Author's note: Thanks to everyone for your reads, reviews, favourites and follows so far. To answer the question recently posed by guest reviewer 'LolWhaddup' — I see through your thinly veiled plot to get the pants sued off me by Marvel for copyright infringement. ;-) My story will never be published in anything other than fanfic form, all Marvel characters are intellectual property of Marvel and the MCU, and at no stage past, present or future will I receive compensation or payment for this story or the characters contained therein — unless Marvel hire me to write for them, of course. :-P

Now, back to these guys.

We Were Soldiers

21. Perfidy

Lieutenant Danzig was a man with a mission. It was obvious he relished that fact by the way he strode into the 107th's camp tent at six o'clock in the morning, hand-picked seventeen men, and instructed them to follow him to the command tent to receive important new orders. Ten minutes later, Bucky found himself standing in front of the scrutinising gaze of Colonel Phillips, who was flanked by Agent Carter and Howard Stark. Around him, sixteen members of the 107th looked like they were still in the process of properly waking up.

"Men," Phillips barked, making Gusty jump, "you have been selected to undertake an important and highly dangerous mission, so listen closely." Selected? Volunteered by Dancing, more like. Phillips stepped aside to reveal a detailed topographical map pinned to a board behind him. "Approximately eleven klicks due east of our camp is a German communications bunker we have designated Target Alpha-1. By capturing Alpha-1, we will be able to intercept Nazi communications being sent and received in this area. Agent Carter?"

Carter stepped up, her face cool professionalism despite every pair of eyes being on her. After her show of gumption at the bridge, Bucky thought she was tough as nails. That estimation was quickly being revised upward; now, she seemed as tough as the hammer. "Lieutenant Danzig will be leading the mission to capture Alpha-1. You'll go in three six-man teams, surround the bunker, and take it. The intelligence we have received on this bunker indicates it is manned by four German soldiers and one communications specialist. There are two main problems which you will need to overcome. The first is the presence of a Maschinengewehr 42, which can be fired from a fortified structure atop the bunker and is manned by one soldier at all times." She strode the length of the room, hands held behind her back as she briefed the men. Bucky's old English teacher had done that, back in high school. Mrs. Simmons. She'd been tough as nails, too. She didn't so much recite poetry, as instruct it. "For those of you who aren't already aware, the MG 42 is one of Germany's more recent machine gun designs; successor of the MG 34, and far more lethal. It's capable of firing twelve-hundred rounds per minute, and if you end up in its line of fire, you'll be going home in pieces. Do not end up in its line of fire. Elimination of this threat should be a priority. As for the second problem… Mr. Stark will elaborate."

"The thing about communication bunkers is that they were built to communicate," Stark said. He took Carter's place in front of the map and folded his arms across his chest. For once, there was no trace of flippant humour in his brown eyes. "We don't expect the hostile forces in that bunker to stay quiet whilst you boys go about your business. Lucky for you, I'm a genius."

When Carter handed him a large metal case, he opened the catches and turned it around to show the gathered soldiers its contents; three strange-looking metal devices with some sort of small glass indicator in the middle of them.

"With the need for secrecy at the forefront of our mission here, I created these. They're short-range radio frequency interrupters—I've been calling them 'jammers' for brevity—which, when working in concert with each other, will block all incoming or outgoing enemy transmissions. Each team will take one jammer, and when you're in position, activate them using this button here, on the side. Anything caught within the triangle will go dark, as far as communications are concerned. It's vitally important that you only activate them when every team is in place. They have a very short battery life, so from the moment they're switched on, you have only fifteen minutes to secure the bunker. After that, the batteries will become depleted, the bunker will be able to communicate again, and the cavalry will come rushing in."

"To help co-ordinate the activation of these devices," Colonel Phillips picked up, like a well-choreographed Broadway show, "Mr. Stark has also come up with a design for a smaller handheld radio system to be used by the teams."

A second metal case was produced and opened, and Stark picked up the explanation.

"These operate at a much higher frequency than the German communications bunker, so they won't be affected by the jammers. But the higher frequency also means they have a much shorter range. They'll be effective at about five hundred metres; after that, the signal will start to break up."

"I cannot stress enough," said Phillips, "that the bunker's communications equipment must not be damaged in the assault. The radio dish, the receivers, the equipment inside the bunker… we need it to be in working order. Once you have the facility secured, report back here ASAP. Questions?"

Bucky looked around. He could see a lack of understanding on some of the faces present, but no hands were raised. An unpleasant smell winding its way through the command tent told him that Gusty more nervous than he'd ever been.

"Lieutenant Danzig," said Phillips, "why don't you brief your men on your orders?"

"Yessir!" Dancing saluted. He strode to the front of the tent, his back ramrod-straight as he aimed for every inch of self-important height he could get. "I will be leading Alpha Team, and Sergeants Barnes and Wells will lead Bravo and Charlie teams respectively. Once the jamming devices are in place, Alpha Team will advance as close to the bunker as we can safely get. Bravo and Charlie teams will withdraw to a distance to provide covering fire when the attack begins. Private Robertson, who will be assigned to Charlie Team, and Sergeant Barnes, will use their sniper rifles to take out the machine gun position atop the bunker, which will signal the rest of us to advance and take the facility. With the advantage of surprise, sharp-shooters and superior numbers, we should be able to capture the bunker with minimal casualties. Understood?" There was a round of 'yes sir.' "Good. You've time to gear up and grab a quick breakfast from the mess; we leave at oh-seven-hundred exactly."

Everybody saluted, and as soon as Phillips dismissed them, there was a mad scramble for the door flap.

"I don't understand, Sarge," said Carrot immediately. "We have tanks. Why don't we just blow that bunker to little pieces?"

"Or send in the howitzers," Franklin pointed out.

"I dunno," said Bucky. "I guess Phillips needs the equipment in the bunker for something."

"I wish I was out on recon, instead of Weiss," Wells sighed. "Then he could be here, rushing towards certain doom. Still, I guess it's good to be doing something other than march and sleep."

"I'd be quite happy marching and sleeping for the rest of the mission," said Gusty. His face was pale, and Bucky sympathised. About the most exciting thing to have happened to them since landing in France was finding Matilda. With each quiet day that passed, each night of steady marching, he'd hoped for another one like it. Another day of staving off the inevitable. Once the first bullet was fired, they could never go back. There would be no quiet days. They would no longer be men waiting to join the war, but men embroiled in it.

When they got back to the regiment's tent, they found someone waiting for them.

"Sarge, please let me go on the mission!" begged Tipper.

"Not my call." Bucky clapped the young man on the shoulder. And even if it was, I wouldn't let you go. Maybe all soldiers really are just big damn kids, but you're the youngest big damn kid in the regiment, and I'll be damned if I'm sending you knowingly into combat. "Patience, Tipper. There'll be plenty of chances to get stuck in."

"It's not fair, Sarge. Just because I'm young, doesn't mean I can't handle myself in a fight."

"It isn't personal, Tipper. Mex didn't get picked to go, either. It's just the luck of the draw."

Tipper retreated to sulk somewhere private, and Bucky put him out of mind. He had bigger concerns right now than Private Tipper's bruised ego.

The assault team dressed fast. Combat uniforms were donned, pistols were holstered, knives were slid into belt scabbards, bandoliers were filled with ammo, and first aid kits were slung across shoulders. While the rest of the group gave their M1s the once-over, Bucky reached for the case which held the weapon he'd come to dread using. The SSR-01 always felt cold to his hands, and today was no exception. He knew part of that was his own imagination. Ever since realising how clearly he'd see his victims die with it, he'd imagined it as a cold, cruel instrument of death. In truth it was a precision weapon, and anybody he killed with it was likely to die much more swiftly and less painfully than anyone shot with an M1.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"Something wrong?" Wells asked him.

He quickly shook his head. If the rest of the team doubted his commitment, knew he was already regretting the lives he would inevitably take, they would lose confidence in him. The last thing any of them needed was to lose confidence. Not now. Not when they stood on the verge of their first combat mission.

"I've just never fired this thing at anything but a stationary target before," he explained.

"You're a good shot, even with a pistol. And that thing was designed by Stark."

The memory of a prototype flying car landing heavily on a stage amidst a cough and splutter of smoky fumes sprang into Bucky's mind. Wells was right. The SSR-01 was designed by Stark. Maybe it wouldn't even work properly. Maybe it would jam, or misfire, and then Bucky wouldn't have to kill someone. He couldn't be blamed for his weapon jamming, and nobody would ever have to know how dry his mouth got at the thought of pulling that trigger.

"Ah'm looking forward to seeing what this thing can do," said Tex. He lifted the rifle and sighted down it. "Just like huntin' coons back home."

"'Cept coons don't fire back," Wells pointed out. He clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. I'm sure you won't miss. In fact, I'd put money on it."

Bucky gave a small nod, and attempted a grateful smile. That's what I'm afraid of.

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

His mouth was dry, and no amount of water sipped from his canteen would provide relief. The eleven klicks had been covered in a little over two hours. Men who'd arrived in France seven days ago soft and untested, had quickly developed the stamina required for swift marching. Even the sun didn't affect them as much; it had already burned them raw, and now their faces were fading from red to brown, skin darkening where it was exposed to the harsh rays.

But Bucky's mouth wasn't dry because of the fast pace, or the hot sunlight. It was dry because through the lenses of his binoculars he could clearly see the small concrete bunker in the middle of the dense Alpilles pine forest. Could see the heavy door. Could see the defensive machine gunner position atop the bunker. Could already taste death in the air. And death tasted suspiciously like pine trees.

"The machine gun is unmanned," said Dancing. His own binoculars were trained on the bunker, and a sort of nervous excitement suffused the air around him. "This changes things."

"We're not sticking to the plan, sir?" Bucky asked, while a tiny, relieved Thank God raced through his mind.

"It's time for a new plan." He pulled out a map and lay it on the ground, examining the bunker from all angles. How the hell Phillips had got his hands on such a detailed map, Bucky had no idea, but he was starting to get the impression that whatever this mission was, it was bigger than he had initially suspected. The men in German uniforms, the tanks, Howard Stark, the intel, the need to capture rather than destroy a communications bunker… somehow, it was all connected. Somehow, Phillips was getting orders and intel from somewhere, despite the fact that they were cut off from the rest of the army. Despite the fact that nobody else was in France right now.

Or at least, that was what Bucky had been told.

"The new plan," Dancing said at last, "is this. We'll still need to block their communications, but once we're in place and the jammers are activated, one of my team and I will climb up to the machine gun position and take possession of it. Once we're in place, we'll have a stronger advantage. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells, you'll be able to storm the bunker and take it by force. If anyone tries to escape, or reach the machine gun position, I'll deal with them." He glanced down at his watch. "Let's check our radios are working."

Bucky suspected Dancing may have seen Stark's flying car demonstration, too. A genius the man might be, but his inventions didn't always function as they were supposed to, especially the prototypes. Maybe that was why Phillips had brought him out here. Maybe Stark was safer experimenting away from populated areas.

A quick sound-check showed that Stark's radios were more reliable than his flying cars. No sparking, no static; they gave a clear signal and were simple enough to operate even in the middle of a combat zone. Bucky could practically hear Stark's internal monologue as he designed them. These radios need to simple enough for a trained monkey to use; that should give those soldiers a decent chance at operating them.

"Sergeant Barnes, you'll approach from this direction," said Dancing. "I'll take Alpha Team and circle around to the east; Charlie Team, to the west. Radio silence until we get into position."

Dancing gestured for the five men of his team to follow him; Gusty, Hawkins and three of Weiss' men fell into line.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Bucky said quietly, as they watched Alpha Team leave. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, just the feeling of something churning in his stomach, something more than the usual butterfly-nerves.

"Really? I've had a bad feeling since we left Last Stop," Wells replied. "I think you'd have to be crazy going into something like this and feeling good about it. And not crazy in a good way. Anyway, my team's got ground to cover." A smile tugged at his lips. "Two bucks says I make it into the bunker before you."

"Are you sure you wanna bet against me again? Last time you did that, you lost."

"I fancy my chances this time. And if you lose to me enough, it'll soften the blow of losing Rita to me when we get home."

Wells disappeared off to the west with Carrot, Tex, Franklin and another two of Weiss' men in tow, leaving Bucky with Hodge, Biggs, Davies, Corporal Jones and a private named Hartley.

"Stay sharp," Bucky told them. "Intel might say there's only a handful of Nazis, but it's best to err on the side of caution."

They crept forward, releasing a pine-fresh sent with each step that they crushed the fallen needles underfoot. In his mind's eye, he was already back at camp, working on his next letters home. Dear Mom and Dad. Today I killed someone to the scent of pine. Dear Steve. You remember how you felt that time you threw up after riding the Cyclone with me? Well, I think I know how you feel. Dear Mary-Ann. How does it feel to know your big brother's a killer?

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the macabre thoughts. Maybe it wouldn't have to be like that. Eighteen members of the 107th were going up against, at most, five Nazis. Not all the guns would be needed. Not all the bullets would count. Just like a firing squad. Not all the guns were loaded, so that nobody knew for sure which bullet had killed. No man was supposed to know for sure that he had blood on his hands.

But they said that a soldier could tell. That a gun firing bullets felt different to a gun firing blanks. That, in their heart of hearts, every man on a firing squad could tell whether he'd taken a life. That's what they said. Maybe it was the same for shooting in combat. Maybe a man could tell when his bullets found their marks. Maybe he just knew.

As they crept forward, the birds in the trees mocked them with normal, joyous calls. To the birds, this day was no different to any other day. They didn't care that Bucky's entire world was falling away into a river of blood. Birds cared nothing for humans shooting at each other. Killing each other. Birds were ignorant, and Bucky wished desperately that he was a bird right then, removed from what was happening and what had to happen before this day was over. Why couldn't he have a day of catching insects and pulling up worms for once? The birds had it so easy.

The bunker had the high ground, so Bucky crouched low as he advanced, bringing his team to a halt some fifty metres out from the facility. The machine gun was quiet, and the communication dish beside it was still. Maybe no-one was home. Or maybe it was a trap. False intel. The troops go rushing in and get ambushed. Bodies lay scattered across the forest floor, blood pouring out from—

"This is Alpha Team, we're in position." Dancing's voice on the radio tore through the vision of bodies, making Bucky jump. Get ahold of yourself, man. You can't get jittery now. The mission's counting on you to succeed.

"Bravo Team, also in position." He slung his rifle across his back and pulled out his pistol instead. The SSR-01 would only be a hindrance in such close proximity to their target.

"Charlie Team, just moved into position," Wells' voice said.

"All teams, deploy jammers and prepare to activate on my mark," Dancing instructed.

Hodge turned around to give Bucky access to the small musette bag he carried. From it, Bucky took the jamming device. Stark had given a demonstration on how to use it before the squad had left camp, and as seemed typical for many of Stark's inventions, it was surprisingly simple to operate. One button turned the device on, and pressing the same button again turned it off. Of course, Stark went to great lengths to explain how the device's interior was technically complex, but by that point, most of the 107th had started to get that glassy look in their eyes which suggested they'd switched off from listening.

He set the device on the ground and reported that his team were ready. Wells did the same, and Dancing offered one final command.

"As soon as the devices are active, I'll take Corporal Ferguson up to the machine gun position. Once it's secure, I'll give the signal for the rest of you to advance. Now, prepare to activate the jammers. Three… two… one… mark."

Bucky pressed the 'on' button. Held his breath. Sent a silent plea to the jammer. Please don't be like the car, please don't be like the car. A small green light winked to life, and he slowly released his breath. "Bravo Team's device is functioning as intended."

"Charlie Team's jammer is A-OK," said Wells.

"And Alpha Team's is in play. Corporal Ferguson, you're with me. Everybody else, await my command."

Waiting. Sometimes the waiting was enough to drive a guy insane. It was worse than the marching, because at least while on the march, the mind was occupied by watching its surroundings. Perhaps, when this was over—

The angry roar of gunfire tore through the afternoon peace, drowning out the birdsong and an agonised shriek of pain which set every hair on Bucky's body standing on end. He fumbled for the transmit button on his radio, expecting at any moment to feel the spray of ground being torn up by gunfire around him.

"What's happening?" he demanded. Whatever was happening, it wasn't being aimed at Bravo Team. Small comfort.

He heard the sound of a door opening, and harsh German voices called out to each other, followed by more gunfire. Now, multiple guns were shooting at something. But shooting at what? He dared not stick his head above the natural earthen parapet his team were sheltered behind.

"I don't know." Wells' voice over the radio, full of concern and confusion, was an immediate relief. "Danzig, what's going on over there?"

"Sarge, we gotta problem." There was an edge of suppressed panic in Gusty's voice. In Bucky's mind, the corporal's face was wide-eyed and sweaty. "Dancing's down. He took a machine gun hit to the chest as soon as he left shelter and took a step towards that bunker."

"How bad is it?" Bucky asked him. Inside his chest, his heart was beating a fast tattoo. Trying to beat itself right out of his ribcage. His mouth, which had been dry to begin with, now felt like the Mojave desert.

"Uh, he's not gonna be getting up. And we're pinned down. I can't stick my head over the top to see where the hostiles are, and we're getting stray bullets ricocheting around down here."

Shit.

This wasn't supposed to happen. The machine gun position had been unmanned. They'd all seen it for themselves. And now Dancing was down, probably dead, and he would only be the first. Soon, the ground would be littered with bodies, just like the image in his head had shown him. He'd spent every minute of the journey afraid he might have to kill someone; he'd never imagined that he might die.

"Sarge, we need a new plan, and fast." The panic was still in Gusty's voice, but there was something else, too. Something Bucky had heard before. Heard it in his sister's voice, when the two of them, as children, whilst rambunctiously chasing each other around the house, had knocked a cupboard and sent Mom's antique family vase toppling to the floor where it shattered into a hundred pieces. Bucky, what do we do? A plea for help. For guidance. For a way out. That vase had shattered, and he hadn't known what to do about it, so he'd taken the blame instead. Now, the mission was in a hundred pieces, and taking the blame wasn't good enough. If he couldn't find a way of gluing this shattered mission back together, more people would die.

Intel. The lectures of Camp McCoy's drill sergeants came flooding back from six months ago. Before missions could be planned, intel was required. Nothing could be done without intel.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself up, peering over the top of the embankment. Somewhere, Germans were firing on Gusty's position, but he couldn't see them from where he was. Up at the machine gun was a dark silhouette. One of the Germans must have been up there all along, hunkered down behind the sandbag fortification. Whoever was up there kept up a steady rate of loud fire; storming the bunker now was out of the question. Anyone trying it would be cut to shreds.

"Can anyone see where those Germans are firing from?" he radioed to the other teams.

"Yeah," said Wells. "There's a trench protecting the bunker door, and they're in it. I count three in the trench, and one up top."

Bucky had always loved puzzles. Logic puzzles, brain-teasers, crosswords… solving them, no matter what they were, had always given him a sense of achievement. Now, he tried to think of the mission as a puzzle. His team had superior numbers, but they were up against an entrenched enemy who had the high ground and superior firepower. Anyone trying to storm the bunker would be cut to shreds by the machine gun. Anyone trying to sneak up would find themselves in a trench with enemy soldiers. Because Phillips wanted the bunker intact, they hadn't brought grenades. No matter how he tried to solve it, his people ended up massacred.

"Sarge, whatever you're planning, make it quick," said Gusty. "We're not doing too good over here. Hawkins looks like he's about ten seconds away from losing it."

He looked to the faces of his teammates. The air of flippant irreverence was gone from Davies' face, replaced by a deep frown of worry. Hodge was maintaining his cool, but his face was a shade paler than usual, and his grip on his rifle had caused his knuckles to go white. Biggs, Jones and Hartley were focused on the forest around the bunker, as if they expected Nazi reinforcements to surround them at any moment. His teammates had no solution for this puzzle, and Bucky felt control of the situation, control of everything, slip out of his grasp.

"I've got a plan," said Wells over the radio, "but you're not gonna like it."

At this stage, I'll take anything! Bucky thought. But he managed to keep the sheer desperation out of his response. "Let's hear it."

"We surrender."

"You're right, I hate that plan. We might as well just shoot ourselves."

"It's not the whole plan. Listen, right now, Alpha Team's pinned down, but the Nazis don't know about us. I think I can make my way to Gusty's position, and we can fly one of those triangular bandages as a white flag. We'll get the rest of the team to play dead, like Dancing. The Krauts will stop firing and order us over the top to take us prisoner. Meanwhile, you and Tex withdraw to sniper range, and when those sons of bitches come out of the trenches to disarm us, you take them out. Take out the machine gunner, too. The rest of Bravo and Charlie teams get ready to move, and as soon as the gunner's out, they storm the bunker and take whoever's left inside prisoner."

The thousand things that could go wrong played out in Bucky's mind in full Technicolor, a moving picture of disaster and bloodshed.

"That's a terrible plan, Wells. What if they decide not to take you prisoner and just shoot you as soon as you're in the open? What if we miss, and hit you instead of them? What if—"

"Hey, I never said it was a good plan. Sure, everything could go wrong, and I'd love to sit here and debate about why those Nazis need to take us prisoner and interrogate us, and give you an 'I believe in you' pep talk, but we've got just under eight minutes on the clock, so either you come up with a new plan in thirty seconds, or we go with my plan. The only other alternative is retreat. Personally, I'd rather take a chance on my plan than go back to base and explain to Phillips how we left without even trying."

"Fine. Your plan it is." Even a plan cobbled together out of sheer desperation and madness was preferable to going back to Phillips to report a failure.

"Okay. I'm giving my radio to Tex, so the two of you can co-ordinate your targets. I'll contact you on Gusty's radio once I get to his position."

And then Wells was gone, and Bucky wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. This wasn't just a terrible plan, it was one hastily lain. He hadn't had time to process it. Hadn't been given the chance to make sure his team knew their orders… hadn't been able to run through alternative scenarios in his head, to make contingencies and discuss what needed to happen if things went wrong. If he missed, if he hesitated, if his rifle jammed, Wells would die. Be a killer, or let a friend take a bullet. That was the choice Wells had given him, and he hated it.

"Wait until we start taking out the soldiers, then get into that bunker," he instructed Jones.

He turned, and ran. Five hundred metres. That was the operational range of the radio. Well within his SSR-01's firing range… he could only hope that Tex remembered that, too.

Though he stumbled several times, he somehow managed to stay upright as he sprinted through the trees, dodging trunks and low branches, leaping over rocks and other obstructions. When he finally stopped, his lungs worked overtime to pull fresh, pine-scented air into them. How far out had he come? Three hundred metres? It couldn't be any more than four. Far enough to use his rifle. Close enough to be within communications range.

He checked his watch. Five minutes and thirty-eight seconds. That was all they had to capture the bunker. Working quickly, he shoved his pistol back in its holster and pulled his rifle from over his shoulder. His own breath sounded ragged and loud, and he felt sweat trickle down his forehead from beneath his helmet. Every bit of him was burning up in the heat of that metaphorical desert… every bit of him except his hands. The rifle kept them cold. Embrace me, it seemed to say. Let me keep you cool.

No.

The moment he welcomed the feel of the gun in his hands, was the moment he stopped feeling bad about pulling the trigger and taking lives. On that day, he would no longer be himself. He wouldn't be his parents' son, or his siblings' older brother. And he would rather live with a heavy weight on his conscience, than give it up completely.

"I'm in position," he said over his radio. He pulled his rifle's scope to his eye and the distant forest leapt into focus, greatly magnified. It took him a moment to adjust, to find the bunker, and when he did he saw it all in such vivid details that it was as if he was standing right in the middle of it. He saw the trench, and German helmets peeping just above it. He saw the bunker door, and the communication dishes, and the fortified gunner position on the bunker roof. He saw the leaves on every tree and every pine needle on the ground. For a moment, it seemed like he was everywhere, and saw everything.

"Ah'm in position too," said Tex. "And Ah got my eyes on that MG 42. Just say the word."

"Wait for Wells," Bucky told him. "If you take out the gunner before he has chance to get into position, we'll never get those Krauts out of that trench."

C'mon, Wells, he thought silently. A quick glance at his watch showed him just under four minutes were left on the clock. They were cutting it fine. Too fine.

From his position, he couldn't see Alpha Team, but somehow, the Germans knew. Bucky kept his scope on the place the Nazis were aiming at. They didn't seem to care that their bullets were hitting more earth than flesh… but maybe they were waiting for the team to make a run for it. They'd already killed one man, and unlike the assault team, they had all the time in the world to kill another.

"I've just reached Alpha Team," Wells finally reported. "We're sending up a flag now."

Through his rifle's scope, he saw something white poke above the embankment and wave back and forth. A few bullets caught it, but when the Germans realised what it was, the guns finally fell silent. He was too far out to hear any words that were exchanged. Too far away to hear whether Wells called out to surrender, too distant to tell if the Germans spoke enough English to order whoever was still alive to leave their refuge and come out with their hands in the air. But those things must have happened, because Wells and Gusty slowly climbed over the bank of earth, neither of them carrying their rifles, both holding their hands up to show they were empty. In their eyes was a tightly-leashed fear, and through his scope, Bucky was right there with them, living every second of it.

He saw the Germans climb out of their trench, guns trained on Bucky's friends. One went to peer over the side of the embankment, to make sure no more enemies were hiding in ambush, and Bucky prayed to God that the rest of Alpha Team could convincingly play dead. A second German began disarming Wells and Gusty, ordering them to drop their pistols, their knives, and to remove their helmets and put them down on the ground. The third German soldier stood by on guard, his gun held ready to fire. Bucky focused on him as he stood watching, completely unprotected.

The third German had an uncertain face and blue eyes that watched his prisoners warily. He looked like any young man Bucky might pass on a New York street. Maybe the German was like Bucky. Maybe he had a Steve-like friend back home, who he pulled bullies off and looked out for. Maybe German-Bucky and German-Steve went to the movie theatre together, where they watched the German equivalent of The Wizard of Oz and marvelled over how something as incredible as Technicolor could possibly exist in the world. Maybe this young soldier closed his eyes every night thinking of the girl he had back in Berlin, a German-Samantha waiting for him to get home and marry her so they could have their own family, raise their own children—

Something hit the young German's chest. A spray of red erupted even as the man was falling. The gun dropped from his lifeless hands. A wave of dizziness hit Bucky as he released the trigger of his rifle. Even as the bile rose up from his stomach, burning his chest, he adjusted his aim to the first German, the one who was behind Gusty and Wells, the one who had seen his companion go down and was now raising his own rifle to execute his prisoners.

This time, when Bucky squeezed the trigger, he hit the German in the side of the neck. The bullet went straight through, and the man dropped on the spot. In his ear, or maybe in his head, he heard Tex's voice. Just like hunting coons back home.

In the clearing outside the bunker, there was movement. Through his scope, Bucky saw the last German reach for his pistol. Saw the man's hand flick the safety catch off. Bucky adjusted his aim to dead centre of the man's chest… but Wells was faster. Even as the second German had fallen, he'd stooped for his Colt. When he fired, it was at almost point blank range, and the German keeled over backwards as a loud bang echoed through the forest.

A prickly cold sweat broke out on Bucky's face. It was done. The threat was over. With a shaky hand he lowered his rifle, took a deep breath, and finally gave in to the rising tide of nausea, emptying his stomach of everything he'd eaten that day.