In The Foxhole
Author's Notes: Content Warning for graphic depictions of wartime violence, combat, and battlefield injuries.
In The Foxhole (A Soldier's Poem): "A prisoner-of-war came into possession of the following poem written in Normandy by an unknown soldier. The P.O.W. sent it home to England" and it subsequently was published by a Canadian hospital ship named Letitia in 1945. [sic] ( /2016/03/25/in-the-foxhole-a-soldiers-poem/)
My shoulders sag 'neath this heavy gun,
And my body is weary with pain,
And my whole tortured being cries out
For rest and release, but in vain.
Please give this poem a read if you have a chance!
Homosexuell is spelled as such to denote the German spelling of the word.
"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" Steve's voice sliced through the gunfire surrounding them as bullets pinged off his shield in a deadly hailstorm, embedding into nearby walls and bodies, the ricochets audible from even a hundred feet away. His voice carried, deep and recognizable, and they heard him. They heard him, but nobody moved.
The Commandos were pinned down.
The stench of blood and opaque clouds of dust clogged Bucky's senses. The mid-August heat made everything worse, rotting bodies swelling in the unrelenting sun, fires burning unchecked by rain. Bucky pressed against the whitewashed plaster wall on the eastern side of the street, sidearm out, and held a keening Dugan close, the reek of copper wafting from Dugan's ruined leg.
The Y intersection on the Rue Saint-Jean was thronged with enemy infantry. The Commandos were barely a few hundred feet from the Pont de Vaucelles, the hard-won Orne river at their backs, and already they were at an impasse. Carter had nailed home the need to reach l'église Saint-Jean de Caen, but it was impossible to get through on either side of the Y. Infantry blockaded one side, a fortified warehouse and the endless battering of a machine gun blocked the other, and more reinforcements were piling in by the moment. It was too much, even with Captain America in the lead.
The man himself was in the middle of the western arm of the Y, fighting through foot soldiers, his red-and-white shield comically small to Bucky's eyes. Steve was barely visible, engulfed by swarming masses, dirt and gunsmoke. Bucky wanted to help, but there was no way to get to him, nowhere to set up the rifle slung across his back and clear a path.
"Steve!" Bucky shouted uselessly, voice lost amidst the earsplitting volleys. "Steve!" Dust stung his throat and choked him off. He fired toward the building and his service pistol jammed. He swore, adrenaline spiking, clear and sharp-edged as broken glass, and tightened his one-armed hold on Dugan, holding the man against his own chest.
The wall to Bucky's left suddenly spit out a burst of plaster, kicked out by a shot that missed by inches, and he ducked, gasping. Dugan let out a strangled noise, and Bucky couldn't force himself to look at his friend's thigh.
"Leave me! Sarge, go, GO!" Dumdum groaned, his face and ginger mustache white with shattered plaster, streaked through with tears and sweat.
"Shut up!" Bucky snapped back. He shoved his pistol into his holster, panting. "No man left behind!"
From across the street, Gabe broke away from his own and dashed toward them, leaping over rubble like a track star even with his kit and machine gun weighing him down. He dipped down beside Bucky to take some of Dugan's weight. "I'm here, Sarge!"
"I've got him! Get me cover!" Bucky shouted.
Gabe nodded quick, his face coated in the same dust, sweat carving lines down the sides of his dark cheeks. He pivoted, swung the machine gun harnessed to his body up and hit the trigger. Bullets sprayed the triangular point of the wall that divided the Y, the stream deafening, Gabe vibrating as continual gunfire smashed through windows and rained glass down into the street.
It didn't stop the assault. Another shot struck the wall too close to Bucky's head, the bullet rushing past his ear. A sniper then, but a bad one, or one in a hurry. Why the rush? They couldn't go nowhere. Bucky's breath cut into his own lungs, stabbed as he struggled to move them to safety. Dugan was an anchor and Bucky was drowning. He wasn't gonna make it. The next bullet had his name on it, the sharp and silent punch and he'd never reach Steve.
A large shape suddenly whizzed past. Bucky shied back, terrified it was a grenade before his eyes tracked the gleaming upward arc and recognition dawned. Steve's shield.
The bright metal glinted in the sunlight and struck a target on the third floor window up above them. A scream echoed through the intersection as the sniper was struck and tumbled over the windowsill, his footing lost. The shield bounced back on its returning route and Steve darted past, snatching the shield from the air.
Jim and Frenchie appeared at Bucky's side, their hands scrambling to take hold of Dugan, each one of them grabbing one of his legs and lifting. Blood dripped from the wound into the street, coated Jim's hands.
"I got him —" Bucky tried.
"Bullshit, Sarge! Give us the plan, what are we doing?!" Jim yelled.
Steve planted himself beside Gabe, covering him with the shield as the pair held off the enemy all on their own, burning through bullets as if they were free. That wouldn't last long. From the northwestern arm of the Y, an ominous rumbling came.
"Retreat! Back to the river, we have to regroup!" Bucky shouted.
Suddenly Steve whirled and yelled something, flung a gesture southward down the long stretch of the Y toward the bridge, but he was too far and Gabe was still firing.
"I can't hear you!" Bucky yelled, arm flexing madly, waving at Steve, trying to bring him in. "Come on, come —!"
Bucky heard the high-pitched whistle first, distinctive above the noise of everything else, and seconds later the deafening boom that stole the air from his lungs and knocked the ground from beneath his feet.
They were being shelled.
Bucky was weightless, flying. He slammed into something hard, the stop jarring, teeth snapping down and biting his tongue. He struggled to breathe, blood in his mouth. His ears rang, noises only dogs could hear, and the world spun in slow motion, Dugan's weight pinning him to the ground where they had fallen. Opening his eyes, he struggled to push Dugan off his legs as the building to his left groaned, bricks shifting. He gaped upward, and the entire thing toppled over like a tsunami, a crushingly solid wave of debris and ruin roaring down. He slammed his eyes shut and threw himself over Dugan's head, sure they were dead.
But there was Steve. The entire weight of the building had come down on them, but Steve was there with his shield, standing over them and blocking the worst of it. Stray bricks and rocks cascaded off of him, sloughed off to either side in huge piles.
And then he was gone again, and Bucky could see brown boots running towards him from where he sat on the ground, dazed. Beyond the fallen wall, bodies lay prone in the streets, smears of red and clumps of thicker things spread across every surface that could no longer be ignored now that he was so close.
Time seemed to catch up to itself in a rush. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him off of Dugan. He struggled, shouting and flinging his fists to fight off whoever was hauling him away, but Jim swam into his field of vision, seized him and yelled something Bucky couldn't understand. Jim, not the Germans, not Hydra.
"What? Jim —"
Dugan rolled onto his side, coughing hard, his body shaking.
"Pick him up, all together," Bucky ordered. His voice sounded faint and tinny in his own ears. He pushed off Jim's support and reached for Dugan's vest.
Another terrible boom filled the air, shaking the ground and raining debris from ruined buildings. Frenchie and Dernier crowded in, and then Steve and Gabe entered Bucky's line of sight, running towards them, stumbling as a third explosion shook the ground and rattled the cobbles.
Beyond them, Panzers crawled into view past the point of the Y.
"Baise-moi," Frenchie whispered succinctly.
"We gotta get back to the river!" Steve yelled. "Go!"
Bucky crouched and pulled at Dugan, desperate, and a moment later both he and Dugan both were hefted upwards by Steve's incredible strength. Steve propped Bucky on his feet and gave him a push as he threw the wounded Commando over his shoulder. "C'mon, Buck, move it!"
Bucky broke into a clumsy run, falling in with the other Howlies as the ground bucked like the ocean during a storm, the terrible whistling and earth shaking explosions nipping their heels. Morita was ahead of him but staggering like a drunk, and Bucky rushed to wrap his arm around Jim's waist.
Jim's weight sagged into him all at once and Bucky and Steve matched again, side by side, each supporting one of their wounded men as they hauled ass down the street, climbing over the ruined walls and collapsed mountains of rubble, dodging the burnt-out husks of cars and the slippery sprawled carcasses of men. A stitch like a hot knife was slowly building in Bucky's side.
"Almost there!" Steve glanced back, strong voice carrying. "Keep going!"
Bullets reappeared with the single-minded viciousness of angry wasps, chased them through the air, hissed and exploded into nearby walls and the cluttered street, chips of stone dancing at impact.
"Here! Over here! I found someone!" Monty gestured from the head of the group and veered off the street, ducking around a building.
They followed blindly after him, Bucky's breath ragged, the pain in his side stealing his concentration. Was it help? Was that even possible?
"We need a medic!" Steve shouted preemptively.
The moment Bucky dragged Jim around the corner, his spirits sank. "No."
The front of the structure faced the street. It had seemed miraculously upright and solid, but it was a facade. The back of it revealed the truth. Surrounded on all sides by rubble was a fox hole, a tiny barricade made from collapsed ruins and reinforced with whatever scraps the soldiers huddled in it could find. It sloped down from the second story, a small hill of busted brick and stone.
The soldiers, about a dozen in all, wore flat helmets and brown uniforms with the word 'Canadian' on a patch on the shoulder. They were filthy with blood and worse. Some were prostrate with exhaustion, though Bucky realized as he got nearer that the unlucky soldiers at the top of the rubble pile with guns at their sides were not holding the defense, but dead. Slumped over the mound of wreckage while their comrades in arms hid cowered at their feet, clutching their rifles.
The rest of the Commandos tumbled in and dropped down beside the terrified squad of soldiers. At their arrival, the troops shot them looks that rivaled those of children sighting Santa Claus.
"Sir!" An acne-riddled soldier saluted and stood at attention before Bucky could grab him by the shoulders and pull him down into a low crouch. The soldier's helmet already had one ding from being hit, Bucky didn't want to watch the man earn another. "Corporal Frank Greer! 3rd Infantry!"
"Who's in charge here?" Steve asked Greer.
A shell exploded mere yards from where they were, leaving a smoking crater in the cobblestones, a shower of dirt and pebbles raining down on them. Corporal Greer crouched lower, clutching his helmet as he yelled back, eyes shut tightly closed, voice cracking, "I am, Sir!"
"Jesus Christ." Bucky hunched over, suddenly understanding that this small group of men were all that was left of their original muster, and the most senior officer they could summon was a twenty-something corporal. "Look — I'm Sergeant James Barnes, and that's Captain America. You want to live, you follow us!"
"Siryessir! Company, form up on Captain America!"
Another shell whistled overhead, an explosion shaking the remains of the building, and all the soldiers, even Steve, ducked in closer to one another.
"Steve, we gotta get across the river," Bucky said, leaning in close to be heard, gaze flicking over the beaten-down group. "We gotta retreat."
"I know, but Dumdum won't make it like this. We've got to dress his leg before we can move, he's lost too much blood," Steve replied, a deadly serious set to his jaw. Bucky knew that look. It was the look Steve had every time he was willing to fight against impossible odds. It didn't matter these weren't back alley thugs anymore.
"The hell he will! You're going to carry him across the bridge and get him to the field hospital or he really won't make it! Nothing we do for him is going to matter if we all get shelled!"
"It's a minute, that's all, we owe it to him —"
"Jesus, the both of you, like you're goddamn married!" Dugan shouted, his voice gruff and pained as he fumbled to seize Steve's hand, squeezing tightly enough even Steve noticed. "I'm not dead yet, but we're all gonna be if we don't get the fuck out of here! Just carry me, Captain, I ain't too proud for it!"
Suddenly a spray of bullets cut a line across the bodies at the top of the debris pile. Rubble and blood spilled out and down around their feet.
"Steve! We gotta go! You get Dugan. Gabe, get Jim!" Bucky ordered. "The rest of you, get ready to move!"
"We're not going to make it! There's too much fire!" one of the Canadian soldiers yelled, eyes huge and panicked.
"We're gonna be fine, just keep close!" Steve called back. He looked at Bucky, expression still serious, but a question glimmered in his eyes.
Bucky nodded once. He turned toward the front-facing part of the fox hole, the parapet lined with bodies and debris, and climbed up it. Keeping low, he dared a peek over the edge. Bullets exploded against the edge and he slid back down to Steve in a rush, the rubble rough against his flank.
"We got company coming. Ground force, that infantry you tussled with, they're heading up the tanks," Bucky relayed. He unslung his rifle and checked the clip, then slid it back home.
Steve got to his feet, crouching low, Dugan across his shoulders. "We're going to have to fight our way out. I'll go first, shield Dugan and draw their fire —"
Bucky snapped a bullet into the chamber, glaring. "That's crazy, Rogers. You take Dugan and Jim across the bridge with everyone else! I'm staying here and covering your retreat."
Steve made a cutting gesture with one gloved hand. "Bucky, no! I'm not leaving you, you'll get killed if you stay here. What happened to the end of the— ?"
"This isn't the end of the line! Just go! You're wasting time, I'm gonna be right behind you!"
"Now or never!" Dernier cut in. "Any closer, and we won't make the bridge!"
Bucky nodded, getting to his feet. Steve wanted to argue, but Bucky didn't give him the chance, turning to scramble up the ruined wall once again and throwing himself down between the bodies of two unlucky soldiers.
"Go!" Bucky yelled over his shoulder as he pulled his rifle into position. He didn't look back again, but he could hear the men behind him. Rubble skittered down the slope, men called to one another as they hurried down to the street, and Bucky drew a deep breath. Shots pinged off the flesh-and-stone parapet, lodged into the barrier beside him. He could see the German soldiers and their tanks crawling down the street, see their guns raised, barrels pointed at his friends. His best friend.
He exhaled. Lungs empty, Bucky pulled the trigger.
A German fell, facefirst and faceless.
Inhale, refocus. Exhale. Squeeze.
Another German hit the damaged cobblestones. Then another. The rifle could dish out twenty shots per minute, but he didn't have twenty bullets.
The soldiers realized what was happening as the third man dropped. They didn't slow, but they were looking for him now, their attention drawn away from the others heading for the bridge and focused on him, on the sole remaining face of the building.
Breathe in. Sight through the scope. Exhale. Squeeze.
A bullet thunked just a half foot below him into the mounded debris. More shots followed. Bucky didn't let himself notice. He had a job to do. Seconds wasted refocusing were seconds that could mean life or death.
The march began to separate, come apart in the front. No-one wanted to walk into a sniper's range.
Breathe in. Exhale. Squeeze.
He dropped a fifth man in a spray of blood, and the clip was empty.
The Panzer was closer, the tiny pebbles vibrating loose on his gory parapet, and Bucky could no longer hold himself or his gun steady. He flung himself off the ruined wall, clutching his rifle as he tripped down the broken slope and hit the street. At the end he could see Steve and the others running for the bridge. The far bank of the Orne was still held by Allied forces, if they could just get there.
Bucky dumped the empty clip from his rifle. Fumbling with his free hand at his belt, he pulled another clip free and ducked behind a columned archway to slam it home. He peered around the column at the advancing soldiers. No time for quick and clean. Bucky fired, a man staggered and fell though Bucky couldn't tell where he'd hit. Didn't matter. Down was down.
A shout went out. He was spotted.
But the two soldiers in front stopped to get their fallen friend, yelling to each other over the shells and the gunfire. Bucky understood none of it as he turned his back, using the distraction, running before the group could recover.
He was almost to the promenade at the river's edge. One hundred feet to the bridge. One hundred yards to Allied lines.
The whistling noise again. The awful roar of massive engines overhead.
The world was obliterated in bright light, heat and starbursts and an incomprehensible éclat of sound. Bucky hit the earth, and rubble fell all around him without the protective cover of Steve's shield, each piece heated and stinging like a Biblical hail of brimstone. He ducked his head beneath his arm until it stopped, shaking his head to clear it. Ears ringing violently, he squinted upward into the cornflower blue sky and his heart stopped. Beneath white cotton candy clouds the summer sky was dotted with planes crossing from East to West.
Those weren't tank shells. They were bombing Caen.
He was up again before he knew it, rifle heavy on his shoulder, something wet leaking down one side of his face. He could see down the wasted road now. He was closer than he had been, shaved that last hundred feet down to eighty.
But the bridge. The bridge was gone, vaporized as if it had never existed, and on the opposite bank he could see Steve; brave, courageous, stupid, beautiful Steve. His maddening first thought was that Steve was exposed. He needed to duck for cover, he was wide open. Bucky stumbled down the street like a drunkard, explosions like earthquakes around him, until he reached the edge of the wall blocking off the river for pedestrians. The water below was dark with oil, full of debris and ever-present dead.
"Bucky! Hold on, I'm coming for you!" Steve shouted across the distance, and though Bucky could hear nothing else, he heard that as clear as day. He watched as Steve started to climb over the railing, only to be grabbed by the soldiers from the Canadian troop. All of them were shouting, trying to pull him back, yet Steve shrugged off the half dozen men like they were nothing.
"No! Steve, don't—!" Bucky started to holler, but a familiar rumble of treads made him turn, and sank dread into Bucky's bones. He looked back, eyes widening in disbelief. The Panzers had arrived at last, several of them trundling out onto the ruined promenade like bloated insects over the corpse of the city. Their muzzles swung toward the remains of the bridge, aimed over Bucky's head at the brightest target.
At Steve.
"BUCKY!"
Bucky whirled, desperately waving a denial. "STEVE! GO! GET OUT OF HERE!"
Bucky knew he was echoing exactly what Steve had called to him once at Azzano, when there had been fire and impossible odds between them. But it wasn't just him and Steve. The others needed Steve more.
Steve stood on the busted barrier, distressed, torn. He knew Bucky was right, he must, nothing short of 'right' would make Steve pause like that. "NO! STAY THERE! I'M COMING TO GET YOU!"
Bucky looked behind Steve, prying his eyes away from his friend's frantic expression. Behind Steve, Bucky could see the others, their friends and brothers in arms. They were depending on Captain America to save them, but not even Steve Rogers could argue with a 75mm tank shell.
Bucky's gaze flicked back to Steve and, knowing he would see it even at this distance, tossed off the same salute Steve had signaled once to Bucky, stupidly, in the woods. Then he turned and broke into a run, back into the fast-crumbling city. He wouldn't give Steve the choice.
"BUCKY!" Steve's cry followed him as he ran, echoing over the water and stone.
Bucky didn't look back. He ran like the devil was on his heels, and for the heat of all the fires burning, the rattling of the earth as bombs fell, maybe the devil was. If he could reach another bridge he would be okay, he could get back to the Allied lines, find the Commandos and Steve.
His boots pounded over ruined streets. He rounded the smoldering ruins of a car, panting, soaked with sweat beneath his gear, and stumbled straight into a busted city square with a group of German soldiers at the other end. He skittered to a halt, rubble and rocks scattering, tripping on the loose ground. They were slower than he was. Voices raised in surprise, they grabbed for their weapons, swinging them around to aim too late. Bucky dove behind the car just as bullets peppered the other side of the vehicle, the metal frame shaking beneath the loud, clanging assault.
Crouching low, he reached for his pistol, praying the damn thing worked this time. He dared a look over the hood. They were shouting, gesturing to either side, and he didn't need to understand what was being said to know they had realized he was one man.
Two of the group dashed out from their own protection, heading towards him with rifles ready. Bucky sprang up, firing over the hood. He hit one man in the leg, thigh exploding as the man went down with an awful scream, but the other ducked behind a battered newspaper stand. More broke away from the group, their shouts sharper, nastier.
"Du Hurensohn! Schluss mit lustig!"
He cast around for some way out. The street was decimated, shops and apartments standing in every other lot, emptiness in between, a gap-toothed, rotting grin. The place behind him was missing half its windows, but it was still upright. Maybe luck hadn't deserted him yet.
Another explosion rocked the city, and the remaining glass on the street burst outward in a hail of shattered and sparkling fragments. The soldiers yelped and covered their heads, attempting to duck the rain of sharp glass, and Bucky seized his chance.
He bolted, throwing himself through the front door of the shop behind him. Shouting followed him, but he didn't dare stop as he tore through the destroyed storefront. The milk-glass light fixture over head exploded suddenly, and Bucky put on an extra burst of speed. He shoved past burned mannequins and fitting dummies, slipped on toppled evening gowns, marred silk and taffeta with his own filthy boots. It must've been a dress shop, but it was a small one. Spilled displays of white gloves covered part of the floor like surprising drifts of snow.
He vaulted over the rear counter and ran through the back of the shop, voices and footsteps behind him.
The back room was dark, little light at all save through a single high window, but through the gloom and choking dust, he spotted the back door.
He threw his weight against the thing, the force jamming his shoulder, shocking his arm numb as it splintered and dumped him out into the cluttered alley beyond, the remains of the door clattering onto the cobblestones. He ran to the end of the alleyway and tucked himself into a gutted doorway, listening.
Above him, a wooden sign declared the place to be a Cordonnier. Litter swirled at his feet, trash, burnt bits of papers and ash, but there were no more gunshots chasing him.
He looked up and down the alleyway, hands shaking as he holstered his sidearm and pulled his rifle around front to reload it. He could see out the mouth of the alley to the street beyond. No one ran past, but he didn't know who could be lurking inside any of the buildings. Civilians unlucky enough to be trapped here still, soldiers of any side trying to escape the hellfire all around them. It only took one good shot and his luck would run out; that was all it took for any of them, even Steve.
He drew in a slow breath, the dust overwhelming, the fear bitter. The Commandos had been trying to get to the church, to Saint-Jean de Caen. Zemo was to have taken it as his post. He would keep the place clear and break away from the fighting to meet Bucky in the back of the churchyard. It was critical information like always, and like always Carter wouldn't tell him what it was, but she'd stressed it was terribly important. Men would die if they couldn't get it. Sending Bucky on his own wasn't enough.
And despite all their effort, despite having Captain America on their side, they hadn't made it.
Now he was alone. He was on foot, exactly as they hadn't wanted, but he was one person and Caen was going to Hell in the fastest handbasket Bucky had ever seen. Nobody would expect one lone Allied soldier to be working his way inward. Why would they? It was suicide. Maybe he could slip through the cracks. Maybe he could reach the church.
Inside his breast pocket, the packet of German cigarettes felt like a lead weight. Zemo risked his life with every rebellious action, but he still took time to wrap up cigarettes like Christmas presents. Maybe that meant Zemo would still be there, like Bucky had been when Zemo had missed the train. Maybe Zemo was looking for him. Maybe Zemo was waiting.
Bucky dared to close his eyes for a moment, steadying his breath and slowing his racing thoughts. The maps they had pored over only just that morning blossomed behind his lids, detailed and labeled. Zemo's flowing, elegant handwriting so arching and graceful across the landscape of battle plans and fortified streets that Monty had clapped Bucky on the back at seeing it. "Well, I'll be! I thought you were leading us on about your contact being a woman!"
But he could see it clearly. The bridge where they had crossed the Orne initially, the dress shop he'd just crashed through, the shoemaker's shop he was standing beside now. He estimated he'd run maybe a full block towards the east. If he could press on only two blocks more and turn north, and if Zemo was in position, not blown windward like the Commandos, Bucky would find him.
He could still hear the rattling booms and thundering roar of shelling, the whine of engines overhead and gunfire close by. Any plan was easy when you boiled it down to its basic steps. Just cross two city blocks, turn north, and find Zemo.
Checking his side-arm over one last time, Bucky steeled himself and went to the mouth of the alley. Dead soldiers lay starfished in the streets, surrounded by cairns of rubble, and there was movement. A few streets to his left, Panzers were rumbling towards the Orne, flanked by infantry, but their focus was the path ahead, not behind. He could make it.
Bolting out from the cover of the alleyway, Bucky tore down the cobbled street, his boots pounding on the pavement. From all directions he could hear the explosions of artillery and from the left, the dreaded echo of tanks. The first street sign he saw, 'Rue de la Marine', was dented by bullets, but he was on the right track. He ran down the length of the street, and as he turned out onto the intersection of 'Rue de Havre' he could see the church looming in the distance, the bell tower and the cross high above the smoke.
He dashed over wreckage and the fallen alike to cross the street, his pistol held at ready as he ran for the gap between buildings. Another alley, this one much narrower. His heart pounded in his chest as he moved through, the sound of gunfire cracking nearby. The alleyway was barely passable, little more than a cattle chute. If someone saw him, there'd be no missing the shot. Every step was swallowed by dirt, mysteriously spared walls high on either side.
And then he turned, and one protective building vanished. The wall ended, completely razed, the broken bricks spilling into the alley like a cut bag of sand. The alley dumped him out into a wide, quiet avenue and the sweltering August sunlight. Through the lingering dust, he could see the church yard and the massive structure of St John's.
Off to the left, he spotted the group of gape-mouthed German soldiers at the same time they spotted him, all of them silent and staring in shock.
He recovered first.
He lifted his pistol and fired at the group before breaking from his meager cover, running pell-mell towards the church yard at an angle, keeping the soldiers on his left. A bullet hit the ground between his boots as he ran. He dared a glance, turned —
Another shot rang out and one of the soldiers dropped. A clean shot to the head.
He stared at his gun. He hadn't — How —
Another soldier hit the ground, a lifeless sack of blood, then another. The remaining three scrambled behind the piles of rubble that littered the streets surrounding the church, stayed down and swore aloud, but somehow Bucky was upright in the middle of the open space, targetable, yet still alive.
His gaze swung upward to the tower. Oh, God. He was saved.
Zemo.
He raced up to the church and slammed into the banded wooden doors. They held, barred from the inside, and a shot pinged off the brass, chipped a sliver of metal and cut his cheek. He scrambled over the fallen stones that littered the ground, crushing what had once been gardens beneath his boots and ran to the nearest window frame. They'd been soaring stained glass windows in another life. Now they were salvation of a different sort. He holstered his pistol and hauled himself up, kicking out the last of the jagged shards poking up from the bottom before pulling his body through.
He dropped down into the sanctuary of the church and readied his rifle. Muted sunshine streamed in through the ruined windows, and all across the floor the light caught on the thousands of shards of stained glass. A kaleidoscope of colors sparking in the light, and shaking with each bomb that dropped outside, glinting in the otherwise darkened sanctuary.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom as glass crunched beneath his boots, heading across the nave to where the stairs to the bell tower should be. Deja vu threatened to overwhelm him. Another church, another dark hideout, Zemo's cologne, cheap wine —
Footsteps scuffed in front of him.
He jerked his rifle up, finger on the trigger, the grey-green uniform in his sights. A few pounds of pressure, and —
"James!"
The name was a slap. Bucky spasmed, bloodless.
"Come, quickly," Zemo hissed, his voice panicked and breathy. He spun on his heel before Bucky could say a word, almost disappearing into the darkness of a hallway.
Bucky ran after him. The innermost corridors of the church were deafeningly silent. There were too many layers of stone, not even gunfire could pierce the sanctified silence, yet Bucky stumbled as another bomb shook the building, dust falling from the rafters above them.
"Where're we going?" he hissed.
"Longing," Zemo rattled off without looking at him. "Rusted, seventeen, day—"
"I know who you are!" Bucky snapped. "Answer me!"
Zemo still didn't look back at him, and Bucky wondered crazily if he did, what would happen? Would he turn to salt, like Lot's wife? Zemo had saved Bucky from the destruction of the city and led him now to safety, but at what cost to himself?
The hallway became stone stairs, worn dips in the center from the prayerful feet of thousands of pilgrims and priests. Bucky followed doggedly at Zemo's heels, flight after flight of steps, ignoring the burn in his thighs as they climbed in a circle, spiraled up until at last Zemo reached back, grabbed Bucky and dragged him the last few feet into the bell tower. Zemo whipped around again and slammed his weight against the door, throwing home the same thick wooden beam that had worked so well downstairs. Bucky didn't need to be told what to do. Together they grabbed whatever they could, heavy crates and stacks of old chairs, working in tandem to barricade the door.
And then Zemo's hands were on him, tugging at Bucky's filthy uniform, pawing at the dust that caked his face and fell from his hair, his helmet long gone. "James. You're bleeding. Are you hurt?"
In truth Bucky no longer knew, he had stopped paying attention to his body some time ago. Injury was irrelevant. If he could put one foot in front of the other, what did it matter if his feet bled or his head ached? All he could do was stare numbly at Zemo, the man's grip on his shoulders as tight as the brass bands on the church's double doors.
"James!" Zemo barked, shaking him hard.
"I can fight," Bucky answered, shocked out of his stupor.
Zemo studied him rapidly, dark brows coming together, then released him. "Good, I have ammunition, take up your rifle and stake the rear watch, I've done too much already, if they radio my position has fallen —"
"What?"
"I've shot at my own men! If they radio back to headquarters that the Allies have this post, they will bomb the church with us in it!" Zemo's accent was thicker, rushed. "We have to even the score."
"Even the — Oh. God." He shook his head, blood rushing in his ears as another bomb rocked the cathedral. The bell tower swayed, and Bucky staggered with the motion, horrified. "I can't shoot at my own men! I can't!"
"You must. James, don't you understand? You must."
Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but the look on Zemo's face was horrible and ashen and so unlike him that Bucky stopped, staring helplessly as understanding dawned. For maybe the first time in a long time, Zemo was not entirely in control. This was the way to regain it.
"Zemo," he said, willing his voice to be steady, rational, unyielding, "I can't shoot my own men. I'll do whatever else we gotta do, but not that."
Bucky turned and went to one of the empty windows and raised his rifle, scanning the city beyond, afraid to see Allied uniforms. It looked exactly how he'd imagined the inferno when Dante descended into hell. The fire, smoke, and chaos, endless pandemonium and bodies littering the ground while demons capered through the streets. "Did you mean what you said, about your braver friends' sacrifices? You don't want to honor them like —"
The flat snap of a gunshot echoed in the small room, deafening. Bucky started, but Zemo was already moving away from him, taking up a position at a window opposite. Bucky swung his scope and saw a new body dead in the street. Feldgrau and red.
Exhaling, Bucky took aim at the next gray-green target.
All around them men fell or fled, Axis with a killing shot and Allies in warning, their belltower too high for any but another sniper to hit it, and there were no other snipers. It was only him and Zemo, dispatching judgment over the city with every bullet.
They stood at the ready for hours. They took breaks only to lean against the solid walls, to drink what water remained in their canteens. Watch each other's sweat-soaked faces and hear their own hoarse breathing between the flat pop of shots below and the deafening eruption of Panzer fire. Bucky's hands started to cramp; his calves shook from the strain.
Any moment they'd be bombed. One radio message from the German lines, and he and Zemo would be little more than visceral fragments scattered amongst dust and stones. No more war. No more Steve.
The call — or the planes — never came.
Fewer and fewer soldiers approached. Night fell, and the streets grew quieter. The fighting became more distant, and those few explosions of light and sound further away, like shooting stars.
"James?" Zemo called finally, his voice parched and tired as Bucky felt.
Bucky drew back from the window, leaned against the wall and turned dry, red eyes on Zemo. "Still here."
"I'm afraid I have little ammunition left," Zemo stated, stepping away from his post. He slumped against the same wall, head back as if he could sleep standing up. "If we are attacked in the night, it would be wise to save some rounds for our own defense. We should rest."
Bucky was forced to take stock of himself. He was down to his last two clips. Ten shots. Eight for the enemy, two for ... "If I sit, I might not get up again."
"Unlike your friend, James, you are not Superman." Zemo slid down the wall, rifle cradled in his arms, and landed heavily on the floor with a groan.
"Didn't think Stevie was Superman, or if he is, he's holding out on us." Bucky forced his aching arms up and did a last scan through the scope of his rifle. The bombs had stopped falling an hour ago, and the bodies surrounding their tower warned others off. Targets were scarce, for once.
He slumped down at Zemo's side. His knees unlocked, rusted bolts forced to give, but he managed it, dropping his rifle and his kit to the side. He misjudged the distance and ended up shoulder to shoulder with Zemo, pressed close. The moment he stopped trying to be alert and hold himself together, exhaustion overtook him and his hands began trembling.
He couldn't say how far some of the shots he'd made had been. He could do the math in his head for wind speed and how far the bullet might fall over distance, but that was its own kind of sick joke, because he never had time for arithmetic during a fight. He shot on gut feeling and instinct, and he was good at it. He'd already sent one purple heart home to his Ma. At this rate, he'd have another if he survived.
He didn't want another medal. He didn't want to send another one home. Especially not ones a guy got for being good at killing.
"The propaganda reels they put out say he is Superman. Superman who will end the war, and save the world." Zemo's voice held no heat but rather something wistful. Like someone wishing Santa Claus was real after all. Like those Canadian soldiers.
"Sometimes I think Steve thinks he is Superman. Big idiot always picking fights he can't win. Back home my dad taught me how to box, and working the docks I got enough muscle I could back Steve up, but out here... Out here I can't pull him outta scrapes anymore."
"The reels say you and Steve were childhood friends, but it is hard to know what to believe."
"That part's true."
Zemo shrugged, an elegant ripple of motion despite his exhaustion. "Yes, well, the news reels exaggerate. Sometimes we officers joke if the news from Berlin says we have gained fifty kilometers of ground, we know we've lost fifty. If the Americans say they've gained one hundred kilometers,we know they've gained fifty."
Bucky lifted his eyebrows. "Pretty bleak outlook."
"We are at war. Perhaps if Superman were here to fight, it wouldn't be so bleak."
Bucky wondered if maybe Superman swooping into this war with his cape fluttering wouldn't be worse. Another weapon to end lives. What was the point? They'd tried to make Steve into a weapon and failed, if only because Steve himself was too human. He wasn't a Kryptonian with heat vision eyes and bullet proof skin, he was Steve Rogers. Even with muscle, strength, and a spandex suit he was only human in a war bigger than any of them.
"Well... Superman might be out there, but he ain't gonna bring you food." He dug through his pack, bypassing his journal and clothing and the socks with the pocket watch to find the hidden D rations he kept squirreled in the bottom. The waxy things had a sour taste that lingered in his mouth, but the bars were like gold with other soldiers. Right now, it didn't matter what they tasted like. They were food. He pulled two out and offered one to Zemo. "Here."
"...Thank you." Zemo unwrapped the candy and took a bite. His mouth twisted, but he took another bite as if someone had dared him and he wasn't going to back down. "I've never tried one of these. Do Americans like them?"
Bucky laughed tiredly. "I hate 'em, but enough people like 'em they're worth saving."
The silence stretched as they ate, with only the rustling of the foil chocolate bar wrappers to break their quiet reprieve from the fighting. Bucky choked down a third of it before laying it in his lap and looking over at Zemo. They couldn't risk a light. The moon shone in the windows, but shadow hid the features of Zemo's face. The furrow of his brow was a darker shadow against the rest; his hair had fallen across his forehead and dust clung to his skin. His uniform was sweat-soaked and dirty, but Bucky was sure he himself looked just as bad, probably smelled worse.
"You coulda shot me," Bucky said at last into the silence. "You had me dead to rights, I know you did."
Zemo lowered his chocolate bar. The quiet stretched out until Bucky thought Zemo wasn't going to answer, but Zemo did, voice low.
"When I saw you, I had a moment to decide if I would kill you and maintain my position. I had hoped you would leave before I had to make the choice. It was too risky to meet with you. But my spotter, a boy named Arnold from Hanover, he knew you. So excited, Bucky Barnes in our line of sight, the medals we would get." Zemo paused. "I killed him."
Bucky stared at the darkness, the negative space that made up Zemo. "... Did he see it coming?"
"I was fast," Zemo said. He wasn't looking at James, but at the chocolate in his hands. "He didn't suffer. You didn't leave."
"I didn't have a choice." Bucky replied, but it sounded like a hollow excuse. He'd killed someone without even meaning to. He couldn't seem to stop killing. He was good at it. "There was nowhere for me to go but here."
"You could've gone anywhere else."
Bucky frowned. "I couldn't, I didn't have a choice, I said."
Zemo still wasn't looking at him. "Because of your orders." He waited, and when Bucky didn't contradict him, added, "I didn't have a choice either."
"You did."
"...I did. I regret poor Arnold, but I do not regret my choice. It was, to me, the only choice I could make in good conscience."
"I don't know anyone with a good conscience in this war. I don't think it's possible anymore. They're still the men you fight beside, how can that be easier on your conscience?"
"They are my comrades because they must be. I cannot stand openly against them. But if they knew who I was, they would say they had no choice but to kill me. Killing me would not be a choice between my life and another's, but an act of duty to them. An execution."
"Because you're a spy. A Sokovian nationalist."
Zemo gave a humorless huff, the shadows at the corners of his mouth deepening. "If only that were it."
Bucky was too tired to play guessing games. He didn't want to walk into more traps, or navigate more harrowing alleyways constructed of words instead of bricks. "Then what is it?"
"You haven't guessed yet? You see, my braver friends who died? All of them were, as I am, 'homosexuell'. Queer as you Americans say. We are unnatural. In the eyes of the new German government, we are the enemy."
"But what does that have to do with me—"
His tongue froze. The floor seemed to drop out from under him.
It was easy to shoot at 'Fritz'. They were all 'Fritz' if you didn't look at them. But to Zemo, they weren't Fritz, they were people he saw every day. People who knew him. Zemo had murdered a boy — a boy — named Arnold from Hanover who thought they would get medals for being good at killing. Killing Bucky Barnes, an American who, according to Agent Carter, was simply the latest in a line of contacts. Replaceable.
Bucky had thought Zemo had killed his own comrade in cold blood because of his dedication to the Allies, but he was wrong.
He'd killed Arnold because of Bucky.
"I've shocked you."
"No, it's not that."
"Mm. Do you regret having shared that wine with me now that you know what I am? Detest the cigarette I contaminated on the train?" Zemo asked.
Bucky's gaze snapped up. He knew what Zemo must think; knew he should say yes, reject Zemo pointedly, but instead he held Zemo's gaze. His voice wavered, ashamed, but he said, again, frowning, "No."
"No?"
"No."
How brazen Zemo was, how easy he made it look, admitting to two sins at once. Murder, and that sin which Bucky was sure once spoken would take wing, spread like a virus and infect every corner of his life with rot and decay. It wasn't enough to play double agent, be bold and cunning and determined. Zemo once again proved himself the stronger man, and Bucky's stomach twisted, sick with confusion and self-loathing.
Bucky swallowed hard, forcing words out. "But — Look, even if the Allies win, you won't be able to live in the open, no matter how many Arnolds you eliminate. You hear sometimes about men, 'specially in the Navy who... who get lonely. Get close with their bunkmates. But it's always some other camp someone heard about. Everything I've seen? They ship you off to a ward and keep you away from polite society. Men like you—" Bucky paused. How could he say it like that? Sit here and let Zemo reveal his inner workings while Bucky hid, safe behind his walls. He exhaled. "Men like us don't get to live in the open."
The silence grew again. It held something within it, something Bucky didn't think he'd ever experience, something frightening and yet longed-for. He couldn't name it for fear it would evaporate, vanish as quickly as the last mote of sunlight from the day. Zemo's shoulder was heavy against his.
Arnold was dead. Arnold for Bucky. But then, how many had Steve killed on Bucky's behalf, or Bucky for Steve? Just that day, another sniper had met his end via Steve's shield. Were any of them so different?
"Did you know about me? Could you tell?" Bucky whispered, looking at Zemo through the darkness. He watched shadows deepen, the upward curl up his lips, and for a moment the beating of his own heart was as loud as the shelling had been, echoing and huge.
"No."
He exhaled, relieved and embarrassed at the relief.
"But I had hoped," Zemo continued. "You can never be sure, but... I'd hoped."
"I never... I have to keep it hidden." Bucky wanted to bring his knees up, curl up and protect himself. "Not even Steve knows."
"Maybe it's why we both had the making of marksmen in us. We know how to spot things from afar, to live in the shadows..."
Bucky looked to Zemo. Slowly, he set aside his ration bar. He reached out, hesitant, his fingers lightly touching the back of Zemo's hand where it rested on the rough hewn planks. The skin was as warm and alive, like his.
The hand he touched was the hand of a killer, but it wasn't the lingering specter of Arnold's death that chilled him. It was knowing his own hands were just as red.
In the end, they were cut from the same cloth.
Sliding his fingertips over the rise of knuckles, until his fingers sunk into the valleys between Zemo's own trembling fingers, their hands interlocking. Just as fragile, just as tentative, Zemo's fingers tightened, holding James's hand with purpose, and slowly they leaned into one another.
Zemo's head came to rest on his shoulder, and Bucky in turn lay his cheek against the crown of Zemo's head, Zemo's soft hair tickling Bucky's nose. Zemo smelled of sweat and cordite and faint traces of that damn cologne, and Bucky let out a shuddering breath; he had fumbled at zippers and belts in alleyways, but he'd never simply held someone. This intimacy was new, something he'd only ever come close to with Steve, but never with such intent. With the other person knowing what he was. Agreeing.
The cuts on his face and hands stung. In the far distance, someone fired a gun. Neither of them moved. Heat gathered between their bodies in the still night air, a warm, solid line, but both men had run out of words. There was no more to say as they sat side by side, hand in hand.