We Were Soldiers

19. Bye Bye Baby

The jeep devoured the miles. Wells set a fast pace… but probably not as fast as the colonel would have liked. Riding shotgun, Gusty kept his eyes open and his rifle ready. Bucky had the whole of the back seat, and he braced himself with his feet against the base of the seats on front of him so that Matilda, fast asleep in his arms, wasn't rocked too harshly on the bumpy road.

There had been a minor argument in camp, before the team set out for Aureille. Colonel Phillips had thought that Bucky's team would draw less attention if they went in on foot, dressed as civilians, and with only sidearms. Colonel Hawkswell didn't like the idea of soldiers out of uniform; thought the whole idea was sneaky. Liked even less the idea of sending soldiers into unknown territory with only sidearms. In the end, Hawkswell had won the argument. Said that when the missions fell under the remit of the SSR, Phillips would call the shots. Orphaned babies did not come under the SSR's remit.

A half mile out from the settlement, Bucky instructed Wells to pull over and park the jeep between the uniformly spaced trees of an olive grove.

"We'll go the rest of the way on foot," he explained, when the two in the front turned with questioning glances. "Don't wanna roll into town if there's a Nazi patrol passing through. I'd like to get the lay of the land, find out what I'm walking into. Gusty, take the jeep a little further into the grove, and stay with it. If you see German patrols, keep your head down and stay quiet. Wells, grab your rifle. You're on point."

Neither of them objected as Bucky prepared Matilda for the remainder of the journey. In truth, there wasn't much preparation to do. She'd been fed before they left the camp, her diaper was fresh, and she was still sleeping soundly. But Bucky wanted her to look her best, to make a good impression on whatever family ended up taking her. Cute, quiet babies got a better response outta adults than ones which were crying and smelled of soiled diaper.

Gusty gave a quick salute before sliding into the driver's seat and making headway into the grove. Wells set a direct path to the village through the trees, no longer constrained by the need to follow a road. He set a swift pace, and in less than ten minutes they found themselves on the outskirts of the small settlement, their presence screened by a series of low, dark green bushes growing wild along the roadside. There, Bucky crouched down and willed Matilda to stay asleep while Wells took out his binoculars and scoped out the place.

"Looks quiet. Couple of vegetable stalls in the village square. Bakery nearby, but you can't probably smell that as well as I can. Small clusters of houses could be a problem; German patrols could hide in the narrow alleys pretty well. But then, so could we. Judging by the size of this place, there can't be more than a few hundred people here. And I see some sort of harvester in one of the fields, out on the other side of town. Horse-drawn. It's like the village that time forgot."

"Good." He elaborated when Wells sent another questioning glance his way. "Sleepy little place like this probably isn't of any strategic value. Lowers our chances of running into Krauts."

"I see your point. So. How do you wanna do this?"

"Lemme have a quick look through those peepers."

When Wells handed them over, Bucky peered through them, immediately transported into the centre of the village itself. Wells was right; the houses were packed pretty close, and generally nucleated around the small town square. The rooftops were clear, but a church belfry caught his attention; good place for a sniper. If he were a German commander expecting an attack, he'd have a sharpshooter up in that belfry. Pick off the targets one by one. The SSR-01 was built for that kind of slaughter. Luckily, the Krauts wouldn't be expecting an attack here, because there was nothing to attack.

"We won't win any trust if we go in sneaking around," he said at last. "And we can't just dump Matilda on a doorstep and hope for the best. We gotta talk to the locals, so let's do that. Main road. We'll go in, ask if there's a midwife or someone who might be willing to take Matilda in or find a family to put her with, and get back to Gusty ASAP. Sound?"

"You're the boss." Wells released the safety catch of his rifle with his thumb. "Never hurts to be prepared, though."

They left their hiding place and stepped onto the road which led into town. Their appearance did not have the effect Bucky was hoping for. The colourfully dressed residents of Aureille backed away when they saw two soldiers approach, eyes widening in alarm. Men, women and children ducked into houses. Doors were slammed. It was as if Bucky had a field of repulsion around him, extending out to a distance of twenty metres. But what the hell were these people so afraid of? Hadn't they seen American soldiers before?

"Wait, don't run," he called to one man's retreating back. He was subjected to a slammed door as a reward. He caught a woman's eye right before she turned to flee. "Please, we just want to talk."

Slam.

"It's the uniforms," said Wells. "They're too jumpy. Phillips was right. We should'a come in plain clothes."

"Or maybe it's your rifle. Do you have to carry it so… threateningly?"

"If I want to be able to use it in a pinch, yeah I do."

"Lower it a little. And try to look less threatening."

Wells sighed, but obeyed. He kept his finger on the trigger, but he lowered the gun into a less accessible position. At least now he didn't like he was ready to open fire at any moment. But the people still fled, and now they were fleeing further in advance. Word of their arrival, Bucky guessed, was spreading.

"This is no use," he said at last. They'd halted in the village square, where even the stall owners had taken refuge inside nearby houses. "Try talking to them."

"You think they'll listen to the guy with the gun more than the guy with the baby?"

"Talk to them in French."

"Ugh, this again? I already told you, I don't—"

"Yes, you do. I heard you," Bucky insisted.

"One line."

"That's one more than I know." He stopped at the well in the centre of the square and perched on the lip of it. It was covered by a small roof, which offered a little relief from the glare of the sun. Much as he wanted to wind up a bucket of cold water to drink and wash his face with, he couldn't afford to let his guard down that much. Besides, there was nowhere to put Matilda. "Start talking, or we're gonna be here a long time."

Wells closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, swearing quietly under his breath. "God dammit…" He turned to one of the houses, addressing its blue-painted upstairs shutter which was open slightly as a couple of worried faces peered around it. "Excusez-moi. Je… prends une enfant?" The wooden shutter was swiftly closed. "Alright, that was the wrong word. 'Prends' is 'take.' Now they probably think we're child snatchers."

"Try again."

This time, Wells knocked on a door. There was no answer, probably because he was still carrying his rifle and looking increasingly pissed off by the way this mission was going, but he shouted through the door anyway.

"Excuzes-moi monsieur. J'ai… trouvé une enfant. Où est le… ah, dammit, I don't know the word for 'midwife.' Où est la mere?" He knocked again. "Je suis un ami. Je ne suis pas ici à blesser ou tuer." With a sigh, he turned back to Bucky. "Alright, my French sucks, but I know what I said mostly should'a made sense."

"Don't worry about it. I have a new idea." He nodded towards the belfry. "Where there's a bell tower, there's usually a church. Might not be a midwife, but the house of God is probably the next best thing. You disagree?" he asked, when an unimpressed grimace crossed Wells' face.

"Are you kidding? The only good thing to come outta church is the idea of drinking wine with your bread."

"Huh? What about that stuff you told Hawkins, back at Camp Shanks? I mean, you were quoting the Bible to him." He'd even known the verse number.

"That was just me telling a guy who'd lost his brother the sorta thing he needed to hear."

"So, you didn't actually believe the things you were saying?" He knew his voice was rising in volume, could hear the anger threading through it, could feel it pulsing through his veins, but he didn't care. Lying to a guy who was in mourning for his brother was low.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. Drew had died, and Hawkins needed to hear that his brother hadn't died for nothing. That there was some greater purpose, some noble cause, some reason behind it to make that loss a little easier to bear. If you want to be pissed off at me for selling him a nice line from an old book, go ahead. Just do it some other time, because right now we're in the middle of Nazi-controlled France, trying to find someone to take a goddamn baby off our hands."

In the silence that descended over the village square, only the flapping of pigeon wings could be heard, and Bucky hoped to God that the people watching and listening from their houses really couldn't speak English, because after Wells' angry tirade, they were bound to think the pair of them mad. But Wells was right about one thing; this wasn't the place to get angry. This wasn't even about Hawkins' brother. This was about Bucky being ordered to hand an innocent, defenceless baby over to strangers. And he wasn't sure he could do it.

He pushed himself up from the side of the well. Matilda stirred in his arms, but didn't wake. "We're actually in the south of Nazi-controlled France," he corrected, because he knew smart-assed pendantism was something Wells could relate to. "I'm taking Matilda to the church. I don't need your input on that. It's my mission, and it's the decision I've made. But I do need you to come with me to translate. If you can't—or won't—do that, then go back to the jeep."

"Just because we have a difference of opinion doesn't mean I'm gonna mutiny. Besides, you're paying more attention to that baby than you are to what's going on around you. I'm not only watching your six, I'm watching your twelve, your nine and your three as well. Your whole clock, in fact. Who's gonna do that if I go back to the jeep?" He set off down the road, abandoning the empty town square. "C'mon then. Let's see if we can find a man of the cloth."

They continued down the dusty road to the sound of silence, and Bucky tried to suppress a chill shiver creeping down his spine. If he hadn't seen with his own eyes the people on the streets only moments earlier, he would have thought this place a ghost town, abandoned by all who once lived here.

The priest was a braver man than the rest, or perhaps he thought his status as a religious figure might offer him some immunity in the event of violence breaking out. After Wells knocked on the church door, the middle-aged, robed man appeared, his fingers clutching a silver cross around his neck. It was hard to get a feel for his body language, under all those dark robes, but his expression was guarded, his movements hesitant, afraid.

"S'il vous plaît, nous sommes un peuple simple, et nous avons rien pour vous de prendre. S'il vous plaît, laissez-nous en paix."

The line of French babbled by the man was completely lost on Bucky, but it was the most they'd gotten out of anybody in this settlement. It was a start. A line of communication. This was good.

"What'd he say?"

"Generic pleading for us to leave them all alone," Wells shrugged. He turned to the priest. "Tu parles Anglais?" The man quickly jerked his head from side to side. "Great."

Bucky listened as his friend went through a similar routine with the priest as he had with the absent townspeople in the square. The priest let out another stream of French, but Wells halted him midway with a raised hand; the priest flinched at that, and it felt to Bucky as if a tiny piece of something inside him broke, right then. What the hell had these people been through, to be so afraid of a couple of American soldiers?

"Répétez s'il vous plaît, lentement."

At that moment, Matilda decided to wake up. Bucky turned his attention to her, rocking her gently to let her know he was still there. Please don't cry now! he thought to her. Much as he would've loved to take her back to camp, Hawkswell would kill him if he did. And an army camp really was no good place for a child to be raised. Matilda simply watched his face, her blue eyes wide and surprisingly focused. Did she somehow realise how important this was? Did she realise her future potentially hung in the balance?

"You'll soon have a home and a family," he murmured quietly to her. "You'll like it here; it's a nice village. Quiet. You'll love playing in those olive groves we passed through earlier. Maybe we can find you a family with other kids, so you have brothers and sisters to play with. And maybe one day, your new parents will tell you about the time two scary American soldiers came to bring you to the village."

After a couple of minutes of what sounded like awkward conversation, Wells left the priest and walked the few paces back to Bucky.

"Okay. So, I think I managed to convince the priest that we're not murderous baby-snatchers. He says he didn't know Matilda's parents personally, but he knew of them. Real keep-to-themselves types. They'd come into town once every couple of weeks in their horse-drawn cart to pick up food and necessities. He didn't know they'd had a baby, and he doesn't know why Germans would want to kill them. They didn't have any friends here in town, but the priest is friendly with all of Aureille's citizens—shepherd to the flock, and all that—and he knows a couple of families who've recently had new babies. He thinks one of them would be willing to take her in."

Bucky nodded, more to himself than to Wells. "Right. Now, what are you not telling me?"

"That transparent, am I?"

"I can tell by your tone of voice. Something's got you worried."

"When I mentioned those people getting shot, he got real twitchy." Bucky eyed the priest up; he was nearby, affecting to give the two some privacy. "I can't quite put my finger on it. I think he was being honest about not knowing why Germans would shoot a couple of locals, but… I dunno. I'd expect a priest to show a little more concern over the idea of two people being murdered for no reason, especially when it happened so close to his village. I would've expected more shock. But maybe I'm just being paranoid."

"Ask him if he's seen any Germans recently."

So Wells did, and translated the response back. "Yes, a German patrol comes by once a week, usually. They walk through the village, reassure the people that all is well and that they are safe under German protection—using French that's even worse than mine, apparently, if you can believe that—and buy a few bits and pieces that they can't get from their base."

"Does he know where the base is?"

This time, Bucky didn't need his friend to translate the response. He didn't understand the swift babble, but the violent head shake was translation enough.

"He doesn't know, and he doesn't want to know. He assures me the townspeople mind their own business. If we will go, and quickly, and never return, he says he will ask the villagers to speak nothing of our visit. The Germans will never know American forces were here."

"Do you read as much of a threat into that as I do?"

Wells gave a small shake of his head. "I think he genuinely just wants us gone. And I've gotta agree with his sentiment. It's been five days since the last German patrol, and we've got Gusty still out there."

"Tell him I wanna meet these families who might be willing to take Matilda in. I don't wanna leave her with strangers."

Again, the priest shook his head. "He says no. The families would be too afraid to come out."

"Why are they so afraid of two American soldiers with a baby, but not of a German patrol?"

"The Germans have been here for nearly two years, and so long as the locals do not do anything to make them suspicious, the Germans leave them alone. Two American soldiers turning up out of nowhere is very suspicious. The people here are afraid that if the Germans find out there were Americans in town, they will take people away for questioning. Or maybe they're afraid that this is a test, that when the next German patrol comes along, they will be punished if they don't speak of us." Wells halted his translation for a moment, grimacing as the priest made some sort of slashing gesture with his hand. "Apparently, the SS has eyes and ears everywhere, and the people here have heard what they do during interrogations. It's not that they're afraid of us, it's what they're afraid the Germans will do if they find out we were here. Can't say I blame them, either. The Gestapo are the most dangerous and fanatical. I hear even regular Wehrmacht troops fear them. I think what we're seeing here is a policy of, 'Don't see; don't tell.'"

Thoughts spun around inside Bucky's mind, like that time he and Steve had rode a carnival merry-go-round when they were kids. His first thought was to try to reassure these people that this wasn't a test. His second was to leave with Matilda, because the people here might give her up at the first glimpse of an SS badge. His third was to come up with some excuse Hawkswell would buy for coming back with her. His fourth was that the longer they delayed here, they more danger they were in, and the higher a chance of a patrol coming along and finding Gusty.

As if objecting to the idea of being left behind, Matilda started crying. Of course, he knew that wasn't why she cried. It was past feeding time. But her wails seemed to cement the decision in his heart.

"Wells, I don't like the idea of leaving her here," he said, holding the crying infant to his chest as he tried to rock her into silence.

"Me neither," his friend admitted. "But we have our orders."

"I don't trust these people. They're too twitchy. And I got a bad feeling about this place."

"Of course you got a bad feeling about it; the whole country is crawling with Germans. You'd be crazy if you had a good feeling about it."

"I don't wanna leave her here."

"Dammit, Barnes."

Bucky had been expecting an angry outburst. An accusation that he was being stupid. Jumping at shadows. Maybe even a long, orders are orders tirade. So when Wells instead turned and walked a few paces away, to stare silently across the countryside, he felt somewhat at a loss. Matilda's cries kept him busy for a few minutes, but when he pulled out a bottle of formula milk one of the nurses had prepared for the journey, she finally fell silent as she tucked into her liquid lunch.

"Fine." Wells finally turned back to face him. "It's your decision. Whatever you decide, I'll back you up. If the colonel asks why we brought her back, it's because everyone in the village ran away at the sight of us. There was nobody we could leave her with."

Bucky stared at his friend for a moment. "You'd lie to your CO? If he finds out—"

"He won't find out," his friend replied, his tone one of confidence. "Who's gonna tell him otherwise? It's just you, me and the kid, and she ain't saying a word. Hell, maybe he doesn't even have to find out. Arles is… what, a couple of hours' down the road? We could take her there. Big town. I bet we'd have no problem finding someone to give her a home—one without the bad vibes of this place."

Bucky looked down at Matilda's tiny face. Arles was a big town. More of a city, if his map could be believed. It would be easy for a baby to be raised in anonymity in a city. She would be safe. Probably wouldn't be as many olive groves to play in, but Bucky had lived his whole life without olive groves, and he'd done alright.

But then… Arles was a big town. More of a city, if his map could be believed. It would be of strategic importance to the Nazis. That meant more patrols. Maybe a base or a command centre there. He wouldn't be able to walk into Arles dressed like this, armed like this, driving a jeep with a big white star on the side. It would be suicide. And he told his friend as much.

"Then we don't walk in like this," Wells countered. "I bet the folks here would give us a change of clothes just to get rid of us. We find somewhere remote to park up and go in unarmed. We won't draw half as much attention like that. Just like Phillips suggested."

For a brief moment, Bucky clung to that idea. But he wasn't an idiot. Two guys strolling through Arles with a crying baby would draw attention. And he might not understand any French, but he could see that Wells was struggling for every word. He might be able to get a point across bluntly, but his command of the language would never stand up to the scrutiny of a well-versed linguist. Going incognito would mean leaving his weapon behind. Giving away his only advantage. If they were caught, they would be tortured. Their presence could put the whole battalion in jeopardy. Whatever Phillips was up to, the element of surprise and secrecy would be lost. And it had to be something important, because he'd brought along America's richest inventor.

But more than that, it would mean asking his friends to walk into the jaws of death with him. Wells had probably already thought of all of this, and was willing to suggest it anyway, further cementing Bucky's belief that the guy was actually insane. But he couldn't put Gusty through that. He couldn't risk their lives, and the mission of the battalion, over his bad vibes.

"I can't ask you to do that," he answered.

"Don't have to ask. My suggestion, remember? I nearly killed you—nearly killed both of us—through hypothermia, on the Monty. That was my stupid decision. And now, this is your stupid decision. But you had my back with Dancing, the morning after the night I banged my head, so if you want a third option, this is it, and I've got your back on it."

He looked down at Matilda. She looked so tiny and innocent; one hand was clasped against the bottle feeding her, as if afraid it would be taken away if she let go. He couldn't blame her. Everything had been taken away from her during her first few days of life. She needed a fresh start. She needed a good family. Taking her away from here, taking her to Arles… it was the right thing to do.

But he couldn't do it. Too much was unknown. What if they left Matilda in Arles, only for for the city to fall if Bucky's team was captured and tortured into divulging the company's location? What if they never even made it that far; what if a German patrol caught them on the journey, and took Matilda away? Bucky would have been responsible for delivering her into the very hands he was trying to keep her out of. Sure, this place was the frying pan, but out there, somewhere, was a fire. And he had no way of knowing which way the wind was fanning the flames.

"I've made my decision," he said. "This is the end of the line. We don't have the time, resources or manpower to take a longer trip. It's too risky. But I want you to make that priest swear by the God he serves that he'll make sure Matilda ends up with a family who'll love her, and that he'll watch over her as best he can. And tell him her name hasn't to be changed."

Wells gave a short nod and turned back to the priest. Bucky finished giving Matilda her bottle. He tried not to think about her being handed over to someone else. Tried to focus on the good that would come out of this. Matilda would live. She would have a family. That's more than she'd had twenty four hours ago. More than she would have had if Bucky hadn't made the decision to take her back to camp in the first place. He'd done all he could for her. Now it was up to the people here to keep her safe and do what was right for her.

He had no idea what Wells was saying to the priest, but the guy's voice was laced with conviction… and maybe even a little desperation. Did he want them gone that much? Was he, like Wells, telling them what he thought they needed to hear? If Wells really was making him swear by God, he could only trust that the priest wasn't swearing empty promises. Finally, Wells turned back to Bucky.

"He's pretty convincing. The way he was swearing, you'd think I was a member of the Gestapo interrogating him or somethin'. But he promises he'll support Matilda, and her new family, in any way he can. It's time for us to go."

Bucky nodded mutely, and a thought crossed his mind.

"We should'a taken something to give her. Something from her folks, I mean. A necklace, a ring, a scrap of cloth… anything. Some memento from the people who brought her into the world. I didn't think. And now it's too late. She'll have nothing."

"She'll have a life," Wells pointed out. "And maybe one day, when the war's over, you can come back here and find out what kinda life she's been living. Maybe five or ten years' down the line, you'll walk into this place and see a happy, smiling little girl."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." He would come back. One day, he would come back and meet her when she was old enough to understand.

He approached the priest and, with great reluctance, held Matilda out towards him. He accepted her easily, and Bucky didn't even have to ask Wells to instruct the guy to support her head. Probably baptises his share of babies. The priest looked up at Bucky, a small smile on his face. He said something that Wells translated.

"He says not to worry. That he'll make sure she has the chance to live a happy and full life."

And then the guy was gone. He entered the church with Matilda, leaving Bucky to stare at the closed wooden door.

"For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing," Wells told him.

"I hope so."

They set off on the road that led out of the settlement, passing through the town square. Bucky felt the eyes watching him, but he couldn't bring himself to care about them. For better or worse, he'd just handed an innocent, defenceless child over to a stranger. Maybe one day, Matilda would thank him for that. Or maybe she would grow up cursing him. Either way, what was done, was done. The colonel would be pleased.

He stopped on the edge of the olive grove. "Where'd you learn to speak French?" he asked Wells.

For once, he met little resistance. Maybe Wells was too tired to make up bullshit, or maybe by this point, he just didn't care. "My grandpa. He was French. Thought it was important we learn the language."

"I thought your grandparents were Irish? More Catholic than the Pope, wasn't it?"

"On my Dad's side, yeah. But my Mom's mom was Irish, and her dad was French." A smile ghosted across his lips. "Wouldn't converse in English. It's amazing, what you can pick up as a kid, when somebody refuses to speak your language. Used to annoy the hell out of my dad. Couldn't tell a word we were saying. Maybe that's why I learnt it so easily."

"What was he like? Your grandpa, I mean."

"He was great. Died when I was eleven. One day, I might even forgive him for that."

Bucky left it there. He didn't need to be a mind reader to know his friend didn't like how close to home the conversation was getting.

"Why'd you try to hide the fact that you speak French?" he asked instead. "You lied about it. More than once. And badly, I might add."

"Because we're in France." Wells offered a long-suffering sigh as he launched into an explanation. "Anyone who speaks French is automatically going to get 'volunteered' for any mission which needs a translator. And you know the rule about volunteering for stuff."

He gave a slight nod of agreement. One of the first lessons you learnt in Basic. Never volunteer for anything. It was a lesson never purposely taught, but swiftly learnt by new recruits.

"Don't worry. The brass won't hear about it from me." Keeping that particular secret was the least he could do for the guy who'd offered to drive to Arles with him.

They found Gusty where they'd left him, guarding the jeep with a wary vigilance. "No sign of anyone on the road, Sarge," he reported. "All's quiet. I could almost forget there's a war goin' on. Didja find someone nice to leave Matilda with?"

"Yeah," he said. "Real nice. She'll be happy here."

"Good. Y'want me to drive, Sarge?"

"No. I'll take the wheel. You and Wells keep your eyes peeled. Just because it's quiet now, doesn't mean it'll stay that way."

After all, there was still a war going on. Two of its victims lay only a few miles away, slowly becoming distant memories. The parents a little girl would never know.

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

By the time they caught up with the battalion, camp had already been set up for the night. Bucky jumped out of the driver's seat and told Gusty to take the car back to the motor pool for refuelling.

He went straight to the command tent, where Hawkswell and Phillips were discussing something so important that they clammed up even before Bucky was within hearing range. He threw up a salute and gave his mission report.

"Sir, it's done. We left the baby with a priest in Aureille and encountered no enemy forces. The priest did tell us that German patrols are active in the area, and that the Germans have a base somewhere not too far away, but he didn't know where."

Neither of the men blinked an eye. They already know. They'd probably known the Germans had a base here even before they'd landed on French soil. A chill ran across his flesh. Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's why we're here. Capture a German base. That must be the mission.

"Good work, Sergeant Barnes," said Hawkswell. "Your team can stand down. Dismissed."

Bucky saluted. In his veins, his blood ran cold. Destroy or capture a German base. That was their mission. That was why they needed the tanks. That's why Stark was here. That was why nearly eight-hundred men had been smuggled quietly into the south of France.

Outside the tent, Wells found him, but Bucky barely even heard his friend ask how the report had gone. His mind was too full of images, like the moving pictures of the big screen. Men, storming some Kraut compound. Machine guns firing. Tanks churning up the ground. German artillery returning fire.

"Barnes, what's wrong?" Bucky snapped out of if when Wells shook his shoulder. "You look like you've see a ghost."

He glanced around quickly, to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear. No point panicking the troops. No point spreading rumours before they could become fact.

"I told the colonel about that German base the priest mentioned, and he didn't even blink. Already knew about it. I think that's our mission."

"Makes sense," Wells agreed, with even less of a reaction than Colonel Hawkswell.

At that moment, Bucky truly appreciated how convoluted his fellow sergeant's mind actually was. In the midst of translating French and coming up with plans to get Matilda into Arles undetected by German forces, he'd already considered that the German base might be their mission and said not a damn thing about it. But if Wells had already thought one or two steps ahead, how many steps ahead were Hawkswell, and Phillips, and Stark?

"Oh good, you're back from the baby mission."

Bucky jumped as Stark's voice snapped him out of his private thoughts. What was it they said of the devil? Speak and he will appear. This time, he appeared with two more scientist-looking fellas in tow. Where the hell had they come from? Had they been hiding in the plane?

"Glad you got rid of that thing," the inventor continued. "It's never a good idea to have a baby around. Gives dames ideas. Bad ideas. Wrong ideas."

"Yeah, I'm sure all twelve dames in the battalion were considering deserting to start families of their own," scoffed Wells.

"I'm working on this new drug design to make prisoners talk," Stark explained. "Haven't got it quite right yet. Instead of instilling a desire to become more vocal, it closes off the vocal cords to prevent speech. I'm always on the lookout for test subjects whilst I refine my design… so if you wanna send over any annoying or sarcastic members of your regiment for the purposes of testing, please feel free, Sergeant… ah…" he clicked his fingers at Bucky.

"Barnes."

"Right." Stark tapped his chin for a moment with one finger. "Good call on the slugs you pulled from those bodies, by the way."

"Did you manage to ID them?"

Stark looked at him as if he was mad. "You do realise who you're talking to, right?"

"Lemme guess," said Wells, "German bullets from a… oh, let's say a Steyr. I've got a dollar riding on the pistol bet," he told Bucky. "Davies thinks it was from a rifle, but he didn't see the slug."

"Sorry to tell you, but your Davies just won a dollar," said Stark. "Both those people were killed by rifles."

It still didn't make sense. "Why would Germans shoot two French citizens in the back?" Bucky asked.

"Maybe because they didn't? Those bullets weren't from a German rifle; they were French."

For the second time since getting back to camp, Bucky's blood felt like ice in his veins. But Wells was unwilling to concede defeat.

"French bullets from a French rifle, not necessarily fired by French people," he pointed out. "After all, France is occupied by the Nazis. It would make sense for them to use French weapons. Right?"

"Mmyeahno. French weapon designs are behind German designs," said Stark, in a lecturing tone of voice, "and the Germans already have Czech and Austrian weapons manufacturing industries under their belt; about the only people desperate enough to use French weapons are the French themselves."

"But why?!" Bucky insisted. Couldn't he get a straight answer out of anyone? "Why would they kill two people like that? Two innocent, unarmed people with a baby?"

"The first rule of science," Stark explained calmly, "is… well, hell if I know. I never much believed in playing by the rules. Rules are there to be bent or broken. Point is, you shouldn't suppose what you don't know. You don't know those people were innocent. You don't know they were unarmed when they were killed. As for why?" He gave a noncommittal shrug. "We may never know. Neighbourly disagreement? Family feud? Botched robbery? Mistaken identity? Execution? Maybe—"

"Execution?"

"Sure. I've heard the Resistance often execute German collaborators and spies, and out here, we're in prime Maquis territory. Wouldn't be surprised if the fellas already know we're here."

Bucky glanced to his friend, and guessed the poorly veiled concern he saw on Wells' face was a mirror of his own.

"Anyway, gotta run," Stark continued. "Places to go, things to invent. Remember what I said about test subjects."

Stark moved past them, but Wells turned to call after him.

"Hey, Stark—"

"Mister Stark," the other man interrupted, an admonishing finger raised. "I'll also accept Doctor Stark or Professor Stark."

"Have you any idea when we'll be attacking the German base near here?"

Stark laughed, and it was such an unexpected sound that it momentarily shocked Bucky out of his thoughts of French Resistance members murdering people and turning children into orphans.

"Attack a base? Is that what you think we're here for?" Stark grinned. "You boys sure have an active imagination."

He left, still chuckling to himself. As soon as he was gone, Bucky dismissed him from his thoughts. Right now, he had more important concerns.

"We left Matilda with people who might've had a hand in killing her parents!" he said.

"I'm sure she's—"

A flame of anger sparked inside him. He held up a hand to stall his friend. "Do me a favour? Don't ever tell me what you think I need to hear. I don't want words coated in sugar to make them easier to swallow, I don't want platitudes, and I don't want to be comforted by lies."

"Alright. No lies, no platitudes, no sugar coating," Wells agreed. "I suspect, judging by the priest's reaction, that he knew those two people had been killed. Maybe he even knew who did it. But I think he was telling the truth about not knowing they had a baby, and he swore pretty damn hard that he'd do everything he could to keep her safe. It's possible that Matilda was overlooked, especially if the shooting happened at night. I guess if the villagers are harbouring Resistance members, that adds a new layer of explanation to their twitchiness."

"Do you think she's in any danger? If somebody in that village killed her parents—"

"I don't know." Speculation danced across Wells' blue eyes. "I suppose it depends on whether the folks here are the 'sins of the father' types. But really, we're just guessing. Maybe like Stark said, it was a botched robbery. We shouldn't assume the worst."

"Wells, you are a master of assuming the worst."

His friend offered a small shrug. "And clearly I'm a bad influence on you, because you used to be a 'hope for the best' kinda guy." A sigh escaped his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I still think we did the right thing. If you don't, if you wanna go back for Matilda, I'll go with you. I'll tell the colonel that you frog-marched me at gunpoint, of course, but I'll go."

"Why? Yesterday you were trying to convince me to complete our recon mission and leave Matilda behind."

"And clearly you're a bad influence on me. But I don't wanna lose sleep over the thought of leaving a kid with someone who might wanna hurt her. And I don't wanna lose sleep over the thought of you losing sleep over it. I also don't wanna spend the rest of this campaign agonising over the decision. It was your mission. Your call. You decide how it ends. If you're mad enough to go get her, I'll go along and watch your six. If you decide she stays where she is, I'm gonna choose to believe that she's living a life of sunshine and daisies. And puppies. Fluffy puppies. And all that stuff you never get in a big city, like skipping through the meadows or whatever."

Bucky inhaled slowly, letting the thoughts tumble through his mind on an equally slow exhale. Sunshine and daisies. Fluffy puppies. Meadows. That sounded like a nice life. The kinda life Matilda might get out here. Eventually. Once the war was over. Besides, Wells was wrong. It might have been his mission, but it was never his call. He was just a sergeant. He had only as much authority as was needed to carry out a mission. If he'd brought Matilda back, or if he went back for her now, Hawkswell would only order someone else to take her away. Someone like Dancing, who wouldn't care about where he left her. Wouldn't care about making somebody swear to watch over her.

This was the way it had to be.

"We did a good thing, today," he said slowly. "Matilda will have a good life in Aureille. Full of sunshine. And daisies. And meadows."

"Not forgetting the fluffy puppies," Wells nodded sagely. "I agree. And I'm glad you made this decision. I didn't wanna see you court-martialled for disobeying orders. You're about the only guy in this army who's crazier than me, and I'm in no hurry to inherit that crown."

Bucky blinked. There was no sign of a joke on Wells' face. "What? Are you kidding? I'm not crazy. I'm pretty much the only sane guy here."

Wells gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, coupled with a smile that was slightly patronising. "Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that, pal."

"It's true! How can you possibly claim with a straight face that I'm crazier than you?"

"Simple," Wells explained, as they set off to find the regiment's tent. "People who know they're crazy can't actually be crazy. Meanwhile, all genuinely crazy people think it's everybody else who's crazy, and they're sane. I never said I wasn't crazy; just that you are more so. You're the one who claimed you're the only sane guy here. That's obviously crazy-talk."

"I call bullshit. And don't waste your breath; you're never gonna convince me that I'm crazy."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Wells assured him. "But that's just further proof. Everyone knows crazy people can't be reasoned with. If you don't believe me, ask Davies. He'll tell you how crazy you are."

"Yeah, he probably would. Because he's crazy."

It was the stupidest, most circular logic conversation he'd had in a long time… but he welcomed it. As far as distractions went, it could have been worse. Pleading for his own sanity with a guy who was obviously crazy stopped him from thinking about the baby he'd handed over to strangers only a few hours ago. Stopped him thinking about the French Resistance members who, even now, might be shadowing the camp and spying on their activities. Stopped him from thinking about that German base… and how many people were going to die when Phillips finally gave the order to attack it.