We Were Soldiers

24. Tipping Point

"Carrot owes Gusty two dollars and Franklin three dollars. Franklin owes everybody one dollar, so I'll strike one of Carrot's off so that's just two Carrot owes him. Wells and Barnes owe each other two dollars, so I'll cancel those out. Tex owes Mex five dollars, and Mex owes Barnes three dollars. Hodge owes Tipper two dollars, and everybody owes me fifty cents for services rendered this month." Davies closed his notebook and pocketed it.

"What services?" Hodge scoffed.

Bucky let their banter slide past the filter in his mind which automatically flagged up anything he thought he needed to get involved in. He, along with a couple of dozen men from the 107th, were sitting outside their tent polishing their boots. The clearing was filled with a very focused swish swish swish of coarse-haired brushes being passed repeatedly over stiff leather. Most men hated boot-polishing, but Bucky had always found it relaxing. The swish swish swish had an almost hypnotic quality to it. It was easy to get lost in the swishing.

"Procurement and logistics, mostly. Largely indirect. Oiling the wheels and whatnot."

"Bullshit."

Davies shrugged. "Alright then. Private Hodge loses extra toilet paper privileges, as well as dirty laundry collections, additional sugar rations, and—"

"Additional sugar rations is a load of BS you just made up," Hodge complained. "I won't be shanghaied out of my hard-earned money."

"Cowboy up, Hodge," Bucky told him.

"Fine. Add it to your little diary," the private scowled. "Anyway, why aren't you polishing your boots like the rest of us?"

Davies stretched out on the ground and offered Hodge a smug grin. "Tipper's doing mine, in exchange for cancelling out the debt he owes me. C'mon Tipper, put your elbow into it."

"Don't worry, Davies, you'll have the shiniest boots in the camp."

"Hmm." Hodge looked down at the boot on his hand, then over at Tipper, who was polishing with gusto. "Hey, Tipper, how much to do my boots, too?"

Tipper glanced up, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "Five bucks."

"Five—! That's extortion! I bet you're doing Davies' for a fraction of the cost!"

"Yeah, but Pfc. Davies provides valuable services, and it never hurts to get on his good side."

"Tipper's a smart kid," Davies grinned. "You could learn a lot from him, Hodge."

"You little rat—!" Hodge huffed.

"Excuse me. Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky looked up at a private from the 370th loitering at the edge of the group as if afraid of stepping into the lion's den. By now, tales of the 107th's antics at Last Stop and on the Monty had spread around the entire company.

"What can I do for you, Private?" he asked.

"You're to report to the command tent; Colonel's orders."

"Alright, I'm on my way." He glanced down at his half-polished boots and sighed. Hopefully he'd get the chance to finish them later.

For now, he pulled them onto his feet, laced them up, and set off towards the middle of the camp. He had no idea why he'd been summoned to the command tent this time, but when the colonels called, you didn't tarry.

Part way through the camp, Dugan joined him, keeping up easily with his long stride. "Barnes," he said.

"Dugan," Bucky returned.

"You've been summoned by TPTB, too?"

"Yeah. Any idea what this is about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Dugan glanced at him sideways, a rather speculative expression sliding across his face. "You haven't been getting into more trouble, have you?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Besides, I don't get into trouble. Trouble just happens around me. Sometimes. Entirely not my fault."

"So you had nothing to do with Stark tearing the camp apart yesterday looking for 'stolen' radios, which mysteriously turned up right in the very place they'd gone missing from when Stark finally got back to his tent?"

"Personally, I doubt the radios were ever missing," Bucky lied smoothly. "I bet Stark just wasn't looking for them properly. You know how it is; sometimes you can't see the thing you're looking for, even when it's right in front of your eyes."

"Uh-huh."

He could tell Dugan wasn't convinced, but at that moment they arrived at the command tent, and put all thoughts of radios and Stark out of mind. Colonel Hawkswell had sole occupancy of the tent today, for which Bucky was glad. Hawkswell was slightly easier to read than Colonel Phillips, and he wasn't as sarcastic.

"Sergeant Dugan, Sergeant Barnes, please come in," said Hawkswell, when he saw them hovering by the open tent door flap. The colonel was standing in front of a map on the table, and when Bucky got closer, he saw it was a map of the area; a different map to the one he'd worked off when he'd found Matilda. The further east they travelled, the more hilly the terrain became. Here, it was all deep valleys and rocky slopes, loose scree and narrow streams.

"This is where we're heading next," said the colonel, jabbing his finger at a point on the map some fifteen klicks to the north. "Until now, the plan was to go through this narrow pass, between these two hills. However, we've heard reports of landslides, and it may be that the pass is now… unpassable." He glanced up sharply, ready to stamp down on any sign of humour. "Sergeant Dugan, I want you to send a recon team out to check out the situation. If we can get the company through it, it will save us a day of detouring. But just in case we can't get the heavier equipment through that pass, we're going to need an alternative route. Sergeant Barnes, I want you to send a team to scout north. From the looks of the terrain on the map, there shouldn't be any major obstructions, but I want to be doubly sure that the river's still where it's supposed to be, that it hasn't widened to the point that we'll need to build bridges to cross it, and that the terrain is solid and smooth enough for jeeps, tanks and that damn plane that Stark insists on bringing along." Hawkswell pursed his lips in firm disapproval of the plane.

"Are there any hostile emplacements along either of these routes, Colonel?" Dugan asked.

Hawkswell shook his head. "Since the dissolution of the Demarcation line, it's hard to guarantee anything, but German patrols tend not to venture too far into this area. Local resistance has a habit of making sure any Nazis who follow them into the hills disappear for good. You shouldn't run into anything but trees. Questions?"

"No sir," said Bucky.

Out of the command tent, Dugan turned to him with a grin. "Betcha tomorrow's sentry duty that the pass is passable, and that your boys will be wasting their time scouting out that northern route."

Bucky shook his head. Most soldiers had an uncanny ability to turn everything into a wager, and they would offer bets on the most trivial of things. Keeping track of all the wagers going on took someone with Davies' level of expertise.

"I don't wanna take that bet. I suspect you're right, and I already do my fair share of guard duty."

"Pah! You're a real bore, Barnes."

"But at least I'm a bore who'll be sleeping in his own bed tomorrow. Come back to me when you've got something worth putting a wager on."

They parted ways, and Bucky carried on to the 107th's tent alone. So focused was his mind on the mission, on how quickly he could get out to the area indicated by Hawkswell, that at first he didn't register the calls and jeers that were picked up by his ears. When he finally did register them, he picked up his pace. The 107th sounding rambunctious could not be a good thing.

In the clearing where the men were polishing their boots, he saw Hodge and Davies scuffling on the ground, whilst around them everybody wagered and cheered on one or the other. As Bucky watched, Hodge grappled Davies onto his back, but Davies jabbed his foot into Hodge's knee and broke free.

"What's going on?" he asked, crouching down beside Wells.

"I picked up a nail," Wells replied, holding up his boot for Bucky to see. Sure enough, lodged in the sole was a small nail head. Wells grabbed a pair of pliers, and tried to pull it out. "How the hell do you even pick up a nail, out in the boondocks?"

"I mean, what's going on with Davies and Hodge?"

"Oh, that. Wrestling match. The first to get the other into a headlock, wins. Hodge's idea. He wants Davies to cancel all his debts if he's victorious."

He glanced back to the roughhousing pair. Neither of them was bleeding, so he decided to leave them to it.

"Gusty!" he called over the noise of the small crowd. "Get your gear together. We've got a recon mission. You too, Wells."

"Ooh, Sarge, pick me!" said Tipper.

"Not this time, Tipper."

"Aww, but Sarge, you say that every time!" Tipper did his best attempt at puppy-dog eyes. "Please, Sarge, I'm ready for recon. Just gimme a chance."

"Sorry Tipper, you've got boots to polish. But you can do another stint in a foxhole, next time the 107th have guard duty."

"Hey Sarge," said Gusty, as he pulled his newly polished boots onto his feet, "you want me to lead a team this time? It's just recon, right? So long as we don't come across any more screaming babies, it should be a piece of cake."

Bucky looked down at his half-polished boots. Letting Gusty lead the mission would give him chance to finish his boots, and also make a start on a couple of overdue letters home. But… Colonel Hawkswell had said nothing was guaranteed. If there was even a remote chance of things going sideways, Bucky needed to be there. To fix whatever problem might arise. He wouldn't be able to relax, knowing he'd sent men into the unknown.

"Thanks, Gusty, but I could use the walk. Need to stretch my legs."

"Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells," said Weiss. He was loitering nearby, propping up a water tank, arms folded across his chest as he watched the wrestling match. "Can I bend your ears for a moment, over here?"

"Sure. Biggs, if Davies and Hodge start bleeding, break them up."

Weiss led the two of them further away from the clearing, and the sound of cheering voices grew quieter. Since arriving in France, Weiss had imparted to them a few pearls of sergeantly wisdom—introducing them to the concept of 'no tags, no death,' and offering advice about how to get even the laziest of enlisted men eager for combat—but had largely kept to himself, allowing the men who'd been with him for eight months in England a fairly loose rein, and maintaining a cool distance from all but a few in the regiment.

"Either of you go shopping with Mommy, as a kid?" Weiss asked, thoroughly confusing Bucky. "Carry her basket for her and whatnot?"

"Uh… yeah, I guess," Bucky said. He had some hazy memories of his mom dragging him and Mary-Ann around a grocery store.

"So you're familiar with the concept of not putting all your eggs in one basket?"

"Technically," said Wells, "if you boil the eggs first—" He shut up at a frosty glare from Weiss.

"Look, you're not kids," the grizzled man sighed, "and I don't normally like to tell other guys how to run their missions. But you can't keep going on recon together and taking Corporal Ferguson with you."

"Why not? We work pretty well together. That increases the chances of success on any given mission."

"And increases the chances of the regiment being royally screwed if things go sideways," said Weiss. "You might not be commissioned officers, but the two of you, and Gusty, are amongst the highest non-comms we've got. The regiment can't afford to lose that many sergeants and corporals at once. And besides that, your men need to gain experience, too. How many recons have the three of you been on together?"

"Three?" Wells shrugged.

"Four," Bucky corrected. Recons were only marginally more exciting than guard duty; they tended to blur into one.

"That's four recons which could have been used to give your men valuable reconnaissance experience. Your corporals need to learn to lead, as well, if they're gonna be sergeants themselves some day. I'm not saying you should send them into combat alone, but recon? They can handle it. You have to let them handle it, or if there comes a time when they have to do this kinda thing for themselves, they're not going to know what to do.

"Today's little wrestling match should tell you something else; the men are bored. Let them out when you can, or they'll start going stir-crazy. Eventually, disciplining them won't be as effective. Let them start doing more, or it tells them you don't have any faith in their abilities. And stop holding Private Tipper's goddamn hand; this isn't a daycare centre. Now, I'm off for a nap. Do the mission however you want, but keep what I said in mind. You may think you're keeping the men safe by making them stay in camp and doing missions yourself, but baby birds need to learn how to fly. That's just the way of the world."

After Weiss had gone, Bucky turned to his friend. "What do you think?"

"Makes sense. Weiss has been around for practically forever, so he's gotta know what he's talking about. Right?"

Bucky nodded. "Right. I suppose Gusty's ready for it. I mean, he kept his wits about him after Danzig got shot. He can handle a simple recon."

Back in the clearing, the fight had been ended by Biggs, who was holding back Hodge. The private's nose was bleeding, and he still managed to growl, 'lemme at him!' at Davies, whose eye was looking purple and swollen. Maybe Weiss had a point about the men getting bored. Davies wasn't the sorta guy who normally got involved in fisticuffs; he preferred to sit on the sidelines and handle the bets.

"You two," said Wells, eyeballing Davies and Hodge, "go get checked over at the hospital tent."

Davies scowled at him. "But they'll make us give blood."

"Yes, they will," Wells smiled sweetly. "Have fun with that."

"Bastard."

"Gusty," said Bucky, as Davies and Hodge trudged off to the hospital, "you can take a team for recon. I'll grab my map and show you where the colonel wants you to scout out."

"Really, Sarge?" The look of disbelief on the corporal's face made him look about five years younger. And speaking of younger…

"Really. Biggs, Tipper, you'll be going along too."

"Wow, thanks, Sarge!" grinned Tipper. "I won't let you down, I promise. I gotta go get my stuff." He dashed off into the tent, still grinning like a school kid riding the bus for the first time.

"Watch him," Bucky told Gusty and Biggs.

"Don't worry, Sarge," said Gusty. "We'll be back before you know it."

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

Just when Bucky had thought southern France couldn't get any hotter, it did. As morning turned to early afternoon, the sun scorched the earth so hot that the dry ground began to crack. Everybody who wasn't on guard duty took refuge where they could; in the tents, in the lee of the tanks, and jeeps, underneath the wings of Stark's plane… it was so hot that even the insects gave up and went to ground, waiting for the air to cool.

Most of the 107th were taking siestas in the tent. Siesta was a concept Mex had introduced them to, though to Bucky, siesta seemed like a fancy way of describing Weiss' usual afternoon nap. Shunning the siesta, Bucky had taken his writing equipment to the shade of a grove of dwarf pine trees and had started writing a letter to Steve. One that would hopefully be answered, this time. Wells had joined him, bringing with him a deck of cards, which he'd laid out for a game of solitaire.

"Dear Steve," Bucky wrote. "I hope you're well, and not getting into too much trouble. I'm not sure if you're getting my letters, or whether they're stuck in some censoring office somewhere, being butchered by some Army bureaucrat. I wrote you from Camp Shanks, but by the time you got that, I was probably halfway across the Atlantic. I wrote you again before I left England… guess it's a bit hard for the army postal service to get mail to me, out here. I'd tell you where I am, but there's no point, because they'd only censor it.

"Things here are okay, for the most part. I thought I'd really start to miss home, when I left, but this place has become a sort of home away from home for me. Well, not the place, exactly, because we move camp every couple of days, but being with the 107th is like being with an extended… very dysfunctional… family. Part of me wishes things could have been different. That you could have made it through those basic physicals, that you could have signed up and come out here too, because I really could use your advice right about now.

"Four days ago, we had our first casualty of war. I was on the mission, and something went wrong, and a man died. I feel bad about that. But I feel worse that—"

"Sarge!"

His writing faltered and he looked up as Carrot rushed towards him, panting and sweating, more from the heat than from exertion. His face was pale, light blue eyes wide in alarm. He skidded to a halt when he found Bucky in the shade of the trees.

"Gusty's back!"

Bucky felt his brows lower into a frown. "It's too soon," he said to Wells. "They shouldn't have come back for three or four hours."

"They're in the hospital, Sarge!" said Carrot. "They just released Davies from giving blood, and he told me to fetch you."

A violent shiver stole over Bucky's body. He ignored it and pushed himself to his feet. Oh god, what's happened? Don't panic, he told himself. It's probably nothing. Hot day. Biggs got heat-stroke. Or Tipper tripped over a rock and twisted his ankle. Or Gusty got stung by a bee, and it disagreed with his stomach. That's all. Nothing serious. They'll be fine with a little bed rest.

With Carrot and Wells right behind him, he set out at a run for the hospital tent, uncaring of the bottle of ink he knocked over as he sprang up, ignoring the way the ink soaked into the paper, ruining his letter. He didn't wipe away the beads of sweat that trickled down his forehead, because that would have slowed him down. He just ran. Everything else could be taken care of later, once he'd made sure the team were unharmed.

He came to a dead stop outside the hospital tent, his heart pounding erratically, flooding his body with adrenaline, just like it had before the mission on which Danzig had died. Pushing that thought away, he took a brief second to compose himself, then strode into the tent, his head darting around for the team members.

Biggs was the first man he saw. The private wasn't suffering from heat-stroke; he was sitting upright on one of the medical beds, having something sharp and jagged pulled out of his leg. Still conscious, he gasped in pain as a doctor carefully extracted what looked like a piece of shrapnel. Blood was everywhere, soaking into his trousers, dripping onto the floor. One of the nurses put pressure on the wound, stemming the flow of blood, and another gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"It looks worse than it is," she said calmly. "We'll have you stitched up in no time. You're quite lucky; the metal stopped the blood from flowing, until we pulled it out. We won't even need to put any blood back in you."

"Mm'lucky," Biggs mumbled. His face was even paler and sweatier than Carrot's, and he looked exactly how Bucky had felt that day the nurses in the Plymouth camp had taken the blood out of him too fast.

He glanced around for the others. Only one other bed was occupied; Gusty was sitting on the edge of it, two blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His face was spattered with blood; specks of it had been smeared across his spectacles. Bucky couldn't see any injuries on the corporal, but he wore that same blood-chilling thousand yard stare that Hawkins had worn the day he found out Drew had died, and his hand was clasped so hard around something that his knuckles were white.

"Gusty, what happened?" Bucky asked.

The corporal's lips moved, but no sound came out.

"I didn't hear you, Gusty. What happened?"

Gusty mumbled something. His unfocused eyes seemed completely empty.

"Did either of you catch that?" he asked Wells and Carrot, who were standing to either side of him.

Wells shook his head, but Carrot replied, "It sounded like, 'It's my fault,' Sarge."

"What's your fault, Gusty?"

One of the nurses appeared, a deep scowl fixed on her face.

"This man is in shock, Sergeant. He needs time, and he needs to be left alone."

"Please, nurse," Bucky begged, "I had a third man out there, and I don't see him in here. I need to know what happened to him." Please let him be fine. Please let Tipper be back in the regiment's tent. Please let him be okay.

"You can have five minutes," the scowling woman warned. "I'm going to prepare a hot cup of milk with a mild sedative for Corporal Ferguson, so you have until I get back."

"Thank you. Really. Thank you." He watched the nurse depart, then crouched down in front of Gusty, to try and make the guy meet his eyes. Seeing anything past the blood-smeared glasses was impossible, so he gently pulled them off the Corporal's face, and handed them to Carrot. "Put those aside for him. Gusty, what happened out there?"

Gusty's eyes began to water, but his gaze remained unfocused.

"It's my fault."

"What's your fault?"

"Mine."

"I know, you think it's your fault, but—"

"No." Tears started to spill down Gusty's pale, blood-spattered cheeks. He opened his hand, revealing two twisted, charred pieces of metal on a soot-blackened chain. Only a few letters had been untouched by the damage, but Bucky didn't have to see them all to know which name had been stamped there. "Mine."

Finally, he understood. A cold, hard lump of something settled in his stomach, sitting heavy on his gut, making him feel nauseous. Danzig getting shot by an MG was horrific enough… how much worse would it be to see a guy torn apart by a mine?

"It's my fault," Gusty whispered.

"No, Gusty, it's not your fault," Bucky said, reaching out to put a steadying hand on the man's shoulder. His heart twisted painfully in his chest at the thought of Gusty blaming himself over this. And at the same time, an anger wormed its way through his mind; anger, because he knew whose fault it really was.

He turned and strode from the tent, letting the anger rise up and take control. "Stay with him," he called out to the others. Carrot did, but Wells must have seen the anger in his eyes, because he chased him out of the tent and caught up with him as he marched across the camp towards the 107th's tent.

"Slow down," Wells said. Bucky didn't, so Wells stepped in front of him, walking backwards to try and slow his pace. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't." Bucky stepped around him. "Oh jeez… Barnes, you're not thinking straight. You're angry. You're thinking of doing something stupid. Are you even listening to me?"

Bucky continued his march, ignoring his friend, but he was listening. For the first time, he was listening to the anger within. The anger that had been slumbering inside him for as long as he could remember. The anger that was so slow to rouse that it was hardly ever let out. His dad said fighting angry was fighting stupid, so he'd learnt to push it away and bury it. Now, he couldn't keep it buried anymore. He'd gone against his own instincts, taken somebody else's advice, and now Tipper was dead. It wasn't Gusty's fault; it was his fault. And for making Gusty, and Bucky, feel this horrible, terrible guilt, someone was gonna pay.

"Barnes, c'mon pal, don't make me have to stop you from doing something stupid. Barnes, I'll tackle you if I have to. Shit. Fine, okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. I'm going to give you until the count of three to—oh, damn."

He was too late. Bucky stepped into the humid shade of the 107th's tent, his eyes adjusting quickly as he scanned the faces around him. Davies was there; he must've come back and told everyone that the mission had gone sideways, because nobody was having a siesta now. Everybody was awake, looking sick, and horrified, and backing away from the look in Bucky's eyes as he fixed his gaze onto a head of salt-and-pepper grey hair and strode forward.

Lashing out with his fist, he caught Sergeant Weiss on the cheek, a blow which sent the older man staggering, splitting his skin and drawing blood from the impact site.

"It's your fault!" he spat. Tipper was dead, and it was Weiss' fault. But really it was Bucky's fault, for listening to Weiss. And now Gusty would be tearing himself up inside, thinking it was his fault for wanting to lead, and not only was it Bucky's fault that Tipper was dead, it was also his fault that Gusty was blaming himself. But Weiss was really to blame for all of this. "Tipper tripped a mine, and now he's dead. That's on you."

Anger forced him to swing again, but this time, Weiss was prepared. Men jumped back out of the way as Weiss deflected the punch, grabbed Bucky's wrist, swept one leg away, and pivoted so that Bucky went crashing painfully to the tent floor. Before he could manage to push himself up, Weiss wrangled his arm into a lock, and planted one booted foot on his shoulder, so that he couldn't move.

Tears of frustration burned in his eyes as he cursed and struggled against the grip. Ground fighting had never been his thing. He could box with the best of them, but boxers didn't kick, or throw, or learn how to break holds. All he managed to do, as he struggled against the panting man who held him in place, was give his cheek friction burn on the rough groundsheet. All the unspent anger came out in a series of raw, guttural cries and curses, until at last his arm hurt so much that it doused some of the anger, and he stopped struggling.

"Out!" Weiss growled, and everybody in the tent made a dash for the door flap. "Not you, Wells. You're going to stay and hear this too, because I'm not going to repeat myself when somebody you send out gets killed."

"This is your fault!" Bucky hissed from the floor. "You sonofabitch, you said—argh!" he cried out in pain as Weiss twisted his arm a little further.

"Listen close, 'cos I'm only gonna say this once," Weiss said, twisting Bucky's arm again to be sure he had his attention. "This is war. People are going to die. A lot of people are going to die. Before this is over, maybe everybody you know will be dead. But if you go to pieces every time someone dies, then you're no use to anybody.

"Mines are not German patrols. You can't hide from them. You can't evade them. You can't ambush and get the drop on them. There is no skill in stealthcraft or marksmanship which will save a man from a mine. They're just there, and when you step on them, no matter how good a soldier you are, regardless of whether you're a private or a general, you're dead. Mines do not discriminate, and they don't accept surrender.

"And yeah, you sent a team out, and a kid got blown up. It's a crying shame. But he wasn't the first to die, and you can bet your bottom dollar that he won't be the last, not by a long shot. Do you think the outcome would have been any different if you'd gone out there? You would have taken the same route. What if it was you, instead of Tipper, who stood on that mine? What if it was Sergeant Wells here, or Corporal Ferguson? There was a mine, it was inevitable that somebody would die. You're lucky you only lost one guy; a single mine can wipe out a whole team, if they're clustered together enough.

"You're upset. I get it. And because you're upset, I'm going to forgive you for that punch. But if you ever try something like that again, I'm going to break that arm so bad that you'll never be able to throw a punch with it for the rest of your life. Now, here's something they never taught you before sticking a few chevrons on your sleeve: Good men feel the pain of every soldier lost. Good sergeants put that pain aside and stay strong for the team. You're allowed to grieve for the dead, but not at the expense of the living. The rest of the team need to know that their safety and wellbeing is your main priority. If that means, at times, you have to be callous, then that's the price you pay for being a sergeant. And if you can't be a good man and a good sergeant at the same time, if you can't reconcile that, then choose to be a good sergeant, because that's what the men need most of all."

The angry tears still burned, but it was a different sort of anger now. An angry hatred of Weiss, an anger that the guy could be so calm, so unaffected by the death of someone as young and innocent as Tipper. Weiss showed no more concern over Tipper's death, than he would over the swatting of a fly. It wasn't fair. Tipper's life had barely just begun, and now it was over. He'd never get to finish that horror novel. Never visit California again. Never go home to the family that loved him. Never lie on his back in the camp bunk, his coin flashing between his fingers. Never beg to be allowed to do something as boring as sit in a foxhole overnight.

"I'm going to release your arm," said Weiss, as Bucky tried to hold back his tears, to stop them from overflowing. "You can stay angry if you want, but try directing your anger at the real people responsible for Tipper's death: the Nazis. Because despite what you may think, I'm not to blame for Tipper. You're not to blame. Gusty's not to blame. Tipper himself is not to blame. The sooner you realise that, and the sooner you get your head in the game, the better off you'll be."

When Weiss let go of his arm, Bucky didn't move. He was too sore, and angry, and defeated, to try for another punch. It felt like Weiss had wrenched his arm out of his socket, and for a long moment he lay there, trying to get control of himself, trying to work feeling back into his aching shoulder joint. When he was sure Bucky wasn't going to try for another swing, Weiss left, but Wells remained behind, shifting back and forth on his feet, hovering between stepping closer to help Bucky up, and stepping back to give him room.

"Maybe he's right," Wells said at last. "Maybe it's best not to think about the men who die. Put them aside. Deal with it after the war."

Bucky finally managed to push himself to his feet, and scowled at his fellow sergeant. "He's not right. And maybe you can just switch off and stop caring about your friends—if you even know the meaning of the word—but I can't."

"Remember when I said I'd tell you if you're out of line?" Wells asked, a guarded expression in his blue eyes.

"I don't care. Tipper is dead—"

"And it's a miracle Gusty and Biggs aren't. Weiss was right about that, at least. We're lucky two men made it back, and it's not like they came back unscathed. Biggs is injured, and who knows how this will affect Gusty?" Wells sighed and finally took a step forward. "Look. I don't know how to deal with stuff like this. So, not dealing with it is my way of dealing with it. But if you wanna talk—"

"I don't," Bucky snapped.

"Good. Because I was gonna suggest you talk to the chaplain. See what comfort the Bible can offer for death by land mine."

Wells stormed out, and Bucky let him go. His friend was being arrogant and childish, but that was Wells all over, and he was too drained to deal with that now. Everything was finally starting to sink in. Hawkins' brother, Danzig, those nameless Germans, Tipper… he felt the weight of death sitting on his shoulders, and yet he knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. This was war. Good men would die so that bad men would not rule the world.

Finally, it all became too much. He sank down onto the nearest bed and held his head in his hands as tears stung his eyes once more. His thoughts went back to his letter, ink-soaked in the shade of the dwarf pine trees.

Steve… what am I supposed to do now? he asked, knowing there could never be an answer.

Author's note: RIP Tipper :-( The 25th chapter will be up on 25th December, because I'm anal like that. But because I'm not 100% cruel (only about 98.5%), it won't be a chapter filled with doom and gloom and death. In fact, I hope it makes you smile. I also have a short, Avengers-style 'A Visit from Saint Nicholas' one-shot which will be up on Christmas Eve, so keep an eye out for that if you'd like some humourous rhymes*.

(*Disclaimer: Humour is entirely subjective)