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. Chapter 2 up-reactions.
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 3
Nights were the hardest.
Andrew Carter smiled and waved as Newkirk, escorted by Schultz, headed out the door into the dark prison yard, bound for his bunk in Barracks Two. Before the Englander's cheery promise to return after the next morning's roll call stopped echoing off the infirmary's unadorned walls, Carter's smile had vanished. In its place was a sallow, panting tension that would last until dawn's light and the arrival of his first visitor.
Nights brought nightmares—horrendous memories, sometimes real, other times grotesque distortions of true events. Nights brought sounds—the click and pop of the wooden walls as they reacted to changes in temperature and pressure became the chambering of rifles ready to fire. The eerie footfalls and, sometimes, voices of camp guards on their rounds were his tormenters coming back for another round. Worst of all were the soft moans, each one a shapeless specter that tormented him until Carter forcefully reminded himself that he had made the sounds, not some ghost hiding under his sickbed.
The torture happened at night. Nights would always mean pain.
"I'm a big boy now," Carter whispered to himself. "I don't need a babysitter. I can spend another night by myself. I can do this. I can."
Why didn't he believe that? With splinted fingers, he awkwardly pulled the blankets closer to his neck and huddled beneath them. The light from the single table lamp did little to dispel the gloom and seemed, in fact, to increase the numbers of shadows that floated around the room. He'd tried to sleep without the light, only to be rapidly smothered by the utter blackness of the windowless room. The one night he'd tried to do without the light, he had not slept a single wink.
It hadn't been so bad in the beginning. For the first week after waking from his coma, he'd always had someone there with him, either sitting in the chair or resting on the next bed over. Sometimes it was Louie with a warm cup of soup and a funny story, or Peter with shadow puppet theaters on the wall or amusing magic tricks, or Kinch with his strong presence and an update on the camp's activities, both above and below ground. Sometimes it was the Colonel himself. His presence alone chased away the night frights. Whoever stayed with him, Carter only had to open his eyes to find his support.
His health gradually improved to the point where he no longer needed around-the-clock care. Kommandant Klink had ordered Hogan to resume proper sleeping arrangements in Barracks Two. The nighttime vigils ended.
That first night alone ... Carter moaned and burrowed into his pillow.
"It'll be better once I'm back in the barracks. The Colonel promised. It'll be soon. Real soon. It's just ... lonely here. That's all it is. I'm used to having the guys around me. For years I've listened to Newkirk snore directly over my head, or LeBeau muttering French love-words in his sleep—or they might be recipes, I'm not sure. Every now and again I'd wake up when Kinch raised his bunk to enter or exit the underground tunnels. I miss the action, the night missions, even the ones where all I do is wait for the other guys to get back safe and sound. I'm nervous because it's just so ... lonely ... in here."
Carter stared steadfastly at the light, unwilling to look away for fear of the shadows, both real and imaginary. Aching and sore from a dozen healing wounds to both bone and flesh, he shivered beneath the blankets.
"I'm just ... so ... alone."
The occupants of Stalag 13's Barracks Two grumbled and groused their way through morning roll call. In typical fashion, the fifteen men—rather, fourteen until Carter's return—joined hundreds more from every other barracks who heckled the guards. They sang loud and deliberately off-key, miscounted, and shuffled around to the point where even Hans Schultz, normally the gentlest of souls, was close to losing his temper.
"Colonel Hogan, puuuleeeeeez!" the big Sergeant of the Guard sobbed in frustration. "It is too early in the morning for these monkeyshines. Just one time, I would like to have a normal, peaceful roll call. Please, please, Colonel Hogan, will you settle them down for me?"
Noting the souring disposition of the guards, every one of them exhausted from pulling double shifts, Colonel Hogan reckoned the POWs had pushed the camp personnel as far as they dared. Any further high jinks might provoke violence. At the very least it could end with one or more of his men in the Cooler. Though they currently had no mission due to the pending arrival of the mysterious Captain Schätzle, Hogan never knew when London might have something for them that would override the need for caution. He may have little time to spare getting a member of his team released from solitary.
"Okay, fellas, settle down! Form ranks!" Hogan called loud enough for his voice to carry over a majority of the camp. Word-of-mouth carried his orders to those standing too far away to hear. "Let the nice Krauts do their job."
After a final second of mumbles, the men fell into their roll call positions and let the count continue. They held their places, at attention except for the occasional shuffle required to keep warm in the dawn chill. Silence rippling its way across the compound, broken only by the muttered headcounts of each barracks guard.
Kommandant Klink stepped out onto his porch as the first rays of the morning broke over the horizon to glint off tin roofs and barbed wire.
"Schultz, repoooooooort!"
"All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant."
"Very well. I will address the prisoners."
Hogan deliberately rolled his eyes—not the 'no one ever escapes from Stalag 13' speech again. Maybe he'd exchange it for the 'for you the war is over' speech. It had been awhile since Klink gave that one, so it was overdue. Either way, it was far too early for a rousing oration.
"As of today, there will be a major change here at Stalag 13."
Hogan blinked and focused his attention. Not the 'no escapes' speech? Around him, his men stopped stomping their feet for warmth and concentrated on the Kommandant's announcement. The guards forgot the morning's irritations and sharpened their concentration.
Seeing that he had everyone's complete and undivided attention, Klink puffed up even more, smirked, and paced before the prisoners until he stopped directly in front of the senior POW.
"Due to the unfortunate incident with the truck, a number of our personnel were injured. They will all recover, but in the meantime, the remaining guards have been forced to stand double shifts in order to maintain security around the camp. Well, that ends today. Replacements for the injured guards will be arriving this morning. Among them will be Captain Rupert Schätzle. Captain Schätzle will be assuming command of the camp guard contingent and will be helping me in my duties as Kommandant."
Behind Klink, Schultz jerked and wheeled around. His expression was at once appalled and apprehensive. The Sergeant's mouth opened and closed but only the faintest squeak of sound emerged.
Poor Schultz, Hogan thought. Apparently, our beloved Kommandant hasn't shared that bit of information with his Sergeant of the Guard.
"You will show him the utmost respect," Klink commanded. "Any prisoner who causes Captain Schätzle grief or makes his job harder will receive an automatic 30 days in the Cooler. A second such infraction will mean 90 days in solitary on half rations. Colonel Hogan, I am holding you personally responsible for the conduct of your men—any punishment they receive will also fall on your head. Is that understood?"
"Understood, Kommandant."
A voice from the crowd, one with a decidedly French accent, shouted, "We still love you, Schultz!"
For the first time, Klink seemed to take note of his Sergeant's devastated appearance. An expression flashed over the Kommandant's face, a moment of contrition followed by a longer flare of anger, though whether at a particular person or the situation itself, Hogan could not say.
"Sergeant Schultz." A distinct current of regret and no small amount of hesitation carried in Klink's voice. "I want to see you in my office."
"Yawohl, Herr Kommandant."
"The rest of you are dissssss-mised."
Stoop-shouldered and slow of foot, Schultz trailed after his commanding officer in the direction of the Kommandant's office. The butt of his rifle dragged in the dust.
The assembly broke up, leaving most of the prisoners free to return to their barracks. Hogan stood before Barracks Two, his core command team beside him, staring after the portly non-com.
"Poor Schultzie," LeBeau muttered. "Bad enough to be replaced, shoved aside like so much garbage, but to learn of it in such a way—phaw, shame on the Kommandant."
Newkirk struck a match to light his first cigarette of the day and take a long drag off the weed. "You expected civilized behavior from a German officer?"
"I want you guys to spread the word," Hogan said. "Do exactly what Klink ordered us to do. I don't want anyone to provoke or prod the new guards, especially Captain Schätzle, until we know more about them. I want everyone on their best behavior."
"For how long, mon Colonél?" LeBeau asked.
"Until further notice."
"Colonel." Sergeant Wilson stepped up to the group from the direction of the infirmary. "Can I speak with you a moment?"
Seeing the dark concern on his medic's face, Hogan asked, "Is it Carter? Has something happened?"
"I'm concerned, Colonel," Wilson reported. "He hasn't said anything, but I don't think he's sleeping well at night. Good rest is vital to his recovery."
Hogan slumped with relief, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket to hide their reactive trembles. His mind had jumped to all manner of worse case scenarios. The horrors of the first few days following Carter's ordeal had yet to fade from his immediate memory.
"The man was tortured by the Gestapo, Sergeant. Nightmares are a given. To be perfectly honest, I'd be more worried if he wasn't having them. I would think getting him back to the barracks where things are more normal—or as normal as they get around here—could only help."
"You might be right, sir," Wilson answered. "Or it could have the opposite effect. Something like this is bound to've left a mark. For someone as ... well ... 'innocent' isn't the right word. Neither is 'naïve.' You know what I mean, sir? How we deal with it—and him—I'm just not sure which is the best course, Colonel."
"Truck pullin' into the compound, guv'nor." Newkirk ground his spent cigarette into the dirt with his boot heel. "Captain Schätzle's here."
