This isn't happening.
Steve lost track of how many times he repeated that exact statement for the last two hours. Because of his bad health (the fact that he passed the medical back in the US was a miracle in itself) he was supposed only to be a cartographer and an interpreter at the back of the front line. Away from combat, away from the fear of death. At first, he wasn't too pleased – after all, he signed up for the Army to fight the good fight. However, during his training he realized even people like him were crucial to the war effort.
It seemed like, however, the behemoth of war had other plans for Corporal Steven Rogers.
Of course, he didn't take part in the first wave of the landings. He landed in France two days after June 6th, but at that time he already knew how costly the success of the landings was. He heard the stories circulating at the back lines of the front about the slaughterhouse at Omaha and Ponte du Hoc and the chaos behind enemy lines for those from the 101st and 82nd Airborne. There were only two things that didn't make him shiver from fear – the fact that Bucky was (most probably) still alive and that he himself would be rather away from all the fighting.
The first reason was shaky, but highly believable. The second reason, however, was pretty much dead in the water right now.
The day started normally for his whole small unit. Their job was to prepare maps for the troops and High Command, as well as translate captured German communications and the messages relayed by the French Resistance. After a small breakfast, Steve was busy with translating some of the reports from the French, concerning the movements of German units around Cherbourg. He was just finishing up on the third message, when her heard a rummage outside the door to the room. Suddenly the door swung open, and two people entered – Steve's Commanding Officer and an Army Colonel. Steve and the rest quickly stood to attention. Silence lingered for a second before the commanding officer spoke.
"Rogers, pack your things, you are leaving."
Steve looked at the officer, confused.
"ROGERS! Are you deaf?" the commander shouted, making Steve gasp.
"No, sir, yes, sir." He responded quickly, grabbing the satchel he stored under the table. "Just… what is happening?"
"You're being reassigned. You will know everything when you get there. Now move your ass and stop wasting my time, for fuck's sake." the Colonel spoke, anger fuming behind his voice.
It was when they loaded him onto a jeep that the Colonel gave him an envelope. He tore it open and looked at the paper inside.
It was a reassignment paper, stating that "Corporal Steven G. Rogers to be reassigned immediately to the 66th Tank Regiment of the 2nd Armored Division under the direct command of Sergeant M. Carter".
Steve was fairly conflicted during his whole ride to the staging area where the Division was stationed. While he knew that signing up usually meant that he would see combat, he still liked his stint at the back, not having to dig foxholes to shelter himself from artillery or to shoot people, even. Through ought his ride, he saw the whole scope of the war – from bombed out villages and towns to burned out hulks of German tanks, destroyed German field guns or never ending convoys of field ambulances moving away from the front line. He deduced, that the 2nd Armored needed reinforcements to prepare for the inevitable assault on Cherbourg and that was the main reason of his reassignment.
Soon, they reached the staging area of the regiment. It was nothing more than a field near a forest, fenced off with barbed wire. He quickly observed the surroundings – a few tents erected in the center, rows of barrels of fuel and crates with supplies scattered around, a field hospital to the left and a small, fenced off are for the Prisoners of War to the right. The jeep dropped him off right near the biggest of the tents – the one reserved for the regimental command, most likely. He grabbed his satchel, and moved into the tent. Inside, he quickly became lost in the sea of officers and NCOs, running around all over the place. Suddenly, he felt someone's hand grip his shoulder.
"You're looking for something, fella?"
Steve turned his head to look at the man speaking to him. He was fairly tall, with blond hair and a slightly untrimmed beard. Steve looked at his cap and saw a single gold stripe. He immediately saluted and stood to attention.
"Corporal Steven Rogers, sir. I've been reassigned here" he said, handing over the letter to the Lieutenant before him. The officer studied it for a while, before handing it back with a smirk on his face.
"I have to say, command does have a sense of humor. You're under Marge's orders, she's probably on the other side, in the motor pool. Go look for her there."
"Yes, sir" Steve responded, saluting back and moving towards the back. As he walked, he suddenly realized, that the Lieutenant used the word "she" to describe this supposed " ". He wasn't sure whether it was a mistake or not, but he didn't think too much of it. Soon, he found himself in the motor pool, staring at the tanks, trucks and armored cars that formed the backbone of the unit. He must have been looking for too long, since suddenly he heard a voice from behind. It was distinctively female and with a crisp British accent.
"What are you staring at, soldier?"
He quickly turned around to look at the source. Now in front of him stood a woman, crossing her arms at her waist. Her brown hair was wavy, but not too long, only extending up to the shoulders. Her face was slightly dirty, although Steve was still able to spot faint traces of a crimson lipstick on the lips. She was dressed in a standard uniform, although she draped a leather jacket with the unit's insignia sewn onto the sleeves over it, as the day had been fairly cold for June. She spoke to him again, the gaze from her brown eyes piercing him right into the core.
"What are you doing here? I don't have all the time in the world, you know, there is a war to win."
"Umm, I'm Corporal Rogers, I've been assigned here today." he said, extending the hand with the piece of paper. The woman quickly stepped forward and grabbed it from him. She studied it for a second, before muttering something that sounded like For fuck's sake under her breath and giving the slip back to Steve. She spoke again, her tone tinted with annoyance.
"I'm Sergeant Margaret Carter, although you can call me Peggy. Now that we have introductory crap out of the way, tell me – how long are you in the army?"
"Seven weeks, ma'am" Steve answered, truthfully. She sighed quietly before continuing.
"Have you ever shot a gun?"
"Only in basic training ma'am, and I was a pretty lousy shot." Steve said, lowering his head. He looked up and saw a tinges of both disappointment and grief in Peggy's eyes.
"Ever seen a tank before?" she continued her interrogation, her voice more neutral now.
"Only from the outside, when they loaded us up in England."
She sighed again, this time a bit more loudly. She quickly pulled out a cigarette from her jacket pocket and lit it up with a lighter she produced in her other hand. She took a big whiff before releasing it and speaking again.
"Follow me, Steve. Can I call you Steve, actually?"
"I have no problem with that ma'am."
They walked for a moment, before they came up close to one of the tanks. Steve recognized it as an M4 Sherman, but this one looked different from the ones he saw in England – the gun barrel was longer and had a muzzle brake at the end, and it had an additional Browning M2 machine gun installed on the turret. The turret was a bit different from the ones he saw as well.
"This is your new home, Steve" Peggy said, breaking the silence between them. "The 'Nona's Fun Box'. Make yourself comfortable and meet the rest, but don't get too attached. I'll be back later."
She quickly turned around, heading towards the command tent. Steve stood there for a second, observing her. After that he moved closer to the tank. Suddenly, a head popped out of one of the hatches. It was of a moustachioed man, with short, dark hair and a face covered with grease and dirt. He turned his head, and when he saw Steve, he let out a whistle.
"Well, look who we have here! New meat!" he said loudly, climbing out of the tank and taking a few steps to be at arm's length from Steve. He extended his hand, as did Steve. After the handshake, the man spoke again.
"I'm Howard Stark, driver and mechanic extraordinaire! You must be the new bow gunner, right?"
"I guess so." Steve said, his voice far weaker than he expected. "Steve Rogers."
"Alright, Stevie, I could bore you here talking about how I keep this machine running 24/7 without everything going FUBAR on us, but there's still two people you have to meet. Follow me!" he said, gesturing enthusiastically.
Then two other heads popped up from the hatches in the turret. The two other crewmen quickly made their way down and introduced themselves.
"Edwin Jarvis, gunner." The taller man said, in a British accent similar to Peggy's.
"Dum Dum Dugan, loader" the second man said, sporting a healthy moustache and a slightly rounder physique.
"So," Howard spoke again "Did Peggy there give you any pointers on what to do now?"
"No, she had to go to the big tent" Steve answered. "She didn't say anything."
"Yes, there is a meeting there with the commanders, probably a new mission abounds." Jarvis interjected.
"That's good, actually." Dum Dum said, with a smirk. "I have to grab some more ammo and jerry cans for us. You two can handle Steve here just fine, right?"
"Sure thing, pal." Howard answered. "Stevie, grab a bucket of water and a washcloth, the guy before you left a bit of a mess after himself. You'll clean it up."
Steve sighed, but he didn't want to annoy his new crewmembers. Soon, he was back with a bucket and a fairly clean piece of cloth. He left the bucket on top of the hull, before descending into the tank with a moist cloth. Inside, he was instantly hit with a dizzying stench – a mix of cordite, unwashed bodies and stale air. He coughed a few times, feeling his stomach lurching up towards his throat. With a few deep breaths, he managed to calm the feeling down, as he set about cleaning. Soon, however, he realized what exactly he was cleaning up. He suddenly smelled iron when he moved the cloth over a red stain. He knew that smell far too well.
Blood.
And then he spotted some small white fragments on the floor mixed a bit with something that looked like Jell-O.
Oh fuck.
Suddenly, he coughed up, feeling his stomach rebel against him again. Then, he heard Jarvis speak, his voice slightly distressed.
"Mr. Rogers, if you do wish to let your stomach evacuate, could you please do it outside?"
Steve didn't wait any longer – he lurched up through the hatch and to the side, letting his head slump down over the ground below him as he vomited. After what felt like an eternity, the stomach revolution stopped, and Steve slumped down, feeling dizzy and tired.
Fucking bollocks.
That was the first thought that ran through Peggy's mind as she exited the debrief. She was, of course, used to the fact that men wouldn't treat her as an equal and would much rather see her as a secretary in the tent and not a tank commander on the front line. But something about today's briefing infuriated her even more. It wasn't so much Dooley again, shitting his pants because he thought that the only tank the Germans used was a Tiger, but that smug little twat Thompson trying to chalk up her concerns about the proposed assault plan as her "lady's issues".
I didn't fight in Africa and Italy to be schooled by fuckwits that can't tell a barrel from the breech. She thought, reaching for a small flask she filled with some bourbon that Stark managed to acquire from God knows where. She took a gulp, alcohol burning her throat and soothing her nerves. She looked at the flask again – a metal one, with the German eagle holding a swastika in his claws and an inscription below it.
MEINE EHRE HEIßT TREUE
Peggy smirked. Maybe the honour of the first owner of the flask really was loyalty, but the fact that he was missing his head when Peggy found it in his pocket made any attempt at conversation rather difficult. She turned around to look at her tank just to see Steve lurch up and vomit onto the ground. She covered her face with her hand, scowling.
Bloody hell, why does it have to be so fucking difficult.
She didn't even know when she was back by the tank, looking up at Steve.
"I sincerely do hope so that it didn't start inside."
"No, Peggy, I managed to hold it" he answered, his voice weak and ragged.
"Good, Krzeminski made enough of a mess down there already, the bastard." She spoke again, her tone slightly annoyed again. "Let this be a lesson for you, Steve – don't get distracted when the hatches are open."
"I'll try to remember that." He answered, with a slight fear in his voice.
"Good." She responded. "Finish up and then we'll eat something. We'll be moving out at 0100 hours, so not a lot of rest tonight I'm afraid."
Steve heard Howard groan.
"Shut it, Stark." Peggy responded immediately. "Jarvis, how are we on ammo?"
"Fully stocked, on the gun and all the machine guns, Ms. Carter" he answered.
"Good. You'll teach Steve here how to use his gun when he cleans up, I have to go over the plan again" she said, sinking down in the seat inside the tank, with a clipboard on her lap.
"Of course, Ms. Carter" Jarvis replied.
He didn't know why, but Steve felt relief fill him. He didn't know what the future would bring, but now at least he had someone he could rely on.
And that was a feeling that soothed his nerves the most.