We Were Soldiers

126. He Is Legend

The camp barber's tent wasn't too busy when Danny arrived, so he walked right in and took a seat to wait. In civvy life, he'd liked his hair long enough for a dame to run her fingers through, and the first time he'd had his hair cut by an army barber, right before basic training, the guy had cut it way too short. True, the army had a strict dress code, but surely the barbers could bend the rules a little, couldn't they? Regulations surely allowed for a little creativity, right?

When Danny was called up to a chair, he said, "Look, I know you gotta do your job, and I won't be sad to see the back of this beard, but just don't make my hair look stupid, okay?"

The jerk didn't listen, because stupid was exactly what Danny's hair looked like by the time the guy was finished with it. He'd cut it too short and parted it all wrong. It didn't lie like it was supposed to, and just felt weird on his head. Not to mention how cold his ears were! Stupid barber had probably done it on purpose, to sabotage him.

After he'd finished up with the barber, he stopped another MP and asked for directions to Lieutenant Grant's tent. The MP escorted him there then left him, and Danny finally came face to face with his new boss.

Lieutenant Grant was a by-the-book officer. Danny could tell just by looking, that this guy had never broken a rule in his life. In his mid-to-late twenties, he was tall—compared to his father, anyway—fair-haired and straight-backed, and had the kinda face girls swooned over. His uniform was spotless and not a hair on his head was out of place. He was the sort of guy who made war look easy, and Danny hated him immediately.

"Lieutenant Grant?" he asked, offering the mandatory salute. "I'm Sergeant Wells, transferred here from the 107th. Major General Grant has asked me to report to you to requisition a uniform and personal supplies, and to commence my new duties as a desk-jockey."

"Desk-jockey? That's a new one to me, but I suppose it's quite apt." He shuffled through his pile of paperwork and pulled out a couple of forms. "Your official duties won't start until tomorrow, so it would be a good idea for you to familiarise yourself with the layout of the camp. I'll assign you to barracks C4, and you can ask Sergeant Forrest if you need any help settling in or finding your way around. Here are new requisition forms for you. Since you're not serving in combat, you won't be able to requisition a rifle, but you can carry a sidearm. We'll sort you out with a uniform if you fill in your measurements in the boxes, but I'm afraid we can't arrange for new tags just yet; all the metal we have is being reused for ammunition or repairs. I trust that won't be too much of an issue, for the moment?"

"No sir," he agreed. "The tags can wait."

Lieutenant Grant smiled. "Glad to hear it. Make sure you return these forms by the end of the day. Can't have our newest 'desk-jockey' looking like he just wandered in from the wilderness, can we?"

"Certainly not, sir." He saluted. Officers liked that. "Er, which way to C4?"

"That way." Grant pointed down one of the dirt roads. "Follow the track to the end, then turn left. C4 is the second tent on the right."

"Thank you, sir."

"Ah. You don't have to 'sir' me after every sentence, Sergeant."

"Right you are, s—Lieutenant." Oh god. He was turning into Tipper. Or worse; Carrot! "I'll go find myself a bunk then make a start on these forms."

"Very good. And Sergeant?" Grant smiled again when Danny turned back to face him. "Welcome to the 3rd Infantry Division."

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C4 barracks was not a large tent; it had only twelve beds inside it, and almost half of them were unoccupied. Danny picked one right in the middle of the tent, close enough to the entrance to make use of some daylight, but not so close that he'd get the worst of the wind or rain. That was exactly the type of person he needed to be right now. An average soldier in the middle of the pack. Not remarkable. Not outstanding. Just a guy here to do his job and not make any waves or snitch on anyone's Syndicate.

Halfway through setting up his bed, two Privates and a Corporal came racing into the tent, winded as if they'd just run clean across camp. They stopped a few feet away, whispering amongst each other until the Corporal was shoved forward to ask, "Hey, are you Sergeant Wells?"

"Uh, yeah?" They knew his name already? This camp's rumour-mill worked fast. If they were about to put him through some sort of new-sergeant hazing, they were in for a rude awakening.

"Is it true that you know Sergeant Dugan and Sergeant Barnes?"

"That's right." Well, this was… weird. One of the Privates actually squealed. "But how do you know them?"

"Whaaat?! Sarge—can I call you Sarge?—Sarge, is that a joke? That's not even funny! We basically run the moving pictures every Friday night!"

"Sergeant Dugan is my favourite," one of the Privates added helpfully. "He gets the best one-liners. Or rather, the actor who plays him."

Holy crap, he was in some kinda hell right now. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realise I was speaking to the official Dum-Dum-Dugan teenage girl fanclub. And why does Dugan have anybody playing him in anything? I mean, I didn't think they were allowed to use sentient creatures like orang-utans for moving pictures. Animal rights and all that."

"Oh, I get it. You're yanking our chains Sarge," said the Corporal. "You had me going there for a while. Orang-utans. Heh! That's a good one! We're really looking forward to seeing you at movie-night on Friday. A lot of guys want to meet you."

"What?! I don't want to meet guys. Dames. I want to meet dames. And only dames. Keep the guys to yourselves."

"There'll be plenty of nurses at movie night," one of the Privates assured him. "They really love the actor who plays Sergeant Barnes."

"Hey, you lot," said a new voice. The three Stooges jumped, practically falling over themselves to back out of the tent. "Give the guy some time to get settled in, won't ya?"

"Right Sarge. Sorry Sarge," the Corporal said, ushering the two Privates out of the tent. They scarpered before Danny could ask them what that whole conversation had been about.

The newcomer stepped into the tent. Like Danny, he wore a sergeant's stripes. Unlike Danny, his hair didn't look stupid. Mostly because he didn't have any left. Guy must'a been about sixty, it was a wonder they were still letting him serve!

"Ignore those guys," he said. "They're worse than little kids. You got kids?"

Danny shook his head. "But I knew a few guys like 'em, back in the 107th. Kinda made me feel like I had kids."

"Glad to hear you've got experience." The newcomer offered his hand. Even the hairs on his arm were grey! "Sergeant Mike Forrest. Welcome to The Rock."

"Sergeant Danny Wells," he returned. "The Rock?"

"Of Marne. From back during the Great War. 3rd Infantry Division held the banks of the River Marne, covering the retreat of our allies. Lot of medals handed out for that."

"Right. Good to know." He filed it away under 'useless info I'll never need to use'.

"So, Sergeant Wells," said Forrest, his posture becoming a little more… furtive. "I know you're still settlin' in and all, but I got… well, let's call it… a business opportunity for ya. A potentially lucrative one, if we handle it right."

Surely his job couldn't be this easy… could it? Here he was, not even started with official duties yet, and he was already gettin' approached about 'business opportunities.' If the rest of his assignment was this straight-forward, he'd have the whole thing cracked by lunch time tomorrow. Still, he had to play it cool. Seeming too eager… well, that might spook a guy like Forrest. Given his age and experience, he could probably smell a rat a mile away.

"I'm always keen to hear about business opportunities," he said quietly. "So long as it's not gonna land me in trouble with the brass. I mean, I plan to come out of this war with a fat pay check, not a dishonourable discharge."

"Hey, no worries, I feel the same way! I would never ask a fellow soldier to do anything underhanded."

"Alright. Lay it on me."

Forrest gave him a toothy grin and sat on the edge of the creaky camp bed. "Right. So, there's a market for… certain products. Products that I think you may be uniquely placed to acquire."

"Go on."

"Given the 3rd Infantry's long history, a lot of soldiers here are family men. Enlisted because their dads were part of the unit, and got little 'uns of their own back home."

"Makes sense."

"I've heard soldiers bartering hard for autographed photos of Captain America. And I'm not just talking about usual army barter; they're paying in cold, hard cash."

Danny offered him his flattest look. "What?"

"The kids back home love it! Even if you don't know Captain America, an autograph from Dum Dum Dugan or Sergeant Bucky Barnes is worth almost as much! Every dad here wants to be the hero who got hold of an autographed Howling Commandos photo for their kid! Wait, where are you doing?"

"To familiarise myself with the camp," he said, abandoning his attempts to make his bed and heading for the tent flap.

"Great idea. I'll give you the guided tour."

"Did I say 'familiarise myself with the camp'? I meant, I'm going to the medical tent to give blood."

"Oh. Okay. Well, good luck with that. Come find me when you're ready to talk business. With you running supply and me running distribution, we'll make a killing!"

Danny shook his head as he left the complete madman to his autograph scheming. Just what kinda crazy-ass nonsense have you gotten yourself mixed up in, Barnes?

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Lieutenant Grant was clearly one of those officers who stayed up way too late and never got enough sleep because they were too busy being good little soldiers to worry about their own rest. Though the quartermaster's supplies were out of sight by the time Danny arrived in the hazy light of dusk, there was a lamp lit inside the tent. The guy was already burning the midnight oil, and it wasn't even sun-down.

Halfway through giving blood, he'd remembered the requisition form in his pocket. The nurses had furnished him with a pen, but he'd had to write left-handed, because of the giant needle sticking out of the vein in his right arm. Problem was, he couldn't write with his left hand, so it looked like a fucking three year old had written out the form. Grant was gonna think he was special, and not in a good way. Not that he cared what his CO thought of him. Officers were all the same. Boring, career-driven brown-nosers. Just like Danzig.

"Excuse me, sir," he called out. "It's Sergeant Wells, here with my requisition form."

"Come in, Sergeant."

He pushed his way into the tent and found Grant sitting behind his desk, authorising—and in some cases, declining—a thousand requisition forms that looked just like Danny's. The work of a bureaucrat was never done, it seemed.

"Sorry for the late hour, sir," he said. "I meant to try and get back sooner, but I got held up a few times. Here's my completed form."

Grant accepted the form and scanned it briefly. "That is an… interesting example of hand writing, Sergeant."

"Yeah. My usual hand writing is very neat. I swear. I had to do this with my left hand, on account of giving blood from my right arm."

"How very generous of you. Most enlisted men need to be frogmarched to give blood." He offered a friendly smile, which made Danny want to punch him in his stupid face. "Are you adapting back to camp life okay, Sergeant? You look a little… twitchy."

"Oh yeah. Apart from the fact that while I was gone, the whole world has gone fu—flipping mad."

Grant's face did a frowny thing that made him look like a confused puppy. "Mad in what way? Please, stand at ease. Or better yet, sit. The chair isn't there just for show."

So Danny dropped into the chair opposite Grant and tried not to sound like a ginormous, whining child.

"What's this whole Howling Commandos business about? I swear I've been stopped at least eighty times this afternoon by guys—and nurses!—who want me to introduce them to Captain America and his fu—flipping Howling Commandos. Like I'm supposed to even know what they're talking about!"

"I can imagine it's difficult for you, having spent the last six months without any sort of external contact, living in fear of your life, hiding every day from the Gestapo. Only to come back to this." Danny nodded. That wasn't anything like what had really happened, but it made him sound much braver and more heroic than he'd actually been while pressing cheese and working the forge bellows. "So… let's see. Where to start?" Grant placed his pen in its holder and settled back into his chair. "It started back home. In the States, I mean. I judge from your accent you're from New York?"

"That's right."

"Might even have happened around the corner from your house, then. There was an attack in the street, a Nazi on a rampage or something, and the man who stopped it… well, there was a photograph. And the newspapers called him Captain America. A radio show followed, and then a series of stage shows, then movies, and finally comic books. Everyone thought it was just a marketing campaign at first, but it turns out that Captain America—or rather, Captain Steve Rogers—is a real person. And a real hero, too! It's said he's got super-strength and super-speed, that he can jump out of a plane without a parachute and land on his feet without breaking a single bone in his body. He single-handedly rescued over two-hundred men from a Nazi facility at Krausberg when they were captured and put to work."

Danny nodded. That much, at least, he was aware of from Hodge.

"After that, he and his team—the Howling Commandos—have been very active across Europe. I hear they do a lot of covert missions, trying to bring down some Nazi scientist called Smitt."

"Schmidt," he corrected. "He's the head of HYDRA, a fanatical Nazi science department and… and Colonel Phillips is gonna kill me all over again for mentioning that. Pretend I didn't say anything." Damn his big mouth. One day he would learn to engage his brain before speaking.

"Duly forgotten," said Grant. The jerk. "Anyway, 'the Howling Commandos' was the name of the team assigned to work with Captain America in the movies and radio show, so that's the name Captain Rogers stuck with when they started working together. The movies, the stage shows, the radio broadcast… they were all really popular with the kids back home. And with a lot of mothers." He frowned. "And with my mother, actually. But the real team, the men who work with Captain Rogers, they've got a lot of fans out here behind the front lines." Damn him for not giving Danny the chance to correct him about being behind the lines. "The men like to watch the movies. It gives them hope."

"Hope that some big, super-strong soldier is out here watching over them?" Danny scoffed.

"Hope that one day, they might be that big, super-strong soldier."

If that was the case, they were all nuts. Who in their right mind would let themselves become some sort of weird science project just to gain a few pounds? There was more to soldiering than brute strength. There was smarts, too. Did Captain America have that?

"I… um…" Grant suddenly looked nervous as a guy on his first date with a dame. He made a show of shuffling the pile of forms on his desk in front of him. "If I show you something, will you promise not to laugh?"

"I promise not to laugh on the outside," he said. "I laugh on the inside a lot."

"Okay." He opened his desk drawer and rifled through it before pulling something out. He toyed with it, as if afraid of revealing something extremely incriminating. "My father is friends with a few senators, one of whom is… well, he helped Captain Rogers get to where he is today. I guess he thought this would make a nice gift. Or something."

He put the small square of paper on the table and slid it across. It wasn't any normal square of paper; it was a photograph. Seven men clustered together in the shadow of a bombed-out building. A damaged sign partially hanging from the building read 'Coventry Gen-', and in the bottom right hand corner was an autograph that clearly said 'Steve Rogers'.

But it wasn't the sign or the signature that drew Danny's attention. It was the faces. One face in particular. Barnes' expression was a haunted thousand-yard stare, as if he'd spent a lifetime in hell and wasn't sure he was out of it yet. Was that what Krausberg had done to him? Schmidt was going to pay dearly for that.

The other faces weren't that much cheerier. The tall, heroic-looking guy in tights was clearly Steve Rogers, towering a full head above everyone else. Dugan and his overly large moustache were there too, taking up far too much room. And next to them…

"Wait, Jones is a Commando too?" he asked holding up the picture and pointing to the only dark face.

Grant's eyes widened a fraction. "You know Private Jones as well?"

Shit. "Yeah. And if you tell anyone that, I will fuckin'—I mean, err, that is to say, I would appreciate that not becoming common knowledge. Sir."

"My lips are sealed."

He studied the other three faces. "I don't know these guys."

"Private Morita, Major Falsworth—British Army—and Jacques Dernier—French Resistance."

"Huh." They were just ticking all the participation boxes, now. "Barnes and Dugan, Jones… they think I'm dead. I was worried they might be. Seems they're doing alright, though. Better than the rest of us, anyway."

He wanted desperately to look away, but he couldn't. After six months of nothing but memories, he could finally see Barnes' face clearly. Memories were fine, but they were fallible. They changed with the light, and with the mood, and with each remembering. Over time they became hazy, like a Turner watercolour painting. He daren't even touch the photograph, in case his fingerprint made fuzzy smudges.

"I bet you have some stories to tell," said Grant.

Danny nodded. "We stole Dugan's hat, once. It was for a good cause. He was real pissed, though. And one time, we were out on recon in France, and found a baby. There was also that whole rabbit-hole thing, on the deck of the Monticello. I definitely wasn't thinking straight." Plus the time Barnes had saved his life, after the jeep he was in went over a cliff. And the time they'd baked a coffee cake for Carrot's birthday. And the time he'd written a letter for Nurse Klein from Gusty, and Agent Carter had punched him for it. Everything came flooding back.

"Why don't you keep the picture?"

The offer pulled him out of memory lane. "What?! Hell no, I'm not keeping your Steve-Rogers-Autographed photo! Do you know how much those things sell for?"

"To me it's just a picture of men I consider heroes," said Grant. "To you, it's a reminder of the friends you had."

"Have," he corrected. "They're not dead or gone. They're just far away. Besides, I have my memories, which are way better than any photograph."

"I'm glad your memories have fully returned," Grant offered. Was that a sly smile on his lips, or just some strange play of the light? "When I read in your medical report that you'd suffered amnesia, I was concerned it might affect your short-term memory."

Bastard. "All good on the memory front. All brain-cells present and accounted for. Sir." He slid the photo back across the table. "I really do appreciate your generous offer, but Dugan's moustache gives me nightmares. That particular trauma is one I would prefer to put behind me."

"I understand." He slipped the photo back into the drawer, and didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed about it anymore. "Well then, since that's out of the way, let's see about getting you a new uniform. Punctuality, presentability and a neat hand are the three things I ask from my staff, and as a Sergeant I expect you to set a good example for the lower non-com ranks."

He offered a salute as he stood. "Yessir. I think you'll find me the epitome of 'good example'." And luckily, there was nobody here who could set the record straight on that particular piece of bullshit.

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Major General Grant ran a tight ship. It took Danny three days to find any sign of the camp's Syndicate, and it happened almost by chance. He'd been at breakfast in the mess along with Forrest and another sergeant from the motor pool, and they'd been talking about the things they missed most from home. "Smokes," Danny said. "I mean, who does a guy have to murder to get a decent pack of smokes around here?"

Neither Forrest nor the other sergeant had taken that bait, but later on, a corporal he'd never met before sidled up to him as he made his way to his desk and said, "I heard you're looking for smokes?"

"'Bout ready to kill for a decent pack," Danny confirmed. "Why? You got some to trade?"

The corporal shook his head. "A friend of mine does, though."

"Great! What does he want for them?"

"Well, see, he lost his rifle cleaning kit on a mission. If his CO finds out, he'll be in deep shit."

Danny shrugged. "Can't help you there. I'm off combat duty. I don't have a rifle or a kit. Let me know if he'll accept anything else, though."

"He'll only accept the kit. Look, you work for the quartermasters, right? You can just get a new kit for him."

"Sure. Have him bring me the requisition form, and I'll get it signed off today."

"It can't go through the books, or he'll get in trouble for losing his kit in the first place. All you have to do is amend your stock book to show one less kit in your stores, and grab one off the shelf."

Danny tried his best to feign being a goody-two-shoes. "I dunno. That sounds like it could get me in a lot of trouble if I get caught."

"There's no trouble! My friend would only be getting the same cleaning kit that he'd get if he requisitioned it officially, but this way he avoids the hassle from his CO. It's not stealing, if that's what you're worried about." After another moment of Danny hesitating, the corporal said, "You want the smokes, or not? I'm doing you a favour, here. My friend has a lot of people he could go to for help with this, but I thought you might want first dibs on his trade."

"Hmm. Well, when you say it like that, it actually sounds like he's the one bartering with me for help with his problem. So, for helping your friend stay out of that deep shit, I'll take two packs of smokes and an Elvgren Girls calender. Any year will do."

The guy suddenly got that panicked Gusty look about him. "I'll uh… speak to my friend and see what he says."

Later that evening, the invisible friend said yes, so Danny waited until Lieutenant Grant went for a pit stop then sauntered into the stores, amended the stock book, and took a rifle cleaning kit from the shelf. He made a show of smoking a cigarette or two the next day, so that everyone would believe that he really did like the awful things, then stashed the rest along with the calendar inside his footlocker. Might come in useful later.

That had been two days ago, and there had been nothing since. He'd put out a few cautious feelers, expressed the desire to do a little gambling, and was waiting to hear back when the Three Stooges accosted him during his lunch break in the mess tent.

"There you are, Sarge!" said Corporal Lancing. "We've been looking everywhere for you!" Privates Salinger and O'Connell nodded to that sentiment.

"And much to my dismay," Danny said, "you found me."

"And we promise not to take up a moment more of your time than is absolutely necessary."

"I'm pretty sure 'zero' is necessary…"

"As you know," Corporal Lancing powered on, "tonight is movie night." It was Friday already? That had come around fast. "You know, the movie night we spoke of a few days ago? The one that will have nurses there?"

"Rings a bell," he shrugged.

"Excellent! We were thinking, well, wouldn't it be great if before the movie starts tonight, we could have a story from somebody who actually knows the Howling Commandos!"

"All the nurses will love it," Private Salinger chipped in helpfully.

"So just to get this right," said Danny, "you want me to tell a story involving some of the Commandos?"

"That's right, Sarge."

"Hell, I can tell you one right now! Gather 'round, Stooges, and listen to this tale. Once upon a time, about ten months ago, Sergeant Barnes and I were on lookout duty outside a mine, where the entire SSR—minus a few tanks—had taken shelter. All of a sudden, we heard this mighty rumble! It turned out a tiny little earthquake had triggered a collapse in the mine. A number of our troops were crushed to death under a million tons of rock. Two of them were my good friends." They had the decency to look ashamed of their request, but he would put a stop to their nonsense right now. "Or maybe you'd like to hear about the time we liberated a Jewish work camp? Have you ever seen people starved to the point that they look like walking corpses? So weak and sick that they die even as you grant them their freedom? I'm sure all the Jewish soldiers in the 3rd will get a kick out of that one."

"Alright Sarge, we get the point," said O'Connell. "We're sorry."

"Yeah," said Lancing. "I guess we just got carried away. You know, watching those movies, seeing the good guys win… it just seems that how it always ought to be."

"Those movies are fiction. This," he said, gesturing at all three of them together, "is real. Cherish each moment that you're alive together, because there are a few million Nazi bastards out there who want to tear it all apart and put bullets in you. And keep this in mind, too: the Germans think they are the good guys. Somewhere out there are the Germanic equivalent of you three, watching German war hero movies and believing that the good guys always win."

He could tell his words had sunk in, because they didn't say anything else as they left him to eat in peace. But once they were outside the mess tent, he heard Lancing tell the other two, "That sounded just like something Captain America would say! I wonder if he and the Sarge served together too?" Those three were gonna cause more problems for him in the future, he just knew it.

On the way back to his desk, he was stopped eight million more times by people wondering if he could get any autographed Captain America photos. The louder he protested that he couldn't, the more they insisted that he could. Now, he had guys trying to pay him in advance. A few went so far as to stuff money in his pockets when he wasn't looking. Twice in the past three days he'd arrived at his desk to find nondescript envelopes bearing his name and containing dollar bills in them, and the number of dollar bills had doubled between the first and second envelopes.

Some bastard had also started a rumour that he was secretly working with the Commandos and had come here on a mission for them. This was not the middle-of-the-road, unremarkable existence that he wanted. With all eyes on him, and sometimes all fingers in his pockets, it was making it really hard to figure out which of them were part of this camp's Syndicate, and which were just annoying fanboys. He needed some way to deter the fanboys from approaching him, and as he watched Lieutenant Grant signing requisition forms early that evening, a plan began to blossom in his mind.

At six-fifty, Danny filed away his work for the day and gave the surface of his desk a quick wipe down. He could already see a couple of fanboys loitering by the mess tent, waiting for him to leave the safety of his seat so they could accost him with their ridiculous requests. Not today, fanboys! he thought to them, with a sort of gleeful malice that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was always good to thwart the plans of others, especially when said others were so damned annoying.

The lieutenant was still hard at work when Danny stopped outside the open tent flap. Too much longer and he'd have to light that lamp.

"C'mon," he said.

Grant looked up and squinted. He really was gonna strain his eyes if he didn't give them a break. This was in his best interests, too. "C'mon what, Sergeant?"

"C'mon, let's go."

"Let's go where?"

"Don't you know? It's movie night!"

His CO gave a dismissive wave. "Oh, I never go to that. It's always packed out, it's nearly impossible to get seats."

Danny gave him a flat stare. Grant was, at times, painfully aware that his father was the Major General of the entire camp. To avoid accusations of nepotism, he never, ever used his name or his father's position to get anything. It did kinda make him the prime suspect in the search for someone who might be skimming too much off requisition orders, but Danny could also respect a guy for not wanting to define himself by his father, or live in his parents' shadow.

"What?" Grant insisted, when he continued to stare.

"Yeah, no. Come on, we're going. Hurry up, or we'll miss the start."

He set off down the street at a comfortable pace. It had rained two days ago, and the dirt roads were only just drying out. Walking too fast had resulted in two broken legs for camp personnel, so anyone with an ounce of common sense walked at a more casual pace.

"Wait a minute," Grant called, hurrying after him, oblivious to the potential leg-breaking mud. "You can't order me around. I'm your CO."

"You can file a reprimand later. For now, movie."

"Jeez. What did your last Lieutenant die of?"

Danny gave it a moment of serious thought, mostly because it had been so long since he'd truly thought about either of the men in any detail, that it was hard to remember the specifics of their lives. Dancing had been annoying as hell and died early in the SSR's mission. Nestor had died much later, but he'd been so quiet and unremarkable that most of the time Danny had forgotten the guy was even there.

"Well, Lieutenant Danzig took multiple hits to the chest from a German machine gun, and Lieutenant Nestor's jeep had a very unfortunate run-in with a cliff."

"Oh. Er. That was supposed to be a joke. I'm sorry if it brings back painful memories."

Danny shrugged. "It's war. People die." The two fanboys lingering by the mess tent started to approach, but when they spotted the Lieutenant, they quickly changed their minds and went the other way. Success! "I try not to dwell. What about you? Seen much death, here in the 3rd?"

"Some." The guy sounded almost apologetic about it. He was Carrot-level of patsy. "I mean, we've had losses. I haven't been involved in any of the fighting myself, seeing as how I'm not licensed for combat duty."

"Lemme guess; your dad put his foot down, and didn't want you going into battle with the rest of the front-line troops?"

"Er, no." He ran a hand across the back of his neck. Was that a blush creeping across his face? "It was… well… my mother. She made my father swear to keep me away from the fighting. She's well respected, she would've found someone to stop me from fighting, if my father didn't agree to it."

"Huh." A trio of nurses spotted him and smiled. Like the fanboys, they started to approach, then thought better of it when they saw who he was with. Nepotism was working in his favour, today. Safe for a moment, he stopped and turned to face Grant. "You have a good mom. She did everything in her power to protect her son. Never judge her for that."

"I don't." He sighed. "Everyone thinks I got a desk job because of my father. That means I have to work extra hard to prove my worth as a quartermaster. Er, Sergeant Wells, could I ask you a somewhat personal question?"

"Shoot."

"Are you using me as a personal shield to fend off everyone who's been pestering you for Howling Commandos autographs?"

Danny grinned. "No, of course not. You're a great guy and I really enjoy your company. Sorry, I really tried hard to say it with a straight face. I don't think I'd make a very good actor. Do you mind? I mean, if you don't want to be my personal shield, you can just tell me to piss off. I'd probably do the same, in your place."

"No, it's fine. I won't be taking any real bullets any time soon, so I'll take a few metaphysical ones instead. You are aware, though, that the people in this movie aren't actually your friends, right? The movies were made way before the real-life Commandos were formed. Everyone in it is an actor, except Captain Rogers."

"Yeah of course, I get that. This is just… curiosity."

"Oh?"

"Despite whatever bullshit rumours are going around, I never actually met Steve Rogers. And who knows, maybe I never will. But I wanna see what kinda guy he is, even if it's just in the movies."

"I can understand that," said Grant. "He is something of a legend, after all."

Yeah. A legend larger than life. Hero to an entire nation. It just… it wasn't fair. Stomping on HYDRA, that was the task that Phillips had given him and Barnes to carry out, and they'd done it well. Now, Barnes was doing that stomping with somebody else. Six somebodies else! Not to mention Agent Carter, and Howard Stark, and probably a whole bunch of other people. All of this, it was really hard. He'd waited so long to have someone to care about, and now that person had a lot of other people caring about him too. Was this what jealousy felt like? If so, it was horrible.

"You look all twitchy again," said Grant, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Just thinking about the good old days," he lied. "C'mon, let's go find the best seats in the house."

Grant hadn't been lying when he said the place was packed out; all the nurses present had seats, but most of the soldiers had to either stand or sit on tarps on the ground. Danny spotted a couple of privates lucky enough to have gotten seats in the middle of the screening area, and he honed in on them like a torpedo from a U-boat.

"You two, scram," he said. They looked like they were about to argue back, so he gave them a good glaring and they relinquished their seats without complaint.

"You can't just do that," Grant hissed at him.

"Can and did." He plonked himself down in one of the seats and pulled Grant down onto the other one as the opening credits of the movie began to roll. "You shouldn't care so much about what people think of you. You're a fu—flipping Lieutenant, for flip's sake. You say hop, and the monkeys ask how high? Not because of your name, but because of your rank, which I'm assuming you actually did earn, since you seem to be mostly competent at your job."

"Shhh!" someone admonished from the front row.

Too bad he didn't have any popcorn to throw.

The moving picture… well, it was kinda cheesy. Steve Rogers was no Jimmy Stewart, who Danny would definitely hire to play him in the movie based on the story of his life. It was clear from the props and the action scenes that the people who'd made the moving picture had at least consulted with someone who'd served at some point, but the story lines, and the overall premise… well, it idealised war. It was like the sort of high-sugar milkshake you got from your local diner that made you feel good for a few minutes but ultimately left you feeling sick and empty. It was the dream every enlisted man had in his head, of adventure and glory. It was the lie that everybody would get to go back home after the fighting was done.

Maybe this army hadn't seen enough of death to be jaded to the dream. Maybe enough of them still believed that they could make it through unscathed. Or maybe they'd seen juuust enough of death that they wanted to delude themselves with the comforting lie. It was nice, if they still had the ability to hope and dream like that. He couldn't imagine this sort of movie going down well with the forces assigned to the SSR last year.

Or… maybe it was just Danny who was broken. Most soldiers, they were your Hodge types. They weren't big thinkers. Like Grant had said a few days earlier, they saw the movies and wished they were that big, strong hero. They saw themselves winning the day and getting the girl. It didn't matter how real it was. That was the whole point of fantasy, wasn't it? To give the people a taste of the things they could never really have for themselves?

"So," said Grant, once the projector had been packed away and the audience emptied of all but the most die-hard fans. "What did you think of the movie?"

Be honest, or be diplomatic? The only real 'be honest' pact he had was with Barnes, so… "I liked the bit where he rode on the camel."

"That was the only part you liked? Out of the entire movie?"

"I've ridden horses before, but I always wondered what it would be like to ride a camel. Gotta admit, it does not look comfortable. Super constitution or not, the guy must'a been aching after. How many of these movies are there, anyway?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe five or six?"

"Maybe the next one will be better, then."

"You plan to watch more?"

"Sure. Hit enough coal, you're bound to find a diamond. Guess I just don't really understand what all the fuss is about."

"Well, the movies were made to appeal to children, really," Grant pointed out.

Oh yeah. Well, that explained it. Soldiers. There were all just big children, when you came right down to it. At least, until the day they were forced to grow up.