7. Man With a Plan

Dear Bucky,

The upside to being Captain America is I'm seeing more of America than I thought I'd ever hoped to see. It's a new city every few days, and a new state every week, at least. I'm seeing those amber waves of grain. Lots, and lots of amber waves. The plains stretch on for miles, farther than the eye can see; I can almost imagine them going all the way to California and dropping off into the Pacific ocean. I suppose there must be purple mountains somewhere though. I wonder if I'll get to see those or if there will be a sudden and pressing need to send Captain America off to fight the good fight. We can only hope, right?

I'm riding this bus and staring at the endless farmlands and trying not to read the newspapers. One of the girls got a letter hand-delivered to her right before our Chicago show. The chorus line was one dancer short that night, and I think they're looking to replace her while she goes home to Jersey to plan her husband's funeral. I'm afraid that any article I read, any newsreel I see, will have bad news about the 107th. I'd never forgive myself for not being there. That's the other perk of being Captain America, I suppose, they deliver my letters post-haste. Anything for their star-spangled man, right?

I'm getting better at my lines; the shield is just for looks now, and you wouldn't believe your eyes if you saw me talking to those crowds. Remember when Ms. Simpson made us memorize Shakespeare? You and Mary Smith did the Romeo and Juliet balcony scene, and I thought Mary was going to swoon by the end of it. I mean, half the girls in the class did. Then I got up and did that monologue from Julius Caesar. Or, I tried to. I forgot the lines, stuttered, and ended up getting a D on the assignment, only because Ms. Simpson pitied me because I'd been out sick with the flu. No one wants to fail a kid who could keel over and die in class, right?

This is a far cry from Shakespeare, but I suppose no one really wants to hear "to be or not to be, that is the question," when there are so many other questions that need answering. And right now people want to be entertained; they want to know that they're doing something to help. Senator Brandt's aide spends most of the bus rides between cities calculating bond sales and percentages and such and apparently bond sales are up quite a bit in every state we visit.

My lines are pretty good, and I've even started improvising a bit (aren't you proud? The guy who couldn't think on his feet save… well at least his 9th grade English grade), and the song's catchy; it's stuck in my head most of the time. But the one line that keeps coming back and giving me pause is "the star-spangled Man with a plan".

I can't argue with the star-spangled part; I'm essentially a walking American flag. It's the 'with a plan' part that I have to stop and think about. I get out there on stage and talk about the importance of buying bonds; the band plays and the chorus sings about how I'm protecting the American way, and ready to take out the Nazis; but it's another night, another show, another jump in bond sales. I don't have a plan. Senator Brandt has the plan, but he's a politician in a suit. Me, I'm Captain America; who are they going to listen to more?

Is this what the army's like, for real, Buck? People above you making plans that don't make sense, but insisting that they do? Going out on a limb, risking everything, on plans that other people made? Hoping for the best, hoping there's a contingency in case the plan doesn't work out?

I knew I was taking a risk when I signed on for the project; I know I'm taking a risk by defying Colonel Phillips. I'm trying to do what Erskine would have wanted me to do. I never told you, the night before the procedure he made me promise to remain "not a perfect soldier, but a good man." And before he died he pointed to my heart. I'm trying to be a good man and a good soldier; can a person be both? You were always a good guy, Buck. You had my back and got me out of a dozen back-alley brawls. Yes, I'm underestimating, don't roll your eyes. You always looked out for the little guy, and not just me. And now you're fighting the Nazis. Are you still a good man, or has the war changed some of that? Can we get through the war with our goodness still intact?

Somehow I don't think anyone's made a plan for that. The plan seems to be win the war, and by any means necessary. I'm afraid of what that means in the long run. What will we give up to achieve that? I'm selling bonds right now, but how long until they ask me, or any of us, to sell our souls?

Sorry to get melancholy on you, but I've been staring at the grain fields for too long, and it's getting late and there is an unread newspaper on the seat next to me. We're on to the next city, the next state, and I have no grand plans of my own. Except maybe a nap. If you were here I'd bet you a dollar that when I woke up, I'll still be seeing corn fields.

Miss you, jerk. Even if we're not really in a position to make our own plans right now, maybe you can at least plan to stay alive through this. If anyone is stubborn enough to do it, you are. Well, maybe I am, too. But right now, I'm going to get some rest that I probably don't deserve, and definitely didn't earn.

Sincerely yours,

The Star-Spangled Man With a Plan (or, Stevie)