Chapter 10 – Press On Regardless

"Silence is a place of great power and healing." - Rachel Naomi Remen

Early in the next afternoon, Newkirk calmly and gradually surfaced from a deep, restful slumber. It was quite the welcome contrast to catapulting to sudden consciousness in shock and gut-clenching pain. He lay still for a few minutes, staring at the wooden slats beneath the upper bunk as he became more fully awake. He knew he had had another dream, yet he was unable to recall any of the details. Despite his inability to remember, he felt a comforting sense of peace and acceptance. There was also an overwhelming sense of relief, as if he was somehow certain that he had finally been able to say a proper good-bye to his lost crewmates. He solemnly promised himself that if he got back home after the war, he would not rest until he had visited each of their families to tell them how much they had meant to him.

He sat up slowly and winced as his still-lingering headache suddenly made itself known. The battle with the nightmares had temporarily glossed over the physical effects of the nicotine withdrawal, which were apparently now coming back to the fore with a vengeance. He was massaging his temples in a futile effort to assuage the pain when LeBeau came into the room, closely followed by Joe Wilson.

"How are you feeling today, mon ami?" asked LeBeau quietly. Newkirk glanced up at him and nodded slightly in reply; he knew his French friend wasn't asking solely about his physical state. He reached for the slate to answer more fully.

A bit better. Head still hurts. Hungry.

"I'll leave some aspirin for you," said Wilson as he sat down on the side of the bunk and pulled out his flashlight. "I know you must be starving but let me check you out before you eat. Open up." The medic took a long few minutes examining Newkirk before he finally put his light away. "Well, it looks like your throat is doing a lot better. How does it feel?"

Still hurts a bit but not like before.

Wilson nodded, "Good, I'm glad to hear that." He turned to address LeBeau. "Keep applying the warm compresses, Louis. I want him to begin gargling with small amounts of warm salt water three times a day, morning, noon and night."

"Okay, Joe!" replied the Frenchman. "Is there anything else?"

Wilson massaged his chin for a moment, then shook his head. "No, the salt water will be sufficient for now." He stood and looked down at his patient. "I think that you just might be able to get out of that bunk within another day or so."

Newkirk brightened up at that bit of news. That would be wizard, Joe!

"I'm assuming that's good?" asked Wilson, a big grin on his face.

Newkirk rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Okay, then. Just do as I prescribe and you'll be up and around before you know it!" Wilson arose and headed for the door. "Come and get me if anything changes."

"We will! Merci!" called LeBeau as Wilson exited the room. He turned to tell his English friend, "I will be right back with your lunch, Pierre!"

Ta, Louis!

Thankfully, the combination of LeBeau's hearty lunch and the aspirin did wonders for his aching head. When LeBeau came back in to retrieve the dishes, Newkirk asked him if he could get Carter to come into the room.

Carter stuck his head in the door a few minutes later to say, "Hi, Peter! Louis said you wanted to see me?"

Newkirk nodded as he showed Carter his slate. Have time for a few hands of gin?

"Sure! Let me go get the cards!"

Carter bounded back into the room and again set up the stool as their playing table, immensely pleased to see that his friend was feeling a bit better. He hoped that boded well for the game.

They played a few hands, Newkirk winning them all. He idly wondered if Carter was deliberately appeasing him, given that his last reaction to losing had been a bit over the top to say the least. He dealt another hand and grunted as his stomach fluttered with a bout of nausea.

"Are you all right, Peter?" asked Carter. "Do you need anything?"

Newkirk shook his head as he finished dealing the cards and wrote, Just my stomach acting up a bit. I'll be okay.

"Are you sure? I can go get a bucket just in case." Carter jumped up and headed to the door as he spoke.

Newkirk paused and nodded as he felt another ominous lurch from his midsection. He had hoped that he would've been over the worst effects of the nicotine withdrawal by now but apparently that was not going to be the case.

Carter returned in a moment to place a large pail beside the bunk. "Here you go," he said. "Just give me some warning, okay?" He handed Newkirk a plain, square cracker before he sat down. "Louis gave me a K-2 biscuit for you. He said to eat it very slowly; it should help settle your stomach." He then picked up his cards and examined them studiously.

Newkirk stared at the biscuit for a moment before he took a cautious bite. It took some doing as it was more than a bit stale. I hope Louis is right, he thought as he began chewing. And chewing. And chewing. He finally swallowed and waited to see whether it would stay down or not.

"How are you doing?" asked Carter.

Newkirk didn't answer as he was still waiting to see how the biscuit sat on his stomach. He laid his cards down and reached for the slate.

Let's stop for a minute.

"No problem, buddy!"

Newkirk needed a genuine distraction as he waited for his stomach to settle so he asked Carter, How did the mission go?

Carter launched into a characteristically enthusiastic description of every detail of the destruction of the Diebach ammo depot freely laced with rambling tangents bearing no connection whatsoever to the tale at hand. Newkirk leaned back into his pillow to listen, surprised to find the sound of Carter's voice oddly comforting instead of maddeningly irritating as he usually did. He was also surprised to find that it helped greatly in taking his mind off the nausea.

He closed his eyes and drifted a bit as he nibbled on the stale biscuit, focusing on the sound of Carter's voice rather than the content. The sergeant's constant waffling always seemed to get on his last good nerve no matter what his state of mind, and it struck him that he didn't react to anyone else the way he usually did with Carter. He had never really thought about it that way and now wondered why that was the case, since he viewed Carter as pretty much gormless on just about everything. Well, everything except explosives.

His eyes popped open when he suddenly realized exactly what it was about Carter that always set his teeth on edge. The words he had used to describe his mate Jack floated back into his mind: Andrew reminds me of him – just a simple kid who loved his mum. He felt a guilty shock as the pieces abruptly fell into place. Was that why Andrew got to him the way he always did, because he acted so much like Jack? How could he have missed such a glaring similarity after all this time? Funny, he couldn't remember ever being irritated at Jack when he would rabbit endlessly on just like Carter was doing now. There was something going on here that he didn't quite understand.

Oh well, Newkirk sighed to himself, Andrew can't help it he and Jack are so much alike.

Carter heard his English friend sigh and he paused in his account of the mission to ask, "I'm sorry Peter. I suppose you want me to shut up, huh?"

Newkirk shook his head as he wrote, No mate, you're fine. Keep talking, Andrew.

Carter had no idea what lay behind Newkirk's surprisingly unruffled attitude but decided to go ahead and do as he asked. When he finally finished, he leaned in to ask, "Are you sure you're okay, Peter?"

Newkirk looked at his American friend and wrote, I'm all right, I just realised how much you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.

"Is that good?"

Newkirk nodded. Yes, Andrew, it is. Why don't we finish our game?