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Newkirk struggled not to make a sound—not an easy task when his leg was searing in pain as he proceeded to suffer from a bullet to the leg. Hochstetter’s men had been particularly trigger-happy that night, firing upon him and LeBeau as they’d struggled to remain hidden while nearing Stalag 13 after returning from an accomplished mission. Getting shot after he’d thought the dangerous part of the night was over seemed to be par for the course given his complicated relationship with Lady Luck.
And speaking of luck… what had happened to LeBeau? Their attackers hadn’t found Newkirk, even though he’d been lying in the shrubbery like a sitting duck—or, rather, a wounded one. Had LeBeau managed to get away?
It had been some time since the ambush, and Newkirk now tried to pull himself up into a sitting position before being taken over by lightheadedness—but he’d seen quite a lot of blood around him in the moonlight in his attempt.
Oh, Cor…
“Pierre…?” he heard a whisper.
“Louis…?” he murmured, quietly.
“Where are you?”
“Over ‘ere. Stay back, Chum—it ain’t a pretty sight.”
“What happened?”
“They got me leg. Look, I know you can’t stand the sight of blood; just toss me something to stop the bleeding while you go get ‘elp from the others…”
He’d trailed off as LeBeau reached his side; as if on autopilot, LeBeau used his belt as a tourniquet on Newkirk’s leg before pressing on the wound with his scarf. His face was absolutely white as a sheet under the moonlight, and even as he continued to apply pressure to the wound, he turned his head aside, deeper into the shrubbery, and proceeded to retch.
Newkirk sighed under his breath.
“‘m sorry, Little Mate…” he managed to say.
If LeBeau had wanted to reply, he didn’t—he didn’t seem capable of talking any more than Newkirk could, who was using all of his strength just to stay conscious as LeBeau continued to apply pressure to the wound.
Minutes ticked by; as much as LeBeau wanted to leave and get one of the others, he knew that Newkirk didn’t have the strength to apply the proper amount of pressure.
And so, it was almost a relief when Schultz walked by on patrol and looked into the shrubbery after LeBeau retched again.
The big man initially panicked, but managed to get permission from Klink to allow Newkirk to be given proper medical care; LeBeau finally fainted before Klink could interrogate him, and Hogan managed to step in and weave a tale for him about how it had been just another escape attempt to get away to town for a bit—but had clearly gone wrong.
LeBeau eventually regained consciousness to the news that Newkirk would live, and that Hogan was trying to work another one of his miracles to limit the time they’d have to spend in the cooler for the “escape.”
“Just leave everything to the colonel,” Kinch assured him. He was rather surprised by LeBeau’s glum nod of response. “What’s the matter?”
“I should have been able to bring Pierre back here myself,” LeBeau quietly lamented.
“Louis, you did the best you could!” Carter pointed out.
“You did better than that—you saved his life,” Kinch said. “Wilson was talking about it just before you came around; he said that you hadn’t done what you did—if you’d left him behind to get one of us—Newkirk would’ve probably bled out.”
LeBeau blinked in surprise.
“And since you have your phobia, it’s quite an accomplishment,” Carter added, quietly. “Though I never really had any doubts. That’s what makes us all such a great team—when the pressure’s really on, we always come through for each other. Right, Kinch?”
Kinch nodded in agreement.
“Get some rest, Louis,” the older sergeant advised. “Once we hear when Newkirk’s coming back, we’ll let you know.”
“Oui. Merci.”
He made it back to his bunk, still feeling a little queasy from the whole ordeal.
But at least Newkirk would be alright. That knowledge alone was worth a month in the cooler.