We Were Soldiers
172. Encounters
The habit was not an entirely comfortable thing to wear, but it was easier for Rosa than for her daughter. As she raked the grey robes up and down the washboard with a fury born of weeks of frustration, Adalina muttered constantly under her breath, a litany of complaints about the cowl which helped conceal her true identity. Too hot. Itchy. Cut poorly. Fraying at the edge. Smells like a family of mice used it as bedding and then died in it. As if the headgear itself was to be blamed for all that troubled the world.
It was not so much the habit itself that bothered Adalina, Rosa knew, but what it represented. Her daughter was used to a freer life. Used to coming and going as she pleased. Used to leaving her hair loose and uncovered, and to speaking to whomever she chose. The life of a nun was not so free, and to a woman pretending to be a nun, activities were even more restricted because the risk of error was much greater. A nun knew what to say, when to say it, and who to say it to. A woman wearing the cloth but not cut from it had no such guidelines to protect her, and so required a… firmer protective hand. So Mother Superior said, and Rosa was not inclined to disagree. Adalina, like many modern young women, believed that she ought to be fighting alongside the men. She didn't understand the many dangers of war. She still thought death was the worst that could happen. Mother Superior was right to keep the younger women busy with daily chores.
"It isn't fair!" Adalina shot at last, dumping the sodden robes into the rinsing bucket. She was no stranger to chores. She washed clothing at home. She milked and guarded the goats, carried water and helped to cook. In many ways, her life back in Castello Lavazzo had been even harder, the tasks more physically demanding, and she had never once shirked or complained. But of course, that was such a long time ago. Back before an American soldier had filled her head with tales about the wider world.
"What isn't fair?" she asked, in a tone of feigned interest. Adalina found many things unfair, these days. Perhaps it was the fact that she and the other young women incognito at the convent were set to only the most menial of tasks. Perhaps it was the three o-clock wake up time, though she'd been up that early many a time before, to help birth goats. Perhaps it was that she was granted only a single book to read in her cell each night, and that book was the bible. Or maybe…
"I am here, doing nothing more important than washing clothes, whilst father and Paolo risk their lives to help free our country!"
Ah yes. The I-want-to-do-more unfairness tirade. It had been several days since she'd last used that one.
"Fighting is for men," Rosa said by rote. "Not for young women."
"Men!" Adalina grabbed a dry grey robe, dunked it in the wash bucket, then began pounding it on the washboard with a vengeance. The scowl on her face said the garment had personally offended her merely by existing. "Paolo is even younger than me. Still a boy! Yet he does the work of men while I wash robes for nuns. It isn't fair!"
"Many things in this world are not fair," Rosa said, as she'd said the time before, and the time before that. "It is how we bear them that determines who we are. Some deal with hardship by running away, and are weakened by such trials. Those who stay and weather them learn strength and courage."
The first time Adalina had complained about it being unfair that her brother and father were able to fight while she was not, Rosa had dismissed the words as idle frustration. But Adalina had tried to escape the convent to join the growing resistance movement, so now Rosa used every opportunity to remind her daughter that her duty was to survive and carry on, to help rebuild Italy once the Germans were eventually driven out. Her words were effective enough… or perhaps Adalina had simply disliked her five days in an isolated cell enough to avoid any further escape attempts.
"How can you be so… so… passive?!" her daughter demanded. The habit slipped back a little, but she did not adjust it as she straightened up and knuckled her back. "Why doesn't it gall you that we are reduced to hiding in servitude?"
Rosa gave the question serious consideration. This was new. Something Adalina had never asked before. And the response was important. Perhaps a chance for her daughter to grow on the inside, as her body had grown on the outside.
After a moment of thought, she put down her own washboard and turned to face her daughter. "Of course it galls me. Many things in life gall me. But I understand my own limitations, and my own limits. I bear what I must with as much grace as God has given to me. When I think of how I do not like the way something is going, I turn my mind to the Jewish families who have died over the past years. To the men, women and children separated from each other not because of any choices they made, but because of who they were born.
"I am here because I made a choice. When I made that choice, I accepted the repercussions that might follow. This is the price of that decision, and it is a price lightly paid compared to what might have been. I have you. I have Matteo and Paolo, even though we are apart. If I cannot accept this price, then it means my decision was wrong. Remember, God does not ask more than he thinks we can bear. And if we think he does, then it is because he better knows our limits, and knows what we require to grow."
For many moments, Adalina worked in silence. Finally she asked, "Do you think you made the wrong decision? Do you think it was wrong to help Danny, and defy the Nazis?"
"No. It may not have been the safest decision for me, or for my family… but it would have been more wrong to turn him over to the Germans. He would have been killed, and we would surely have been named as collaborators.
Collaborator. The word did not have such a harsh meaning in Italy as it did in other parts of Europe, where German occupation had been rejected immediately, but the word was becoming more and more unpleasant as the war escalated.
But I do wish I had encouraged him to leave sooner, she thought but did not say. Those words would only cause Adalina to believe that she was the reason they were in this position now. That Danny had lingered for her. And that was a guilt she did not need weighing her down, not when it wasn't entirely true.
"Do you think he made it back to the American army?" her daughter asked quietly. All anger was gone from her scrubbing now. She often looked sad when she spoke of Danny, as if she was dwelling on so many unspoken regrets that she didn't know which to think about first. But she was young, and her heart would mend. Time and distance would ensure that.
"I'm sure of it," Rosa said. "We passed him into good hands, and I've no doubt he's back with his own people now. Maybe even back in America."
Adalina's head shot up, her expression stricken. "Back in America? But why?"
"He was injured. Quite badly. And I think the Americans are not yet so desperate as to put guns in the hands of injured soldiers." It would be too much a liability. He'd probably been sent back home as soon as he'd seen one of their doctors. Or maybe given work to do that did not involve fighting, somewhere safe, far from Italy. Adalina still harboured hope that he would return after the war was over, but she was young, and not yet wise to how hearts worked.
The arrival of Mother Superior ended any further exchange. The senior nun glided into the washroom on steps so silent that she might well have been floating above the ground. She spend a moment passing amongst the wash tubs, nodding to the women who worked diligently at them, offering a comforting word to those she sensed needed it. When she stopped beside Rosa and her daughter, she watched for a moment and then said, "Good work today, Adalina. Sister Giulia tells me that you have put great effort into washing these robes."
Adalina's response was a sulky, "Yes Mother Superior."
If Mother Superior was bothered at all by the tone, she did not show it. Instead, she said, "Rosa, please walk with me. There is something we must discuss." When Adalina rose to join them, the woman waved her back down. "Not you, Adalina. There is still work to be done, and I must speak to your mother in confidence."
Adalina sank back down and resumed taking her anger out on the washboard. Mother Superior merely smiled.
The air was cooler in the halls, away from the rising steam of the washtubs that permeated the air and made sweat cling damply to skin. Rosa drew a kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her cheeks, conscious that her habit was probably marked with sweat patches. None of the nuns who worked alongside them seemed bothered by the heat of the room, but then, they were used to wearing the religious headgear at all times. Likely a lifetime of wearing the habit had accustomed them to its warmth.
"I must apologise for my daughter's tone," she said, walking a very slight pace behind the senior nun. Not even the other Sisters walked beside her. "Being away from her father and brother frustrates her, and makes her sulky."
Mother Superior nodded graciously. "There is no need to apologise. This situation, this war, vexes us all. I don't expect the young women who hide here to show the same deference as Sisters; only that they are wise enough to keep silent and feign piety should any Germans come here. Who knows, perhaps some will even stay on by choice, and dedicate their lives to God. But Adalina, I think, will not be amongst them." She sighed, the only sign of frustration that Rosa had ever seen from her. "But I did not bring you here to discuss such things. You have a visitor, one who was most insistent on seeing you right away."
"Oh?"
"You will see."
It was to the prayer hall that Mother Superior led her, a place where men and women from the community could come to receive blessings, aid or counsel from the nuns. Today was a quiet day. Other than a small choir of nuns, who aided the privacy of the occupants by singing hymns, there were only five other people seated on the benches. Two pairs of them were couples deep in prayer, and the last…
Rosa's heart skipped several beats as she recognised the head of dark shaggy hair and broad shoulders of her husband. Her heart told her to run over and embrace him warmly, to hold him close to heal the pain of their weeks-long absence. But decorum told her to show caution. A nun would never run to a man to embrace him, and while she wore the habit, Rosa had to be a nun to all observers. The couples praying near the choir… perhaps they were good men and women, but she could not take the chance that they were collaborators who might report back the unnatural behaviour of nuns at the church.
So instead of warmly greeting her husband, she approached in a way that mimicked Mother Superior, gliding forward with serenity until she could drop down onto the bench beside him. Only then, when their bodies were obscured by the benches, did she reach out beside her to take his hand. A hand that was large and calloused from many long years of working in the forge; and now from many weeks of carrying a gun.
A smile touched his eyes when he looked at her face, but he did not let it grace his lips. Good. He knew to be cautious. No decent man would smile at a nun like she was a woman.
"I am glad to see you well, my love," she said quietly, her words drowned out by the singing of the Sisters so that only Matteo could hear. "What of Paolo? Is he well? Is he here with you? Can I see him?"
Matteo shook his head. "It was too dangerous to risk bringing him. We could only secure one set of identity papers, so I left him with the men of our Resistance group to travel here alone." He grunted gruffly. "He's doing well. He has a steady nerve and a calm head. You would be proud of the man he's becoming."
I'd rather keep him as my little boy forever, she thought but did not say. He'd always been sensitive. Always ran to his mother for help when he fell and scraped his knees. Always been quiet and studious, his nose buried in school books when he wasn't out fishing with friends. It wasn't right, that a boy so young had to fight and kill and see men die. If only she could've brought him with her, but the only male children allowed here were those too young to be parted from their mothers, and Paolo was much too old.
The past few weeks had not been easy. From the moment the Nazis had almost found Danny, Rosa knew they had been on borrowed time. She and Matteo had planned their escape, and told their children to keep a packed bag in their wardrobe at all times. And it was a good thing they had, because they received less than an hour's warning that the Nazis were coming back to arrest them for harbouring an enemy soldier. They'd grabbed their bags and fled into the night without even daring to say goodbye to anybody in the town. There was no telling who was a collaborator, and which of them had alerted the Germans to Danny's presence… or how they'd even figured out that he was an American soldier in the first place.
So Rosa had released the goats from the pen, hoping that they'd find their way up to the summer meadow and there stay safe in the wild until the day she could return to find them once more. Then she and her husband had brought their children across the north of Italy, being passed from contact to contact until they'd found a convent that would take the women in, and a Resistance cell that could make use of Matteo and Paolo. The weeks Rosa had spent parted from them had felt like months, and now that Matteo was here in front of her, it took all of her self control to not reach out and embrace him. They were so close, yet still apart.
"I'm glad to hear he's well," she offered. "Please keep him safe. Once the Germans are gone, bring my son back to me."
"I promise I will look after him," her husband said solemnly. However, neither of them voiced what the other was thinking; that there were no guarantees any of them would survive this war. Not with the Nazis hell bent on destroying what they could not control.
Rosa cleared her throat before emotion could start to choke her, and smoothed down the grey skirt covering her legs. "You didn't come here just to see me."
"You are as shrewd as ever," he replied, with a small shake of his head. "It was duty that brought me here. Our group met with an informant, a German who wished to defect. He provided us with information about a facility, a place not far from here where the Germans are experimenting with chemical weapons. Trying to create a more selective type of mustard gas, this man said, one that might target only enemies and not allies."
"And you attacked this place?" It sounded awful. Such weapons would be devastating to everyone fighting for freedom.
"No, it is too well guarded for the Resistance to strike; it requires military action. I was tasked with travelling here and passing the information onto a courier who could convey what we learned to our allies in England."
"The fact that you're telling me this does not bode well." The Resistance movement relied on secrecy, even secrecy between a man and his wife. "What went wrong?"
"The courier was arrested by the Gestapo a few hours before I arrived." His face said it all; the man had likely not survived. "A child of one of the neighbours saw me approaching the house and warned me away. It seems it was being watched; someone had informed the Germans of the man's role."
Rosa covered her mouth with her hand, trying to suppress the horror that wanted to escape. For the sake of a few hours, Matteo might have been arrested right along with the courier. He could've been executed, and she might never have discovered his fate.
"Is there… is there someone else you can pass this information to?" she asked at last. "Another courier?"
"There are many couriers in the city, but I do not know their identities. It is to protect them, and us. One two or three people in any Resitance cell know who one courier is, and that courier knows only two or three people within a single cell. That way the entire Resistance cannot be compromised if somebody is captured and interrogated."
The implication sank in, and an icy hand gripped her heart. "Was yours a name known to the courier who was arrested?"
He shook his head. "Thankfully, no. Our group's leader told me where to find him, but did not tell me his name, and he was not told mine as there was no way to send word ahead that I was coming. But this does leave me with a problem." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bunch of papers. On them were diagrams, map locations and facility layouts, and chemical symbols showing what might have been part of the recipe for the experimental gas. "I was able to enter the city with these easily enough; my ID papers were checked, and I was given only a cursory glance. But everybody leaving the city is being thoroughly searched. It seems several German stores have been robbed recently, and they are concerned about weapons being taken to their enemies for use against them. If they searched me and found these papers, I have no explanation for them."
"Then burn them," she said quickly. "Burn them and leave. You tried to deliver them and couldn't, and know of nobody else to deliver them to. There is nothing more you can do with them, and they will only earn you a death sentence if they are discovered."
Again, Matteo shook his head. "They are too important to burn. Several men lost their lives to retrieve these, including the German defector. We can't let their sacrifice be in vain, and we can't let this weapon leave the facility to be used on our people."
"What is it you think I can do?" That was the only explanation for his telling her of this. He thought there was some way she could help. Otherwise he would never have come here and risked revealing her identity to others.
"Do you remember the stories you used to tell me, of when you were a child? The Sisters who raised you? The trips they would help organise for you, to your pen-friend in England?"
"That was many years ago, and I have long since lost contact with my pen-friend."
"But you have contacts within the church, and the goodwill of the Sisters here. Members of the clergy may come and go freely; they are not subject to the same searches as civilians, and they are never subject to the random stop-searches that happen on the streets. I know this may be asking too much, but do you think you could find a way, through the church, to get this information to our military allies?"
He held out the papers, a flicker of hope in his brown eyes. This meant a lot to him. Doubtless those who had given their lives for this had been friends in truth as well as friends in arms. The men and women who served the church were allowed freedom because they did not defy the Germans… at least, not openly. If any of them were caught with such information, that would change. Men and women of the cloth would no longer be subject to such freedoms. It was a lot to ask.
But perhaps she could find a way. With or without the help of the church, she had to try. For her husband, for her son, and for all the men who had lost their lives to bring this information out of the darkness and into the light. If she did nothing, and this new chemical weapon was used to kill those she loved… it would be on her head. She could've stopped it. At the very least, she could've tried.
"Very well." She took the papers and secured them inside her robe, beneath her shift. Later tonight she would find somewhere less personal to stash them until she could come up with a plan. "I will do everything that I can to have this information sent on to those who can use it; provided it does not endanger Adalina."
"I can ask for no more than that," Matteo agreed. "How does she take her new life here?"
"With much grumbling and complaint that she should be fighting with you and Paolo. But she is safe, she is fed, and she will learn to endure."
He nodded, as if there was never any doubt of that. "Good. Don't tell her I was here. I don't want her to be upset that I couldn't see her."
"She will hear nothing of this," Rosa agreed. Mother Superior would say nothing either. That was why she hadn't spoken in front of Adalina earlier. Seeing her father would only rekindle the girl's desire to be doing more.
"Thank you. I'm sorry to have to bring this trouble to you. I'd hoped to be out of the city without needing to come here, much as I wanted to see you. Fate forced my hand to do otherwise."
"And I'm not sorry for that." With a small smile, she reached out to gently brush the back of his hand with hers. It was all she could allow herself to do, and she quickly retracted the hand before he could take it in his. "You should leave now. I could sit here and talk with you all day and all night, but it would only arouse suspicion."
"Yes. Yes. It is time I got back. We have many more missions ahead of us." He stood and waited for her to join him before putting on the show of a small formal bow. "Thank you for your time, Sister."
She made the sign of the cross, a blessing often bestowed upon travellers by the nuns. "Go in peace, my son."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Sweat poured down his forehead, dripping from his brow onto his cheeks and then rolling down like tears to fall from his chin, but Logan didn't so much as twitch a muscle to wipe the dampness away as he watched from his hiding place in a dense blackberry thicket. The contingent of Panzer tanks was close. Not too close, but close enough. The Germans were sloppy, their eyes alert for signs of movement, but it was big movement they looked for. Scouting parties. Platoons. Enemy tanks. Not a lone man.
Well, an almost lone man.
"You're sure you don't want to engage them?" Betsy whispered beside him. She was as still as he, the only movement coming from her eyes as she followed their progress. "We have the element of surprise."
He grunted. There was no faulting her bravery, that was for sure. "I like a challenge as much as the next guy, Bets. But you and me against an entire Panzer division? That's gonna take us some time to finish, and you said Brian wants us to meet up with him post-haste, right?"
The quiet growl from her throat told him what she thought of her brother's request, but Brian Braddock was not the sort of man who called for backup unless he really needed it.
"Did he say exactly what he needed us for?"
"Only what I've already told you. Merlin has detected… fractures. Within the fabric of reality of this world. And that they're starting to bleed through into Otherworld as well. As if somebody is trying to punch through space, from Earth to… somewhere else. Something has to be done about it."
"What does he expect me to do about it, hold the fractures closed with these?" He lifted one hand and let his claws slide out. "I'm no wizard, Bets. I can't fight metaphysics. Gimme something real to slice, and I'm your man."
"There's no point saving the lives of this world if there is no world left for them to exist in," she pointed out. He hated how valid her point was. "And if these fractures continue to grow, and affect Otherworld as well, there's no telling how many other realities in the Multiverse they might spread to."
Damn realities and multiverses. Damn science. It was all way above his pay grade. "And that would be bad, I take it?"
She offered him a level stare. "Very bad."
"Well then. Let's hope we can stop whatever Schmidt's doing before he destroys all of everything."
"You think this is Schmidt's doing?"
"You think it isn't? Guy's madder than a barrel full of Cheshire Cats, Bets. He'd destroy reality and laugh while doing it."
"I guess it's as good a lead as any right now," she said. She didn't believe him. He could tell by her tone. Hell, he didn't even know how Schmidt was doing it, but he knew he was right. He hadn't lived this long without developing keen instincts, and right now those instincts told him that most of this world's current problems were caused by something red and ugly.
It took a good half-hour for the Panzers to pass and leave sight of the thicket. Unless they were heading into battle, they moved slowly, cautiously, watching for anti-tank weapons, paranoid about land mines. Mines were never a problem for Logan; he could smell 'em no matter how long they'd been buried for. A good number of allied tanks owed their continued survival to his nose, not that he ever told the tank crews exactly how he knew where the mines had been placed. It was enough that he could tell them where to start clearing.
"Y'know," he said, as they extracted themselves from the thicket and began plucking its sharp thorns that'd lodged in their clothing, "gettin' to Brian would go a lot faster if you just used your powers to make the Krauts not see us."
"I've been using my abilities almost non-stop since I arrived in France, Logan." There was a tiredness in her eyes that hadn't been there before, a pale tinge to her skin that wasn't quite natural. It was only there for a moment, then it was gone, and she looked as refreshed as she always did. "I need to conserve my strength if we're to go up against the Red Skull. So for now, we'll have to travel the old fashioned way; by hiding from patrols and covering our tracks."
"Alright, Bets." Sometimes he forgot how hard she worked to keep her powers in check. She made it look so easy, but for her it was a constant fight to keep the mental voices of others out, and that was even before she employed any telepathy of her own. She could no more switch off her passive abilities than he could switch off his ability to heal himself. Such abilities were both a blessing and a curse. "But I want you to get a full night of sleep from now on," he said. "I'll keep watch for the both of us until we reach Brian." Hopefully by then she'd be rested enough to do… whatever it was her brother needed her to do. Possibly fight Schmidt. Probably help Merlin with some supernatural task. Whatever it was, it would require whatever strength she had left.
"Fine," she agreed with a dismissive sniff. "Then let's not waste any more time talking. We should be able to reach Brian in two days, so long as we don't have to hide from too many patrols. Maybe we'll get lucky, and encounter no more of them."
"Yeah. And maybe bacon'll fly."
They set out again and Logan finally acknowledged the sweat on his face. He used his sleeve to wipe it away, then scratched at the thick beard that covered both cheeks. Shaving was pointless; it grew back quickly, as if his body was healing what was cut away even though it was unnecessary and itchy and hot. The heatwave making its way across France didn't help matters; the wave of hot air seemed to follow them, the world's most unwelcome travelling companion. What he wouldn't give for a bit of good ol' Canadian snow right about now.
"You know, it's funny," Betsy said, after they'd walked an hour in silence. She, too, was sweating from the heat, and the moisture damped her blonde hair down against her head, turning it a darker shade of honey. "When I was a little girl, I used to dream of a world at peace. No war. No fighting. Just happiness, and compassion. A place where all children would grow up content and with full bellies. I thought that was what the future held. Now all I dream of is a world that's a little less violent. How our priorities shift with age, huh?"
"Mmhmm," he agreed. World peace. It was a pipe dream. The world would never have peace. The only way that could be achieved was if one person was strong enough to suppress all violence, to remove all anger and hatred, or to make the punishment for acting on it so severe that nobody ever dare raise a hand against another. Humans were inherently violent. Peace could only come through force. But of course, if there was such a person, a man or woman strong enough to enforce peace on everyone… well, that act would be a suppression of freedom, and would have to be fought. So the person who sought to bring about peace would instead find themselves the subject of the violence they tried to eliminate.
Quite the conundrum.
A scent on the wan breeze stopped him in his tracks, and he held out an arm to prevent Betsy stepping forward. It was a familiar scent, one that was all too prevalent these days.
"Soldiers up ahead," he said. "At least a dozen, maybe more."
"Are you sure they're soldiers?" she asked.
"Yeah. I smell sweat. And blood. And gun oil." And fear. But he didn't speak that one aloud. She'd know that soon enough.
With a nod, she closed her eyes and then smiled briefly. "It's okay. They're not Germans. We don't have to hide this time."
It was small relief. Even allied soldiers were a delay. They inevitably had questions. "Maybe we oughta go 'round them. Keep moving."
"They have injured men." A frown marred her sweat-damp brow. "And few medical provisions. So much pain. We can't just leave them, Logan."
She was a soft touch alright. Brave, but soft. Though she only played at being a nurse, she probably would've made a good one. Too much empathy and compassion. Nerves of steel, of course, but those nerves melted easily when faced with the suffering of others.
"Fine," he said. "But if Brian asks what took us so long, I'm leaving the explanation to you."
The grateful smile she offered him lasted a split second, then she was off, making her way forward, to the place where the soldiers were camped. The fact that she knew how to find them told him she was using her powers again. Sometimes, she just couldn't help herself.
The soldiers were in a sorry state. A mixture of American, Australian and New Zealand forces, they'd clearly seen their fair share of battle. A single Captain led them, a man who offered Logan an exhausted salute and an introduction of 'Captain Robbins' as Betsy started moving about the injured men. She reached out to offer them a comforting hand and a few words of encouragement, and everywhere she went, the moans of pain and cries of agony quickly ceased. It was almost miraculous, how she could convince a man that his pain didn't exist. How a mental nudge here, a spoken suggestion there, could tell a body to switch off its pain receptors and allow the injured some respite from their agony.
"How'd you end up all the way out here, Captain?" Logan asked whilst Betsy quietly continued her work.
"Dodging Krauts," the man said. Dark circles ringed his eyes along with the eyes of the handful of uninjured men who'd been given the task of carrying those too hurt to walk. One or two carried guns, but not enough to fend off the Krauts if they were discovered. "Our command centre was ambushed by one of the Panzer units while we were out on a mission; we got back to charred tents and burned bodies. My men and I set out to find the next closest command, but we were cut off by enemy forces and had to retreat. Lost our radio and its operator, along with our medic. Picked up a few stragglers along the way, as you can see. Now we're just trying to find our way back to safety—if there's any such thing left."
"There is. Head west for a day and you'll find I Corps camped about a mile away from the road to Paris."
Robbins clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you. That's the best news I've heard in days. We're down to our last rations, but we should be able to make it back to I Corps before we run out of water."
"Captain Robbins," said Betsy, sidling into the conversation, "let me take a look at that leg of yours."
Only then did Logan realise what the man had been hiding; a nasty gash to his outer thigh that no doubt prevented him from walking at any more than a snail's pace. Robbins winced, but allowed her to probe the wound with her fingers. If he thought it odd that she was in a combat uniform and not a nurse's uniform, he said nothing of it.
As Betsy began working her magic, Logan took stock of the rest of the soldiers. They were a motley collection of weary faces and stinking bodies, many of their gazes fixed in a thousand-yard stare. One, a scrawny kid so young he probably ought not to have been there at all, kept rubbing at his eyes as if he didn't quite believe where he was. But he held his gun as if he knew how to use it. Could probably use it in his sleep by now, if he'd been in France since Overlord started.
Logan sat down beside him and opened up his cigar case, taking one out before offering one to the young man. The kid stared blearily at it, then shook his head. "Thanks, but I don't smoke."
"You should." Logan chewed off his cigar end and spat it out before bringing out a lighter and taking a long draw to ignite the tobacco. "It's one of the pleasures that the Krauts can't take away from you." The young man merely nodded, as if the words had gone in one ear and out the next. Maybe they had. He didn't look like he was entirely there in the head. Maybe Betsy could take a look at him when she was done with the injured. "What's your name, Private?"
"Parker." The young man looked up, and finally seemed to realise he was addressing an officer. "Private Ben Parker, sir."
Logan waved away the young man's ceremonious response. "Hang in there a bit longer, Parker," he said around his cigar. "Your team's almost back to I Corps. You can rest when you get there."
"I'm not sure I'll ever be able to rest." The kid's grip on his gun tightened reflexively. "Not when I know there are still Krauts out there."
"This your first campaign?" Of course it was. Parker was too wet behind the ears to have been deployed anywhere else. But sometimes it helped to speak to a guy man to man, give him a little courage, remind him he wasn't alone.
Parker nodded. "Yeah. Y'know, when I signed up, I knew I was coming out here to fight Nazis. I just didn't realise it would mean killing people." He glanced down at the gun as if it was both his best friend and his worst enemy. "I killed people, because if I didn't, they would have killed me."
"Damn right they would," Logan agreed, blowing out a stream of blue-grey smoke. "Take my advice; show no mercy. That kinda stuff is for back home, for civilisation, when it's not your life on the line. When it's not the life of your friends and countrymen hanging in the balance."
"I thought I could be a good man." The kid's eyes glazed over, as if he was burying himself in some distant memory. "I thought I could go home and still be a good man."
And this was where humans complicated everything. Good and evil. Right and wrong. When you let morality cloud your actions, you invited doubt in to the party. Animals had it easier. Kill or be killed. Eat and avoid being eaten. The natural world was so much simpler.
Betsy wandered over, her walk wearier than it had been. "I've done all I can here," she said. "Most of these men will survive the next day."
With a grunt of effort, Logan pushed himself to his feet and dusted off his pants. He didn't feel fatigue the way most normal folks did, but even he was starting to get tired of the marching and fighting. "Time to head out, then."
"You're not coming with us to I Corps?" Parker asked.
"No, that's a journey your team will have to make on its own." He dropped his spent cigar butt and stamped it out beneath his boot. "Right now, we got a Multiverse to save."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Major Callum Duncan raised his hand to his mouth and hid the yawn that was desperately trying to escape. It wouldn't do to let his men see how tired he was, not even when he knew they were just as tired as he. Lead by example, that was the best way. Show the men that no true Scot would allow sometimes as feeble as mere tiredness to stand in the way of victory.
His twenty-strong squad lounged at their ease in the small clearing within the dense thicket where they'd stopped to rest, safe in the knowledge that their lookouts would pass word of any incoming danger long before it reached them. A short break would do them good; God knew, they needed it.
"Any word from HQ?" he called over to Corporal Kenmore. The radio operator listened through his headphones for a moment, then shook his head. No word meant their orders still stood.
It had been a hard few weeks, thought not has hard as some had it. Following his team's success against the tank regiments that had been defending Caen, they'd been lavished with medals of honour; and new missions to go alongside them. Tanks were hard to destroy without howitzers or tanks of your own, and Major Duncan had neither of those. Just good old fashioned gumption, and a team who were as mad as hatters and brave as bears. Time and time again they went up against enemy tanks with nothing but improvised weapons and a whole lotta balls, and now the rest of the army whispered their unofficial nickname whenever they passed through camp.
The Panzer-killers.
'Course, it helped to have a few members with a flair for pyrotechnics. Men who enjoyed making a mess with fire were more eager to take risks. As the size of the explosions grew, so did their renown. Everybody wanted to join The Panzer-killers, but Major Duncan was very particular about who he let in. He accepted only the bravest, craziest sons of bitches the army had to offer, and one or two of them weren't even Scots. Not by birth, anyway. They were honourary Scots now whether they liked it or not.
"How many more Panzergruppen do you reckon are left in France now?" asked Private Colby. His face was smeared with dirt and his helmet was covered in twigs, but not because he was remiss about his hygiene. They'd quickly discovered, like any successful hunter, that blending in with your environment was the key to getting close enough to your prey to strike. It'd been a long time since Scotland had had any predators large enough to be hunted, but clearly this was in their blood, and blood did not forget.
"Not many, if how many of their hides we've skinned is anything to go by," said Lieutenant Brogan. He spat. "Goat-kissing bastards."
"It's almost a shame we come across so many already dead." Private Smythe seemed genuinely disappointed, but he was never slow to offer a Viking funeral, minus the water.
Still, it was heartening to know they weren't the only ones fighting Panzers. The first few times they'd come across abandoned tanks, they'd assumed they'd been left behind because of mechanical failure or malfunction. And technically that was true, though the rate of malfunction amongst the Panzers seemed inordinately high. It was only after their mechanic, Sergeant MacDonald, had examined a couple, that they realised what had happened.
Sabotage. Somewhere on the production lines. It was well known that the Germans used forced-labour to power their manufacturing industry, coercing captured enemies or oppressed minorities to work in their factories for the glory of the Reich. Only, forced labour was not reliable, and many newer tanks were suffering sabotage attempts. Broken tracks, leaky valves, misfiring engines, electrical faults, mechanical breakdowns… they all contributed to the death of the mighty Panzerwaffe.
Major Duncan disliked tanks. They were a coward's choice. Sittin' in an armoured box, protected from both gunfire and the elements, was cheating. They were a pansy's weapon. No, give him infantry or a good ol' fashioned cavalry charge any day. There was something very satisfying about blowing up tanks and the cowards who cowered within them. It did a man good, to think of his enemies being cooked alive inside their own tomb. It didn't make up for the men the Panzer-killers had lost along the way, but it was something to smile about in an otherwise hellish place.
"Sir!" Kenmore was suddenly upright, one earphone pressed tightly against his ear. "The Panzers have changed direction. It seems they're turning around and retreating back towards Lisieux. We have orders to return to HQ."
The men in the clearing groaned loudly. They were the only men in the entire army who were disappointed that they wouldn't be facing Panzers today. Crazy sons of bitches, each and every one.
"Don't worry, lads," said Major Duncan. "Those Panzers may be heading back now, but we'll get our chance another day." Time to boost their morale a little. He stood up and banged his fist on his chest, tapping out a regular beat. If only he had his kilt to hand, and a few bottles of fine Islay. It would be just like being at home. "And why's that?"
Grins spread across their faces as they began to sing.
"A Panzer runs and tries to hide,
Its cowardly drivers sat inside
But there's no way to get around
The Panzer-killers will hunt you down!
From Carentan and off to Lille
We'll track them down will guile and skill
From dawn's first light to end of day
The Panzer-killers are here to stay!
So try to run and try to hide,
A coward we cannot abide
We'll light them up and sing and cheer
As we hunt down the Panzer-heer!"
They laughed and slapped each other on the shoulders as the song came to an end. It was not the most eloquent of ballads, true, but it was catchy enough that even the most tone-deaf of men could shout along and feel part of the team. And every regiment needed its own music, didn't it? Something to march and throw molotov cocktails by?
"Smythe, go tell our lookouts to shift their arses back to camp. As soon as they're in, we'll head back to HQ. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day for hunting."
The team packed up camp with quiet efficiency and were ready to move out even before the scouts returned. With all men accounted for, they prepared to head home.
"Want me to take point, Major?" asked Brogan.
"Nah. I'll do it for a change. Been a while since I saw something other than the backs of your ugly mugs, I could do with a change of scenery."
His men chuckled as he led them through the dense thicket and set a decent marching pace back towards Caen. True professionals, they knew better than to chat as they walked. Soon every pair of eyes was fixed on the environment as they kept watch for lurking enemies. Panzers weren't the only things out here, and infantry units were much harder to spot. Sometimes you didn't even know they were there until they were almost on top of you. Another reason the team's camouflage came in handy.
France was a hot hell. Within a few minutes, sweat had left tracks down the dirt covering all of their faces, and had begun to soak their uniforms with to leave damp patches in every crook. The sooner they kicked the Krauts of out France, the sooner they could take the fight to somewhere cooler. Maybe Norway. That oughta be less oven-like, even in summer.
A sound up ahead caught his attention. The forest they were travelling through was not heavy, but the ground away from the dirt trail they followed was thick with sprawling ivy and fast-growing horsetail ferns. Something was making its way through the vegetation towards the team. Something big.
Duncan held up his hand and made a gesture for 'spread out, defensive positions'. His team moved quickly and more silently than whatever approached their position; within ten seconds, the majority were hidden from sight, sheltered in the undergrowth or behind tree trunks, ready to open fire at the slightest provocation.
When the sound of approach didn't falter, he considered his options. It might be a deer, though he knew from back home that deer tended to avoid moving during the heat of the day unless they were being chased. If it wasn't a deer, it was probably a man, in which case he could open fire and hope that his bullets hit an enemy's failed attempt at an ambush. But there was also a chance it might be an ally. The forces in France were not fully coordinated, so another team might've been sent to this area on another mission from another command, and he could end up killing a friendly. Not a medal-worthy event.
If he shouted out, he might get a response. Or he might get a bullet in his belly for the trouble. No. There was only one thing for it; he would have to wait.
He lifted his rifle to a better firing position, and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. If this was an enemy, even if Duncan himself was hit, the soldier would not survive. Not with so many weapons trained on him. It was small comfort, though. He fully intended to survive this war, return home, and buy the first ever bottle of Bugger the Blitz. He wouldn't drink it, but keep it in his cellar until it became worth enough money. There was no sounder financial investment than whisky.
With a shake of his head, he dismissed all thoughts of home. This wasn't the time to be thinking of Scotland. This was the time to be readying himself to put a whole bunch of bullets in some goat-kissing Nazi. So as the crashing sound grew closer still, he readied himself.
Hands appeared first, parting the head-high ferns so that a body could follow. The face was pale and gaunt, brown hair lanky with sweat and dirt, and the bushy brown moustache on the guy's upper lip had seen better days. Beneath it all was a uniform cut from familiar olive-drab.
The relief that washed over Duncan was palpable, and he let out the breath he'd been holding as he lowered his weapon. "Bugger me, laddie! What were ye doin' crashing through the forest like that? Ye've no idea how close ye came to being shot just now!"
The soldier stood staring vacantly at Duncan, as if he didn't quite understand what he was sayin', or the words that were coming out of his mouth. Was he injured? He certainly didn't look like one of the fresh bodies shipped in from the States; his uniform was tattered in places, a number of bruises and small cuts peppered his grimy face—some of them fresh—and his blue eyes had that haunted look about them, as if they'd seen too much to describe in mere words. When Duncan caught a glance of the man's uniform insignia, the head of a bald eagle on a black background, his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Ye're with the 101st Airborne? In that case, ye're quite a way off course, lad. What're ye doing all the way out here?"
It probably shouldn't have come as a surprise. The paratroopers that'd been dropped over France had scattered in the wind like dandelion seeds, casualties of less than ideal weather conditions during the invasion several weeks ago. Some had died, some had been captured, some had gone missing, and stragglers were even now still making their way across country as they tried to find Normandy and join up with the main forces. This one looked like he'd been through some rough times.
The soldier didn't reply, so Duncan shouted, "Smythe! Come take a look at the lad."
Smythe was the closest thing to a medic they had, since their actual medic had taken a bullet a week ago. Now he dashed forward and gave the American a quick once over, gently probing his chest and back, moving his arms, examining his legs. Finally he grunted.
"Seems alright, Major. I'd guess what ails him is more up here." He tapped his own temples meaningfully.
"Check his tags."
Smythe reached for the chain around the soldier's neck and squinted at the words stamped on the medal. "Seems we're in the company of one John Murphy." He looked at the chevrons on the man's arm before turning back to the tags. "Sergeant. Blood type O-neg. I'm surprised we're still finding paratroopers, I thought they'd all be long lost by now."
"Seems they're made of tough stuff." Duncan strode forward and reached out to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. He stared into Murphy's blue eyes, trying to spark some recognition. "Sergeant Murphy, I'm Major Duncan. Ye're safe now. We're going to take ye back to camp. Do you remember what happened? How ye got here? Where ye've been?"
Murphy blinked slowly, like an owl waking from its nest at dusk. He looked around at the men who were slowly emerging from their hiding places behind the trees, and licked his parched lips. Duncan handed him his own water canteen and let the man drink deeply from it. Finally, he was able to summon a few words.
"I… don't know." Well, he was definitely American, alright. "I was blown off course. I… I think I was captured. I remember guards. A cell. Then…" He lifted his hands and pressed them into his eye sockets, as if it might jog his memory. "I don't know. I was in the dark for so long, then suddenly there was light, and I was at the foot of a hill, trying to get away before they could come after me."
Poor bastard. He must've been captured by the Jerries, and somehow managed to escape. It was likely going to be a long road to recovery for this one. Maybe even a ticket home.
"It's okay," Duncan told him. "Ye're safe. MacDonald, bring him some rations and another canteen. Ye'll keep an eye on him till we can get back to camp."
"Camp?" Murphy blinked owlishly again.
"That's right. We're taking ye home, lad."
"Home." A faraway look entered his eyes. "I can't go home yet. I still have a mission to complete."
Smythe offered him a reassuring shoulder-pat. "Don't worry, Sergeant, ye've completed yer mission. We did it. We secured Normandy and are halfway to kicking the Krauts out of France."
"Normandy?" Murphy shook his head and rubbed at one of the cuts on his cheek. "Was that my mission? That doesn't sound right. I think… I think I've got to go…" He turned as if he really was going to head back out there alone. Smythe took one of his arms and MacDonald grabbed the other.
"Easy there, lad," said Duncan. "Let's get ye back so the doctors can check ye out. Once ye've got a clean bill of health and some food in ye belly, then we can worry about this mission of yours. Alright?"
Murphy gave a quick nod as the two men led him back towards the rest of the team. Hopefully the brass back at camp wouldn't mind another mouth to feed. Though judging by the state of him, this one wouldn't be on the front lines for very long. Poor sod.
Duncan turned to face the rest of his men. "Five minutes," he said, "then we move out. Two of ye go scout to the east, make sure our new friend here wasn't followed. The sooner we get back to camp, the easier I'll breathe."
Author's Note: Thanks for bearing with me, everyone! Don't worry, we'll be back to your regularly scheduled Bucky for the next chapter ;)
bonecreaker - I hope your MCAT prep goes well, I'm sorry it took so long for your reward this time!
RRR / RoR / Guest - thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying a little bit more about Reg so far. I do enjoy creating fun original characters, and it turns out Reg is a bit quirky, so I'm looking forward to writing a bit more about him in the future!
Eagles - Sorry I missed the Fourth, hope this makes up for it :(
Culture Exchange - There is indeed a little difference in the application of the two-fingered salute. I prefer the Vs becase V is for victory :)
Guessguessguest - kaylee pretty much explained it, THE dream is only referenced very subtly so far, but will be explained a little better in some distant future chapter that's already got its own little story arc planned out. For now you can just use your imagination as to its contents if you like.
bangtanheroe - Don't tell anybody, but I'm a little obsessed with it too :-X