We Were Soldiers

12. Coffee and the Angel

"One… two… three…"

Bucky groaned as Carrot's voice tore through the veil of sleep that had been doing an admirable job of keeping his mind from a pounding hangover. He opened his eyes to the dim light of early dawn, and saw the top of Carrot's ginger head appear at three-second intervals as he began his morning push-up routine.

"Jeez, Carrot, you gotta do that at this hour?" he croaked. God, his mouth was dry. Probably should'a had a drink of water before he'd gone to bed, but he and Wells hadn't got back to the camp until two o'clock in the morning, and he hadn't been thinking about water at the time.

"Quarter to five, Sarge," Carrot said, when he appeared from the floor on his next 'up' push. "Drill in fifteen minutes."

Around the room, the rest of the 107th were starting to wake. Bucky turned to his other side and saw Wells still fast asleep, sprawled prone on his bed with his face turned away from the light of the windows, his blanket a tangled mess on top of him. Wells could sleep through anything, and they'd had such an eventful night that he suspected his friend wouldn't even wake at Carrot's push-up count.

They'd found Emily and Clara in the Whalebone, and convinced the girls—with the aid of Mrs. Hubbard's tokens—to show them some of the sights of Plymouth. Emily had taken a liking to Wells, much to his dismay; she was blonde. Clara was a brunette who said she liked Bucky's smile and wouldn't switch partners, which had been good for Bucky because Clara was one of those confident dames he liked, and she was more interesting than Emily.

When they discovered the Whalebone had a dart board, they played a few games to get the evening started, then at the girls' suggestion they went to the local Masonic hall, which had opened its doors to visiting soldiers and even had a live band playing music to dance to. The dances weren't all the same as back home, so they'd shown the girls how to Lindy Hop, spent an hour or so dancing to the music, and then left for greener pastures when the band announced it was closing time at the hall.

The closest pub had been The Fox and Hound, and they'd had several drinks there. After four or five pints, the ale had become tolerable, and when the girls suggested they try G&T instead, they switched for one drink. It tasted worse than the ale. In fact, it tasted like Christmas trees. So Bucky and Wells had gone back to the ale, and the girls had stuck with their gin. There had been lots of talking, much of it nonsensical because they'd all had rather a lot to drink by that point. Just after midnight, the pub began to close. They offered to walk the girls home, but the girls had simply laughed and said they only lived a minute's walk away. Clara had suggested that she might not mind if Bucky gave her a goodnight kiss, so he did, and made her promise not to tell Mrs. Hubbard. She'd giggled at that. When Emily made a similar suggestion to Wells, he merely kissed her hand and grinned at her disappointed pout.

Out on the edge of the city, they'd tried to figure out how to get back to the camp whilst completely sauced, and finally selected what they hoped was the correct road out of town. Thanks to the damned Luftwaffe, none of the street lights were in use, so they had to stumble along the road in almost complete darkness.

"You should'a kissed Emily," Bucky had said to his friend, as they left the town and hit the countryside. "She was dis'pointed you didn't."

"Don't you know anything about dames?" Wells had chuckled. "Always leave 'em wanting more. It makes 'em think everything after that is their own idea. Tomorrow night she'll remember the dashing and handsome soldier who was also a gentleman—unlike his friend, who was only too happy to take advantage of a young lady who'd clearly had too much to drink—and she'll try a little harder to impress."

"Remember a pretty-boy who wouldn't kiss her, y'mean," Bucky snorted. Then he laughed at his own joke, because there was nobody else to laugh at it for him.

"You're lucky I'm not a violent man, Barnes, or I might've taken a swing at you f'r that."

"I don't believe you're capable of taking a swing at anything right now." Both of their footsteps were erratic. Lieutenant Dancing would not have been pleased. Walk to town and back three times until you learn how to walk correctly. Bucky snickered at Dancing's imaginary admonishment.

"I do believe you're right," Wells agreed. Then he'd stumbled into a deep ditch which ran along the side of the road, and banged his head on something harder than it. Pain and potential concussion had added to his alcohol-induced confusion, and Bucky had had to half-carry him back to the barracks. It was too late to go to the hospital ward, so he'd put Wells into his bed, made sure he was lying face-down in case alcohol or concussion made him sick, then fallen into his own bed and managed a solid two and a half hours of sleep.

Now, lying on the flimsy camp bed, listening to Carrot reach thirty, he knew he needed to get up and prepare for drill. That, or he had to send someone to go and murder Dancing. But who could he trust with such a murder? Wells was out cold, and nobody else was brave or stupid enough to murder an officer. Except maybe Davies. Pfc. Davies had hated authority from the moment he'd signed up, and possibly even before it. He was one of the few men who never called Bucky and Wells 'Sarge', unless Wells was blackmailing him for something. Blackmail actually afforded some grudging respect from Davies.

No, that's a stupid idea. You can't ask Davies to murder Dancing. Where would you hide the body, for a start?

Resigned to drill, he licked his lips, which did nothing for his parched throat, and croaked out, "Wells. Hey, Wells." Wells didn't move, but Bucky could tell he wasn't dead because the blanket was moving with the rise and fall of his chest. "Wells!" he hissed. "DANNY!"

His friend finally stirred and rolled over to regard him with through bloodshot eyes. The gash on his head was longer than Bucky had realised, and though it had stopped bleeding overnight, it still looked nasty.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"…not in Kansas anymore," Wells mumbled blearily.

"Oh good, you're fine then. Get your ass outta bed, we have drill in a few minutes."

"You're not the boss of me."

"No, but Dancing thinks he is, and if you're not there for drill he'll chew you up and then spit you out."

"Jerk," he grumbled, though Bucky wasn't entirely sure who his friend was referring to. Wells pushed back his blanket, rolled out of bed, and promptly hit the floor when his legs failed to support him. He lay dazed where he'd fallen, as if he didn't quite understand what had just happened. "Ouch."

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, as he and Gusty hauled Wells back onto his bed. There was a sort of glazed, unfocused look to his eyes.

"I think he needs to go to the hospital," said Gusty, laying the back of his fingers against Wells' forehead. "He looks kinda pale and feels kinda clammy."

"Stop feelin' me, dammit." Wells batted ineffectively at Gusty's hand.

"Want me to take him to the hospital, Sarge?"

"No, I'll take him," Bucky sighed. Somebody had to explain to the medics what had happened last night. "You get the troops ready for drill, and tell Sergeant Weiss where we've gone. I'll be back as soon as I've dropped him off. C'mon Wells, sit up so I can help you to your feet."

"Where're we going?"

"To the hospital."

"Don't wanna."

"Did I say hospital? I meant… uh… we're off to see the Wizard."

"Oh. Okay."

Bucky hooked one of Wells' arms around his shoulders and hauled his friend to his feet. Through some act of providence, Wells managed to stay upright this time. Then, just after they left their barrack, God revoked that providence and sent them directly into the path of Dancing.

"Lieutenant Danc—" shit "—zig, sir," Bucky said, not even trying for a salute. If he let go of Wells, he'd fall over again. He could feel how precarious his friend's sense of balance was by the way he wobbled uneasily, like a spinning top running out of energy.

"I hope you're not trying to skip drill today, Sergeants," said Dancing.

"No sir. I'm just gonna take Sergeant Wells to the hospital for a checkup. He banged his head last night, you see."

Dancing eyed them both up. "I'm sure Sergeant Wells is perfectly capable of taking himself to the hospital."

"He keeps falling over, sir."

"Then it'll take him a little longer to get there, won't it?"

Bucky had never wanted to punch somebody in the mouth as much as he wanted to punch Dancing right then. He'd been willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt even after Weiss' warnings, even after the previous day's drill practise, and laps, and chewing out over the barracks floor that had been dusty for months before the 107th had got there. But he saw, right then, what Weiss had tried to tell them; Danzig was in it for himself. He didn't care about the men serving under him. They were stepping stones. A way for him to advance his own career. Dancing was even worse than all those bullies who'd picked on Steve over the years, because at least the bullies had shown something more than callous indifference to the suffering they'd caused.

But he couldn't punch Dancing. If he did, he'd get the rap for hitting an officer no matter how big a jerk the guy was. And more than that, both his hands were currently occupied with keeping Wells upright. Gotta be smarter than that, he told himself. Beat the little brown-noser at his own game.

"Yes sir," Bucky agreed, in the most chipper voice he could muster. "But see, if he falls and bangs his head again and goes unconscious, he might die. And a sergeant dying at base will look awful bad on the records of our officers. Not sure what the punishment for death through negligence is these days, but it sure makes me glad I'm not an officer. Sir."

"Fine," Dancing sighed, his promotion slipping through his grasp in his mind's eye. "But don't take all day."

"No sir."

Bucky walked on before Dancing could change his mind. Beside him, Wells roused a little. The exchange hadn't been lost on him.

"I wish I felt ill enough to be sick, then I could'a vomited on that guy's boots," Wells complained.

"They say revenge is best served cold."

"I think it's best served vomit-flavoured. Maybe he's right though. I'm sure I can find my way to the hospital on my own. Don't wanna get you in trouble."

"You're not. You're getting yourself in trouble. I'm just along for the ride." He grinned to himself. "Besides, I did tell Weiss you were a trouble-maker, didn't I?"

Wells gave a brief laugh which cut off abruptly with a groan of pain. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts my head."

"That's what you get for having such a big head."

"Hah—ow. Fuck you, Barnes."

At the hospital tent, he delivered Wells into the tender care of the nurses, who promptly hauled him onto a medical bed and began prodding and poking him everywhere except his head. Bucky loitered nearby, waiting for someone to tell him his friend wasn't gonna die.

"What happened?" one of the nurses asked.

"He fell and hit his head last night."

"Hmm." She shone a flashlight into Wells' eyes, then nodded to herself. "Light concussion. He'll be on his feet again by tomorrow."

Another of the nurses fetched a large needle and some tubing. Because of the way he lay on the bed, Wells couldn't see the needle, but Bucky could. "Erm, what's that for?" he asked, hoping to sound casual. Not even the needles used to administer shots back in Camp Shanks had been that thick.

"We have to take blood before putting painkillers into him," the nurse explained.

"What do you need to take his blood for?"

"We always need blood."

"But he's dehydrated!"

"Then we'll rehydrate him afterwards." She turned her gaze to Bucky, and he suddenly wished he was anywhere else. This was probably the look that a deer met, right before it fell to the jaws of a mountain lion. "When was the last time you gave blood, Sergeant?"

"Um…"

"If you have to think about it, it's been long enough. Take off your shirt and lie down on one of the beds."

"But I have drill practise!" he objected.

"Now you have blood donation."

Objecting was futile, because another two nurses came along and practically wrestled him out of his shirt. Lucky it wasn't a cold day, because his cotton vest afforded hardly any warmth. A nurse took a look at his tags, recording his name and blood type on a medical sheet, then pulled another needle and tube from somewhere.

"Y'know," Bucky said, as she fastened a strap tight around his bicep, "you might not get any actual blood out of me. It might be more ale."

"Every little helps. Now, make a fist. You'll just feel a tiny scrape as I put this into your vein."

The 'tiny scrape' nearly made him jump off the bed. Why was it so hard to find nurses who were sympathetic, and didn't try to inflict pain on you? He knew the profession couldn't attract all the cruel women, because Steve's mom—Sarah—had been a nurse, and she'd been one of the kindest, gentlest women the world had ever seen. Bucky had lost count of the times he and Steve had gone to see her for grazed elbows and knees, and once, a collarbone injury Bucky had got because he'd tried to ride his older cousin's bike down a home-made ramp and gone hurtling out of control into a wooden fence. She'd patched him up and not said a word about it to his folks, saving him from being grounded for life. Why weren't the Sarah Rogers of the world here, in this camp?

"Now, just lie there and slowly open and close your fist," said the nurse, after she'd taped the needle to his arm. "And don't try to move, or you'll pull this out."

"Yes ma'am," he sighed, and she disappeared to the other side of the tent, where an army of nurses was busy with paperwork.

He glanced over to the bed opposite him. Wells didn't look any better—especially with the large needle stickin' out of his arm—but at least he didn't look any worse. At least his fall hadn't given him brain damage. Who the hell put such large ditches by the side of the road anyway?!

"Look on the bright side," Wells said, when he saw Bucky watching him. "At least we got here early enough to get the best seats in the house."

Bucky managed a chuckle, which hurt his dry throat. "I wonder what they're showing today. Cartoons, I hope."

"Sorry, pal." Wells sighed and looked down at the needle in his arm. "I didn't mean to get you stuck here giving blood."

"I'm thinking of it as insurance. Maybe one day they'll need to put this blood back in me."

"We'll have you calculating personal interest rates in no time."

"God, I hope not. Don't you know? Accountants are boring."

"Heh." He managed to get a smile outta Wells, but it did nothing to dispel the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Seriously though, thanks for having my back with Dancing."

Bucky shrugged. "You would'a done the same for me, if our positions were switched. Right?"

"Yeah. I would."

"Then think nothing of it," Bucky told him.

Ten minutes later, the nurse returned to take the needles out of their arms. Bucky sat up as she took his blood away, then immediately regretted it. The world spun around him, the rest of the hospital swirling like a kaleidoscope toy, and he felt his vision darken at the edges. At the same time, his body broke out into a cold sweat. He quickly lay back down and closed his eyes to stop the swirling, taking a few deep breaths to try and steady his racing heart.

"You look how I feel," he heard Wells say, but his voice was all distorted, like it came from very far away. "Hey, nurse, I think my friend's about to pass out."

Footsteps approached, and Bucky felt a hand placed on his forehead, a thumb lifting one eyelid, then the other. He groaned. The nurse had hands like ice and a face like a bulldog with a toothache.

"You sat up too fast," she accused.

"You took my blood too fast," he countered.

"You'll be fine. Just lie there for a while. One of the juniors will be along in a few minutes with a drink and a bite to eat for you both. You're not allowed to leave until you've been rehydrated."

So Bucky lay there, suddenly glad that he'd been made to give blood, because by the time he got back to the barracks the drill would be over, and if he could stretch out the rehydration process, maybe get rehydrated two or three times, he might even miss doing laps. Perhaps he'd even see about giving more blood tomorrow, too. Feeling faint and dizzy wasn't exactly nice, but it was better than feeling sweaty and exhausted.

"Good morning, Sergeants!" a cheerful voice chirped. "How are we feeling today?"

Bucky looked up into the face of an angel. Eyes that might once have been sapphires in some rich monarch's crown looked down at him from beneath a neatly pinned wave of hair the exact colour of wheatfield gold. The face was finished off by small, perfect, rosebud lips that just begged to be kissed. Not a single freckle marred her flawless, sun-touched skin.

"Time to sit up now," she said, helping Bucky up, propping a pillow—which she fluffed up first—behind his back. "I've brought you a drink of water, and a nice cup of coffee, and some real cookies, not like those you get in the ration kits."

He'd died. He'd died and gone to heaven. That was the only explanation. He wasn't in the hospital barrack anymore, he was in a heavenly facsimile in which all the nurses were replaced by beautiful angels who fluffed up pillows and brought coffee and cookies. He watched as she took a second tray of refreshments over to Wells' bed, then checked both their charts and gave them a beautiful smile.

"Oh, you're both very brave and generous. It's so hard to find soldiers who'll voluntarily donate blood. Most of them have to be dragged into it!" She put the charts back and stopped beside Bucky's bed, to check the temperature of his skin with the back of her hand. "Your chart said you took a funny turn after donating. How do you feel now?"

"Err… I still feel a little dizzy," he said. He didn't feel dizzy at all, but she might stick around if she thought he might faint again.

"I banged my head," Wells called. Bucky suspected the infatuated look on his friend's face was a mirror of his own.

"Oh dear!" the nurse tittered. "Don't worry, I'll take a look once you've finished your drink and your cookie."

"I had to carry him for three miles when he banged his head," Bucky told her, with a glare for Wells.

"I just burnt my tongue on my coffee," Wells added, his cup in his hands.

"I think I have a splinter in my finger," said Bucky, holding up one of his fingers at random.

"I've got a speck of dust in my eye," said Wells.

Dammit. He should have thought of that one first. The nurse merely let out a quiet giggle.

"Oh, don't worry, I know how terribly hard Lieutenant Danzig works you through those drills and laps. I promise we won't release you until they've finished. You don't need to make up reasons to stick around. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish wrapping bandages. Don't drink your coffee too fast." She disappeared with a wink, and Bucky immediately shot a scowl at his friend.

"Wells, you bastard, you don't even like blondes."

"I like that one," he scowled back. "Besides, it's not that I don't like them, per se, it's just that they're not my first preference."

"Yeah, well, you've got Rita."

"Rita isn't here. Besides, you got to dance with the best girl last night."

"Today's a new day, pal."

"We'll see about that."

"Yes we will." He glared at his friend over his cup of coffee. Nurse Angel was far too nice for Wells. If his friend wouldn't back down, there was only one thing for it. This meant war.

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

Despite what Dancing may have thought about them, the enlisted men of the 107th were not idiots. When they realised giving blood meant no exercise for twelve hours after, and meant getting an additional cup of coffee and a cookie on top of their usual meals, a third of them went to give blood after dinner that evening. Bucky and Wells had been discharged from the hospital earlier in the day and ordered to 'take bedrest' because of their dehydration, so they'd spent the afternoon tossing a baseball to each other across the barrack, each silently plotting how to win the affection of the unnamed nurse before the other could make his move.

With a third of the regiment missing, and two sergeants under medical instruction to not move from their beds, Dancing had given up on trying to force the men to do drill and laps that evening. The following morning, another third of the regiment went to donate blood, leaving Dancing positively furious about the men's newfound spirit of generosity. There was nothing he could do about it, though. He couldn't stop the troops from volunteering to donate blood, especially since it was usually so damn hard to get enlisted men to volunteer for anything; all he could do was fume, and wait until everyone in the regiment had donated blood before inflicting further punishment on them.

Because nobody knew exactly when the 107th were shipping out, everyone in the whole camp knew it would be real soon. Gusty's stomach disagreed with the idea of leaving the safety of England, and he was banned from entering the barracks during the daylight hours. Even at night, when he was asleep, his stomach complained so badly that those with the beds closest to him had taken to sleeping with their gas masks on.

Carrot wrote twice-daily letters to Samantha, and seemed to live in terror that each letter might be his last. Nobody knew where the 107th would be sent, and the general consensus was Africa. All Carrot knew about Africa was that it was filled with savages, and Carrot's mom would have had a fit if she knew her son was being sent to such a savage land. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered how much of Carrot's letters made it through the army's redaction censors intact. It was common knowledge that particularly scrupulous censors could wipe out almost every part of even the most innocent letter. Was 'Dear Samamtha… Love, Kenneth' the only thing poor Samantha got to read each time her fiancé wrote her? The evening after being discharged from the hospital, Bucky took a leaf outta Carrot's book, and wrote letters home. Just in case.

The following day, Sergeant Murphy invited Bucky and Wells over to the 101st's barracks for a last friendly toss of darts. The Screaming Eagles had a temporary home on the opposite side of the camp, so it was the first time they'd truly seen Murphy since arriving in England. The Eagles hadn't been sent to the quartermaster, to be kitted out for war, which meant they'd probably be staying behind. The dartboard had survived the Atlantic crossing just fine, and now the three sergeants took turns throwing, none of them truly keeping score as they caught up on events from the past two days.

"And you say she's pretty?" Murphy asked, as Wells took his turn to throw darts. They'd told him about their heavenly experience in the hospital barracks.

"Prettiest dame I ever saw," Bucky nodded. "I could tell she liked me most."

"Bullshit," Wells grumbled. "She was just feelin' sorry for you because you fainted."

"I didn't faint, I blacked out," Bucky told Murphy. "Apparently it happens when you sit up too fast after having a pint of blood bled out of you."

"Hmm." Murphy stroked his moustache. "Perhaps I'll go and give blood, once you've shipped out. Don't worry boys, that nurse will be safe with me. What's her name?"

"Dunno. Wells scared her off before we got chance to ask her."

"She was offended by you staring at her like a lovesick schoolboy, Barnes," said Wells. Then, to Murphy, "I've been calling her 'Coffee-Nurse' in my head. She makes really good coffee. Even better than Franklin's coffee."

"I call her 'Nurse Angel,' because she looks like one," Bucky informed him.

Murphy opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a chorus of mocking jeers, and a loud diatribe filled with language even Sergeant Weiss—who was largely considered to be the king of cussing and was greatly admired by Wells because of it—would not have touched.

"The hell's that?" asked Wells.

Murphy rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh. "The Eagles have the misfortune of having the barracks between the 370th Infantry and the 35th Cavalry."

"So?" Bucky prompted.

"So, the 370th is part of the 92nd Infantry Division, and they're all coloured soldiers. The 35th Cavalry take exception to coloured guys being on the same planet as them. Just ignore 'em, this happens a few times a day, they'll be gone in a few minutes."

"Ignore them?" Wells grinned. "Murphy, where's your sense of fun? C'mon."

There was nothing Bucky could do to stop his friend. Wells had that wicked gleam in his eyes, the one that preceded other people gettin' the sharp side of his wit. He'd been trying real hard to go easy on the 107th, and clearly felt everyone else was fair game. Bucky followed behind Wells and Murphy, and wondered what new trouble he was gonna have to pull his friend out of.

A short way behind the Eagles' barracks, they found two privates of the 35th Cavalry giving abuse to two privates from the 370th Infantry. Bucky wasn't opposed to soldiers mouthing off at each other—as long as they didn't take it too far—and the name-calling and friendly bickering was just another part of army life. Most soldiers didn't take it personal. Even Carrot was developing a thicker skin. But this wasn't a fair fight; no coloured soldier could give back-talk to a white soldier without some officer coming down on him like a ton of bricks.

As they reached the four privates, the two from the Cavalry promptly fell silent while they checked out the newcomers' sleeves for any sign of an officer's stripes. When they saw none, the look of deference slid from their faces.

"Somethin' we can do for yew, Sergeants?" one of them drawled in a thick country accent that Bucky couldn't have placed even if he wanted to.

"No, don't mind us, we're just testing a theory, Privates," Wells said. He squinted at the soldiers' sleeves, looking for ranks, and found none. "You are privates, right?"

"That's right. Why?"

Wells turns to Murphy and clapped him on the shoulder. "You owe me two bucks, Murphy." He grinned his explanation at the two soldiers. "Sergeant Murphy here told me the 35th Cavalry didn't have any privates. I bet him two dollars that it did. Looks like I was right. A pair of privates, right here in front of our faces."

"Maybe yew wanna step into our barracks and say that ag'in," one of the men scowled.

"Ew, no thanks, I'm not into that sort of thing. I'll leave that to you and your brother here." Wells affected a confused expression. "Though, I'm surprised they let you guys serve together; I didn't think they let close family members serve in the same unit."

"What yew talkin' about? We're not brothers."

"Oh, sorry. Cousins, then? You've got that sort of genetic familiarity, a little family resemblance, right around here," said Wells, gesturing to his eyes and nose. "S'pose they've gotta let cousins serve in the same unit, otherwise the whole of Louisiana would have to sit the war out, right?"

"Now yew listen here," one of the men scowled, stepping forward with his hands curled into fists.

Wells gave a nervous laugh and backed up, his hands out in front of him. "Haha, c'mon fellas, I'm just having a laugh. You know how it is; pick the lowest common denominator and throw a bit of banter around. Tell you what, to show I'm not being serious, and that I really don't bear you any hard feelings—or hard anything, just to clarify that right here and now—why don't you take this?" He unfastened one of the buttons of his jacket and pulled out a foil-covered bar. "My last chocolate bar. Kept hold of this all the way from Last Stop. I was gonna eat it myself tonight, but in the spirit of goodwill and cooperation, I want you guys to have it. Just don't go telling your cou—err, fellow privates; that's the last I have, and I don't want anyone thinking I'm playing favourites."

The privates looked as confused as Bucky felt. He hadn't known Wells had a chocolate bar from Last Stop, and it was most unlike Wells to give something away. Real chocolate, like smokes and hooch, was a valuable trade commodity.

"Go on now," Wells encouraged with a shoo'ing motion. "No need to stick around and make me feel bad by rubbing it in my face."

The privates shared a glance, then furtively left. Bucky stood with Murphy, watching them go. The two privates from the Infantry regiment wore very perplexed expressions on their brown faces.

"Err," one of them spoke up at last. "I wish you hadn't gotten involved, um, Sergeant. They'll only come back later and be twice as bad."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that, Private." Wells turned to Bucky with a nefarious smile on his lips. "I had Davies 'redistribute' that bar for me from the hospital barrack, when he went to donate blood this morning. Figured it might be useful for Dancing. Keep our dear lieutenant otherwise occupied for a few hours."

Realisation dawned. "You mean…"

Wells nodded happily. "Those boys are off gorging themselves on laxative-laced chocolate. Methinks the 35th Cavalry barrack is gonna smell even worse than Gusty tonight."

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

Later that afternoon, after they'd finished beatin' Murphy at darts, Bucky and Wells called a truce over the angelic nurse, and agreed that since they'd be shipping out soon anyway, she wasn't really worth fighting over. Besides, there was always Emily and Clara.

Instead, they turned their attention to methods of halting Dancing's reign of tyranny. Wells favoured harsh methods which inflicted mild pain or discomfort and maximum humiliation on Dancing, while Bucky—whose objection to humiliating the guy had evaporated over Dancing's lack of concern for an injured comrade—preferred a more passive method of disobedience.

"I say we have a few of the guys fake a faint during the next laps," he said, as they walked through the camp back to their own barracks. "Have them admitted to the hospital and claim Dancing's been pushing the men past exhaustion. Maybe the brass will put a stop to it."

"You heard what Weiss said about the brass; can't tell their asses from their elbows. Hell, they probably approve of what he's doing. Think it instills discipline in us, or whatever. Besides, where's your sense of fun? I can get Davies to get us another laxative bar."

"And how are you gonna get him to eat it? He might be an idiot, but he's not some redneck private who's gonna fall for you being generous. He actually knows your reputation; he won't fall for it. And even if he did fall for it, you'd get into trouble."

"So I'll give it to Carrot or Tipper and have one of them give it to him. Dancing will just think they're trying to get into his good books. They don't even have to know what's in the chocolate."

"You can't do that." Bucky put his foot down. "You'd get Carrot or Tipper in trouble instead of you, and that's not fair on them."

"Oh, fine," Wells sighed. "Then I'll figure out some other way." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Sergeant Barnes; peoples' champion."

Bucky shook his head. Wells just didn't understand. It was fine for them to get into trouble for poisoning Dancing with laxatives, but it wasn't fine to get the men into trouble for it. The privates and corporals had no authority to fall back on, and incriminating any of them would only have made Dancing ten times worse.

In the late afternoon, before dinner, Dancing called for the 107th to form up. Weiss obeyed slowly, taking his time over rounding up the troops, and Bucky and Wells followed suit. He'd been expecting another surprise drill, but when Lieutenant Nestor appeared beside Dancing, Bucky's eyes widened in surprise. Nestor never came for drill or laps, and Bucky couldn't even recall seeing him with Dancing before.

"Men," said Dancing, when the regiment was in formation. "It is my happy responsibility to inform you that tomorrow morning we will be deployed to the front lines." He paused, waiting for a cheer that didn't come. Clearing his throat, he continued. "At oh-three-hundred we will march to Plymouth and board a vessel which will take us to our destination. I want each and every man here packed and ready to leave at oh-three-hundred exactly." His chest puffed up with self-inflated pride as he continued. "I can't tell you where we're going, but I can tell you this; our role in this war will be very important. Pivotal. Through our actions, the war will be won or lost. And I can assure you, it won't be lost. It is both a great burden, and a great responsibility, but I know that together, we shall triumph!"

Dancing's speech was met with even less enthusiasm than the news of being deployed. Might've had something to do with the fact that Dancing had never once shown any predilection for 'togetherness.' As far as Dancing was concerned, 'togetherness' meant him giving the orders, and the men jumping to obey.

The men saluted Dancing's departure, and Bucky hurried over to Lieutenant Nestor before the guy could slink back into the shadows.

"Sir, do you know where we're being deployed?"

"Rumour has it Africa's a very real possibility," said Nestor.

"You don't know?"

"Nobody knows, except Colonel Hawkswell. He'll be the commanding officer on our mission."

"Do you know what our mission is?"

"Gosh, certainly not." Nestor looked terrified by the very idea. "Only the colonel knows that. And Churchill, I should imagine, and maybe Patton and Montgomery. Anyway, I'll let you get back to seeing to the men, Sergeant. Everybody has to be ready to leave."

"Sir," Bucky nodded.

War. The thought hit him hard as he watched Nestor's twitchy retreat. So far, war had been an idea. A story. A piece of news. Something to anticipate and dread, to speak of in a hushed whisper or with hyperbolic bravado. Tomorrow, war would become real. Once he set foot on that boat, there was no getting off it until he reached his destination, wherever that might be. His ten year old self reached out through the years and planted a thought inside his head. Boy, I sure wish Steve were here to give me some advice.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as the 107th scrambled around him, and for the first time, he truly saw them. Over here was Carrot clapping Tipper on the shoulder, directing the kid back to the barracks where his gear was in disarray around his bed. Over there, Gusty was doing some last minute trade in Army Edition books, trying to lighten the load in his backpack. Biggs was hefting around duffels for his friends, carrying a load bigger than any other man in the regiment could. Franklin was already inside the barracks, sliding sugar sachets into the slits he'd made in the tongues of his boots, hiding places he could sew up again so nobody would know he carried an emergency sugar ration around with him. Davies had slunk off to do whatever it was he did that made everything run a little smoother when something was needed. Hawkins was staring up at the sky, his lips moving softly, no words coming out. Wells interrupted his observation to give him a commiserative pat on the back and, with a sad smile, said, "So much for Emily and Clara," before disappearing into the barracks.

They were a bunch of oddballs. Each and every one of them mad, in his own way. A motley assortment of young men and kids, untried by the rigours of combat, untested on the battlefield, and right now they were probably just as elated and terrified as Bucky himself, hiding their feelings in their own unique ways. But they were his family, and despite their oddness, their madness, their quirks and eccentricities… there was nobody he would rather be sent to the front lines with. In a little over three weeks, he had made friends that he knew he would remember for the rest of his life.