Thank you for your reviews!

And many thanks to my wonderful beta, Marilyn.

Muffled sounds filtered through layers of blackness. Someone coughed. He heard voices in the distance, snatches of conversation too far away to be understood.

He sighed softly and on the next breath was flooded with a cascade of scents. Coffee. The faint hint of cigarette smoke. An even fainter one of cologne. Wood smoke. The sour smells of sweat and sickness.

A boot scraped across the floor. Wood creaked as someone shifted position in a chair, followed by the soft clearing of a throat.

He drifted for awhile after that, until he heard light footsteps approaching.

"Kinch?" Carter's voice.

"Shhh."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Just keep your voice down."

"Still sleeping?"

"Yeah. Best thing for him now. What do you need?"

"It's about the bombs for the fuel depot."

He heard a quick creak of wood and the scuffle and scratch of leather sliding across grit-covered boards, as if Kinch had suddenly sat up.

"Not here."

Fuel depot? He fought to push the fog from his mind.

"Let's take this into the other room."

"Should we just leave him alone?"

"We're not going that far, Carter."

Two pairs of footsteps receded, followed by the barely discernible swish and thump of the door being pulled shut.

Hogan forced his eyelids apart and turned his head. After several seconds of blinking dry, scratchy eyes, the room's fuzzy details swam into focus.

Early morning sunlight slanted across the floor. A bucket and some rags sat near the foot of the bed, along with what looked like a bottle of some kind. The alcohol, maybe? Kinch's chair sat only a few feet away. A book lay cover down on the seat. A narrow strip of paper poked out of the pages, marking his place. It looked like he was about halfway through it.

Hogan shifted his focus back to the foot of the bed. A blanket was folded neatly beside his feet. He considered it for a long moment, then looked toward the door. It was still closed. From the other side came the low murmur of voices.

His stomach growled. He ignored it, not hungry in the least.

A voice, sweet and soft echoed in his mind. His vision clouded over.

"Would you show me how to make the pretty swan of paper?"

"It would be my pleasure."

A shudder traveled the length of his weakened body. He neither heard nor saw the door open.

"Colonel?"

Hogan slowly turned his head. Kinch was crouched beside the bed, a broad smile of relief on his face. Within seconds, a wall of men flanked him, wearing matching smiles.

"It's good to see you finally awake, sir."

Hogan licked his lips, tried to speak. Nothing came out. He saw O'Malley hand Kinch a cup of water and felt someone carefully lift his head from behind. Kinch put the cup to his lips. He sipped the water, nodded to show he'd had enough.

"Better?"

"Yes." Even after the water, his voice was gravelly from disuse. He swallowed, cleared his throat.

"Are you in any pain, Colonel?" O'Malley asked, gazing at him expectantly.

Hogan closed his eyes again, assessing himself. He could feel tight areas of healing skin and flesh, remembered how he had gotten wounded. He cracked his eyes open, feeling weaker and more tired by the moment.

"No."

"Sir . . ." Kinch paused. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Would you show me . . .?"

Hogan sighed, let his eyes fall shut again. "Yes."

Silence fell over the room. Hogan briefly thought of the water and decided he didn't want to bother with it.

"How long has it been?" he asked, starting to fade out again. There was a long pause and then Kinch answered from what sounded like a great distance.

"The rendezvous with Orion was a week ago. You've been asleep since your fever broke four days ago."

A week? She's buried by now.

And on that thought, he faded out completely.

HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH HH

The barracks door flew open and Olsen stuck his head inside, flushed and out of breath.

"Kinch!" he called in a loud stage whisper, frantically beckoning.

Kinch threw his book down on his bunk and jumped to his feet, glancing at LeBeau and O'Malley in Hogan's quarters. They signaled all was okay. Kinch bolted out the door after Olsen; Carter, Newkirk and Braveheart close behind them. Olsen led them at a dead run around the north end of Barracks Two. Kinch could see men running ahead and heard them yelling to each other. Whistles were blowing, dogs were barking and over it all, he heard Schultz's panicked yells.

They rounded the west corner of the rec hall and came upon the source of the furor. A crowd of men had gathered, hooting, shouting, catcalling and waving fists. Guards were wading through them, pushing, yelling and brandishing their weapons, dogs nipping at the prisoners' heels, trousers and coats. Kinch caught a glimpse of Schultz in the midst of it, red-faced and wild-eyed. His helmet was missing, his hair in total disarray.

A gunshot went off just as Kinch aimed himself at the center of the chaos. All movement ceased, all yelling stopped. Even the dogs went quiet.

"What is the meaning of this?" Klink shouted, pistol still aloft. He strode toward them, his eyes searching the crowd. "Schultz!"

Slowly, the prisoners shifted, the crowd parted and Schultz came wading out like a barrel-bellied German version of Moses. He puffed and panted up to Klink, shooting Kinch a pleading look as he passed him. Kinch only shook his head and threw a glance at Olsen, who was peering back into the crowd. Schultz stopped before Klink, snapping off a salute.

"Herr Kommandant, there was a fight –"

Klink's eyes narrowed. "You are out of uniform."

Schultz suddenly registered the breeze blowing over his bare head. He reached up, patted nothing but hair and gave Klink a sheepish grin. Klink let out a low sound of frustration, jerked his head up, and looked beyond Schultz at the crowd of prisoners.

"Give him his helmet this instant!"

Grins flashed, along with a few chuckles, guffaws and mild catcalls. The helmet magically appeared. Jones held it out, wearing a mischievous smile. Kinch took the helmet from him and carried it to Schultz.

"Here you are, Schultzie."

"Danke." Schultz donned the helmet and spun back to Klink, a smile pasted on his florid face. Klink glowered at him, silently fuming. Schultz's smile fled and he started rattling off his version of what had happened.

"Two of the prisoners started fighting Herr Kommandant. And then two became four, four became eight, eight became--"

"Yes, yes! Point out the two prisoners who incited this . . ." Klink made a sweeping motion with his arm toward the now silent crowd of men. ". . . outrage."

Schultz faced the prisoners. They gazed back at him, stonefaced. He moved closer, went up on tiptoes to see into the crowd, swayed from side to side, shielded his eyes and rocked forward . . .

Klink rolled his eyes, heaved a very long, very loud sigh. "Never mind, Schultz!" He leveled an electric blue stare upon Kinch. "Sergeant, in light of Colonel Hogan's absence due to his illness, I hold you personally responsible for this disrespectful behavior. Do you have anything to say?"

Kinch couldn't think of anything.

Klink's lips pressed into a hard line. "Very well." He looked back to the crowd, gaze raking back and forth across the sea of faces. "For the next three weeks, every prisoner will be penalized two sheets of writing paper and one slice of bread."

A groan went up, quickly stifled by Kinch's hard glare. Klink nodded approval and went on.

"All recreation privileges are canceled for a month."

That threatened to cause an all-out rebellion. The men yelled scathing comments, some moving as if to approach Klink. Kinch, with one mid-chest slice of his hand, silenced them, but their furious stares at Klink continued.

"Dismissed," Klink barked. The guards and their dogs went back to their posts and the crowd slowly dispersed, grumbling their displeasure. Kinch raised his hand above his head, crooking his fingers in a 'come-here' motion while simultaneously blowing a shrill whistle. The men fell in around him.

Kinch braced his hands on his hips and slowly turned in place. "All right, who started it?"

Heads lowered, eyes cut back and forth between men, feet shuffled. Kinch waited, knowing he could count on them to do the right thing. They didn't disappoint him. Without a sound, Tivoli stepped forth, head up, expression blank. Kinch glanced at him, then let his gaze return to the other men. Carstairs, one of the newest men in camp, came forward to stand beside Tivoli. Neither man looked at the other.

Kinch assessed the damage. The right side of Tivoli's swarthy jaw bore a swelling, bloody scrape. Carstairs had clearly fared worse. Kinch knew a broken nose when he saw it. Besides that painful injury, the smaller man had a badly split lip, and a right eye that had already ballooned shut. Kinch glanced from one man to the other.

"Start talking."

Tivoli's jaw worked, the muscles in his neck bulging as he flexed his back and shoulders. Carstairs cleared his throat, stared straight ahead as best he could with one eye. Kinch waited, silently placing a bet with himself that Tivoli would talk first.

"He shouldn't have said it," Tivoli snarled, black eyes hard and cold.

Bet won.

"He needs to keep his ugly mouth shut!" Tivoli whipped his head around to glare daggers at Carstairs. "Lei lo non onora! Bastardo!" He spat in the dirt at Carstairs feet. Confusion, then fury passed over Carstairs' battered face. He clearly had no idea what the first part meant, only the second, and that was enough provocation for him.

"Why you greasy--" Carstairs whirled on Tivoli, fists balling before him. Out of the corner of his eye, Kinch saw Benson appear out of the crowd, flanked by Maddux and Broughton.

"Hold it!" Kinch let his anger show in the look he turned on Tivoli and Carstairs. Their backs straightened, their eyes snapped front and center. Kinch studied the Italian, a man known to have a notoriously short fuse, but also honor, loyalty and a strong sense of justice.

"Explain. This time stick to English." Tivoli looked straight at him, speaking as if they were alone.

"A bunch of us were just shooting the breeze and this . . . guy," he hooked a thumb at Carstairs. "Came up and started spouting off crap about the colonel and how he was stupid for not doing a perimeter sweep that night to see no one was around and how he wouldn't have made that mistake." Tivoli's voice shook with rage.

The longer Tivoli had talked the tenser Newkirk, Carter, Braveheart and Olsen had gotten. Kinch glanced their way, silently warning them not to make the situation worse. Then he warned himself. All he knew about Carstairs was that he was from Los Angeles, and that he had cleared every point on their security checklist just days before Hogan's fateful birthday. And that he apparently had a very high opinion of himself.

"You said those things?" Kinch asked, hanging on to an even tone.

Carstairs squirmed in place, avoiding eye contact with Kinch. His answer carried a hint of defensiveness.

"In so many words."

Kinch's tone went cold. "Talk like that always leads to trouble, Corporal. That's why we don't tolerate it around here."

"He threw the first punch," Carstairs squawked, stabbing a finger at Tivoli. The Italian's lip curled in disgust.

"Only after you refused to shut your trap!"

"Both of you shut your traps," Kinch snapped. His glare shifted back and forth between them before settling upon Carstairs. "It seems you're missing the point. If you hadn't been spouting off in the first place, Tivoli wouldn't have rearranged your face, there wouldn't have been a fight, the guards wouldn't have gotten involved, and Klink wouldn't have taken away our privileges. Now do you understand why we don't tolerate loose talk?"

Carstairs responded with a jerky nod that jarred his broken nose. He winced, cupped a hand over it.

Kinch's tone reached glacial proportions. "That's good. Otherwise I'd have to find some other way of showing you the error of your ways."

"And just in case you didn't know," Newkirk said, directing a decidedly unfriendly grin at Carstairs, "Kinch, here, is a Gold Gloves Champion."

Carstairs' working eye went wide above his cupped hand. His Adams apple bobbed in a convulsive swallow.

Kinch tipped his head, raked a thoughtful glance over him from head to toe. "You're not in my weight class, but then I'm not choosy in picking sparring partners."

Benson came forward, clasped Tivoli by the shoulder. "Neither is this guy."

"He's a Gold Gloves Champ, too, by the way," Olsen said in a conversational aside to Carstairs, adding with a shrug, "Middle-weight."

Kinch's hard gaze traveled over the crowd. "That goes for everyone." The men rumbled acknowledgement. He stifled a sigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion. He just didn't like them spreading it around, churning already troubled waters.

Carter sadly considered Carstairs, shook his head and walked away. Newkirk glanced at the bloodied man and with a haughty sniff, turned and went after his friend. The crowd thinned until only Kinch, Tivoli and Carstairs remained. Kinch glanced back and forth between them.

"Next time, do your fighting in the ring."

A bloodthirsty gleam appeared in Tivoli's eyes and he swiveled to face his opponent. Carstairs blinked, pulled himself to his full height of five foot, six and used his one working eye to glare back at him.

Kinch wagged his head toward Carstairs' barracks. "Get that nose and eye taken care of, and try not to sneeze."

The very thought of sneezing with a broken nose made Carstairs wince. He walked away, head down, one hand cradled protectively over his nose.

Kinch turned and met Tivoli's eyes. The Italian clenched a fist before him, rage returning to his voice.

"I should've knocked every one of his teeth down his throat!"

Kinch's hand shot out, grabbing Tivoli by the hair at the back of his head. He stared into the seething black eyes.

"Calm down."

Tivoli took a deep breath, nodded as much as Kinch's grip allowed.

Kinch released him and Tivoli straightened. "You know I don't normally condone fighting outside the ring, Tivoli . . ." he felt a smile burst forth. "but I'll make an exception in this case."

Tivoli sheepishly rubbed his sore jaw. "I was so mad I couldn't see straight, Sarge. That's how he got in a lucky shot." He looked up at Kinch, his grin turning wolfish. "The only one."

Without any warning, Kinch feinted to the left, dodged right, and sent an open fist whipping toward Tivoli's jaw. The Italian pivoted on the balls of his feet, batting the blow away with his forearm. Kinch came at him again, loosing a flurry of quick jabs. Tivoli twisted and blocked again, reciprocating with a rapid-fire volley of punches that Kinch easily parried. They lowered their arms and stepped back at the same moment, regarding each other with ear-to-ear grins.

"Better," Kinch chuckled, bumping a fist against Tivoli's. "But that right hook could still be crisper."

Tivoli threw back his head and laughed, hands braced upon his hips.

The sound washed over Kinch like a balm. Laughter had been in short supply ever since . . . His smile faded. Tivoli immediately sensed the change in mood. His gaze fell to the ground between their feet, compassion softening his voice.

"I heard he finally woke up. How is he?"

Kinch hid a smile. As usual, the camp grapevine had worked at lightning speed. Hogan had only awakened an hour before. He guarded his CO's privacy as much as his own, and for that reason said very little in response to Tivoli's query.

"His wounds are healing."

Tivoli glanced up from beneath black brows. "And the inside ones?"

Kinch merely shrugged. A comfortable silence fell over them for a minute and then he quietly asked, " 'Lei lo non onora' ?"

Thunderclouds formed on Tivoli's brow. "Roughly translated it means, 'You dishonor him'. The other means--"

"I got that one," Kinch interrupted, mouth relaxing into a grin. He hitched his thumb in the direction of Barracks Nine. "Get that scrape cleaned before it gets infected."

Tivoli whipped off a salute and started away at brisk walk. Kinch cupped a hand to his mouth, called after him, "And keep that temper in check!"

"Got it, Sarge!" floated back to him.

"And stay away from Carstairs!"

"I'll think about it, Sarge!"

Kinch rolled his eyes, turned and headed back to his own barracks. Maybe Hogan would be awake again.

TBC . . . Thank you for reading. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!