We Were Soldiers

13. Much Adieu About Nothing

The battalion was small. The early hours of the morning found two regiments from the 27th Infantry Division—the 107th and the 69th—along with the coloured 370th Infantry Regiment, marching silently to Plymouth harbour. No fishing fleet awaited them this time, but a large ship berthed at the dock. Even from a distance, Bucky could tell it was bigger than the Monty, and judging by the huge guns set into an inert position across the upper deck, it packed one hell of a punch, too.

"Big ship," Bucky observed quietly to the men closest by.

When they got closer to the dock itself, Wells pawed at his arm and whispered excitedly. "That's the HMS King George V! One of the battleships that sank the Bismarck!"

"That supposed to mean something?" His interest in the war had only been kindled after the attack on Pearl Harbour. Until then, he'd thought like many Americans had thought; the war was Europe's business, and better kept far away from American soil. Pearl Harbour had changed that, and at boot camp he'd been given the standard education about Kraut battles and tactics. But it was an army education, and it hadn't included much in the way of recent naval or aviation history.

"The Bismarck was just about the biggest, baddest battleship made in the past five years," Wells explained. "It was supposed to put the fear of God into everything it came across, but after it sank the battlecruiser HMS Hood, which the Limeys claimed was unsinkable, the Royal Navy got real pissed off and chased the Bismarck all over the Atlantic with a dozen ships, and finally sank it a couple of years ago. My brother Tim would be real jealous if he knew I was travelling on the King George V."

"I wonder if your brother Tim would appreciate the value of silence," Dancing sniped over his shoulder.

"Probably not; hyper-verbosity runs in the family. Sir."

The line shuffled forward in silence, each man weighed down with his own thoughts and his gear. The letters Bucky had written home were sitting in the base's postbox, ready to be sent back to his mom and dad, and to Mary-Ann in Baltimore, and to Steve. Or rather, ready to be put through censor. If he was lucky, his family and best friend would learn that he'd had a largely uneventful trip across the Atlantic—he'd purposely left out anything about his stormy, near-death experience, because that would only make Mom worry—and had arrived safely in England and was missing each and every one of them. If he wasn't so lucky, they'd learn that he'd been on a ship at some point, had arrived somewhere, and was missing something. Hopefully the guy assigned to censor Bucky's letter wouldn't be too harsh with it.

The inside of the King George was a little like the inside of the Monty, except cleaner, and larger, and it smelt better. Dancing had made sure the 107th were the regiment at the front of the line, and now he and Nestor followed one of the crewman along the dim corridors to the battleship's equivalent of the tween deck.

"Your men will have the entire troop quarters to themselves," the English crewman was saying. "You officers will be on the deck above; we have crew quarters ready."

"Will there be, um, deck time?" asked Nestor.

"No." The answer came out flat and hard. "This isn't a luxury liner like whatever ship brought you over from the States. This is a warship. The only places you and your men are allowed to be is in your quarters, in the mess or in the can. Everything about the ship is highly classified."

"Including our destination?" Dancing asked tersely.

The sailor smiled. "Especially your destination."

In the troop quarters, they found a wonderful surprise waiting for them.

"Beds!" gasped Gusty, his eyes widening at the sight of rows of small bunks. "Real, actual, honest-to-God, completely not-hammock, beds!"

"Feels like Christmas, doesn't it?" Bucky grinned. Sure, the bunks were narrow, and didn't look long enough to hold a guy of Bucky's height, and the mattresses looked kinda thin and lumpy, but it sure beat having to try to climb into a hammock. At the far end of the long room, he dumped his gear and turned to Wells. "You want the top again?"

"I wouldn't dream of depriving you of that pleasure," his friend replied, capitulating the top bunk.

"Alright."

He stowed his belongings in the aisle and climbed the small series of ladders up to the bed. As he feared, the mattress was thin. And lumpy. And the bed wasn't quite long enough, so he'd have to sleep with his knees bent. But hopefully, sleeping in a bed meant less sea-sickness if the weather turned stormy.

Since it was still early in the morning, and too early for breakfast, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift out of the troop quarters, away to the future, to the front lines. In his mind's eye, he saw the front line as something drawn in crushed white chalk, like the lines on a baseball field. Each time the front line was moved, a pair of soldiers came along, one to erase the last line, one to draw out a new one.

Just as he was sinking down into sleep, a sharp prod in his back woke him with a jump, and a scowl immediately crept down over his brows. He should'a known that Wells had some ulterior motive for letting Bucky take the top bunk. Closing his eyes, he tried to find his way back to sleep, but had no sooner relaxed when the prodding came again. And again, and again. Finally, he let out a vexed hiss and peered down over the edge of the bunk. Wells was poised ready to poke his mattress again.

"Gee, I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"Are you just going to be a complete jerk for the whole trip?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Revenge; best served cold, right?"

Wells was a true bastard. Luckily, Bucky knew how to deal with people like him. "If you prod me even one more time, I'm gonna switch bunks with Gusty."

"You wouldn't dare," Wells said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Try me."

Slowly, Wells lowered his hand and scowled. "Fine. But I'm going to have my revenge, and by the time I do, it won't just be cold, it'll be icy."

Bucky ignored the threat. After a few days on the front lines, wherever those lines may be, his friend would forget all about revenge. "Where do you think we'll end up?"

"Hell. I think we'll end up in hell." Wells shrugged, as if it didn't particularly matter. "All I know is, wherever the King George is going, we're not going with it."

"What makes you think that?"

"You heard what Dancing asked that crewman. And the crewman's response was that 'your' destination is classified. Not 'our' destination. So, I think we'll be dropped off somewhere along the way. That probably means somewhere in the Med, because the only other places to go from here would be over to Iceland or maybe around the Arctic Circle, but I'm pretty sure there's no Nazis up there. Besides, we haven't exactly been kitted out for Arctic warfare."

"Makes sense. Have you had any more thoughts about Dancing yet?"

"Haven't had time to think much about Dancing, what with dwelling on my potential impending doom. I told you about the survival rates for new infantry on the front lines, right?"

Bucky shook his head, his mind momentarily jumping back to the last time Wells had brought the subject up, back on the Monty. On his birthday. "You tried to, but I told you not to bother because I'm—"

"Living forever," Wells snorted humourlessly. "Right. I forgot. Well, heaven forbid reality stand in the way of your delusions of immortality."

Great. Wells was in one of his moods again. Bucky was too tired to try and get to the bottom of it right now, though. "Look, I'm gonna get a couple of hours' sleep before breakfast. Will you wake me if anything exciting happens?"

"Sure."

"Wake me without prodding me, I mean," he amended.

"You spoil all my fun," Wells said, rolling his eyes and making Bucky glad he'd added the caveat.

He settled back down onto his mattress and rolled onto his side, so he could comfortably tuck his knees up to fit into the bed. When he realised thoughts of the front lines weren't conducive to sleep, he turned his thoughts to home. What were his family doing right now?

If it was four o'clock in the morning here, that meant it was eleven o'clock at night in New York. Mom and Dad were probably getting ready for bed, if they weren't already there. And what about Janet? She had a room to herself now… practically a whole house to herself. Did she miss her brothers and sister, or was she enjoying the freedom of being the only child regularly at home? Did she linger in front of the mirror in the bathroom because she knew there wasn't a queue of people waiting outside? Did she take her time making and eating her breakfast? Or, like Bucky thought he would, did she miss the bustle of a full house?

And what about Charlie? He'd talked about taking a summer road trip with his friends, before heading off to college. One last summer of freedom. Was he out on the road, driving from place to place, seeing new sights and meeting new people? Or had he changed his mind and decided to stay and spend time with his girlfriend? She wouldn't be in New York much longer, had secured a job working as a secretary in her father's company, out in Chicago. Would she and Charlie stay in touch, or would this be their last summer together?

Steve probably wasn't in bed yet, but then, he loved his work and often lost track of time when he was illustrating. Book covers, magazine advertisements, comics… what had started off as a childhood interest had turned into a full-blown passion, and Bucky was glad his friend had something to keep him busy. If work was busy enough, it might even keep Steve's thoughts from war. Might be enough to turn him away from his suicidal attempts to get enlisted.

Doubtful. Steve's desire to become a soldier was just the next step in a long journey that had started when he'd been a kid, hearing his mom's stories of his dad. Steve's dad had died whilst serving his country during the Great War, and Steve had lived in the shadow of his father's sacrifice all his life. Once, when they'd been twenty-one and had gone out drinking heavily to celebrate Steve gettin' a job as a newspaper pencil artist, Steve had confided that he wanted to be the kinda man his dad could've been proud of. That was one of the reasons why he tried so hard to be a fighter, just like his dad had been. He didn't lack bravery, that was for sure, but Steve's strengths were not physical; they were mental. Emotional. They couldn't be measured on the track or the pool, nor in the boxing ring or the baseball field.

Down in Baltimore, Mary-Ann would probably be in bed already, if she wasn't working a late shift at the shipyard. He'd heard production at those yards didn't stop, that the women took it in turns to work eight-hour shifts so that they could keep making ships even when the rest of the country slept. Dozens of Liberty Ships were churned out each month, at a rate that no country in Europe could currently match; not even the British. How many ships had Mary-Ann helped to make? For how long would she have to work gruelling eight-hour shifts? And once the war was over—and there was never any doubt to Bucky's mind that when the war was over, his country would emerge victorious—would she just go back to being a teacher?

As sleep crept over his mind, he fell into a dream; one in which he and Wells and Carrot and Gusty and all the other members of the 107th went home after the war, and spent their days sat at small desks in a classroom where Mary-Ann taught them how to build ships.

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

Three hours and one odd dream of learning about riveting techniques later, Bucky stood yawning in the queue for the mess, and he wasn't the only one who looked like they needed a good night's sleep. He felt like he'd only just recovered from his night out in Plymouth, and wished he could've spent another few hours in bed.

A round of quiet snickers caught his attention, and he glanced to the group of men in front of him. They were a small bunch from the 69th Infantry—the Fighting 69th, as they were generally known—and they looked to be having a quiet laugh at the 107th's expense.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

A barrel-chested man wearing a bowler hat and sergeant's chevrons stepped forward and offered a wide grin beneath a bushy auburn moustache. There was an amused gleam in his twinkling blue eyes. "Oh, we were just wondering how long it's gonna be before Lieutenant Danzig has you all running laps around the ship corridors."

"When he does," said Wells, stifling a yawn. "Feel free to join us. You look like you could stand to lose a few pounds."

"And you look like you could stand to gain a few," the man replied. "Did you lose your galley card on the way over or something?"

"Don't your officers make you do drill?" Bucky interrupted, before it could devolve onto a schoolyard style argument.

"Yeah, but not three times. And not followed by laps. Still, it's entertainment for the rest of us."

"Simple minds…" Wells sniped.

Deciding it would be best if Wells didn't make enemies of the other regiments being sent to the front lines with them, Bucky extended his hand to the other man.

"I'm Bucky Barnes," he said. "And this is Danny Wells."

The man burst out into a hearty laugh, then shook Bucky's hand.

"So you're the dumb-asses who went up on deck during a storm and had the whole of Camp Shanks stirring their coffee wrong? Yeah, I heard about that," the man grinned. "A guy named Potts told us all about it. The 93rd Signals had the barracks next to ours, in Plymouth."

Bucky groaned silently. Most soldiers liked to embellish. Most didn't take it to the macabre extremes that Wells did, but no doubt the tales about the 107th's exploits in Camp Shanks and on the Monty had grown with each retelling. How many times had Potts told people that the 107th stirred their coffee?

"Dum Dum Dugan," the man offered at last. He grinned again. "If anybody gives you ladies any hassle, you just let me know."

"Any idea where we're heading, Dugan?" Bucky asked, whilst Wells grumbled something too quiet for Bucky to hear.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. We got a pool going; Africa has the best odds."

"I knew it!" wailed Carrot, who was loitering nearest to the trio. "We're going to get 'et by lions."

"I'm pretty sure there's no lions so far north in Africa," said Dugan. "Now, scorpions, on the other hand…"

"Scorpions?!"

"I'm sure there's no scorpions, Carrot," Bucky said quickly. It was bad enough having to contain the fallout from Wells' bullshit. "And we may not even end up in Africa."

Carrot didn't look convinced, but at that moment the line began to move forward and Dugan rejoined the tail end of the 69th. Wells sidled up to Bucky as they all started to shuffle forward.

"Can you believe that guy? Dancing has made us the butt of the army's jokes."

Bucky said nothing. Sure, Dancing may be a slave-driving jerk, but the sugar-stirring, the getting drenched in a storm, the mystery kitchen-trashing, and the half-dozen other incidents and accidents? That was all kinda on the 107th themselves, not on their whip-cracking officer.

Ten minutes later, Wells got the opportunity he had been waiting for. As the 107th entered the mess, they saw Dancing and Nestor with a group of other lieutenants and a captain at the head of the line for food, trays already in hand. Officers, it seemed, got preferential treatment in the mess hall, as well as a proper room to sleep in. So much for togetherness.

"I have a plan," Wells said.

Before Bucky could quiz him, his friend was off, strolling over to the front of the queue, where the officers were being served. Oh god, he's gonna punch him, Bucky thought. Wells had finally snapped completely and was gonna get court-martialled for punching an officer.

But Wells didn't punch him. He dropped to the ground behind Dancing and pretended to be tying his shoelace. After a quick glance around to make sure nobody but the closest members of the 107th were watching him, he reached out, around Dancing's legs, to loosely knot two loops of the lieutenant's boot laces together.

Bucky closed his eyes and his mouth went as dry as one of those big African deserts. He couldn't watch. Somebody was gonna see his friend tying Dancing's laces together. Dancing himself was gonna feel something brush against his leg and look down and see Wells' hands at work, and not even Wells' biggest pile of bullshit was gonna get him out of this one.

"Time for a show," said Wells, and Bucky opened his eyes to find his friend safely returned.

"What if you get in trouble, Sarge?" Gusty whispered.

"For what? Nobody saw, and even if they did, they wouldn't say anything."

An uneasy feeling sat in the pit of Bucky's stomach. Two days ago, he would have done almost anything to see Dancing taken down a peg or two. But since then, war had become real, and making one guy's life hell seemed kinda petty in the face of what they were about to be sent into.

It was too late too do anything about it now. Dancing had been served, and as he turned to move away from the counter, his laces held fast and prevented his feet from moving. There was no unbalanced wobble and tilt; he fell like a tree chopped from low down its trunk. He went down with a yell, his tray went clattering to the floor with a loud crash, food soared in an arch, oatmeal and fruit compote painting the walls and the floor in a beige-and-red rainbow.

The rest of the room turned to look, and when they saw what had happened, the mess was filled with a deafening laughter. Dancing's face went beetroot red, though out of anger or embarrassment, it was hard to say. He realised his laces were tangled and quickly unknotted them, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for someone to blame. But everybody except Bucky was laughing, so there was nobody to unleash his wrath on.

As a couple of sailors appeared with a mop and bucket to clean up the mess, and Dancing collected himself and a new tray of food, Bucky took Wells by the arm and led him away from the group.

"I want you to promise me you won't do anything like that again," he said.

Wells looked at him as if he was mad. "Are you kidding me?"

"I get it, you hate Dancing, but this isn't the way to get him to change. It's just cruel, and vindictive."

"Well, yeah, that's the whole point of revenge," Wells scowled. "Don't go soft on me now."

"This isn't about being soft," Bucky told him. "Back home, I have a friend—Steve—and we've been best friends since we were nine years old. He has a real unique habit of getting himself into trouble, and I've lost count of the number of bullies I've pulled off him over the years."

"I'm not a bully." Wells seemed genuinely hurt by the implication.

"I know. But you made it personal. Sure, Dancing's a jerk, but he's not singling anyone out, picking on anyone in particular; he makes us all jump through the same hoops, probably because he's an idiot who doesn't know how to lead despite his officer training. He's not trying to humiliate us on purpose; he actually thinks what he's doing is for the best. Being misguided and intentionally humiliating people are two different things."

"And what if the next guy he tries to stop you carrying to the hospital ward is Tipper, or Hawkins?"

"Then I'll do what I think is right and deal with the repercussions later. You've had your fun, and you've had your revenge for him being an insensitive jerk when you were hurt. Please leave it there. I don't want you to become the kinda guy I've had to spend my life pulling off my best friend back home."

"You sound like you feel sorry for Dancing," Wells accused.

"Maybe I do."

Wells sighed and shook his head. "I really don't get you, sometimes."

Bucky hooked an arm across Wells' shoulders and turned him to look at the officers standing at one of the large square tables in the centre of the mess. A scowl was fixed onto Dancing's face, and the guy ate his oatmeal as quickly as he could, seemingly eager to be out of there. Whatever conversation the other lieutenants were having was lost on him.

"What do you see when you look at Dancing?"

"A brown-nosing jerk who only cares about getting a captain's bars on his uniform."

"Exactly. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"Only that he's a brown-nosing jerk who only cares about his promotion."

Bucky fought back a sigh of annoyance. A lifetime of being Steve Rogers' best friend had taught him a valuable lesson: that sometimes, you had to look a lot deeper to see who someone really was. But not everyone had grown up on the Steve Rogers learning curve.

"Alright, take you, for example," he offered. Perhaps he was tackling it from the wrong direction. "Your highest priority on any given day is… what? Family? Friends?"

Another look appeared on Wells' face; one of those looks that said he thought Bucky was mad. "Gonna have to go with dames. Right after not getting shot by Nazis."

"Imagine how empty your life would be if your highest priority, all the time, was gettin' promoted. And you cared about it to such an extent that you excluded everything else… family, friends, dames. You ever see Dancing talkin' to anyone else, before today?" Wells shook his head. "Even Nestor doesn't wanna hang out with him. Maybe he cares about his promotion so much because that's the only thing he has to care about."

"Ugh." Wells' mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. "You're actually making me pity the little brown-noser. Wait, you're not gonna make him your next project, are you? Turn him into your new best buddy? 'Cos I gotta tell you, I don't think that will end well for you."

"No, I'm not. And I don't turn people into projects, thanks. I just don't want to see my friend become the type of person I don't like, all for the sake of a little petty revenge on someone like Dancing. He's not worth it, and you're better than that."

"I don't know if I am."

"Well, I think you are, and you should always listen to your elders."

"Fine. If it'll help you sleep better at nights, then I'll somehow find a way to try not to embarrass Dancing on purpose. But I'm still not jumping to obey his orders."

"Me neither," Bucky agreed. There was a difference between humiliation and passive resistance.

"Good. And just so we're clear, we're going to war; the front lines, in fact. That means I'll be shooting at Germans. If you have any problem with that, please speak up now. I'd prefer not to have to deal with your conscience in the middle of a firefight."

"Don't be an ass."

"I just want to make really sure you're okay with me shooting at Krauts. I'd hate to hurt their feelings or something."

Bucky lifted his arm from his friend's shoulders and grabbed him in a headlock, pulling him down so he could rub his knuckles across the top of Wells' head; it was a brotherly punishment he'd inflicted on Charlie—and sometimes Steve, when he was being annoying enough—and it elicited a similar pained, 'Argh, gerrof me!' from Wells, who tried to free himself from the headlock by stamping on Bucky's toes. It didn't work, because G.I. boots were pretty sturdy, and Bucky barely felt the stamping at all. When he finally deemed his friend was punished enough for being a jerk, he let go and Wells jumped back to glare at him. Their brief struggle had drawn a few amused glances from the other regiments, but as far as the 107th were concerned, it was just another day at the office.

"Hey, have you forgotten how fragile my enormous head is?" Wells asked, as he tried to flatten his hair back down.

"Just keeping you on your toes, pal," he grinned. Besides, sooner or later, Wells would get the it into his enormous skull that at the end of the day, being a jerk just didn't pay. If it was something Bucky couldn't get through to Dancing, it was at least something he could try to get through to his friend.

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

White Fang had been finished in England, so Bucky had traded it back to Gusty for Oliver Twist, which he was enjoying more than he thought he would. Life in Victorian London was very different to everything he had experienced growing up in New York. Maybe, before the was was over, he'd even get to visit London, and perhaps walk down some of the streets from the story… if they were even real streets to begin with.

A commotion further down the quarters caught his attention, and he glanced over the top of his bed to see Tipper come flying down the narrow aisle between the rows of beds, tripping over duffel bags, stumbling into bunks, but keeping up a pace that suggested the hounds of hell were hot on his heels. The kid didn't slow until he all but fell to a halt beside Bucky's bunk, and when he finally stopped, he combined gasping for air with talking in a way that didn't afford much success to either.

"Sarge—… coming back—… got lost—… thought I heard—"

"Breathe," Wells instructed, a bored tone from the bunk below.

And Tipper did. He doubled over, trying to pull air into his lungs, looking simultaneously flustered and pale about his face. Bucky hoped to God Tipper wasn't about to tell them that Dancing was on his way, to put them through laps as Dugan had suggested.

"Start from the beginning, Tipper," Bucky said, when the kid looked suitably recovered.

Tipper nodded. His dark brown eyes were wide with something that might be terror.

"I was on my way back from the john when I lost my way… it wasn't my fault, the corridors all look the same on this ship… and I was going past this room, and I heard voices speaking from inside—"

"You eavesdropped?" Wells asked. "Good boy."

"I didn't mean to," Tipper said quickly. "But the voices weren't speaking English, and I thought that was odd, so I peered over the door through the glass panel, and I saw a group of guys sitting at a table eating dinner, and Sarge… they were German!"

Bucky folded over the top corner of his page and closed his book. "What were they saying?" he asked the young private.

"I don't know, they were speaking German."

"How do you know they were German," Wells mused, "and not Austrians, or German-speaking Swiss?"

"Well, their uniforms looked pretty German to me, Sarge."

Bucky slid down from his bunk and landed on the floor. "Think you could show us where this room is?"

"Uh, I guess. If I can find it again."

"'Us'?" asked Wells, one dark eyebrow rising. He, like Bucky, was passing the time with a novel. He'd gone back to A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. Bucky had tried to get another copy of it off Gusty, to see what about that damn book kept Wells reading it, but Gusty didn't have another, and Wells still wouldn't let him borrow it.

"Aren't you in the least bit curious about why there are Germans on board?"

"Possible Germans," Wells corrected. "And no, not really."

"What if they're spies?!" Tipper squeaked nervously.

"Then I'd say they're doing a piss-poor job of blending in." A thoughtful gleam stole across Wells' eyes. "They were eating dinner, you say? What were they having?"

"I dunno, but it smelt real good."

"Alright, you've got my interest." Wells tossed his book down onto his bed and rolled his shoulders to work out the knots. "Let's see what's on the menu."

Tipper led them back through the troop quarters and out into the corridors. Since soldiers weren't supposed to be out of quarters unless they had a specific need, they settled on feeling seasick and needing to use the john as an excuse for being 'lost' out of their designated area. It took a while for Tipper to find the room again; he'd been running full pelt back to the bunk room and hadn't taken real notice of where he was going. In the end, they managed to back-track by starting at the bathroom and having Tipper try to recreate his getting lost which had initially led to him finding the room.

Outside the door, they all crouched down, ears strained for sounds. Sure enough, a moment later, they heard quiet voices. Bucky crept to the other side of the door, and peered cautiously over the glass panel into the room. He saw five—no, six—men wearing German uniforms, and they were sitting at a table enjoying a meal of something that looked far more appetising than anything Bucky had been served on the Monty, including the hotdogs they'd had on Independence Day.

"Looks like they're having spare ribs," whispered Wells, peering over from the opposite corner. "Bastards. I bet we're on boiled cabbage or something."

"I like boiled cabbage with butter on it," Tipper whispered back.

"There won't be any butter, Tipper."

"Aww."

Bucky pressed his ear to the door, and a moment later, Wells did too. He couldn't exactly say he'd heard a lot of German in his life, but from what he could remember of basic phrases taught in boot camp, it sounded pretty German to him.

"What are they saying?" he whispered to Wells.

"Hmm. Well, that one on the left just said, 'Hey, I really like sausage. Do you like sausage?' and the one in the middle replied, 'Yes, I love sausage.'"

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Remember that conversation we had back in Camp Shanks, when I told you I spoke fluent German?"

"Uh, no?"

"Exactly." Wells rolled his eyes. "How the hell should I know what they're saying, Barnes? I don't speak Kraut."

"What should we do?" Tipper asked. In his hands, his coin flipped nervously through his fingers.

"I think we should go back to the troop quarters and play poker," said Wells. "I think I can fleece Dugan out of everything he owns."

"What about these guys?" Bucky asked, pointing his thumb at the door behind which they were crouched.

"They probably don't wanna play poker with us." Wells offered a noncommittal shrug. "They're obviously not stowaways or spies, or they wouldn't be dining on ribs. And I doubt they're prisoners of war, because why they hell would we be taking them back towards Germany? Maybe they're here to… I dunno, translate messages intercepted by the ship, or something."

"Maybe," said Bucky, "but I have a bad feeling about them being here." A bad feeling like the time he'd told Steve, 'Don't do anything stupid till I get back,' and then walked away from him trying to enlist for the fifth time. Of course, Steve wouldn't have succeeded. He'd been turned away four times already, and the fifth would be no different.

"Of course you do. They're German."

"I bet this is why that sailor said we weren't allowed to go wandering around the ship," Tipper whispered. "Probably didn't want us finding out there's Germans on board."

"Probably."

"Aren't you in the least bit curious about why they're here?" Bucky asked his friend.

"Sure. But what are you gonna do, walk up to the Skipper and demand he tell you what's going on aboard his ship? Obviously, this is top secret stuff. I bet Dancing doesn't even know about them."

"I think we should tell Weiss," he suggested. "See what he says."

"Alright," Wells relented. "But let's at least tell him on the quiet. No telling what sort of panic there'll be in troop quarters if people find out there's Krauts aboard. That goes for you too, Tipper. Keep your pie-hole shut, alright?"

"Yes, Sarge," Tipper replied glumly. No doubt he'd been looking forward to telling the tale of how he'd come across a room full of German spies. Soon enough, six Germans eating ribs would become twenty Germans slaughtering crewmen, and then there would be pandemonium.

Back in troop quarters, they found Weiss, extracted him from a game of shooting dice he was playing with a couple of other members of the 107th, and told him about their discovery. His first response was a non-committal grunt.

"Ribs? Bastards," he growled.

Wells shot Bucky an 'I told you so,' look, and Bucky turned back to the elder sergeant.

"What, that's it? We tell you there's Germans on board, and you complain they're better fed than we are?"

"Do you boys think this war is won by you and me and these other idiots we're trying to keep alive long enough to see home again?" Weiss scoffed. "We're just a showy distraction. We make a lot of noise and run in firing bullets and hope to keep Hitler's attention away from where we don't want him to look. Every side has secret agents, double agents, triple agents… hell, I bet even their agents have agents. At least half the war goes on in the dark, all secrecy and intelligence. Real cloak-and-daggers stuff. Whatever those Germans are doing here, you can bet your bottom dollar that someone real high up in the White House knows why they're here and what they're doing, right down to what flavour sauce they've got on those ribs. For all we know, they could even be undercover MI6 agents prepping for their role. You boys remember lesson number one from boot camp, right?"

Bucky nodded. Rule number 1. Don't ask questions unless those questions are to clarify an important part of your mission.

"Good. I'm going back to my dice. It would be best if you forgot about what you saw, and sit hard on however many of your men already know about it. The last thing you want is to be responsible for blowing some carefully planned mission."

"Am I the only one who's got a bad feelin' about this?" Bucky asked his friend, when Weiss returned to his game.

"The only thing I'm feeling is that I should've signed up to be a spy instead of a soldier. I could be dining on ribs right now. Cheer up, Barnes!" said Wells, throwing his arm around Bucky's shoulders and leading him back up the aisle. "Like Weiss said, there's nothing we can do about it. Those Germans have probably got nothing to do with our mission. Tell you what, why don't we challenge the human walrus and a few of the 69th to a poker game? Winning a few games of cards is sure to take your mind off those Germans."

It wouldn't. But Wells was right. The matter of the Germans was out of their hands, and they'd probably never find out why they'd been forced to share a ship with enemy soldiers… or spies… or double-agents. He just wished the waters they trod were a little less muddy. All this secrecy… it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Author's note: Don't worry, it's just a short voyage this time! For anybody wondering about the ships in this story, they're all real. The USS Monticello (AP-61) was originally the SS Conte Grande ocean liner, converted to a troop transport in September 1942. It did sail very briefly with the USS Lansdale, and was active both in the European and Pacific Theaters. The HMS King George V was the lead ship of five King George V-class battleships, it partook in the sinking of the Bismarck, and by happy coincidence it was en route at this time to the Med, where it took part in Operation Husky (the Allied invasion of Sicily), allowing it to be perfectly placed to drop off Our Heroes along the way. Google has plenty of pictures, if you'd like to see any of the ships in question.