We Were Soldiers
14. The SSR
From his position on the small boat, Bucky looked back at the battleship that had brought them to their destination. At this distance, it looked like a child's toy… one with enough firepower to wipe out half of Plymouth. With a shiver of foreboding, he put the thoughts out of his mind and turned back to look at the shoreline.
There was no dock here. The troops had to be ferried to shore on the King George's lifeboats… but it wasn't much of a shore, either. A flat spit of land covered with green rushes that were slowly turning to gold, jutted out into the sea. Bucky could see no sign of roads, or towns, and the swampy marshland was like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life. If he hadn't known he was in Europe, he might have thought the ship had brought them to the waterlogged bayous of the Mississippi.
Several boats were ahead of Bucky's, and he watched as the pair of sailors rowing them held the small craft as steady as possible whilst the troops disembarked. The soldiers who slid out of the boats immediately landed up to their knees in water. When he saw them wade forward, in an attempt to find solid ground, Bucky's heart sank a little. His first day in Europe was gonna be spent in soaked boots, and he already knew how badly the boots chafed when they got wet.
"How deep do you think it is here, Sarge?" asked Carrot, peering over the side of the boat.
"No deeper than waist-high, I imagine." He clapped the young corporal on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Carrot, you'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."
Carrot swallowed and nodded, trying to put on a brave mask. "Thanks."
The sailors rowed the boat as close to the boggy spit of land as they could get, and Bucky could put off the inevitable no longer. They'd been aboard the King George V for almost a day and a half; Bucky had no idea which country they were about to land in, and despite the heat of the early afternoon, he suspected the water temperature was going to be considerably lower.
His suspicions were confirmed when he slid overboard and sank to his knees in water that could be best described as tepid. He gasped from the shock of it, then quickly instructed the rest of the troops in his boat—who looked about as enthusiastic as he felt—to climb over and make for dry land. Ahead, Weiss and two groups from the 69th had already struck out for the shore proper, and looked to be finding solid ground.
"I don't remember signing up for no aquatic missions," Davies grumbled, as he too sank to his knees.
When his feet finally hit dry land, Bucky checked his guns and gear for any signs of damp and, satisfied that nothing but him had gotten wet, aped the other men in crouching down amongst the reeds, lowering his profile to the height of the vegetation. He didn't think the colonel would have them disembark in an area that had a strong German presence, but then, he'd never met the colonel, and Weiss didn't seem to have much faith in the upper echelon. Then again, Weiss didn't seem to have much faith in anything.
Several more boats ferried more troops to the shore. Bucky watched as Gusty and Franklin appeared from one boat, and Wells and Hawkins from another. In the other boats were members from the 69th and 370th, and they all floundered towards dry land, until some five hundred men had been deposited in their sodden environment. Next came the officers and the equipment, and as he watched the rest of the gear unloaded, the situation struck him as… odd. Three infantry regiments were being deployed with virtually no support units. There were no engineers amongst the regiments, no communications staff, no medical teams… no artillery. Suddenly, he wished he'd let Wells tell him what the survival rate for troops on the front lines was.
Bucky finally got his first glimpse of Colonel Hawkswell. He was a tall, slim guy who looked to be in his forties. There was a no-nonsense, stiff-backed air about him, and he seemed not to care in the slightest that his troops were landing in a swamp. As soon as he reached dry land, he took the rest of the officers aside to brief them over a map that he lay out on the ground. Bucky didn't recognise all the men with him, but it wasn't hard to guess who they were. Since the 107th had no officers higher than the rank of lieutenant, the white captain amongst them must be the 69th's commanding officer, whilst the black captain had to be the 370th's. Each captain had one lieutenant apiece, and another lieutenant hovered beside Hawkswell, most likely the man's executive officer.
While the officers met, Bucky focused on his surroundings. The air was hot, humid, and small biting insects were already beginning to feast on the flesh of the men who'd intruded in their habitat. Small birds fluttered here and there, clinging to the slender rushes as they picked at whatever insects they could find. Out on the open water, a family of ducks—their appearance sending an aching pang of familiarity through Bucky's chest—had been disturbed by the landing of so many men, and had abandoned their nests for the sanctuary of the bay. The air was filled with a symphony of croaks and chirps, which turned out to be frogs; one hopped across Bucky's boot as he crouched motionless, and he smiled at its beady eyes and bulging throat. The last time he'd seen frogs he'd been thirteen, visiting his cousin for the summer. The small amphibians had been prolific around his uncle's fish pond.
At last the officers broke up. "Weiss, Barnes, Wells," Dancing called, whilst Nestor trotted twitchily after the colonel and another lieutenant. When Bucky and his fellow sergeants approached, Dancing took out a map similar to the one the colonel had been poring over. As soon as Bucky's eyes fell on the waxed paper, his heart leapt into his mouth. France. They were in France. That meant they weren't just on the front line… they were behind it. Immediately, the number of things that could go horribly wrong rose exponentially.
"Sergeants," said Dancing, his voice taking on a lecturing tone, "we are roughly here." His finger came down on the map over a place on the southern coast called Parc Natural Regional de Camargue, which Bucky loosely translated to 'Big Swampy Park.' "We are to rendezvous with a Colonel Phillips, of the Strategic Scientific Reserve, somewhere in this area. You will each take a team and search the area north-east of us, whilst the 69th search to the north, and the 307th to the north-west. If you've not found Colonel Phillips by eighteen-hundred hours, you're to make your way to this area, where our company will be making camp for the night." The place selected for the camp site was a small area of land between two large bodies of water. Bucky suspected they were in for a damp night. Frogs might feature heavily.
"Are we expecting to encounter enemy troops?" asked Weiss.
Bucky's heart momentarily stopped. Enemy troops. Like war, the enemy had always been a thought or a concept… until now. Now, they were real. Bucky could be shooting at them at any moment. He'd never shot at anything living before, and every step he took from here on out, people would be shooting at Bucky. Trying to kill him. He licked his lips and tried to work a little moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth. Told himself to get a grip; Weiss and Wells weren't letting this get to them. Wells' eyes were scanning the map as if he might locate Colonel Phillips just by studying the paper, and Weiss was treating this like a stroll through the park.
"Not in any great force," Dancing replied, completely oblivious to one of his sergeants having a minor attack of sheer terror. "Though there may be German foot patrols. Now, it is imperative that our presence here be kept quiet, therefore you're only to engage enemy forces if it becomes absolutely necessary. Do you understand?"
"Yessir," they all agreed.
"Good." Dancing nodded happily to himself, as if the job had already been done. "Choose your teams and leave the rest of the men with everything except the essentials. You'll be travelling fast and light. Oh, and do try not to get yourselves lost."
They saluted, and he left. Weiss grumbled something unflattering under his breath, and returned to the waiting men to organise his team.
"You ever hear of this 'Strategic Scientific Reserve'?" Wells asked.
Bucky shook his head. "Wherever they are, we've got a lot of ground to cover." The area indicated by Dancing had been twenty or so square miles. "Who do you want?"
"I'll take Gusty, Davies and Biggs."
"Alright." Bucky turned to the waiting men, and said, "Gusty, Davies, Biggs, you're with Wells. Carrot, Franklin, Hawkins, with me. We're travelling light, so divvy up the kit you don't need for the rest of the men to carry."
"What about me, Sarge?" Tipper asked.
"You stay with the regiment." Stay where it's safe, he mentally added. He sure as hell wasn't gonna purposely put the kid in danger.
"Aww, but Sarge—"
"Don't 'but sarge' me, Tipper. There'll be plenty of missions in the future."
"Besides," Wells piped up, as he handed his duffel over to another member of the 107th, "somebody's gotta stay behind and keep an eye on Dancing in case he plans any more surprise drills for us."
"I don't mind staying behind," Gusty offered.
"Tough luck, Gusty," Bucky told him.
They set off with Weiss' team in a north-easterly direction, each one carrying his rifle with the safety off. This is real, Bucky thought, as the bright sun did its best to dry his damp clothes. This is actually real. I'm in France, behind enemy lines, and at any moment I might have to kill someone.
"I'm gonna take my team and head that way," said Weiss, nodding at a patch of trees in the far distance. "You boys watch your backs."
Bucky watched the team go, Weiss at their head, and wished he could feel inside how Weiss appeared on the outside; cool, calm, unworried about the possibility of being shot at. How did the guy manage it?
"Nervous?" Wells asked him.
Bucky checked his hands before answering, to make sure they weren't shaking. "A little. You?"
"A little." Wells gave him a small smile. "Guess we should split up. Cover more ground."
"Yeah. The sooner we find this 'Colonel Phillips,' the sooner we'll be back at camp."
"Two bucks says I find him first."
"You're on," he agreed. No chance he was letting Wells find the guy first. "C'mon, you lot," he said to his team. "Let's check out those trees to the north."
"Mind those puddles," Wells called after them.
Bucky glanced back at the landing site and saw the rest of the company getting ready to move out. Just as he was about to turn away, he saw something, out on the waves; it was another of the small boats from the battleship, with a group of men inside it. At this distance, he couldn't tell for sure, but he thought the uniforms they wore were the same uniforms he'd seen the day before, on the German soldiers.
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"All I'm saying is, it's not right. They've no right to inflict that sort of horror and torture on us. We'd be better off drinking arsenic."
Bucky walked in silence, his eyes scanning the land around them, as Franklin continued with his half-hour complaint. After an hour of searching, they'd taken a brief stop to rehydrate, since the sun was doing its best to burn them to a crisp. Franklin had opened one of his ration packs, and found a synthetic lemon powder that he'd mixed in with his canteen water. He'd unwisely taken several large gulps, then vomited it all back up. Everyone else had tried a sip, and agreed that it was the foulest, most acidic thing they'd ever tasted.
"I guess it's supposed to stop us getting scurvy, like the sailors on those ships Wells talked about," said Carrot.
"I'm not sure how poisoning us is gonna accomplish that."
Movement behind a line of trees set Bucky's heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest. He raised a fist, and Franklin halted mid-sentence. Frogs croaked and birds sang into the heavy afternoon air. Would they still do that, if there was a German patrol waiting in ambush? Didn't they say that animals could sense catastrophes before they happened, that they had a feel for when violence was about to happen, a sort of sixth sense? Or was that just a piece of bullshit somebody had once made up? Would frogs croak and birds sing even throughout a slaughter?
The movement came again, and they all lifted their weapons, preparing to open fire. The moment stretched out, tension heightening, until the summer air seemed laden with the palpable taste of it. And it tasted like… synthetic lemon powder, all bitter and acrid.
A small herd of white horses stepped out from behind the line of trees, a couple of them tearing at what long grass was able to grow in the marshy conditions. Their pale coats gave them a sort of phantom, otherworldly look, but phantom horses couldn't pull up real grass. There wasn't even any such thing as phantom horses. Bucky let his body relax, let the tension slowly drain away as he, and then the others, lowered their guns. The horses saw the movement, and like the team had just done, they stopped dead, senses alert, ears pointing upright and forward as their large eyes focused on the intruders. Then, one of them gave a whinny of alarm, and the whole group turned and galloped through the marsh, soon out of sight behind another stand of trees.
"Is, um, that normal for France?" Franklin asked.
"I dunno," Bucky admitted. "I guess it must be."
"I didn't know they had horses in France, Sarge," said Carrot. He looked warily around. "You don't think they were German horses, do you?"
"I don't think they were domesticated," Hawkins offered. "I haven't done much around horses myself, but my sister, Betsy, used to go riding all the time before she had kids. And I think if those were tame horses, they would have come up to us looking for food and stuff."
"I wish I had Murphy's camera with me right now," said Bucky. Nobody was gonna believe him about the white horses.
They continued their search in silence. Bucky had no idea how large the Strategic Scientific Reserve was, but if they were anywhere around here, they were doing one hell of a job at hiding. The land around the estuary was flat and open, marshy fields separated only by thin strips of trees which made the most of what solid ground they could find. In three hours they'd gone six miles, the going made tougher by the swamp-like terrain which re-soaked their boots and pants every time the hot summer sun managed to dry them. Bucky, working on the premise that any troops hiding here ought to be using the trees as cover, led his team from one stand of trees to another, so that they traversed the marsh in an irregular zig-zag pattern.
Maybe they were walking for nothing. Maybe Weiss, or Wells, or one of the scout teams from the other regiments, had already found Colonel Phillips. If that was the case, Bucky hoped that it was Weiss, or one of the other regiments, that had found him. Otherwise, he was gonna be down two bucks by the time he got back to camp.
They took another rest break in the late afternoon, and Bucky checked his watch. His dad had given him that watch, the day before he'd gone to boot camp. Said it was waterproof and scratch-proof and that it had served him well when he'd fought in Europe. Said it would serve Bucky just as well now. So far, it had kept perfect time, and now that time said five o'clock. One hour of searching left before they had to return to base. Squinting in the bright sunlight, Bucky scanned the area around them, and saw another cluster of trees not too far away.
"Time's getting on, guys," he said. "We'll make that island of trees over there our last stop before we RTB."
"Thank God," Franklin sighed. "I hate this place." He looked sadly down at his boots. "Doubt my sugar's survived all this swamp water."
The knowledge that they would soon be returning to camp put a small spring in their steps as they made their way towards the cluster of trees. The knowledge that they'd probably have to do all of this again tomorrow quickly removed that spring. Another day in this humid, sodden swamp was not something he was particularly looking forward to. Spending a night in it was even less appealing.
They walked up a slight incline to the trees—the proverbial high ground—and the first sign Bucky had that they weren't alone was the sound of a pistol being cocked. As soon as he heard it, he dropped to one knee, his rifle up at shoulder-height, ready to open fire. He had to give his team credit; they were barely a heartbeat behind him, their weapons trained in different directions to cover all their bases.
"Identify yourselves," a voice called out.
Bucky swallowed the lump that was trying to lodge itself in his throat and choke him. "Sergeant Barnes, 107th Infantry," he replied.
A few seconds later, a head popped up from behind a patch of thorny scrub. The guy was wearing a U.S. Army uniform, and he held his pistol up in a neutral position as he rose higher. More men stepped out from behind tree trunks, pistols and rifles lowered.
"Sergeant Raleigh, 46th Engineers." The man offered a quick salute, even though it wasn't necessary. "It's good to see a friendly face out here, Sergeant."
Bucky gestured for his men to lower their weapons, and he stood to shake his counterpart's hand. "We're looking for a Colonel Phillips, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Know anything about that?"
"You're in luck, Sergeant Barnes," Raleigh smiled. "The SSR? That's us. Or rather, we've been assigned to them. Guess you're the backup we've been expecting?"
Bucky nodded. "Guess so."
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here. The Colonel's been on edge ever since we arrived. We've only got a handful of infantry with us—the 9th, and they're severely depleted—and me and my men have been doing guard duty for over a week."
"Can you take us to Colonel Phillips?"
"Sure. Though, would you mind asking your men to stay here and keep watch with my lot? Staring at the same swamp, day in and day out… kinda makes the fellas get twitchy. Some fresh eyes would be welcome."
"Alright. Carrot, you, Franklin and Hawkins keep a lookout for any more of those dangerous German horses, alright?" He saw Raleigh's quizzical expression, and shook his head with a smile. "Don't ask."
Raleigh took him through the small wooded area, and then down behind the shallow hill, where Bucky found a sight for sore eyes. The SSR had established a camp on firm ground; on one side was a long tent, with twin flags of the Medical Corps and the Red Cross waving listlessly in the breeze outside it. Opposite the hospital tent was a motor pool, with a dozen jeeps parked outside, and a little further away, four Sherman tanks lined up side by side. Five or six howitzers were close by, and under a khaki tarp, he saw something that looked like it might be a fighter plane.
This is more like it! he thought, as he walked into the camp behind his guide. He saw shoulder patches denoting the Signal Corps, as well as Engineers and Medical. Here was the support the Infantry regiments so desperately needed.
Outside a smaller tent, Raleigh stopped and addressed one of the men standing outside the door flap.
"Sergeant Barnes from the 107th is here to see the Colonel."
The man disappeared into the tent, and a moment later the Colonel himself stepped out. If Bucky was to imagine someone who was the polar opposite of Colonel Hawkswell, Colonel Phillips would have been it. He was a grizzled bear of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a craggy face that looked like it wouldn't have been out of place chiselled into the slopes of Mount Rushmore. Steely grey eyes assessed Bucky from beneath a peaked cap, and he quickly threw up his best salute.
"Sir, Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry."
"Whose taskforce are you with, Sergeant?"
"Colonel Hawkswell, Sir."
"Hawkswell, hmm? Never heard of him. Follow me."
Bucky followed the man to his command tent, where a half-dozen maps and various radio transmitters were strewn about. A pair of administrators glanced up when the Colonel entered, but swiftly resumed whatever work they were doing on their own map.
"When'd you arrive, Sergeant?" asked Phillips, as he rolled out a map across the table and weighted the corners down with whatever was closest to hand. That turned out to be two rocks, an empty coffee cup and a gas mask.
"Early this afternoon, sir."
"Which regiments? And you don't need to 'sir' me on every sentence, Sergeant. Things get said faster with less kowtowing. Start and end of the conversation's enough."
Thank God. His drill sergeants in basic training had been sticklers for etiquette, and Dancing went positively apoplectic if a sentenced passed un-sir'ed. He didn't know yet how strict a CO Hawkswell would be, but at least Phillips wasn't gonna stand on formality at every available opportunity.
"The 107th, 69th and 370th Infantries. About five hundred men in total."
"Good. And the package? Is it safe?"
"The… package, sir?"
Phillips gave him a long, blank look, then gestured down at the map. "We're here," he said, pointing to a spot just past the midway point of the estuarine area. "Where's your company's base camp?"
"They're making camp here for the night," Bucky said, leaning down and pointing at the soggy place Dancing had indicated earlier.
"Hmph." Phillips' eyes scanned the area between the two camps. It seemed the conversation about the package, whatever that was, had never happened. "By the time you make it back, it'll be too late to bring five hundred men across the swamp. I'd rather have them arrive fresh in the morning, ready to march. We've been too long in this area; we need to move. Go back and tell Colonel Hawkswell to have his men here no later than nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll have my camp dismantled and ready to go by then."
"Yessir," Bucky said, with a final salute.
With a smile, he stepped out of the tent and made his way back to the lookout position. By this time tomorrow they'd be setting up a real camp, hopefully somewhere drier than this swamp. He didn't care how many miles he had to march during the day, as long as he got to rest his head somewhere dry tomorrow night.
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Halfway through their three hour march, Bucky fell back to walk with the rest of the 107th. Since he'd led the team that had found Phillips, Hawkswell had called him up a couple of times to get his input on upcoming terrain, which had made Dancing positively seethe with jealousy, and had gotten Bucky close enough to the group of silent men near the front of the column to be sure, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that they were wearing German military uniforms. Now, he suspected the 'package' Phillips had spoken of wasn't a package at all.
Wells yawned widely as Bucky fell in beside him. "How's it feel to be the colonel's favourite?"
"I'm not his favourite," Bucky said, stamping down on it before it could become a rumour. "I've just been this way before. That's all."
"If that was all, Dancing wouldn't he stabbing you in the back with his eyes every time the colonel calls you up. Poor Dancing. All he wants is a little attention from his proxy father-figure, and he can't even get that. S'pose it could be worse for you, though. At least the colonel doesn't hate you like he hates me."
"The colonel doesn't hate you, Wells."
"Sure he does. All authority figures do. I really can't figure it out. I mean, I don't even have to open my mouth around them, and they hate me. Even when I was a kid at school, the teachers loved me for my brilliance while resenting me for my intellect."
"Maybe they take exception to your ego," Bucky said drily. "I'm surprised you don't go floating into the sky, with all the hot air in that big head of yours."
"At least if I was floating, my feet would be dry."
"Amen," he agreed. The sun was not yet hot enough, nor high enough, to dry their sodden pants and boots between the soakings they got in the marshlands. "Look on the bright side, though; we'll soon be out of this swamp. I told you the camp had jeeps, right? And tanks? I think I even saw a plane."
"I'd be happy with a decent cup of coffee and a bit of dry ground to stand on."
"One day in a swamp, and look how far your expectations have slipped."
"I think," Wells said, his eyes darting around the ground as he looked for less-damp areas to put his feet, "the colonel hates me because I was last back to camp. But it wasn't my fault Biggs got stung by a wasp, and that his leg swelled up so bad he could only hobble for an hour." He glanced over his shoulder, to where Biggs was limping beside Franklin and Tipper. "How's it goin', Biggs?"
"Better, Sarge. At least the burning's stopped."
"I probably should've taken Tipper," Wells said quietly to Bucky. "Gusty and I could've carried him back, if he'd been stung by a wasp. But Biggs? Not a chance."
"Maybe we can get him a ride in one of those jeeps."
"Yeah, I s'pose it's worth a try."
The company covered the six miles to the rendezvous point well within the three hours Colonel Hawkswell had allotted for the journey, and as they arrived at the SSR camp, they found it in disarray. Half the tents were still in the process of being dismantled, and men were running back and forth carrying equipment to be taken along. Hawkswell's company halted just outside the camp perimeter, to try and stay out from under the feet. The colonel and his XO went down to speak to Phillips, and as he watched them, Wells let out a quiet whistle.
"Who's the dame?"
"What dame?" Bucky asked.
"The dame with the colonels. Don't tell me you didn't see her yesterday."
Bucky followed Wells' gaze, and discovered that his friend wasn't actually bullshitting. There, standing beside Colonel Phillips, was a young woman wearing some kinda uniform that he didn't recognise.
"No, I definitely would have remembered seeing her," he replied. Her skin was like porcelain, her lips rouged and dark hair pinned in place, giving her a groomed, professional look. He suspected she was one of those confident dames. Hell, how could she not be confident, looking like that?
"Davies," Wells said, and the Pfc. stepped up to join them. "You know who that dame is? Or what she's doing here?"
"We only just got here, Wells," Davies countered.
"Well, go find out."
Bucky glanced over to Dancing, but the lieutenant was too busy watching Colonel Hawkswell for any sign that he might be summoned, to be paying any attention to what the men in his regiment were doing. Wells had spotted that, too.
"Gusty, take Biggs to find a medic, and tell them what happened to his leg. See if you can get him a ride on a jeep or somethin'."
"Right, Sarge."
"You know there's bound to be nurses amongst those medics," Bucky pointed out. "Why aren't you taking Biggs yourself?"
"Because you're gonna show me this plane you saw yesterday," Wells said, a boyish grin creeping across his face.
"Uh, why?"
"Because I've never been on a plane before. I don't think I've ever seen one up close, either. My old man is a Navy man through and through, so he never let us go watch any air shows. I would'a joined the Airforce just to annoy him, but gettin' into the Army was faster and easier."
"Alright. But it wasn't a very big plane. And it was under a tarp."
They snuck away, using a pile of supplies as a screen to make their escape from Dancing's less-than-watchful eyes. Bucky took a moment to get his bearings, then led the way to the place where he thought he'd seen the plane yesterday. And sure enough, there it was, being fastened down to the bed of a flat wagon that had been hitched to the back of a tank. When Bucky saw who was directing the soldiers who were securing the plane to the wagon, his eyes widened so much that they almost popped right out of his head.
"I don't believe it. That's Howard Stark!"
"That's not Howard Stark," said Wells, squinting at the only guy in the camp dressed in civilian clothing. "It's just someone who looks like him."
"I'm telling you, that's Howard Stark," Bucky insisted. He'd stood not twenty feet away from the guy, at the World Fair's Stark Expo last month. "C'mon, let's get closer."
"What would a man with Howard Stark's genius and money be doing in this piss-hole with us?" Wells asked. But when Bucky didn't respond, he followed. "So you're telling me you not only missed spottin' a smoking hot dame, but one of America's richest men, when you were here yesterday? How the hell did you find this camp?"
Bucky ignored his fellow sergeant. He'd only gotten a quick look around the camp yesterday, and had been more interested in the equipment than the people. Now, up close, twenty feet away from the man once more, there was no doubt in Bucky's mind that this was Howard Stark. Sure, the guy wasn't wearing the tux and top hat Bucky had last seen him in, and the beautiful, glittery-attired dames were conspicuously absent, but if this wasn't Howard Stark, it was his identical twin brother.
"Be careful with that rope, make sure it's fastened tight," Stark called out to one of the soldiers. "Don't want her slipping away from me." When he heard the sound of Bucky and Wells approaching, he turned and rubbed his hands together. "I don't recognise you two from the camp. You must be the fresh fodder we've been expecting. Have you guys come for an autograph or somethin'?"
"Mr. Stark, I saw your flying car at the Expo in New York last month," Bucky blurted out, before Wells could say something stupid.
"Oh, a couple of fans, eh? Well, don't worry; my flying plane does a lot better than my flying car. Still haven't quite got all the kinks worked out of that one yet."
"Have you thought about flying boots?" Wells asked. "So troops crossing swamps don't have to get their feet wet?"
"Flying boots are about sixtieth on my list of priorities, right after soluble lemon powder that doesn't corrode your insides. I have no idea what field of so-called science the monkey who designed that powder graduated in, but I'm pretty sure it's no field recognised in the civilised world."
"Barnes! Wells!"
Bucky cringed on the inside. He should'a known their escape wouldn't have gone unnoticed for long. Turning, he saw Dancing striding over, all righteous indignation.
"I don't recall giving you permission to wander away, Sergeants."
"Oh, I conscripted them into helping me get my plane on the wagon," said Stark. "You can't expect a man with my towering intellect to do his own manual labour; physical toil stunts my genius."
Dancing refused to back down all the way. "Well. Maybe next time you should ask an officer to assign men to assist you."
"Ask?" said Stark. He sounded like it was the first time he'd ever heard of the word. "What a novel concept. I'm not much of an asker, though. See, part of my billion-dollar contract with the U.S. Armed Forces is that in return for supplying new weapons and cutting edge technology that's gonna help win the war, I get to boss people around. Pretty much anyone I want, really. It's in the fine print. Ask Phillips if you don't believe me; he likes to keep a copy of my contract on him at all times, so he can remind me how short my leash is."
It occurred to Bucky, as he watched Dancing's eyes dart back and forth while he looked for some kinda comeback, that perhaps coming to look at the plane wasn't such a good idea. He'd accidentally put himself right between the three biggest egos in France, and only the entertainment value of Stark versus Dancing was keeping Wells quiet right now.
In the end, Dancing gave up. He blanked Stark, and turned his ire on the others. "Get back to the regiment, Sergeants, and the next time someone other than me asks you to do something, you come and check with me first. Understood?"
"Sir," Bucky agreed, and gave his friend a shove to get him moving, because he could see something bitterly sarcastic rising in Wells' eyes.
They got back to the rest of the group just in time to see Colonels Hawkswell and Phillips approach, with three soldiers in tow. Bucky caught the tail end of their conversation.
"…so after the program ended, most of the candidates were sent back to their units, but I brought the three most promising recruits with me. Figured you might find some use for them."
Hawkswell nodded. "Lieutenant Danzig, these men are now assigned to the 107th. See that they're settled in."
"Yes, Colonel," Dancing all but purred. When the colonels left, Dancing turned to Weiss. "Sergeant Weiss, see that the new recruits are settled in." Then, he strolled after the colonels, trying not to make it too obvious that he was loitering behind them as they walked.
"Sir." Weiss turned to Bucky and his friends. "Barnes, Wells; new recruits. Settle 'em in. I'm too old for hand-holding." Too old, and probably pissed that he didn't get his afternoon nap yesterday. He wandered back to where he'd dumped his duffel bag, and took a seat on it to watch the camp activities.
Bucky approached the three new soldiers, and Wells joined him in assessing them. Candidates, Phillips had called them… but for what? Whatever it was, Phillips thought they were promising, which had to be a good thing. Maybe these guys had some idea about what the SSR was, and what it was doing out here in the middle of nowhere. And why Stark was with them, and what they needed with a group of German soldiers. There were too many mysteries, and he didn't like being kept in the dark.
The first of the candidates was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and sharp blue eyes. All three of the men were standing to attention, but this man was the tallest; as tall as Carrot. His short, dark brown hair was messy, as if he'd forgotten to comb it after getting out of bed.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Private Thomas Robertson," the man drawled slowly in a country accent.
"Where are you from, cowboy?" Wells asked.
"Texas, Sarge."
"Easy. We're calling you 'Tex."
They moved on to the next soldier, a short, olive-skinned man with black hair and a feeble attempt at a moustache.
"Private Emilio Hernandez," the man said with a quick salute.
"And where are you from, Hernandez?" Wells asked him.
"Arizona."
"Where's your family from?"
"Uhh… Peru?"
"Nice try. We're calling you 'Mex.'"
"That's hardly original, Sarge," said Hernandez.
"We aren't paid to be original."
The last candidate was probably not far off Bucky's age, and his strawberry-blond hair had been coiffed to perfection. Bucky didn't wanna know where he'd got the oil to do that.
"Private Gilmore Hodge," the man offered, and anticipated the next question. "Born and bred in New York."
Bucky looked to Wells, who shrugged before answering.
"Fine. Hodge."
"I'm Sergeant Barnes," said Bucky, addressing all of them, "and this is Sergeant Wells. The grumpy old guy over there is Sergeant Weiss. If you need anything, come see one of us. Now, do you guys need anything in terms of gear?"
"Naw, the SSR kitted us out pretty well," said Mex.
Wells stepped forward, his gaze taking in all three. "Looks like we'll be marching soon, so we've no time right now for the ritual welcome paddling, but as soon as we make camp for the night, I expect you to paddle each other. Okay?"
"Uh… is he being serious?" Hernandez asked Bucky.
"One thing you will learn with your time in the 107th, is that I'm always serious, Mex," said Wells. His claim earned a round of snorts and guffaws from everyone in the regiment who was close enough to hear.
"What were you guys candidate for?" Bucky asked the newcomers.
"A very important project that we can't tell you anything about," Hodge replied, his face full of smug.
"Bullshit."
"It's true, Sarge," drawled Tex. "Before they'd let us leave, they made us sign non-disclosure agreements an' everything."
"Alright," said Wells, "then let's try something simpler. Who's the dame with Phillips?"
"That's Agent Carter," said Mex. "She's Phillips' XO."
"Is she married? Got a boyfriend?"
"No, but she's English."
"Even better," Wells grinned, and Bucky rolled his eyes. This was gonna end badly for his friend, he could feel it. Just like he'd felt Plymouth was gonna end badly.
"I gotta warn ya, Sarge," said Hodge, "if you're thinking of going after her, she was pretty sweet on me, back at the SSR base."
"Heh. Sweet on knocking your ass into the dirt, more like," Mex grinned. Hodge glared at him so coldly that it should'a froze him on the spot despite the summer heat.
"Tex, is that true?" Bucky asked.
The man nodded. "As God is my witness, I cannot lie."
"She was just hiding her real feelings for me," Hodge countered. "I could tell she liked me by the smoldering look she got in her eyes whenever she watched me training. And she watched me a lot, if you know what I'm sayin'."
"Wells, I owe you an apology," said Bucky, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Seems you don't have the biggest ego in the 107th after all."
"Damn, and I came so close."
"Don't worry, Wells," said Davies. He blew an air kiss. "You're still the prettiest."
"Oh, fuck you, Davies," Wells glowered.
Bucky grinned at the expressions on the new recruits' faces. It was the same wary, guarded expression he suspected he'd worn for those first couple of days at Last Stop, right before the madness started to set in.
"Welcome to the family, fellas," he told them. "I'm sure you'll feel right at home in no time."
Author's note: Does France have wild horses? Google 'Camargue horse' to find out!
In unrelated news, I randomly re-read one of my published chapters at work today, and was horrified to find no less than three typos. If you see any typos (or other heinous grammar crimes) in my writing, please do feel free to point them out, either in the Review box or by PM. I promise I won't be annoyed if you correct my spelling/point out my mistakes. In fact, I may even send cookies. It can be like a competition. At the end of the year, the person with the most cookies wins a COOKIE JAR, in which to keep their cookies.
(Disclaimer: Cookies may be virtual)