Author's note: This started its life as a snippet, and evolved into a snapshot; it's set in autumn 1940. Can't believe it's been three months since I last published something …

Thanks to Konarciq and dust on the wind for their keen eyes!

Disclaimer: As usual, I own the cover I made for this story, and nothing else (since there's no original characters in this one). The guys and Schultz belong to Bernard Fein's estate and Albert S. Ruddy.

Fractured, But Unbroken

His ankle was killing him.

That was one of Newkirk's first thoughts when LeBeau helped him to his feet again. It remained at the forefront of his mind, because every time he tried to put his right foot on the ground, pure agony shot up his leg and bright dots scattered across his field of vision. In the end, he accepted LeBeau's shoulder and leaned on him as heavily as his dignity allowed him to, silently gripping the strap of his bag so hard he felt the material dig into his palm. It had stopped raining a few minutes ago, but the thickets and low branches continued to soak their already damp clothes as they brushed past, condensation hanging in the air with every wheezing breath.

The only other thought he had room in his head for was that this rate they'd get caught again within an hour. How unlucky can you get?

They hobbled along in the dark (trying hard not to trip on brambles and wet ferns) for maybe ten minutes before they heard the tramping of jackboots. Newkirk barely had time to hope this was a Stalag patrol, and not the Gestapo, when they were suddenly blinded by the light of a torch and heard several ominous clicking noises. He felt LeBeau stiffen and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

"Ne tirez pas! Nicht scherzen – euh, schießen! I mean, don't shoot!"

"Stick to English, your German is ruddy awful," Newkirk hissed between clenched teeth. The cold and damp were gradually overcoming the rush of the chase, leaving only the burning pain in his ankle, and he shivered. "Bloody hell, I think me ankle's broken."

Whoever was holding the torch moved a little bit, and LeBeau seemed to relax.

"Schultz," he called out, "it's us! Don't shoot!"

There was a muffled exclamation, and lo and behold, the portly sergeant waddled over as quickly as his bulk allowed him to. His eyes widened when he saw Newkirk leaning heavily on LeBeau, who was apparently trying to shield him best he could – never mind that Newkirk could put his chin on top of the Frenchman's head if he wanted. Newkirk almost would have smiled if their situation hadn't been so grim … if freedom hadn't been just out of reach.

"You tried to escape again? But you promised not to do it before at least next month!"

"We lied, Schultzie," Newkirk retorted. The pain in his ankle was starting to make him feel queasy. Schultz shook his head wearily, and with a sigh he went to support him gingerly. Another soldier stuck his rifle between LeBeau's shoulder blades, which caused him to jump and immediately put his hands up, muttering darkly in French.

The cooler awaited, and Newkirk had no doubt this would mean the full thirty days, broken ankle or not (though Klink would probably agree to let the medic look at it first). He wondered whether they would get the same cell that they did last time. After all, even though LeBeau was starting to know his way around the cooler pretty well by now, Newkirk remained the undisputed winner in terms of time spent in solitary.

At least they couldn't see the trees from the cooler. Sometimes Newkirk wondered if the men who had built this camp had deliberately left the tree line intact just a few feet from the wire fence as a subtle form of prisoner torture. It was so tempting, so tantalisingly close that you'd think escaping into that forest was dreadfully easy. Perhaps it was, but Newkirk hadn't found the right trick yet. Not that he – and LeBeau, if he knew him at all – would ever stop searching, of course.

Maybe this was the reason behind Schultz's current commiserating looks.

Schultz's concern wasn't unwelcome, but he just didn't understand. Doomed or not, their escape attempts were not only wild shots at freedom; they were a way to prove to their captors – and most of all to themselves – that although they had been captured, they still refused to be broken.

Notes/Translations:

Ne tirez pas!: "don't shoot!" (plural). Nicht schießen means the same thing, although nicht scherzen definitely doesn't.

In my mind, the pre-Hogan no-escape record of Stalag XIII was based on a combination of rotten luck (as demonstrated here by Newkirk's predicament) and possible competence on the part of someone on Klink's staff – someone who would really watch the prisoners like a hawk and do his job as a guard, like another kind of Sergeant Franks (from Colonel Klink's Secret Weapon). And possibly be sent to the Russian front after Klink takes all the credit for the no-escape record, creating the peculiar set of circumstances which Hogan can later use to the Allies' best advantage.

If you're wondering, yes, I might have an idea for that story. But I'm already writing (or attempting to write) three long stories, so this one (and the one about Flight Sergeant Watkins from Insidious and The Battle of Barracks 2 possibly redeeming himself) will have to wait :o)

Hope you liked!