TITLE: Rubber Band Man

AUTHOR: Meercat

RATING: Strong PG-13

WARNINGS: Violence, drama, angst, h/c

SERIES: Story 2, Breaking Point Trilogy (sequel to "A Spot of Trouble")

SUMMARY: A new guard transferred into Stalag 13 causes major trouble for the heroes. Sequel to "A Spot of Trouble," but can stand on its own. Begins one month later.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #1: The story title has nothing whatsoever to do with the song of the same name.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: Unlike "Spot," which was pretty much finished by the time I started posting, this story is very much a WIP. The speed of my posting will depend heavily on the pressures of Real Life on both myself and my wonderful beta-reader (Hi, Marty B!). Please be patient.

AUTHOR'S THANKS: to ML Miller Breedlove for her magnificent beta-reading and her fantastic wealth of medical knowledge. And to Patti and Marg for putting me on the right path.

Chapter 2

At slightly past 1600 hours the next afternoon, Kommandant Wilhelm Klink stepped off the bottom step and out into the yard, swagger stick firmly clenched between his left elbow and his side, a nervous grin plastered on his face. Before him, a staff car pulled to a dust-churning stop, its black paint obscured beneath a splattering of road dust, grit, and mud. The metallic scent of a hot engine momentarily overpowered the stench of burned wood and fuel that stubbornly clung to the camp.

The driver hopped out and opened the rear door. A single, scar-faced man in a light gray coat and glass-polished boots stepped out.

"General Burkhalter. How wonderful to see you again. A pleasure and an honor, sir."

The fat General slapped his gloves across the palm of his hand. Beady eyes buried inside a thickened face studied the vigorous repair activity in the vicinity of the main gate. With the help of day laborers from the village of Hammelburg, Klink's men had replaced the gate and fence. The guard shack and watchtower were partially constructed. Everything was raw wood and bare metal—nothing had yet been painted.

Turning back, Burkhalter glowered his undisguised loathing at the Kommandant.

"The feeling is not mutual, Klink. I am cold, tired, and hungry. Let us carry this conversation inside, shall we?"

"Certainly, Herr General. This way."

In the office, Klink's attempts to exchange pleasantries fell disastrously flat, though the General did not turn down a glass of French brandy. Glass in hand, he stood beside the open door of the potbellied stove to warm himself.

"I see repairs are coming along nicely." Burkhalter made small talk between sips of his drink. "I also noted a definite scarcity of prisoners in the yard. Odd for this time of day, wouldn't you agree?"

"I have them confined to their barracks until the repairs are complete."

"A wise precaution, Klink. I'm surprised you thought of it yourself."

"Well, General," Klink offered a sickly smile and did his best to ignore the insult, "it ... it seemed the logical thing to do. Can't have prisoners just stepping through a gaping hole in the perimeter fence, can we?"

His drink complete and the worst of his chill abated, General Burkhalter pulled a single envelope from an inside coat pocket and slammed it down on top of Klink's desk blotter. His delivery complete, the General threw himself into the nearest padded seat. The expression on his piggish face was unmistakably one of disgust, though whether with Klink or the matter at hand, the Kommandant could not say.

"Read that," Burkhalter said. "Then we will talk."

The tone told Klink all he needed to know. He pulled a letter opener from the top right hand drawer, slit open the envelope, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. Klink stared at the official list, complete with seal and signatures, and back at his superior officer. For once, his puzzlement was quite understandable.

"General Burkhalter, I—I don't understand. You are a busy man with many responsibilities, a member of the Fuhrer's General Staff. Why would you drive for hours to bring me something so ordinary as a list of guard transfers? The daily courier could have delivered it just as easily."

"Look at the last name on the list. That should explain everything."

"Hauphman Rubert Schätzle." Klink tapped the paper against his chin. "Schätzle ... Schätzle. That name sounds fam—" The penny dropped, followed by Klink's jaw. His voice fell to an overawed whisper. "Ohhh, Schätzle. As in Field Marshall Schätzle?"

"The very same," Burkhalter nodded. "Rupert is the son of Field Marshall Herman Schätzle, the third of his six boys. There are also four girls as I recall."

"Ten children—my goodness!" Klink gave a nervous titter. "How has he had time to rise through the ranks while creating his small tribe?"

Burkhalter glowered at his subordinate and yelled, "That is none of your business, Klink!"

Klink sank back into his seat, deflated. "Not my business, I understand completely, Herr General. Please accept my apologies. The remark was crass and uncivilized and quite uncalled-for."

"As is your long-winded apology, Klink. I have time for neither. I am here because Captain Schätzle is in need of rest. He is ... shall we say ... recovering from intensive exposure to harsh and terrible battle conditions."

"He was wounded?"

"In a manner of speaking." Burkhalter's voice took on a rare hesitancy, as though he weren't quite sure which words were appropriate—or safe—to use. "Not a physical wound, precisely, but something that needs attention nevertheless. Field Marshall Schätzle has requested a quiet, untroubled posting for his son, a place where he can recover without the ... distractions ... of an active military post. Thus, he is here. He will not be your Executive Officer, exactly, nor will he be an ordinary guard. Rather, he will be something in-between the two. He will assist you as needed and assume command of your guard contingent, answerable to you, until such time as his ... situation and condition improves. He is not to be overworked or burdened with more than he agrees to handle, Klink. Is that clear?"

Klink struggled to find the most diplomatic way to object to the posting. "General Burkhalter, I—I understand the Field Marshall's concerns. And I wish his son a speedy and complete recovery. However, this is a prison camp with over 1,000 desperate enemy prisoners. Escape attempts are fairly regular, though we both know they will never be successful. Is it wise to place someone in charge of the entire guard contingent who is ... well ... I mean ... having difficulties?"

"You have no choice in this matter, Klink. Any more than I do."

"You, sir?"

"Believe it or not, I have similar reservations about the advisability of this posting, nor am I the only member of the General Staff to express such a concern—quietly, of course." Burkhalter's sour expression mirrored the acerbic tone of his voice. "However, Field Marshall Schätzle has extensive influence in the highest circles of our government. Even more importantly, he has Adolf Hitler's personal favor."

"Ahhhhh."

"Let me put it another way, Klink. If this order came from any higher up, it would come from Heaven itself. For better or worse, Hauphman Schätzle is now under your command."

-HH-

In the senior POW's quarters inside of Barracks Two, Robert Hogan, Ivan Kinchloe, and Louis LeBeau listened to the entire conversation via the microphone hidden within a photo mounted on Klink's office wall. The speaker, hidden in the lid of Hogan's coffee pot, rested on the table in front of them, revealing the German officers' every word.

"Well," Kinch said from his place seated in the room's only chair, "this should prove interesting."

"Son of a Field Marshall," Hogan mused, arms folded over his chest, his eyes half-closed in deep thought. "There may be some way we can turn that to our advantage."

"How, mon Colonél?"

"I don't know yet," Hogan admitted as he pushed his shoulders off the frame of his bunk and stood straight, "but I'll think of something. He may be a source of information. Or a bargaining chip. Or he may be completely useless to us. Whatever we decide to do, one thing is certain. We'll have to be on our toes until we find out more about this Captain."

"Oui," LeBeau nodded, "he is going to be Schultz's direct superior officer. We do not know how the big tub of lard will react to any 'monkey business' with someone besides Kommandant Klink looking over his shoulder."

"Even worse," Hogan continued, "this Captain Schätzle will have some of the powers normally relegated to the Executive Officer and the camp Kommandant. He'll have authority to change the watch schedules, call for unscheduled headcounts, inspect all the barracks, inflict punishments, and alter the rotation. He could put a different guard on our barracks, one we can't bribe with food or cigarettes, who doesn't have our good Sergeant's 'know nothing, see nothing' philosophy. The entire camp dynamic could change for the worse."

"Mon Dieu," LeBeau whispered. "When did our life suddenly get so complicated? Not to mention dangerous?"

"When Klink accepted that letter from Burkhalter," Hogan answered. The Colonel slapped both men on the shoulder. "Both of you, down into the tunnel. Kinch, get on the radio to London. Let them know what's going on. Tell them we're closing up shop until we have a clearer picture of the situation. LeBeau, go to every barracks and tell them to lay low. Until further notice, we're going to be plain, ordinary POWs."

"Right away, mon Colonél," LeBeau said. As the little Frenchman turned to leave, he paused and turned back long enough to ask, "Sir? Where is Newkirk?"

"In the infirmary, helping Carter. He's on valet detail this afternoon."

-HH-

"Uhhhh, Peter? My face is cold, and the soap's running down my neck."

"Oh! Sorry, mate." Newkirk—a long razor in one hand, a towel in the other—closed the infirmary door and hurried back to Carter's bedside. "Didn't mean to leave you 'alf-done 'ere."

"What's so interesting outside?"

"I heard a car pull in," Peter said as he ran the straight razor over the stubble on Carter's jaw. "The Fat General 'imself's decided to pay us a visit. He's gone into Klink's office for a wee chat."

"That can't be good," Carter reckoned when Newkirk paused to clean the blade. "I hope the Colonel's listening in to whatever they're talking about."

"You can bet your sweet britches they are, Andrew-me-lad. Now 'old still an' let me finish up here before you turn into a prune. An' no talkin', else I might end up slittin' your throat accidental-like."

Newkirk completed the shave then cleaned and put away the equipment. With all trace of soap and water removed, he helped Carter slip into a loose-fitting, slit-sided nightshirt, custom-made by LeBeau with small strings to tie the side seams closed, giving Carter's caregivers easy access to his bandages. Though Carter felt renewed, his fresh appearance was at odds with his melancholy expression. As Newkirk settled the blankets and tucked them in, Carter studied his splinted hands and heaved a pitiful sigh.

"I'll be so glad when I can do things for myself again," he sighed. "Dressing and shaving in particular."

"What, you don't like 'avin' us waitin' on you 'and an' foot?"

Carter shook his head. "Not particularly, no. It feels too weird."

"Me, I'd be layin' back and soakin' up every second of it."

In a voice almost too soft to hear, Carter said, "Trade you."

With atypical seriousness, Newkirk sat on the side of the bed, rested his hand on Carter's forearm, and replied, "I'd take you up on that if I could, Andrew. 'onest I would."

Carter smiled. "I know that. But I wouldn't let you ... even if you could."

"I know that, too." Newkirk rose, took up the washbasin of dirty water, and headed for the door. "Hence the personal service of a true gentleman's gentleman."

"Peter?"

"Yeah, Carter?"

"Would you fluff my pillows for me? They're lumpy."

For a long moment, it looked like Newkirk would toss the waterover the bed's occupant rather than out into the yard.

Growl. "Carter—"

"Kidding, Peter. Just kidding. Geez, some people have no sense of humor!"