We Were Soldiers
3. This Man's Army
Six days after Bucky arrived at Camp Shanks, there was an incident. Because the 107th had the second breakfast slot, they caught the aftermath as they arrived at the mess at 5.30 in the morning. The 93rd Signal Brigade, who had the 5am slot, were sheepishly eating their breakfasts, while several of the camp's staff were trying to restore order to the disarrayed kitchen. Every mixing bowl on the shelves had been turned upside down, eggs had been splattered against the ceiling, and there was so much white covering the floor, being swept into a corner for later removal, that it looked like a very small snowstorm had hit the room.
"What happened?" Bucky asked Sergeant Potts of the 93rd.
Potts made a 'shushing' motion and glanced warily at the cook, who was standing in the middle of the chaos with a look on his face like he was about to murder someone.
"Someone broke in overnight," Potts whispered. "Threw all the eggs in the stores at the ceiling, mixed up the mixing bowls, and emptied damn near every single packet of sugar onto the floor."
That certainly explained the piles of white. Franklin very nearly had a nervous breakdown right there and then. Bucky sent him off with Tipper and Carrot to get a bowl of oatmeal, which seemed to be the only thing being served today.
"They got any suspects?" asked Wells.
"Not yet, but I heard the MPs are gonna do a search of every barracks."
"For what? Missing sugar packets?"
Bucky's mind went immediately to the sugar packets in his duffel bag. Ever since Franklin had mentioned there would be no sugar on the front lines, everyone had slipped a packet or two outta the mess hall at every meal. Even those who didn't use sugar now stockpiled it for trade.
"Dunno," said Potts.
"If they go looking for sugar packets, we're in trouble," Bucky said quietly to Wells.
His friend merely snorted and rolled his eyes. "If they go looking for sugar packets, the whole damn army's gonna be in trouble. Do you think ours are the only guys who take a packet or two of sugar? Everybody does it. And by law it can't be stealing, because as soldiers in service to our country we're entitled to a certain amount of sugar for our coffee; the rules don't state when we have that sugar, just that we're entitled to it. See, what I do, is I don't have my sugar in my coffee at meal time, I just take it with me, back to the barracks, and keep it for later."
"I've seen you putting sugar in your coffee."
Wells gave him a very pointed glare. "I don't put sugar in my coffee at meal times. And neither do you. And Sergeant Potts here, he doesn't either, do you, Potts?"
"Absolutely not," Potts agreed.
"Besides, the crime here is clearly not thef—I mean, redistribution." Wells gestured at the corporals who'd been given sugar-sweeping duty, possibly as punishment for breathing around the cook. "The sugar isn't missing, it's quite obviously all there. What we have here is pure, malicious vandalism. It's gotta be someone from the outside."
"How d'ya figure?" Bucky asked. His fellow sergeant had a very straightforward mind. In fact, it was so straightforward that at times it seemed incredibly convoluted.
"What kinda idiot is gonna sabotage the base's supply of sugar?" Wells aimed a very forlorn look at the ceiling. "And you know how much I like my eggs in the morning. There are going to be no eggs for breakfast today. If I find whoever ruined my breakfast, I'm gonna actually kill him. And Franklin might just kill him outta sheer sugar-withdrawal. Whoever did this screwed us all over, and the one thing you don't do in the Army is screw your buddies. That's more of a Navy thing."
He had to admit, Wells had a point. A very good point. The senseless vandalism was one step up from a joke, and one step down from a true crime. It was almost childlike, infantile in its simplicity. It was like someone had either come into the mess with the sole intention of causing a mess, or tried and failed to bake a really big cake. The 107th didn't speculate over breakfast, because the cook was within hearing range, but they talked about it for a while as they walked back to their barracks. The only conclusion they managed to reach was that whoever did it was a rotten bastard.
A pair of MPs arrived with the camp's XO for daily inspection, and they went through everything with a fine toothed comb. Much to Bucky's dismay and Franklin's whimpering horror, they confiscated every sachet of sugar they found, but by this time the 107th had already hidden a large stash of it in a linen bag which they'd buried in a hole in the ground, out back of the barracks. They'd left enough sugar to make the MPs think they'd found it all, but half of the packets were safe out of sight. At nightfall, Davies planned to recover them.
Nothing official was said about the confiscated sugar. Bucky guessed that by this point, they'd probably recovered so much from so many barracks that they'd either run out of disciplinary forms, or had stopped caring enough to issue them. After the MPs left, everybody breathed a sigh of relief, and the excitement of the morning swiftly passed.
Around midday, Bucky was sat outside E-6 with Wells and Gusty as they tried to teach Carrot how to play poker. The poor guy just couldn't grasp all the different card combinations, so they'd written them down for him, to give him something to reference. But in true Carrot fashion, each time he got a new hand, he ran his finger down the list until he found the combination he held. The game was not going in Corporal Robbins' favour.
"Erm, excuse me, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells. Could I… erm, have a word? In private?"
Bucky looked up into the face of Private Frederick Biggs. Like Gusty, Biggs was a quiet sorta guy who kept to himself and didn't like to make a fuss about things. He was popular with the other privates because he was built like an ox and just as strong; he never minded doing any heavy lifting for them.
"Gusty," said Wells, "why don't you take Carrot and try to teach him why two-pair of kings and fives is better than two-pair of kings and fours?"
"Sure, Sarge. C'mon Carrot, let's go find somewhere quiet to work this out."
When the pair left, Bucky gestured to one of the empty seats, and Biggs sat down, running his big, shovel-sized hands through his hair.
"What's on your mind, Biggs?"
"I think I'm in trouble, Sarge."
"This much is obvious from your sweaty demeanour and hand-wringing," Wells pointed out, ever his sensitive self. "What's eating you up?"
"Y'know that brouhaha in the mess this morning?"
"I vaguely recall it."
"Well, I think that might've been me."
Bucky kicked Wells under the table before he could come out with something smart-assed, and leant forward to look into Biggs' face. "What do you mean, Private?"
"I think I might've done it, Sarge."
"You don't know whether you trashed the mess kitchen?" Wells asked, nimbly moving his legs so Bucky couldn't kick him again. "How could you not know something like that?"
"When I get stressed, I sleep-walk, Sarge," said Biggs. "And I do things. In my sleep. Strange things. One time, my dad found me sleeping outside, in the dog house."
"What kid hasn't slept in the dog house at some point?" Wells shrugged.
"No Sarge, this was two weeks ago. Y'see, I only started getting stressed after I enlisted. This is a recent thing."
"It couldn't have been you, Biggs," Bucky pointed out. "You couldn't have left the barracks, trashed the mess kitchen, then returned, without one of us hearing you come and go."
"Unless you sleep-sneak, instead of sleep-walk," Wells grinned.
"I can be pretty quiet," Biggs nodded sadly. "Just before I left home, I sleep-walked again and baked a birthday cake for my mom."
"That's sweet," Bucky smiled.
"It's not her birthday till December. What should I do, Sarge?"
"You could always bake us cupcakes," said Wells. "Oh, stop looking at me like that, Barnes." He sighed and shook his head, turning his focus back to Biggs. "This is a serious problem, Private."
Biggs nodded glumly. "If the brass find out it was me that trashed the kitchen, I'll be court-martialled for sure."
"Forget the kitchen! This is far worse than that, Biggs. We'll be shipping out to the front lines soon. What if you sleepwalk off the transport and into the ocean? Or what if we get to the front lines and you sleepwalk outta your tent and straight onto a land mine?"
Biggs' face went white as a sheet. Wells had a good point. He was full of those today.
"Didn't you put this on your medical form?" Bucky asked the private.
"Yeah, but it's not exactly something they can test you for. They thought I was tryin' to dodge! What am I gonna do, Sarge? I don't wanna walk off the ship or onto a land mine!"
"We'll tie you down," he suggested. "Lash you to your bed. Then you can't go anywhere."
"And we'll move Gusty directly in front of the door," added Wells. "That way, even if you manage to get yourself out of bed, you won't be able to leave the barracks without climbing over Gusty and waking him up."
Disbelief and gratitude warred across Biggs' face. "Really, Sarge? You'd do all that for me?"
"Of course," said Bucky. "We're practically family."
"'Cept I like you a lot more than I like my real family," Wells grinned.
That night, before lights-out, they tried to figure out the best way of restraining Biggs without hurting him. Rope gave him friction-burn, and shoe laces risked cutting off his circulation if he pulled them taut in his sleep. Finally, Davies came up with the idea of looping belts through the metal rungs of the camp bed, and using them like cuffs around Biggs' wrists. The belts were long enough to allow Biggs some movement, and by punching extra holes in the leather they could fasten them tightly enough to comfortably restrain him without hurting him.
During the early hours of the morning, Bucky was woken by a loud screeching sound, like fingernails down a chalkboard. It tore through his dreams and dragged him out of his pleasant, sleepy haze. The dream-memory of his mom's cooking at Thanksgiving slid away, replaced by the darkness of the barracks.
"What the hell?" he grumbled, as more of the soldiers began to wake.
One of the men by the light control box flipped a switch, flooding the barracks with a pale yellow glow, and in that glow he saw Private Biggs making his way across the room, stumbling under the weight of the camp bed, which dragged along the floor behind him and was the cause of the screeching, scraping sound.
"What do we do, Sarge?" asked Carrot, while the rest of the 107th looked on as baffled as Bucky felt.
"I dunno. Don't they say you shouldn't hold a sleepwalker down in case he hurts himself more?"
"I think that's people having fits," Gusty offered helpfully. "I think with sleepwalkers, you're not supposed to wake them."
Wells waved his hand in front of Biggs' face, which was blank and slack-jawed. "He's really out of it."
Gusty backed up as Biggs continued his shambling march. His bed was right in the path of the door, and Biggs didn't look like he was gonna stop. "He's getting closer!" Gusty said, in a whimpering tone. "Somebody do something before he tries to climb over and crashes our beds together!"
"We're gonna have to wake him," said Wells.
"Go on then," Bucky instructed. "Just give his shoulder a shake or something."
Wells looked at him as if he was mad. "Are you kiddin'? I'm not waking him. What if he lashes out? His hands are as big as my head. You give his shoulder a shake or something."
"Not a chance," Bucky scoffed. "Gusty, wake him up."
"Err, I don't think so, Sarge."
"You're gonna defy a direct order from a sergeant, Corporal?"
"Yes, Sarge." Gusty's eyes glanced around for a lower ranked man. "Pfc. Davies, wake up Private Biggs."
Davies merely scoffed and gave the corporal the two-fingered salute.
"I'll do it, Sarge," Tipper squeaked. He had his rifle in his hands and was advancing towards Biggs with the muzzle-end ready for poking into the big man's shoulder. Wells made a swift grab for the weapon and wrenched it from Tipper's grip.
"Holy crap, Tipper, are you insane? You don't poke your squadmates with your goddamn rifle."
"Sorry, Sarge," Tipper cringed.
"I've got an idea," said Bucky. He'd been eyeing up the bed, trying to find alternative forms of stopping Biggs from advancing which wouldn't end with someone gettin' punched if he flailed. "If we pile a few men onto the bed, it'll stop Biggs dragging it."
The guys who'd been so reluctant to get close enough to Biggs to wake him seemed to have no qualms about sitting on the bed while Biggs dragged it, further affirming Bucky's belief that soldiers really were just big goddamn kids. Two privates hopped onto the bed, and they were joined by Franklin and Davies. It slowed Biggs, but it didn't stop him, not even when his arms were pulled backwards by the weight of the bed and it looked like they might be wrenched out of their sockets.
"This isn't working," Wells pointed out.
Bucky stood beside his friend as they considered the situation. The four guys on the bed were having a great time pretending they were doing the world's slowest tobogganing, but if Biggs managed to get out, he'd be a problem. The MPs and their K9 units would probably not believe a sleepwalking story, especially since the 107th had garnered a reputation for bullshit thanks to the whole coffee-stirring incident and Wells generally being Wells.
"We gotta tackle him back, onto the bed," Bucky suggested. "Then we can hold his arms and legs down, so he can't move."
Wells nodded. "Alright. Fellas, prepare to jump off the bed. Carrot, you'll be in charge of tackling Biggs."
"Why me, Sarge?" Carrot asked, his blue eyes wide and as nervous as Gusty's.
"You're the tallest, it'll be easier for you."
"But I don't know how to tackle a guy, Sarge!"
"Just pretend you're scrapping," Bucky told him.
"My mom would kill me if I got into a scrap."
"You've never been in a fight?"
"Not me," Carrot told him proudly.
Bucky looked to Wells, who shook his head disbelievingly and offered a new suggestion.
"You and I approximately make up the size of Biggs. If you grab his right shoulder, and I grab his left, we can probably push him back and hold him down."
Bucky transferred his gaze back to Biggs. The guy was like a small mountain. He and Wells had a height advantage, but in terms of mass, there probably wasn't much difference. Still, it wasn't as if they had any other choice; switching on the lights had failed to wake Biggs, the sound of speaking hadn't woken him, nor had physical resistance. It was this, or the MPs.
"On three?" he offered, and Wells nodded. "One… two… three!"
"You didn't go," Wells pointed out, after neither of them had moved.
"Neither did you."
"Alright, really on three this time. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Bucky nodded. He took a deep breath and geared himself up for the charge as Wells gave the count.
"Three… two… one!"
Together they grabbed Biggs' wrists and shoulders and pushed back, trying to force him down onto the camp bed. The guy really was as strong as an ox, and Bucky felt his muscles groan in complaint as he pushed with all his strength. Biggs merely leant his weight forward, and pushed back. Wells grumbled a swift litany of profanities that made Carrot's ears turn red.
"Sweep his legs," Wells growled. They'd managed to stop Biggs going forward, but Bucky could feel the guy's muscles tensed in a push, and he suspected he and Wells would get tired before Biggs did.
Bucky reached out with his leg, hooking it around the back of Biggs' knees, and as he and Wells gave one last concerted push, the pivot motion finally toppled the big guy. He went back onto the camp bed, causing the four guys on it to scramble with frightened yelps at the sight of the avalanche of Biggs bearing down on them. But although Biggs was down, he definitely wasn't out. He tried to get to his feet again, and almost dragged Bucky and Wells up with him.
"Everybody pile on!" Bucky instructed.
And they took it literally. Carrot and Davies pinned down his left leg; Franklin and Gusty, the right. Tipper flung his scrawny self across Biggs' barrel-chest, and it proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back. The camp bed, on which seven guys were dog-piled, finally decided it had been tortured enough, and collapsed in a deathly squeal of conquered metal, dropping them all six inches to the floor.
Biggs' eyes flew open. "Whu—what—?" His eyes went frantically from Bucky's face to Wells'. "S—Sarge? I can't move my legs!"
"That's because half of the 107th are sat on them, you goddamn idiot," Wells scowled. "Couldn't you have woken up five minutes ago?"
"What's going on?" Poor Biggs. He looked as confused and frightened as a child who'd just woken up from night terrors.
"Don't worry about it, Private," Bucky told him, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. "You were just sleepwalking again."
"Oh no. I didn't bake any cakes, did I?"
Bucky grinned, then pulled Wells up off the private. He could tell his friend's already stretched patience was wearing thin.
"Why couldn't it be Tipper who sleepwalks?" Wells grumbled, as everyone began to return to their own beds and Biggs sat looking at the twisted metal carcass of his. "A gentle breeze could fell that guy. But no, it's gotta be the goddamn cake-baking man-mountain."
"Go easy on him, it's not his fault."
The only response was an incoherent grumble as he yanked his blanket over his shoulders and settled down to sleep. The following day, Biggs went down to the quartermaster to requisition a new bed, and Bucky went with him because Biggs was a terrible liar. Bucky told the quartermaster that the bed frame had already been damaged when the 107th got there, and that Biggs had simply been too big for it.
He suspected the quartermaster didn't entirely believe him, but that was the price you sometimes had to pay for being in the 107th. At least one good thing came from the incident; that night, there was no shortage of men offering belts to keep Biggs strapped to his bed, so the guy didn't get the chance to do any clandestine baking.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
By the seventh day, a rumour had spread around the camp that everyone in E-section, and a quarter of the regiments from other sections, were being shipped out the next day. There was a frantic last-minute scramble for trade, especially for Gusty's books, and Sergeant Murphy made the rounds with his camera, taking pictures of groups from the various regiments out front of their barracks. The camera wouldn't be allowed overseas, but Murphy had already made arrangements to send it home. Memories for the future, he called it.
The mere thought of the start of the two-week sea voyage was enough to make Bucky's stomach churn with excitement and nerves, but he tried not to let it show, for two reason.
The first reason was that he felt he had to set a good example for the lower ranked enlisted men, especially since the only other example they had to look to was Wells. At least two thirds of the guys in the 107th were under twenty-three years old, and half of them were under twenty-one. Those like Tipper, who were on the very young end of the scale, reminded Bucky all too often of his younger brother, Charlie. Technically, Charlie was almost eligible to enlist, and Bucky liked to think that if he ever did sign up, he'd have someone to watch over him in lieu of his absent big brother.
The second reason he didn't let his excitement show, was that he didn't know where the rumour had originated from. In Camp Shanks, rumours spread faster than VD through a port full of sailors on shore leave, and with each retelling the rumour was changed, or twisted, or embellished. Bucky got the rumour at least eleventh-hand, from Tipper who heard it from Gusty who heard it from a corporal from the Screaming Eagles, who overheard a guy from the 9th Cavalry telling it to a nurse, who'd also heard it from one of the AA Divisions from C-section, and so the trail went on. For hours he had to put up with members of the 107th sidling up to him and quietly asking if he knew for sure they were being shipped out, and each time he gave them the same response; he hadn't been told anything, and as soon as he heard anything for sure, he would pass it on.
"Did you start that rumour?" he asked Wells.
Bucky's fellow sergeant had managed to avoid being pestered by curious servicemen by taking refuge in the shade of a tree near the shower block, where he was lounging against the trunk, either engrossed in reading his book, or faking it pretty well. Bucky had joined him just after midday, when he got fed up of giving the same answer to the same faces over and over again. It was one of those hot midsummer days, stifling with no breeze at all. Even from here, Bucky could smell the salty brine of the ocean. Just about everyone in camp had given up wearing their jackets, with only the most regimental and serious of brown-nosers still sticking to etiquette.
"I didn't start any rumours," said Wells absently, his eyes skimming the pages of his book. "'Cept that one about the quartermaster's boots. Have you heard that one yet?" Bucky shook his head. "I'm sure you'll find it amusing, when you do."
"If you didn't start the rumour, who did?"
Wells shrugged. "9th Cavalry, probably. They're jerks. You know they've had it in for us ever since we beat their asses at darts."
"What if it's true?"
"If it's true?" Wells' blue eyes danced up momentarily to Bucky's face. "Then it ceases to be rumour and instead becomes fact."
"I guess." The very idea made his stomach squirm again. "Are you ready for—"
Movement on the periphery of his vision stopped the words dead in his mouth. Two MPs were striding with purpose towards E-6. They went into the barrack, then came out a moment later with Private James Hawkins between them.
As they escorted him away, that squirming feeling in Bucky's stomach turned into a sinking feeling. Hawkins must'a done something bad, to be escorted anywhere by MPs. Bucky didn't know Hawkins that well, but he was one of the kids who'd signed up, a fresh-faced eighteen year old who, unlike Tipper, actually was eighteen. Another rank-and-filer who did his job without question or complaint and never had a bad word to say about anyone.
He looked to Wells, who put away his book, and they both grabbed their jackets and dusted them off as they jogged towards the MPs. Bucky knew better than to get in their way, so he and Wells strode along beside them. He didn't know their names, because the camp staff and the soldiers waiting for embarkation didn't mingle much, but the guy's rank insignia was clear on his jacket sleeve.
"What's going on, Corporal?"
"That would be none of your business, Sergeant," the MP replied. Bucky forced his fingers to stay loose instead of twitching up into fists like they wanted. Camp staff always thought they were better than the personnel who passed through.
"When someone's escorting one of my men somewhere without consulting me first, I make it my business."
"Then you'll have to take that up with the General."
Bucky aimed another look at Wells, and received an echo of his own worry in his friend's eyes. He'd never seen the General of the camp. Had never met anyone who'd seen the General. Some even claimed that there was no General, that the camp was just overseen by a bunch of bureaucratic administrators who'd invented up a fake General so they could pass their own camp rules… though Bucky suspected that might've been one of Wells' rumours.
The administration barracks was guarded by MPs, so Bucky and Wells weren't allowed in. They could only wait out in the glaring sun with feigned patience, hoping that their fellow 107th member hadn't done anything too serious.
They only had to wait five minutes, and when Hawkins reappeared, Bucky froze right down to his bone marrow. He'd seen that look before, on the face of a First World War veteran, a friend of his father who'd been in the thickest of the trench-fighting. They called it the thousand-yard stare, because a guy who'd seen too much could sometimes see too far whilst seeing nothing at all. Hawkins' baby-face had that stare, his hazel eyes both farseeing and turned within. His face was white, his lips grey and bloodless, and in one hand he clutched a small slip of paper.
"Private Hawkins, what's happened?" Bucky asked him.
The young man held out the piece of paper, then set off back, unseeing and with a weary trudge, to E-section. Bucky read the slip.
'It is my great regret to inform that Sergeant Andrew Hawkins of the 66th Armor Regiment was killed in action on 12th June 1943 whilst in the performance of his duties. To Private James Hawkins, of the 107th Infantry Regiment, younger brother and the sole surviving son of the Hawkins family, shall be extended the offer to be relieved from combat duties and, should he so wish it, to be released from service and returned home to his family.
Chief of Staff, Gen. G. Marshall.'
To Bucky, family was everything. He couldn't even begin to comprehend what Hawkins must be going through. If someone had just given him a piece of paper telling him Charlie had died, he would have been devastated. Completely and utterly crushed. It would have shattered his world.
He passed the slip to Wells, who read it silently then looked how Bucky felt. Suddenly, the hot June air was much colder than it had been five minutes ago.
"Shit," Wells said, keeping hold of the slip of paper since Hawkins didn't look in any condition to take it back. It was a wonder he could even walk in a straight line. "Hawkins, I'm so sorry for your loss. And that you had to find out like this."
Hawkins merely nodded numbly. For the first time since signing his name on the papers which made him a part of the U.S. Army, Bucky felt completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost. He'd prepared himself for hardship. He'd prepared himself for deprivation and even pain. But he hadn't prepared himself for how to deal with this sort of personal misfortune. Had Hawkins been Steve, Bucky could've given the guy some reassuring words, perhaps the simple comfort of his presence, or a hand on the shoulder to let him know his pal wasn't in this alone. But Hawkins wasn't Steve. Bucky barely even knew the guy, and now he regretted that he'd spent his past days playing poker and redistributing sugar instead of getting to know some of the men in his regiment a little better.
When they reached E-section, Bucky directed Hawkins to the tree by the shower block, where he could have a little time alone. He didn't think the young man should return to the barracks; not with half the guys there acting the goat and going stir-crazy with heat and boredom. What Hawkins needed was time to think. Time to adapt. And maybe, in two or three years, he would actually be able to think of his brother without seeing the words killed in action swimming on that paper in front of him.
"Let me know if you need anything, Hawkins," he said at last, to the man's glassy, unseeing stare. "Whatever you need. And take your time over this decision. You've got all the time in the world. Don't rush it."
Hawkins shook his head and finally spoke in a voice that sounded as empty as his eyes. "Don't got much time at all, Sarge. We're shipping out tonight. General just told me."
Bucky looked up at Wells, and found a very troubled expression in his friend's eyes. Tonight? Rumour said it was tomorrow, and rumour was all it was. Just some rumour started by the 9th Cavalry, or hell, maybe even started by Wells, for all his denials.
Suddenly, Wells set off back to the barracks.
"Where are you going?" Bucky called. He couldn't believe Wells was abandoning him now. Not with Hawkins. Not like this.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes," Wells replied. "Somethin' I gotta do."
Bucky put his friend out of mind and turned back to Hawkins. Whatever Wells was up to—digging up cached sugar packets, trading more smokes, spreading the word about their impending departure—he couldn't be worried about it now. Not with Hawkins looking like he'd just gone through every fire of hell.
"Sit down, Private," he instructed, and watched as Hawkins lowered himself to the ground and sat back against the trunk only recently vacated by Wells. Bucky joined him. He tried to think of something to say. Some words to make Hawkins' loss less painful, to make the situation more right. But there could be no words. Hawkins had just lost a piece of his family forever, and he had only a matter of hours to decide whether he wanted to stay with the regiment or go home to the rest of his family. There were no words, so he merely sat, and tried to be present for the guy who'd just lost his big brother.
Wells returned a short time later, furtively making his way back to the shade of the tree with his arms clutched protectively to his chest as if he'd hurt himself. Before Bucky could ask what he'd done now, Wells pulled three bottles of beer from under his jacket, handed one to Bucky and had to physically make Hawkins hold another.
"Sorry it's warm," Wells said, taking the cap off with his teeth then switching it for the unopened bottle in Hawkins' hands. "And kinda weak. It's some sort of Spanish beer that Ramirez gets. I wanted something stronger. There's a moonshine still somewhere on base, but Davies won't tell me where it is, and I haven't been able to find it. Guess we'll have to make do." He lifted his bottle. "To Sergeant Andrew Hawkins. Greater love hath no man than this, than to lay down one's life for his friends."
"What's that from?" Bucky asked, clinking his bottle against the other two and taking a sip.
"John 15:13. Drink up, Private. That's an order."
Hawkins drank, then pulled a face of disgust. "It tastes like piss, Sarge. Warm piss."
"Sorry."
"No… it's fine." Hawkins looked down at the bottle, really seeing something for the first time since stepping out of the camp's HQ. He took a deep, shaky breath. "When I was fifteen, Drew bought a pack of beers, and we went up to the roof of the apartment one night and just lay there, looking up at the night sky, drinking warm beers and blowing smoke rings around the stars. We gave one point for a star, five points for the moon, and ten points for getting a ring around an entire constellation. Drew won, 'cos I wasn't very good at blowing smoke rings back then."
From his pocket, Wells pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Hawkins, who accepted, and then to Bucky, who didn't wanna accept, but did because he kinda felt that blowing smoke rings was part of Hawkins' family tradition, and now his new family had to keep that tradition alive. A packet of matches followed, and they spent several minutes in silence, Hawkins blowing tiny smoke rings into the air, Wells blowing smoke into his bottle possibly to try and make the beer taste better, and Bucky trying not to inhale too much of the smoke because the only other time he'd tried, he'd been twelve and had managed to burn his lungs.
"What do you think I should do, Sarge?" Hawkins asked at last. Wells continued to blow smoke in concentrated silence, so Bucky decided this one was on him.
"I dunno," he said. "If it were me in your place, I'd wanna go home. Be with my folks. Be there for my sisters. You got any sisters, Hawkins?"
He nodded. "One. Betsy. She's the eldest. Twenty-five. Married with two kids."
"You don't know how long it's gonna be before you see your family again, Private." His traitor mind thought the words his mouth couldn't say. If the war carries on like it has so far, you might never see them again. "And they don't know how long it's gonna be before they see you. I think if it were me, I'd wanna go and spend time with them. Grieve properly. Remember my brother with the people who knew him best."
"What about you, Sergeant Wells?" asked Hawkins. "What would you do?"
Wells shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "It's not really my place to advise you what to do, Hawkins."
"I just wanna know what you'd do, Sarge."
"Alright." Wells blew out a final puff of smoke and stubbed out the dog-end of his cigarette. He managed to make smoking look effortless. Kinda like how he'd made playing darts, and acquiring a rose, and finding beer on a base with a zero-tolerance policy, look effortless. Bucky suspected that Wells might even make war look effortless. Some guys just had all the luck. "I don't have any sisters, but I got three brothers, all serving right now, somewhere. The way I see it, I came here to do a job. I signed up for a reason. We all did. And that reason doesn't go away just because one of us is lost doing what we believe is right. If it were me, I'd stay. Because if I go running home every time I lose something, or someone… well, that means I've lost sight of the bigger picture. I've lost the very thing I was fighting for in the first place."
Hawkins nodded unhappily. "Thanks, Sarge. If you don't mind, I wanna be alone now."
Bucky didn't need a second invitation. He was on his feet as swiftly as decorum would allow, with Wells only a hair in front of him. Hawkins had been holding it together pretty well—better than Bucky thought he would have done, under the circumstances—but beer and memory and sympathy had finally broken through the shock. Hawkins needed to grieve, and accept, and make a decision, within the space of about twelve hours. And if his decision was to stay, this might be the only mourning period afforded to him.
Neither he nor Wells spoke as they returned to the barracks, and it was only a couple of hours later, when he was polishing his boots and Wells was reading his book, that he finally addressed the elephant in the room.
"So. Shipping out tonight. Allegedly. I wonder why nobody's said anything."
"Probably to stop word gettin' out," Wells shrugged. "If everyone thinks we might be going tomorrow, nobody will be expecting it tonight. Misinformation. Leave us in the dark for as long as possible, and lay false trails to see who picks them up."
"You really think the brass is that paranoid?"
"I think they need to be."
Bucky gave no further reply. Despite Wells' reputation for hyperbole, he had the unpleasant feeling that his friend wasn't actually bullshitting this time.