Author's note: Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed and (hopefully) enjoyed the story so far! Now, let's take a very brief interlude to see what's going on with this gal.
We Were Soldiers
8. Strategy
"Agent Carter! Wait up!"
Peggy Carter suppressed a groan of complaint as the call of a familiar voice reached her ears. For two weeks she had been trying to convince Colonel Phillips that civilians had no place on the battlefield. That taking scientists along on any combat mission would represent a liability. For two weeks, Colonel Phillips had been stonewalling her objections, and now she was stuck in the company of one of New York's most irritating natives.
"Escort me to the briefing?" Howard Stark asked with a grin, as he caught up to her just outside the hotel and ran his eyes over her. She refused to stand a little straighter under his frank assessment, but she did give him a frosty glare. When she resumed her march down the busy London street, he launched into a conversation. "I don't suppose I can interest you in a drink or two, after dinner tonight?"
"I don't drink," she told him coolly.
"Really? Is this teetotalling a recent development? Because I saw you and Doctor Erskine go out for drinks two or three times."
"That was different. Doctor Erskine was a friend." And it had been long enough since his death that she was just about able to say his name or think of his face without feeling the sting of unshed tears in her eyes.
"And we're not? We work together. We travel together. We live in the same building. Hell, our rooms in the Strand are just four doors apart!"
"You don't have many friends, do you, Mister Stark?" she asked. Not if that was how he measured friendship.
"Of course I do. I'm rich. Everybody's my friend," he winked, proving that he—perhaps—wasn't quite as oblivious as he seemed at times. "Look, I don't have any sort of ulterior motive here. I just want to have a couple of celebratory drinks with somebody I don't have to talk slowly to."
"What are you celebrating?" Hopefully his swift return to New York.
Stark looked at her as if she was mad. "Fourth of July. Of course, it's nothing like my last Independence Day celebrations—I flew out to the Maldives with a pair of blondes and didn't wear anything more than my swimming shorts for three days—but I'm American, so I've gotta at least make the attempt. Colonel Phillips isn't the socialising type, and my only other alternative is to find a bunch of American soldiers and hope my massive intellect isn't too overwhelming for them. C'mon, Agent Carter, you spent the past year or two in the U.S., so you're practically an American citizen!"
"My grandmother would roll in her grave, to hear that." Grandma Carter had always said Americans were very improper. Then again, Grandma Carter had gotten quite eccentric in her old age; she'd once caught sight of an Indian man wearing a turban—a high-ranking diplomat on a cultural visit, as misfortune would have it—and loudly proclaimed him an avatar of the Devil. Ruffled feathers had taken quite some time to be smoothed over, and Grandma Carter had spent the last eight years of her life confined to a large country estate, whilst she slowly forgot the names and faces of everybody she had ever known and loved.
Grandma Carter would not have approved of Mister Stark. He was everything that annoyed Peggy in a man; arrogant, irreverent, and condescending. And worse, he was a serial womaniser, and completely unapologetic about it. What any woman saw in a man like that, Peggy could not even begin to imagine. Perhaps it was simply the appeal of being 'the one' to settle a man down; 'the one' for whom he would change his ways. If so, it was an incredibly naïve reason to date a man.
"Would your grandmother approve of you letting a frie—a colleague," he corrected, when she glared a snowstorm at him, "—celebrate the birth of his home nation alone?"
"And what is it, exactly, that you're celebrating your home nation's independence from, Mr. Stark?"
"Oppression from greedy and corrupt British governance, of course. But surely we shouldn't let the past stand in the way of fostering new relations. It's hardly my fault that my country revolted, is it?"
She sighed, and sent a mental apology to Grandma Carter in Heaven. "I will have one drink tonight with you, Mr. Stark. One. But I won't enjoy it. And after that, you must promise not to ask me out for any further drinks."
"Agent Carter, if I can't woo a woman with one drink, no amount of drinks is ever going to do it. So on that, you have my promise. Besides," he grinned beneath his neatly combed moustache, "you can give me tips."
"Tips?"
"On the sorts of personal foibles English women like. Don't get me wrong, I have all the standard things; charm, intelligence… more money than I know what to do with. Usually that's enough, but maybe… no, actually, I think that's enough. I was just pulling your leg, Agent Carter; no tips will be required."
"How fortunate for me."
They drew very few glances as they walked down the street towards the temporary headquarters the Special Operations Executive had granted them. Stark chattered, but Peggy let his words pass across her mind like water over a duck's back. Being back in London, after so long in New York, was sobering. In America, the war wasn't entirely real. Oh, the people there talked about it all the time, and they contributed to the war effort in many different ways, but to most of them it was a fight happening so far from home that at times it seemed more like a moving picture; she'd heard young men in the enlistment lines talking about adventure and glory. They didn't fear the Germans… but then, their cities hadn't been blitzed to rubble.
The last time Peggy had been in London had been at the height of the Luftwaffe's blitzkrieg campaign. She had memories of long nights spent in the Underground tunnels, listening to the pounding of bombs exploding above. When the nights were at their darkest, she'd often listened to bombs and tried to guess which buildings London had just lost. Which landmarks wouldn't be gracing the skyline when the sheltering population emerged from the tunnels in the morning. How many civilians might have been caught by the Luftwaffe's sloppy attempts at hitting military targets.
Rubble-laden neighbourhoods weren't the only evidence of the war. She saw signs of it in the faces of those she passed on the streets. Almost everybody was a little hungrier these days, and the clothes they wore a little more tattered and frayed than they would have been in times of prosperity. Nothing was wasted. Every scrap of metal was melted down for guns and bullets and tanks. Clothes that were too small for older children were handed down to younger siblings, donated to orphanages, or sent on for cleaning and bleaching, to be used as blood-rags in field hospitals. Wood and coal and anything that could be burnt in the home was dutifully conserved for the later winter months, and oil lamps were used sparingly. Spent candle ends weren't thrown away, but collected and melted down, to provide the basis for new candles.
And here she walked, well-fed, well-clothed, wearing fine leather shoes, in the company of a man who knew poverty only as some childhood nightmare. A large part of Peggy was proud of how her fellow Britons had pulled together during the war. A small part of her felt like a traitor, for not suffering and sacrificing with them.
The SOE had designated an area under Whitehall to be used as a command centre by the SSR during its mission in Europe. The command centre itself was deep enough underground that Germany's heaviest bombs wouldn't touch it, nestled within a series of catacombs that few knew about and no map had ever described. Entrance was via a secure door in one of the government buildings, and as Peggy approached the manned security post outside the door, she tried to distance herself a little from Stark. He had an annoying habit of hovering too close, as if he didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'personal space.'
"Afternoon, Agent Carter," the guard said, after checking her badge. He checked Stark's, too. "Afternoon, Mr. Stark."
"Tommy, how many times have I gotta tell you to call me 'Howard,'?"
"One more, as always, sir."
"Has Colonel Phillips arrived yet?" Peggy asked the guard.
"Went down ten minutes ago, Agent Carter."
"Good." That meant he hadn't been waiting too long. Colonel Phillips hated to be kept waiting. "Come along, Mr. Stark."
She strode forward towards a second door, which slid open sideways when she tugged at the handle. It opened to reveal a lift—or, as the Americans called them, 'elevator'—which was the only access route that she and the other members of the SSR had been authorised to use.
"You shouldn't encourage the soldiers to behave familiarly, Mr. Stark," she told him, as they began their slow descent. No soft music played in this elevator. It would have been out of place. "Discipline and respect are everything, in the military."
"Having one guard call me by my name is hardly gonna foment military anarchy," he scoffed. "If you ask me, you English are too uptight."
"I didn't ask you, Mr. Stark," she said. "However, your unsolicited opinion is duly noted."
They found Colonel Phillips drumming his fingers on the table in the underground briefing room, a very impatient expression carved into his craggy face. Peggy mentally prepared herself for a dressing-down.
"Agent Carter, given the English reputation for efficiency and punctuality, I had hoped you'd understand the meaning of 'fourteen-hundred hours prompt,'. Not fourteen-two, not fourteen-seven, and definitely not fourteen-twelve, but fourteen prompt."
"If we're late, it's my fault," said Stark, just as Peggy was opening her mouth to apologise. He gave her a quick wink. "I stopped Agent Carter several times on the walk here to ask her about the best sight-seeing spots."
"Ask in your own time, Stark. This is war, not a holiday. There'll be time for sightseeing once Schmidt and his cult of fanatics are behind steel bars or pushing up daisies. Take a seat, both of you."
Still reeling from Stark's uncharacteristic act of chivalry, Peggy pulled out the chair nearest to her and sat before the man could even think about helping her with it. As soon as they were both seated, Phillips picked up two brown folders from an open briefcase in front of him, and slid them down the table. One, he kept for himself.
"Until today, only eight other people in the whole world had seen the contents of that dossier. It's the joint command's plan to turn the tide of the war."
At a nod of consent from the colonel, Peggy opened the file riding a wave of giddy eagerness. If the Allies had found a path to victory, it couldn't come too soon. There had been far, far too many casualties in this madness. It still hurt, to think of Michael, and she hoped it always would.
Some five minutes later, both she and Stark looked up at the colonel, and she could tell that Stark had just as many questions as she.
"Ambitious," she said.
"Why Italy?" Stark asked. "Wouldn't France be a better strategic target?"
"Yes it would," said Phillips, standing up and pacing as if lecturing raw recruits. "But France is too heavily fortified right now. Italy has been identified as the weakest link on several fronts. First, it's less fortified with German troops than France. Second, their economy is on the brink of collapse, with manufacturing and industry at an all time low. Third, they have a small but active Resistance. The people are ready to rise up and overthrow Mussolini; they just need a little push, and a loss of territory would be all the push they need. Fourth, the Italian army is less organised, less disciplined and less determined than the German army, especially after their losses in North Africa and along the Eastern Front. Intelligence suggests a large-scale surrender of Italian troops is very likely, if faced with the possibility of defeat. And finally, taking and holding Italy would provide a vital staging ground within Europe itself, allowing for a multi-pronged push into France next year."
"And this is happening soon?" Peggy asked. The document in her slightly trembling hands wasn't just a proposal; it was a plan. One that had been painstakingly researched and plotted. Every contingency accounted for.
"Patton will be ready to move on Sicily in less than a week."
There was a deep silence as the weight of those words sank in. For months, fierce fighting in the African Campaign was all anybody had talked about. Now, the fight would be taken out of Africa and pushed into Europe proper. Italy, France, Greece… like a house of cards, the names of countries allied with, or occupied by, the Nazis came falling down inside Peggy's head. Two years. Three, maximum. That was how long the war was projected to last, after Italy fell.
If everything goes according to plan, a traitor voice inside her mind pointed out.
"How do we fit into this?" she asked. As fascinating as it was to catch a glimpse of the long term plan to save the world from fascism, combat was not the SSR's remit. Soldiers would take Italy, not scientists.
"Glad you asked that, Agent Carter," said Phillips, producing a smaller folder from his briefcase and tossing it over to her. "We're going to France."
"Wait just a minute. Let me get this right," said Stark, holding up both hands. "The bulk of the Army's forces will, in less than a week, be hitting the weakest link with a very hard sledgehammer. Meanwhile we are being sent into the heavily fortified Nazi-occupied France?"
"Correct."
"Far be it from me to question the wisdom of the guys who decide which suicide missions to send us on," said Stark. Peggy tried to shush him with a surreptitious hand movement, but he was in full-blown rant mode. "But shouldn't we be avoiding the very dangerous Nazi-controlled areas? What is it they say? Fools rush in where General Patton fears to tread?"
"Mr. Stark," said Peggy, finally grabbing his attention. She slid the smaller dossier over to him, which he picked up and quickly scanned.
"Oh. I see. How did this '9th Infantry' end up in France?" he asked.
Phillips took the floor again. "They were en route from Egypt to England when their transport ship was struck by a torpedo from a U-boat, not far from the coast of Tunisia. The crew made for France, but the ship began to list and take on water. It went down off the French coast at night, and I suspect the Germans thought all hands were lost. A small contingent from the 9th Infantry managed to make it in lifeboats to the coast, where they made contact with local Resistance who got the word back to us. They've dug in somewhere remote and are awaiting our arrival. We leave tomorrow night."
"I'm no great strategist—" said Stark, the humblest Peggy had ever heard him, "—don't get me wrong, I'm a genius, certainly, but that genius does not necessarily equate to military strategy—" Perhaps not quite the humblest she'd ever heard him, "—but the way I see it, there's you, me and Agent Carter here, plus those three candidates we kept from Project Rebirth. Aren't we going to need more than that, plus some half-drowned Infantry regiment, to do what The Powers That Be are asking?" he questioned, tapping his fingers on the smaller dossier.
"Much more," Colonel Phillips agreed. He pulled out a list from his pocket, and passed it to Stark, who quickly glanced at it before passing it to Peggy. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips as she read it. "Here are the personnel and ordnance that will be coming with us. In addition, the King George is having some essential repair work done in dock. One week from now, they'll set sail for the Mediterranean to take part in Operation Husky. They'll stop en route to drop off a company of new Infantry, some five hundred men. All we have to do is find the 9th and hold out for a week."
"A week in the well-fortified Nazi-controlled country everybody is avoiding," Stark reminded him. "Okay, I know, it's important work. How sure are we about the intel in this file, though? Could Hydra really have established a network of secret communication bunkers in France?"
"If they have, then they've done it behind Hitler's back," Peggy told him. "That means they're bypassing usual German communication lines. If they're not using the same Enigma codes as the rest of the Nazi forces, we can't decipher their plans or lay false trails. And who knows what information they're passing, and to whom? It's imperative we find a way to breach their systems. Just think, Mr. Stark; by this time next month, all of Hydra's secrets could be at your fingertips."
"Agent Carter, you really know how to talk to a guy," he grinned. "One final question, Colonel Phillips. How the heck are we going to get that many people—not to mention the tanks—into France?"
"We'll be travelling on a neutral merchant ship, and the RAF will be providing us with a distraction."
"Ahh." A knowing smile stole across Stark's face. "So you need me along to invent a way for the vehicles to get off the ship and onto land?"
"That's already been taken care of. We'll be trialling a prototype mobile landing platform that, if successful, will see much more use next year. We need you along to help crack those Hydra communication systems and decipher any techno-babble we discover along the way."
"Colonel, I feel compelled to tell you that whilst my Spanish is impeccable, my German is rather lacking. Don't get me wrong, if you need to order schnitzel, I'm your guy. Deciphering German tech-speak? Not so much."
"Don't worry. Capturing those bunkers is only Phase One. Phase Two will be able to assist you with translation."
"And what is Phase Two?"
"I'll tell you en route. Now, if that's all your questions, I'd like a moment in private with Agent Carter."
Uh-oh. Colonel Phillips rarely asked for a room to be cleared; he believed in fairness and transparency, until the mission demanded otherwise. He gave praise and dressings-down in public, though not always in equal measure. Only when expressing personal, rather than professional, displeasure, did he ask for privacy. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good.
"Of course," said Stark, already weaselling his way out of his chair. He gave Peggy another wink. "Catch you later, Agent Carter." Ugh. She knew she'd regret that promise of a drink. He'd probably take every opportunity available to remind her that he'd heroically taken the blame for their tardiness. Expect her to be grateful. If that was the case, he was going to be sorely mistaken; Peggy Carter did not need any man to fight her battles for her.
From out of his briefcase, Phillips pulled a bright, colourful flier. When he handed it to Peggy, her heart sank a little.
"CAPTAIN AMERICA WANTS YOU!" the headline declared in obnoxiously large red letters. Underneath, smaller writing said, "You saw him first on the streets of New York, where he battled a mob of Nazi spies and saved young Timmy from drowning. Now, Captain America is coming to your town or city! The USO is proud to present the hero of the nation, accompanied by the Star-Spangled Singers! Tickets are on sale NOW (places may be limited at some venues. Children under the age of 18 months must be accompanied by a responsible adult.)"
Beneath the writing was a picture of… well, it was probably Steve. He had a very distinctive, large, impressive shape since Erskine's serum had taken effect. But if Peggy hadn't seen him immediately post-serum, she would probably not have recognised him. It was as if somebody had taken that flag he'd retrieved from the top of the flagpole at Camp Lehigh, and draped the man in it from head to toe. Only, the uniform managed to be much more garish than the flag. It was bright, it was colourful, it involved tights and a helmet with a mask, and a white letter 'A' on the front. In the picture, he was surrounded by beautiful young women clothed—albeit barely—in equally… colourful costumes.
"Agent," said Phillips, "when I sent you to change Steve Rogers' mind, I didn't expect you to send him on his merry way with a wink and a smile."
Wink?! "I hardly—"
"Agent, I expected you to bring Steve Rogers to heel by any means necessary. It wasn't rocket science, Agent Carter, otherwise I would have sent Stark. That boy would have followed you anywhere if you'd fluttered your eyelashes at him. Now, instead of a viable subject from which to attempt to recreate Dr. Erskine's formula, we have a clown, on a stage, lining Brandt's pockets with war bonds and pushing the senator's political agenda."
"Senator Brandt is—"
"Don't give me some bull line about Senator Brandt being our most important benefactor, and the voice of the SSR on Capitol Hill. I know what he is, Agent Carter, as do you. After this fiasco, we're lucky he only took Rogers and didn't shut the whole of the division down. We made promises, Agent Carter. Promises that we could create a new breed of soldiers that would put an end to the war, and do it without so much as breaking a sweat. Now what do we have? You, me, and a man who gets distracted as soon as you roll the next shiny thing along the floor in front of him. Hell, we'd be halfway back to where we were if Erskine had trusted Stark enough to give him even a small portion of the serum's formula. But no. Erskine's gone, Rogers is gone, and do you know what we have, Agent Carter? We have bubkis."
"Sir, with all due respect, I think you underestimate Mr. Rogers," she said. "Again. He isn't the type of man to immediately become a drooling imbecile the moment a woman smiles at him. He was more than that, and that's just one of the reasons Dr. Erskine chose him." He was also one of the few men Peggy respected enough not to even try exploiting with her God-given feminine assets. He reminded her of Michael, a little. Only, where Michael had been a headstrong, mischievous rogue, Steve was a headstrong, old-fashioned gentleman.
"Besides," she added, "he was following his heart. He saw this as the best way to get to the front lines."
"Agent Carter, hell will be mighty cold before Senator Brandt lets that boy see combat."
Despite Phillips' tone of reprimand, she smiled. "Colonel, I believe Mr. Rogers has a very unique way of overcoming the odds when they're stacked against him. He wanted to sign up, and he did, despite his myriad health problems. He wanted to be chosen for Project Rebirth, and through determination and perseverance, he made it happen. It wouldn't surprise me if, six months from now, he was on the front lines, leading men into battle." She felt her nose wrinkle in distaste as she glanced down at the poster. "Perhaps not wearing that—" because God, it was awful! "—but I wouldn't count him out of the fight just yet, Colonel."
"Agent, are you sure you want to come with us to France?" he tapped the poster with his fingers. "The Star-Spangled Singers may have another opening on their cheerleading squad."
She crossed her arms over her chest, but didn't bother dignifying that particular statement with a response.
"Tomorrow night, Agent Carter. Be ready to leave at nineteen-hundred prompt. If you turn up twelve minutes late again, you'll miss the transport."
Standing, she offered a salute. "Yes sir."
"And tell Stark he's not to bring the whole of his laboratory with him, this time. We're travelling light."
"Sir, you know he'll insist on bringing—"
Phillips hand-waved that particular problem away. "I know, I know. But if it keeps him quiet, he can bring it. Hell, it might even come in useful. Dismissed, Agent Carter."
"Sir, before I go, I was wondering if I might have tomorrow morning to myself," she said. For over two and a half years she'd worked for the SSR and not asked for a single moment off. Now that she was back in England, she couldn't leave it without first seeing her family. Going home was never easy—neither of her parents approved of her career choice, and they supported her only because Michael had wanted it—but she was their only surviving child, and she was about to head into the heart of a Nazi-controlled country. If anything befell her, she would never forgive herself for not saying goodbye to her parents.
"Fine, take the morning. Hell, take the afternoon, too. Just be on that dock for nineteen hundred."
She saluted again, but he didn't see it. His gaze was fixed on the USO poster; the only splash of colour in the room. A tiny smile crept its way across Peggy's lips. A splash of colour. That's how she'd felt, after meeting Steven Rogers. After seeing him struggle and persevere. After talking with him in a way that few men ever talked to her. No, she would not count him out of the war just yet. And she was willing to bet he was the only man in the whole of New York who would be utterly miserable being surrounded by beautiful, scantily clad dancing girls.