We Were Soldiers

15. Over Troubled Water

The midday sun was harsh and relentless. For some reason, the march had stopped, and the troops had taken shelter in whatever shade they could find. For most it was beneath trees on the edge of the field, but Bucky and a group from the 107th had been lucky enough to halt near one of the tanks, and they sat in its shade, watching the shadows grow smaller as the burning orb approached its daily zenith. Wells had taken out his binoculars and was using them to peer ahead to the front of the column in an attempt to learn what had stopped the swift march.

"What's taking so long?" Carrot grumbled. "Why've we always gotta be waiting around for something?"

"Shit," said Wells.

"Swap," Bucky said, handing him one of the bland, calorie-rich biscuits from his ration kit in exchange for the binoculars. After a moment of peering through them, he saw what Wells had seen. "Shit."

"What is it?" asked Carrot. Bucky tossed him the binoculars and sank down, resting back against the tracked wheels of the tank. "I don't get it. So what? It's a bridge."

"It's a flimsy wooden bridge, Carrot," Bucky pointed out.

"So? We're light."

"But these aren't." Wells rapped his knuckles against the tank's tracks. "Neither's the plane, and I bet those jeeps are about three Biggs' weight."

"I don't wanna be a unit of measurement, Sarge," Biggs complained.

Bucky glanced over to where the three newest members of the 107th were sitting in the shade of a jeep. They'd been pretty quiet so far, mostly keeping to themselves. Was that because they were burdened with the secret of whatever program they'd been ordered not to talk about? Were they homesick? Did they feel left out of the camaraderie that had developed amongst the 107th over the past weeks? Or did they just look at their new regiment and think everyone in it was completely nuts?

"Carrot, I want you to make sure those three don't feel left out. Make 'em feel welcome," he said. Carrot was just about the friendliest guy in the 107th, and making friends out of the new men might give him something to do other than worry about the delays.

"Right, Sarge. I'll see if they wanna play poker while we wait."

Carrot was up and gone before Bucky could suggest something less challenging for him to play. But what the hell, maybe beating Carrot at poker really would make the new guys feel more at home.

Half an hour later, an order was passed back from the front of the line; all infantry were to advance across the bridge and wait in the wooded area, on the other side of the river. By now, the shadows were almost non-existent, and Bucky wished sunscreen had been included in the ration kits. What use were cigarettes when he didn't smoke, or chocolate that was so tough it could barely be chewed? Sunscreen lotion would have been far more useful than either of those. The troops in Africa probably got sunscreen; did the brass think the sun didn't shine in France?

They picked up all their gear and followed the 69th across the field, towards the rickety bridge. Behind them came the support troops along with the thirty or so members of the 9th Infantry assigned to the SSR, and the 370th brought up the rear, carrying various long, heavy loads between them. At the bridge, the sound of footsteps created a constant wooden echo, and as he stepped out onto it he looked over edge, at the River Rhône flowing some twenty metres below. It was a lazy stream compared to the Hudson back home, but right now, with the other end of the bridge a hundred metres away, it was wide enough.

"Doesn't look very… what's the word… potable, does it, Sarge?" Franklin asked, following his gaze.

"That's what your halozone tablets are for, Franklin."

"Yeah, but halozone won't take the mud out."

The bridge wasn't as bad as Bucky had feared. Though its support beams were predominantly wood, a loose stone-chipped road had been laid over it, which gave it a pretty solid feel. Solid enough for a hundred soldiers to cross at a time, but he still had misgivings about those tanks. Obviously the engineers did, too, or there wouldn't have been such a delay.

When they finally made the other side, they marched uphill to where a small wooded area overlooked the bridge. If I were Germans, I'd be hiding in those trees, watching the bridge, ready to ambush anyone coming over it, he thought. Maybe the Germans hadn't expected a swamp landing to be possible. Bucky had no idea how Phillips had got so many tanks, jeeps and a plane this far, but clearly, the man was resourceful. Or maybe Stark was resourceful. It probably amounted to the same.

At the trees, they unloaded their equipment and sank down again. Nobody had to tell them this mission was gonna involve a lot of marching; they could instinctively feel it, like swallows feeling the change of the season and prepping for their long migrations. Bucky had already decided to make the most of every single rest stop he got, and he wasn't alone in his line of thinking. All around him, men were making themselves comfortable, bringing out food and water, and a game or two of dice sprang up. The 370th, Bucky noted, did not seem to be having the same issues with sunburn as he and his friends. In fact, the dark-skinned men of the 370th sat on the edges of the forest, and seemed to be enjoying the stupid hot sun.

Finally, the long trail of people flooding into the area stopped, and for the first time since they'd set out from Phillips' camp, Bucky realised their numbers had swollen to over eight-hundred personnel. The olive drab uniforms of the soldiers were peppered here and there with the white of medics' robes. A handful of nurses were amongst the medical staff, and their uniforms brought thoughts of Sarah Rogers to mind. Steve's mom had made helping others her life, and now these women were risking their own lives to do the same. They were out here, marching just as long and hard as the soldiers, burdened with their own heavy medical loads, but he was willing to bet his last dollar that none of them knew how to fire a gun in defence of their lives. The soldiers, at least, had a means to protect themselves.

Perhaps it's easy to be brave, when you have a gun to hide behind. How much braver does a person have to be to come here without a gun? I'm not sure I could do it.

"This oughta be good," said Wells. He had his binoculars out again, and was watching the bridge. Bucky pulled his out, and soon a good number of the troops were tuning in to the entertainment on the far side of the field.

"I'm running a betting pool on how many vehicles make it across before it collapses," said Davies. "Anybody want in? Entry's a dollar."

"It seems kinda macabre, betting on how many vehicles we might lose crossing a river, don't you think?" Bucky said.

"Put me down for all of the jeeps and one of the tanks. I think the other tanks and the plane are gonna get stuck on the other side," said Wells.

"A half dozen jeeps at most," Gusty challenged. "I swear I could feel that thing swaying when we were walking across it, and jeeps have more weight in a smaller area than people do."

"What do we get if we win?" asked Carrot.

"Bragging rights," said Davies. He checked his inside pockets. "And a pack of smokes."

"In that case, I think they'll all make it across," Carrot said happily.

"You are one optimistic S.O.B., Carrot," said Wells.

Carrot gave him a quick north-south. "Yup!"

"Ah reckon it'll fall at the first tank," said Tex. "Germans gotta know that bridge ain't supporting any heavy artillery, or they'd have it rigged with explosives or somethin'. That's what Ah'd do, anyway."

"I think the plane's gonna break it," Mex added. "The plane, and whatever tries to drag it over."

"Barnes?" said Davies. He had a noteped in one hand, his pen poised in the other. "Last chance to get a bet in."

"Alright, put me down for everything getting across as well."

"Okay, let's see how far wishful thinking gets you."

There was movement below. The first of the jeeps appeared, moving tentatively forward and towing one of the howitzers behind it. Bucky had to admire the driver's nerves; in his place, he would've put his foot down and gotten across that bridge as fast as possible. But the guy behind the wheel kept it at a steady twenty miles per hour, until it reached the other side, then he turned it to wait for the others. And when the driver opened the door and stepped out, Bucky nearly dropped his binoculars in surprise; it was none other than Agent Carter, completely unperturbed at having driven a jeep over a bridge of questionable French construction.

"That broad's got stones," said Davies.

Another nine jeeps came across the bridge, one by one, their drivers keeping to the same pace Carter had set. Bucky wondered whether they did that because they knew it was a sound plan, or because they didn't want to be outdone by a woman. Phillips was one hell of a strategist, if he'd brought her along for that. Bucky's sister, and hundreds like her, were showing the world that they could work just as hard as any man in those shipyards, and here Agent Carter was showing a bunch of GIs how tough women could be under pressure.

"I think I may have to marry that woman," said Wells. Bucky's friend didn't appear to be watching the jeeps coming across the bridge anymore. He doubted whether Wells even remembered there was a bet on.

"What happened to Rita?" he asked.

"She's a whole world away, pal."

"Eh, Rita's alright," said Gusty, "but Agent Carter? You guys are crazy. I like my women to be… well… womanly. And there's nothing womanly about a dame in a uniform driving jeeps and fighting on the front lines."

"If we had more dames wearing uniforms and fighting on the front lines, maybe you wouldn't have to be here, Gusty," Wells pointed out.

"I didn't say I was against it, per se, Sarge. Just that dames like that aren't for me."

"I wouldn't wanna see my mamá in a uniform and fighting on the front lines," Mex said, shivering at the thought. "I mean, the damage she can do with a wooden cooking spoon alone… when I think of her with a rifle in her hands, I would actually feel sorry for anyone who crossed her."

"There's more movement down there," Bucky said, as he spied something coming onto the bridge. "Looks like two jeeps. I wonder why they're doing two at once."

The reason quickly became obvious. It seemed the engineers didn't like the idea of a heavy, armoured tank pulling the plane across the bridge, so they'd gone for two of the lighter jeeps instead. Only problem was, the plane and the wagon were pretty heavy, and the jeeps weren't designed for heavy towing. They crawled along at a snail's pace, and as they reached the midway point, the bridge began to sway from side to side. Bucky didn't mind losing his dollar or missing out on the pack of smokes, but he sent a silent prayer to heaven for whichever poor souls were driving those jeeps.

By some miracle, the small convoy made it across with the bridge intact. Bucky's mouth was dry as the first of the tanks appeared, and he briefly wondered how deep the Rhône was, how long it would take a tank to sink, and how slowly the men inside it would drown if that happened.

"Kinda makes me glad to be infantry," said Wells. "I mean, sure, sitting in an armoured mobile fortress sounds good on paper, but what happens if you fall into a river, or take a direct hit, or drive over a mine? Imagine sitting in one of those things when it's consumed in a fireball. You'd literally be cooked alive."

"I prefer not to imagine that," said Tipper, looking kinda green around the gills.

"I think I'm gonna go take a walk," said Hawkins. He sprang up and made his way to the other side of the camp.

Bucky watched him go, a pang of regret tearing through his chest. "Hawkins' brother was part of a tank crew."

"Shit. I should'a remembered that," said Wells. "Want me to go after him?"

"No, give him some space. He'll come back when he's ready.

"Alright. It's probably best he doesn't watch this, anyway. Looks like the first of the tanks is about to make the attempt."

Bucky didn't particularly want to watch it either. At this distance, the tank looked like a child's toy. But that made the bridge look like it was constructed of matchsticks. If it had swayed badly beneath the weight of the plane, it was even worse beneath the tank. Burning bile rose from Bucky's stomach, and he thought the tension might make him sick. Looking at the faces around him, he discovered he wasn't the only one looking ill. Even Davies seemed to be regretting his betting pool.

As the first tank made it across the bridge, a collective sigh erupted from the troops beneath the trees. Wells lowered his binoculars for a moment to glance at Bucky.

"Pack of smokes or not, I kinda hope you and Carrot win this one."

"If I win this one, you can have the smokes."

"Maybe you should give 'em to whichever nutjobs are driving those tanks."

"That's not a bad idea."

The second tank inched out onto the bridge. The bridge swayed, wobbling like a house of cards ready to topple at the slightest breeze. Somehow, the second tank reached the bank, and there was no sigh of relief from the gathered troops this time, but a loud cheer. Every man and woman on that hill saw themselves in the driver's seat of those tanks. Each safe tank wasn't a victory for the tank drivers; it was a victory for all of them. For America itself.

The third tank began its crossing. Maybe the driver was less careful than the last two, maybe he was overconfident and pushed the speed too fast, or maybe the bridge had finally taken too much punishment. The first sign the men on the hill had that something was wrong, was a loud, creaking groan of splintering iron and wood. The bridge swayed to one side, and buckled, dropping the tank into the river. Gasps and groans issued from everyone beneath the trees, but nobody moved. The engineers were already down there, and soldiers would only get in the way.

"Stark!" growled Phillips, from further down the hill.

"If you'd waited three months, I could have given you the schematics for a fully amphibious tank, Colonel," Stark said quickly.

"And another three months to have them built! Schmidt isn't going to give us that sort of time to sit around twiddling our thumbs. Now get down there with those engineers and find a way to get my tank out of that river."

"Who the hell's Schmidt?" Wells mused aloud. "I thought we were fighting Hitler?"

"Probably some Nazi general in charge of this area," said Gusty.

Bucky put all thoughts of Nazis out of mind as he watched the action below. Though the tank had been ditched into the river, whoever was driving it hadn't given up. Even as it took on water, it moved slowly forward, its tracked wheels generating small amounts of power to give it momentum. Unfortunately, the tank was perpendicular to the current, and slowly being pushed downriver. Eventually, if it didn't catch on any obstruction, it would reach the river mouth and be dumped in the Med.

Howard Stark's voice was loud enough to carry across the field to the ears of the watching troops.

"We have cables for towing," Stark was saying. "We need a couple of engineers to swim out and fasten one end of the cable to the tank's tow hook, and we can pull it out using these other two tanks."

A pair of engineers scrambled, shedding their outer clothes and boots and racing towards the water carrying cables before the tank could be washed completely out of range. The two tanks on the near side of the river followed slowly downstream, giving the swimmers the slack they needed to reach the vehicle stranded midway.

They all watched, tense, as the swimmers took a dive and disappeared for almost a minute. When they resurfaced, they gave the 'OK' sign and swam clear of the drifting tank. Immediately, the two tanks on the shore began moving uphill, slowly enough that the vehicle in the water wasn't flipped over onto its side. As the tank was brought closer to the shore, it began to emerge from the water, rising with the slope of the river bed. Water poured liberally from it, and Bucky felt his heart dip down into his stomach. How could the driver possibly have survived that much water? And why hadn't he bailed out when the tank became impossible to drive?

As soon as the waterlogged tank was on the river bank, the engineers were all over it. One of them lifted the hatch, and a very sodden driver climbed shakily out, waving to show he wasn't hurt. Bucky sank down onto his duffel bag and heaved a heavy sigh of relief. They'd almost had their first casualty of war, and so far not a single shot had been fired. He'd always heard Europe was an easier fight than the Pacific, but it wasn't the walk in the park he'd been expecting.

Once it was certain the driver was unharmed, and the engineers had turned their attention to trying to save the tank from water damage, the focus was turned to the lone tank on the opposite bank. Phillips, Hawkswell and Stark were still close enough for Bucky to hear.

"Much as I hate to lose good equipment," Hawkswell said, "we should probably leave it there and torch it. The tow cables won't reach the full length of the river, and we can't risk another driver like that. We still have these two tanks; they can tow the recovered one to the next campsite, and maybe we can salvage it."

Phillips seemed to like that idea even less than the man who'd suggested it. He turned to Stark. "Any better ideas?"

"We don't have the time or manpower to build a bridge across a river this wide—not one that will support a tank, at least," said Stark. "But from what I recall of the maps I saw earlier, there's a Ferry crossing about a dozen miles downstream. Takes local cars across, I believe."

"A car ferry? For a tank?"

Stark offered a shrug. "Should hold, as long as there's nothing else on it. Of course, that brings up two more problems."

"We can't use the car ferry without encountering locals," Phillips sighed wearily. He looked to have aged ten years in the past hour, the lines in his face becoming even more weathered. Bucky couldn't blame him. He felt like he'd been aged watching that bridge fiasco, too. "I didn't want our presence here to be known. No telling where German informants lie."

"Plus, a lone tank, without support or backup, is a sitting duck," Hawkswell added.

"Sir!" said Dancing. He'd been edging slowly closer to the officers throughout the conversation, and now he was positively bursting with anticipation. "I volunteer to lead a squad to meet the tank at the ferry and escort it to the new camp site."

"Shit," Wells swore quietly.

Phillips studied Dancing long and hard. Nobody in their right mind volunteered for anything in the army, but clearly Dancing, like Carrot, was not in his right mind. Bucky only realised how desperate Colonel Phillips was to keep that last tank when he gave a small nod.

"Alright. Take one of your sergeants, six of your men, and two of the jeeps. Stark, get your map out and show Lieutenant..?"

"Danzig, sir!"

Phillips winced. "Alright. Show Lieutenant Danzig here where that ferry cross is located, and where the next camp's going to be." He cupped his hands around his mouth and turned back to the scene at the bridge. "Carter!" he yelled. The woman turned. "Send two of those jeeps up here, then get the rest ready to move out."

"Tell you what," Wells said to Bucky, as Stark pulled a map from his pocket and began instructing the lieutenant, "I'll go with Dancing if you call it even on that two bucks I owe you for finding the SSR first yesterday."

"Done," Bucky grinned. And one of the easiest deals he'd ever made. No doubt his friend would be regretting his offer by the time they caught up with that tank.

Dancing finished with Stark and approached the men of the 107th who were clustered around Bucky, sheltering in the shade of the trees. Wells hauled himself to his feet—with some obvious reluctance, Bucky noted—and threw out a salute.

"Sir, I'm ready to accompany you on the mission."

"How very noble of you to volunteer, Sergeant Wells," said Dancing. There was a tone in his voice that might have been derision. "However, Sergeant Barnes will be accompanying me on this mission. You will continue with the rest of the men, to the next camp site. And just where is Sergeant Weiss?"

Half a dozen hands came up, pointing to a spot not far away. Weiss was lying on his back, head resting on his duffel and steel helmet set over his eyes. He seemed for all the world to be asleep, but Bucky wasn't so sure. Pretending to be asleep might be an awfully useful way of overhearing things that otherwise might not be overheard.

"Useless." Dancing gave a weary sigh and shook his head. "Utterly useless. No wonder nothing ever gets done around here. Barnes, grab your gear and pick six men to accompany us on the mission. Meet me over by those jeeps in five minutes, or I'm leaving without you."

This time, Dancing didn't even wait for a 'sir' or a salute. He strode over to one of the jeeps and took the driver's seat, the very picture of eager impatience. Of course, Dancing had two colonels to impress now, not just one. His nose would probably be doubly brown, by the end of this mission.

"Sorry pal," said Wells. He gave Bucky a sympathetic pat on the back. "Looks like Dancing doesn't dare leave you behind while he's not here, what with you being the colonel's favourite and all."

"Y'know, I ought to pick you as one of the men to come with us just to spite you both," he told his friend. "Make you ride shotgun with him, too."

"You wouldn't do that. You're not a complete bastard."

"Not yet," Bucky agreed. "But after an afternoon with Dancing, maybe I will be."

He glanced around at the troops, and everybody other than Carrot very pointedly didn't meet his eyes in case he picked them for the mission. The exception to that was Tipper, who sat straight-backed and even more eager than Dancing. He looked like some damn school kid sat at his desk, trying to get the teacher's attention. But Bucky wasn't ready to put the kid out there, not with an unknown number of German patrols between them and that ferry crossing.

"Carrot, you, Davies and Hodge take the jeep with Dancing," said Bucky at last. "Franklin, you're with me. You too, Tex." Private Robertson's line of reasoning about the bridge not taking weight had impressed him, mostly because it lined up with his own paranoia about Germans setting up traps and ambushes. "And Hawkins."

Tipper objected immediately. "But Sarge—"

"Not this time, Tipper. Stay with Wells."

"Aww."

"Try not to have too much fun," Wells told the group before they left, not quite able to hide the laughter in his eyes.

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

The road south to the ferry crossing was dusty and potholed. The jeep handled it just fine, but the deeper potholes caused the wheels to dip and the steering wheel to jerk to one side, so Bucky kept both hands firmly on it as he followed the first jeep down the road. In the backs of both vehicles, men kept a watch on the fields on either side of the road, alert for German patrols. The only thing they saw on that dusty journey, however, were cows.

"What's Texas like?" Bucky asked, and immediately regretted it when he got a mouthful of dust kicked up from the vehicle in front.

"Hot, dusty, and full of cows," said Tex. His eyes scanned the countryside around them as the wind tousled his hair and slowly deposited a thin layer of dust on his skin. "So it's kinda like France, I guess."

He grinned. Plymouth was like Wyoming, and France was like Texas. It seemed Americans were determined to find a little slice of home no matter where they went. So far, he hadn't found anywhere that was like New York… but maybe there was nowhere like New York.

"What do your family do? Cattle ranching?"

"Naw, my dad's in oil. He says oil's the future, that it's gonna make America the richest country in the world."

"You got any brothers and sisters?"

"Yeah, a brother. Johnny. He's followin' in my grandpa's footsteps. Gone off to do rodeo."

"Hey Sarge, look," said Franklin. He pointed over Bucky's shoulder to something further down the road. It turned out, in fact, to be the end of the road. It terminated in a short stone pier, on which sat a small, concrete building. The pier was empty, with no sign of the tank.

Dancing pulled over to to side of the road just short of the building and climbed out of the jeep. Bucky pulled over beside him, and gestured for the men to stay put and stay alert. All around were empty fields; if the tank was here, they should have seen it before now.

"Where the hell's our tank?" Dancing asked.

It sounded rhetorical. Bucky pulled out his binoculars and checked the other bank. There, he saw the tank. There was also a long, low ferry, sitting at the far pier. A man was standing in front of it, blocking the tank's path.

"It's still on the other side." He handed the binoculars over so Dancing could see for himself. "They're probably afraid the tank is too heavy for the ferry."

At that moment, another man appeared, this time on their side of the river. Clad in a pair of dusty brown pants and a sweat-stained white shirt, he stepped out of the small building and issued a rapid stream of French whilst gesticulating at the far bank.

"The tank isn't too heavy," Dancing told the man. "One of the allegedly smartest men in America says it will be fine."

"Passage à travers la rivière est de cinq francs," the man replied.

"Barnes, what is he saying?"

Bucky offered the lieutenant a shrug. "I dunno. You should've brought Wells; he speaks French. Sir." This, he suspected, was Dancing being visited by the Rule of Karma.

"Darnit!" Dancing turned back to the man, wearing the deepest scowl Bucky had ever seen on the guy. "Listen to me: we just want our tank. Send it over and we'll be on our way."

"Cinq francs, ou pas de passage."

"No, the ferry won't be sunk just because there's a tank on it. If you can take four cars, you can take a tank. Oh, I give up." Dancing threw his hands up in despair. "Barnes, you try."

What the hell did Dancing expect him to do? All Bucky knew of France was that it was like Texas, constantly in disdain of England, and currently occupied by Germans. Still, he gave it his best.

"Tank," he said, pointing to the opposite bank.

The man scowled at him. "Cinq francs."

A prickle of irritation swelled within him. Sank fronk? What the hell did that even mean? This was all Dancing's fault. Why couldn't he just have accepted Wells' offer? Then Bucky could be back with the rest of the company, and Wells could be here sorting this mess out.

"For Christssake," somebody grumbled from behind. Davies jumped out of the jeep and approached with his hand in one of the inside pockets of his jacket. "Don't they teach you anything in officer school, Danzig? He obviously wants a bribe." He held out a couple of dollar bills in one hand, and a packet of smokes in the other.

Dancing stiffened, full of self-righteous superiority. "Just because you partake in such low behaviour as bribery, Private, doesn't mean others—"

The man grabbed the packet of cigarettes and pocketed them before Dancing had even finished his sentence. He disappeared back into the concrete booth, and picked up a telephone, jabbering something fast and French into it. Bucky lifted his binoculars again, and this time he saw the guy who'd been impeding the tank's progress step aside and gesture it forward, directing it onto the ferry.

"Huh." Bribe the locals. I'll have to remember that one. "Good job, Davies."

"Somebody owes me a pack of smokes," the private grumbled.

Bribing the ferry operator was only half the job. The other half involved standing there watching as the tank was slowly loaded onto the ferry, and the ferry slowly made its way across the river. By the midway point, Bucky was a bundle of tightly leashed nerves. The ferry was painfully slow, and it was also riding worryingly low in the water.

"This is taking too long," said Dancing.

He, too, was watching through binoculars. He chewed his bottom lip, and didn't seem to be aware he was doing it. Probably wanted to get to that new base camp and have the tank waiting for the colonels. That would certainly impress them. Glancing around, Bucky saw that Davies had gone back to the jeep, to keep a watch on the surrounding fields with the others. This seemed like a good opportunity to speak to Dancing as a person, rather than an officer.

"Sir," he began, because he suspected Dancing saw himself as an officer first and a person second, "can I ask you a question?"

"Very well."

"I know it's probably none of my business, but I wanna know… why's it so important for you to get promoted?"

Dancing shot him a sideways look, then resumed peering through his binoculars. "I see you've been speaking with Sergeant Weiss."

"Well, yeah. That's what we do. We talk to each other. Sir. And he mentioned you were gunning for a promotion. What he didn't say, was why."

"Because he doesn't know why. You were right; it's really none of his business, Barnes, and it's none of yours either."

"Yessir." Again, he felt a prickle of irritation stir within him. Technically, Dancing was within his right to tell him not a damn thing about himself. There was no rule saying that officers and enlisted men had to be buddies. But Bucky liked to know what made people tick. How they worked, how they thought, what they were likely to do in any given situation. He liked to know what the men around him were made of, and knowing what the man giving him orders was made of was just as important. He tried to press his point home.

"But you see, sir, I like to know what I'm fighting for. I'll always do my job to the best of my abilities, but if I can understand the purpose behind it, it helps me to understand it, and maybe look at finding better ways of doing it. Knowing that the guy giving me orders has some priority other than getting a bit more silver pinned on his chest, well, it helps me to understand where he's coming from, and that makes me better able to motivate the men to accomplish the mission. And I figure that's always a good thing."

A deep, tired sigh escaped Dancing's lips. When he lowered his binoculars and turned, an expression of defeat etched on his face, Bucky was reminded of how young Dancing actually was. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that beneath that pompous exterior was somebody two or three years his junior.

"Alright," Dancing agreed. "But this doesn't get back to anyone else."

"I understand, sir."

The lieutenant nodded, more to himself than to Bucky, it seemed. "I have a girl waiting for me back home. Rachel. We've been courting for nearly three years now, and last year I decided to ask for her hand. I did it the traditional way; by approaching her father. I'd met the man a few times, figured he wouldn't have any objections. But he'd served as an officer in the Army, during the Great War, and he had high expectations of the man who would marry his daughter. Hell, I don't think he cared much about her opinion, but he wanted a very specific type of person as a son-in-law. Told me that he wouldn't let anybody without at least the rank of Captain marry his daughter. So, I signed up. Enrolled for the officer training program. And here I am."

Not for the first time, Bucky felt warm gratitude towards his parents. He'd brought many girls home, over the years, and never once had his folks set some standard for them. They'd greeted each girl as if she was the only one Bucky had introduced them to, and welcomed each one as best they could, even if they didn't approve of his choices. They'd shown the same equanimity towards the few guys Mary-Ann had brought home, and the two or three young women Charlie had gone out with. He was lucky to have parents who were so accepting of their children's choices.

"Why don't you want anybody knowing that?" Bucky asked.

"Why don't I want men who signed up out of a sense of patriotism and desire to serve their country, to know that the only reason I'm here is to gain my future father-in-law's permission to marry his daughter, and that if it wasn't for that, I wouldn't be here at all? Gee, I don't know, Sergeant; why don't I want anybody knowing that?"

"I think they'd understand, sir. We're all here for different reasons, and love is no less noble a reason than patriotism or duty."

"You may change your mind when men start dying," Dancing said darkly. "At any rate, my instruction stands. Weiss hears nothing of this. He'd probably call it a 'damn childish notion' and advise me to 'grow a pair and be a man by telling her father where to stick his permission.'"

Bucky couldn't help but smile. That sounded exactly like the sort of thing Weiss would come out with. Maybe that was, deep down, part of the reason for their clash. Weiss claimed he had children around Dancing's age; did Dancing see his future father-in-law every time he looked at Weiss?

"I won't even mention your name to Sergeant Weiss," Bucky agreed.

"And no gossipping about my personal business with Sergeant Wells, either. Don't think I haven't noticed you two as thick as thieves."

"I promise I won't tell anybody, sir."

"Hmph." Dancing turned back to the river, to watch the ferry's progress. It was now so close that binoculars weren't needed. "Go tell the men to turn the jeeps around and prepare to leave. That tank's almost here, and I don't want to waste a moment getting to the camp site."

"Sir."

He left Dancing to his watching with a shake of his head. It was a real pity the guy didn't want anyone to know his story. He got the feeling that they'd be more inclined to give Dancing an easier time if they knew he was motivated by something which most of them had probably felt at some point in their lives. Instead, they saw only what Weiss had told them; a man who wanted ribbons on his chest, silver on his sleeve, and the authority to do whatever the hell he pleased. And really, who wanted to be led by a man like that?