We Were Soldiers

10. The Rock and the Hard Place

According to Bucky's watch, it was nearly one o'clock in the morning by the time the troops housed in the tween deck were sent up to disembark, and everyone was on edge. Tipper's fingers flipped his coin with such rapid fluidity that it had an eerie, hypnotic quality to it, and Gusty's flatulence had become almost unbearable. Wells drummed his fingers impatiently on the hammock frame, and even Bucky jumped at every small clang which might have been a member of the crew come to fetch them at last.

Finally up on deck, Bucky discovered that Wells' prediction of a fishing fleet was not entirely inaccurate. Although there was a dock, it was smaller than he had been expecting, and several large vessels were already berthed at it, leaving no room for the Monty. A flotilla of small vessels was clustered around the troop transport, many already heading for the dock laden with troops from another section of the ship.

As he waited in line, he turned his gaze to the city and saw… nothing. He could just about, by the light of the crescent moon, make out the outline of the highest buildings against the night sky, but everything else was dark and indistinguishable. It was as if there wasn't even a city there.

"Why's London so dark?" he whispered to Wells. Wells knew everything, because the things he didn't know, he made up convincing bullshit for.

"Blackout, to stop the Luftwaffe being able to target buildings easier. I hear they're so paranoid about being bombed that they even build 'fake' towns with streets and lights, a few miles away from any potential target, to distract the Kraut planes. Germans drop their bombs on a big fat load of nothing. It's quite ingenious. Can you imagine trying to blackout New York and build a fake city outside it? And they don't just do it for London, they do it for all the big cities. Crazy, right?"

"Crazy," he agreed. The queue of men waiting to descend the rope ladders hung over the rail of the ship shuffled forward, and now Bucky was so close that he could hear the water lapping against the hull of the boat, just as it had in Piermont. "Nervous?" he asked.

"Nervous about hauling my own body weight's worth of stuff down a flimsy rope ladder and onto a tiny little toy boat?" Wells grinned. "Not at all. You?"

"Well, I wasn't…"

"Don't worry, pal." Wells clapped him on the shoulder. "It'll be fun."

"What do I do if I fall overboard, Sarge?" Carrot piped up from behind. "I can't swim."

"Just stick close to us, Carrot," said Bucky, before Wells could chime in with the unhelpful suggestion of 'try to drown quietly.' "We won't let anything happen to you. Right, Wells?"

"Hrmph," Wells agreed.

When they reached the rope ladder, Bucky went down first, then made Carrot come straight after him. The young man gripped the ladder so tightly that his knuckles were white, and as soon as his feet hit the small boat with a heavy clunk, he sat down on a bench and refused to budge even an inch. A few minutes later, the boat was full with a dozen members of the 107th, and it made a chugging beeline for the dock.

Halfway to the dock, Wells looked down at the bottom of the boat. "Are we taking on water?"

Bucky looked down too. The moonlight was shining off a puddle of water, but he'd been on small craft before—sailing boats and canoes—and he knew it wasn't anything to be alarmed about.

"It's natural for small boats to get a bit of water in the bottom," he said.

"Yeah, but the bit of water doesn't usually get deeper, does it?"

He looked again. Was it his imagination, or had the puddle gotten deeper? No, that was crazy. It was just Wells, puttin' ideas in his head, trying to rile him up. Only… yes, the puddle that hadn't quite reached his foot before was now lapping over his toes.

"Hey," he called to the man steering the ship from the small wheel in the front of the cabin, "I think your boat's leaking back here."

Carrot let out a nervous squeak.

"Oh, don't worry about that!" the man in the cabin called over his shoulder in a cheerful English accent. "It always does that when it's overloaded. You Americans sure do like to bring heavy bags with you! There are a couple of buckets back there for bailing out if it gets too bad, but Miss Fortune here has never floundered once." The guy happily patted the side of the vessel like it was a favoured pet.

"English people are all mad," Wells whispered to Bucky. He tossed one of the buckets to Gusty, and they began to bail out.

When the boat reached the dock, thankfully without sinking, Bucky sent Carrot up the iron ladder first, and made sure he was the last to leave the vessel. As his feet found dry land after two weeks of being at sea, he heard the sound of the boat fading away as its owner took it back out to the Monty, completely uncaring of how much water it had taken on. Wells was right. These people were mad.

The view of London from the dock was no better than the view from the ship. The streets were black as pitch, so men were bumping into each other, stepping on toes, tripping over big metal rings built into the harbour wall… for a few minutes all was chaos. Then they found the rest of the disembarked troops and lined up while they waited for the rest of the Monty to be evacuated.

True to form, they waited, and then they marched. The whole city was quiet as they passed through, and Bucky couldn't make out any of the landmarks he'd been expecting: the Thames, Westminster, the Tower of London…

Soon they'd marched right out of the city and into the open countryside, which was also kinda odd, since he'd expected to march for more than a couple of miles before being in open countryside. As they began their fourth mile of the march, he stepped a little closer to Wells to whisper to his friend.

"London was kinda small, wasn't it?"

"I guess we're just used to New York. I thought it would be bigger, too. Very over-hyped, if you ask me."

After about five miles of marching, they reached what appeared to be a sprawling camp nestled in a valley between two long, low hills. Here, for the first time since leaving the Monticello, they found light. Several soldiers in dress uniform were waiting beneath a large awning which seemed to serve as a gateway to the camp. As the troops arrived, officers stepped forward to claim ownership of the men.

"107th Infantry!" a reedy voice barked out.

Bucky glanced at Wells, whose face showed a complete lack of moral support, and the two led the regiment over to the man who'd called out. They found themselves standing in front of an officer, and issued swift salutes.

"Sergeant James Barnes," Bucky said.

"Sergeant Daniel Wells," his friend added.

The officer glanced over them, and now that they were closer, Bucky could tell that the guy was young. Younger than Bucky by at least a couple of years, and shorter by two or three inches. The bar on his sleeve indicated the rank of Second Lieutenant, and the unimpressed derision on his face made Bucky's heart sink; he had a bad feeling about this.

"Tell me, Sergeants," the man in front of them said, "since you did your basic training, have you forgotten how to address an officer?"

"No, sir," Bucky said for both of them. In truth, they'd barely stood on ranking at all, whilst on the Monty. Wells had outright discouraged anyone from calling him 'sir,' and neither of them had been bothered if the men called them by their names rather than their ranks. Clearly, this wasn't good enough for their new officer.

Bucky's response seemed to mollify the man. "That's better. My name is Second Lieutenant Jacob Danzig. Whilst on this base you will report directly to me. The 107th barracks is in the north-eastern quarter; Sergeant Weiss will see that you're settled in and will familiarise you with everything in the camp. I'll expect you and your men dressed for exercise and drill at oh-five-hundred exactly. Is that clear?"

Bucky pointedly didn't look at Wells this time, because he knew the expression on his friend's face would match the sinking feeling in his own chest. Exercise and drill on a couple of hours' sleep at most, when the men would still be trying to find their land-legs after the long voyage? It was cruel. It was unusual. He suspected Lieutenant Danzig was both, and that he probably wouldn't take anything other than a 'yes sir' well at all.

"Yes sir," he agreed, and Wells echoed his response with considerably less false enthusiasm.

They both saluted again, then led the 107th into the camp, to look for their new barracks. They found it after a few minutes of searching, and piled inside the empty building to dump their heavy gear and make up their beds.

"Exercise and drill!" Wells grumbled, punching his pillow into a white cotton pillow case. Bucky didn't have to ask what his friend was really punching. "What a jerk."

"Not much we can do about it except try to stay on his good side," Bucky shrugged.

"Don't go turning brown-noser on me," Wells warned.

"Life's gonna be tough enough once we've got Germans shooting at us," he said. "No point having a pissed off lieutenant riding our backs all the time."

"Y'know, you're annoyingly equanimous at times."

"Tell you what; you try to go a little easier on the men, and I'll ask 'how high?' every time Danzig says 'jump.' Deal?"

"Fine," Wells sulked, as he shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his boots and climbed into bed. "Just don't expect me to go holding Carrot's hand every time something new scares him."

Bucky grinned at the mental image, but said nothing. The thought of running to the lieutenant's beck and call was not exactly appealing, but if it would help keep the peace, it was a sacrifice he would willingly make. Besides, how bad could one lieutenant be?

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Two hours later, he found out exactly how bad one lieutenant could be. Danzig wasn't happy with their drill, so he made them do it three times. Then he wasn't happy with their lap speed around the camp, so he made them do it five times. By the end of the run, everybody was sweating and exhausted, and Bucky was afraid that the members of the 107th who'd already been there for months and had joined them for 5 o'clock drill, now hated the newcomers for making their lives more difficult.

Finally, Lieutenant Danzig seemed satisfied—or at least, marginally less dissatisfied—and dismissed the men to the showers and breakfast. As the senior sergeant approached Bucky and Wells with two corporals in tow, Bucky noticed that none of the other regiments in the camp had been forced to undergo drill and laps at five o'clock in the morning.

"Sergeant John Weiss," the older man said. He had a smattering of grey in his brown hair, and the shoulder sleeve insignia on his right arm showed that he'd served with the 107th during the last war. Bucky wondered if the guy had known his father. Maybe he'd even known Steve's father, who'd died after getting hit with mustard gas. "This is Corporal Jones and Corporal Scott."

"James Barnes," Bucky offered, shaking their hands.

"Danny Wells," his friend echoed.

"Jones and Scott will show your men where all the facilities are while we talk business."

Bucky watched wistfully as the two corporals directed Carrot, Gusty and the others towards one of the shower blocks. He wanted to join them, because his sweat-soaked shirt had started to cool and cling uncomfortably, but he got the impression that Sergeant Weiss wasn't a man you said 'later' to.

Weiss eyed the pair of them up for a moment, and Bucky forced himself to stand still beneath the older man's scrutiny. Weiss' blue eyes were sharp, his face just a little creased around the corners of his mouth and eyes. He must have been approaching fifty, but apart from the grey in his hair, he seemed unaffected by age.

"How old are you boys?" Weiss asked at last.

"Twenty-six," said Bucky.

"Ditto," Wells added.

Weiss nodded. "Good. Old enough that I don't have to hold your goddamn hands every minute of the day. So, listen up, 'cos I'm not gonna say this twice. If I see either of you jumping to obey Dancing, I'm gonna come down on you like a ton of bricks."

"Dancing?" Wells asked him.

"Lieutenant Danzig," said Weiss, pulling a face that showed exactly what he thought of their officer. "That's his name now. Probably shouldn't call him that to his face, because the jumped-up like pimple-popper likes to show what a big important man he is by making an example outta anyone who even looks at him like his farts don't smell of roses. Nothing much he can really do, of course, because even the idiot who runs this base wouldn't be mad enough to give Dancing any real authority, but the lieutenant doesn't know that. Make no mistake; the enemy in this war is not the Krauts, or the Japs, it's ignorant toe-rags like Dancing."

"Are you suggesting we ignore the chain of command?" Bucky asked. It seemed counterproductive. Perhaps even harmful.

"Do you know who runs this army, Barnes?"

"Err… General Marshall?" he hazarded.

"No. How about you, Wells? You know who runs this army?"

"Umm… right now, I'm thinking you do?"

"That's right. Me, and you. There's two types of people who run this army. There's the administrators who organise it, and the sergeants who make everything happen. A good officer knows that his job is to give an order then get lost somewhere quiet and wait for us to get the job done. A good officer knows not to interfere with how his sergeants do their job. Dancing is not a good officer. The higher up the chain of command you go, the harder it is to find someone who can tell his ass from his elbow. And because the chain of command is infested with idiots who failed basic human anatomy, the 107th has two Second Lieutenants but no Captain to keep them in check. There's an empty position there, and Dancing wants to fill it. He wants to brown-nose his way to the top, and he'll get us all killed just to change that gold bar on his uniform for a bit of silver. I don't know about you boys, but I'm not getting killed by some snot-nosed brat younger than my own damn son, who thinks he knows anything about war because he went to college then spent three months having his nails manicured in some boy-scout officer training school.

"You gotta obey Dancing because he's got a piece of paper telling him how smart he is and that his farts smell of fuckin' roses, but you don't have to go running like some kept woman. Your job, in this war, is to make that guy's life a hell. To make him look bad and incompetent. You obey his orders as slowly as you can get away with. You interpret them freely unless he's real specific. You play the dumb idiot because he believes that's what you are, and because sooner or later he'll either realise that he doesn't fuck with sergeants, or the brass will wise up to the fact that he's a complete and utter imbecile and they'll boot him out to somewhere he can't do any real harm. Boy-scouts, maybe."

"Umm… you said there were two lieutenants?" Bucky prompted, when Weiss' angry tirade had finally ended. Just what the hell had Dancing—err, Danzig—done to the guy, to piss him off so much?

"Yeah. Lieutenant Nestor is the other. Don't worry, he's a spineless jellyfish. I put the fear of God into him on the first day and now he's so scared of screwing up that he stutters when he gives orders. But at least he's not idiot enough to try to force drills and laps onto us. You probably won't even see him unless he's conveying an order; guy's afraid of his own goddamn shadow. I wish the brass would just promote him to First Lieutenant so that Dancing would finally stop trying to impress the colonel with his rose-smelling farts, but the truth is neither of them have enough time in to earn a promotion, and what time they do have has been the eight months we've been stuck in this hell hole. Dancing's just itching for combat so he can prove himself by getting us all killed."

"Do you ever get to go into London?" Wells asked, nimbly changing the subject.

"London?" Weiss let out a long, loud belly-laugh. At one point he was even doubled over, holding his aching stomach. "Is that where you think you are? Look around you, Wells. Does this look like the pride of England?"

Bucky joined his friend in looking around. The dawn had revealed more of the landscape, and it could best be described as 'bleak.' It was all open, empty hills and things he suspected might be moors, the type of which he'd read about in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Hound Of The Baskervilles.' The predominant colour, much like the U.S. Army uniforms, was drab, with subtle undertones of brown and elusive slivers of green.

"Where the hell are we, then?" Wells asked at last.

"Plymouth. The ass-end of nowhere. Some of the younger men like to get passes to go down there when they can, but it's hardly what I'd call a hub of excitement. There's always too many sailors, for a start, and they tend to snag the best girls early. At least, that's what I hear. Got no interest in girls myself; the wife would kill me if I came back with the clap. That sort of thing's alright for you young fellas, but you know what I see every time I look at those young women?"

Bucky shook his head, and Weiss ploughed aggressively on.

"I see my goddamn daughter. And if I caught someone my age foolin' around with someone her age, I would bury him six feet under. What about your men? What're they like?"

"They're a good bunch," Bucky said, before Wells could mouth-off something like 'well, they have two arms and two legs,' and get himself into trouble. "Hard-working when they have to be, and they look out for each other well enough."

"Any trouble-makers?"

"Just Wells here," Bucky said. His friend scowled and jabbed his elbow into Bucky's ribs.

"Hmph," Weiss grunted. "That's good. I got a couple of trouble-makers. Guess they're your trouble-makers now, too. Don't worry, I'll point them out to you. You gotta sit on the trouble-makers. No passes to town. Most guys you can trust off the leash, but one or two just can't help themselves, so you make sure you know where they are at all times, especially when there's civilians close by. Once we get shipped out to the front lines it won't matter too much, 'cos not getting their asses shelled will keep them out of trouble. Devil makes work for idle thumbs."

"Do you think we'll be shipped out soon?" Wells asked.

Weiss nodded grimly. "Any day now. Hope we can ditch Dancing before then, otherwise we're all going back in coffins. Anyway, you boys go have your shower, and remember what I said; Dancing might make you drop and give him twenty if you drag your feet over his orders, but that's nothing compared to what I'll drop on you if I see you licking his boots like dogs. Clear?"

"Crystal," Bucky assured him. He and Wells hurried away, following in the direction their fellow soldiers had disappeared, stopping first to grab a clean change of clothes from their barracks. Bucky waited until Weiss was out of sight and earshot before speaking. "What do you think we should do?"

"First, I think we should shower. Then have breakfast. Then I think we should find out how hard it is to get one of those passes for the town."

"What do you think we should do about Danzig?" Bucky sighed.

"Oh, that?" Wells gave a dismissive wave, as if it was of no consequence. Bucky had already imagined himself and the rest of the 107th caught in the middle of a civil war between Weiss and Danzig, and it was a war that had ended with the slaughter of the nice, quiet guys he'd grown friendly with during the voyage from Last Stop. "I think we should listen to Sergeant Weiss and do everything he says, because that guy is a hell of a lot scarier than our lieutenant. And think about it; Weiss has already survived one war against the Germans before Danzig was even born. Who're you gonna listen to?"

"When you put it like that…" Very occasionally, Wells was prone to making good points. They were like sparkling diamonds amongst the bullshit. "Anyway, why do you wanna go to town? Weiss said it's boring."

"He's also old, and clearly out of touch with the very concept of fun. Besides, it's gotta be more exciting than the camp. We can't sit around forever waiting for excitement to happen; we have to make excitement happen for ourselves! Sure, it may not be London, but it's England. It's still full of English dames."

"Yeah but you heard what Weiss said, the town's full of sailors, and you know nothing spreads diseases like sailors."

"We'll draw the line at dancing," Wells said.

Inside the shower block, they stripped out of their horrible, sweaty clothes and made for the nearest free showers. Most of the 107th had already passed through and were probably sitting down for breakfast right now. Hopefully it wasn't grits. "You can't get the clap just from dancing," Wells added, as warm water plastered his black hair to his head.

Bucky quickly washed his own hair, then pushed it back out of his face. "I dunno…" It still didn't sound particularly appealing. When he'd had the image of London in his head, with its exciting city-pulse, its dance halls, its old-worldey culture and its classy, metropolitan dames, he'd been keen to get out and explore regardless of the blitzed state of the city. Now, surrounded by bleak, open moorland and dull countryside, staying in the barracks and playing poker sounded more appealing. Davies could probably find a way to get them some hooch.

"C'mon, pal, I need you to be my wingman. Who else am I gonna take? Carrot's terrified of alcohol, Gusty gets so nervous he'll clear any bar we enter, Tipper's a damn kid, Hawkins is still down over his brother… guess I could take Franklin or Biggs, but you and me are gonna get prettier dames than me and Franklin. You know how shallow broads are sometimes, and Franklin's not exactly Prince Charming."

"Yeah, it's the broads who're shallow," Bucky scoffed. Then, he sighed. He was gonna regret this. He knew it right away. But maybe being in Plymouth would be better than being between Weiss and Danzig. "Alright, fine. But you owe me one."

"We'll have a great time," Wells grinned. "I promise."

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As luck would have it, they didn't get to go to Plymouth that evening because Danzig claimed they'd done so poorly at morning drill that they'd do it again after dinner, until every man could march so perfectly in formation that not even the most particular of generals could find fault. After that he'd inspected their barracks and had not been impressed by the coating of dust on the floor, nor how some of the men had stored their helmets upside down beneath the beds. He'd claimed it was sloppy leadership and lectured Bucky and Wells for fifteen minutes about the importance of discipline. Bucky didn't see that it mattered how a guy stored his helmet, as long as he worked efficiently and got his job done, but he suspected if he tried to bring Danzig around to his way of thinking, he'd only earn himself push-ups.

After the chewing-out, Danzig had instructed them both to sweep out the barrack, 'as an example to the men about how it should be done.' He'd come back twenty minutes later dissatisfied with the sweeping and ordered them to do it again. Finally, on the third time, he couldn't find fault—at least, he couldn't find fault beyond the way one of the bare light-bulbs flickered from the ceiling, but how the hell that was their fault, Bucky had no idea.

"Thank God he's gone," Wells said, gripping the handle of his sweeping brush so tight that his knuckles were white. He shot death-glares at the door through which Danzig had left. "I was seconds away from shoving this where the sun don't shine."

Bucky was too tired to try to cheer up his friend. He put his own sweeping brush aside and sank down wearily onto his bed, whilst all around the rest of the 107th who'd been on the Monty tried their best to be silent and unobtrusive. None of them wanted to be the recipient of a brush handle, and though Wells almost never shouted in anger, he'd been known to make good on vindictive threats.

Two hours of sleep. He'd done a full day's work on two hours of sleep and now his tired eyes demanded he lie down and close them. It was only nine o'clock, but already several of the 107th were bunking down for the night. Gusty—whom they'd made sleep by the door again—was snoring gently only moments after Danzig left, while Tipper looked like his head was about to wobble right off his neck.

"I suggest you all get some sleep," Bucky told them. "We're gonna be up for drill again at oh-five-hundred."

His words were met by a chorus of groans and much punching of pillows. Lieutenant Danzig was certainly making no friends amongst the newly arrived members of the 107th.