"Newkirk's not running around on missions more than anyone else is, is he, Colonel Hogan?" Wilson asked.

Hogan pondered the question and grasped the implications. "No," he answered soberly. "It's the same for me, Carter, and LeBeau, and nearly the same for a few other guys. And he's the only one getting skinnier."

"It's simply that he won't eat," LeBeau said. He didn't pretend to understand the British palate, but he was disappointed that his attempts to tempt Pierre to eat more had been largely unsuccessful. It was more frustrating because he'd done it before. He'd saved Pierre from the brink of starvation in the winter of 1940-41 when they were both new in camp. It had taken months to get him to stop vomiting and to put some weight on his frame, but eventually he pulled it off.

Newkirk had revealed himself to be picky, but for well over a year, he had thrived on what LeBeau could whip up, and he even branched out to sample a few vegetables and a couple of well-blended soups. Lately, however, everything had gone backwards. First food held no interest for him, even with LeBeau always offering him the choicest of everything, from the thickest slice of bread to the least moldy potato to the butter and jam he swiped from the Sergeants' mess. Then in recent weeks his lack of interest gave way to repulsion.

Wilson seemed to have anticipated what LeBeau was thinking. "You've done your best, LeBeau. It's hard for anyone in this camp to get enough to eat, and it's even harder because he's fussy. Something has turned him off to eating," he said.

"He must be sick, right? He was throwing up," Hogan said. "That's got to be the explanation."

LeBeau and Wilson were shaking their heads simultaneously. "He's sick now, but I don't think there's a physiological basis for this weight loss, Colonel. I examine all these men once a month, and I've checked him over pretty thoroughly twice this week. I can run some tests, but I think this is simply disordered eating."

"Disordered eating? Meaning what, it's all in his head?" Hogan asked. He was starting to look alarmed.

"I wouldn't go that far, Sir. I mean to say that he has poor eating habits to begin with, and they get worse in irregular, chaotic environments, like the one we're in," Wilson said. "I, um, I get the impression from a few things he's said that he didn't have enough food growing up."

"Oui, that is true," LeBeau said.

"And he was horribly sick when he got here. His medical records are very clear on that point, Sir," Wilson added, tapping on the file.

At that, LeBeau raised his hand in front of him as if he could push away a painful memory. "Il était malade tout le temps," he mumbled.

"Chronic gastrointestinal illnesses take a toll. I'm sure LeBeau could tell us stories," Wilson said, shaking his head. "Colonel, for a lot of us, food is comfort. But when food is a source of stress because there's never enough of it, or because it makes us feel sick, eating can become very uncomfortable."

He let that sink in, then raised a new topic. "Our immediate issue is that he has become very dehydrated," Wilson said. "You saw me pinching his skin; it shouldn't take even half a second for it to snap back to normal. Is he drinking anything at all, LeBeau?"

"He usually drinks coffee on and off, and he has his tea a few times a day, LeBeau said. "But lately he has been off the coffee."

"Water?"

"Hardly ever," LeBeau said. "He says he doesn't trust it if it's not boiled."

"I wouldn't either if I'd had dysentery," Wilson said, drumming his fingers. "What about that supplement I gave you?"

"The Horlick's? Oh, yes, I've been meaning to tell you. I mixed it with hot milk and he liked it. There's no accounting for taste, mon ami. But he wouldn't finish it. And after the first time, he refused it," LeBeau said, sounding despondent.

"Did he say why?" Wilson persisted.

LeBeau stopped to think. "Oui. Something about not wanting to drink before going to bed. And the next day he complained about the drink splashing around in his stomach. He said he could hear it."

Hogan scoffed, but it was a sound of bewilderment, not disdain. "He could hear it?"

"That's gastroparesis," Wilson said. "It's the sensation you get when your stomach's not emptying. Smaller meals will help with that. But we've got to start by getting some fluids into him. Let's go check on him."

XXX

Wilson led LeBeau and Hogan into the infirmary. Newkirk had been assigned the last bed in the row, just past Fleming with his tibia fracture and leg ulcer. A curtain was drawn around his bed, and when they went inside it they found Mallory holding a cup to Newkirk's lips, a mixture of sugar and salt in water that was intended to help him begin rehydrating.

But it wasn't going well. As they entered, the water came back up and the patient was soaked. He looked up miserably for a moment, then closed his eyes as LeBeau came to his side and took his hand, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance. "It's alright, mon frérot, I am right here," he said gently, then kissed his cheek and looked up, daring anyone to say a word.

Hogan came around the other side of Newkirk's bed and laid a hand on his head, stroking it, while Mallory and Wilson stepped away to confer.

"Magnusson will be here, but not until late afternoon," Mallory said. "He suggested we proceed with oral rehydration but as you can see he's not holding it down, Sarge."

Wilson sighed. "A nutrient enema, then," he said quietly. "He's not going to like it, but it will help stabilize him." He patted Mallory on the arm. "Get Ripley to assist you. And bring me a clean gown for him."

As Mallory hustled away, Wilson turned to his patient, whose eyes had fluttered shut. "Hey, Newkirk," he said. "Peter?"

"Hmmm," Newkirk replied, barely aware of his surroundings.

"Did you like that Horlick's I gave you?"

"Mmmm. Tastes good," Newkirk murmured. "Where's Louis?" he asked, tightening his hand on LeBeau's wrist.

"He's right here, Son." Wilson unlatched Newkirk's hand from LeBeau's arm and wrapped LeBeau's hand around it. "So you liked the Horlick's? Do you think you could drink some more for me?" Wilson probed.

"I dunno," Newkirk mumbled. "No… not before bedtime," he said, his voice fading. His head lolled to one side, oblivious to his surroundings.

Mallory returned, handed over a clean gown, and was gone again.

"All, let's get him into something dry," Wilson said. He showed Hogan how to lift Newkirk up, and then he and LeBeau pulled off the damp hospital gown and slipped on the fresh one. Newkirk was snoring gently when they laid him back down to wait for Doktor Magnusson.