Disclaimer: Most of the characters are not mine. If I owned them, there would have been more episodes. I'd also be living off the royalty money instead of working and so would have all the time in the world to write. The characters you recognize are from the show. A few of the other names mentioned were - very unfortunately - real people. Everyone else is mine.

Emanations of hate

"I think there's something wrong with Newkirk."

"Like what Carter?" Kinch mumbled over the screwdriver he held in his mouth as he tried to re-attach two wires to the radio.

"I don't know. I think something's bothering him. He hasn't been himself the last couple of days."

"I haven't noticed anything." Kinch's attention moved from the two loose wires to a frayed third one.

"Really? I just think…I dunno, it's like he's really mad at something," Carter continued. His earnestness and sincere worry made Kinch look up. He took the screwdriver out of his mouth.

"Look Carter, I wouldn't worry about it. We've had a hard month is all. Too many missions, pressure from London, Klink antsy and paranoid for God only knows what reason and a hundred other things going wrong for no reason at all. Even the weather's been miserable." He turned the radio back on for a test, intent once more on the constant and tedious repair work involved with a machine slapped together with scrounged up and hand made parts. "Let's face it, everybody's tired and cranky. And I don't think any of us will be getting leave on the French Riviera any time soon. So just do yourself a favour and keep - Damnit!" Kinch swore and shook his fingers.

"You okay Kinch?"

"Do I look…" he started sharply, then sighed. "Yeah. I just got a bit of a shock. Sorry if I snapped at you. Remember what I said about us all being cranky? Me too I guess."

"Yeah, it's okay. I know everybody's tired and everything."

"Like I was saying, just keep out of Newkirk's way for a few days. He'll be fine."

"You think so?"

"Sure. Newkirk's just kind of moody. After all, he's been here a long time. That's got to get to him every once and awhile. He'll complain and blow off steam and then the Colonel will send him out on a mission and he'll have a few drinks while he chases the girls at the Hofbrau and he'll be his old self again. I don't think there's anything to worry about."

"Okay Kinch." The hesitant note in Carter's voice made the older man look him over attentively.

"And look, don't go bothering the Colonel about this. He's had enough to worry about between the Krauts and all the static he's been getting from London."

"I won't Kinch, thanks."

Carter sounded more relieved than he felt though. He stood there a moment longer wondering if Kinch would say anything else, but his fellow sergeant was concentrating on the radio again; it looked like he was trying to pry loose some fused piece of metal. Carter left him to it and, after glancing upwards as if he could spot Newkirk through the ceiling of the tunnel, he went to his lab to think. Keeping out of the English corporal's way was good advice, but somehow the idea that Newkirk was simply in a rotten mood was unsatisfying. As much as he trusted Kinch's opinion, he couldn't help but feel that there was more going on. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on however. Newkirk was in a rotten mood, just…worse. His tone was sharper, his words a bit more cutting. When he teased Carter, it wasn't teasing anymore. He kept away from all of them and if they could get him to play cards he did it without any joking; taking their money with an unspoken but mean sort of pleasure.

Still, Lebeau had said the same thing when Carter had asked him if he had noticed anything strange about Newkirk lately. He hadn't, and just told Carter to keep out of Peter's way for awhile. Kinch and Lebeau were smart guys, and Kinch was used to watching the team and judging their moods. The older sergeant had taken it on as his unofficial job to keep track of morale as well as the necessary detail work involved in any of the Colonel's schemes. The Colonel relied on Kinch to keep them all on track. Carter could trust Kinch to know if Newkirk was truly angry or upset about something.

Unless, it occurred to him, it's just me that Newkirk's mad at. Perhaps Lebeau and Kinch didn't notice anything wrong with Peter because he wasn't acting any differently around them. Carter racked his brain for anything he might have done or said lately, anything that he might have forgotten. He even tried to remember if he had spilled anything on Newkirk or stepped on his foot or anything else that might have aggravated the Englishman. Nothing came to mind. Maybe Kinch is right and Newkirk's got cabin fever or he's worried about the bombing in London again, Carter thought. If it was something like that there was little he could do other than sympathize with his friend. Carter decided to take Kinch's advice; no matter what the cause of Newkirk's mood he probably needed some space, and Carter had to admit in all honesty that he wouldn't mind the break from Newkirk's temper either.

Still, he was worried.

"Hurry up with those nails!" Newkirk snapped as Carter was coming up the ladder. "And watch where you're bloody going Carter!"

"Okay, okay! Geez!" Carter's plan of avoiding Newkirk had only half worked for the last three days. It had spared him the sharp side of the safecracker's tongue - well, some of it anyway, it was impossible to completely avoid a man who was locked in the same barracks as you - but it hadn't improved Newkirk's mood at all. Then the Kommandant had ordered a work detail to do various repairs around the camp - Klink had got word from the Luftwaffe Weather Bureau that some big storm was coming - and he had got stuck fixing the roof on one of the supply sheds with Newkirk.

Great, just great, Carter thought. For two hours now he had been snapped at, yelled at and generally ordered around. By a Corporal yet. Not to mention that the teasing that wasn't teasing had definitely given way to a few more direct, though minor, insults. This is getting old, fast. Heck, it was old three or four days ago. What would it be now? Ancient? Dead and buried?

"Stop your lollygagging Carter and get up here. Why don't you try and be some help for once?"

"I do help! I do all kinds of things around here! I - "

"Oh pack it in! This job's already miserable enough without 'aving to listen to you nattering on all day."

Carter climbed over to Newkirk and thrust the bucket of nails at him. "Here!"

Newkirk looked inside the bucket, "Fabulous work Andrew," he sneered, "You've been a great bloody help. You've brought me the wrong bleedin' nails!" He shoved the bucket back into Carter's chest.

Carter felt his cheeks burn at having his mistake pointed out to him like this. He felt angry and humiliated, not only at Newkirk, but at himself for letting Newkirk see him screw up again. I only picked up the wrong bucket! He actually opened his mouth to shout back, but then stopped. Newkirk was glaring at him; a challenging glare, even vicious and Carter realized that if he started something now that things would turn ugly and be out of his control with all of the speed of a flash fire in parched grass.

But that wasn't what stopped him. It was the pained glitter in Peter's eyes.

Newkirk's jaw was clenched and his stance was tense, as if ready for a fight. But his eyes showed that he was struggling with some other emotion as well, and beyond that Carter even thought that he almost saw a pleading in them. A pleading for him to back down, to not push things. He drew back, confused. Then with a quicker understanding than anyone, including himself, would ever have given him credit for, Carter saw that this wasn't about him. Eyes still locked, the younger man took a deep, harsh breath and pulled his anger back down inside. Then he turned away and without a word, climbed back down the ladder with the bucket of nails. Slightly calmer by the time he started back up with the new nails, he sighed.

No, this isn't about me. I'm just the stupid chump he's going to take it out on.

By later that afternoon Sergeant Andrew Carter, amiable, good-natured and gentle, was having very vivid daydreams about how many massive amounts of explosives he could ram as painfully as possible down his best friend's throat. When Newkirk snapped at him for not moving quickly enough, he ignored him and thought impact or delayed reaction? When he heard Newkirk muttering under his breath about 'thick-headed clots' Carter kept hammering and pondered on the matter of detonators versus short lit fuses. And when Newkirk spat out a long stream of curses at him when a board didn't happen to fit just right, he had a very intense vision of throwing a box of lit matches on a very specific Englishman saturated with gasoline.

Still he said nothing, but it was making him feel like a fool - a weak fool. Out of hurt and frustration he found that he was beginning to curse himself almost as much as he was cursing Newkirk. Why don't I say something? Anything! Why the heck am I letting him push me around like this? Trying to remember how Newkirk had looked before, he started wondering if he had imagined it, if he had made it up as an excuse to get out of a fight he knew he couldn't win.

"Carter, we're out of nails. Go and get some more."

"Why don't you go get them?" Carter snapped, "It's your turn! I got'em when we were fixing the supply shed." They had moved on to reinforcing the barrel of the water tower and no way was he going to go tramping up and down that ladder in this heat.

"And if you had just brought enough nails when we first climbed up here you daft sod, no one would have to go for them! So get the nails! The right ones this time!" Newkirk bellowed.

Suddenly Carter felt very worn out.

"You shouldn't talk to me like that," he protested, but he was already starting down the ladder.

"Give it a miss Carter." Newkirk had already turned back to his work, unconcerned with how his words were affecting his friend.

Luckily, Carter was more than half way down when it happened. Lebeau had fixed the men some sandwiches and brought them some water - no one wanted a hot dinner with all of this humidity - and was just crossing the compound to give some to his two friends when he saw Schultz get into the truck parked a few feet away from the base of the water tower. Newkirk's yelling startled him suddenly, but he couldn't make out the words. Remembering his conversation with Carter a few days before, he was still looking up at the English corporal when he heard the thump of the truck hitting the ladder and Carter's simultaneous yelp as he plunged to the ground.

Horrified, he dashed over to the prone figure, throwing the sandwiches down in his haste. Kinch, Schultz and Foster beat him there and Lebeau gave a mighty sigh of relief when he saw Carter stirring as his friends helped him to sit up.

"That's it Carter, just try and sit up. Bend over a bit like this. A little bit forward, that's right. Try to breathe slowly. You'll be okay," Kinch was saying as Lebeau came up to them. Carter was struggling and making terrible gasping noises.

"Is he alright Kinch?" Lebeau asked, bending over Carter and trying to see his face.

"He's had the wind knocked out of him, otherwise I think he's alright. Thatta boy Andrew, keep breathing," Kinch said in a soothing tone, more to reassure a shaken and dazed Carter than to answer Lebeau.

"Are you sure Sergeant Kinchloe? Maybe we should take him to the hospital, ja?" Lebeau had to smile at the anxious tone in Schultz's voice. Poor Schultzie, he really feels bad. It's nice to see at least one remorseful Boche.

"Well, we'll try the infirmary first I think. Tom," he gestured to Foster, "go and get Wilson and have him meet us there." Foster nodded and ran off. Kinch called after him, "And if Klink's done with the Colonel you'd better let him know what happened."

He looked at Carter again. "How are you doing Andrew? Think you can stand up?" Carter nodded feebly. "Okay guys, let's get him up." With Kinch on one side and Schultz on the other they started to assist a grey-faced Carter to his feet when Carter suddenly hissed with pain and fell back against Kinch, cradling his left wrist.

"Carter, what is it?" Lebeau asked.

"My hand! Schultz pulled on it when he was helping me up."

"Here, let me see," Kinch said, as a stricken Schultz launched into another apology. Gentle hands examined it for a moment. "I can't be sure, but I think it's just a sprain. We'll let Wilson take a look." And with that, Kinch and Schultz, taking hold of Carter much more carefully this time and still apologizing, started off again. Lebeau lingered a minute listening to Carter already forgiving the large Sergeant.

"Well that's bloody charming! Now I suppose 'e won't be able to 'elp me finish the job." Lebeau started at the irritated voice from behind him. He whipped around to confront a glowering Newkirk.

Momentarily puzzled, he glanced at the ladder of the water tower. "How did you get down?"

"Nice of someone to finally think of that," Newkirk snarled. "Schultz just tapped the damned thing," he said, gesturing with his thumb. "Didn't even break a board. If Carter wasn't such a clumsy oaf, 'e could've 'eld on."

"It wasn't Carter's fault Newkirk." Lebeau was perplexed by the venom in Newkirk's tone. "It was an accident. And why are you blaming Carter? It was Schultz who hit the ladder."

Newkirk scoffed and stalked off towards the barracks. "Malingering git," he muttered. He turned back to a still stunned Lebeau, "If Klink asks, tell 'im I'm through with repairs for the day. And 'e can fix that bleedin' ladder 'imself - not that it needs it."

Lebeau swore softly to himself. Merde! It's going to be that sort of day. After pausing for a moment wondering if he should pick up the thrown sandwiches, he decided that the Boche could keep their own camp clean and walked over to the infirmary to see how Carter was doing.

The Stalag 13 infirmary was not large by any means, certainly not large enough for the number of POWs in camp. Still, it was not often full, since it was usually easier to have the patient's friends nurse all but the most serious cases in the man's own barracks and for anything more a prisoner was generally sent to the hospital. It consisted of twenty beds, a table for Wilson to do his paperwork, a couple of rickety chairs and a sink with a few shelves overtop containing a meagre supply of bandages and painkillers. Anything else Wilson needed had to be scrounged up by the men while out of camp and hidden by him from the more vigilant guards.

But it was clean, and at the moment crowded by more than a dozen prisoners and Schultz, who was a crowd in himself. Lebeau squeezed himself in between Garlotti and Minsk and worked his way round to where Kinch and Colonel Hogan were standing behind Carter. The patient himself was sitting on one of the chairs while Wilson finished taping up his wrist.

"There you go Carter. It's not a bad sprain. Avoid using it for a couple of days and keep it taped up and that should do it."

"Hmm what? Oh sorry, thanks Mike."

Wilson raised an eyebrow at the listless reply. "You alright Carter? You didn't hit your head or anything else?" He did a second check of Carter's eyes.

"We can still take him to the hospital. I will ask the Kommandant," a worried Schultz put in.

"No, I'm fine. Really. I don't know what all the fuss is about."

"You sure Carter?" Colonel Hogan asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Honest." He still seemed subdued however, and Hogan shot Wilson a frown.

Wilson patted his patient on the shoulder. "Probably nothing to worry about. It'll be the shock wearing off. Why don't you stay here and rest for a bit?"

"Okay."

"Alright, now the rest of you," Wilson said, waving them out, "You've seen he's okay - maybe you can give me back my infirmary now." To Hogan he said, "Don't worry, I'll keep on eye on him for a bit. He'll be fine."

Hogan nodded, smiled at Carter and then started herding the others out. "You heard the man. Show's over. Let Carter get some peace and quiet."

The others waved to Carter and straggled out, reluctant to get back to work. "Go on, go on," Wilson repeated. "And would it kill you all to wipe your feet before you come in here? I just swept the floor half an hour ago."

"Would you like me to get one of them to sweep it again for you Mike?" As expected, the idea of more chores got the men moving. Hogan grinned, and then with a more serious look he nodded his head over to the door. Wilson joined him there.

"Do you think he'll be alright by tonight Mike? Only I had something planned." They both glanced over to the weary young man sitting on the edge on the nearest bed, but he seemed preoccupied and didn't notice.

Wilson frowned. "Is it anything strenuous?"

"No, more of a simple scouting mission."

"Couldn't you send someone else?"

"Well, it involves finding out whether or not we can use explosives and, if we can, where will be the best places for them - "

"And that's Carter's area of expertise. I see. Does it have to be tonight?"

"I can put it off if he's not up to it, but I was kind of hoping to get it done soon."

"Hmm, well, we'll see. Like I said, I'll keep on eye on him here for a bit. I'll let you know."

"Thanks Mike." Hogan left after waving to Carter and telling him to rest up. Exiting the infirmary he saw that Kinch and Lebeau had waited for him outside the door.

"Everything alright with Carter sir?" Kinch asked as he and Lebeau fell in step with their CO.

"I think so. Wilson's going to watch him for awhile. He's probably just shook up a little."

"What about tonight, mon Colonel?"

"Wilson's going to let me know. If Carter's not up to it we'll either wait till tomorrow or I'll send someone else." Hogan glanced around the compound, evaluating his men. He stopped for a moment, as if puzzled. He realized it was that Newkirk wasn't there, but shrugged it off. It wasn't that important. "Meanwhile," he continued, "I've still got the Bald Eagle fretting like a mother hen to deal with."

"He still going on about that storm?"

"And the books and the Gestapo and the price of electricity and the Eastern Front; but that storm is really on his mind. You'd think the Krauts had never seen a bit of rain. He says it's time to 'batten down the hatches'. God, I know we're in trouble when he starts using English expressions."

"Ah, I'm soooo glad I'm not an officer," Kinch laughed.

"Just wait Sergeant," Hogan threatened with a smile. "Just wait."

Carter didn't know what to do. Sure, lying quietly in the infirmary was a lot better than working on such a stifling day, and it was definitely better than working with Newkirk. But on the other hand, he felt guilty going nothing while the other guys were slaving away - like he was being molly-coddled. Also, he felt a bit uncomfortable being a patient. Wilson was a great guy and all, but being 'under observation' felt a lot like being under a microscope, even with Wilson at the table bent over his weekly reports and futile supply requests. And he was bored! He had lain there for an hour already. Bored, and with nothing to do but think over all that had happened that day. Like all of the things that Newkirk had said to him and how he had just let him get away with it. It certainly wasn't the most pleasant train of thought.

Better not think about it then.

Five minutes later. Okay, I'm going to stop thinking about it.

Ten minutes later. I'm not thinking about it at all.

After fifteen minutes he gave up. Stupid Newkirk! What's his problem? Why's he acting like such a jerk? I haven't done anything wrong! Why's he yelling at me?

And why am I letting him get away with it? He wanted to go back to the barracks and he wasn't about to avoid it just to avoid Newkirk. He jumped out of bed.

"I'm going now," was all he said to Wilson.

Wilson, surprised by Carter's curt tone simply said, "Uhh, sure," but Carter had already stormed out.

However, firm resolutions were not made for muggy days. Carter could feel his resolve being sapped out of him as he crossed the compound. The memory of how Newkirk had looked at him before popped into his head, furthering confusing him, and by the time he reached the front of Barracks Two his feet were dragging. So when Colonel Hogan spotted him and called him over he went happily.

"Are you feeling better Carter?" Hogan looked him over.

"Yes sir, I'm fine."

"Feel up to going out tonight?"

He felt ashamed to admit it to himself, but the idea of putting off the confrontation with Newkirk for another day made him sigh with relief. He agreed to go readily.

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Yes sir, I feel great!"

"Alright, but I'm going to check with Wilson first. And I'm going to send Newkirk with you." Hogan would later reflect that he had never seen quite such a dismayed look cross his demolition expert's face before.

"Anything wrong Carter?"

"Uh, no. I mean, it's okay sir, I can alone. I don't mind."

"I know you don't mind Carter, but solo missions have their dangers at the best of times and you've had a rough day."

"But sir, there'd be nothing for him to do."

"He'll be there to watch your back Carter. What's the problem?"

"Well, couldn't someone else go with me? Couldn't me and Louie go?"

"I need Lebeau tonight; I have to meet with a French operative. And the others are going to be checking out the new ball bearings factory. Besides, what's wrong with Newkirk?"

"Nothing, I guess." He looked at his shoes.

Hogan stared at his tech sergeant, who was suddenly displaying a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He placed his hand on the back of Carter's neck. "What's bothering you Carter? Did you and Newkirk have an argument?"

Carter was about to pour out everything when he remembered the pain in his friend's eyes. He's hurting, and he's furious. With another sudden flash of understanding he realized something: If the Colonel lays into Peter now, he'll leave.

"No sir," he mumbled. "Everything's okay. I'll go with Newkirk."

Geez, what a day!