We Were Soldiers

2. Camp Rules

The 107th's barracks filled quickly over the next couple of days as men were called up from all over New York. Every day brought new faces, but everybody soon settled into the monotony of camp life. Three days after arriving at Last Stop, Bucky felt like he'd been there forever, and he'd learnt more from his three days there than he had from three months of winter training at Camp McCoy.

The first thing he learnt—after the fact that his drill sergeants had lied, entirely, about Camp Shanks being an awful place—was that the Army had very specific unwritten rules about nicknames. If your surname was longer than two syllables, you were automatically eligible to receive a nickname, but not everyone could give one. Although anybody could give a nickname to somebody of a lower rank, giving one to someone of the same rank, and successfully making it stick, depended upon your powers of persuasion, general charisma, and ability to bully everyone else into accepting that moniker. It wasn't allowed for the lower-ranked soldiers to give nicknames to higher-ranked soldiers, so names had a sort of cascading waterfall effect.

Even if a surname wasn't longer than two syllables, a nickname might be given if its recipient had a single defining feature or quality. There was a corporal in the 101st Airborne Division who'd been named 'Beaky' because of his unfortunately protuberant nose. A private from the 9th Cavalry Regiment who accidentally fired his sidearm when he was trying to holster it was forever stuck with the name 'Trigger.' And there was—rumour had it—a sergeant somewhere in the A-section of the camp who'd been nicknamed 'Vesuvius', because of his explosive sneezes.

All in all, the guys in the 107th who had the beds immediately around Bucky didn't come off too badly. Pretty much everybody forgot Carrot even had a real name, but the only other victim was Corporal Paul Ferguson, whose surname would have been shortened simply to 'Gus' if it wasn't for his very unfortunate tendency to get gassy when he got nervous. Corporal Ferguson was a generally nervous kinda guy, so he spent a lot of time being gassy, and after two days he was banished to the bed closest to the door, where it was harder to smell him. The nickname 'Gusty' quickly stuck.

Because Bucky and Wells were the only sergeants in their barracks, they escaped the fate of the lower enlisted ranks by virtue of the fact that there wasn't anyone to name them, and they'd already reached an entente on that matter anyway. That didn't stop some of the sergeants from other regiments from trying to name them, though. The one Bucky got most often was 'Sergeant Sheds,' which he supposed was an attempted play on 'barn' and the closest thing anybody could come to being witty. They didn't have such a difficult time with Wells. After he spread a story that some of the British-acquired transport ships used to ferry troops to Europe were so antiquated that they were made out of wood and had viking-style dazzle on their outer hulls, he picked up a nickname pretty quickly. The politer men called him 'Sergeant Hyperbole,' while the rest didn't bother with the pleasantry and merely called him 'Sergeant Bullshit.' Bucky even heard a couple of the privates from the 107th wondering aloud whether they could find a loophole to get that name to stick.

Soldiers, Bucky came to realise over those few days, were an odd bunch. First there was Wells, who couldn't tell a story without putting a twisted, macabre spin on it. He rarely lied outright, because he was too clever for that, but he seemed to delight in making everything as gruesome as possible, even if that meant embellishing beyond credibility.

Gusty was mostly normal, apart from his flatulence problems. He'd been a rail operator before enlisting; a nice, quiet job that agreed with his stomach. He wore glasses and loved to read, hoarded the pocket-sized Armed Services Edition novels like they were gold-dust. Soon he had a sizable library of the things under his bed, and men from other divisions in the camp came over regularly to barter for his books. He loaned Bucky a crisp new copy of Of Mice and Men, and Wells traded him a pack of smokes for a book called A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Gusty didn't smoke, because like most things, it disagreed with his stomach, but he'd heard that American cigarettes were worth their weight in gold in Europe.

Tipper had busy hands. He always needed to be doing something with his fingers. Most of the time he kept a coin in his pockets, so that he could bring it out and play with it, run it over his knuckles or throw it in the air and catch it, playing silent heads-or-tails with himself. When he couldn't play with his coin, his fingers went automatically to his dog-tags, until the constant jingle-jangle of metal-on-metal drove somebody crazy and they shouted at him to stop. Pretty soon, everyone in the 107th was carrying an emergency coin in his pocket, to be passed on to Tipper in case he lost his.

Carrot was a guy who liked routine. He'd wake up every morning at 5 o'clock on the dot and drop to the floor to do fifty push-ups. The rest of the 107th didn't have to worry about alarm-clocks, nor wait for the camp's bugler to sound 6 o'clock Reveille ; Carrot's verbal count was the best alarm they could have, and not a man amongst them was still asleep by the count of thirty. After breakfast, he went to the shower block and spent exactly fifteen minutes getting undressed, washed and dressed again, and he had it down like clockwork. In fact, Wells and Gusty had once actually timed him, and agreed that it was fifteen minutes exactly. After his shower, he returned to the barracks and cajoled everybody into making up their bunks, ready for the 7am inspection. The man had a big heart; if one of his comrades was too tired, or lazy, to properly fix up his own bunk, Carrot would do it for him. A big heart, but not the largest brain. When Bucky asked him why he did everything in a very specific way, to a very specific time, he said it was because that was the way it had been taught at Camp Callan, where he'd done his basic training. He didn't seem to realise that he could do things differently now.

After four days of waiting for the rest of the regiment to arrive at Last Stop, barrack number 6 was packed almost to overflowing. Bucky knew it wouldn't be long until they were sent for embarkation, and the thought brought mixed emotions. Excitement was always there, churning at his stomach. He was about to begin what might prove to be the grandest, most dangerous adventure of his life. But there was so much he was leaving behind, and so much he would be missing out on.

Mary-Ann, his younger sister by two and a half years, and his closest sibling, had gone down to Baltimore with some of her friends a few months earlier, answering the call for workers to help build the Liberty Fleet. With so many young men enlisting, it fell to the older men and the women to pick up the hard work, the manual labour, the difficult and often thankless tasks. She'd been a homeroom teacher for two years, but as soon as Bucky announced he was signing up, she'd declared that she was gonna go to Baltimore and build him a proper boat, to make sure he got there and back safely. Her determined ferocity had made him smile. It was very unlikely he'd be travelling on a troop ship Mary-Ann had helped to make, but just knowing his sister had a hand in building the fleet that was carrying brave American soldiers made him feel better about leaving home and fighting on the front lines. With women like Mary-Ann to take care of things at home, his country would be in good hands.

At eighteen, Charlie would be graduating high school this year. In just a few weeks he'd be taking his girlfriend, Linda, to their senior prom, and after that he'd have a cushy ride at college, thanks to a scholarship he'd earned through his hard work in the classroom and skill on the baseball field. Charlie might not like reading for fun, but that hadn't stopped him throwing himself into his studies to make sure he got a much-coveted place in one of New York's top universities.

Janet was the baby of the family. Sweet-sixteen, and a genuinely sweet girl. When Mary-Ann had been her age, Bucky had fallen easily into his role of dutiful older brother, making sure the guys she went out with were good enough for her, and that they treated her right. He would miss out on that, with Janet, but his youngest sister seemed destined to be a late bloomer; she spent more time hanging around with her girl-friends and shopping than she did batting her eyelashes at boys. Sisters they might be, but she and Mary-Ann were very different. Maybe if fortune was with Bucky, he could get back before Janet started showing any interest in the guys at her school.

And then there was Steve, who was like the second brother Bucky had never had. Steve, who managed to be more frustrating than all of his real siblings combined. He had Mary-Ann's stubbornness, Charlie's dedication and Janet's charming obliviousness. Steve was smarter than almost anybody else Bucky had ever met. He could do anything with his life, take his pick of jobs… but all he wanted to do was fight. He had the heart of a warrior inside the body of a frail asthmatic. To Bucky, that had never mattered, because Steve's sharp wit, bravery and compassion had cemented their friendship early on, but to the brass of the U.S. Army, it mattered a whole lot. Still, if there was one thing Bucky could be glad about, it was that Steve would be well out of harm's way during the war. The Army wouldn't take him, and the Krauts couldn't reach him. Steve would be safe. All of Bucky's family would be safe.

"Hey," said Wells, sticking his head into the empty barracks. His blue eyes had a humourous gleam to them.

Bucky looked up from his bed, where he was busy writing out a letter in triplicate. One to home, one to Mary-Ann in Baltimore, and one to Steve. There wasn't much he could tell them, and probably less that would actually make it through the army's censors, but at least he could let them know he was doing okay, still on American soil, and missing them already.

"Hey," he returned.

"You're a pretty good pitcher, right? I remember you bragging about it a couple of days ago."

"I wasn't bragging, but yeah, I'm pretty decent. Why?"

A happy smile spread across Wells' face like warm butter across toast. "The Screaming Eagles just managed to get themselves a proper dart board and set it up out back of their barracks."

"What's that gotta do with baseball?"

"Nothing, obviously," Wells snorted. "But they just challenged us to a game."

"You mean you challenged them to a game?"

His friend shrugged. "Let's not split hairs."

"I don't see what this has to do with pitching at baseball."

"Pitching balls and throwing darts; how different can they be?"

"Uh, very different, actually. One of them is round and ball-shaped, the other is kinda pointy."

"C'moooon, Barnes," Wells wheedled like a damn kid, "we've got a pack of smokes and three of Gusty's books riding on this match. Plus, you know, the honour of our regiment. It's a doubles match, and I need someone with better aim than Carrot. Come on, pal, don't go lettin' us down in our hour of need."

With a deep sigh, Bucky packed away his writing equipment and his half-written letters. Soon, very soon, he'd be leaving his family behind. But for better or worse, and despite all their idiosyncrasies, the 107th were his family from now on.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Private First Class Harvey Franklin was a typical rank and filer. He was cheerful, hard-working, didn't shirk his duties but—unlike Carrot—wasn't dumb enough to actually volunteer for anything, and he could be relied upon to be reliable. He also had a very strange way of stirring his coffee. Bucky had watched him do it three days in a row, and on the fourth day he nudged Wells, who was sat beside him at the mess table devouring what the soldiers referred to as 'mystery bags' but were in fact sausages of some sort, along with a large pile of beans.

At first, Wells glared at him for the interruption. Then he followed Bucky's gaze to Franklin, who was sitting opposite them. He took in Franklin's odd stirring, and the intense concentration on the guy's face as he did it, and in his usual forthright manner, asked, "The hell are you doing, Franklin?"

Franklin didn't even glance up. "Stirring my coffee, Sarge."

"Why are you stirring it like that?"

"Because that's how you stir coffee. Surely you must know how to stir coffee?" When he finally looked up, he must've seen the blank looks on his sergeants' faces. "See, my old Granny taught me that to make a proper good cup of joe, you have to add your sugar and stir it in a figure of eight motion ten times, like this, so that all the sugar gets evenly dispersed to every bit of the coffee."

"That's bullshit."

"It isn't bullshit, Sarge," said Franklin, a hurt little frown sliding across his face.

"No, he's right, it's bullshit," Bucky said, much as it pained him to agree with Wells of all people calling out someone else for bullshit. "Franklin, it's coffee and sugar. It doesn't matter how you stir it, it's always gonna taste the same."

"If you insist, Sarge. But if it's alright with you, I'm gonna keep stirring it my way. It really does make a difference."

Wells jumped up from his seat.

"Where are you going?" Bucky asked him.

"To get another cup of coffee. I gotta try it." He returned with a fresh cup of strong black coffee and several sachets of sugar. "Alright, Franklin, how many are you putting in there?"

"Four."

"Four?! Hell, man… why?"

The look on Franklin's face suggested the answer was obvious. "When we get to the front lines, Sarge, there's not gonna be any sugar. So I gotta get my allowance in now."

"How many cups of coffee do you have a day?" Bucky enquired.

"Just two."

"I refuse to do that to my arteries," said Wells. "I'm just putting one in, and I don't care what your old Granny says about that."

Bucky watched as Wells added a sachet and began stirring in a figure of eight motion. He counted ten stirs, then Wells took a sip.

"So?" Bucky prompted his friend.

"Well I'll be damned. I think it actually does taste better."

"Bullshit," he scoffed.

"No, really. Try it."

Wells handed the cup over. Bucky tried it. "Huh." Franklin was right. Who'd'a thought?

When the rest of the 107th arrived, they were initiated into the fold, and twenty minutes later, when the 101st Airborne—who had barracks Echo-Eight—showed up for their own breakfast slot, they found some eighty members of the 107th intently stirring sugar into their coffees.

"The hell are you all doing?" demanded Sergeant Murphy of the 101st. The guy had a large, bushy moustache that made him look older than his twenty-five years and which quivered when he exhaled. Right now it was quivering in amused curiosity.

So Franklin told him, and Bucky gave him a cup of coffee to try, and when they left, the Screaming Eagles were all very quietly, very intently, stirring their coffees in figure of eight patterns.

By evening meal, word had spread around the entire camp about the best way of stirring coffee. For twenty-four hours, Franklin was famous. Practically a hero. Even men who hadn't previously drank coffee started taking it up, just so they could try it out.

At breakfast the next day, Private Tipper dashed into the mess, almost falling over himself in his haste. He slid to a halt beside Bucky's table, issued a swift salute—because no amount of grumbling and eye-rolling from Wells had been able to break him out of that habit—and launched into conversation without so much as a 'good morning' or 'Sarge'.

"I just spoke to a corporal in the 9th Cavalry who said we're stirring our coffee the wrong way!"

"Did you tell him about the figure of eight?" Wells asked, blowing across the top of his cup so that it cooled a little faster.

"Yeah, and he said we're only doing it half right. He said figures of eights go two ways. He said after you do the ten figures in the normal way—that is to say, counter clockwise at the top and clockwise at the bottom—you gotta reverse it for the next ten and do clockwise at the top then counter clockwise at the bottom."

"Huh." Wells grabbed his discarded spoon and began re-stirring his coffee, whilst Franklin looked on with a crestfallen expression. "Y'know, that really does taste even better," Wells admitted, after tasting his coffee again.

When the Screaming Eagles arrived, the 107th passed on the new method of ultimate coffee-stirring, and by nightfall word had gotten around the whole camp.

At breakfast the next day, the 107th discovered a new sign in the mess hall. In big, harsh black lettering, it said, "To facilitate swift dining of all base personnel, coffee may only be stirred five times in either direction."

"Those fascists," Wells grumbled.

"Oh well, it was nice while it lasted," Bucky agreed, patting Franklin on the shoulder. The poor guy looked like he'd just been told his old Granny had died all over again.

A short while later, Bucky heard that the 9th Cavalry had made up some bullshit about counter-stirring the coffee, just to see if the 107th would fall for it, so he and Wells challenged them to a match on the 101st's dart board, and won back the 107th's honour.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"Why so glum, Carrot?" asked Bucky, the day after the 107th's honour had been restored.

Carrot hadn't been himself all day. He'd only done ten press-ups in the morning, only stirred his coffee twice at breakfast, his usual fifteen-minute shower routine had taken eighteen minutes, and he'd barely cajoled anyone into making up their bunks for inspection; Wells had been forced to yell at two of the privates just to get them into line, and he hated yelling. Bucky had found Carrot sitting in the shade of barracks E-8, pretending to watch the Eagles practice darts whilst in actual fact he stared at the picture of his girl which he held in both hands.

"Oh, it's nothing, Sarge," Carrot sighed morosely.

"C'mon Corporal, you can tell me what's wrong." He didn't like to see a guy so down, especially when that guy was usually full of exuberance.

"Well… it's my girl, Samantha." Carrot held up the picture for Bucky to see. Bucky had already seen it four times, because Carrot liked to show everybody his girl, but he nodded and made the appropriate impressed noises, and Carrot continued. "We've been together since we were sixteen, and always planned to get married at twenty-one. So, I proposed, and she accepted… and then I got called up. I would'a done it there and then, but I didn't want something shotgun style, I wanted the proper thing, so we agreed to wait."

"That must'a been a difficult decision for both of you."

"Yeah," Carrot sighed. "Anyway, tomorrow is our anniversary. Our fifth anniversary of being together. And every year on our anniversary, I give Samantha a single red rose. They're her favourite flowers, and every time she got a single red rose from me, she knew she was the only one I wanted. This will be the first year I haven't sent her a rose, Sarge." Poor Carrot looked close to tears, his blue eyes all hazy. "What if it's port… poten… what if it's a bad omen?"

Bucky knew enough about love to know that he'd never truly experienced it. Not like Carrot had. He'd never found that one girl who made him want to stop chasing all the others. Never found that special someone he could be happy falling asleep beside and waking up next to. But he knew that if he ever found it, he'd want to do whatever it took to hold onto it. And he'd want to know that his buddies would be there to back him up.

"Carrot," he said, reaching out to lay a hand on the young man's broad shoulder. "Your girl is going to get a red rose from you tomorrow. We're going to make sure of it."

Flames of hope sprang into Carrot's watery eyes, doused a moment later as reality set in. "But Sarge… how?"

"I'm not sure, yet," he admitted. "But we'll ask Wells to help. He'll know what to do."

Carrot gave an unamused scoff. "Wells won't help, Sarge. He's too bitter."

"We'll see about that. C'mon, Carrot, we've got a mission now."

He pulled Carrot to his feet and was pleased to see a spring in the tall man's step. Some people would rather wallow in misery than dare to hope and be helped, and he was glad to see Carrot wasn't one of them. They found their barracks empty except for Wells, who was lying on his bed and his back reading the A Tree Grows in Brooklyn novel he'd traded Gusty a pack of smokes for. Seemingly engrossed in his reading, he didn't look over as the pair strode into the room.

"We need a red rose," Bucky told him, as he and Carrot stopped by his bed.

"A red rose, huh?" Wells mused, glancing up at his comrades. He closed his book, tucked it into his pocket, then made a show of feeling beneath his bunk for an imaginary something. "Let's see. I got tulips, daffodils…" he tossed the imaginary flowers over his shoulder, "…posies? Where the hell'd they come from? Sorry boys, looks like you're out of luck; I'm fresh out of red roses."

"Don't be such a smart-ass," Bucky told him.

"I can't help it. It comes natural. Whaddya want a red rose for anyway?"

"It's for Carrot's girl. It's their anniversary tomorrow, and it's traditional."

Wells shrugged, completely unsympathetic as he lay back down on his bed. "So write her a poem about roses. Let's see… 'Roses are red, violets are blue, farewell my darling, ma cherie — adieu.' See, I'm practically Shakespeare, and not even the army's censors can ruin that." The arches of his black eyebrows suddenly lowered into a frown. "Unless they think you're trying to secretly convey that you're being shipped out to France."

"See," Carrot said to Bucky, "I told you he was too bitter to help."

"Bitter?!" Wells spluttered, sitting up. "I'm not bitter, Carrot, I'm just not a complete patsy."

"Corporal, go wait outside," said Bucky. After Carrot left, he rounded on his friend. "You're gonna help me help Carrot, Wells, because I helped you win that darts game against the Eagles, the one you had stakes riding on. And because even if you think Carrot's a patsy, he's still a member of the 107th, which means he's our patsy. And it's the right thing to do."

"Fine," Wells sighed. "But only because it's a slow day and I got nothing better going on."

"Thanks."

"Ugh, don't thank me. You might make me feel good about helping the chump." Wells pulled his boots onto his feet and quickly laced them up.

"You should feel good about it. There's nothing wrong with that. And where'd you learn to speak French, anyway?"

"What are you talking about?" Wells asked, a puzzled expression creeping over his face. "I don't speak French."

They found Carrot loitering nearby, toeing a stone with his boot, looking as lost and forlorn as a puppy who'd been kicked out the house for piddling on the carpet.

"This rose," said Wells, coming to a stop in front of Carrot. "It doesn't need to conform to any stupid specifications, does it?"

"Well, um, it needs to be red—"

Wells gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Yeah, I got that. But it doesn't need to have a certain type of petal pattern, or one leaf on the stem for every year you've been together?"

Carrot's eyes momentarily clouded over. "Hey… one leaf for every year… that's a great idea, Sarge! How'd you think that one up?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. I read it somewhere. Anyway, it's too late to start that tradition now. Leave it until you're married. One leaf for every kid your unholy union produces."

"Okay Sarge, but where are we gonna find a rose for Samantha out here?"

Where indeed? Bucky wondered. The land around Camp Shanks had been scoured bare. If there were roses, they wouldn't be found for miles. Wells would have to be some sort of goddamn wizard, to pull this one out of his hat.

"Where?" Wells smiled, hooking an arm over each of their shoulders and leading them deeper into the camp. "Oh no, my friends. This isn't a matter of where, but of how."

Bucky learnt something new that day. He learnt it wasn't what you knew, but who you knew, that got you ahead in the life. The army had many closely guarded secrets. Everybody knew that if you wanted or needed something, you had to go to the quartermaster and requisition it. But one of the closely guarded secrets was, if you knew the right people, you didn't even have to know the quartermaster's name, and you certainly didn't have to complete a lengthy requisition form.

Private First Class Larry Davies had arrived at the 107th's barracks on the same bus as Gusty and Franklin. Bucky had spoken to the guy a few times, but never really marked him out for any particular reason. Like Franklin, the guy did everything that needed to be done, only without Franklin's odd coffee-stirring tendencies. He'd seemed your typical G.I., he'd adapted without issue or complaint to camp life, so Bucky had left him to his own devices.

He quickly learnt what a mistake that had been.

They found Pfc. Davies sitting at a table nestled in the narrow alley between C-2 and C-3, conveniently off the beaten path, playing a game of poker with a few privates and corporals from various other regiments. They didn't look guilty as Wells approached with Bucky and Carrot in tow, but they suddenly looked a lot less comfortable.

"Scram," said Wells, pinning Davies to his chair with his gaze, "and I'll forget I saw you all here. Ah, Private Ramirez, leave that bottle of beer. Atta boy." Wells took one of the vacated seats and a quick swig of the beer. Then he pulled his face. "Ugh, warm. It's like we're already in England."

"I was up by fifty points," said Davies, shooting a dark scowl at Wells.

"This is more important."

"Nothing is more important than being up by fifty points."

Wells gave him a smile which Bucky could only describe as malicious, and leant back in his chair. "Tell me, Private Davies, do you enjoy the location of your bed? The bed that is at the opposite end of the barracks to Corporal Ferguson's bed? The bed which Hawkins and Donovan have asked me to switch them to at least twice each? Hawkins and Donovan, as you probably know, had the misfortune of showing up last to camp, and therefore ended up bunking next to Gusty."

"I see what you mean, Sarge," said Davies. "This is way more important than being fifty points up. What can I do for you?"

"I need a red rose, I need it hand-delivered to someone in New York, and I need it done tomorrow. What's it gonna cost me?"

Davies reached into his pocket. Bucky expected him to come out with a calculator. Instead, he came out with a licorice root, which he chewed on for several minutes as his eyes went unfocused and darted across the table as if tracking the erratic movement of ants. Finally, he nodded to himself, and looked up at Wells.

"Two packs of smokes."

"Alright. Now, what do you need to make it happen?"

"Twenty pairs of new or like-new clean socks, five of Gusty's most undamaged novels, a small compact mirror, a box of .45 ammunition, three games of darts doubles with you and Sergeant Barnes flying for the 107th, a platinum-nibbed fountain pen, an Elvgren Girls calendar from 1941, and the two packs of smokes."

Wells drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. "The calendar could be a problem. Does it have to be 1941?"

"1940 or '42 would be adequate, but it might cost you an extra pack of smokes. '41 would be better. And I need it all by dinner time."

"Shit. We better get started, then."

Wells set off back to the E-section, and Bucky hurried after him, while Carrot brought up the rear.

"I don't get it, Sarge," the corporal said. "If he can get a rose to Samantha for two packs of smokes, what does he need all that other stuff for?"

"It's complicated. Not even I know the whole ins-and-outs of it." Wells shook his head. "I'm not sure I want to know. Suffice it to say, this is what he needs, so this is what he gets. Carrot, you go find Gusty, tell him to dig out five of his best novels. Barnes, you get twenty volunteers to give up a pair of socks each. Also, I'll need your box of ammo."

"How am I supposed to get Gusty to give up five books?" Carrot wailed. "You know how protective he is of them!"

"And how am I supposed to get twenty people to give up a pair of socks?" Bucky asked. Socks, too, were worth their weight in gold.

"Order 'em, if you have to. And tell them they don't need to worry; they'll get it all back."

"What are you gonna be doing?"

"Me?" Wells grimaced. "I'll get everything else."

Two hours later, Bucky found himself playing his third game of darts on the Eagles' board. He didn't recognise the insignia of the regiment he and Wells were playing against, but by this point, he didn't care.

"Remind me again why we're doin' this," he said to his friend, as one of their opponents stepped up to the line with his three darts in hands.

Wells lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Corporal Mayweather from the Eagles got himself a pass for tomorrow night, but he blew it in a poker game with some guy from the 9th Cavalry. We gave Mayweather twenty pairs of socks to get his pass back, but the guy with the pass wants five novels, so we traded half the socks back for—"

"Actually, forget it," Bucky interrupted. "Just tell me I'm gonna get that box of ammo back."

"Don't worry, pal, Davies knows a corporal who works for the quartermaster, and in exchange for a box of ammo he'll accept a compact mirror, which we needed to trade the calendar for because—"

"Never mind. I just decided I don't want to know."

"That's the best way," Wells nodded. "Just let the man do his job."

"What exactly was Pfc. Davies' job before enlisting?"

"I'm not sure. But his dad's Italian. Probably best not to ask too many questions."

"How'd you know that? And how'd you know Davies was the man to go to for all of this?" Bucky asked his friend.

"We were at the same boot camp. There was nothing Davies couldn't get, even back then."

Davies was gone for half the night. Bucky, along with Carrot and Wells and Gusty and Franklin, heard him stumble in after midnight, and he sounded pretty drunk as he made his way to his camp bed at the far side of the room. Quite an accomplishment, to say there was no alcohol allowed on base. When Bucky awoke the next morning, Davies was already gone. Which was also quite an accomplishment, for someone who'd rolled into the barrack in the Private's state of inebriation. Bucky threw socks at Wells' head until his friend woke up.

"Wha'?" Wells demanded, glaring at Bucky.

"Davies is gone."

"Ah, don't worry." And because it wasn't even five o'clock yet, Wells rolled over and went back to sleep.

Bucky couldn't help but worry. His desire to help Carrot had avalanched into a quarter of the 107th missing a pair of their socks, Gusty complaining about five of his best books being taken for nothing, his own box of ammunition for his Colt being given away, and Davies going missing for half of the day, so that they had to make up some bullshit excuse about the Private being taken ill with the trots when the camp's XO came for daily inspection and found the 107th one man short.

Around midday, strange things started to happen around E-6. First, a guy from one of the Anti-Aircraft divisions turned up with a bunch of socks, which he gave back to the 107th. Privates from three different regiments brought all five of Gusty's books back, plus an extra two which were, apparently, 'interest.' Just before dinner, one of the quartermaster's staff appeared with a box of .45 Colt ammo for Bucky, and an apology for the 'mistake' that had resulted in him getting the wrong calibre ammo for his sidearm.

After dinner, Bucky sat out the front of the barracks with Carrot and Wells, watching the sun go down to the sound of the Screaming Eagles swearing at each other as they tried to improve at darts. At ten-thirty, the camp's bugler sounded Taps. As the moon began to rise high into the sky, one of the Eagles stumbled over to E-6, smelling like a woman's boudoir. From his jacket pocket he pulled a slip of flowery pink paper, the source of the boudoir scent, which he handed to Carrot before wandering off back to his own barrack.

A wide smile lit up Carrot's face, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight as he read the note. "It's from Samantha! She says she got my rose!" Arms open wide, he turned to Wells. "Thank you, Sarge!"

"If you try to hug me I will fuckin' shoot you, Corporal," Wells scowled.

Carrot wisely decided not to try. Instead, he disappeared into the barrack, to show off his perfumed letter and spread the happy news.

"You did a good thing, Wells, whether you want to admit it or not," Bucky told his friend.

Wells shrugged. "I did an entertaining thing. That's all. And don't grin like that, it makes you look like a goddamn twelve year old kid who just got his grubby mitts on the cookie jar."

"I gotta ask… what'd you do before enlisting?"

"Me?" The guy actually sounded surprised by the question. "I was an accountant."

"No bullshit?"

"No bullshit."

"Huh." His dad's accountant was about sixty, and spoke in the dullest monotone Bucky had ever heard. In fact, so did all the other accountants in the firm. It was like they shared one tone of voice. Possibly even one personality. Maybe they split it ten ways, or passed it around so that each of them got to use it on a specific day. "I thought accountants were supposed to be stuffy, and old, and boring?"

Wells merely grinned. "Shows what you know, Barnes."