We Were Soldiers

11. Mae in Plymouth

The next day, after drill practice, and laps, and more laps, and then a shower and a half decent breakfast of oatmeal and toast, Bucky saw Lieutenant Nestor for the first time. Probably no older than Danzig, the guy looked a little like Gusty, in that he wore spectacles and had a sort of nervous twitchiness about him, but he wasn't quite as gangly as Gusty. Still, he dry-washed his hands as he approached Bucky and Wells as they were chivvying 'their' half of the regiment back to the barracks, to try and keep them out of Dancing's way.

"Erm, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells," the man said, and almost flinched when Bucky and his friend threw up salutes. "I'm Lieutenant Nestor. How are the, erm, men settling in?"

"Very well, sir," Bucky said, and then lied through his teeth. "They're all eager to get started." Officers liked that sort of thing.

"Good, good. That's good." To Lieutenant Nestor, it sounded anything but good. He cleared his throat before continuing. "You're to visit the quartermaster and see that the men are fully kitted out with everything they'll need for a campaign. Rifle ammo and ration kits and whatnot. The quartermaster has the full equipment list. Erm, and it should be done sooner, rather than later, if you don't mind."

"Are we shipping out?" Wells asked. Bucky didn't have to be a mind-reader to know his friend was imagining those Plymouth dames slipping out of his grip.

"Oh, I don't know about that." Nestor pulled off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt sleeve before donning them again. "I mean, sure, I guess we must be. But when? Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe it'll be another eight months."

"Does Lieutenant Danzig know when we're shipping out?" Bucky asked him, after sharing a look of disbelief with Wells.

A light frown played across Nestor's face, his eyes becoming unfocused, speculative. "I should think not. To tell you the truth, all plans made here need to be checked with Churchill. I mean, he doesn't check them himself, probably has a general to do that, but we can't go running off half-cocked. Spirit of cooperation at all that." The frown appeared again. "To hear the English down in Plymouth talk, it's their war, and they think they're letting us join it. Guess I can't blame them, really, they've been on their own since France surrendered, and I know the Soviets are in it now but from what I hear they're struggling just to keep the Nazis out of Russia."

"Speaking of Plymouth," Wells jumped in when Nestor took a breath, "some of the men were hoping to get passes. They've been cooped up in a tin tub for two weeks. You know how that is."

"Certainly. Why, on the ship that brought me over, we had fifteen hundred guys cramped together in tiny bunks—"

"We had hammocks."

"Oh, my condolences. How many passes do you need?"

"How many can we get?" Wells asked. Bucky could see from the look in his eyes that his friend was already figuring out how many he could exchange in barter.

"I think ten is the maximum per regiment per night. We don't want to flood Plymouth with soldiers, do we?"

"Ten would be fine," Wells assured him coolly.

"Yes. I think ten would be fine," Nestor nodded, as if it was all his own idea. Bucky couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy; he was clearly out of his depth here, despite whatever officer training he'd had. And Wells had a particular flair for exploiting the unwary. "I'll tell the staff sergeant of the camp that he's got permission to authorise ten passes for you to collect once you're finished with the quartermaster. Is that okay?"

"Yes sir, that would be great, thank you sir."

Bucky rolled his eyes as his friend buttered up Nestor. "Sir," he chimed in, "do you have any suggestions about exciting places to visit in Plymouth?"

"Gosh, no! I've only been there once myself. Very dangerous place, Plymouth. And the locals speak with such dire country accents that it takes a practised ear to understand a word they say. I went there with a few of the officers, when we first arrived—wouldn't do to be seen fraternising with the enlisted men, of course—and it took three tries to order a beer. When it came, it was flat, and when I tried to complain, the man looked at me like I was mad."

"Err, how dangerous is 'dangerous', sir?"

Nestor glanced around, looking sweaty and nervous, and gestured them both in closer. Bucky wasn't sure he wanted to get closer to Nestor, but he needed to know how clear a head he had to keep when Wells finally dragged him to the city.

"We were out in this bar—they call them pubs, here—and had just got our drinks of flat beer—they call it ale, apparently—when three… erm… soldiers… came in, bold as anything. And they were from one of the, erm, coloured battalions. And they went up to the bar and ordered some drinks, and we kept expecting the barman to refuse to serve them or direct them towards one of the coloured bars. But it turns out there are no coloured bars in England."

"You don't say!" Wells gasped in theatrical horror. Bucky fought back his grin. This was gonna be Carrot all over again.

Nestor nodded emphatically. "I know. So, these three soldiers, they sat down and were drinking their warm beer—I mean, ale—happy as Larry. And we thought, well, that's strange. Nobody else in the bar—the pub—was even looking at 'em twice. But there were these soldiers there from one of the cavalry regiments, somewhere out of Louisiana, and they took real exception to those soldiers sitting at a table in a pub full of white men and women. Especially since the women were giving 'em the eye. And you know what those southern types are like, they got up and started swaggering and told the black fellas to get the hell out and… well, it doesn't bear repeating. And you know, if we'd been back home, I reckon those guys would've left and that would have been that. They looked like they were about to leave, y'know, just to avoid the mess those southern boys were trying to make.

"But then, the barman turned to the cavalry fellas and he said—at least, I think he said, because he had such a terribly broad accent, but on reflection, I think I've translated it close enough—he said, 'You chaps might not realise this, but you're not in America anymore, and we'll take your guns, your fighter-planes and your tanks with thanks, but you can keep your attitudes to yourselves.' And then one of the southern boys, he said if the barkeep was gonna let Ni—I mean, Negroes—drink there like they had the right to sit with good, honest, hard-working white men, then they'd take their dollars and go spend them elsewhere. And then the barman, I think he said, 'Boys, this pub's been in my family for four generations. Nobody comes into my pub and tells me what I can't serve and who I can't serve it to; not some 'arse-faced' Nazi son of a whore, not some overpaid Sammies, and sir, if the King Himself walked in here and asked me to stop serving someone just because he didn't like the look of him, I'd ask his Highness to politely wait outside while my patrons finished however many drinks they liked.'

"And I thought, well, this is it, this is where things turn nasty, because I could see those cavalry fellas about to start something, and I had visions of them getting dragged off by MPs for beatin' on three coloured guys and the man who'd served them. But about six locals stood up, huge guys, some fishing crew apparently, forearms the size of tree trunks, and they just gave the cavalry fellas the evil eye. And those southern boys might be two planks short of a boat, but they weren't suicidal, and they finally left grumbling all the while about… well, I won't repeat their language."

"I see what you mean about danger," Wells nodded sagely. "It sounds like the very moral fibre of the civilised world is at stake. Coloured guys drinking warm beer. What will they think of next?"

"I prefer not to think about the possibilities. Anyway, I've chewed your ear for long enough. Just be careful if you go down to Plymouth, Sergeants. And you'd do well to warn your men about the… peculiarities… of the English. Helps to avoid any misunderstandings."

They watched Nestor leave; his walk was twitchy, and his head constantly swivelled from side to side, as if expecting hordes of rampaging Negroes to descend on him at any moment.

"This is very serious," Wells said, and for once there was no humour in his eyes. Bucky lifted one eyebrow, and his friend elaborated. "We already gotta compete with locals and sailors, and now we learn English women don't mind giving the eye—and probably a lot of other things—to coloured guys. Life is cruel and unfair. We should be in London, having a great time of it."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Do you think of nothing else?" Steve had often accused him of being dame-crazy, but Wells managed to outdo him by quite a wide margin.

"Sure. I think of getting shot at by Nazis, but I find thoughts of my impending demise don't agree with me. C'mon Barnes, don't bring that big grey raincloud along for the ride. You heard what Weiss said; we're gonna be deployed to the front any day now, and Dancing will try his best to get us all killed. And Lieutenant Hand-Wringing obviously thinks we're being sent soon, or he wouldn't have ordered us to go see the quartermaster. This could be one of our last nights of freedom. Let's live a little before we die a lot."

"What'll you do if there are no dames left?"

Wells shrugged. "Rile up the hill-billies. For now, let's go see the quartermaster. Then we can find the staff sergeant and figure out which of our fair comrades are most deserving of a night on the town."

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

By three o'clock that afternoon, every member of the 107th was kitted out for war. Weiss had stuck around for long enough to yell at a few heel-dragging privates, then departed for what he claimed was his usual afternoon nap, leaving Corporals Jones and Scott to keep an eye on the seventy-five members of the regiment who'd been months in England already.

After they'd finished overseeing the kitting-out, Bucky had gone with Wells to find the staff sergeant, who'd issued them ten passes. Between them, they decided that Gusty and Biggs should take Hawkins for a night out on the town, to try and cheer him up and get him thinking about something other than Drew. Davies got a pass because he would come back with vital trade goods and intel. The other four passes were put into a draw, and assigned to four of the men at random. None of them, Bucky was relieved to note, were troublemakers.

At dinner time in the mess, they sat with Weiss and told him of their plans to visit Plymouth that evening. He merely grunted and said, "Don't come back with the clap. They won't discharge you for that."

By seven o'clock, Bucky and the others were dressed in their slightly creased dress-uniforms. Dancing had tried to inflict more drill on them, but they told him Nestor had already said they could go to Plymouth, which had left the guy looking like he was chewing rocks because he knew he didn't have the authority to rescind Nestor's permission, and going above Nestor's head to the brass would've made him look like a petulant child. He finally stomped away, and Bucky suspected they'd have to pay for it with extra drill in the morning.

Before they set off for the town, Wells imparted some last minute wisdom to the troops who had passes.

"Don't get completely sauced," he warned them. "Because anyone who comes back and spews in here is gonna get real familiar with the pointy end of the broom. Don't say anything insulting about the beer; the English think it's supposed to be flat, and they might get pissy if you tell them how bad it is. And don't make a scene if you see the local folks serving coloured guys, or dames dancing with them or anything; that's the norm here, too."

"Hope I don't see any pretty dames dancing with Jews," Gusty glowered. Wells rounded on him immediately.

"You got a problem with Jews, Gusty?"

"Err, no—"

"My old grandmother, God rest her soul, was Jewish. You know who else doesn't like Jews, Corporal?"

"But—"

"Exactly. Hitler doesn't like Jews. Now, you keep mouthing off about Jews, and that's gonna start sounding like sympathy. And people are gonna think Corporal Ferguson might have some sympathies for the Third Reich. Maybe wonder if Corporal Ferguson is perhaps fighting on the right side."

"I don't have a problem with Jews, Sarge!" Gusty assured him. He eyed the broom and started to sweat. "Honest!"

"Hmph. Well. Good. Now, listen up you guys. Me and Barnes, we're going into town to have fun tonight, because trying to keep you guys on the straight and narrow is a damn full-time job. Isn't that right, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky nodded, and Wells continued.

"So, here's how it's gonna work. If you see us in a pub, you aren't to acknowledge us in any way, shape or form. No saying hello, no waving, you don't even approach us, because you're gonna cramp our style. If we're talking to dames, you do not look at the dames. At all. If we walk into a pub you're drinking in, you finish your drink and then go find another pub. Understood?"

"Yes, Sarge," they all intoned obediently.

"Good. Now, we're gonna head into town. You're to wait ten minutes before following, so that we arrive separately, and that's the way it'll stay all night. C'mon Barnes, Plymouth beckons."

They left the camp, Wells with a spring in his step, Bucky with a heaviness in his heart over leaving the 107th to the mercy of Danzig. But at least Weiss would be there to keep an eye on them. Bucky had heard a story that, not long after arriving at the camp, Danzig had ordered Weiss to prepare for drill, so Weiss had gone and fetched him an actual dentist's drill from the camp's medical barrack. Weiss was a hero to the enlisted men.

"Your grandmother wasn't really Jewish, was she?" he asked, as they set off on the road to the city.

Wells shook his head. "Irish. Catholic as the Pope. Maybe even more Catholic than the Pope. Did you see the look on Gusty's face, though? Priceless."

"You're a bad man."

"Not the first time I've heard that," Wells grinned. "But before we get to Plymouth, let's talk strategy."

Bucky felt both eyebrows rise of their own volition. "Strategy?"

"Yeah. What's your preference? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? If pickings are slim, we need to figure things out so that we both find a dame we can be happy dancing with. Personally, I know blondes are supposed to be more fun, but I find brunettes and redheads put in more effort and don't make you do all the hard work. Like, blondes know they got that card to play and rest on their laurels a little too much. Know what I mean?"

"Sure." He racked his mind for something to say. In his eyes, he could picture exactly the kind of dame he liked, but he'd never before had to qualify his ideal dame's appearance to someone else. High-school locker room talk had mostly been restricted to exchanging stories about which girls were fun to go out with, which girls didn't mind you stealing a kiss at the end of the night, and which might set their older brothers on you if you even tried it. Teenage boys were far less discerning than grown men, and some had simply employed an 'anything with legs' policy. There had been no locker-room talk, after high-school had ended, and trying to get Steve to talk dames was like trying to get blood out of a stone.

"I guess," he said at last, as the image of his ideal date solidified in his mind, becoming so tangible he could almost touch it, "I don't have any preference for hair colour, as long as a dame is confident about her looks, even if she's not an outstanding looker. Y'know, the type who doesn't fret over every curl on her head being perfect."

"So we're looking for an eager brunette or redhead for me, and a confident anything for you." Wells nodded to himself. "I think this is doable."

A scene played out in Bucky's mind, of young women in the girls' locker-room, sitting around gossipping about which guys were fun to go out with, which were worth letting kiss them at the end of the night, and which they should set their older brothers on if he even tried.

"Y'think dames talk to each other about us like we talk about them?" he asked his friend.

"Without a doubt." Wells plucked a long stem of grass from the side of the road and twirled it around his fingers. "Here's a paradox for you. At the same time, dames are exactly like us, and nothing like us. What do you think about that?"

"I think you're full of shit."

Wells managed a convincing hurt look. "Think about it for a moment. Dames like all the sorts of things that we do. Some of them even like working, and we've seen for a fact that they can do most of the jobs we can, like building ships and operating machines and farming and running businesses. Could you imagine what would happen if all women worked in the same jobs alongside men, at least until they were married?"

The image of Lieutenant Nestor nervously on the lookout for working women flitted across his mind. "Total anarchy?"

"Pft, no." Wells used the grass stem to swat at a fly that was bothering him. It finally gave up and buzzed away. "The economy would double. Think about it; we already have one of the greatest economies in the world. How much greater would it be with twice the manpower—no pun intended—and twice the spending power? Twice the productivity. And you could maybe increase it by another fifth if blacks, and black women, could do the same jobs as white men."

The image of Lieutenant Nestor twitching was replaced by the image of Wells gettin' shot by some cavalry soldier outta Louisiana for his 'dangerous and radical un-American ideas.'

"You practising for riling up those hill-billies?" he asked.

"I guess sometimes I can't help but see things as an accountant. People are time, and time is money. More money is never a bad thing."

It seemed, to Bucky, a very dull way of looking at things. Kinda like the countryside they found themselves walking through now. The sun was slowly on its way to the horizon's kiss, the birds were still calling, the air was warm without being hot, but the pleasant tone of the evening was marred by the drab and brown and yellow of the barren hills and moors around them. Though he was a city-boy born and bred, he'd been to the country a few times… yet no country he'd been to in America had been as desolate and forlorn as this. Maybe that was why so many settlers had left England for the Americas. Maybe the dull, emptiness of the countryside had driven them to it.

"Kinda bleak around here," he said, as the waning sun washed over the hills in a blood-red tide.

"I like it," Wells said, his eyes scanning the land around them. "I think it's got a sort of haunting beauty to it. You can see why England produced so many great poets. What?!" he asked in a defensive tone, when Bucky shot him an incredulous look.

"You like this place?"

"You've never been to Wyoming, have you?"

"No. And you have?"

Wells shrugged. "I got an uncle with a ranch out there. And this place kinda reminds me of it. In fall and winter, when all the grassy plains turn to gold and brown, and stretch on for as far as the eye can see… it looks empty, but when you take a closer look, you find life everywhere. I think this place is like that."

"Is that where you learnt how to sleep in a hammock without falling out on your ass?"

"It's surprising how much you can learn in the middle of nowhere." Wells tossed his grass stem aside, along with his newfound romanticism for the countryside. "Anyway, how come you don't have a girl back home?"

The question he'd been dreading since Last Stop. The question he didn't have an answer for, and he was surprised it had taken somebody so long to ask it. Over the past couple of years, his mom had been nagging at him to settle down. Kept reminding him how old he was getting. That the older he got, the harder time he'd have finding a nice girl to marry. The older he got, the more people would wonder why he wasn't already settled with a family. He supposed his mom didn't mean anything by it, she was just doing what mothers did. His folks had married young, because of the Great War. Most of his parents' generation had married young, because that was what people did. They left school and they got married to their sweethearts. Back then, a girl liked to be settled before twenty.

Now, times were changing. Opportunity, the Depression, and another war, had shaken the status quo. Girls were still looking to marry early, but not quite as early. If a young woman remained single into her twenties, it wasn't frowned upon. Nobody looked at her askance, like she might be damaged goods. Many young women were taking jobs; waitressing, singing, providing secretarial skills, nursing… more and more women were looking to 'make something of themselves' before making a family, and because the social norms for women had relaxed a little, the norms for men had relaxed even further. Now, a bachelor at twenty-five didn't get so many suspicious glances. It was just assumed that a young man was looking to gain a little experience and some freedom before choosing a woman to settle down with. But that didn't stop the previous generations from trying their best to play matchmaker.

He'd taken girls home plenty of times. Some of them, his mom had even liked. But he'd never found the one. The girl who could walk into a room and take his breath away. The girl who plagued his thoughts night and day and made him want to stop chasing all the others. Maybe he had things backwards. Maybe he ought to settle down with a girl and slowly learn to love her, rather than love her before settling down. But he suspected he'd been terribly spoilt by his parents. His mom and dad had been in love before they'd married, and though their lives had been picture-perfect for the most part, they hadn't always done things traditionally.

His mom had worked as a secretary since she was seventeen, at first doing part-time work for her father, then moving full-time to a bigger company when she'd left high school. And, scandalously, she'd kept working part-time whilst her children had been in school, revelling in her independence and the income contributions she brought to the family home. She'd envisioned a future in which women could work around their husbands and their children, instead of becoming servile to them. And that had suited Mr. Barnes just fine, because it gave him the freedom he wanted to run his own boxing club after he got out of the army, and if the club didn't make quite so much money one month, he didn't have to sweat it because his wife's job made up the difference. And in the months when the boxing club did very well, they had money to save or spend as they saw fit, so that even during the Depression, when times were lean, they had never been all that lean for the Barnes family.

Bucky had experienced an unexpected relief, when he'd signed up for the Army. His mom had been so worried about him coming back home that she'd abandoned all attempts to introduce him to all the nice young girls she thought would make him a lovely wife. She still expected him to settle down after he got back, of course, but there was no telling when that would be.

"I dunno," he said at last, recalling his friend's question. "I guess… well… I like it when things are new. When you take a dame out and you don't know what she's gonna do, or say. When you spend time getting to know each other, when just about anything is possible." Like at Christmas when he'd been a kid, and he'd enjoyed sitting there with a present in his hands, full of eager anticipation about what it might be. It was a feeling he liked to prolong, letting the excitement and the suspense build. Once a present was open, no matter how nice the present, that thrill of potential was gone. You could never put the wrapping back on. "But then after a few weeks, or months, things start to become familiar, and nothing feels new, and there's this expectation of doing things together, and settling down… I guess I feel like all the mystery is gone. That probably sounds stupid."

"Not at all." Wells gave him an easy smile. "We all chase our own white rabbits. Some guys, like Carrot, I think are cursed to live easy, comfortable lives. Imagine the boredom which constant happiness would bring."

"Maybe." Carrot certainly didn't seem to think he was cursed. "What about you? And don't give me that crap you gave Franklin on the Monty."

"Why do you automatically assume everything I say is bullshit? It was the actual, honest to Betsy reason why I don't have a girl waiting for me. The world's too big to be tied down to one city, to one street, one house, one dame. I don't mind sticking around and having fun with one girl, but the moment she starts talking about settling down, that's it, I'm out."

"Sounds like a lonely way to live."

Wells shrugged. "I get by."

They reached Plymouth before the sun had fully set, and from the road above, got a better look at it than they had the morning before. They called it a city, but it was nothing like New York, or any of the other great American cities he'd seen. To Bucky's eyes, it looked a chaotic mess. The streets were not arranged in neat grids, so it was impossible to see where one block ended and another began. In fact, he suspected there were no 'blocks' at all. No sky scrapers rose above the skyline, and the glare of neon lights was conspicuously absent. Cars were few and far between, and the streetcars he saw moved at a sedate pace, winding their way through the sinuous streets. It seemed a very lazy town.

Wells whistled quietly, and pointed at something in the near distance. Bucky let his eyes adjust to the non-uniformity of the roads and buildings, and spotted what his friend was pointing at. Large portions of the city centre lay in ruin, as if some child had come along with his toy bulldozer and knocked down all the card-houses. Not far into the town was a tall, metallic structure with several speakers arranged atop in a fan position.

"I think that's an air-raid siren," said Wells. "When they spot enemy planes approach, the siren is activated and everybody knows to hide."

"I feel sorry for the people who hid there," Bucky said, nodding at the rubble.

They entered the city proper, and tried not to let the destruction put a damper on the mood… but it was hard to ignore the mounds of charred rubble. Together with the dreary landscape, they made Bucky wish he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. London. Or back in New York. He was certain nothing could wreak this sort of destruction on his home city. New York was too big. An immortal concrete behemoth. New York could have endured the Luftwaffe and their bombs.

As they walked, they discussed where to go. Bucky suggested the docks, which seemed to be the most active area of the city, but Wells was put off by the thought of sailors. For a while they simply walked, looking at the ships in the harbour, the buildings, the piles of rubble. When they finally drifted away from the dockside area of the city, they found themselves in a nice little town square. Everything was in darkness, because of the blackout—after seeing the piles of rubble which had once been shops, homes and civic buildings, Bucky finally understood the need for blackout—but they heard music from behind one of the doors, a sign above it naming it The Whalebone Inn.

"Sounds promising," Wells said, his ear pressed against the door. "Should we go in?"

"Might as well," Bucky shrugged. Otherwise this would have been a wasted trip.

The inn seemed a merry place; an old piano was played by an even older man, a regal tune to which a few couples were dancing. Here there were soldiers from the nearby camp, their shoulder sleeve insignia—SSIs, as they were known—unfamiliar to Bucky. A few locals glanced up when the pair entered, but none of them were dames.

At the bar, they waited for the barman to finish serving a group of GIs, then warily ordered a glass of beer each. The barman eyed up their uniforms, but didn't make a move to get their drinks.

"You chaps seen Mrs. Hubbard yet?" the barman asked at last.

Bucky shook his head. Mrs. Hubbard? Was that a person? A ship? A theatre show?

"No," said Wells. "Do we need to?"

The man nodded. His accent wasn't a dire as Nestor had made out. "Can't serve you until you've seen Mrs. Hubbard."

"Where can we find Mrs. Hubbard, then?"

"In the Feisty Firkin. That's a pub," the man explained. "Go left onto the main street, take your first right onto Challenge Way, left onto Victory Parade, head down past the Lucky Lady and follow the road around the bend to the Firkin."

One of the nearby locals called out. "You can't get onto Victory Parade, Dick; bobbies closed it off this afternoon on account of that sinkhole. You chaps should go right, back towards the docks, then take the right fork above the old church, follow the road over the tops to the barber's shop and then turn sharp left, and that'll take you to the Firkin alright."

Bucky looked at Wells, who looked back with the same confused expression.

"Do we really need to do all that?" Bucky asked the barman. "We've only come for a drink."

"Can't serve you until you've seen Mrs. Hubbard."

"Is there anywhere that will serve us if we haven't seen Mrs. Hubbard?"

"Sure," the barman nodded. "Go back to the docks and look for The Salty Seamen."

"We are not drinking in a pub called 'The Salty Seamen,'" Wells scowled at Bucky. "C'mon, Barnes, let's go find Mrs. Hubbard."

"Did you get any of those instructions?" Bucky asked his friend, as they left the pub.

"Some. At least, I know which direction we need to be heading in."

Conscious that their precious hours were ticking away, they hurried along the route they'd been given, eyes peeled for trouble. There was none. Lieutenant Nestor's assessment of the danger seemed to be even more bullshit than one of Wells' diatribes.

It took them a few tries, they got turned around several times, hit a few dead ends, but they finally reached the Feisty Firkin. Like all the other buildings in town, it was blacked out, but music spilled out from within, a jaunty two-step tune played on what sounded like a fiddle. Bucky followed Wells inside, and was met with a familiar scene. Locals and servicemen drinking apart, whilst barmaids collected empty glasses and the man behind the bar pulled pints. The man looked up as they approached.

"We're looking for Mrs. Hubbard," said Wells.

"Through there." The man nodded at an open doorway into another room.

"Thanks."

The back room was the source of the music; a fiddler, accompanied by a couple of percussionists, one playing the tambourine and another the harmonica, some sort of folksy song. It was mostly locals back here, worn-looking men doing their best to get their beers down fast, probably because they tasted flat and warm. At the far side of the room, next to an unlit fireplace, was a matronly woman, her face lined around the edges, her hair a deep shade of battleship-grey. She stood up when she saw them enter, and swept towards them, her blue gown billowing around her legs. It was a fairly demure dress, but even the high neckline couldn't hide the impressive bosom which preceded its owner's steps. The woman could've given Mae West a run for her money.

"You must be James Barnes and Daniel Wells," she said, holding a hand out to each of them. "I'm Mrs. Anne Hubbard."

Thoughts about decorum whirled through Bucky's head. How had she known who they were? Why did she seem to be expecting them? What should he do with her hand? He might playfully kiss a pretty young girl's hand, but that sort of thing wasn't right for someone who was older than his mother. In the end, he went for a handshake, and was relieved Wells did the same.

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Bucky offered.

Wells echoed his sentiment, then asked, "How did you know our names?"

Mrs. Hubbard gave him a congenial smile. "A delightful young Pfc. named Davies was along a short time ago, and he said to expect you. Hmm, let me see." She stood back and tapped her chin in thought as she studied them. "Sergeant Wells," she said, to Danny, "and you must be Sergeant Barnes," she added for Bucky.

"Lucky guess?" Bucky asked.

"Not at all. Private Davies gave me a rough description. He said Sergeant Wells was 'one of those pretty-boy types the girls love so much,' so it was mostly a matter of observation."

"What? I'm not…!—gonna kill Davies…!—teach him a thing or two…!—latrine duty for the next week…!—" Wells spluttered with a glower on his face.

"Don't be harsh with Private Davies, Mr. Wells. There are worse fates in this world than to have a pretty face. Now, you boys must come and join me for a drink. Catherine, be a dear and grab two ales and a G&T, won't you?" she called to one of the serving girls.

Bucky followed Mrs. Hubbard back to her table, because despite the tone of invitation, he didn't think her offer was an invitation, per se. Wells followed, still muttering under his breath, but his grumbling objections were rendered less effective by the fact that, as far as guys went, he actually was kinda pretty. Had his features been a little less fine, he probably would have been classed as 'handsome' instead.

They made small talk while they waited for their drinks. Mrs. Hubbard asked them how their voyage had been, and Bucky replied honestly that the food had been dreadful, the conditions cramped, and most of them had been violently ill at least once during the journey. Wells sat sulking until his beer arrived. Then, after tasting it, he sulked some more.

"So," Mrs. Hubbard said, stirring her tonic into her gin with a long cocktail spoon. "What are you boys looking for tonight?"

The question roused Wells, who seemed to remember their purpose for coming to Plymouth in the first place. "Just some good, clean fun, ma'am," he said earnestly.

Mrs. Hubbard gave a loud snort through her nose and took a sip of her G&T. Bucky wondered if Davies had told her about Wells' nickname.

"How old do you boys think I am?" she asked.

Bucky floundered like a fish outta water. He knew the rules. Never ask a dame her age if she looks like she's over twenty-five. Especially when the dame was a lady. And he suspected very much that Mrs. Hubbard was a lady.

"Forty-five?" he offered at last, trying to sound at least partially honest.

"Forty-three," Wells said smugly.

"Oh, good. So I don't look like I was born yesterday, then?" she sad dryly. "I've outlived two husbands—" Bucky couldn't help but wonder how they'd died, "—and raised six children. Four of them strapping lads, and two delicate little flowers who could choke the life out of my strapping lads. I spent fifteen years as a teacher, and twenty as a school headmistress, before the Nazis turned my schoolhouse into rubble, so don't bring your stories of 'good, clean fun' to me and expect me to swallow them hook, line and sinker."

"No, honestly," Wells insisted. "We just wanna go dancing with a couple of pretty dames."

"Dancing," Mrs. Hubbard echoed, in a tone that was as dry as the G&T she was drinking. She shook her head. "You know what the public opinion is, about you Sammies?" They both shook their heads, and Mrs. Hubbard educated them. "Overpaid, Oversexed, and Over Here. Despite what you might think about your food on the voyage, you GIs are better fed and paid than our lads, and I've heard stories from all over the country about your comrades getting into all sorts of trouble."

Bucky recalled Sergeant Weiss' words, about sitting on the trouble-makers. Clearly, not all sergeants followed that policy. Then again, most of the sergeants hadn't been in a war before. Only the veterans like Weiss knew what it was really like, both on the front lines and away from them.

"Even here, in quiet little Plymouth," Mrs. Hubbard continued. "I'd walk down a street and see soldiers groping with young women in doorways, and I dread to think what goes on behind those doors."

"Is that why the barman of the Whalebone Inn wouldn't serve us?" Bucky asked.

"Clever boy," the woman beamed at him.

"We heard there was some trouble here. Something to do with some soldiers from a cavalry unit, and one of the coloured regiments."

Mrs. Hubbard tutted and sipped her drink. "Dreadful business, that. I saw it with my own eyes. Imagine, treating your fellow soldiers with such disrespect! After that, I decided something had to be done. The mayor and the other officials are so busy trying to keep the city afloat, so to speak, and it was plainly obvious that your camp's leadership didn't care much for their soldiers' behaviour. So, I got together with some of the local business owners and we agreed that to avoid further scenes, and to try to shelter the virtuous young women from being lead astray, we'd implement a system of vetting soldiers visiting the town. Not everyone agreed with the policy, and some of the pubs along the docks remain rife with debauchery, but all of the good, reputable establishments saw the wisdom in only accepting patrons deemed to be trustworthy."

I bet they did, Bucky thought, eyeing up Mrs. Hubbard. He suspected she was a force to be reckoned with. Probably worse than a hurricane, when she set her mind to something.

"Have you had any trouble since then?" he asked.

"Very little. Mostly just boys mouthing off, as they're wont to do. Every so often, a couple of the lads from that cavalry unit will come along and proselytise about how the coloured boys will ruin the morals of the city if they're allowed to walk around where they please, but really, they are amongst the nicest young men I have ever met, and so very polite to the girls. They've been nothing but respectful and well-behaved."

Bucky nodded, and for the first time in his life, wondered how strange and backwards American attitudes must seem at times to others. In the neighbourhood where he'd grown up, the faces had been predominantly white, and de facto segregation kept almost all of the black kids away from white schools. His father accepted coloured young men in his boxing club—as long as they could learn how to fight, of course—so Bucky was used to seeing and interacting with the coloured guys on a regular basis, but he wasn't oblivious to the negative criticism his father got for accepting black fighters. His father claimed skin-colour didn't matter one bit, and he even played Dixieland on the gramophone every Christmas because he liked it a lot better than the same-old repetitive carols. But Bucky hadn't realised his father's attitude was shared by millions of people elsewhere in the world. Maybe that was something he'd brought home from the Great War, too.

"You must know all the best places to drink, and dance, and have a good time," Wells prompted the woman.

"That's right, I do," she agreed. "But I haven't yet decided whether I like you enough to let you drink, and dance, and have a good time in Plymouth."

"Mrs. Hubbard," Bucky said, turning his best sincere gaze on her; the one that never failed to get him his way with his mother, "I have two sisters back home. Mary-Ann's a couple of years younger than me, and Janet's just turned sixteen, and they both mean the world to me. I promise, if you give us a chance, and let us have a drink, and go dancing, I'll treat any young women we come across with the same respect that I would show my sisters."

"I only have brothers," Wells said, "but I promise I'll also treat any young women with the same respect that I'd show to Barnes' sisters." He thought about it for a couple of seconds. "More respect, in fact."

"I suppose you both seem sincere enough," Mrs. Hubbard sighed. Her hand delved into her purse, and came out with two small tiger cowrie shells, into which had been carved the letter H. "Keep these tokens with you; any reputable establishment will let you inside if you show them. Don't give them away, don't trade them, don't lose them, and don't betray my trust, because I can assure you boys, Hell hath no fury like me. I taught all the young men and women in these parts, and they all know to come to me if anybody gives them hassle. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Bucky assured her.

"Hmph. Well. Don't let me keep you. I know you boys don't want to waste your free time drinking with a dotty old bird like me. If you're going back to the Whalebone, Emily and Clara might be up for dancing. They can show you around."

"Thank you," he said, prodding Wells out of his chair before his friend could ask whether either of them were redheads. "And good evening, ma'am."

They left their drinks half-finished and departed the Firkin. They'd lost nearly an hour, but now they had magical shells to guide their way.

Author's Note: A couple of interesting facts that were a part of this chapter's research — 1) 'Overpaid, Oversexed and Over Here' was a phrase used of American soldiers by Aussies, as well as Brits. If you're interested in learning about real life incidents, you could start with the Battle of Brisbane. It's a sad example of how even allies in war can end up fighting each other due to inequalities (both real and perceived) between military personnel, and cultural differences.

2) Coloured troops were segregated in the U.S. Armed Forces during WW2. They were not allowed to serve in units with white troops, and black officers were not allowed to command white soldiers. A lot of people in England (especially rural areas) had never seen black people until the segregated coloured GIs were stationed there. When hostilities broke out between racist U.S. servicemen and coloured U.S. servicemen, locals usually sided with the coloured servicemen. Again, there are many interesting (and sad) examples out there if you want to read around the subject of segregation in the armed forces during this period, but you could start with the Battle of Bamber Bridge in England, and the Battle of Manners Street, for a similar situation in New Zealand which occurred when racist troops stationed there objected to the presence of Maori soldiers using the same facilities.