Author's note #1: Back to this guy again! Kind thanks go out to JayRain, for letting me borrow 'Kevin' from her excellent fic, 'Define Stupid.' If you want an intriguing insight into Steve's time in the USO, go check out her story! It's sweet like cookies dipped in melted chocolate then left to cool and covered with chocolate sprinkles.

We Were Soldiers

20. Exit, Stage Left

"Hey, Rogers!" Gilmore Hodge's voice rang out, full of mocking cruelty. "What's a weed like you really doing in a program like this?"

Steve's fingers hesitated, the pen falling still in mid-word. He'd spent the past four days trying to get a letter to Bucky written out, but each time he started, he couldn't seem to get past 'Dear Bucky, I wish you were here.'

There was a mean twist to Hodge's lips as he sneered down at his tiny nemesis. Steve decided to ignore the goad. He didn't have a real answer. He didn't know what he was doing here. All he knew was that Erskine saw something in him. Some potential that nobody else could see. And that was good enough for Steve, but he didn't think it would be good enough for Hodge. The guy was the kinda bully Steve had been standing up to all his life, just the latest in a long line of aggressors and no more memorable than the last.

He couldn't figure out what Hodge's problem was. The big guy—Colonel Phillips' favourite horse in the proverbial race—seemed to take exception to Steve being here… but why? Hodge was sure this program was designed to test the recruits' strength, stamina and ability to follow orders, which meant Steve stood little to no chance of being picked as the final candidate. But Hodge was acting as if Steve was his greatest rival.

Maybe it had something to do with Agent Carter. She'd given Hodge a bloody nose on day one, but Hodge merely took that as a challenge. An excuse to try harder to win her attention. Strutted during parade drill. Puffed out his chest when doing star-jumps. Grunted unnecessarily with the effort of every push-up. So far, his attempts to get Agent Carter's attention had failed badly. She didn't avoid looking at Hodge; her eyes just moved steadily over him, as if he existed only as a part of the background.

Probably didn't help that her smiles for Steve were genuine, and all the recruits had seen them.

Somebody clapped Steve hard on the shoulder, almost sending him sprawling from his camp bed.

"Maybe lover-boy is here to comfort Agent Carter when you get sent off to the front lines, Hodge," Private Hernandez grinned. The guy never passed up an opportunity to taunt Hodge about Carter. Like Steve, Hernandez was a little on the smaller side of the soldier scale, but he had a quick wit and quick hands; on day two of the program, Hodge had given Hernandez a push into a huge puddle of mud, so Hernandez had gotten his own back by sprinkling a little sugar in and around Hodge's bed. The ants which plagued the camp loved sugar. Every morning, Hodge woke up with new bites.

"You gotta be kidding me," Hodge scoffed. "Dames aren't interested in sickly little pipsqueaks like Rogers. They want real men." He balled up his hand into a fist and slapped it hard against his chest with a dull thud.

"I never saw a real man get punched in the face by a señorita before," Hernandez grinned.

"Well, obviously, I let her do it," Hodge lied poorly. "Saw the punch coming a mile away, of course. Anyway, you didn't answer my question, Rogers. What're you doing here? Apart from making the rest of us look good, I mean."

"Maybe I'm here to prove that there's more to being a good soldier than big muscles," Steve offered at last. "Or maybe they just needed someone to get that flag down from the pole after seventeen years of being up there, for cleaning."

"What even made you think of doing that, Rogers?" Hernandez asked. Steve didn't mind the guy; he was quick to joke, but his jabs lacked the cruel sting of Hodge's barbs, and he shared them out around the whole group, instead of reserving them solely for Steve.

"Well, I just figured if nobody had got it down by climbing up there, maybe nobody had raised it by climbing up there, either. And I remembered what I was taught in school; what goes up, must come down. Somehow."

"Pfah!" Hodge scoffed. "You might as well pack up your bags and go home to mommy right now. Is that what you've been writing every night for the past four days? A letter to mommy? Asking her to come and tuck you in at nights?"

Steve's hand curled tightly around his pen. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't personal. That Hodge didn't know his mom was dead. That if he did, the big guy probably wouldn't have joked like that. He just would'a made some other kind of joke. 'Poor Rogers, no mommy to go crying home to.' He'd heard that one before, too. Got beat up in an alley behind the library for it.

When his taunt failed to elicit a response, Hodge strode over and grabbed at the paper Steve was writing on. Steve tried to keep it from him, but it was futile. The paper tore in half, and Hodge came away with the start of the letter.

"Let's see what pipsqueak's been saying to mommy." Hodge grinned maliciously. "'Dear Bucky, I wish you were here…' Oh ho! Who's 'Bucky', pipsqueak? Your boyfriend?"

"A friend," Steve said, trying to keep the scowl from his face. "If the concept's too unfamiliar for you to grasp, I could try to explain it in small words."

Hodge crumpled the torn letter up and threw the paper ball at Steve. It hit his head and bounced onto the floor. "Don't make me laugh, Rogers. Who'd wanna be friends with you, apart from other pipsqueaks? Bet you and 'Bucky' spent your lunch hour cowering in the science labs at school, too afraid to go out in case somebody accidentally knocked you over by looking at you the wrong way. Guess we should just be glad there's only one of you pipsqueaks here, slowing us all down."

A voice called from outside the barracks. "Lights out in five!"

Hodge returned to his bed, and Steve let out a forlorn sigh as his fingers toyed with the ball of crumpled paper. It would be another day before he'd get a chance to write to Bucky. Another day of gruelling physical toil. Another day of feeling like his heart and lungs were gonna explode out of his chest. Another day of waking to muscles that felt as heavy and stiff as lead.

He pulled the blanket over himself as the room was plunged into darkness, and looked up into the blackness of the ceiling above. Where was Bucky now? Probably halfway across the Atlantic ocean. Having a great time. Making loads of new friends. Bucky never failed to make friends wherever he went, and now he wouldn't have Steve to hold him back. No sickly best friend to look out for. Bucky had never thought of Steve as a burden, but Steve knew that, sometimes, he was. And Bucky had always been too pig-headed and stubborn to do the sensible thing and leave him behind. He was one heck of a friend.

"You might as well give up now," Hodge grumbled in the dark, and there was no doubt who his comment was aimed at. "You don't stand a chance of being picked. Time to wake up, Rogers."

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

"Hey, Rogers. Rogers, wake up!"

Steve grumbled under his breath and let his heavy eyelids rise. The dream of Camp Lehigh faded away, taking with it Gilmore Hodge and the crumpled letter. Kevin, Senator Brandt's most trusted aide, was shaking his shoulder.

"Whu'?" Steve mumbled sleepily.

"We start in ten minutes, pal; you need to wake up and get your head in the game. This is your most important mission yet."

He pushed himself up from the position he'd fallen asleep in, draped across the dressing room table. When his gaze found the large, illuminated mirror above the table, the blue eyes of a stranger looked back at him. A moment later, the stranger became Steve. It still took a slight period of adjustment before he recognised his own reflection.

"Remind me what the mission is again."

"You're selling bonds to St Louis' finest businessmen. It's a family affair, so turn on the charm for the wives and the gumption for the kids. We want those little ones to go home begging daddy to buy war bonds."

"Sounds kinda like yesterday's mission. And that mission we had in Chicago, last week. When am I gonna get the chance to go on real missions, Kevin? You know, the kind in which I get to fight the real Hitler, and not just Tom dressed up like him? I want a mission that matters to the war."

"This matters!" Kevin assured him. He picked up Steve's blue hooded mask and held it out with all the gravitas of a mayor offering keys to the city. "The Senator is working to get you fast-tracked to the front lines—keep in mind that you haven't even been through the full 12 weeks of Basic Training—and in the meantime, you can help the war effort by making sure everybody in that audience wants to buy bonds. Remember what we put in your speech? Bonds buy bullets. They also buy the guns that fire the bullets, and the food that the soldiers eat. They pay the soldiers' wages and the medical supplies they need when things get tough. The more bonds we sell, the better the war goes, and the more of our guys get to come home to their families afterwards." Kevin shoved the mask into Steve's hands, new ideas flickering behind his eyes. "Hmm, maybe we can work that angle into your lines." The flickering ideas were replaced by the light of inspiration. "Sponsor a soldier! There's gotta be guys out there with no real family back home. Soldiers who'd welcome a letter and a box of good ol' American treats from some well-meaning family."

"Has Senator Brandt given any indication of how long it might take to fast-track me?" Steve asked, trying to keep Kevin's mind in the room. Every morning he woke up hopeful that the call would come. Every night he went to sleep disappointed that it hadn't.

"He's working on it. I promise."

"Fast track," Steve grumbled. He pulled the mask over his head and checked his reflection in the mirror. A walking flag. That's what he was. "More like a slow-track."

"Don't let it distract you," said Kevin. "You're getting real good with your lines. I think soon, you won't even need the shield."

"I like the shield."

"Then you can keep the shield. Whatever works for you, works for me. Oh, and this time, try not to step on Dorothy's toes; she's threatening to quit if you do it again. I know, I know," Kevin rushed on, before Steve could even open his mouth to object, "it's not your fault, you've got big feet now, your co-ordination's still a bit of a problem, yadda yadda. But we can't afford to lose one of our best dancers. Just be careful, okay?"

"I'll do my best," Steve assured him.

"I know. You always do. And when you're done, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

"Not more politicians!" Steve groaned.

He didn't mind the children; seeing the excitement in their eyes as they came face to face with the man who'd punched Hitler's lights out was uplifting, and often the highlight of the day. In those moment, he saw echoes of his own childhood, saw eight year old Steve in the faces of those children, and it made him smile with fond longing for simpler times.

The dames, too, were fairly easy to deal with. They came up to him wearing pretty dresses and wide smiles, and every time, habit made him glance over his shoulder, to look for the guy they were giving the eye to. Every time, it surprised him to realise he was the source of their coy smiles. Mostly they wanted autographs. A few wanted pictures of him holding their babies. One or two asked whether he had any contacts within the Forces; desperate for news of their husbands and fiances, they'd come to the show hoping he could pull strings for them. When he told them he wasn't technically even a real soldier, the smiles faded pretty fast.

But the politicians were a nightmare. They wanted to pose for pictures, use 'Captain America' to appeal to the people in their political campaigns. After a week, Steve had become a master of the fake-handshake-and-winning-smile-for-the-camera position, and he hated how false it felt. After the pictures came the inevitable invites to visit various public buildings and interesting landmarks; for the most part, Kevin dealt with those, patiently explaining that Captain America's schedule was too tight to allow for personal visits, but a few were important enough to Senator Brandt that Steve had to play ball. He'd swiftly decided that the world of politics just wasn't for him.

"No, not a politician. But we'll talk about it more after the show. Right now, you've gotta get ready for the stage."

Out in the left wing of the stage, half of the dancers were waiting for the band to strike up the music. Waiting for the curtain to lift. Waiting to see whether Captain America would fluff his lines. Again.

"Hi, Steve," they greeted with smiles and small waves.

The smiles he returned, feeling as out of place as ever amongst the glittery costumes, painted faces, and elegant dancers' legs which went on forever. If Bucky were here now, his eyes would be popping out of his head. The showgirls were nice enough, picked as much for their looks as for their ability to dance in a row, but none of them had that special spark of something that made them stand out from the crowd.

None of them were Peggy Carter.

Out in the concert hall, the lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. The band struck its first chord, and the curtain went up.

"Don't forget about this, Steve," smiled Anya, handing him the shield with his lines taped inside it.

"Thanks, Anya."

Where would he be without that shield? Lost. Completely and utterly at the mercy of the crowd. A ship without a rudder. A sailor without the stars. Thank God for the shield.

Taking a deep breath, he waited for his cue, for the line about the Star-Spangled man with a Plan, then stepped out from the wing, onto the stage. The heat of the spotlights immediately tried to roast him alive, and the roar from the crowd nearly deafened his sensitive ears. But he smiled. And he waved. That was the plan. Smile and wave his way to the front lines, if necessary.

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

"This is Angelo Demarci," said Kevin, later that evening. The crowds had gone. The photographer had packed up for the night. The girls were in their dressing room, celebrating another successful show in the USO's schedule. Only the teamsters were left, packing up everything the show would be taking to its next tour venue.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers," said Angelo Demarci. He offered his hand, and Steve shook it. Demarci was a well-groomed, suited guy whose dark hair had been coiffed to perfection. Steve might have guessed him to be a politician, save for the fact that the politicians only stuck around while the photographer was on duty.

"Likewise," Steve offered.

"Mr. Demarci has been hired by Senator Brandt to be your PR Agent," Kevin explained.

"I need a PR Agent?"

"You do now," Demarci smiled. "Several exciting new contract opportunities have arisen."

A sense of foreboding wound its way through Steve's chest. The only opportunity he was interested in was getting to the front lines and fighting with the rest of the army, and he had a feeling that anything else would only delay that possibility.

"What sort of contract opportunities?" he asked.

"Nothing that should interrupt your daily routine too much," said Demarci. He pulled out a notepad, on which a calendar had been sketched. "First, we've been approached by several magazines interested in using your image in their marketing campaigns. Some of it's house-wife stuff—Is your cleaning product as strong as Captain America? Take out dirt like Captain America takes out Nazis! and so on and so forth—but there are also requests for pictures of you visiting landmarks. You know, reminding the troops on the front lines what they're fighting for. We've got a slot scheduled at Mount Rushmore next week. My photographer, Freddie, is going to meet us out there. He's the best there is."

Steve nodded. Posing for pictures. That didn't sound too bad. He was already doing that, and it sounded like a good way of seeing a little more of his own country. If it helped the homesick and disheartened troops on the front lines to remember their purpose for fighting, even better.

"You're also a comic book hero, now," Demarci added.

"What? Since when?!"

"Since yesterday. Senator Brandt asked me to broker a deal, and we got everything signed last night. A team of dedicated writers and artists will be working on a weekly comic strip, showing those who can't make it to your shows some of Captain America's exploits. We think it's going to be very popular with children. You might even outsell Captain Tootsie, and that's definitely something to be proud of."

"But I don't need to actually do anything for the comic, do I?" Comics about Captain America, drawn by Captain America, had a nice ring to it, and he'd always loved comics.

"Perhaps the occasional comic book signing, but we can work that around the shows. The artists may need to get a look at you in various poses, but they've assured me they can work largely from photographs, so you don't need to be physically present. The same can't be said for the moving pictures, however."

"Moving pictures?!"

Steve's world went spinning out of control. The shows were bad enough; how was he ever gonna manage to remember lines for movies?!

"Nothing big," Demarci assured him. "You're not important enough yet for Technicolour, but we've got a three-film deal for shorts. We're talking twenty to thirty minutes, tops. And don't worry, they'll be action flicks, so most of your talking will be limited to heroic catch-phrases and witty comebacks thrown with your punches." He must have read some of Steve's inner panic from his eyes. "And there will be cue-cards. Lots and lots of cue-cards. Filming's scheduled for the back end of July."

"Somebody please wake me up," Steve groaned.

"It's not as bad as it sounds, Mr. Rogers. You'll be amazed at what the guys in the editing room can do with a few clips. One shot of you firing a gun can be used multiple times in multiple films. It will reduce filming time considerably. And most of the shooting can be done in the studio, so you've no need to worry about on-location scenes."

Steve's head spun as the implications came trickling into his mind, like summer raindrops down a window. He was gonna be in movies. In comics. Maybe in books or on the radio, too. He was going to be in living rooms across America. He was going to be in diners, and on shelves, and in the hands of countless children, and in cinema screens nation-wide… everywhere but the one place he wanted to be. The scrawny kid from Brooklyn now had a PR agent. What would be next?

He'd always been a private person. Sometimes privacy had been forced on him, especially during the lonelier times of his childhood, before he'd met Bucky. Reticent, one of his teachers had described him, on his report card. Disinclined to make himself the focus of attention in a group. But that was an outsider's perspective. Steve hadn't seen it like that. He was, for the most part, happy in his own company, or in the company of those he liked and trusted. He didn't need attention. Felt awkward, when too many eyes fell on him.

After the comic, and the movies, and the photographs, Steven G. Rogers would be a household name. Privacy would be much harder come by. People were already flocking to the shows; how much more desperately would they flock to the movies?

"I don't want to be me," he mused quietly.

"Sorry, what was that?"

He looked up, into Demarci's face. "I don't want you to be my PR agent."

Kevin objected immediately. "But Senator Brandt—"

"I know, Kevin, I know," he replied, holding up his hands to placate the man who pulled at least half of the USO tour's strings. "He can be Captain America's PR agent, but not mine. I don't want my name attached to this. I don't want to be credited for being the man behind the mask. Or, if you need a name to stick there, make it… Roger Stevens, or something. I dunno. I just… I want to be more than a guy in a Star-Spangled costume. But I don't want to lose what privacy I have. Eventually, Senator Brandt is gonna get me to the front lines, and I don't want Captain America to follow me out there. I want to be Private Rogers, and work my way up the ranks, just like everyone else."

Kevin looked to Demarci, who offered an irreverent shrug. "It's doable. Plenty of actors use stage names. And when it comes down to it, the people want Captain America. They see him as something bigger than one man. He's a symbol. He could be anybody. And from the comments I heard in the audience tonight, that's part of his appeal. The enigma of his true identity will help sales."

That was all Kevin needed to hear. Anything that helped sales got automatic approval. "Fine! As long as Steve's happy, and we get those sales, you can use whatever names you want."

"Good," Demarci nodded. "Then it's settled. I will be Captain America's PR Agent, and Mr. Rogers can enjoy his anonymity."

"Since you're not my agent anymore, please call me Steve."

"Alright, Steve." Demarci gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder that, a month ago, would have sent him sprawling. Now, all it did was give Demarci a stinging hand. "I have an office in Hollywood; come and find me there when the tour reaches California. I'll show you around the place."

"I'd like that."

"Of course you will," Demarci chuckled. "You're gong to love the dames in Hollywood."

Steve merely nodded. It seemed easier to play along than to try to convince the guy that he had no interest in Hollywood dames. That the only woman he wanted to spend any amount of time with, was halfway across the globe, doing the job he wanted to do more than anything else in the world. Fighting for freedom. Taking the battle to Schmidt. Living the dream Steve had aspired to since he was a kid. Doing the job he knew would make his parents proud.

Agent Carter, and Bucky. Two people Steve would have given anything to see, two people currently beyond his reach. When Brandt finally got him to the front lines, he would do everything he could to find them. He would greet them as Private Steve Rogers, and maybe, if he was real lucky, he could get there before they ever heard the name 'Captain America.'

Author's note #2: I've introduced a lot of OCs in this story, and I'm thrilled they've been so well received. Everybody seems to have their own favourite, and I love hearing what you guys like (or dislike) about the characters. In case you need (or would like) a recap on who's who before proceeding with the story, I've given below a brief overview of the main OCs to date, in the order in which they appear. Hope this helps/is useful.

o - o - o - o - o

Sergeant Wells - Bucky's fellow sergeant and foil. He's a smart-ass with an answer for everything, and has a moderate to severe Rita Hayworth obsession.

Private Tipper - An underage kid who somehow managed to enlist. He has a habit of absent-mindedly flipping a coin over his knuckles. Nobody else has been able to replicate this feat.

Corporal "Carrot" Robbins - Terrible at poker, but generous at heart, Carrot will do anything for anyone, and is the most congenial guy in the regiment.

Corporal "Gusty" Ferguson - So-named for his penchant for getting gassy when he gets nervous. He gets nervous a lot.

Private First Class Franklin - Sparked the coffee-stirring incident back at Last Stop. Has a moderate to severe sugar obsession.

Private First Class Davies - The 107th's go-to man, Davies is able to procure virtually anything desired, through means which are almost mystical.

Private Biggs - A huge, methodical, mountain of a man. Routinely lashed to his camp bed every night by his fellow soldiers to stop him sleep walking onto a mine (or sleep-baking a cake).

Private Hawkins - A young man just out of high school who joined to follow in his (now-deceased) big brother's footsteps.

Lieutenant "Dancing" Danzig - An uptight, brown-nosing lieutenant who routinely makes the 107th's lives difficult. Motivated by love to get promoted to Captain.

Sergeant Weiss - A straight-talking, grizzled Great War veteran, and senior sergeant of the 107th. Danzig's arch-nemesis.

Corporals Jones and Scott - The two corporals under Weiss. We haven't seen much of them yet.

Lieutenant Nestor - A nervous, twitchy lieutenant who's so afraid of Weiss (and life in general) that he rarely leaves his tent.

Colonel Hawkswell - The Big Kahuna, often miffed that he has to defer to Colonel Phillips.

Privates "Tex" Robertson, "Mex" Hernandez, and Hodge - Former candidates for Project Rebirth, now assigned to the 107th. Tex is a sharpshooter, and Mex is one of the most prolific camp gossips. Hodge is not an OC, but I'm listing him here anyway.