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“Oi! Stop it!”
“Stop squirming and it will be over soon.”
“Keep poking at it and it will be over soon for you, too, mate! Bloody hell! Ow!”
“Calm down, Newkirk,” Colonel Hogan said, tightening his grip around the Englishman’s upper arms. “Wilson’s just doing his job.”
“If we don’t get the debris out of this wound, it’ll get infected, and that’ll hurt worse than anything I’m doing,” Wilson said. “Sit. Still.” He locked his hand down around Newkirk’s left thigh.
“You just hate me.”
“Yes, I do. What’s your point?”
“Not helping, Wilson,” Hogan murmured as he secured his hold on his English corporal. “Look, Newkirk, it’s a hell of a scrape. Just cooperate so we don’t have to take your leg off next, OK?” It wasn’t the most soothing observation, but sometimes you needed a two-by-four to get through to certain people.
Carter came in just then, his hands full.
“How’s LeBeau?” Hogan asked.
“Recovering. I guess I shouldn’t have unwrapped Newkirk’s leg in front of him,” Carter said. “Clean bandages from Kinch’s stash,” he said, setting the pile down on the chair. “And he’s keeping an eye on Louis.”
“Hmmm,” Wilson said. It meant thank you, but he was very busy.
Carter leaned in for a peek. “Man, that’s half your leg. The thigh too? Ouch.”
“You try getting dragged along behind a Kraut staff car. Good thing I was in one of their uniforms and not my own. Ow! How much iodine are you using?”
“All of it, apparently. Shut up.”
“Bedside manner,” Hogan mumbled, warning Wilson. “He’s almost done, Newkirk,” he added, clearly and kindly.
“Just a bleeding scrape. I don’t see what the big deal is,” Newkirk grumbled.
“Oh, it’s a real big deal,” Carter said. “Skin infections are bad news, and they can be hard to contain. You know, President Coolidge’s son died of from a staph infection on his foot.”
“Oh?” Newkirk said. Normally his eyes would glaze over when Carter got going on one of his little discourses, but this was HIS skin they were talking about.
“Yep. You know it’s the body’s largest organ, right? Eight pounds, twenty-two square feet.”
“The heart is an organ, Andrew, and so’s the liver, but the skin...”
“...is just an organ that you wear on the outside,” Carter said decisively. “Without it, you’d evaporate. And you definitely don’t need an infection. Cellulitis is painful, and it can be fatal. Especially in these conditions.”
Newkirk’s mouth was open. Fear had registered in his brain and was now visible in his eyes. He didn’t want to evaporate. He turned to Wilson, who had moved on to wrapping him up.
“Did you get all the debris?”
“I got it.”
“If you need to apply more iodine or peroxide or...”
“It’s fine. It’s clean. I did it,” Wilson said. “You’ll live.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure. No guarantees,” Wilson said with a shrug as he gathered up bloody gauze and packed up his bag. “Toss this on the fire,” he told Carter, handing him the gauze.
“Don’t let LeBeau see it,” Newkirk added. “Do you think he’s alright?”
“Sure. I’ll send him in to sit with you if he’s over being dizzy.”
“Rest,” Hogan instructed Newkirk. “Just stay here.” Hogan’s bottom bunk was designated for sick and injured men, and Newkirk seemed to spend more time on it than anyone.
“Thanks, Wilson,” Newkirk said as the medic stood over him, his bag packed.
“You did a good job, Newkirk," the medic said with faint hint of amusement. "Scrapes can really hurt.” Hogan led Wilson out, brushing past LeBeau, who was entering.
”Pierre, how does it feel?” LeBeau asked. “It looked awful.”
”It’ll be alright, Louis,” Newkirk said, relieved to see his friend. “J-j-just a bit sore and tingly. Did you know the skin is the body’s largest organ?”