"I just wanted to throw my weapon away and tell them I quit.
No more, I just can't take no more."
- Dwayne Burns, 82nd Airborne
Mande-St.-Etienne; January 3, 1945
Body low and hands scrabbling for purchase in the ice-capped snow, Tony burrowed until his helmet was no longer visible to the German attackers. He lay prone with the soft drifts surrounding him, a muddy green spot against the impeccable white, shells whining and droning above. A soft dusting of powder, thrown into the air from explosives finding purchase, settled on his shoulders.
A foreign impulse took over him, that of the slightest tinge of bravery, and he raised his chin from the snow to glance about the field. In the sudden silence it appeared undefended, rolling snow marred only by the tracks of American soldiers.
The whisper of the wind was rent by a screeching scream, the sort that sent an uncontrollable shiver up and down Tony's spine. The sharp whine whooped above Tony's head and ended with a concussive crash, shaking the ground. Tony would recognize that sound anywhere – he had carefully perfected it himself. His own multiple rockets, Nebelwerfer, firing down on him!
"That's not fair!" He shouted over the screams, but his voice was drowned out in the blasts. Hands digging deeper into the snow, Tony forced himself lower. His body trembled with cold and terror as shells dug into the ground to his left, right, behind him, a fence of shrapnel and gunpowder. To keep his mind from the immediate threat, Tony traced the angles of the missiles, following their trail back to their launching points. The Germans were assembled ahead of them, lying in wait to trap the oncoming American forces.
Between the shellings Tony heard a bellowing voice, nearly as loud if not louder than the blasts. "Move!" He tried to raise his head while still maintaining his cover and saw Captain Rogers himself striding down the length of the field, a rifle in one hand with his opposite fist clenched in the air. The muscles of his neck stood out taut as he hollered and shouted at the men lying at his feet, face red with a boiling rage.
"Move, you stupid bastards! There's no cover here! Move! Move!" The sight of Rogers fuming and raving and swearing frightened Tony more than the shells. He had never seen anyone so livid before, his anger a new beast as Rogers seized men by their collars and coats and hoisted them upward, hurling them forward. Even the shells seemed intimidated, their fury hampered by that of Rogers.
"Get up! Get up!" His clenched fist pounded up in down in some military signal lost on Tony. He didn't need to be told twice. Leaping to his feet and collecting his rifle, rendered useless by the cold but his only defense, Tony staggered forward in the snow. His boots swished through the snow, the barrel of his rifle dragging across the fresh powder. Invigorated by adrenaline and Rogers' barking commands, he reached the edge of the field and rolled down into the drainage ditch, swaddling himself in a fresh layer of caked snow.
"Fix bayonets!" Rogers hollered, his voice surrounding Tony as he reached the ditch with the rest of the group. Tony had to press a gloved hand to his mouth to muffle his laughter. What was this, the Great War? He used his bayonet for opening gasoline tins, not stabbing people. Feeling around the many pockets of his uniform, Tony's half-frozen fingers clenched around his bayonet. He locked it into the stud of his barrel.
There was a village above the hill, rising like a medieval ruin swathed in snow and from the cover of the trees. The German position stood before it, a semicircle of artillery launchers (Tony's make, of course) shrouded by loosely hung camouflage. When he mounted the hill a shout of excitement sounded to his left, and Tony watched as Barton charged through sporadic small-arms fire and swung himself over the rudimentary defenses. The rest of the men followed suit, Steve among them with his shield drawn. A shower of sparks leaped from the shield, and Tony guarded his eyes as Steve charged forward. A low reverb sounded as Steve swung his arm around into the broad forehead of a surrendering German, knocking him back onto his heels.
Tony followed them with his rifle raised in mock excitement. By the time he floundered behind the short walls most of the fighting was finished. Breathless but still alive, eyes darting back to the field they had recently abandoned, the soldiers clapped each other on the back and looked over the spoils of their capture. A few spare Nebelwerfer shells were piled against the wall, a pitiful supply. The Americans were already tearing through the German rations, stuffing their pockets, stealing their socks and cigarettes.
In the fading light Rogers had shifted back to human. His uncanny rage was gone, his shield stowed in his case as quickly as he had drawn it. Tony's own briefcase was strapped to his back beneath an outer blanket hanging down from his neck like a poncho, guarding against the cold and suspicion. Surveying his success with a blank expression, Steve brought the men together in a circle.
"Next is the town, boys. Fancy sleeping in a bedroom tonight?"
-o0o-
The promised bedroom was more of a cellar, with water dripping down the walls and the smell of must hanging low in the air. To Tony, it might as well have been a five-star hotel. The cellar was warm, if only slightly, and it had a small cookstove in the corner around which fourteen men were gathered, trying to bring life back into their hands.
A few broke open their German rations, which contained a bit of black bread and cheap sausage, another miracle. Tony had accumulated a small collection of flasks and some of the soldiers tried to wheedle one off of him when Steve's back was turned. The atmosphere was as cheery as wartime could get, especially through the rosy tint of stolen German schnapps, but Tony couldn't enjoy it. He couldn't shake the memories of Falaise, the constant fear of attack, always looking over your shoulder.
Reaching back, he brushed his thumb against his case. It was an unconscious motion by now, but the feel of the cracked leather corners brought him a small measure of comfort.
From across the room, Clint leaned over and whispered something in Steve's ear. The two disengaged themselves from the circle of soldiers and headed for the steps out of the cellar, eyes darting back and forth as if they had something to hide. Tony watched them go from the corner of the room – a socialite turned pariah, another thing to thank the war for. His curiosity overtook him, and he took to the stairs after a short amount of time.
The cellar door was cracked open an inch, providing Tony a narrow strip of vision. Steve and Clint stood in the dark, silhouetted by the light of the moon. A single glowing ember sparked to life and a wispy trail of cigarette smoke rose into the gloom. Agitated voices hissed in whispers, barely audible from Tony's vantage point.
"Send him back. He hadn't been sober since the day after we picked him up. Have you seen him fight? Always hanging back, waiting until all of the real work is done. He's more of a danger to us than the Krauts!"
"We can't turn him back now. He has nowhere else to go. We're his best option right now. Would you leave a fellow soldier behind?"
"He's cracking up. He's no soldier." A growling voice, then the grinding of a shoe against the cobblestones. The flickering cigarette light was extinguished. "Cap, he's dangerous!"
"Is your concern coming from that of a tactician? Or is it something else?"
A derisive scoff followed. "You think this is a personal problem? My feelings on Stark are obvious, but this is something more. Are you –" A pause, collecting himself – "Fine. But when he trips up and gets us killed, don't say I didn't warn you."
Tony scrambled down the steps as Clint barged through the door, his expression stormy. Raising his hand in greeting, Tony tried for an easy smile on his face. The seaman ignored him, pushing past to rejoin the soldiers clustered around the cookstove.
When a second set of footsteps rang down the cellar stairs, Tony started for the door, nearly running headfirst into Steve. "Sorry, sir, I'll be back in a minute," he nodded and ran up the last few steps, briefcase in tow. Steve gave him a strange look but allowed him to go onward, smoothing down the front of his uniform.
Tony's fingers folded the crisp paper of Steve's newest orders before placing it in his pocket. Top right pocket every time – routine was a surefire way to get swindled. He took off down the street at a quick jog, scanning the broken windows for a suitable hiding place. An old wedding dress store, still furnished with mannequins in various stages of soldierly theft, caught his eye. Tony swung open his briefcase and rested his fingers on the top of the sheaths of paper. The tinkling of metal followed, and the hatch beneath the innocuous designs gave way to reveal his disassembled suit. Curling his fingers into a fist, Tony summoned the hand and thruster, which locked onto his wrist and unfolded down the length of his hand, sheathing his palm and fingers in steel.
Glass split beneath the force of his punch and Tony leaped through the hole in the window, dragging his case behind him. He took shelter behind a row of waxy prewar silk and kicked off his shoes, drawing both fists up to his chest to call the full suit up. A magnificent lights show erupted from the briefcase as low-powered thrusters angled the various sections of the suit up around him, some locking onto his calves, others onto his arms and chest, surrounding his feet and nestling into place. Reaching down, Tony applied his visor and his display bloomed to life.
"Marvelous to see you again, sir," Jarvis' voice sounded from the suit's speakers like a familiar embrace.
"And you, Jarvis. Scan Rogers' orders, will you? I want to see where we're going tomorrow."
"Already on it, sir. The village of Flamierge is our next objective. Would you like me to plot a path for you?"
Tony waved away the map and pulled up Jarvis' scan of Rogers' documents. "It says here we're headed from the field to the ridge in daylight? I'm no military genius, but that sounds like suicide. Heat signatures?"
"We're too far away now to be exactly accurate, but I have three congregations. Possibly tanks."
"Let's light them up."
Kicking off against the street, Tony rocketed into the low-hanging clouds, his thrusters casting a shower of sparks like the tail of a comet after his path. The ground was blackout dark, and the light of the moon shuffled in and out of his vision as banks of fog spread over the sky. Were it not for Jarvis' instruction Tony would have been flying blind. Wind rushed beside him, the shadows of stars twinkling above, his thrusters roaring at his heels as he pushed himself faster.
"They think I'm worthless," Tony muttered to himself. "I'll show them. Faster, Jarvis."
"Sir, protocol states that I must inform you when your blood alcohol is above –"
"Damn the protocol! Give me more power." Tony's arms were pinned to his sides as he lunged forward, angling down in a gentle trajectory toward the ground. Slowly his thrusters sputtered out as he eased to a stop, feet skidding across the icy ground. A faint hissing sounded from his heels and he looked down to see the ice under his feet melting from the heat of the thrusters.
"Night vision," Tony whispered, and his vision was overlaid with an unearthly greenish tint. He was on the edge of a steep ridge looking down on an unblemished field of sparkling snow. A frontal attack would be a massacre. He could scarcely make out but could fully sense the figures of the lumbering tanks beside him. Spots of red and purple faded into view – the tank crews' body heat.
The shoulder panel of Tony's suit rose to reveal six finger-sized heat-seeking missiles, another one of his inventions the Russians hadn't gone for. They'll be cursing their bad judgment when they see the looks of these, Tony thought to himself with a grin. Tracing the path of the missiles with his index finger, Tony signaled for them to fire.
With a whisper the missiles launched, arcing through the trees with the grace of a songbird. The first burrowed through the armor of the tank and tore it to shreds, a fireball taller than a house billowing into the air, melting the snow off of the trees. The men in the second tank didn't even have time to react before they met a similar fate, scorched in the broiling heat as their machine was scattered into shreds. Its barrel snapping up like the head of an alarmed animal, the third tank searched for the men laying the explosives for a brief second before it collapsed in on itself, gases boiling and rupturing the structure until only the tank's treads remained.
Jarvis had dampened the sound to protect Tony's hearing, but if the rolling vibrations from the missiles were any indication of success Tony was sure his job here was done. As the lapping flames dimmed down beneath the bitter wind and the cold, the figures of German infantrymen appeared. Their faces, thrown into harsh relief from the flames, were painted with shock and horror.
Tony leaped into action, his thrusters burning against his feet as he flew to their position. His elbow stabbed upward, cutting the rifleman across the jaw and sending him stumbling backward. Lashing out with his right foot, Tony sent the smoking end of his boot into the man's stomach, searing into his outerwear and flesh. A hair-raising scream followed. Turning his attention to the second man, Tony raised his hand and fired with a pulse from his thruster. Energy arced like a bolt of lightning through the man's body, and he flipped over facefirst in the snow.
Panting with adrenaline and excitement, Tony raised his fists in preparation for the next battle. This town was his.
((Sorry for the unanticipated hiatus! Updates should be on a normal schedule again. Thank you so much for all of your input and support!))