We Were Soldiers

22. Into thy hands

It was a few minutes before Bucky felt steady enough on his legs to make his way back to the rest of the squad. After his stomach had finished emptying itself, he washed his mouth out with water from his canteen and wiped away the burning tears that being sick had brought to his eyes. Would it always be like this? Would he feel sick, and weak, every time he pulled the trigger of his gun? Did everybody feel like this, or was there something wrong with him? Was he somehow broken inside?

He covered the three hundred metres back in a weary, numb trudge, only remembering to pick his feet up and at least attempt to look pleased by the outcome of the mission as he caught sight of Hodge and Biggs marching at gunpoint a German prisoner they'd taken out of the bunker. They forced the man to his knees not far from his fallen comrades… probably on purpose. Stop him getting any ideas. The guy's face was pale and clammy, terror etched into every line.

The rest of the squad hadn't been idle; in pairs, they'd set up a defensive perimeter around the bunker, alert for any signs of German reinforcements. Somebody—he couldn't make out who—was manning the machine gun, whilst Gusty and Davies had the unpleasant task of stripping the dead men of their weapons and ammo. As he passed, Bucky kept his gaze up. He didn't want to see the faces of the men he'd killed. Didn't want to see their death masks. Didn't want to think about the families waiting back home for men who would never return.

"Where's Sergeant Wells?" he asked Hodge.

"In the bunker, securing the communications room with Franklin and Carrot. Left us to watch this guy." Hodge poked the German in the back of the shoulder with his rifle, and the man closed his eyes with a terrified whimper.

Great. Bucky could already hear the first words outta Wells' mouth. See? Told you I'd get in here first. That's two bucks you owe me.

The bunker's interior was cool and dark, a welcome relief from the heat of the day. He climbed down the stairs and followed the voices down the narrow corridor. Through an open door on the left he saw a four-man bunk room furnished with a couple of tall closets and a small shelf filled with books. The normalcy of it hit him like a punch in the gut. Apart from the flag that had been pinned to the wall—an eerie thing displaying a bare, blood-red skull above multiple sinuous tentacles, emblazoned across a black background—this could have been any bunk room, in any facility, even an American one. Despite the evil they fought for and maybe even believed wholeheartedly in, these had been regular men who'd done regular things, like sleeping and reading. And Bucky had snuffed out their candles.

Another door to the right turned out to be a small kitchen and living room, with racks full of canned food lining two walls. The labels were written in German, and there weren't any words that he recognised, but it wasn't difficult to imagine the medium-sized, uniformly stacked cans containing beans. Perhaps the larger cans carried potatoes, or ready-made broth. The small cans might have been fruit in a sugary syrup, and the jar-like cans with twisting lids could have been tea or coffee. A normal kitchen, just like the camp's mess stores. The racks were full, from top to bottom. Whatever the Germans were doing here, they evidently planned on staying a while.

At the end of the corridor he found the communications room. Franklin was sitting at the table, a pair of earphones over his head, while Carrot and Wells watched on. The room itself was full of equipment; lights flashing on metal panels, wires trailing everywhere, several microphones on the table… Stark would have a field day with this.

"Either they're ordering something with fries, or they're asking for a report about communications going dark," Franklin said. "I only did six months' of German, and that was pretty basic. You know, 'please hand me a yellow crayon' and 'the weather is sunny today.' Sorry Sarge, but I daren't report back in case we arouse their suspicions."

"Keep listening anyway. Maybe you'll be able to pick something up." Wells turned to Bucky and gestured for him to join him outside. When they reached the bunk room, Wells stopped and nodded at the strange flag. "Got a load of this?"

They took a couple of steps closer, to examine the flag in its surroundings. "Yeah. I've never seen anything like it. Would've expected a swastika up there. What do you think it means?"

"Not a clue. But it kinda reminds me of an octopus."

"Almost," Bucky agreed. "But an octopus has eight tentacles, not six."

Wells gave a small shiver. "Well, whatever it is, it gives me the creeps. C'mon, let's go make sure Hodge hasn't shot our prisoner." As they set off down the corridor, out of earshot of the others, Wells launched into a more formal report. "We did it with forty-five seconds to spare. The communications guy surrendered pretty quickly once he realised his soldier buddies were dead. I've got Jones up on the machine gun, Tex keep an eye on things from a distance, and the rest of the squad making themselves useful. Figured it's best they don't sit around staring at a bunch of dead bodies. Can't be good for morale."

"It was a good plan," Bucky acceded. When they stepped out of the bunker the sunlight assaulted his eyes, and he squinted at the harshness of it.

"And that was some good shooting. Between you and Tex, those Nazis didn't stand a chance."

"And you," he pointed out. "You managed to take the last one out before I'd finished aiming."

"Yeah, he didn't seem the 'surrender quietly' type. Lucky I had the presence of mind to take the safety off the Colt before they made me drop it."

Bucky stared at his friend for a long moment, searching for some sign of regret, some indication of guilt, some hint that pulling the trigger and ending a life had made Wells feel even a small measure of what Bucky had experienced. But there was nothing. No remorse, no regret, no self-doubt… and Wells didn't seem to have changed. He hadn't suddenly morphed into some heartless monster. He still looked like the same old Danny Wells.

So why didn't Bucky feel like the same old Bucky Barnes?

Suddenly, the answer hit him. Maybe the reason he felt like a part of himself was missing wasn't because he had taken a life. Two Lives. Maybe it was because of the death he hadn't been able to prevent.

His feet carried him forward, towards the embankment where Alpha Team had been holed up before the shooting started. He didn't want to look. Didn't want to see someone he'd known in life, cold and lifeless in death. But when his feet brought him to the edge of the bank, when they stopped him above the fallen body, he forced himself to look. Forced himself to see the blood-soaked jacket, the holes ripped through flesh, and the face of Lieutenant Danzig, eyes closed, cheeks blood-spattered, mouth partly open as if he'd tried to say something at the moment he died.

"He had a girl," a voice said. "Waiting for him back home." It was his own voice. But it sounded odd. Disconnected. Like it came from some part of him that didn't know how to put feelings into words. Some part of him that needed to make noise, just so there wouldn't be silence. "Her father wouldn't let him marry her until he reached the rank of Captain. He didn't want anyone to know. Thought people wouldn't understand what he was fighting for. Guess it doesn't matter who knows, now."

"We lost a man," Wells said at last. "One. I don't know what the army's official policy is on acceptable losses, but I'm pretty sure this was inside that threshold."

"It's not acceptable to me." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realised how stupid they sounded. How childish. How naïve. This wasn't a fairytale. It wasn't a work of fiction, or a moving picture, or a Broadway show. It was real. It was life. It was war. People would die. People had to die. That was how war worked. He'd known it when he signed on the dotted line, and he knew it still.

He just hadn't expected it to cut him so deeply.

"I need to… to… get his tag. To cover him up, ready for transport. And—"

He took a step forward, but Wells stopped him with a hand on his arm. For once, the humour was absent from his blue eyes. Instead, they were filled with concern, and Bucky didn't think it was concern over the dead. He spoke quietly, so that his voice didn't carry to the rest of the team who were undoubtedly doing their best to eavesdrop.

"I'll do it. I'll get his tag and fetch a blanket and cover him up. And I'll put a few of the squad on grave detail, so we can at least put those Germans in the ground. You go and report back to Colonel Phillips. He said he wanted to know as soon as the mission was complete."

That little flame of anger sprang to life inside him again. "I'm fine. I can handle this—"

"I know you can. But one of us has to report back, and after Matilda, I think you need a win more than I do. Besides, you gotta get Hawkins out of here. Sitting there beside Dancing, while Germans rained bullets down on them… it fried his nerves. You've got that big brother way of dealing with stuff like this. You know I'll only end up saying something inappropriate."

He searched Wells' face for any sign of bullshit, and found none. The flame of anger died away.

"Fine."

"Good. Do me a favour; take Hodge and Gusty, too. I don't like the way Hodge keeps eyeing that German, and Gusty will be a useful pair of eyes in case there are any more Krauts sneaking around out there."

Bucky wanted to object. To tell Wells that he didn't need more men, that he would be fine with Hawkins and didn't need babysitting, but he couldn't find a strategic reason for taking fewer men with him, especially since their target was now secure.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he reluctantly agreed, and turned to issue orders to the rest of the team. "Hodge, Gusty, Hawkins, collect those jamming devices of Stark's. We're heading back to camp."

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

It wasn't life or death for me.

The thought hit him a mile out from the camp. Wells had pulled the trigger of his pistol and felt no remorse because for Wells, it was do or die. He'd been there. Right there. In that clearing, with a German about to aim a gun at his head. It must have been terrifying, but Bucky thought it might have made the decision easier, and offered justification after the fact.

It hadn't been like that for Bucky. Nobody was aiming at him. Nobody even knew he was there. His own life hadn't been on the line. He'd had to talk himself into pulling that trigger, wasted precious seconds on disassociating himself from the act, because the outcome had been inevitable. He'd killed a man from a safe position, with no risk to his own life. And he should have felt happy about that. Should have been glad that someone who had tried to kill his friends, someone who had possibly shot Danzig, was now dead. But the only thing he could feel was a desperate wish to have been the one in the clearing, so that he could've used self-defence as justification to himself, too.

To his side, Hawkins was equally quiet, his gaze downcast. A couple of dozen paces ahead, Hodge was in point, whilst Gusty watched their six. None of them had said a single word on the journey back, and Bucky felt helpless all over again. It was the same helplessness he'd experienced back at Last Stop, when Hawkins got the news about Drew. The same helplessness he'd felt when Steve's mom had passed away. A problem I can't fix, because nobody can fix death.

"Are you alright, Private?" he asked at last, because he had to start somewhere. Hawkins merely nodded. "Because it's okay if you're not. This was our first mission. I don't think anybody expected things to happen the way they did." And I'm so glad I kept Tipper out of it.

"It's war, Sarge," Hawkins said quietly. "I don't think things ever go the way we plan."

"True. All we can do, is do our best, and hope for the best. And we have to make sure the people we lose aren't lost for nothing." At that moment, he hated himself for telling the private what he thought he needed to hear. "If you ever need, or want, to talk about anything, just let me know."

"Thanks. I'll be okay. I just need some time alone."

Every plane of Hawkins' face said otherwise, but Bucky could hardly force the guy to talk about what was eating him up. He himself had kept things from others because he didn't want them to lose confidence in him. And, maybe, because if he started talking about everything that made him feel bad or uneasy, it might open a floodgate and never stop.

The camp sentries picked them up a hundred metres out from the perimeter and escorted them silently to the command tend. The escort was unnecessary; Bucky knew the way. He also knew that the sentries weren't escorting him because they thought he might get lost. This was the company's first combat mission. Bucky had either killed men, lost men, or both. However this mission had gone down, he and his team weren't in it alone.

Outside the command tent, Hawkins, Gusty and Hodge hung back with the sentries whilst Bucky went ahead. Both Phillips and Hawkswell were inside the tent, as were Agent Carter and Howard Stark. Bucky offered a salute, which was returned by both colonels.

"Sir, the mission was successful. Target Alpha-01 is under our control."

Phillips offered a grunt that might have been a little impressed. "Casualties?"

"Four Germans killed, one taken prisoner." Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat. Was there an easy way to report that your SO was dead? Was there an easy way to report that anyone was dead? "Lieutenant Danzig… he didn't make it, sir. Took a hit to the chest from that MG 42."

"A shame," Phillips said, more to Hawkswell than to Bucky. "He showed promise. Is the communications room undamaged, Sergeant?"

"Yessir," he said. His mind immediately went to the flag in the bunk room. It was incongruous, and anything incongruous should be reported. "There was something else. They had a flag on the wall in their bunk room. It wasn't a swastika, or even the German national flag. It was… well, it looked a little like an octopus, sir," he offered lamely. "Red, on a black background, with six tentacles."

The colonel glanced up at Agent Carter and Howard Stark, and some silent communication passed between the three of them. That was when Bucky finally realised how many steps ahead Colonel Phillips was: a whole damn lot. He'd not only known about the German base, wherever that was, he'd known about this bunker, and he'd even known about that damned flag. Not just that it would be there, but also what it meant. He knew, and Carter knew, and Stark knew, and they weren't going to enlighten him. He could tell by the blank expression on Hawkswell's face that the group's second colonel wasn't in on the secret… maybe this was the SSR's mission. Maybe it had something to do with this flag—or what it represented.

"Sergeant, you will fully debrief me en route to the bunker. Agent Carter, go prepare our package. Stark, grab whatever equipment you think you'll need. And send somebody to alert the medical staff they're on body retrieval duty." The pair scrambled into action, and Phillips turned back to Bucky. "Two of your men will drive the jeeps that will take us back to the bunker. I trust I'm not going to find any 'minor' surprises when I get there, am I? No babies? No homeless families looking for shelter? No lost puppies?"

Bucky bit his tongue. "No, sir."

"Good. You're with me, Sergeant. Tell me everything that happened out there."

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

The forest terrain was jeepable, so getting back to the bunker didn't take as long as the journey back to camp. Gusty was at the wheel, and Bucky sat in back with Phillips as he recounted the details of the mission. Phillips sat mostly in silence, asking a few questions here or there, but he made no notes and asked for no official reports to be filed, which made Bucky wonder whether the SSR—and by extension, the 107th—was officially in France at all.

When they reached camp, the first thing he noticed were the four mounds of earth that had grown out of the ground outside the bunker. Looking closer, he realised the mounds were the piles of soil from four long, deep holes that had been dug. Half a dozen of the team were dirt-stained and sweaty, but they all stood to attention as the colonel stepped out of the jeep.

"As you were," Phillips said, and the men who were digging went back to their task.

Bucky had been expecting Phillips to make a beeline for the communications room, since he'd made such a big fuss about capturing the thing intact. Instead, he strode up to the German prisoner and looked down on him as if passing judgement there and then. The prisoner's eyes darted back and forth, and when he saw the second jeep pull up, and saw who was getting out of it, those darting eyes went wide with fright. It wasn't Hodge who frightened him. It wasn't Agent Carter, or Howard Stark. It was the man in the German uniform, who looked around with an air of casual indifference, as if seeing graves being dug for Nazi soldiers was something that happened on a daily basis.

"Is this the prisoner?" Phillips asked Wells, who was eyeing the second jeep with a sort of wary curiosity.

"Yes, sir. Oberleutnant Hans Weber, according to the bunker's staff log."

"You speak any English, Oberleutnant?"

"Ja, ja, speak English," the prisoner nodded quickly.

"Good. You'll come with me."

"Come… where?"

"To talk," Phillips said. "In private. Sergeants, get these holes finished on the double."

The colonel didn't bother waiting for a salute; he frogmarched the prisoner into the forest and out of sight. Letting the colonel go anywhere alone with a German soldier seemed like a phenomenally bad idea, but before he could say anything to that effect, Agent Carter breezed past, and the smell of her perfume—how the hell had she managed to get that out here?!—momentarily distracted him. The man in the German Officer's uniform followed her, and Stark followed him, carrying an armful of equipment into the bunker's dim interior.

A third jeep pulled up and out hopped a team of medics. When they unzipped a long, grey body-bag, everybody stopped still, every pair of eyes following them as they made their way to the place where Danzig had fallen.

"Get those damn holes finished!" Bucky snapped at them. They jumped to obey. Weren't used to hearing him snap like that. He told himself he snapped because the last thing Danzig would have wanted would be everybody staring at his dead body being manhandled into a bag like that. Told himself it wasn't because he didn't want the rest of the men to see it and imagine themselves in Danzig's place. He had to try and keep morale up, and if that meant hounding the troops with work so they were too busy and exhausted to think about dying, then so be it.

"What'd Phillips say when you told him about Dancing?" Wells asked. "And who's the guy with Agent Carter? And how's Hawkins doing?"

"Not much, I don't know, and he says he's okay."

"Do you think—"

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Everybody outside the bunker jumped practically out of their skins at the sound of gunfire, Bucky included. His heart, which had finally settled into a regular rhythm after the stress of the mission, started racing again, and he palpably felt the adrenaline spike in his body. The tips of his fingers, which had automatically gone to his hip at the sound, brushed against the handle of his Colt.

"The hell was that?" Wells demanded, his blue eyes wide and as panicked as Bucky felt inside.

"I… think it was our prisoner."

Worst case scenarios ran through Bucky's mind like an unstoppable herd of galloping horses. The prisoner had attacked Phillips, overpowered him, taken his gun, and shot him. Another Nazi had been lurking nearby, and had shot the colonel so the prisoner could escape. There had been a scuffle, and in a fight for the weapon, the colonel had been shot.

Bucky set off at a sprint in the direction Phillips had taken, with Wells beside him. A flash of movement between the trees forced them to skid to a halt, and as they reached the tree line, Phillips stepped out, his face stony as he holstered his pistol.

"The prisoner attempted to escape," he said. "Due to the security threat he posed, I was forced to shoot him to maintain our secrecy. We're going to need another hole, Sergeants. See that it's done, whilst I check in with Agent Carter."

After Phillips was out of earshot, Bucky turned to his friend and lowered his voice so that only Wells could hear.

"What do you think the chances are that the prisoner actually tried to make a run for it?"

"Slim. Very slim." Wells' face was a shade paler than usual. "But why would the colonel lie?"

"Diabolically clever!" somebody exclaimed from behind. Turning on the spot, Bucky spotted Stark striding out of the bunker. Apparently oblivious to the private conversation, and to the men digging holes nearby, Stark climbed up to the machine gun position and added, "Fiendishly brilliant." He peered over the side of the fortification, his brown eyes falling on Bucky and Wells. "You two. Can you see a thin wire running down the side of the bunker?"

Bucky wanted to tell Stark to do his own damn work. That he had more important things to be worried about. But on the other hand, anything that impressed Stark had to be noteworthy. So, he stepped forward and looked for a wire; he found it running down the side of the door frame. A thin, greyish-white wire that blended in well with the concrete.

"Yeah."

"You should see it go down into the ground," said Stark.

"It does."

"Pull it up, and follow it."

Bucky looked to Wells, who shrugged. Together, they found the wire's entry point into the ground, and pulled it up. Only a thin layer of soil and pine needles covered the wire, so they were able to easily trace it to a tree. The wire was wound up the trunk, and about eight feet up, terminated in a small round object.

"Whatever that thing is, get it down for me," Stark instructed.

Who died and made you the colonel?

Bucky winced at his own mental complaint. Only hours ago, men had died. He shouldn't make light of death; it wasn't right. With Stark watching, he grabbed his rifle, which was slung across his back, and used the long weapon to push the object out of the tree. Wells caught it before it could smash on the ground, and Stark was out of the gunner position and snatching it out of Wells' hands before Bucky could even shoulder his rifle again.

"Ahh, yes," Stark mused aloud, his eyes dancing over the object. "Just as I thought."

"What is it?" Bucky asked. If he was doing Stark's menial work, he at least wanted to know what he'd just salvaged.

"This is some sort of detector. It was rigged up to the machine gun. I suspect it detects movement, or heat sources, or something similar, and it automatically fires the gun at whatever it detects. That's how your lieutenant was killed so quickly. Technology can react faster than human reflexes. I suspect after the gun was triggered, the gunner disabled the detector… switched off the auto-pilot, if you will… and took over firing. I'll have to try and find a way to counteract this defence for next time."

"Next time?" asked Wells.

Something like guilt flickered across Stark's face as he looked up and finally realised he was talking to actual people, and not just himself. "I mean, hypothetical next time. Just in case. Be prepared, and all that."

Bucky opened his mouth. "But—"

"Sorry, can't talk now. Stuff to do." And with that, Stark disappeared back into the bunker, and Bucky knew he'd get nothing else out of the guy.

By the time Phillips returned from the depths of the bunker, the five holes were in the process of being filled. Bucky hadn't known if there were customs to follow, if anything special needed to be done with the enemy soldiers before putting them in the ground, so he simply helped the men to lower the bodies in, then joined one of the teams covering them with earth.

"Sergeants," said Phillips, pulling Bucky and Wells away from grave duty. Behind him came Agent Carter, with Howard Stark bringing up the rear, his arms filled once more with various pieces of tech which he took to one of the jeeps. The bunker door was closed behind him, with no sign of the fourth person who'd gone down there. "I'll need four of your men to accompany us back in the jeeps. When you're done here, get back to camp, double time. There will be a service for Lieutenant Danzig at sunset, and then we'll be moving the camp to a new location."

"Yessir," Bucky saluted. Then, because inherent curiosity had always been one of his greatest strengths and weaknesses, asked, "What about the… err… the other man, sir? The one in the German uniform?"

The expression on Phillips' face was blank. Not carefully blank or guardedly blank, but obviously blank. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sergeant. Now, get these bodies buried, then get back to camp. Come and see me in the command tent when you arrive. Both of you," he added ominously.

Colonel Phillips was clearly not a man who wanted to hang around. Bucky assigned four of the team who'd been digging holes all afternoon to accompany the colonel back in the jeeps, then resumed shovelling dirt with his entrenching tool. Not looking at the faces was even harder while he was burying them, but he fixed his gaze on the small, silver buttons of the dull field-green jacket and focused on shovelling and not seeing. It was easier that way.

When they were done, they stood in silence for a moment, staring over the graves of their fallen enemies. Bucky gave them that moment while Wells brought down Jones from the gunner position, and gestured for Tex—still keeping watch somewhere out there with his rifle—to return to the group. When they were all together again, they set off back to camp in silence.

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

By the time they reached camp, Bucky was tired and aching in new and exhausting ways. He'd done three swift eleven-klick marches, which now made his legs feel like jelly, and had helped to shift dirt with his short-handled entrenching shovel, which had made his neck and shoulders ache something awful. Like most of the team he was hot, sweaty and dirt-stained, and to make matters worse, his boots had started chafing his heels halfway back to camp. All he wanted was a cold wash, a hot meal and a solid eight hours' sleep. At most, he suspected he could rely on the meal. Everything else was a wistful longing.

"So," said Wells, as he and Bucky gave their weapons to Gusty and Carrot, for taking back to the regiment's tent, "do you think we'll get a sarcastic chewing-out, or a shouty one?"

"You think we're gonna be in trouble?"

"How often does the colonel summon us both to see him? On a day when we lose our SO on a mission, no less?"

"I see your point." Bucky's heart started a slow sink downward, to somewhere around his blistered heels.

A corporal stationed outside the command tent halted Bucky and Wells at the entrance while Colonel Phillips finished whatever private meeting he was having. When they were eventually admitted, they both saluted and stood to attention. Sarcastic, Bucky guessed. Phillips seemed the sarcastic kind.

"Sergeants," he barked at them. The only reason Bucky didn't jump was because he was too exhausted for it. "I don't like losing men. I like losing officers even less. You lost a man today. You lost an officer."

"Yessir," they both agreed. Bucky's gaze was already fixed to the back of the tent, over Phillips' shoulder, and he didn't dare alter it by even a millimetre.

"But… it could have been worse. Stark told me about the tech the Nazis were using; the detector which picked up Lieutenant Danzig moving and gunned him down. Your first combat mission, and you lost your SO. Some men might have broke, at that. Thrown more lives at the problem in the hope of overwhelming the enemy, or returned to base with their tails between their legs. But you kept your heads, you got the job done, and you didn't suffer any further losses. I'm putting you both up for a commendation, whenever we get back to somewhere civilised."

When Bucky's mouth tried to fall open, he clamped his jaw shut tight. Commendation? It was a far cry from the chewing-out he'd been expecting. Nothing like the judgement of, 'What you did is perfidy, so I'm busting you back to buck privates for the remainder of the war,' that he knew he rightfully ought to receive. In his heart of hearts, he knew he didn't deserve such an accolade… but he knew that if he tried to argue, Phillips would just tell him to stop trying to be modest.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"There is nothing to thank me for, Sergeant," the colonel said. "I don't give hand-outs, and I don't do favours. I reward success, expect lessons to be learnt from failure, and punish behaviour which falls below my expectations. Today, you had a success. Start as you mean to go on." Phillips stopped in front of them, briefly assessing them with his cool gray eyes. "Now, you've got time to get washed and fed before dark. Dismissed, Sergeants."

They saluted again and departed. As soon as Bucky was outside the tent, a sigh of relief escaped his lips. Some of the tension he'd been carrying across his shoulders evaporated like the morning mist.

"Well I'll be damned," said Wells.

"I don't deserve it," Bucky said quickly. He couldn't say it to Phillips, but he could say it to his friend. Had to say it to his friend, because it was praise he didn't deserve. "It was your plan. You came up with it while I was floundering in the mud."

"I might have come up with the plan, but you were the one who pulled it off," said Wells. "If you'd missed either of your targets, it would have gone badly. Besides, it only went so smoothly because you backed it. The rest of the team trust you to do the right thing. You know how my crazy ideas are; it could have gone the other way, easily. But you made it a success."

"We all did. Everyone stepped up to the plate."

"You're too damn self-effacing for your own good," Wells scoffed. "We got a commendation; be happy about it! Whether you want to believe it or not, you deserve it."

"Alright," he said. He could try to be happy about it. And tonight, he would write home, tell his folks and Steve about it. They'd be happy for him, too. But first he owed his friend an apology. His conversation with Hawkins, from a few hours ago, had been sitting on the sidelines of his thoughts, waiting to be called into play. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said the other day in Aureille. For giving you a hard time about Hawkins."

"Don't worry about it," his friend shrugged. "It's under the bridge."

"Still, I shouldn't have gone off at you like that. I know you were doing your best under difficult circumstances. I took it personal. I imagined myself in Hawkins' place, losing a brother, and got angry at the thought of someone lying to me. But I'm not Hawkins. It wasn't my brother, and sometimes I forget how young Hawkins is. So… I'm sorry," he finished lamely. "Will you forgive me for being a jerk?"

"Lemme ask you something," Wells countered. "How many times have I been a jerk to you, since Last Stop?"

"I dunno… a whole bunch?" It wasn't like he was keeping count. Didn't have enough fingers to keep count on. Probably not even if he added his toes.

"Exactly. So as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to forgive. You might've been a bit of a jerk back in Aureille, but you were speaking your mind and being honest. And you're the one who wanted no sugar-coating, right?" Bucky nodded. "Then there's nothing to worry about. I don't expect any apologies from you for being a jerk, as long as you don't expect them from me. And I'll tell you if you're out of line, like you told me I was out of line with Carrot, on the Monty. Sound fair?"

"I guess it does," he agreed.

"Good." Wells clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, pal, why don't we—"

"Excuse me!" A slightly-built blond-haired soldier, a few years older than Bucky and bearing a first-lieutenant's gold bar on his sleeve, trotted up to them. The guy's face was familiar, and Bucky thought he'd seen him walking around camp, but he couldn't recall if he'd ever heard the lieutenant's name. "Sergeant Barnes? Sergeant Wells?"

"Yes, sir?" Wells asked, a mask of patience replacing the stirrings of irritation.

"Oh, good. I was worried I'd got the wrong men." His light brown eyes scanned their faces as if searching for something. "I'm so sorry about your mission. It's never easy to see a fellow soldier fall. I just wanted to extend my services to you. In case you'd like to talk about what happened. Talk in the strictest confidence, of course."

"Um… who are you?" Bucky asked him.

"Oh. Very sorry. Lieutenant Thomas Olliver, Army chaplain." The lieutenant turned his head to show the small silver cross on his collar.

"I didn't know we had a chaplain. How long have you been with the company?"

"Since the SSR left England." Lieutenant Olliver immediately offered an apology on their behalf. "Of course, you've only been with us for a week, and you've had quite a busy week, what with finding that baby and now your mission today, so I wouldn't have expected you to know I was here. I hold services every morning and evening in the small church tent. I usually set up behind the hospital tent; it means I don't have as far to go if… um… well, never mind about that. I'm Catholic, but my services are open to all denominations, so you're quite welcome."

"Thanks," said Wells, "but going to church is against my religion. I'm…" his eyes darted back and forth as he searched his memory, "…Sikh."

Lieutenant Olliver stared at Wells as if he was mad.

"Don't mind him," Bucky told the chaplain. "We'll keep your advice in mind, but we really need to go get cleaned up and fed before the service for Lieutenant Danzig. Are you leading it, sir?"

"Yes. We'll be starting at sundown. And please, don't let me keep you. If you'd like to talk about what happened, you can find me the next time we make camp."

They both saluted as the chaplain departed, then set off for the small stream which wound its way around the side of the camp. "Can you believe that guy?" Wells asked. "Why would we wanna talk to him about what happened?"

Bucky merely shrugged. Talking to someone about the things on his mind didn't seem like such a bad idea. In the past, he'd had Steve to talk to, but Steve wasn't here. Steve was safe at home, far away from bullets and missions and death. And although Bucky had made friends, those friends relied on him to be strong. To keep his head. To not have fears, or doubts, or second-thoughts.

Maybe the chaplain could offer a little guidance. Help to ease his conscience. Maybe even help him find a way to live with the lives he had taken.

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

When Sarah Rogers had died of tuberculosis, killed by the illness she had helped strengthen others to battle, the number of people attending her service had been heart-breakingly small. Bucky and Mary-Ann had been there, along with Mom and Dad; Steve was like family to them, and Steve's mom had been a good family friend for years. Steve's uncle had travelled down from Canada to attend the service, along with some long-lost ageing great-aunt who'd turned up wearing a pink hat with long peacock feathers sticking out of the top, and kept calling Steve 'Stuart'. Some of Sarah's friends had been there, along with a group of doctors and nurses from the ward where she'd worked. Thirty-six people had sat themselves in the first three rows of the church, leaving the rest of it hauntingly empty. At the time, it hadn't seemed fair that such a wonderful woman should pass from the world, attended by so few.

Lieutenant Danzig's funeral was very different. He was their first casualty of war; the first man to die on this mission. All eight hundred and seventy four personnel turned out for the service. Few of them had known Danzig, and even fewer had actually liked the guy, but everybody wanted to pay their respects to the first of their comrades to fall in the line of duty. The 107th had the front lines, and behind and to the sides of them came the men of the 69th and 370th Infantries, white faces and dark faces united in a fleeting moment of consolatory grief.

Behind them were the Engineers and the Signals, the depleted 9th Infantry, the doctors and nurses of the Medical Corps, the Quartermaster and his staff, and the cooks who rarely ventured far from the mess tent. Agent Carter and Howard Stark stood beside Colonels Phillips and Hawkswell, their faces pale and somber.

Lieutenant Olliver delivered a moving service; talked about honour and loss, about duty and sacrifice. All Bucky could think about was the woman waiting back in the States; the girl whose beau would never come home as a Captain to ask for her hand in marriage. As the chaplain told them how Lieutenant Danzig had been delivered into the hands of the Lord, Bucky decided to write to Rachel. To tell her how Danzig had spoken often about how much he loved her and would do anything for her. To tell her the things she needed to hear. To maybe make it a little easier for her to face tomorrow alone.