We Were Soldiers
17. Three Men
"Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. Wake up, Sergeant."
Bucky opened his eyes and made out the shape of somebody hovering above him, shaking his shoulder and whispering his name. It took him a moment to put a name to the voice, and when he did, he almost bolted upright out of bed.
"Lieutenant Danzig? What's going on?"
"The Colonel's got a mission for you, Sergeant," Dancing said, and he didn't sound happy about it one bit. "You're to report to the command tent on the double."
"Yessir."
As soon as Dancing left, Bucky scrambled for his uniform and tried to dress without waking the rest of the men. Wells would sleep through anything, but some of them were light sleepers, and they'd marched hard during the night. They deserved a rest.
When he stepped out of the tent, he squinted against the sunlight. It was midmorning, and the camp was mostly silent. For the past three days, they'd travelled at night and camped during the day, because neither of the colonels had liked the idea of crossing open fields in broad daylight. Not with the size of their company. Not with the tanks, which would be seen and heard a mile away. Not with the plane in tow.
He wasted no time making his way to the command tent, and since the sides were open, he walked right in. Colonel Hawkswell only stood on formality when Colonel Phillips wasn't around, and for the most part, it seemed Colonel Phillips was running the show. Today was no exception; Phillips was studying a map, whilst Hawkswell and Dancing looked on.
"Sir?" Bucky asked with a salute, as he stepped into the tent.
"Barnes. Good. I've got a mission for you." Phillips gestured down to the map. "Before tonight's over we'll be well into this forest, but the going will be slow once we get to the trees, and we don't have any recent aerial surveys of the area; foliage is too dense. The maps we do have are at least three years old, and I don't like going into that forest without more recent intel. I want you to take a couple of men and scout out as far as here," he said, indicating an escarpment. "If there are buildings, make note of them. Signs of civilisation, such as trees cut for firewood or trails through the undergrowth, write them down. And I need to know if any of the waterways have changed course since our maps were last updated. They're British intelligence maps, so they should be relatively up to date, but with winter run-off from the Alps, you never know. In particular, keep an eye open for anything that may impede the tanks."
"Yessir," he agreed. So much for a day in bed before another long march.
"And take that new gun with you, just in case. You're authorised to eliminate hostiles, but I'd prefer you avoid them unless that's impossible. Go fast, quiet, and on foot."
Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. Until now, German troops had been remarkably absent, but he knew the company's good luck couldn't hold out forever. Sooner or later they would run into unfriendly troops, and Bucky would have to use that rifle.
"I understand, Colonel."
"Good. Be back before nightfall."
He threw up a salute and left, his mind working at a million miles an hour. Going on foot and being back by nightfall meant they'd have to move fast. That precluded Biggs from the mission; he was steady, but not particularly speedy. The need for stealth eliminated Mex and Hodge from being eligible, since he didn't think either could keep their mouths shut for very long. Mex was too fond of chattering, and Hodge too fond of the sound of his own voice. Besides, if there was even a chance of running into Germans during this mission, he needed cool heads he could trust to watch his back. By the time he'd reached the regiment's tent, he'd already picked out two candidates.
"Gusty!" he hissed, as he ducked into the tent. The corporal was upright almost immediately, eyes wide as he scanned for danger. Experience had taught Bucky that although Gusty got nervous about even the thought of doing something dangerous, as soon as any action started, he settled right into the moment. For Gusty, the worst thing was anticipation of an event.
"Wassat?!" Gusty mumbled.
"You're coming on a mission with me. Get dressed and geared up, and meet me outside as soon as you're ready."
"Mmble."
Taking that as confirmation, he crouched down over Wells' bed and gave his friend's shoulder a sharp poke. "Wells. Wells. Oh for godssake, WELLS!"
With a tired groan, Wells finally opened his eyes. "I'm asleep."
"Well, now you're on a mission."
"I don't do missions on… days."
"Get dressed and meet me outside. We're on the clock on this one."
Whilst his friends dragged themselves out of their flimsy camp beds, he took his new rifle from its case and slung it over his shoulder. Then he checked his Colt, and stuffed some extra ammo into one of his belt pouches. He grabbed his backpack and canteen, then left the tent to find a water barrel to refill the flask from. Each time the company set up camp, filling the water barrels and treating them with halozone was a top priority. An army on the march needed a lot of water, and nobody wanted to risk drinking straight from the river any more than they had to.
Wells was the first to appear, pulling his jacket on and shouldering his M1. "Gusty's just getting re-dressed," he explained. "Managed to put nearly every item of clothing on backwards. He says he's no good at getting dressed in the dark when he's only had two hours' sleep. Can't say I blame him. What's the mission?"
"Recon."
"You woke me for recon?" Wells asked blearily. "Hell, what's wrong with Carrot, or Hawkins?"
"Nothing. I just thought you'd enjoy a leisurely stroll through the woods."
"Is there a bar at the end of these woods?"
"No."
"Then I can't imagine why you think I'd enjoy that."
Bucky said nothing. He could hardly admit that the thought of shooting people, the thought of taking lives, brought a cold sweat to his skin. That he needed somebody with him who, if necessary, would not be afraid to knock some sense into him. That Carrot, and Hawkins, and most of the others, were too nice to knock sense into their sergeant. That it wasn't their responsibility to knock sense into their sergeant. That they weren't ruthlessly harsh enough to push him enough to kill. And that he didn't want them to become like that. Let them keep what innocence they had, while they still could.
He was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of Agent Carter. Or, more accurately, by Agent Carter passing by where they stood waiting for Gusty. Wells leapt at the opportunity, and Bucky was left feeling deep relief that he'd avoided one conversation he never wanted to have.
"Agent Carter," Wells said, stepping in front of her so that she had to stop. Bucky thought he saw irritation on her face, but if it was there, it was swiftly masked. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to introduce myself. Sergeant Danny Wells," he said, holding out his hand.
She pointedly ignored his hand. "Is there something I can help you with, Sergeant?"
"Actually, yes. I was wondering—"
"Eighteen," she interrupted.
"Huh?"
"That's how many misguided attempts at romantic overtures I've had to stamp out since your company was assigned to the SSR," she said frostily. "And do you know what I'm going to tell the next soldier who stops me to introduce himself?"
"I'm not sure I want to know that, now."
"Nineteen." Ouch. The woman was sharp. Bucky grinned. She reminded him of his sister, Mary-Ann. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"I was only gonna ask where you got your rifle training," Wells hurried on quickly, still determined to salvage what tattered shreds of dignity he could. "Sergeant Barnes here was telling me you're the best marksman he's ever seen."
"I was trained in the British Army," she said. "And now that your curiosity has been satisfied, Sergeant, you can either move aside, or I can move you. If you don't believe I'm capable or willing to do such a thing, perhaps you could speak to Private Hodge. I believe he's been assigned to your regiment now, hasn't he?"
"Not by choice," Wells assured her. He stepped aside, and Agent Carter continued on her way without another word. "Pleasure speaking to you, Agent Carter!" he called after her. He turned back to Bucky. "I thought that went well."
"I think she hates you," he said, the grin widening on his face.
"She hates those other eighteen guys. She just needs to get to know me."
"Riiight."
"Don't grin like that. I'm gonna marry her. Her, or Rita Hayworth. It's between the two of them. Then you'll be eating your words."
"Y'know, for a guy who claims he doesn't want to be settled with one dame, you sure do talk about it a lot," he pointed out.
Wells sighed. "Sometimes I forget that you listen when I talk. Talking to you is clearly bad for my health."
Gusty burst out of the tent, all pent-up, nervous energy. "Sorry, so sorry. You've not been waiting too long, have you?"
"Not at all," Bucky told him. "As a matter of fact, Wells was just providing me with with light entertainment while we waited for you. But now that you're here, let's get going. I'll take point. Wells, cover our six. We've got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall."
And hopefully he could get there and back again without having to use his rifle. Without having to go back to Stark and tell him how good his gun was at killing people.
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They travelled until midday beneath the burning sun, then stopped for a light lunch of foil-packed K-Ration biscuits, which were crunchy but filling enough to keep them going for another few hours. Bucky soon slung his rifle over his shoulder and let Gusty take point, so that he could continually cross-reference his map with the surrounding terrain. He made note of any changes or obstacles, but found there was very little the map hadn't already indicated. Then, as they resumed their march after lunch, he found himself feeling ill at ease and constantly on edge, and it took him a while to figure out why.
He didn't like the forest. It wasn't a proper forest, like the type he saw in his mind's eye whenever he thought of Robert Frost's poetry, or imagined the great forests of the Appalachian trail, which his father had walked a portion of with some guys from the boxing club, shortly after its completion. It wasn't a forest of dense, towering trees, of deep emerald green contrasting against azure skies and swirling white mists. Instead, it was a sparse, dusty brown forest of small, shrub-like trees such as olive and cypress, and other species he couldn't put names to; little trees which thrived in the dry, sandy soil and the Mediterranean heat, and which never gained any impressive height or density. They cast sparse shade where they clung to the hillside, but their thin, papery trunks offered little screening from prying eyes. Forest it may be, but he felt exposed whilst he was in it.
Following a steep uphill hike, they finally started going downhill, and found themselves in a valley. The trees were thicker down here, clustered around an underground network of streams which occasionally bubbled quietly to the surface to form natural springs. Recalling what he'd been taught at boot camp—that groundwater was usually purer, and safer to drink, than surface water—they stopped at one of the springs to replenish their canteens. In the trees around them, myriad birds warbled their songs, completely unfazed by the strangers in their midst, and Bucky finally felt himself relax a little.
Suddenly, an angry wail shattered the peace of the stifling afternoon air. Bucky froze, every muscle tense, ready to drop, or turn, or lift his rifle and fire. Behind and to the sides, he heard Gusty and Wells halt immobile too. When no attack came, they all relaxed, but not by very much. The wail had a very incessant, grating quality to it.
"What's that noise?" asked Wells.
"Sounds like a seagull, Sarge."
"A seagull? The hell kinda seagulls have you been around, Gusty? No, it sounds like a cat."
"It's not a cat," said Bucky. He'd finally remembered where he'd heard that kind of wail before, and now memories of his childhood came flowing back down the river of time. He couldn't remember Mary-Ann being a baby, because they were pretty close in age, but he could sure remember Charlie and Janet being that young. The sleepless nights, the vomiting, the colic… it was enough to put a guy off wanting any of his own. "It's a baby."
"What would a baby be doing out in the middle of nowhere?"
"Gee, I dunno, Wells, I didn't pack my damn crystal ball for this mission. We should go check it out."
"No, we shouldn't." Wells rolled his eyes when Bucky scowled at him. "What if it's a trap? I believe one of the defining features of babies is that they don't usually crawl out into the middle of nowhere on their own. If there's a baby, it'll be with someone. Even if it's not a trap, it's none of our business."
"I say it is." Besides, that cry was plaintive, agonising, desperate. It wasn't the cry of a happy child, and it stirred something within him. "If you don't want to get involved, then carry on without me. At least if it's a trap, only one of us will get caught."
"Dammit, Barnes, we're not leaving your dumb ass behind." Wells pulled the safety catch of his M1 back with his thumb. "C'mon Gusty, let's prepare to walk into a German trap."
Bucky ignored his friend's sarcasm and crept forward, towards the source of the wailing, his weapon held at chest-height, ready to fire. The foliage was dense down here, all dry spindly grass and low-lying herbaceous shrubs, and he could barely see the ground a half dozen paces in front of him. Not far from their path, he found the first sign of something not being right. It was a body. The body of a man sprawled prone on the ground, dressed in plain civilian clothing. A farmer, perhaps, or a forester. Content that his two comrades were watching his six, he lowered himself to the ground and reached down to feel for a pulse in the man's neck with his left hand. There was none, and the skin was cold to the touch.
No big deal. Just a dead body. You've seen those before. In pictures. On a projector. Just concentrate on the mission.
"Got a man down here, dead." He glanced down again, saw the patches of red which had stained the man's waistcoat a darker shade of brown. "Looks like he was shot in the back. Keep your eyes open."
He left the body and moved forward again. Suddenly, the forest seemed alive with furtive, dangerous noises. Those birds that had sang pleasantly now chattered and mocked him. Small creatures running through the undergrowth were potential German sharpshooters taking aim. The rustle of leaves wasn't caused by the wind, but a hundred enemy troops descending like a plague. Idiot, he told himself. It's probably a trap.
A couple of dozen metres away from the man, he found a woman. Like the man, she'd been shot in the back, but where his body had fallen sprawled, hers was curled protectively around a tiny, red-faced, screaming baby that couldn't have been more than a few days old. The woman's eyes were closed as if in sleep, but her face was grey, like moonlit fog. Again, Bucky reached down to feel for a pulse, but he didn't find one, and hadn't expected to. In his experience, no living woman would ignore a child that screamed like that. Most went running whenever their infants gurgled the wrong way.
With one last glance around for any sign of ambush, he put the safety back on his rifle and shouldered it, then stooped down to pluck the infant from the woman's grasp, cradling it in the crook of his arms. The kid really had a pair of lungs on it. How long had it been since it had last been fed? Probably not more than a couple of days. He didn't know how long babies could go without liquid, but he knew that for adults, three to five days without water was the standard, and it was pretty damn hot out here.
Gusty and Wells stepped forward, glancing at the woman, and the baby in Bucky's arms.
"Whaddya think happened to these people, Sarge?"
"I think Germans happened to them," said Wells.
"Why Germans?" Bucky asked him.
Wells gave a shrug, his eyes continuously scanning the trees. "Who else would it be? All our guys are behind us, and why would the French shoot their own people and leave a baby to starve? Can't you shut the damn thing up?"
"It needs milk."
"Sorry, I'm fresh out."
"Well, at the very least we should give it some water before taking it back to camp."
"Take it back? Take it back? Have you forgotten we have a mission?"
"No, I haven't forgotten," he shot back. "It's my mission, actually. If you want to carry on with it, be my guest. I'll happily turn command over to you. But then the choice is yours. We can't take the baby with us; it's too noisy. If we leave it here, it will probably be dead by the time we get back to it. Is that what you want? For a baby to die? Is one tiny, innocent life less important than a recon mission?"
"I never said that," Wells scowled at him. "Don't put words in my mouth. I just want to make sure you're aware that if we go back and tell the colonel that we didn't complete the mission, you're gonna get chewed out for it regardless of however noble the mitigating circumstances are."
"I can live with that. Maybe it'll be enough to convince Dancing I'm not the colonel's favourite." He looked down at the tiny, screaming face. "Gusty and I will see to the baby. You go see if you can pull a slug out of that guy's back. And one from the woman, too."
An expression of disbelief washed over Wells' face. "You want me to pull bullets out of dead people?"
"Yeah. If we take the bullets back to camp, maybe Stark can identify where they're from. It's not much, but it might be something. Intel. Maybe an answer to who killed these people. Maybe it'll satisfy the colonel."
Wells didn't look convinced. Gusty quickly stepped up to the plate. He'd gone pretty quiet, seeing his sergeants argue so heatedly, and seemed itching for a distraction.
"I'll go pull the bullets out of the dead people, Sarge," he offered. "Back in high school, I used to do vivisections for all the kids who got queasy about cutting up dead things. I don't mind."
"Alright," Bucky nodded. "Check them for any ID, too. Wells, get over here, I need your help."
His fellow sergeant eyed the baby as he would a growling dog. "Is it too late to accept dead body duty?"
"Yes, it is. First thing I need to do is change this diaper. It feels damp, and doesn't smell too great. Here, hold the baby for a minute."
He handed the kid over so he could unstrap his rifle and shrug off his pack. Wells held it out in front of him like it was some sort of poison-spitting snake that might at any moment bite him.
"Don't hold it like that," Bucky said. "You have to cradle it in your arms. And make sure you support its head. But be gentle; babies have very soft heads."
"For godssake, Barnes, I spent my whole life trying to avoid things like this," his friend growled. He made an awkward effort at holding the baby correctly, and wrinkled his nose as he looked down at the screaming child. "Jeez, you're an ugly thing. No wonder the vultures haven't come to finish you off; you probably scared them away with your screaming." For a wonder, as Wells spoke, the screaming stopped. "Uh, I think I broke it."
"No screaming is a good thing. Just keep doing what you're doing, I'm almost finished." He'd made a makeshift cushion out of the waterproof poncho from his backpack, and readied a couple of handkerchiefs. "Alright, gimme the baby."
Wells handed the kid over, and Bucky worked as fast as he could. He whipped off the dirty diaper and tossed it aside, and used one of the handkerchiefs, dampened with water from his canteen, to clean the baby—a girl—as best he could. His emergency aid kit's sterile dressings made a useful absorbent pad, and he tied it off with another handkerchief as a makeshift diaper. Meanwhile, Gusty had returned from the body of the man, and used a pair of medical tweezers to take a metal slug from the woman's back. He put both bullets into a sample container his aid kit, then let Wells pour water over his hands to wash away what little blood he'd got on them.
"No ID on them," he said. "Whatever they were running from, it must'a happened fast."
Bucky looked up at him. "What makes you think they were running?"
"Dunno. Just a feeling. If a guy was running from you, about the only place you could shoot him would be in the back. Looks to me like he was shot first, and she kept going, probably to try and get her baby away from whoever was chasing them. Otherwise they would probably be closer together. Right?"
It made sense.
Halfway through the diaper change, the baby had started crying again. Its angry screams echoed around the valley and put Bucky's nerves on edge. If there were Germans nearby, they couldn't fail to hear that screaming. They couldn't stay here, but he also couldn't afford to carry a screaming kid all those miles back to camp.
"Can't you give it a cracker or something to shut it up?" Gusty asked.
"Jeez, don't you guys know anything about babies?" Bucky asked. How could anyone go through life and not pick up a little bit of info about kids?
Wells shook his head. "Youngest child."
"Only child," Gusty added happily.
He sighed. Thank god the world had women to look after kids. If it were left to guys, the human race would be extinct by now.
"Fine. What we have here is a very hungry, very thirsty baby girl, probably no more than a few days old," he explained. Time to give them a crash course. "Babies don't get their teeth for months, so they can't eat anything solid. About all they can do is drink fluids, and they do that by sucking. Do we have anything in our packs that might serve as a rubber teat?"
Wells pulled out his first aid kit and began frantically searching through it, while Gusty did the same with his mess kit.
"The closest thing I have," Wells said, "is this bottle with a pointy applicator bit, which has eye and nose drop solution in it, or a syrette of morphine tartrate. How do babies feel about morphine?"
"Morphine and babies are a no-no. But pull out one of those salt tablets and a couple of the vitamins. We can add them to water. If she's dehydrated, they should help."
"From the mess kit, I got… nada," said Gusty. "Everything we have to eat needs to be chewed, and unless you want to boil the kid in my cooking pot, there's not much I can offer."
Bucky nodded. "Wells, get a fire started."
"Uh, I was just kidding about boiling the baby, Sarge."
"I know. But this calls for drastic measures. Babies can manage what we eat, as long as it's super fine." He frowned at the screaming infant. "At least, I hope they can. I've never heard of a baby this young surviving without milk before. But we'll worry about that later. What have we got in the ration kit?"
Gusty grabbed all available food items whilst Wells gathered a pile of dry grass and twigs. Before setting it alight, he pulled a small pair of pliers from his pack and used them to separate one of the casings of his Colt ammo from its bullet head. He sprinkled the gunpowder at the base of the small fire, and ignited it with his Zippo. The flame sprang to life with a bright flash as the gunpowder was consumed.
"What?" he asked, when he spotted Bucky watching his progress.
A small smile tugged at one corner of Bucky's mouth. "Nothing. Sometimes I'm just reminded that, occasionally, you do have good ideas."
"We've got a can of unidentifiable meat," said Gusty, rummaging in his pack, "more of that lemon powder stuff that Franklin loves so much, a packet of chewing gum, malted milk tablets, and a bouillon cube. I think we've also got a couple of those cracker things left from lunch, too."
"The malted milk tablets are great. Crush them into the pot and add some water. We don't want it too hot, but she'll probably like it better if it's warm. Put the salt tablets and one of the vitamin tablets in there, too. Here, Wells, you take Francine while I see about mashing up a bit of that meat."
"Francine?"
Bucky handed the kid over, and made a start on the can with his tiny can opener. "We're in France, she's a girl; Francine."
"We're not calling her Francine," said Wells. "That's a stupid name."
"The guy who doesn't want anything to do with kids now wants to name one?" he scoffed.
"Damn right. I think we should call her… Matilda."
"Well… I suppose Matilda's alright," he grudgingly relented. It was a nice name. Nicer than Francine, anyway.
"I like Suzie-Lynne," Gusty offered helpfully.
"Alright then," Wells nodded. "Matilda it is. And Gusty is banned from naming anything. Ever. Now look, Matilda, you gotta be quiet. There might be Krauts lurking nearby. They already shot your mom and dad; you don't want them to get the drop on us, do you?" When his speech didn't work, he pulled his tags from beneath his shirt and jangled them above her head.
"I think she's too young for playing with things," Bucky said. "And probably too hungry."
"I know how she feels." He sank down onto the ground beside the fire. "I'd kill for a proper fry-up. With my bare hands, if necessary. Which I might yet do, if this thing doesn't shut up. C'mon Barnes, there must be some sort of trick. How do I make it be quiet?"
Bucky shrugged. Taking care of babies was much easier when they were in a house full of amenities. "I guess you could try singing to her." Somehow, even with both arms full of baby, Wells managed to flip him a two-fingered salute. "Fine. Try rocking her, then."
"Sure. Hand me some rocks."
"You know, you're not actually as funny as you think you are."
"Bullshit," Wells scoffed. "I'm—oh, goddammit."
"What?!"
"She's got my finger and she won't let go."
Gusty burst out laughing at the sight of Wells trying to extract his finger from the grip of the tiny hand that had hold of it, and Bucky swiftly joined him. When Wells scowled darkly at them both, it only made it that much funnier.
"Stop laughing and help me out here. This thing is worse than one of those Chinese finger traps."
"Don't worry, this mixture's just about ready." Bucky stirred the pan with Gusty's spoon, making sure the lumps were mushed out. It probably wasn't as warm as it should be, and probably wouldn't taste nice, but it was what the Matilda needed right now, in lieu of milk. "Okay, hand her over, let's give this a try."
He moved the tripod off the fire, then accepted the baby from Wells. Sure enough, when he dipped his little finger into the mixture, he found it on the cooler side of tepid, but as soon as he brought his finger to the baby's mouth, she sucked up every bit of moisture and then cried for more. Bucky felt his shoulders relax. It was working. He just needed to get enough liquid into Matilda to keep her alive and, preferably, keep her quiet until they got back to camp. Unfortunately, he know how much and how often babies needed to drink. This was gonna take a while.
"You guys might wanna pack everything up then find a shady spot to keep watch in," he told the other two. "Just because she's finally stopped crying doesn't mean we're out of danger, and it might be a while before we can travel."
In fact, it was almost an hour before they could travel. Feeding a baby, literally by hand, was painfully slow work. Matilda was so dehydrated that she drank everything on offer then promptly fell into an exhausted sleep. But it was better than having her scream the whole way back to camp. At least now they stood a chance of moving quietly through the countryside.
"How are you gonna carry that kid and your rifle?" Wells asked.
"Easy. We've got a triangular bandage in the first aid kid, don't we?"
"Sure," said Gusty. "Lemme grab it."
Five minutes later, he had a sling tied around his chest, which went over his neck on the left, and under his arm on the right, tied off in a knot at his back. Matilda's very own tiny hammock. It did, however, leave one problem. With the kid fastened closely to him, he couldn't get his new rifle into the proper firing position.
"Switch," he said to Wells. "No point me trying to be accurate with that whilst I've got Matilda. You take the SSR-01, and I'll take your M1. And for the love of God, don't break it, or Stark might kill us both."
"Break it?" Wells said, in a scandalised tone of voice. "I've never been clumsy in my life, and I've no intention of starting now."
"What about that time you fell into that ditch?" Gusty asked.
"There were… factors."
"You mean you were blind drunk," Bucky grinned.
"Yeah. And now I'm not. So let's get moving. The sooner we get back to camp, the sooner you can get chewed out, and the sooner we can leave this kid in the hands of someone more qualified than either of us three to take care of it."