War
January 1942
Steve hardly tasted the food on his plate, and he missed most of the conversation that rose and fell around the Barnes' family dinner table.
The paper in his pocket seemed to burn him every time he shifted and heard it rustle.
In one month the whole world had changed. Or had it? Here they were, eating chicken dumplings ("Best in the universe!"), arguing over the Dodgers loss to the Yankees ("Wait 'til this year!"), teasing Lizzy about her admirer with the wooden leg ("Well at least he won't have to go fight, though he would if they let him.")… Hearing that, Steve had trouble swallowing.
The entire world was at war. All across Europe, to Africa, to China, to Japan, and now the U.S. Steve's father had died to keep this from happening again. But Hitler; what could you do with a man like Hitler?
Steve and Bucky had had plenty of lively discussions in the evenings, more often at home in their apartment, after they got kicked out of a bar for the fifth time. They'd grown up with German and Jewish friends, and as the stories that trickled into the papers had grown steadily worse, Steve had become more and more certain that the U.S. was making a mistake trying to stay out of it.
Then the explosion of Pearl Harbour came, and Steve had been all set to run out and enlist, when Buck had stopped him with four words: "Wait 'til after Christmas?"
So they'd waited. Until now. And of course Buck would wait 'til everyone was done eating, he wouldn't want to ruin anyone's appetites. But Steve's was already ruined.
Everyone was lingering over their cake and ice cream, when Bucky sat back in his chair. Before he could clear his throat, Steve excused himself.
Out in the hall, Steve dropped into a chair, propped his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead on his clenched fists. He didn't want to hear this. But he would.
"So," Bucky said, then cleared his throat again. "I've joined the Army."
It came out in a rush and there was a stunned sort of silence, before…
"Oi!" That was Frank.
"James!" Aunt Winnie.
"Oh, Bucky!" Anna.
And in the quiet moment following the outburst: "Aye, son, aye."
Steve stared at the floor, unseeing. Uncle George would never be able to go, with his eyesight getting so bad over the last year. Of course he'd be proud of his son for signing up.
Frank's mother was Jewish, and still had family in the 'old country'. But with Becca expecting a baby and a good job with the recruitment agency, he wouldn't be going just yet.
And Steve thought of poor Mr. Yamamoto, who had been jailed, and accused, and torn away from his family, and the one time Steve had seen him since, he'd said he'd go fight them—his own countrymen—because he could not hate his new homeland for being afraid of him, he just wanted a chance to show them they didn't have to be.
Steve clenched his jaw, and pulled the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, stared at the stamp in the corner: 4F. He got up, moved down the hall, tearing the paper with swift angry movements. So, what if he had weak lungs and a weak body and a weak heart? His mother hadn't thought so. She'd said he was as brave as his father. Shouldn't will count for something? All he wanted was to fight. For everyone who couldn't. For everyone out there who was hurting, or wounded, or broken by evil people who thought they were better than everyone else and destroyed anyone who dared to speak up.
The more men there were fighting, the sooner it would be over. Steve might not have much, but he had his life; he could give that. He'd give his blood to the last drop, because really, what did he have to lose?
Someone had to watch Buck's back, make sure he got home safe. And sure he'd miss Steve, but he'd have a way better life without having to take care of Steve for the rest of his days.
Steve slipped into the kitchen, keeping out of sight of the chattering folks in the next room, and grimly wet the handful of paper, mashing it beyond recognition, before dropping it in the dust bin.
For the first time since his mother died, Steve had a purpose, a goal. He liked the feeling. And he'd get there by hook… or by crook. He bit his lip, hesitating over what Sarah Rogers would think of that idea.
Sorry, Mama, he thought. But I have to. I hope you and Dad won't be too ashamed of me.
November 1942
Another cold, drizzly day, in a cold, drizzly week. Steve scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk, as he walked home from the bus stop. His stomach was full, thanks to Aunt Winnie, and he had a package under his arm that would keep him fed, for a few days at least. That woman knew how to dance around ration books.
But the loneliness of his empty apartment, could not be shaken. He hung up his coat, and bent over coughing. It was a few seconds, before he caught his breath. Gosh, he'd better not get sick again. No Buck to cover rent and bills with him now, though Buck sent most of his pay Steve's way.
Steve only used it when absolutely necessary, putting the rest aside in what he told Buck was 'your college fund'.
Steve shuffled into the kitchen, put away the food in the refrigerator, paused in the quiet. Next door, the baby was crying, up above it sounded like someone was banging two pot lids together, down stairs a couple of men argued. But his apartment was still, only the light above the sink on, the rest of the room in shadows.
With another sigh, Steve moved to the couch, switched on the table lamp, flopped down. He flipped open his sketchbook, which he'd taken tonight to get another sketch of little JB: James Benjamin Proctor. James for Frank's dad, and Benjamin for Uncle George's middle name. But everyone called him JB, and said he looked just like Bucky.
Steve wanted Buck's opinion on that.
Two things hit the floor, and Steve leaned down to see. He picked up an envelope, which pulled a smile across his face, and an old photograph.
The letter was from Bucky, of course, and here Steve had been thinking it was his week not to get any. He must have sent it with the others to his family, and someone had slipped it into Steve's notebook. But he examined the photo first.
He gave a little huff of surprise. He and Bucky, sitting in Buck's wagon on the sidewalk outside the Barnes' old house, legs dangling—at least Steve's were—they leaned into each other, Bucky's arm around Steve's shoulders.
A long moment staring, another long sigh, before he flipped it over. Written on the back in what was probably Aunt Winnie's hand: Steve Rogers and James, May 1927. Underneath that, in Becca's quicker script: Steve, Found this in a box of old stuff. Thought you'd want to keep it. You were cute kids! And I remember you being monsters. Buck more than you, though. Ha, ha.
Steve found himself smiling, as he leaned over to prop the photograph against the lamp. He was still smiling when he slit the envelope and pulled out Bucky's letter.
Dear Steve,
Being so out in the middle of nowhere, it's hard to find any girls! Last night we had a good time though, with a movie and a dance. A whole lot of local girls came out to swing. I felt bad though. The callouses I've gotten are no joke! The Army has turned us into a bunch of groundhogs.
Worked a couple of real chickens on the range yesterday. City boys don't know one end of a gun from another. Haven't they even been to a fair?
You wouldn't believe who showed up yesterday with the new recruits. Kenny Laylor. Remember him from high-school? He's married now, to Debby. Dot's sister. He said Dot's living in California now, trying to make it as an actress. What do you know about that?
I'm holed up in my bunk, rain's just pouring out there. Thank God I'm not on ground patrol today, the real upshot of the whole promotion! But it doesn't keep me out of everything. Did I tell you the stove exploded last week, when I was on KP? I can tell you that my sleeve caught fire, but only took the hair off my arm. Nothing serious, except we had to go without hot meals for three days, until it got replaced. Sure miss waking up to your omelets and sausage in the mornings, and Mother's Sunday suppers.
You've sent me so many sketches of the family and everyone that I have to store them in a box. A lot of fellows want to know who all the good looking dames are. They also ask who the artist is. I say, 'My old pal, the famous Steve Rogers.' They say, 'Who?' I say, 'the toughest guy in New York, and he can draw like that.'
Miss you, pal. Don't do anything stupid. And don't work too hard. Keep studying. Take care of yourself, and let Mother take care of you too. Hopefully they'll let me have a leave for Christmas, so I'm going to say, See you then.
Write again soon.
Love, Buck
He let his head fall back against the couch, tucked his feet closer under him, all tension drained from his body. He could see Bucky grinning, gesturing with one hand, quirking his eyebrows as he talked. Like he was right there in the room with Steve.
Steve twisted round to sit against the other arm of the couch, propping his sketchbook on his knees. He grabbed one of his pencils, flipped to a blank page, started to write.
Dear Buck,
Not much going on here, except JB's already making talking noises. He might turn out to be as smart and good-looking as you. Hopefully less of a jerk to any siblings he'll get.
Steve paused and glanced up at the photo Becca had sent. He smiled again, then put down his pencil and leaned forward to pick it up. Then he was sketching, quickly, hunched over the paper, glancing back and forth from the photo. He wanted Buck to remember this one too.
Author's notes:
So, I really hope I gave a clear picture of Steve's thoughts about the war.
Most of this history, you probably know, but I was startled by a little headline in the December 8, 1941 Times: ENTIRE CITY PUT ON WAR FOOTING; All Japanese Are Ordered to Stay in Homes—Extra Guards Placed on Vital Services. Somehow I had not pictured the treatment of the Japanese to be as bad away from the West Coast. But that night the FBI rounded up and jailed hundreds-of-thousands of Japanese men in New York alone. I might be Canadian, but I'm no prouder of my own country's treatment of people who had chosen a new home. Hundreds of men of Japanese heritage signed up for the military, in Canada and the US, and many of their units proved themselves over and over again. I know Steve's story focuses on the European theatre, but I really wanted to point out a few of these other dimensions.
If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask!
The fanart that inspired Steve's sketch at the end there can be found in my Ao3 work 'Just Kids'.