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 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 4

Wilhelm Klink winced at the stolid, military brace assumed by Sergeant Schultz. The stance, while militarily correct in every way, only made the big man look more woebegone, like someone about to face a firing squad. Schultz was not career military. He looked like what he was—a middle-aged, overweight civilian in a Luftwaffe uniform, drafted into this insane war.

As he always did in such cases, Klink sought refuge behind his desk. A pitiful symbol of power it might be for someone with his rank and history, but it was all he had from which to operate.

"Sergeant, let me start out with an apology to you."

"An apology? But Herr Kommandant—"

A raised hand silenced the protest.

"Let me finish. This change in personnel has nothing to do with any failure or fault on your part. Captain Schätzle is the son of Field Marshall Herman Schätzle, who has the Fuhrer's personal favor. This placement comes directly from him." Klink indicated the photograph of Adolf Hitler mounted on the wall behind his head. Schultz made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. "It seems the good Captain is suffering from too much time in combat. He needs a nice, quiet posting to help speed his recovery."

"Quiet?" Schultz blinked his surprise. "Here?"

"Even with all of Hogan's tomfoolery," Klink said, "'here' is far quieter than the Eastern Front."

Schultz sighed and nodded. "This is true."

"Before General Burkhalter left yesterday, intending to stay overnight in Hammelburg before heading back for Berlin, the General expressed his own reservations about this situation. None of us, the General included, is in any position to object. Our only option is to do as we have been ordered. The instant Captain Schätzle is well enough, he will return to his regular combat unit. Until then, we must do what we can to assist in his recovery."

"May I speak frankly, Herr Kommandant?"

Though he would much rather not grant the request, guilt and regret would not allow Klink to cut the big Sergeant off. He gave a brief wave of his hand and said, "You may. Within reason."

Schultz took another step closer to the desk and lowered his voice, as though doing so would make his words any more agreeable.

"Kommandant Klink. You and I both served in the first war. We remember men such as this. They do not 'recover' quite so easily as their friends, family, or commanders might hope. Such men can be dangerous—to themselves and to others. We must be very watchful—and very, very careful—in how we deal with him."

A knock on the door drew their attention and ended the conversation. In truth, neither man objected to the interruption—anything to end the uncomfortable discussion. Considering the source of the placement order, such talk bordered on the edge of treason.

At Klink's call to enter, Corporal Lowenschmidt swung open the door and came just into the room only far enough to report, "The replacement guards have arrived, Herr Kommandant."

"Very well, Corporal. I'll be right out. Sergeant, we will finish this discussion another time."

By the time Schultz lumbered his way through the office and out onto the porch, Colonel Klink had managed to don his coat, wrap his neck in a warm scarf, place his hat on his head, grab up his stick and a clipboard, and still nearly trod on the big Sergeant's heels. Early morning light reflected off the truck's windshield to momentarily spotlight Klink in the doorway and dazzle his vision. By the time he blinked away the spots, the transport had come to a stop only a few feet away from the building steps. The driver remained behind the wheel even as seven men stepped from the rear area and assumed an immediate, militarily correct formation.

Klink looked around for Colonel Hogan. He was surprised to not find the cocky American already at his side, making flippant comments and poking his nose into camp business. In fact, a quick look around the yard showed no sign of either Hogan or any of his men.

While work still continued on the tower and guard shack, the 'no man's land' between the fence and the buildings had been re-established, an armed guard stood duty in the incomplete tower, and the gaping hole in the perimeter fence was repaired. The replacement spotlight would be reinstalled before sunset that very day. The order confining all prisoners to their barracks had been lifted with the previous night's roll call. After two days of confinement to their cramped and dreary barracks, the prisoners should be gathered outdoors, welcoming the fresh air and sunshine, yet Klink stared out over a barren yard. How unusual.

It was a puzzle to solve some other time. Closer, more immediate matters required his attention.

Colonel Klink looked over the seven men, noting which ones followed regulations and which ones did not. To his old Prussian school way of thinking, the precision with which a man wore his uniform, down to the shine on the buttons, was a sign of dedication to one's chosen profession as a soldier in the German army. Any man who took no pride in his military's dress had no pride in the military itself.

The man in the end of the first row was a prime example of German superiority. Klink would have known him for a military man even without the perfectly tailored and ornamented uniform. His carriage, his expression, his very skin gleamed with military fervor. A young man, surely no older than 23 or 24 years old, his pale blond hair, blue eyes, and robust build proved his true Arian heritage. He wore his cap true to regulations, without the rakish tilt so often employed by dashing young men who used a uniform to entice a fair fraulein's interest. Even the brown leather document case tucked under his right arm had been buffed to a mirror shine.

Captain Rupert Schätzle was his father's son.

Klink handed the clipboard over to Schultz. "Call the roll."

Schultz looked down at the single sheet of paper. Digging a blunt stub of a pencil from his belt pouch, he dabbed the lead end to his tongue to moisten the implement then ticked off each name as the soldiers answered roll call.

"All of the new guards are present, Herr Kommandant."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Klink wasted no flowery welcome speeches to the three privates and three corporals who accompanied Captain Schätzle. He paced in front of the new men, four in the front row, three behind, and stared each one in the eye. They were all so young, hardly old enough to shave let alone carry a rifle into war, and all on the short, slender side—which probably explained why they were sent to Stalag 13 rather than to an active combat unit. Except for Captain Schätzle, the oldest looked no older than eighteen.

"I am Colonel Wilhelm Klink, Kommandant of this camp. You are now at Stalag Thirteen. This is something in which you can take great pride. In case you haven't heard this before, there has never been a successful escape from this camp. It will be your duty to maintain that glorious distinction." Klink waggled the exposed end of his swagger stick, the remainder still tucked beneath his arm. "I must warn you. Do not be deceived. The fact that there has never been a successful escape does not mean these prisoners are cowed or toothless. They are dangerous, desperate men and should be treated as such at all times. Sergeant Hans Schultz will see you to your quarters and acquaint you with the guard schedule. Schultz, after you have settled them in the guard quarters, bring Colonel Hogan to me. Captain Schätzle, if you would join me in my office for a moment, we will go over your duties in more detail. The rest of you are dismissed."

The camp Kommandant returned the young soldiers' salutes and led the way into the building. As he stepped onto the covered porch, Klink marveled at himself. Under any other circumstances, he would have offered flowery pleasantries and thinly veiled compliments, even allowed the Captain to precede him despite the differences in their rank. He would have ordered Hogan's Frenchman to prepare an impressive feast for that evening and arranged entertainment, anything to bring himself to the young Captain's attention. Through the son, he would catch the attention of his father, Field Marshall Schätzle. Such a connection to someone in the Fuhrer's personal favor could only help to advance Klink's otherwise stagnant career.

Why wasn't he at all interested in doing so this time?

Safe within the confines of his office, Klink settled into his own chair. Hoping to still the unease he felt staring up at the muscular Captain's greater height, the Kommandant waved the younger officer to sit across the desk from him.

"Have a seat, Captain."

Captain Schätzle remained at attention, his gaze locked on a vague spot somewhere on the wall over Klink's left shoulder. "With your permission, sir, I would prefer to stand."

"Very well." Klink indicated the case tucked under the officer's arm. "You have something for me?"

Captain Schätzle unbuckled the leather case and withdrew a stack of folders. He handed them across to Klink, placed the empty leather case in the chair, and returned to full attention, complete with a sharp click of his heels. The exchange, so fluid and precise, appeared to be one unbroken movement from start to finish.

"Personnel records for the new transfers, Colonel."

"Thank you. I will study them once we've finished here." Klink gave only a cursory flip through their contents before he set the files down on the right side of his desk. He steepled his fingers before him and studied his newest subordinate. "Tell me, Captain Schätzle. How is your command of English?"

"Excellent, sir. I spent four years in England during the time my father was stationed with the German delegation in London."

"Ahhh. Good. I have asked Sergeant Schultz to bring Colonel Hogan in to meet you. He is the senior POW officer here in camp. Your duties will bring you in frequent contact with him. A common language would be most helpful."

Klink lifted a full folder from the left side of his desk and handed it to the other man. The Captain unbent enough to accept the folder and slip it into the document case.

"Everything to get you started is in that folder," Klink said. "There is a copy of this week's guard rotation and delivery schedules, as well as a list of the camp's security and facilities. I believe you will also find a list of civilians who have access to the camp. Oskar Schnitzer, the veterinarian who trains and rotates the guard dogs, and Dr. Freiling are the most frequent visitors. You will also find details of the surrounding terrain and the nearest town, Hammelburg. If you require anything further, you have but to ask either myself, Sergeant Schultz, or my assistant, Helga."

"Information on key prisoners would be helpful, sir. Who are our informants inside their ranks?"

"We have none."

Schätzle frowned for a brief instant before he deliberately wiped his face clean of any expression. "None, sir?"

"An American officer, a Colonel in the Army Air Corps by the name of Robert Hogan, is the senior officer among the prisoners. He does an exemplary job of maintaining discipline within their ranks, despite the fact that we house prisoners from six different countries. The few times anyone has foolishly attempted an escape, Hogan has appraised me of it immediately."

"So this Colonel Hogan is our informant."

"Well, I suppose it could be viewed in that light, yes."

Schätzle stared at Klink, eyes aglow with admiration. "Excellent strategy, Colonel. Compromise the senior officer even as you break the prisoners' spirit from the top down. Create suspicion in their ranks even as you maintain a tight leash on the one man with authority. Brilliant."

An uncomfortable blush burned the Kommandant's cheeks and warmed his neck. "Errrr. Yes. Thank you."

If anything, Schätzle's stance became even stiffer. To Klink's eye, that should not have been possible.

"I will do all that I can for you, Herr Kommandant. I am your man, heart and soul."

"Yes. Well." Klink tried to smile away the young man's too-obvious fervor. A queasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach along with a distinct sense of dread. Try as he might, Klink could see no positive ending to this situation. "I thank you for that, Captain Schätzle, but it really isn't necessary. Just do your job and we will get along just fine."

"As you order, sir."

A single knuckle rapped against the door an instant before the portal opened. Colonel Hogan all but skipped through the doorway, all smiles and charm.

"Schultz said you wanted to see me, Kommandant?" Hogan chirped, entirely too cheerful for so early in the morning. "Is it something that can wait? We're right in the middle of a game of checkers. I was winning, too."

Before Hogan could complete the step into the room, Captain Schätzle wheeled toward him. A gloved fist delivered a backhand strike to the American's face. With a grunt of surprise and pain, Hogan stumbled back only to find further retreat blocked by a stunned, frozen Sergeant Schultz. A vicious red whelt rose over his right cheek below his eye.

"Captain Schätzle!" Klink's shout halted a second blow before it could land. "What are you doing?"

Schätzle froze in place. His arm, raised for a second strike, trembled as though determined to break free of his control. The muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back strained against the confines of his uniform.

"You are Kommandant here, sir." Captain Schätzle spoke in a general, matter-of-fact tone quite at odds with the restrained fury of his actions. "No one can speak disrespectfully to you, sir."

"Hogan meant no disrespect." Klink turned to Hogan. "Did you, Colonel?"

Hogan stared a long time at the Captain before he finally answered, "No, sir. None whatsoever."

"There, you see?" Klink held his breath until Schätzle lowered his arm. Klink added a sugary, cajoling tone to his voice, a tone similar to what might be used to calm a skittish horse. He hoped it might soften the rebuke in his words. "For the record, Captain. We do not strike prisoners here without a very good reason. Hogan can be rather relaxed at times and his comments may seem disrespectful, but as I mentioned earlier, his cooperation is essential to the smooth operation of this camp. We tread a fine line between the power of the victor and the submission of the defeated. Any abuse of that power could create trouble at some later time. We must avoid any disruption that might tip the scales away from that fine balance."

"Understood, sir."

Hogan remained watchful, his body tensed as though anticipating an attack as Captain Schätzle tugged his uniform back into alignment. He remained braced even when Schätzle took a single step back and resumed a more attentive stance.

"Colonel Hogan?" Klink said. "Do you need the doctor look at your cheek? That knot promises to turn into a nasty bruise."

"Thank you, Kommandant. I'm fine."

"Perhaps," Klink suggested to both Schätzle and Hogan, "if you took some time to get to know one another, you might find yourselves able to work together. For the good of the camp."

"An excellent idea, Herr Kommandant," Schätzle said. "We will get to know one another, Colonel Hogan." Captain Schätzle's smile held nothing friendly. "Before long, we will get to know one another very well indeed."