Normandy, France
June 7th, 1944
Alfred F. Jones – America, to those who knew him as such - was seated at an Underwood typewriter, fingers hovering just above the keys and wondering how he would begin writing the condolence letter to Major Carter's next of kin. Many times he had started, as was evidenced by the pile of crumpled, sad-looking sheets scattered across his makeshift desk, but found that he simply did not have the words. His heart was shaded by grief and as a result, his mind was a barren wasteland, bereft of the language it would take to communicate the deeds of his comrade. He sighed, looking at the blank sheet before him and methodically began to type, however shortly in he realized that it was just as dull and impersonal as the rest of them and he ripped the paper from the machine. It soon added to the already copious pile.
There was so much he wanted to say, but it never came out right. He knew it was his duty to write home to the families of fallen officers personally and calmly instruct them of their husband's or son's fate, and often the letters were relatively simple, concise, and to the point, but in this case the typical sullen drivel just wouldn't cut it. America couldn't imagine how it would feel to receive such a letter.
Adding additional salt onto the wound of Major Carter's loss was the lack of a corpse and therefore, the lack of a definitive fate to put into the letter. It would say MIA for "Missing in Action," but that was a about as comforting as a stinging scorpion; the only thing an MIA gave to the family was a false sense of hope, or additional anxiety. It could mean a whole range of things, from capture, to death, to defection, though that was unlikely in Major Carter's case, and America found that families with relatives who were MIA suffered more than anyone else on the home-front.
America exhaled heavily, rereading Carter's file yet again. Inside he found, among all the records and writings, a single picture of him. He was impeccably groomed and in full dress uniform, with medals and pins everywhere, and a rare smile gracing his lips, lending him a sly, self-assured air. Even still and in sepia, his stormy gaze seemed to go on for miles, challenging anyone who dared look upon him. A thousand-yard stare, the old war dogs called it. It was an expression America recognized, for he'd seen it just yesterday on the battlefield; it was hard to forget that intensity.
With a heavy heart, America reburied the photograph in its papery sepulcher and turned his attention back to the letter. It was to be addressed to someone named Lawrence Carter, his father perhaps, or maybe a brother. America didn't know which one would be worse. In his time, he'd lost both at one point or another, but at least England and Canada were still alive and well. This Lawrence Carter, whichever he may be, would, in all probability, face a permanent loss. Major Carter's fate was looking bleaker every second he was away.
But life went on.
Which brought America to his next order of business: Major Carter's temporary replacement. After a sleepless night spent deliberating his next course of action America had painfully come to the conclusion that England was right; he needed someone to assume Carter's duties while he was unaccounted for. The problem was: who would it be?
Carter's work, however unobserved, was significant and often political, meaning that whomever took over his position had to be diplomatically minded, confident, and steadfast. Carter had been all of that and more, and while lacking in political gamesmanship, he'd always been very blunt and adept at sidestepping the smoke and mirrors. Truly, he was an ideal representative, opinionated, direct, fearless… his were going to be hard shoes to fill and, insofar, there was only one real option.
Lieutenant James C. Lane was just as blunt and patriotic as his superior was. He was older, a few years Carter's senior, experienced, and had his share of the battlefield. Furthermore, Carter trusted him, and that said more about his character than any file or report ever could. Not to mention he'd saved America's life.
America glanced about, searching for someone to deliver his message. The Underwood typewriter sat forgotten on its wobbly table. His eyes picked out a scrawny looking private guarding the door.
"You there!" He called.
"Yes sir?" The boy answered cautiously.
"I need you to find Lieutenant Lane and bring him here."
"Right away, sir." The private ambled off in search of the officer, leaving America once more to his thoughts.
There had been so many casualties in the last twenty-four hours. Three thousand, dead, wounded, or missing from Omaha Beach alone. It made his head spin. That was why he must continue on in Major Carter's absence. It wouldn't be right to focus solely on one man, no matter how much it pained him.
"General?" Lane saluted and waited for admittance into America's area, "You wanted me?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. Come in please," America returned the salute, all business for the moment, "There are things we need to discuss."
"Sir?" Lane prompted, clearly nervous and attempting to master it. America dropped the business-like façade immediately.
"You see, now that Major Carter is… gone, I must appoint someone else to manage things in his stead. He was my aide-de-camp see, and due to my… position, I'm afraid I cannot do without one," America surveyed Lane but the man remained impassive, professional, "I would like you to take over his duties." Lane's mouth opened in his shock and protest.
"Sir, I'm honored, but-
"Lieutenant," America said, cutting him off, "You are the only man for the job. Carter trusted you and by extension, so do I. Someone has to do it." That seemed to take the fight out of him. Lane looked downward, considering, and then glanced back up at him, a frown on his face.
"Let's say, hypothetically, that I accepted, what would the job entail?" America grinned. That was more like it.
"Well, for starters, you would assume command of Carter's company, temporarily of course, until we get him back," America counted on his fingers the duties he listed, "You would be expected to accompany me to meetings, both with SHAEF and the other generals of my… caliber, also you might have to represent me on occasion when delegates come calling or what-have-you, and of course the usual duties of an aide-de-camp." The lieutenant exhaled quickly. He, a man who'd always venerated officers like Eisenhower and Tedder, had never, in his wildest imaginings, pictured himself actually meeting them, let alone representing a general in a professional setting.
"Sir… that's an awful lot."
"Do you think you would be unequal to it?" Lane, eyes widening, rushed to correct himself.
"No, no, of course not. I'm just merely stating that it's a lot to place on someone like me, and the company? Sir, I cannot possibly take that from him."
"Someone has to assume command, Lane. And who better than his best friend? You've been helping him train them haven't you?"
"Yes, I have, but I'm just a lieutenant." America threw his blonde head back, laughing as though this were the simplest thing in the world.
"Well of course this would all come with advancement. I can't have a man of such low rank as my aide. You'd be promoted to Captain." Lane was rendered speechless.
"Sir, I-" he took a breath, "I don't want to disappoint you, but I would feel wrong about such good fortune when it comes at the misfortune of a good friend." America nodded, leaning back against his desk in a very unprofessional manner.
"I understand Lane, believe me I do, if there was another option I would take it. But this job is too big for me to do it on my own; I need an aide. I owe it to the men to be on my top game." Lane looked down at his boots. His heart screamed at him to refuse Jones' offer – Carter was his good friend, he couldn't just take his life away from him - but his head reminded him that if he didn't take the job then someone else, someone less trustworthy who didn't know Carter, would. And that would be equally, if not more, unfair. Besides, wouldn't Carter have wanted Lane to go on? Lane had as much duty as Jones to make sure their efforts were successful; it would be more immoral to let everything Carter had worked for go to waste. Not to mention their company needed a commander, and Lane was Carter's direct subordinate. The job would have fallen to him anyway.
"I'll do it, but only until we get Carter back." A bright, boyish grin came upon America's face and he clapped his hands together childishly.
"Wonderful! Thank you, Lieutenant. Though I suppose that title is outdated. From now on you are Captain James Lane. I'll amend the records first thing."
"Thank you, sir." Was all Lane could say. The general turned back to his desk were the unfinished condolence letter sat, his chipper mood immediately dampened.
"I don't suppose you're familiar with a Lawrence Carter are you?"
"No sir, Major Carter never discussed his family. At least not with me." America huffed.
"Figures. He never told me much of anything either. My God, four years and I know nothing about him except what's in this damn file!" In a burst of poignant anger he tossed the folder on the ground and put his head in his hands. Lane, on instinct, bent to retrieve it. He knew very little about Major Carter, other than his age and that he was a New Yorker. The man was incredibly private. In fact, it had taken excessive provocation and coercion before he even divulged his hometown. So, on impulse, Lane thumbed through Carter's relatively thin file. In it was only basic information, but it was certainly more than what Lane had.
"Huh, his middle name is Sylvester, who knew?" America coughed a little laugh.
"I have no idea what I'm going to tell them. How can I?"
"I'm not sure, sir," Said Lane, still rather uncomfortable with the whole situation, "I'd just start with the truth. Randall Carter was a brave man who went down fighting, his family should know that." America smiled, albeit a tad ruefully. The look in his eye was one of unsaid grief.
"Thanks Lane, I think I've got an idea now," He said, remembering the formalities, "Report back here at o'six-hundred, my fellow generals want to have a conference. You're dismissed."
"Yes sir," Lane said, and quietly excused himself, mind in a tailspin with all that had just transpired.
Strasbourg, France
Major Carter's first impression of Strasbourg was that it was an incredibly German-looking town, for being a part of France. The majority of the buildings were of the half-timber variety and would have been quaint if not for the swastikas hanging at every turn and the army vehicles patrolling the streets. He watched the surroundings pass by with a mix of incredulity and melancholy. The world just wasn't the same anymore, and neither was he.
Slowly the lovely river-town faded and they entered a swath of green fields and rolling hills, so much like his own state that he almost wanted to cry. The last time he'd been home was in 1940. He wondered vaguely if his estate was being well cared for, if the horses were being properly tended to under his business associates' efficient hand and the wheat was all harvested. He had a lucrative business back home, and he be damned if that portion of his life was as bleak as the rest of it.
Hell, how long would it be until he saw home again?
"Get out, American. We're here" The officer snapped impatiently. Carter jolted. Lost in his thoughts he missed the thinning of the fields and the rise of the barbed wire. Over northward lay a sturdy half-timber mansion surrounded by barracks on one side and a small airfield, completely bereft of planes, on the other. In front of him stood the prison camp. The officer who'd escorted him thus far communicated briefly with the SS guard at the gate, exchanging 'Heil Hitler's' and the papers he'd carried since Paris. The black uniformed guard looked them over briefly before granting them admittance into the interior of the camp. Carter swallowed, his usual stern confidence faltering momentarily when the car door opened. One of the soldiers gave him a hard shove to get moving.
"This way." The officer, suddenly more foul tempered than before, jerked his head towards the most central edifice, two stories tall with a spire at the center. At the top, a scarlet Nazi banner fluttered in the breeze; it was the only piece of color in the entire compound. Carter cast his eyes over row upon row of shabby looking barracks, stretching perhaps four-hundred yards. The end was marked by the barbed wire fence which separated the camp from the airfield and the base further down. Every inch of it was patrolled by guards in black uniforms, looking stoic and harsh. Carter found this odd, for the SS generally served as an elite police force; this was a camp for POW's. The Wehrmacht should have been running it. He swallowed and stiffly followed the officer into the main building.
As it would happen, the interior was far more engaging than the exterior, almost inappropriately so. There were white walls and wood floors, portraits of Reich commanders, and curtains on the windows. Music emanated softly from another room, growing louder as they ventured further in. Mozart. Carter knew that melody anywhere, for it was one of his personal favorites. Not anymore.
The ostentation made Carter aware of something very important: the décor, regardless of the swankiness, spoke volumes about the man in charge. Under his breath, Carter snorted derisively. No wonder the barracks were so shabby… all of the cash was probably being siphoned off to fund someone's ritzy, bourgeois tastes.
"In here." The officer directed Carter through a thickly lacquered door. It was from here that the music emanated, a great black gramophone, its record nearly spent, took up the entirety of one end table. At the back of the room a man sat perched at a wide desk, his hands were occupied with lighting a cigarette but his narrowed, wolfish eyes focused on the party of Wehrmacht soldiers entering his domain.
The commandant.
From the outset, Carter could see he shared some resemblance to Germany in the color of his hair and eyes. But that was where the likeness ended. The way he glared at Carter, as if he were prey, indicated a brutality and disgust that was absolutely absent from Germany's air, not to mention he was probably at least two decades older. Though that was to be expected. This man was more than just a simple soldier, he was Allgemeine SS, judging from the patches and insignias and the red Nazi armband standing out in stark relief against his coal black uniform. Carter instinctively held his head a little higher. He would not give this Nazi bastard the satisfaction of easy compliance.
The commandant rose to address the officer who'd brought Carter in with a violent 'Heil Hitler.' The two briefly acknowledged each other, both holding themselves stiffly, until the Wehrmacht officer broke eye contact in order to get to the business at hand. Carter immediately honed in on the tension between them. The men of the Wehrmacht were no fans of the SS, so he'd been told.
"You are Major Randall Carter?" Said the commandant after reading the papers given to him by the other officer.
"Yes." The major answered icily. The commandant narrowed his eyes which, due to the proximity, Carter noticed were not blue, but in fact a piercing avian grey. He stared back with unmitigated disdain.
"Serial number?"
"Five thirty-two, five-oh, twenty-three ninety six." The commandant jotted down the information before blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke into Carter's face. An arrogant flick of his head was all it took to dismiss the Wehrmacht officer and his men. They took their leave with grace, leaving the major at the mercy of the commandant and the two SS guards in the doorway. Carter swallowed, nervous and sweating, but he neither broke form nor eye contact with the other man, who stood a good six inches taller than him.
He was an American, and Americans did not back down.
"I am SS-Standartenführer Kraus, commandant of Stalag-IV, and for reasons I cannot imagine, you have been interned here." Carter bristled when Kraus looked him up and down, cigarette in hand. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about this man instantly rankled him; the last thing he wanted to do was behave courteously.
"Believe me, there are plenty of places I'd rather be." Carter said on cocky impulse. The comment earned him a smack in the face. He licked the blood from his lip and turned his eyes back on Kraus, utterly and frighteningly calm.
"You are not on friendly territory anymore, American. Do not forget it." Kraus intoned. The brash, hotheaded part of Major Carter screamed at him to do something impertinent - and so he did.
"Kiss my Yankee ass." He said, slow, so the SS-man would be sure to hear every word. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes when the first blow cracked against Carter's mouth. It did little to move him, thereby angering Kraus further. He issued a second, this time bringing Carter eye level with his boots, so well-polished that his reflection was visible within them.
"Watch your tongue," Carter felt himself being pulled roughly to his feet, "Get him out of my sight." Then Kraus turned away. The silent rage etching itself in the fine lines around his stark grey eyes was cold enough to rival even that of Carter himself.
Dismal, in Randall Carter's opinion, was possibly the best word for Stalag IV. There was no life here, not one damn blade of grass or show of color in the entirety of the compound. It was like a massive crater, a blot on the verdant green landscape, as grey as Commandant Kraus' eyes, and for an American who'd always had nature at his fingertips, who'd seen life at its best and its worst, this was agonizing. Stalag IV could have been purgatory for all the joy there was to be found.
Despite his ill-at-ease, Carter followed the SS guards with a dutifulness that could only be described as robotic. Usually he was dissatisfied with being directed, but today proved to be too exhausting for him to question it. For now he would follow, and play by their rules until he knew the game; there was no sense in pissing people off any more than he already had. He had a feeling that there were far worse places to end up. Japan, for example.
The guards, apparently informed ahead of time where he was to be barracked, selected one of the more put together buildings and marched him inside. The barracks were set up much the same as they would be in any other military setting, with a bunks lining either side of the narrow space, each of which was occupied by a skinny looking soldier, many of whom bore officers' marks. Rapidly the fifty men or so filed into straight lines in front of their bunks, heads attuned to the SS guards and their charge. Some looked confused, others mildly bored, but either way it was deathly silent.
"Regarde! C'est un nouveau prisonnier de geurre!" Carter squinted in confusion. French? Why the hell were they speaking French? The rest was lost on Carter, for he knew little of the language other than what the Canadians shouted to each other on occasion, but he could tell that the guard was butchering it. The mix of German and French was utterly unpalatable to the ear and though the prisoners' faces betrayed nothing, Carter knew they were just as aware of it as he was.
The guard finished with a brusque word that sounded relatively cautionary and turned to leave.
"Wait a second, I think there's been some mistake here," Carter groused indignantly, "I'm not a Frenchman! I'm a New Yorker! What the hell am I doing here?" His answer was a backhanded blow that sent him stumbling. And then they were gone, leaving Carter with a hoard of confused looking prisoners who could neither make heads nor tails of the new arrival. Discomfort began to prickle at Carter's skin. What the hell was he supposed to say? Were there no other Americans here?
Fortunately, he was spared from wild gesticulation and heightened volume by a shockingly familiar voice.
"Mon ami, are you alright?" Carter jumped when a hand touched his shoulder and he found himself staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes. Like a cornered tiger he leapt backward, heart galloping out of control as his mind tried to determine if the person before him was in fact real and not a figment of his frazzled brain. No… it couldn't be. But it was. Carter was not imagining the golden hair, the sensual features, the dreamy look in his eyes, bluer than the sky on a cloudless day. He couldn't believe it.
"France?"
Normandy, France
"You're leaving?" Rommel's voice was full to the brim with accusation. Fingers tented, he glared at Germany across the desk. The air in the room was suddenly stifling; it reminded Germany of when he was a petulant child, being scolded by his father, or worse yet: his brother. Certainly he'd seen the Desert Fox like this before, but never had his ire been directed at Germany personally; it was all at once, very humbling and very frightening, "I need you here."
"Please, Herr Rommel, this is a matter of vital importance."
"And what matter is that?" He enunciated each venomous syllable with a precision that any good German would endeavor to achieve; it made Germany cringe with guilt. He hated to do this, in fact he had deliberated it all night, but something in his gut told him that this was the right course of action. He must pursue it.
"Yesterday, during the invasion, we captured an American officer, a major."
"There were many officers captured, what difference does it make?" Rommel said harshly, losing control of his patience and his volume.
"This man is different, you must understand, he had," Germany looked over his shoulder to make sure the door was tightly shut, "He had abilities. Like mine." Rommel's eyebrows shot up.
"A country?"
"No, not a country - I would have recognized him – but he's definitely… something."
"And this something justifies your leaving the front?" Germany looked at his boots, conflicted and detesting himself for what he must do, although at this point he couldn't rightfully undo it. He'd already bypassed the typical regulations for taking prisoners; Major Carter had gone directly to a Stalag prison camp instead of passing through the holding camps as any other POW would.
"Yes, I believe it does." Rommel sat back down with a heavy sigh.
"Beilschmidt, I brought you here for a reason, and that reason was to help me defend Normandy. Now that the fight has come to us you're going to leave? Forgive me if I do not understand your motivation."
"I know how it might appear, but this American… I believe that if I can get the information from him it could turn the tables on the Allies," Germany sighed, "I am the only one who can do this." A long pause.
"As reluctant as I am to let you go, I doubt there is anything I can do to stop you" Rommel conceded gruffly, "At least tell me what you think we are dealing with."
"I'm afraid I do not know at the current time. However, I swear to keep you posted of any and all developments, furthermore I can still offer assistance from Strasbourg."
"I would insist that you did," Rommel eyed Germany pointedly, "You're a valuable asset on the front."
"Danke, Herr Rommel." He responded with a brusque nod and moved to stand in front of the window. Outside looked as cold and unforgiving as Rommel's grey office.
"So if this man is not a country, then what is he?"
"I have reason to believe he is one of America's states."
"Truly?"
"It is the only other plausible explanation."
"And how do you propose to obtain information from him?" Germany frowned; this was the difficult part.
"It is my understanding that there are regulations preventing the states from participating in active duty, just like those that govern countries. Currently, the states are prohibited from direct involvement in war efforts; this has been in effect since 1865." Rommel hummed to show his understanding. Germany was not supposed to divulge any of this, but he could not leave his comrade clueless, it just wasn't right, "If I am correct, this man is in violation of American law, and the Geneva Convention protects neither states nor lawbreakers. I am within my rights to use whatever means necessary to extract information."
"Indeed," Rommel fixed him with a steady gaze. The both of them knew what was entailed in 'whatever means necessary;' Americans were tough and proud, and this one would undoubtedly be the toughest and proudest of them all, "Then I suppose you had better get started. I expect to hear from you soon."
"Of course, I shall contact you as soon as I know something. This state cannot hold out forever." Germany offered a parting handshake and exited Rommel's office, intent on getting to Strasbourg before the American had a chance to get too comfortable.
Strasbourg, France
"Pardon moi, monsieur, but have we met?" France sat back on his heels, taken aback by the manner in which he'd been received. The American's storm blue eyes were the size of dinner plates as he scrambled backward. From this angle France observed his unkempt appearance, the blood on his clothing and the sand in his hair. The man was young, for his face was still slender with youth, but his eyes had a timeless quality that transcended mere physical appearance. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen much more than he should have in his years.
He must have just come from the front. France decided. Which meant that the Allies were finally invading. His heart leapt with joy at the notion. The coming of this American was like the harkening of springtime, and now that France was really looking, he found that he did recognize the man. He reminded him of America, but there was something else too. Something that he just couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Yes, we have," If France was seeing right, the American appeared imploring and almost a little affronted, but it was the use of his country's name that shocked him, "Don't you remember?"
"I think you might be mistaken. And how do you know who I am?"
"Goddammit France, it's me!" With his hackles rose his volume and pitch. This time it was France's turn to take a step back. Behind him, he could feel his fellow POWs turning concerned eyes on him and the American whom, as of yet, had not revealed his identity.
"Mon ami, I am sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know you." The American's face fell in disbelief and… hurt? France couldn't understand it. Granted he looked familiar, but France couldn't place him in any specific memory, "Please, what is your name?" France winced at the tempest arising on the man's face. That intensity, the silent, raging typhoon, he knew it all. But from where? The man licked his dry lips, eyes glinting dangerously. In a low whisper he said:
"My name is Randall Carter, but once you knew me as New York."
