NOT AT ALL WELL

Newkirk wasn't well.

At roll call, he hacked and wheezed. He sweated and shook, hot and cold all at once. An icy wind tore through him. His lungs tingled as they drew in the frigid air. Coughing started anew.

"Kommandant Klink," he heard, "My men are suffering. Under the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention..."

Hogan's voice grew as distant as an echo, reverberating. Gravity won. Shoulder and cheek hit dirt. A din erupted around him.

"Fever."

"Burning up."

"Inside, now!"

"Dis-missed!"

"About time."

Arms lifted him. Not two. Not four. Eight.

He wasn't well, but he was in good hands.

WONDER DRUG

Hacking. Wheezing. Cannot catch my breath. Kinch is holding me up. My mates gather around, terrified.

"Flu. Asthma too," Wilson says. "Did you know?"

"Of course not. Asthma's not in his records," Hogan replies. His voice shakes. He's scared for me.

"Epinephrine works wonders." Wilson fills a syringe, tightens a tourniquet. It hurts. He dabs the crook of my elbow with rubbing alcohol, that sharp smell. The needle stings. If I wasn't already gasping, I'd complain.

The wheezing eases. Everyone looks relieved. I'm coughing, but not struggling.

Hogan sits behind me, holds tight. "I've got the next shift," he says.

SEIZURE

Fever. Hot. Cold. Shaking. Sweating.

He's so sick. He can't stay still.

"LeBeau," I stage-whisper. I don't want to alarm anyone.

He's at the door, alert. Newkirk is his best friend. They've cared for each other through thick and thin.

He's at the bedside, his hand on Newkirk's forehead. He shakes his head. He disapproves of illness.

"His fever's very high," he says. Suddenly Newkirk is seizing in my arms. LeBeau leaps into the barracks, calling "Get Wilson! Now!"

"The guards won't let us out," Carter says flatly. He's right.

"We've got a tunnel," LeBeau commands. "Use it. Run, Carter."

RAGDOLL

Sun breaks through cracks in the ceiling, dappling the barracks walls.

"You're looking better," Wilson tells me.

Am I? Because I feel like a ragdoll. I can hardly lift a limb.

I muster a smile. Cheek is my stock in trade. "Krauts can't keep me down, mate."

Hogan, at his side, isn't buying it. He saw me vulnerable. Weak, ill.

"Twenty-four hours rest before you even attempt to get up," Wilson insists.

He departs. LeBeau pats my chest, says he'll be back with soup.

Hogan sits beside me, looks me over. "I'll read to you," he says.

I'd like that.

STORY TIME

A dogeared copy of Tom Sawyer appears. His own. Had I read it? Well, no. I'm British.

It was a boisterous performance. When he reached the part about whitewashing the fence, he delivered with such conviction that I was roaring. Blimey, Colonel Hogan WAS Tom Sawyer, conning everyone whose path he crossed.

"If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village." He wiped his wet eyes.

I laughed until I wheezed, and wheezed until I whooped. Oh no. Soon Wilson was back to poke another shot in my arm.

It was worth it.