We Were Soldiers

7. 4th July

Bucky had never imagined that he'd spend Independence Day in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, but twelve days into their voyage, almost a week after the short but violent storm that had nearly cost the Barnes family their beloved eldest son, that was exactly what happened.

It had been a pretty quiet week, for the most part. During the 24-hour storm, almost everybody had ended up being ill at some point, and even a few of the crew looked a little green around the gills. But it could have been worse; at least it had only lasted a day, and it hadn't taken any real time off their journey.

Since then, life aboard the Monty had gone back to normal. Every morning was grits for breakfast, and every evening was spam and boiled vegetables for dinner. Between those two major events, the troops killed time in any way they could. Mostly they played card games, read books and told stories to keep themselves entertained. Most men got above deck a couple of times a day, and even when it was overcast and raining, the most desperate to smoke braved the cold and the rain, getting their tobacco fix down as fast as possible.

On the morning of 4th July, the Captain made an announcement. Bucky didn't hear the announcement himself, because troops never saw the Captain—perhaps, like Camp Shanks' General, he didn't even truly exist—but the announcement was spread around the ship by the crew, so he at least knew that it was a reliable announcement; the crew tended not to spread bullshit and rumours like the troops did. The announcement was that for the whole of the national holiday, there would be festivities on deck, including band music throughout the day and a rifle-salute at dawn, midday and dusk. The galley would be serving special meals instead of the usual slop, and there would be one cup each of beer with dinner for all the troops stationed aboard. The announcement was met with much cheering from the tween deck.

"I wonder if there'll be fireworks!" Carrot mused happily, after he'd finished the fifty push-ups he still insisted on doing every morning.

"That sounds like a fantastic idea, Carrot," Wells grumbled. "Let's send up a bunch of bright, noisy flares, two days' sailing away from Europe. And maybe when we're done visually announcing our exact location to the Kriegsmarine, we can save them the trouble of blowing up the ship by tossing a few grenades into the engine room and sinking the Monty ourselves."

Tipper's hand shot into the air like he was in school or something. "I vote we don't do that."

"You're a bright kid, Tipper. You're gonna go far."

"Which side of the hammock did you fall out of this morning?" Bucky asked his friend, when Carrot and Tipper had grabbed their galley cards and left the tween. "You usually leave it until after breakfast before giving Carrot a hard time."

"Yeah, well, it was a long night. I didn't get much sleep."

Wells did look pretty tired; he had dark crescents beneath his eyes, and a small grey raincloud looming over his head. Bucky decided to let it slide.

"Alright. Are you coming for breakfast?"

"You go, I'll catch up with you later. Wanna head to the john before it gets busy."

Bucky left his friend to whatever new sulky mood he was in, and caught up with Carrot and Tipper just before they reached the galley. Word had obviously spread about the higher standard of food in celebration of Independence Day, because the queue was much longer than usual. It took over an hour for them to reach the front of the line, where their cards were punched by long-suffering crew members whose lot in life seemed to be to punch cards for troops. Bucky felt momentarily sorry for them… then he realised they were probably paid better than he was, and the sympathy fled.

Tipper sniffed the air. "Smells like sausages."

Carrot sniffed, too. "No, it smells like bacon."

The unusually delicious smells coming from the galley turned out to be sausages and bacon, and fried tomatoes and poached eggs, with tiny packets of ketchup for seasoning. After eleven days of grits, it seemed a rich feast, and it boded well for dinner; perhaps, with real meat aboard, they'd finally have something better than spam.

Nobody wanted to rush their breakfast, and the troops found ways to loiter over their meals. Eventually, though, breakfast had to end, and with great regret, Bucky popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth and thought he'd never tasted anything so good in his life.

He'd kept an eye out for Wells, but his friend hadn't shown up, which was odd, because the promise of better food should have brought Wells racing here, especially if he found out there were eggs for breakfast. But just as he was about to suggest looking for the absent sergeant, Carrot came out with a different suggestion.

"Hey Sarge, should we see if we can get up on deck and listen to the band for a while?"

What the hell. Wells wasn't a kid, he could see to his own breakfast, and word had it the sun had come out for the first time in two days. Taking fresh air and a walk on the deck wasn't pleasant in the grey and the rain, but if the sun was shining, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

They waited for another hour in the queue for some deck time, and when they reached the front of the queue they were given life jackets and a blue armband each. The armband system had been introduced on the first day as a way of controlling how many soldiers were on deck. For every half-hour slot the armband colours were rotated, and in fifteen minute intervals a crewman was sent to round up anyone who had an armband colour that was over its half-hour limit. There were always men who found a way to beat the system, but for the most part, it worked.

The ship's band was very good, and decked out in full regalia they looked and sounded even more professional than a band in a music hall. Bucky stood with Carrot and Tipper, listening first to a rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, and then Yankee Doodle. After that, they took a walk around the deck to the tune of God Bless America, and then spent a little time leaning against the railings while they looked out over the ocean and pretended they could already see England.

It was a beautiful day, the kind which the crew had warned about early in the voyage. The cool breeze belied the heat of the sun, and those who stood too long gazing into the waves often came away with a painful sunburn. Gusty had learnt that lesson the hard way on Day Three.

As their half-hour deck allowance came to an end, Bucky looked around for Wells, but couldn't see his friend anywhere in the milling throng. He guessed his fellow sergeant was taking his time over breakfast, so ushered the younger soldiers back down below deck and put his friend out of mind again.

Back in the troops quarters, Carrot claimed he'd been practising at poker, and begged Bucky to set up a game for him. He decided to give Carrot the benefit of the doubt, and invited Tipper, Biggs and Hawkins to join in. Hawkins, he suspected, could do with a distraction from his lingering sea-sickness, and the other two were more patient than most of the 107th, and not likely to get mad at Carrot for running his finger down his list of hands or muttering to himself under his breath.

Most poker games drew a crowd as they progressed and the stakes grew higher, but poker games with Carrot in them tended to have the opposite effect. Pretty soon the tween deck was half empty, and after an hour of play, Carrot had run out of chips.

"I'm rubbish at this," Carrot said glumly. "How come I always end up losing my chips? I hardly gamble any of them!"

"That's your problem, Carrot," Bucky told him. "Poker is a game of risk. If you try to play it safe, then every new round you lose chips to the ante and never recover them because you're not taking chances. It's loss by attrition."

"But I'm no good at bluffing, Sarge, and every time I get a good hand, nobody bets against me."

"That's because you grin like an idiot when you get a good hand," Tipper pointed out. "So everyone folds before the pot can build up properly. You need to work on your poker face."

"My poker face?"

"Yeah," Biggs explained. "You need to make your face go blank so you don't show when you're happy about a good hand or disappointed about a bad one."

"Okay, how's this?" asked Carrot, lowering his brows into a deep, intimidating scowl.

"Well, you'll have to sit with your poker face for the whole game, so you might wanna pick something less… uh… murderous."

"Hey Sarge," said Gusty, putting down the pocket book he'd been reading and looking over to the group, "why don't we play a real game, then Carrot can see how it's done?"

"Alright," Bucky agreed. "Lessee, we got you and me, Tipper's too young to play against us—"

"But Sarge, I'm eighteen!"

"Like I said, too young to play. Hawkins? Biggs?"

"I just wanna go lie down, Sarge," said Hawkins. Poor guy had gone a deep shape of cucumber-green. Being upright for too long tended to do that to him.

"I don't wanna play against you and Gusty," said Biggs. "I just like to play for fun, not for real."

Two players could not a poker game make, but perhaps all was not lost. "Gusty," Bucky said, "why don't you get all the chips back in and shuffle the deck, and I'll go see if I can find Franklin and Davies and Wells. I gotta go answer a call of nature anyway, so I'll keep an eye out for them en route."

First he checked the mess, in case his friends had become slaves to the delicious breakfast. Franklin was there, mopping up his ketchup with a corner of charred toast and looking like all his Christmases had come at once.

"Hey, Franklin, you wanna play a game of poker in the tween?"

"Sure, Sarge, I'll be there soon." Franklin's eyes darted from side to side, then he opened up his jacket pocket to show Bucky the contents. "Look at what I managed to redistribute." Inside were about fifty packets of ketchup.

"You're a hero, Franklin," Bucky grinned, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Have you seen Davies and Wells?"

"Um… no."

It was an innocent enough response, but Franklin's shifty-eyes had come back, and Bucky couldn't see any reason for him to be shifty right now. "What aren't you telling me, Franklin?"

The man squirmed in his seat and lowered his voice. "Davies claimed it's possible to make moonshine outta sugar and yeast and water, so at the start of the voyage, he and a couple of corporals from one of the other troop quarters used some of the sugar packets we'd redistributed from Last Stop to set up a still near the boiler room."

Was there no end to Davies' resourcefulness? "Where'd they get the yeast?"

"Dunno. Didn't ask. Don't wanna know, either. Anyway, apparently the still… it erm, well… leaked."

"Leaked?"

"Explosively. Last night. So Davies and the others are trying to hide the evidence and keep out of the way of the Captain."

Bucky closed his eyes. How close had Davies and his partners-in-crime come to blowing up the ship? And what would happen to them if they were caught?

"Don't worry, Sarge," said Franklin. "Pfc. Davies seems to be pretty good at getting himself out of these sorts of messes."

"I guess you're right," he sighed. Big goddamn kids, all of them. "I'll see you back in the tween for that game of poker, then."

He left Franklin to his ketchup-redistributing and made his way to the latrines. Nobody in their right mind spent more than a second longer inside them than they had to, because they smelt like an entire troop had crawled down the plumbing and died, but it was the last place Wells had mentioned before mysteriously disappearing. Rumour had it people went missing all the time in the Bermuda Triangle, but he didn't think the Monty was anywhere near Bermuda, and surely no triangle could make just a single man disappear… could it?

Wells wasn't there, but he encountered Sgt. Murphy from the Screaming Eagles coming out. Latrine decorum suggested you never made eye contact with another guy going into, coming out of, or whilst inside, the john, but right now, Bucky's niggling concern for his friend outweighed decorum.

"Hey Murphy, have you seen Wells anywhere?"

"Not for about an hour," Murphy replied.

"Where was he when you last saw him?"

"Up on deck. Aft of the ship."

Aft, Bucky had learnt over the past twelve days, was a nautical term which meant back. Why they didn't just say 'back' was a question for the sages. But at least if Wells was still there, he hadn't disappeared into a mystery triangle.

"Alright, thanks. There's a poker game starting soon in the tween, if you're interested."

"Carrot's not playing, is he?"

"No," Bucky smiled. Poor Carrot probably ought to switch to something less complex than poker. Go-fish or snap, maybe. "It's a real game."

"Sure, I got time to kill." Murphy grinned beneath his generous moustache. "Hope you're in the mood to lose, Barnes."

"We'll see about that."

After seeing to nature's call, Bucky made his way back to the queue waiting to get up on deck, and excused himself several times as he slipped past the waiting men to the front of the line. Another of the bored-looking sailors was on life jacket duty, but Bucky didn't recognise him. He was a grizzled fella with a scar down his left cheek and a smattering of grey in his auburn hair.

"Excuse me," he said. "Could you tell me if Wells is up on deck?"

"Y'know how many of you bullet-dodgers are aboard the Monty?" the sailor shot back.

Bullet-dodgers? "No?"

"Two thousand, give or take. I wouldn't take the time to learn the names of two thousand dogs, if we were takin' em to Europe, so why would I take the time to learn the names of two thousand of you bullet-dodgers?"

"Did you just compare us to dogs?" he scowled.

"Sorry." The sailor chewed for a moment on a piece of tobacco, then moved it over to the other side of his cheek. "Should'a said 'ants. ' Tiny little annoying things, all identical-lookin'."

Bucky managed to fend off his irritation. The crew enjoyed riling up the troops like Wells enjoyed riling up the servicemen. Rising to the bait wouldn't accomplish anything, so he ignored the jabs and tried for civility.

"Danny Wells is about my height," he explained. "Short black hair, blue eyes." The sailor gave him a blank stare. "He's kind of a jerk and really sarcastic."

"Oh, Sergeant Bullshit? Why didn't you just say? Yeah, he's up on deck."

"Great. Could I go outside and bring him in?"

"There's a queue," the sailor said, pointing to the waiting troops.

"I know, but I don't wanna spend time outside, I just wanna bring my friend in. Please? I'll only be five minutes."

"Sorry kid, but I can't let you jump the queue."

By now, Bucky had been in the army long enough to know quite a few of the unwritten rules, even though he hadn't actually seen combat yet. There was the rule about names, and the rule about knowing the right people… and there was also the rule of knowing how to ask for favours. The rules stated that in a situation in which you were asking for a favour, and the other party didn't want to give you that favour because he was a Right Rotten Bastard, two options were available. You could either bribe him, which was the common army method, or you could blackmail him, which was generally frowned upon because there was also the Rule of Karma, which said everything you did would come back and bite you on the ass later.

Bucky didn't have anything to bribe the sailor with, so he decided to fall back on blackmail and deal with the consequences when they eventually came back to bite him on the ass. He took a step forward, towards the man, and lowered his voice.

"Y'know that song, 'Drunken Sailor'?" he asked. The crewman grumbled something that sounded annoyed. "If you don't let me up onto the deck to look for my friend, I'm gonna have the troops waiting here start a rousing chorus of that song. I'm sure some of them know the words, but the ones that don't will just make up anything. And they'll sing it over, and over, and over, until it makes your ears bleed."

"You've got five minutes." The sailor shoved a life jacket into his arms and gave him a look as murderous as Carrot's poker face.

"Thanks, you're a real pal," Bucky grinned.

When he stepped out on deck to the sound of the band blaring out The Star Spangled Banner, he was struck by an overpowering sensation of déjà vu. He shrugged it off as he made his way to the back of the ship, where he found Wells lounging in the shade of another thingumajig, book in hands. He glanced up when Bucky stopped in front of him.

"Barnes."

"The hell are you doing out here?" he asked his friend.

"Celebrating. Can't you tell?"

Bucky glanced around at the revelry, at the men strolling and laughing and attempting to sing along to the band's music, gossipping in their groups, bartering loudly for various sundries. Then he looked back down at his friend, sitting quietly alone with his book.

"That's the worst attempt at celebrating I ever saw."

"Got myself a new book." Wells tilted the cover up, revealing the title, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

"That's a good book."

"I know, I've read it before."

"So why didn't you get a book you haven't read before?"

"Because I like this one. Did you know the Brooklyn library banned it in 1905? Anything that's been banned at some point has gotta be worth reading more than once."

"What happened to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?" he asked. That book had been practically glued to his friend's hands since NYPOE.

"Oh, I still have that. Might start a library of my own. Why should Gusty have the monopoly on books?"

"It's a pretty poor library if you only have two books in it," Bucky pointed out.

"I only started building it this morning. Anyway, if you don't mind, I wanna get back to the Adventures. It just got to a good part."

Bucky finally recalled his reason for seeking Wells out in the first place. "We're having a game of poker in the tween. Wanna join?"

"Nah, thanks. I wanna celebrate out here."

Wells' armband was red, but when Bucky looked around the open deck, he couldn't see many other red bands. And hadn't Murphy said he'd seen Wells out here an hour ago?

"How'd you manage to stay up here so long?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Bribery. Each cigarette buys me an extra half-hour. Now, if that's all..?"

A perplexed frown crept across Bucky's face. Wells was acting very un-Wells-like. Normally his friend leapt at a chance for a poker game, claimed it kept him sharp for when the stakes became real. And while the whole ships was celebrating, Wells seemed to be attempting the exact opposite. It was a mystery; one Bucky needed to get to the bottom of. He decided to probe a little further, to deny his pal the isolation he was trying to seek.

"So, twelve days at sea and we finally got eggs for breakfast like you wanted, huh?"

"Yeah, I heard about that."

Bucky's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You heard about it? You mean, you didn't have breakfast?"

"What are you, my mom?" Wells scowled. "I can skip breakfast if I want, it's not a crime. I just wasn't hungry."

Perplexity and niggling concern erupted into all-out worry. Wells skipping breakfast when it was grits was slightly understandable, but him skipping a proper fry-up… Eggs were his favourite breakfast food! That he'd heard about it but chosen to abstain from his favourite breakfast meant there must be something troubling him deeply.

He squatted down beside his friend, conscious that he'd probably passed the five-minute mark and at any moment a murderous crewman might come to haul him back inside. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Wells shot back.

"You don't normally say no to poker."

"Well maybe I'm fed up of you guys breathing down my neck every five minutes. Maybe I'm fed up of Carrot's fat-headed comments, and Tipper's over-excited boot-licking, and Gusty's smell. Maybe after twelve days in a metal tin with five hundred guys, doing the same thing day in and day out, I want a bit of time and space to myself. A break from routine. You ever think of that?"

"This sounds like more than cabin fever."

"Maybe because you need it to be more than cabin fever," said Wells. His eyes, usually full of humour, were like two ice chips. "You got a problem, Barnes. You have what I would call an obsessive compulsion to fix things. You see something broke, you wanna fix it. You see someone in trouble, you wanna help. You stick your nose into places it doesn't belong because, hell, I dunno, maybe fixing other peoples' problems and having them be grateful gives you your jollies. And now it's gotten so you see problems where none exist, just to try and give yourself something to fix. I don't need anyone to fix my problems, and I certainly don't need someone to project imaginary problems onto me just so they can try to be a white knight. If you want to help someone, try starting with yourself. Now scram, you're cramping my celebrating."

And with that, Wells turned his gaze back to his book, a thorough and final dismissal.

Bucky felt his heart dip into his stomach. Part of him wanted to be angry with his friend, but he couldn't rouse that particular monster. Anger wouldn't help, and Wells—for some reason—seemed angry enough for the both of them. Cabin fever, he told himself. It's just cabin fever. He'd heard a few horror stories about what cabin fever could do to a man. Most of those stories had been told by those who, like Wells, had relatives at sea, but there had to be some inkling of truth to the tales. It couldn't all be bullshit.

He left his friend and made his way back across the deck, barely even hearing the jaunty songs intended to raise cheer and encourage revelry. When he reached the door, he handed his life jacket back to the sailor, pointed out to one of the waiting soldiers that his shoelace was untied, and wondered whether, perhaps, Wells might actually be right.

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

"Did you guys ever meet somebody who didn't like Independence Day?" Bucky asked several hours later. He was near the front of the galley queue with Gusty, Tipper, Biggs, Carrot and Hawkins. After several games of poker, the 107th and the Eagles had decided to head up to dinner early, so they could get front spots in the queue. They'd already been in line for an hour, so it couldn't be too long now before the mess opened and began serving whatever delicious meal was on offer.

"Yeah, but he was Jewish," said Gusty. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I'm just saying."

"I never met anyone who didn't like Independence Day," Carrot said. His attempts at poker-face had finally worn off, and now he wore a look of disbelief and confusion. "That'd be like… like… hating Christmas! And what could make someone hate Christmas?"

"Being Jewish, probably," Gusty offered.

"Do you guys think I have an obsessive need to fix things? Be honest with me," he warned.

"That depends, Sarge." Gusty tapped his chin with his finger as he considered it. "Do you find yourself breaking things on purpose, just so you can fix them?"

"No."

"Then it's not obsessive, or a need. Why? Do you think you have an obsessive need to fix things?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. But I was trying to figure out what's eating Wells, and he said I had an obsessive need to fix things."

"It's good that you don't think that," said Gusty.

"Yeah."

He looked around at his friends. They'd all gotten closer, during the voyage. Everyone had heard all about Samantha; they knew her birthday, they knew her favourite colour, her favourite flower, her favourite song… hell, they even knew where she and Carrot had been when he'd proposed to her. And since Hawkins' brother's death, they all knew his brother's name, had heard stories about his family, tales of getting into trouble with Drew when they'd been kids, the places they'd gone on holiday and the adventures they'd had away from home. Damn near everyone in the 107th could name a half-dozen facts about any other member off the top of his head. Almost.

"You guys ever notice how Wells doesn't talk about himself?" he mused.

"That's because he's bitter, Sarge," Carrot nodded sagely. "Bitter like… like…"

"Home-squeezed lemonade without any sugar," Tipper finished.

"If you hadn't talked him into helping, Samantha never would'a got her rose."

"He can't be that bitter," Biggs waded in. "He was full of ideas to help stop me gettin' into trouble for sleep-walking."

"I don't think he's bitter," said Hawkins. "I think he just doesn't know how to be nice. Drew was like that, a bit. He could be a real jerk at times, but he was always there when I needed him. And when he was lookin' out for me, I knew he was saying all the things he didn't know how to say with words."

Biggs and Hawkins raised good points. When both men had really and truly needed help, Wells had come through for them. Sitting with Hawkins, being there and sharing his pain, had been an unpleasant hell. Anybody who had brothers serving in the forces would have felt for the young private's loss, and wondered if perhaps their own brothers might be the next ones to be killed in action. Wells could'a left Bucky to deal with Hawkins alone… but he didn't. And now, Bucky had left his friend alone while everyone else was celebrating, all because Wells had been more of a jerk than usual. But that was cabin fever talking, not Wells. And Bucky had let it drive him away.

He didn't get chance to ponder it further, because the galley opened and the queue began to move. By five-thirty, Bucky and his friends were standing with trays in hand while the cooks served up real, honest-to-God hotdogs, two per soldier, nestled in a crusty white bread roll, with a side of cocktail-stick-thin fries on the side. The much anticipated beer was served from huge kegs, one plastic cup of the stuff for every soldier present.

This was even better than breakfast, but as Bucky tucked into his first bite of hotdog, he found he didn't enjoy it as much as he'd expected. Thoughts of Wells lingered on his mind, because his friend was probably still out on that deck, still reading his book, still claiming to be celebrating whilst doing nothing of the sort, and missing out on this excellent meal. All because something was bothering him and Bucky had let himself be chased off.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Carrot sighed, holding up his cup of beer.

"Tradition suggests you drink it, Carrot," said Gusty. "You could try inhaling it, I guess, but it might not work out too well for you."

"My mom says alcohol is awful sinful, Corporal."

"You've never had a drink of alcohol?!" Gusty goggled.

"Never," Carrot smiled happily.

"If it helps," Tipper interrupted, after downing half his beer, "I don't think there's much in the way of alcohol actually in it."

"Mind if I take it off your hands?" Bucky asked. A plan was forming. A plan in which he found out what was wrong with Wells, and then fixed it. Not because he had any sort of need to fix things, but because he didn't wanna see a friend on a downer. It didn't matter that it was Independence Day. It didn't matter that everyone else was celebrating and stuffing themselves with hotdogs. Even if this was just a normal day, Bucky wouldn't've let his friend mope in self-pity, so why should today be any different?

"Of course not, Sarge," said Carrot, sliding it across the table. He looked glad to be rid of it, as if it was a viper about to bite him and commit his soul to hell. Bucky suspected Carrot had been one of those clean-cut kids who'd read the Bible and believed every word of it. Even the ones that contradicted each other.

"Thanks, Carrot. And I'm gonna need your help with something else, too." Because he doubted the sailor on life jacket duty would let him just waltz up on deck with two plastic cups of beer, regardless of the festive mood. Luckily, Bucky thought he'd done enough good turns to pull in a favour or two. "Yours too, Private Biggs."

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

"Ready?" Bucky whispered.

"No!" Carrot hissed back. "Sarge, you know I've never been in a scrap before!"

"You'll do fine," he assured the young corporal. He gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Just pretend you're in a movie."

"I've never been in a movie before, either!"

"Just follow my lead, Carrot," said Biggs. "I used to roughhouse with my brothers all the time, when we were younger."

"They're not dead now, are they?"

"Of course not."

"Right, go," Bucky said, nudging both men forward.

He listened as Carrot approached the sailor on door-duty, asked if he could go up on deck. Biggs followed, accused Carrot of stealing something from him. Carrot denied it, his voice high-pitched, damn near terrified. Bucky didn't think the guy was faking it. Biggs was pretty damn big. A scuffle ensued. The sailor tried to break it up. Got dragged in. Bucky used the opportunity to dash past him and out onto the deck. From behind, he heard muffled curses as his subterfuge went undetected.

Without a life jacket he felt exposed, nearly naked, but that couldn't be helped; he didn't have time to put his plastic cups down and don one of the protective vests. As he wound his way through the crowd of soldiers, he tried to act casual, but he was the only one up there without a bright orange jacket, and the only one carrying two cups of beer. It wouldn't be long before a member of the crew noticed and said something.

He found Wells at the back of the ship again; he'd moved position, so that he wasn't lounging in the shade anymore, but sitting with his legs dangling over the side, his arms resting atop the lowest rail, holding his book open in front of him.

"You're not planning on jumping, are you?" Bucky quipped.

"And deprive the Germans the opportunity to shoot at me? Wouldn't dream of it."

Bucky sat down beside his friend and handed over one of the cups. "So. What are we celebrating?"

"4th July, obviously."

"Uh-huh. But why?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, to the crowd of troops clustered around the band. "I know they're celebrating Independence Day, but you're not. And I don't care what you think about me needing to fix things. Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but I'm not going anywhere until you start being honest with me. So spit it out already."

"Fine." His friend sighed, closing his book and pocketing it. "I'm celebrating the fact that on this day, twenty six years ago, ten years after my folks decided three sons were enough, out I popped."

That's what this was about? "You dolt, why didn't you mention it was your birthday?"

"It's not important."

"You've been reading the same book for nearly three weeks, and today you buy a new one. Obviously it is important."

"You read too much into things," Wells snorted.

"If I read too much into things, why didn't you say something earlier? Normally we can't get you to shut up, but today you've been Mr. Evasive."

"You know the worst day a kid can be born on?"

"Christmas?" Bucky guessed.

"Second worst, then."

"Today?"

Wells nodded and fixed his gaze on the horizon. "I guess it's better if you're not born in a military family, but my folks are real patriotic, so that always came first. I guess it's not too bad… at least I got fireworks for my birthday every year. But when I was little, before I was really old enough to understand what it was all about, I used to look around at those military functions my dad dragged us all along to, and wonder why people were celebrating for the wrong reason. Why they were looking up at the sky and cheering flags, instead of me."

Bucky couldn't imagine how horrible that must've been for Wells, growing up, never having a proper birthday because there was always something bigger to celebrate. Today was Steve's birthday, too, but Steve's mom had always spoilt him on his birthday. When they'd been kids, she'd made up for his lack of friends by baking the biggest chocolate cake and arranging the best birthday activities for Steve, and Bucky, and sometimes Mary-Ann. Back home, for Sarah Rogers, Steve had always come first. Always.

He guessed Wells' birthdays had been nothing like that. Small, fun parties with excellent cake were better than fireworks set off in celebration of a completely different event. But it didn't have to be like that now. Wells wasn't a kid, and this wasn't home. They were going to Europe, where 4th July didn't have the same sort of meaning.

"Tell you what, next year, wherever we are, we'll do something fun for your birthday," he offered.

"Do you know the life expectancy of new infantry troops on the front lines?"

"No, and I don't care, because I plan on living forever," Bucky grinned. "And next year, you'll get a proper birthday."

The snarky bitterness came back almost immediately. This time, he was prepared for it. "For godssake Barnes, I don't need you to make me into one of your reclamation projects," Wells scowled. "And I really don't need you to be my surrogate mom."

"Don't be an ass," Bucky told him. "I'm not out here because I think you need someone to hold your hand, I'm here because you're my friend, and friends try to cheer each other up when one of them is sulking and being a really big goddamn child. If that's not good enough for you, then next year we'll do something special for my birthday, and then we'll do something special for your birthday. How does that sound?"

"I dunno," Wells said, but he sounded a little less petulant. "When's your birthday?"

"March."

"Hmm. I suppose that would be okay." He spent a long moment in speculative silence. "You're ancient, y'know. Practically a fossil."

"And you're an ass." He held up his plastic cup of beer. "Happy birthday, Danny."

"Thanks." The plastic cups made for poor clinking, and when Wells took a sip, he quickly pulled his face. "That's awful. Worse than the swill Ramirez finds. Probably even worse than what they serve in England."

"Yeah, it's pretty dire," he admitted. He hadn't thought American beer could taste so flat, and warm, and watery. Tipper had been right.

Wells gave him an easy grin. "Wanna know what I think it really is?"

Bucky looked down into the pale yellow liquid and felt queasy. "No. I really don't." Wells merely laughed, and Bucky recalled another nugget of information that might cheer his friend up. "Hey, did you know Davies was trying to make moonshine outta sugar and water and yeast?"

"Yeah, but it's gonna come out tasting even worse than this piss-water they call beer."

"It's not gonna come out at all; the still exploded."

"It didn't!" his friend grinned, reclining back to prop himself up on his elbow.

"Yeah, Franklin told me."

"He probably filled it too high. It needs room to expand into as the sugar ferments."

"Hey, you!" somebody yelled at Bucky. An angry sailor stormed over, all righteous indignation. "You can't be up here without a life jacket! How did you get out here?"

"He fell outta the sky," said Wells. "I swear to God, I saw it myself. I was just sitting here minding my own business and he landed right beside me."

"Well he can get back below deck before I have him thrown in the brig for breaking ship rules."

"Alright, alright, don't get your lederhosen in a twist," Bucky grumbled. And then, to Wells, "Poker game?"

"I think I'll stay out for now."

"That's too bad," he shrugged. "Murphy said he was gonna clean you out."

"Murphy couldn't even clean out Carrot," Wells said drily. "Nice try though. I'll see you later tonight."

"Okay. Don't have too much fun out here," Bucky told him.

He left his friend in a better mood than he'd found him in. Hopefully now, Wells would start to realise what a lot of the 107th had come to understand. They weren't just a bunch of guys stuck with each other for the purpose of fighting a war; they were friends. And, perhaps even more importantly, they were family. Strange and dysfunctional, maybe, but family nonetheless.