THE TALKING CURE

Chapter 1 – The Silent Treatment

"I have often regretted my speech, never my silence." - Publilius Syrus, Maxims

Wilson shook his head slowly as he packed his flashlight back into his small medical case. First the Gestapo and now this! he thought to himself. What he said out loud was, "Yep, it's exactly as I thought." He gazed at his disgruntled patient and sighed. "You, Peter Newkirk, have a classic case of laryngitis."

"Really?" chuckled an amused LeBeau before he caught the withering glare his English friend cast his way. He deliberately stifled his laughter and tried to make amends. "Pardon, mon ami."

"Ain't…funny…," rasped Newkirk. "Ohhh…." He grimaced and reached up to gently massage his throat, trying to ease the pain caused by those two words.

Wilson sighed again. "See? I told you that your throat is inflamed and tender. You're also running a low grade fever. You must've strained your vocal cords with all that practicing you did to imitate that Gestapo General."

"General Mueller," put in Carter.

Wilson wasn't impressed. "Yeah, him. I prescribe strict bed rest for the next three days and no talking at all for at least the next week." He moved towards the barracks door and turned back. "Oh, and another thing. There is to be absolutely no smoking until I tell you that your throat is healed. And don't think I won't be watching either."

The Englishman's eyes widened when he heard that. "Wot…?" he croaked as he sank back onto the bunk in shocked disbelief. Cor, I'm goin' to go right barmy if I can't 'ave me ciggies! How could this have happened? He'd used his talent for imitation many times before with no problems. But then, this particular General had a very low, gravelly voice that proved a bit more abrasive on his throat than usual.

Two days earlier, whilst on the phone with the Gestapo Major Strauss, he had been forced to raise his voice in order to intimidate Strauss into not checking further into the dodgy plan he as the ersatz 'General Mueller' had just outlined. He thought he felt something give way when he finally shouted "Now, any more questions Strauss?" and had quickly drained a glass of water to try to ease the discomfort after he rang off. Apparently that had not been enough. He had awoken this morning with a painfully raw sore throat and no voice to speak of.

Colonel Hogan stepped up to intercept Wilson before he left the barracks. "I'm going to make that an order," he said. He looked around the barracks. "That goes for everybody else as well. No smoking inside the barracks until Newkirk recovers."

Wilson nodded his satisfaction and took his leave. His patient scrunched his eyes shut and threw an arm across his face in despair.

As LeBeau bustled about to prepare a cup of hot tea for his despondent friend, Kinch tapped his CO on the shoulder and drew him towards the opposite end of the barracks.

"Colonel, you know this isn't going to be easy, do you?"

Colonel Hogan grimaced and nodded. "You read my mind Kinch." He glanced back over at the figure lying motionless on the top bunk. "It's bad enough he can't talk. I don't know what we're going to do if he can't smoke."

Schultz chose that moment to enter the barracks and the resultant blast of cold air instantly nullified what little effect the stove had on the temperature inside the common room. That simply wouldn't do, since Newkirk's bunk was right next to the door. The Colonel shook his head and headed over towards the stove. He stuffed a couple of pieces of wood inside to try to warm the room back up.

Schultz unsuccessfully tried to shake the cold off. "Lieber Gott! It is cold this morning!" he whined.

The Colonel chuckled as he answered, "Always a master of the obvious, huh Schultz?"

The German guard ignored the playful insult and glanced up at Newkirk's bunk before he approached LeBeau. He pulled a small jar from his pocket and held it out to the Frenchman. "Here is some honey, it will help soothe his throat. How is he doing?"

LeBeau snatched the jar from Schultz' hand. "Merci Schultzie! You can see for yourself, Pierre is not happy right now."

"When is he ever happy?" wondered Schultz.

"When he's winning at poker," answered Carter. "Or any other card game for that matter." He got up from his bunk to retrieve the communal deck of cards from the table and then walked back to address his English friend. "It looks like we'll be playing a lot of cards Peter."

Newkirk didn't respond. The Colonel moved to draw Carter away from the bunk with a whispered, "Not now Andrew. They'll be plenty of time for cards later."

Carter shrugged and sat down at the table where he began laying out the cards for a game of solitaire.

Schultz leaned in to whisper to Hogan, "If there is anything I can get to help, you will tell me?"

"Thanks Schultz, we will." Schultz nodded and left quickly, trying to keep the cold air entering the barracks to a minimum.

LeBeau handed the Colonel a steaming mug of hot tea and gestured with his head at the upper bunk. The Colonel approached Newkirk's bunk and reached to grasp his shoulder. He shook it gently before he said, "Come on Peter. You're not going to get better sleeping by this door. It's not as cold in my quarters as it is in here. You'll recover quicker if you're warmer."

"Ye-," Newkirk began to answer and then swallowed painfully. He ended up nodding at his commanding officer instead.

Carter jumped up from the table and helped his English friend as he slowly climbed down from his bunk. LeBeau draped an extra blanket across Newkirk's shoulders as he followed Colonel Hogan into his quarters. When Kinch pulled the door closed after them, Carter sighed loudly.

"What is wrong André?" asked LeBeau.

"Oh boy, are we in for it!" said Carter.

LeBeau nodded, "Oui, we are indeed."