, LeBeau," Kinch said softly.

"Precisely!"

Hogan decided he needed to intervene. "Stand down, LeBeau. You're too emotionally involved." He leaned in and pulled up the nightshirt on the other side. "Right there, Wilson," he said.

"All of you stand down, and pull his nightshirt down. I don't want to see his backside," Wilson said. "This has to go in a vein." He tied a tourniquet above Newkirk's elbow, instructed him to squeeze a fist, and patted gently to raise a vein, muttering darkly about lame amateurs.

In went the needle. In a matter of moments, the swelling started to come down.

The men stood around the bed, all of them with arms crossed, staring down at Newkirk as his appearance gradually improved.

"Did you know you were allergic to sulfa drugs?" Hogan asked the question with the air of a mother who knew exactly who stole the cookies from the cookie jar.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Wilson demanded.

"I was unconscious! Ow!" Newkirk suddenly was in a new kind of pain.

"What happened?" LeBeau groaned.

"I bit my tongue. I can taste blood."

Wilson slapped some gauze in LeBeau's hand. "Stick it out," the Frenchman said. He took a fair amount of delight in holding Newkirk's tongue so that he would shut up for a minute.

Things gradually quieted down. "OK, OK," Kinch said. "That was a lot of excitement. Now let's get settled down in here. Newkirk, you're still pretty sick. Let's let Wilson check your temperature."

"Alright," Newkirk said.

But as Wilson slid the thermometer under his tongue, Newkirk gagged. "I'm going to throw up," he gasped.

And of course, he did. This time it was Kinch's turn to leave the room and change clothes.

Miraculously, Newkirk's temperature was down to 101.5°. Despite the allergic reaction, Wilson said, the sulfa might have done a little good.

When Wilson left, LeBeau shooed everyone away. No one was quite sure what was going on behind closed doors, but they could make out some shushing and soft conversation, and when LeBeau briefly emerged, he looked sad and serious and his shirt had a wet splotch. It had been a hard few days for poor Newkirk. That night, LeBeau and Kinch kept a vigil by his bed, treating his gooey eyes and soothing his throat with copious amounts of tea. And somehow, somehow, his fever broke. He was sweaty and grubby, but the worst of the illness was over.

"Mon Dieu, you smell like a wet dog, Pierre," LeBeau complained as he helped him change out of his nightshirt.

"You gave me ruddy veterinary medicine. What did you expect?" Newkirk barked.