Author's note: The opening line is from ML Miller Breedlove's fanfiction Gone Fishing.

(That darn word limit made me sweat more than once!)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the original characters. The rest is Albert Ruddy's.

Loopy

Plop… plop.

The night breeze shook a couple of drops from recent rain into the river from overhanging branches. Aside from that and the rustling of trees, the woods were absolutely quiet. The sort of quiet heroes complained of in adventure books.

Carter never saw the point in complaining when things got quiet. But then I'm not a hero, am I.

"Wake up, Carter!"

Carter turned back from the bridge in the near distance and frowned. "I wasn't sleeping, Newkirk."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell with you."

"Cut the wisecracks," Colonel Hogan said in a loud whisper. "Kinch, do you see anything?"

"All clear, Colonel."

"Then let's go. And keep your eyes and ears open, fellas."

Retrieving a downed flyer was never a walk in the park, but at least they wouldn't have to search in every bush or under ever fern to find him. An Underground agent had called on the radio with crucial information, as well as the fact that he was currently hiding an English Lieutenant recently escaped from Stalag V. Sandman, the aforementioned agent, checked out, and Hogan had agreed to meet in order to retrieve the pilot.

Carter followed Kinch, Newkirk and Hogan across the bridge to the rendezvous point nearby, with LeBeau bringing up the rear. Below them, the waters ran pitch-black despite the half-moon light.

Sandman emerged from a bush half a dozen yards from the river bank and signalled them.

"There are seven stories," he said.

"As there are seven days of the week," Hogan replied evenly. Honestly, sometimes Carter wondered where the guys who thought up those codes got them.

Sandman smiled.

"Hello, Papa Bear. Good to finally see you in person."

"I'm told you might have something of mine?" said Hogan, shaking his hand. As if on cue, a broad-shouldered guy in a RAF uniform stepped out from behind a tree and saluted.

"Flight Lieutenant Charles Hickman, sir. May I say, I was warned that this might happen, but it's a mite peculiar all the same."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "'This' meaning your capture, or our little nightly meeting?"

"Truthfully, sir, both."

"Here," chimed in Sandman, handing Hogan an envelope. "Every troop movement between Hammelburg and Düsseldorf for the past three weeks." His face grew sombre. "People died for this information. I hope you will make good use of it."

"We will," said Hogan solemnly. "In the meantime, you –"

"Wait," LeBeau interrupted. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I don't know… something in the bushes. Maybe an animal or –"

"Halt! Keine Bewegung!"

All hell broke loose.

Amidst the gunfire, the shouting and the muzzle flashes that made his eyes water, Carter counted a dozen Gestapo. They had shouted their warning, and now they were firing at anything that moved – and at, he saw with a mounting horror that made his hands shake and his bile rise in his throat, at least two bodies that didn't move. Before he had time to find out who it was, he stumbled and fell to his knees; pain that hadn't been there a second ago flared through his chest, leaving him limp and light-headed, barely aware of the blood running down his front.

As he fell headfirst into the cold earth and the shredded leaves, the terror vanished, and he was indifferent to what was happening to him – the pain was fading, too – his only thoughts for Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Kinch, hoping they could make it through.

Something fell against him with the weight and finality of death.

Carter didn't live long enough to know whose corpse it was.

Plop… plop.

"Wake up, Carter!"

"W—what?"

I'm alive!?

Carter ran a shaking hand across his chest, looking for the bullet wound, his heart thumping wildly. The blasts from the German machine guns and the chilling moans of men about to die – including his own, he realised with a jolt – were still echoing in his ears, and the smell of blood-soaked earth overpowered everything else.

But the bridge stretched before them, quiet, normal. No Gestapo, no machine guns, just the busy silence of nightlife going about their business, the wind in the branches, and the "plop" of raindrops falling into the river. Kinch was scanning their surroundings for anything suspicious, apparently finding nothing of the sort.

Maybe Carter had been day-dreaming.

But it had felt so real…

"Carter, are you all right? You're so pale you're practically glowing in the dark."

"Cut the wisecracks," Colonel Hogan said in a loud whisper. Wait. What? "Everyone okay? Right. Kinch, do you see anything?"

"All clear, Colonel."

"Then let's go. And keep your eyes and ears open, fellas."

This felt oddly familiar to Carter. An uncomfortable feeling crept over him, intensifying when Sandman popped out of his bush.

"LeBeau," he muttered, "what's the French word for when you think you've already seen what you're seeing right now?"

"What, déjà vu?"

"Yeah."

Newkirk shot him an odd look, but Carter ignored him, still profoundly uneasy. Ahead of them, Hogan and Sandman exchanged passwords, the absurdity of which rang a bell in Carter's head.

"I'm told you might have something of mine?" said Hogan. Before he had finished speaking, Carter knew which tree the pilot was hiding behind.

Flight Lieutenant Charles Hickman.

How do I know that? I can't know that! Unless…

"Flight Lieutenant Charles Hickman, sir." Carter's heart leaped in his throat. "May I say, I was warned that this might happen, but it's a mite peculiar all the sa—"

"Sir?" The bell in Carter's head had become a giant flashing light. He stepped in and looked at Hogan straight in the eye, trying to quell the mounting panic. "Something's wrong."

His CO went from a bantering mood to deadly serious in the space of a second. "How?"

Well, there wasn't two ways around it. "I… I think Gestapo's coming. Right now."

Sandman's eyes went round and he looked around him. "What?"

Hogan shushed him and turned to Kinch and Newkirk, who were keeping lookout to the bridge and the nearby woods. "Anything suspicious, guys?"

"Don't think so, Colonel," said Newkirk slowly.

"Well, let's not stay and find out. Hickman, with us. Sandman, we owe you big time."

"Wait!" They had started back, but Sandman ran after them. "You forgot the troop movements!"

"Halt! Keine Bewegung!"

Oh, no…

The Gestapo patrol ran towards them, and suddenly Carter saw with absolute clarity that yes, it had happened before, and he was probably not going crazy. It wasn't much of a comfort to be right in those circumstances.

"Run, guys, r—!"

In the ear-splitting chaos he never saw the black-uniformed man raise a gun to his head.

This time he died instantly.

Plop… plop.

"Wake up, Cart—"

"RUN!"

Only when the four of them stared at him in a mixture of alarm and incredulity did Carter realise he had shouted at the top of his lungs. Still shaking all over, he sucked in a breath and tried to calm down his pounding heart.

They were back at the bridge. Again.

They were all alive. For now.

"What's wrong, Carter?" asked Kinch, frowning, but his voice gentle.

"Gestapo—patrol," Carter panted, taking off his cap and wiping the sweat off his forehead. "V-very close."

The woods were completely silent, but nobody questioned him and everyone dove for the bushes.

However, after it became obvious that wherever that patrol was, it was nowhere near them, they emerged to scan the bridge and both banks of the river. Then turned looks on Carter that ranged between sceptical and angry.

"Thanks for the false alarm, Carter," muttered LeBeau.

"Ever heard of the boy who cried 'wolf'?" Newkirk said in his most sardonic tone.

Carter took a deep breath. "Look… If we cross that bridge, a patrol will turn up and kill us all."

Everyone stared at him – he felt a complete fool – but he held his ground. This was too important.

As he lied to convince them not to meet Sandman, he tried to push down the disgust at the idea of abandoning the Underground agent and the British pilot to their fate. Maybe the Gestapo would not consider two men the same threat as seven, and not shoot first and ask questions later? Maybe they could spring them later from the Gestapo HQ? Sandman had dealt with Papa Bear once or twice, but never face-to-face. He had no idea they were POWs.

It was all for the greater good.

A little voice whispered, Keep telling yourself that, Andrew.

He felt sick.

When they finally crossed the bridge – Hogan reluctantly giving Carter the benefit of the doubt and deciding to remain hidden until they were sure it was safe – they were too late. The Gestapo patrol held a gun on the pilot, Hickman, and one of them was gripping Sandman by the arm.

Hogan shot Carter a strange look and silently ordered his men back to camp.

Only the wild hope that they would all make it to camp alive kept Carter from taking his CO aside and spilling everything. He still wasn't quite sure he would be able to meet his own eyes in the mirror later.

Carter had always been a little accident-prone, and it always got worse when he was distracted.

Which is why he didn't see the root before he tripped on it and crashed into the ferns.

Plop… plop.

"Wake up, Carter!"

Hey, I didn't die this time! was his first thought, closely followed by a fervent I'm not letting these guys get captured again. No way.

"Oi! Are you—"

"The coast is clear. What are we waiting for?"

And he ran to the bridge without waiting to see the others' reactions.

Unfortunately, neither Sandman nor Hickman had reached the rendezvous point just yet.

"Carter!" hissed Hogan as he crouched down near him, white with fury. "What the hell were you thinking? You could have gotten killed – you could have gotten us all killed!"

In any other circumstances, this dressing-down from one of the men Carter respected most would have made him wish the ground would open up and swallow him; now, however, the memories of the previous fiascos were so vivid and he was so focused on getting everything right this time that he brushed it off.

Sandman appeared taken aback at finding them already there when he arrived.

"There are seven stor—"

"As there are seven days of the week," Carter interrupted. Then, raising his voice a little, "It's okay, Lieutenant, come on out!"

Hogan grabbed him by the arm. "What are you playing at?"

His voice was low and dangerous, and it sent a chill down Carter's spine. Carter's resolve weakened significantly, but he didn't back down. Instead he threw a pleading look at his friends and his CO.

"Could you guys just trust me on this? I swear it's important, and we're kinda on a clock here."

Then, as Hickman hesitatingly stepped out from behind his tree, Carter turned to Sandman and held out a hand.

"Troop movements, please?"

Sandman's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that? Nobody but me knows."

"You said you had crucial information," Kinch pointed out. "Is that it?"

"Yes it is, but your man is not supposed to know! What else do you know?" He turned on Carter with surprising venom. "Who are you spying for?"

"Now wait a minute, mate," Newkirk cut in. "You're way off!"

"He's no spy!" said LeBeau hotly. "Well… he's not a traitor!"

Carter almost smiled, but nervousness was giving way to sheer dread. "Could we do this somewhere else? I—I mean go elsewhere? Right now?"

Hogan squinted at him. Carter stared right back.

Please, please, Colonel, he thought as hard as he could, as if Hogan could read actually minds – sometimes he could make a fellow believe he could. I know I'm a goof and I mess things up sometimes, but right now I'm dead serious and I need you to believe me!

Hogan's appraisal seemed to turn out in his favour, and he nodded slightly. Carter sagged with relief.

"Okay. Sandman, the information, please. Come with us, Flight Lieutenant; we'll sort out the rest later."

"Nobody goes anywhere." To Carter's dismay, Sandman pulled a gun and pointed it straight at him. "Not until I'm sure he's not a traitor."

"Oh, for the love of…"

Carter found himself flanked with Newkirk on one side and LeBeau on the other, both glaring at the agent in surprisingly similar ways. Kinch didn't glare, but his calm, steady stare made where he stood perfectly clear.

Sandman glanced behind him, perhaps weighing the odds. Then he pulled the envelope from his jacket and handed it to Hogan.

"All right, all right. Here."

Hogan tucked the precious information inside his own jacket, nodded at Sandman, and signalled his team to make for the bridge. Carter sighed inwardly. Maybe this time would…

"Halt! Keine Bewegung!"

"RUN!" he screamed.

But they were too close.

It was slaughter. And this time, he saw everything.

Flight Lieutenant Hickman went down first when a bullet went straight through his head. The next second, Carter felt a blaze of pain explode in his knee and collapsed, breathless. When he could lift his head, he spotted LeBeau on the ground propped up against a tree, blood all over his left thigh, staring into the distance. Wait, thought Carter through the red haze in his head, that's not right… he faints when he sees blood, his eyes should be closed… A few feet further, Newkirk, his face ashen, was curled up on himself so tightly Carter couldn't see exactly where he was hurt; then he shuddered, relaxed, and lay very still, and Carter screwed his eyes shut. Only then did he realise that he was sobbing.

Kinch was nowhere to be seen, and Carter caught himself hoping someone would be left alive when this loop came to an end.

Please let it start all over again. Please.

The thought that this might be it, combined with the sight of LeBeau's and Newkirk's bodies, made Carter grab a nearby root and violently throw up. When he looked up again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Colonel Hogan was on his knees with his hands behind his head, staring defiantly at the Gestapo men who held him at gunpoint.

A few yards away, Sandman was apparently attempting to talk himself out of this situation; Carter vaguely saw him handing a paper to a soldier. But he only had eyes for Hogan.

Hogan, whose eyes found him lying in the ferns, and who mouthed "Run!"

After a heated debate with himself, Carter started to crawl away, almost passing out with pain at every movement. Everything was spinning, so he kept close to the ground, not stopping even when a single gunshot behind him left him shaking madly and almost crying out…

Until he reached the river bank, and saw two Gestapo come back to the group, dragging Kinch's limp body between them.

Everything was lost.

Carter let go and fell down… and down…

He was unconscious before he hit the water.

Plop… plop.

"Wake up, Carter!"

Oh thank God.

They were all there, alive, unscathed – no bullet wounds, no sightless eyes. The absolute nightmare of the last "loop" came crashing down on Carter, who had to suppress a wild urge to wrap Kinch, Newkirk and LeBeau in one bear hug, and shake the Colonel's hand like mad. As it was, he wiped his eyes as discreetly as he could and answered Newkirk with a vague "I'm fine."

Which of course made Newkirk watch him more closely. But that was all right.

Carter was so relieved to see them walking, breathing, living, that the afterthought didn't hit him till after they crossed the bridge.

What was that paper Sandman showed the Gestapo?

The more he thought about it, the more his suspicion grew. What if Sandman had actually been stalling when he accused him of being a mole? What if…

Well. One way to find out.

When Sandman emerged from his bush, Carter pounced on him and clamped a hand on his mouth. The guy twitched and jerked so viciously it made his teeth rattle.

"Sorry," he said, and he meant it. "Colonel, I know it sounds kinda crazy, but I think this guy's not on the level."

"Mffrmmfm…!"

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"

"Wait a minute, Carter," said Hogan. "This is serious stuff. What makes you say that?"

"Fmvvhf."

"Well, that's rude." Carter jerked his chin toward Sandman's jacket. "He's got a paper in his pocket in case we meet a German patrol."

Sandman looked apoplectic. At Carter's last words, though, he went quite still. He didn't even flinch when Hogan slowly reached for the inside of his jacket and pulled an envelope.

"No, not that one – that's the troop movements between Hammelburg and, uh, Düsseldorf. Or it's supposed to be, anyway."

Sandman glared up at him, still purple in the face, with eyes that would probably pop out if they bulged any further.

Hogan ripped open the envelope and skimmed through the contents. And frowned.

"Funny. Says here that the 5th Panzer Army passed two miles north of Hammelburg two weeks ago."

"Didn't they capitulate in North Africa last week?" Kinch asked quietly with an odd look at Sandman. Newkirk and LeBeau stared open-mouthed at Carter.

"They did. Now let's see the paper Carter was talking about."

Said paper turned out to be an Ausweis signed by Major Hochstetter, stipulating that its owner was Gestapo, and, if possible, that his cover should not be blown.

"Could be a fake, Colonel," Kinch pointed out.

"Yeah. This looks pretty damn close to Hochstetter's signature, though. Let's haul him back to camp, we'll sort this out there."

"Wait!" Carter had almost forgotten Flight Lieutenant Hickman. "Didn't Sandman say he had a flyer with him?"

Fortunately, Hickman came out from hiding and saluted sheepishly. "Is it a, er, bad time?"

"Not at all, Flight Lieutenant. We're open all hours," quipped Hogan. "Now let's go while the woods are Kraut-free."

Carter shivered. If they knew…

When the Gestapo patrol did barge in, this time they only found dirt and moss. Carter, Hogan, Hickman and the others watched them from bushes and under ferns. Carter still had a tight hold on Sandman, who had been blindfolded and looked much calmer. While it was nice not to feel like he was gripping a six-foot-tall wiggling pike, Carter had a feeling it was too good to last.

He was right.

Not three minutes after the Gestapo had passed them, Sandman tripped on something, pulling Carter down with him; the next thing Carter knew, the moonlight glinted on something metallic.

Sandman has a gun. Oh boy, I should have remembered that from last time!

No time for self-reproach. Carter jumped on the guy to try to wrest the gun from him.

He was so focused on wrenching the gun from Sandman's hands that the shot took him completely by surprise. They were both practically nose-to-nose, so he could plainly see the stunned look on his opponent's face – followed by a small, incredulous smile.

The agony hit him about one second later. He had the small satisfaction of seeing Kinch knock out Sandman with a brutal-looking blow before staggering and collapsing against Newkirk, who barely caught him in time.

"Carter! Andrew, what… oh n—"

"Andrew, look at me," Hogan said, and it was so very hard but Carter made an effort – it was the Colonel. He never gave an order unless he thought they could do it. "Look at me. You're going to be all right."

"T—trying," Carter managed to utter, but his world was going white at the edges and he was pretty sure the tang in his mouth was blood. Not a good sign.

"Hold on, Andrew," said Kinch quietly. His voice was thin, unsure, all wrong. "We'll get back to camp in a minute. Wilson'll patch you up."

LeBeau said nothing; his mouth was trembling too much. Carter couldn't see Newkirk behind him, but he could feel him shaking as he tried to put pressure on the wound – vaguely, as though it was someone else Newkirk was gripping. Not a good sign, either.

It's okay, he wanted to say, but the hole in his chest seemed to burn up all the air in his lungs. You're all fine, Sandman can't hurt any of you now, the Gestapo's gone… It's not even hurting so bad now… It's okay, really…

At least he would get something right this time…

"Halt! Keine Bewegung!"

No! No! They couldn't –

Carter breathed in, suddenly terrified. He didn't breathe out.

Plop… plop.

"Wake up, Carter!"

Oh, boy…

Carter never thought that repeatedly dying could be so exhausting. He felt sick, drained, and utterly fed up with the whole thing. How many times had he died already? How many times had the others? How could they return to normal time when he appeared the only one who noticed the loop? How could he end the cycle when there were so many ways for the situation to go horribly wrong?

Until now, he hadn't really wondered about the whys and hows. He had this chance of correcting something that ended in disaster, and he was grateful for that. But nothing he did ever worked.

One thing was certain, though: he had to stop Sandman, one way or another.

Carter considered himself a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, who rarely, if ever, got angry. It took a lot for fury to build up to a point where he was no longer content with just snapping at people. But once he reached boiling point…

That traitor got my friends killed. All of them. Several times.

Not again.

"Er, Carter? You all right, mate?"

He must look odd, all dark frown and set shoulders, and Newkirk must have noticed it. But he was past caring.

When Sandman turned up, Carter punched him. Hard.

There was a lot of things behind that punch; grief, guilt, righteous fury, the memory of blood on familiar uniforms and eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, every second of the nauseating panic he had felt each time he died…

The force of the blow lifted Sandman from the ground and he landed heavily on his back, unconscious.

Carter cradled his throbbing hand against his stomach, whimpering soundlessly. Why did it always look so darn easy in the movies?

"Carter!" said Hogan, visibly hovering between alarm and sheer befuddlement. "What the hell –?"

"Sorry, Colonel. But that guy's a Gestapo spy. Look."

He fished the Ausweis from Sandman's pocket and handed it to Hogan, who perused it, frowning, and handed it over to Kinch.

"Sure looks damming. But it could be a fake to get past patrols."

"Yeah, but – wait – there ya go." The false information followed, and Hogan's frown deepened.

"Okay, the 5th Panzer Army was nowhere near Hammelburg last week – and what's that about Colonel Fleisher being executed? He defected to the Allies last month, we put him on the plane to London!"

"If Sandman is a Gestapo spy, it makes sense that he'd try to feed us false information, right?" Carter asked, trying not to show how anxious he was. He had to get this one right. He had to.

He tucked Sandman's gun inside his bomber jacket and made a show of being at least a little surprised when he came face to face with Hickman behind his tree.

"Hi."

Hickman blinked. "Um, hello there."

Hogan pinched the bridge of his nose.

Introductions were made quickly, and everyone agreed to sort out everything back at Stalag XIII. They were almost at the bridge when the Gestapo patrol Carter kept expecting turned up, far enough to avoid detection; nevertheless, he insisted on waiting a little longer still.

When they were absolutely sure the patrol was far enough not to hear even a gunshot, they made for the bridge, Hickman half-carrying, half-dragging Sandman, who barely stirred.

Carter's hopes kept growing at each step he made. Maybe this was it. Maybe this time the timeline would stop starting again. No more screw-ups, no more mistakes, no –

There was a sharp thud and a grunt behind him. He whirled around in time to see Hickman doubled up in pain… and wheezed when Sandman plowed into him as though this was the World Series. Carter flailed, trying to regain both balance and breath, felt the bridge guardrail against his back, gripped Sandman's jacket –

And they both fell over into the river.

The murky waters swallowed him whole. Unable to tell which way was up, Sandman still clutching at him like a leech and dragging him down, Carter panicked. He kept trying to kick the bottom, like Newkirk and LeBeau had recommended when he had admitted he really couldn't swim, but couldn't find it.

The need to open his mouth and get some air was becoming overwhelming. Naturally, this was when Sandman elbowed him in the throat.

Carter made a keening noise only he heard and swallowed a great gulp of muddy water.

Bells rang in his ears, stars exploded before his eyes. Dimly he wondered how often one could see stars at the bottom of dark German rivers.

Then he sank into nothingness.

Squish… squish.

"Andrew! Wake up!"

Carter retched and spouted out about a gallon of water. It didn't feel enough, so he curled up on his side and tried to expel some more liquid. Then the voice broke past the rushing sound in his ears.

His first barely conscious thought was, We're still stuck.

His second was, No… wait.

Carter almost didn't want to wake up. He was in the floating, uncertain state between oblivion and consciousness, and as he slowly grew more aware, he knew which had his preference. His lungs burned, his ribs hurt like they had no right to, and he was shivering with cold.

He was also soaked through and through. That's a dumb thing to be when it's cold.

But the voice was insistent, urgent, and too familiar to ignore. Presently it was joined by other voices, tinged with the same quiver of… fear?

"Take it easy, Andrew. Slow breaths."

"Blimey, you weren't kidding when you said you couldn't swim!"

There was a hand on his back, rubbing gently, the soothing rhythm gradually easing his ragged gasps into more regular breathing. He managed to crack his eyes open and was treated to a sliver of dark sky and four anxious faces, as well as a collective sigh of relief. Both Newkirk and LeBeau were drenched, and Hogan and Kinch were covered in mud.

Hogan shook his head with a small smile. "You guys are gonna turn me grey before the war is over."

"Ça va, André?" LeBeau stared at him as though not quite sure Carter was really there. His voice wasn't too steady, and neither was Newkirk's when he cut across.

"Well, of course he's not all right. Probably swallowed his weight in water."

Kinch didn't say anything, and continued to rub Carter's back. It worked wonders, and Carter soon could breathe well enough to rasp, "S—Sandman?"

"Right there," Hogan said, pointing to a motionless form on the ground. "Hickman tried to revive him, but he was dead before we pulled him out."

"Cracked his head on a rock when he fell, probably," Newkirk added, not a twinge of sympathy in his voice. "He had a nasty wound on his head. Bled like sin. LeBeau almost fainted."

LeBeau rolled his eyes, but didn't comment.

Carter went cold all over. Did I kill that guy? How do I know I didn't?

Hogan seemed to read this in his face, and said calmly, "You fell, he fell – you got lucky, he didn't. It happens. Believe me, we're all very glad it's not the other way around."

It didn't make it all right, but it made it easier to face. At least right now.

Carter breathed out and allowed his tense, aching muscles to relax. He still didn't know what had gone wrong with the timeline, whether someone or something had been responsible, or whether it would ever happen again.

All he knew was that his friends were all alive and well, and that he had somehow managed to survive, too.

Maybe that was the whole point.

"Something that bugs me, Carter," said Newkirk thoughtfully on the way back to camp. "How did you know Sandman was a Gestapo spy in the first place?"

The question made everybody look back at him. Carter gulped.

Oh boy. Where do I start…?

Notes/translations:

"There are seven stories, as they are seven days of the week" is from Ole Lukøje, Hans Christian Andersen's tale of the Sandman.

Halt! Keine Bewegung!: Stop! Freeze/Don't move!

Hope you liked :o]