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: Much as I did with "A Spot of Trouble," I couldn't decide between ratings of PG-13 or R. As of right now, I have settled on the lesser rating. While I plan some very intense scenes, they are not as harsh as some in my previous story. The rating may go up in future, depending on which way the story spins.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #3: Hochstetter fans—sorry, he's not in this one. But don't worry. He'll be back in story #3, tentatively titled "Endurance."

AUTHOR'S NOTE #4: 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 1

"Come on, Colonel, have a heart. It's been three weeks!"

"The doc says three more days, Carter, and then only a few minutes at a time." Colonel Robert E. Hogan folded his arms across his chest and waited. "The face" appeared, right on cue. "The damp-eyed look won't work. Or the somebody-kicked-a-puppy chin quiver. And no, the starving, orphaned waif won't cut it, either. You might as well give up, Sergeant. You're not leaving that bed for another three days." When Carter opened his mouth to continue, Hogan brandished a stiff index finger in front of the young man's nose and added, "And if you say one more word about it, I'll make sure it's a full week!"

"Hmmmmmfph."

With a sullen pout, Carter flopped against the pillows that elevated his upper body, only to wince and shift back onto his right flank to ease the pressure against his tender, whip-scarred back. He'd spent the majority of his confinement either leaning toward or directly on his right side. A month prior, during a vicious interrogation by a Gestapo Captain, Carter's captor nicked his intestine with a rusty pitchfork tine. As a result, he endured six hours of emergency surgery, six days in a fever-wracked coma, and an extremely sore left side.

"You went through a lot back then," Hogan said. "Beatings, whippings, broken bones, and ... you're not going to be able to jump back quickly after all of that."

"I know that, sir," Carter answered, a ripple of bitterness beneath the respect, along with a trace of fear, "maybe better than anyone else, including the doctor. I lived it, remember?"

"Yes. I remember." Hogan nodded. A haunted shadow passed over his face; his chocolate brown eyes turned black. Aged lines appeared across his brow, between his eyes, and around the corners of his mouth. "I remember finding you in that barn—your body pierced, battered, and broken—ready to suicide rather than betray our operation."

Carter squirmed. The metal bedsprings squeaked.

"I ... don't remember that part."

"I will, for the rest of my days." Hogan placed a heavy hand on Carter's shoulder close to his neck, thumb pressed against the reassuring beat of the young man's carotid artery. He squeezed the shoulder to bring home his point. "We came closer to losing you that day than we have with any other operative on any of our missions. That's not something any of us can forget in a hurry. I'm not about to take any chances. We need you, Andrew Carter, but we need you whole and hearty. If you push yourself too soon, it'll put back your progress. It'll end up taking longer, and that's not something we can afford right now."

Carter picked at a snag in the thin blanket over his bandaged chest and abdomen with his thumb and second finger—the only unsplinted digits on his right hand. The tiny defect rapidly unraveled into a much larger hole.

"I suppose I can understand what you mean, when you put it that way. It's just ... Colonel, I'm bored out of my skull!"

I suppose, Hogan thought, if I'd been cooped up in the same room in the same bed for three weeks—four if you add 6 days in a fevered coma—being bathed with water out of a basin instead of a showerhead, not even allowed to sit up in a chair for more than five minutes at a time while someone changes the sheets, and with only my nightmares for company at night, I'd have a few bats in my belfry, too.

Aw, hell. Now he's wearing the same face he wore the night we told him they foreclosed on "Mary Noble, Backstage Wife" I suppose I'm not immune to every version of "the face" after all.

"I'll tell you what," Hogan bargained. "When the doctor comes back this afternoon, we'll ask him if you can sit outside for, say, thirty minutes. Just long enough to see what's going on in the yard, maybe wave hello to a few of the boys. I doubt you'll be up to a longer time than that."

A bright smile erased many of the lines and shadows on Carter's face. "Gee, thanks, Colonel. After three weeks in here, thirty minutes outside sounds like heaven. At least it'll get me onto my butt and off my right hip. Lying on the same place for a month hurts, you know!"

-HH-

"Doc, am I glad to see you!"

Hogan grinned at Dr. Freiling's sudden, startled stop directly in the doorway. I imagine he's been greeted with various emotions by every patient he's ever treated. I seriously doubt any of them were ever as wildly exuberant as this one.

"You are? Tell me, Colonel Hogan, should I be worried? Would it be better if I came back later?"

Hogan shrugged. "I doubt it'll make much difference. He'll be just as glad to see you later this afternoon. Maybe even more so."

"Ahhh."

The doctor, his square body speaking of rich foods in constant battle with an active lifestyle, stepped the rest of the way inside and closed the door. He set his black bag down on a small side table, removed his winter coat, and hung it on a wall peg. Comfortable in a white cotton shirt and brown waistcoat, he rolled up his sleeves, moved to the foot of the bed, and smiled down on his patient.

"May I ask why you are so happy to see me?"

"The Colonel said if it's okay with you, maybe I can sit outside for a few minutes, get some air and wave hello to the fellas. Please, Doc. Please. Please."

Hogan added the caveat, "Only if you think he's up to it, Doc."

"Hmmmmmm." The doctor pursed his lips as though considering the matter in depth. Carter wiggled with anxiety, doing his very best to project health and vitality. Dr. Freiling moved over to a side table where he applied rubbing alcohol to both hands. "Colonel, if you would leave us, please. I will examine my patient. I will have an answer afterwards. I promise nothing, mind you."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Hogan gave Carter a thumbs-up for good luck and left the infirmary. In the yard, door closed behind him, Colonel Robert E. Hogan, senior POW officer of Luft Stalag 13 and the resistance leader known as "Papa Bear," drew in a deep breath of the crisp winter air. A rare, strong sun stood high overhead, pouring a faint golden light and a hint of warmth against his face.

It should be warm enough for a few minutes, but he'll need to dress for it. Clothes. Blankets.

He looked across the yard to Barracks Two. The remaining three key members of the underground organization lounged outside their home, taking advantage of the unusually warm winter day. A "come here" motion of his head brought the men running. Sergeant Ivan Kinchloe, his tall, black, quiet second-in-command, moved up first, closely followed by their British pickpocket, Corporal Peter Newkirk, and the hyper little French chef in his jaunty little red beret, Corporal Louis LeBeau.

"What's up, Colonel?" Kinch asked.

"We saw the doctor arrive," LeBeau added. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. In fact, things may be very right for the first time since the night Carter blew up the depot. There's a chance the doc may let him sit outside for a few minutes."

"Se magnifique!" LeBeau clapped his hands in delight.

"This is good news, guv'na." Newkirk grinned. "I imagine the little guy's about ready to eat his blankets."

"Pull them apart thread by thread, actually," Hogan said. He jerked his head toward the infirmary door. "The doc's giving him a lookover now to decide if he's ready. Just in case, we have a few things to do. Kinch, he'll need something to sit on. Get the chair from my office. Bring a few pillows, too. Newkirk, he'll need his jacket and cap, a pair of pants, and some blankets to wrap up in. And don't forget his boots. LeBeau, a hot cup of something for him to drink—soup, coffee, whatever's on the stove."

Three acknowledgements floated back as the men hurried off to carry out their errands. By the time Dr. Freiling called Colonel Hogan back into the room, all the preparations were complete. Hogan stood at the foot of the bed, each hand gripping the opposite elbow, and waited to hear the doctor's decision. Poor Carter looked about ready to fret himself into a relapse.

"Well, Dr. Freiling? What's the verdict?"

"If he sits in a real chair, padded, with a back to it, not some unstable bench." Carter nodded briskly to every point made by the physician. "And if he is dressed appropriately and wrapped in a blanket. And if someone stays at his side without fail. And if it lasts no longer than 30 minutes."

"All that's doable, Doc. Thanks ever so much. I'm about ready to punch a hole in the wall just to see what sunlight looks like again. Someone really should add some windows in here. Hey, Colonel, maybe you could suggest that to the Kommandant. It's a great idea, don't you think?"

In the process of helping his patient turn to sit on the side of the bed, stocking-covered feet dangling to the wooden floor, Dr. Freiling turned to Hogan and asked, "Is he always like this?"

"No, actually, most of the time he's worse."

"Mein Gott."

"We've said that a time or ten ourselves," Hogan admitted, "along with other, slightly more secular adjectives. As for your conditions, we have everything ready outside. I just have to bring someone in with his clothes and boots."

At Hogan's call, Peter Newkirk bounced into the room with a cheery "'ello there, Andrew-me-lad," his arms loaded with items of clothing. The boots hung over one shoulder, tied together by their laces.

With several fingers of each hand still in braces, Carter could do nothing to help dress himself. He blushed a rosy red as Newkirk and Hogan helped him into his trousers. Sliding the material underneath his hips proved to be something of a challenge and closing the fly a definite humiliation.

"I would advise against wearing the belt," the doctor cautioned as Newkirk threaded the leather through the first belt loop. "The pressure against the surgical site might be very painful."

"You heard the man, Andrew," Newkirk said as he tossed the leather strap over the bed's metal headboard. "No belt."

"If my pants fall down, will you catch 'em?"

"I love you like a brother, mate," Newkirk said, "but not that much. You show your shinies to the camp, you're on your own."

"Gee, thanks a lot."

Newkirk then slipped clean socks and boots on each foot and Hogan maneuvered both of Carter's arms into the coat sleeves. Carter's ears were particularly hot, the color of ripe apples. Despite his mortification, he didn't object when Hogan closed up the jacket and set his cap firmly on his head, flaps down to keep his ears warm. It was a sign to Hogan—Carter must be mighty anxious to get outside.

"There. All ready. Can you stand?"

Carter queried his body before answering, moving arms and legs as well as he could while seated on the side of the bed. "I—I think so. I may need some help, though."

"You got it. Just take your time." Seeing the cloud of uncertainty on Carter's face, Hogan added, "Don't worry. I won't let you fall."

Andrew Carter looked at Hogan, absolute trust in his eyes. The expression cut straight through to Hogan's otherwise carefully guarded heart.

"I know you won't, sir."

Between Hogan and Newkirk, Carter soon stood upright, even though helping hands were needed to keep him that way. With their assistance, he soon took his initial steps toward the door. The first few were tentative, as though he didn't quite trust his body to do what he asked of it. With each successful pace forward, the aches and stiffness faded and his confidence grew. By the time they reached the door, a broad smile brightened his face, despite the sheen of sweat on his brow.

As the door opened, Carter blinked against the increased light. By the time his eyes adjusted, he was outside, with all of his closest friends there for him.

"Hey, Carter," Kinch smiled. "We have a seat all ready for you."

"André, it is so good to see you outside!"

"Hi, Kinch, Louie. It's—whoa, ow—good to be outside."

Hogan steered him toward the pillow-padded chair. "Let's get you sat down, shall we?"

Hogan helped the injured man settle into the seat before draping a blanket around his shoulders. LeBeau tucked another one in on each side of his lap. Carter closed his eyes and tilted his head back, comfortable and content.

"Warm," he whispered. "Nice."

"Yes, it is."

Hearing someone call his name, Carter opened his eyes. Across the yard, near Barracks Three, one of the other prisoners waved a wild greeting.

"Hey, fellas, look who's up an' movin' again!"

Carter freed one hand from inside the blanket to return the wave. "Hi, Mike."

Another soldier called, "Hey, Andy! Good to see you!"

"Welcome back!" said a third.

Dozens of surprised and positive greetings did more to raise Carter's spirits than the touch of sun's warmth against his skin. Hogan, standing at Carter's side, smiled. A rare feeling of calm settled over him—a fragment of peace between bouts of terror and danger. The greetings weren't so surprising; despite Hogan's attempts to contain the details, word of Carter's torture at the hands of the Gestapo had made its way into the camp's gossip mill. Everyone knew what he'd endured to protect them and their secret organization.

Such an act of heroism would not be forgotten.

"Here, André," LeBeau held out a cloth-padded cup. Steam rose over the rim. "A little something to warm you up. Chicken soup, just as you like it."

"Thanks, Louie." Carter accepted the cup somewhat awkwardly, trying to secure his hold despite the straight splints on several fingers. He took a loud, slurping sip. "Mmmm, delicious."

As Carter finished the last of the thick broth and handed the empty cup back to LeBeau, Sergeant of the Guard, Sergeant Major Hans Schultz, came around the corner of the delousing station. Seeing them, he waddled over, a broad smile on his round face.

"Ahhh, Carter," the big German smiled in honest delight, "you are sitting up again. Ser gut!"

"Sure am, Shultzie! It's only for a few minutes. But then, I doubt I can handle more than that. Still, it's a step—or a seat—in the right direction. Isn't it great?"

"Yes, it is. You had us so worried." Schultz wagged a fatherly finger at the seated man. "Do not do that to us again."

"I'll try not to, Schultz."

A loud pop brought everyone's attention beyond the front gate. A familiar panel truck, the weekly delivery of bakery goods from town, jerked to the right, its front right tire blown completely off the rim. Ribbons of smoking rubber arched in all directions.

"Uh-oh," Carter said, "looks like he's gonna lose it."

The vehicle veered left and right as the driver fought to regain control. With a squeal of locked breaks, the truck slammed into the front right leg of the guard tower. The wood shattered, spraying wood, nails, bolts, and brackets in every direction. Its support undermined, the guard tower popped, creaked, and groaned, swayed like a drunken dancer and toppled. The guard on duty, desperate, leaped from the crows nest. The driver of the truck threw himself away but didn't quite make it. The vehicle vanished under the debris.

Men shouted, some in surprise and fear, others in pain.

Camp personnel popped out of buildings and around corners. Soldiers, civilians, and prisoners alike stared, mouths agape, at the destruction. A spark, most likely from a firepot Hogan knew the guards had smuggled into the crows nest to combat the cold—most definitely against regulations—ignited the spilled gasoline. Within seconds, the van, the tower, the guard shack, and a large section of the front fence were in full flame. The stink of burning wood, overheated metal, spilled gasoline, and charred breads carried over the entire camp, borne on a fog of smoke.

The door to the camp Kommandant's office opened. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, the Kommandant of Stalag 13, stepped out to ogle the chaos even as Dr. Freiling, black bag in hand, hurried past Hogan on his way to help the wounded.

In the midst of the chaos, Schultz bellowed orders, only to have Klink either repeat or countermand each and every one. A water brigade formed, in many places alternating guard and prisoner. Each line carried buckets of water from various rain barrels placed next to every building in camp to within tossing distance of the raging fire.

From what Hogan and his men could see, at least seven guards were wounded, though none appeared dead, at least from his current prospective. The condition of the driver, however, was still unknown.

A shot rang out then another and another. The inferno had ignited the ordnance stored inside the tower for use in the mounted machine gun. The bucket lines broke as every man scrambled to escape a stray bullet.

Kommandant Klink's voice carried over everything else. "Schultz, get all of the prisoners back to their barracks. I don't care if they're helping with the fire! Make sure none of them try to escape in the confusion. Take a roll call every half-hour until we get this mess cleaned up and the fence rebuilt. Handlers, get those dogs out of their kennels—move them away from the fire! Reform the bucket lines! Keep the water coming!"

"Well, Andrew," Hogan sighed, "looks like your little excursion's going to be cut short."

"That's okay. Boy, Colonel," Carter eyed the chaos, his eyebrows lost under the brim of his fur-lined cap, "you sure know how to put on some prime entertainment."

Hogan shrugged. A smile tugged at his lips and lit his eyes.

"We aim to please."

A nod to the first season episode, "The 43rd, a Moving Story"