"You're going to have to hit one of them Nazis back at some point, you know. It won't do to let them knock you about." Newkirk was hectoring Carter in a tone that floated somewhere between concern and extreme irritation.

They were back from a late night encounter with a Nazi squad three miles outside camp. They had completed their mission of wiring a stretch of telephone lines to blow after midnight. But things had turned physical when one of the privates on patrol duty found them lurking in the shadows cast by trees on what was normally a quiet roadside. Carter took a few hard blows before Newkirk managed to jump in and finish off the Kraut with a left hook to the jaw. They left him crumpled on the ground, knowing full well that the explosion that was coming in the next 15 minutes could finish him off. Then they limped back to camp, with Newkirk supporting Carter all the way. Their return had taken them two hours longer than expected.

Both men were still dressed in sabotage blacks as Newkirk hovered over Carter in the tunnels below Stalag 13. Carter sat stiffly on a bench, his back to the wall, as Sergeant Wilson dabbed iodine on a bloody cheekbone.

"Hey! Ow! That hurts, Wilson!" Carter yelped.

"That was a ring, that was." Newkirk was addressing Wilson and waving a grubby hand close to Carter's face. "One of those metal signet rings, probably for his regiment. That's why it left such a mark."

"Leave my patient alone and go wash, Newkirk," Wilson grumbled, his eyes focused squarely on the injuries he was treating. "Carter has broken ribs and a concussion, and he's going to have a hell of a black eye. He doesn't need you to give him a skin infection to go with it." He looked his patient in the eye. "Three or four stitches ought to do it. I could just tape it, but it'll heal better with stitches. Your mother will thank me."

"Fine," Carter sighed.

"Your ribs, on the other hand…" Wilson mumbled.

Newkirk stuck his hands in his pockets, ignoring Wilson. "Take it from me, mate, your busted ribs will feel better in a week. And if you're not going to hit back, then you'd bloody well better learn to duck, which is hard to do once he's nailed you in the ribcage," he lectured Carter. "I don't know what we're going to do with you, Andrew." He shook his head in dismay. "You need to work on your speed and your reflexes."

Colonel Hogan came up behind Newkirk with a big flashlight in one hand, and took him by the arm. "Thank you, Marquess of Queensbury," he said. "Leave Wilson alone to stitch Carter up. I need your report."

Newkirk ignored that hint, too. "He needs a proper light to sew him up, Sir. I can hold the torch," Newkirk said, reaching for what Hogan was carrying, though Hogan wasn't letting go. Newkirk bit back his next thought, which was that Wilson's stitch work left something to be desired, and that his supervision could only help.

"Fine by me," Hogan said. He knew there was no reasoning with Newkirk right now. He needed to be there when one of his friends was hurt; it was just his nature. He released Newkirk's arm and dangled the flashlight out of his reach. "OK if he helps with the light, Wilson? Carter?"

"Yeah," Carter said. "He can stay."

"Fine," Wilson said. "But stand back and shut up, Newkirk. I need to concentrate."

Newkirk rolled his eyes and nodded, and Hogan handed him the flashlight. "Give me your report as soon as you're done here."

H=H=H=H=H

Six days later, Hogan's team was at the main table in the Barracks 2 eating breakfast. For a couple of days, Carter had needed Newkirk's help to lever himself onto his feet, but now he was able to stand up and settle himself at the table. His ribs were on the mend, or at least much less sore.

Hogan took a seat at the end of the table next to Carter, and leaned in to examine the Sergeant's face. "Your black eye's looking better," Hogan said.

"Green is definitely your color," Newkirk quipped. "It coordinates perfectly with your jumpsuit. In a day or two, it will be yellow, which makes good sense when you think about it."

"Are you saying I'm yellow, Newkirk?" Carter snapped.

"I'm just joking, Carter, but if the shoe fits…" Newkirk replied, grinning broadly.

LeBeau elbowed Newkirk, and Hogan set him straight. "Knock it off, Newkirk. No name calling."

"Sorry, Sir. Sorry, Carter," he added. "You're brave, of course I know that. I just wish you'd learn to fight."

"I've got a gun, and I know how to use it," Carter said. He squinted his eyes at Newkirk, and managed to look and sound slightly menacing. Not menacing enough to deter a street-smart Cockney, though.

"Yeah, but we can't leave a string of bodies everywhere we go, can we?" Newkirk argued. He lit up a cigarette and took a deep puff, and when he spoke the exasperation had left his voice; genuine curiosity took its place. "Didn't your old man ever teach you to throw a punch?"

"No!" Carter said, scandalized. "He taught me stay away from guys who fight. There's no need to rough people up if you use your brain, that's what he always said."

"But what if someone jumps you? Like in, a dark alley?" Very little that Carter said ever computed, really.

"I don't go in dark alleys, Newkirk," Carter said, utterly bewildered. "I'm not sure we even have dark alleys in Bullfrog. Or alleys at all. I think there's an alley in Muncie, though, behind the pharmacy where we keep the trash cans."

Newkirk tried not to look too stunned, but he was trying to fathom what world it was that Carter inhabited, where no one ever hit anyone, and there were no dark alleys, and no looming threats. It didn't sound natural at all. And this was America he was talking about. Newkirk had been to the pictures. Surely there were gangsters and gun battles everywhere.

"Well, you're not in blooming Bullfrog or Muncie right now, are you? You're in Nazi Germany and you're sneaking around in places you don't belong, and you're getting kicked, punched, and shot at by people known as 'the enemy.' So I think it's bleeding well time you took an interest in learning to put up your dukes."

"Newkirk," Hogan said by way of warning.

"My what?" Carter said.

"Your dukes. Your fists," Newkirk sighed. "You need to learn to fight. Because you can't solve everything with a gun!" There, that sounded noble, he thought.

"All right, fellas, stop it," Hogan said. But they continued talking over him.

"I took self-defense, Newkirk," Carter shot back. "Everyone in the Army goes through that training. I didn't get these stripes for nothing, you know," he added, tugging at his sleeve.

"Self-defense is all good and well if you actually use it, which you didn't. And you need to be able to take the offense, too," Newkirk insisted.

LeBeau, who had been listening quietly, dropped a hand on Carter's shoulder. "He's not wrong, Carter."

"Blimey, Louis, thank you, but would it kill you to say I'm right?" Newkirk muttered.

LeBeau shot him a look. "He's not wrong," he continued. "And he's just worried about you," he added with a penetrating look in Newkirk's direction. "Aren't you, Pierre?"

"Fine, yes, I'm worried about you, Carter," Newkirk said with a dramatic wave of his arms. But he couldn't leave well enough alone. "I'm also worried about everyone around you if you can't react quickly enough and end up in a heap on the ground when we need to fly off to save our ruddy hides! It took us two bleeding hours to get back! And perhaps it's escaped your notice, but I'm an absolute coward when it comes to dying. I'm very much opposed to it, speaking for myself."

After expending all that breath and stunning everyone into silence, Newkirk turned to Colonel Hogan and spoke quietly. "Sorry, Sir, but I am worried. He doesn't know how to hit anyone." He still couldn't fathom that thought.

Hogan's lips were tight with irritation. For some reason, Newkirk was like a dog with a bone on the issue of Carter's ability to fight. But he was thinking. "OK, both of you, get up."

Carter and Newkirk got to their feet.

"Punch him, Carter. Right in the gut," Hogan commanded. "Let's see how you can fight."

"Punch Newkirk, Sir? I don't want to do that!" Carter replied. "Gosh, what would my dad say?"

A murmur rose around the room as everyone watched. Apparently there were a few volunteers who would be happy to punch Newkirk. LeBeau crossed his arms, snorted, and smirked at Newkirk, who punched him in the arm in reply.

"Go ahead, Andrew," Newkirk said, holding his arms wide. "Have at me. I don't mind."

"Listen to him, Carter. Throw a punch," Hogan said. He saw the hesitation, so he strengthened his argument. "Your dad would expect you to listen to your commanding officer, Carter."

"That's right," Carter said, brightening up somewhat. "OK." He balled up his fist and aimed it at Newkirk's mid-section.

Before he even made contact, Newkirk had grabbed him by the wrist and was twisting it.

"Ow! Let go!" Carter said.

Newkirk replied by stomping on Carter's foot. Not very hard, at least he didn't think so. But hard enough to get a reaction.

"Ow! Jeez, Newkirk!" Carter complained.

Newkirk tugged Carter's hand right in front of his face and held it there. "Look, that's your problem, right there. You don't even know how to make a fist!" He let go of Carter's wrist, but Carter kept his fist in front of him.

"That IS a fist!" Carter replied.

"No, that's a way to get your thumb broken," Newkirk snapped. "Don't wrap your fingers over your thumb. Put your thumb on top of your knuckles, you prat."

Kinch, who had been standing by silently, stood up behind Newkirk. "He's right, Carter," Kinch said. "People who don't know how to fight break their hands all the time that way." He and Newkirk bumped knuckles in solidarity.

"You teach me how to fight, then," Carter said. "You know how to box."

"It's not a boxing ring out there, Carter," Kinch said. "I could teach you some ring techniques, but Newkirk's a scrapper. He knows how to fight dirty."

"I noticed," Carter said. The top of his foot was still throbbing. "What about LeBeau, then?"

"He could tear your arms off," Newkirk said admiringly. "But he fights from a… well, a different vantage point."

"I could teach another guy my size," LeBeau said, bobbing his head. "Not you. Newkirk's right, for once."

"Fine," Hogan said. "Carter, rest a few more days until those ribs are healed, and then Newkirk's going to teach you to fight. And you," he said, addressing the Englishman with an index finger in his face, "had better not break him."

"It all depends on what you mean by 'break,' Sir," Newkirk replied with triumphant, cat-like grin. "Don't you worry one bit, Sir. I'll have our Andrew in fighting form inside of a week."