Author's note #1: The theme music to this chapter is Henry Mancini's 'The Pink Panther Theme Song.'

We Were Soldiers

25. The Letter

Peggy Carter strode through the camp, her gaze fixed on the large tent that served as the company's hospital barracks. As she walked, she felt watched, but that was nothing new; as one of only a dozen or so women in the camp, it was inevitable that she would draw attention. Even more inevitable, given the fact that she was the only woman in the camp who wasn't a nurse. The only woman who wore a military uniform and carried a weapon with her at all times. On occasion, she enjoyed being the exception to the rule, the outlier in the group. Sometimes, it made her feel unique. But mostly, she wished with a dear, bitter longing, that things were different. That there were other women in the army. That the sight of a woman wearing a uniform and carrying a gun wasn't such an oddity that it drew all eyes to her.

She'd tried to tell herself that it wasn't really the fault of the men; they were what society had made them to be. She, too, had once been the epitome of what society had made women to be. Quiet. Studious. Hard-working. Chaste. Modest. Domestic. And she had believed whole-heartedly that to be a good woman, and a dutiful wife, was her true calling.

Then, her brother had been killed in action. Dear, sweet, headstrong Michael. The only one who still saw the adventurous, stubborn little girl Peggy had been as a child. Together they'd played at being pirates, explorers, conquerers and heroes. Of course, that had been before Finishing school. Before society had imprinted its rules upon her conscience. Michael had wanted more for her than to be some man's wife. He'd wanted her to keep growing, to thrive like the rhododendrons which grew wild in the grounds of the family home, eschewing the neat, uniform, tamed rows of the privet hedges. And so, buoyed by the knowledge that one man saw her as something other than a delicate flower in need of protection, she had set out to change how the rest of the world saw her, one mind at a time.

Progress was slow. Achingly slow. Painfully slow. Some men were more accepting than others. Abraham Erskine, as well as being a dear friend, was one of the few men who'd immediately accepted her on her own terms. It probably helped that the first time she'd met him, she'd saved his life. Howard Stark was slowly coming around, too. Oh, he still flirted relentlessly with her, but he no longer looked at her like she was some unwanted lab assistant fresh out of high school. When she offered suggestions, he actually listened. Usually dismissed most of them right away, but then, he usually dismissed anything that wasn't his own idea. For him, it wasn't personal; he just thought he was smarter than everybody else. Unfortunately, he was.

If the men currently assigned to the SSR's mission hadn't yet accepted her, at least the cat-calls and wolf-whistles had stopped. She'd seen to that very early on, and now the men knew better than to call out lewd suggestions as she passed. It didn't stop some of them from making lewd suggestions in private, but those were easier to deal with.

When she reached the hospital tent, she didn't go inside. Instead, she went around the back, to a second tent. This smaller, auxiliary tent was largely ignored by the men of the camp; only the chaplain was close enough to know that this was where the women slept, and being a chaplain, he averted his gaze away from the area in case he might accidentally see a woman and have to cleanse his eyes with fire.

"Sorry I'm late," Peggy said, as she stepped into the dim interior. Seven women were seated on flimsy collapsible chairs around an equally flimsy collapsible table, their only source of illumination a pair of small oil lamps. "I'd forgotten it was our knitting circle tonight, and stayed a little long with Colonel Phillips and Mr. Stark."

"I wouldn't mind staying a little long with Mr. Stark," grinned Alice Kirby. She was the youngest of the nurses; a dirty-minded gal from Detroit, or so she called herself. She was one of those girls who Peggy's mother would have described as 'having no shame.' Peggy liked her very much.

A loud snort erupted from Suzie Madeley. The stern matron had seen too many Howard Starks in her life to be taken in by Howard Stark. Peggy liked her a lot, too. "Those boys still buying that 'knitting circle' baloney?" Nurse Madeley, asked, as cards flew surely from her fingers.

"Honey, Ah bet they buy whatever Peggy sells them, as long as it's sold with a wink and a smile, right, Peg?" said Marielle Green, reaching out to give Peggy's arm a friendly squeeze. It always took Peggy a moment to figure out what the southern belle was saying. When she did, she smiled back.

"Yes. I've often found men to be rather… trusting," she said, leaving out the 'gullible' she'd been considering. "To them, it makes perfect sense that off-duty women would spend their time knitting, so the poor dears never question it."

The unfortunately named Nurse Elsie Ward let out a quiet laugh. "Oh, sometimes I wish we could play with the men. Imagine how much fun it would be! A flutter of the eyelashes here, a coy smile there, and we could take them for all they have."

"You know they'd only sulk when they lose to us," said Patty Arnold. "What's the game, Suzie?"

"Five-card stud, aces are high, pot limit and the ante is ten," said Nurse Madeley.

Peggy picked up her cards and threw a ten chip into the pot.

"So, Peggy," Janie Sanders began, her green eyes peering over her hand of cards, "how was work today?"

"As fun-filled as ever," she replied, trying to keep some of the dry from her tone.

"Are we gonna be moving camp soon?"

She nodded. "Now that we've had the funeral for that poor young man who was killed this morning, the colonel wants to move as soon as possible."

"Such a terrible shame about Private Tipper," said Marielle, in her southern twang. "Ah only saw him around a couple of times, but he seemed a nice boy."

The other nurses nodded, throwing what little they knew of the private into their own pot of memories. It was something Peggy just couldn't get her head around. They complained about the soldiers night and day, but as soon as one of them died, he was the nicest young man any of them had ever met—even if he'd been the world's biggest scoundrel and cad. It was as if death erased every fault and flaw.

"The second man from the 107th, too," added Elsie Ward. "And so soon after Lieutenant Danzig."

The comment garnered another round of nods. The nurses then agreed that Lieutenant Danzig had been a bit of a loner, but a very nice man. Peggy had no idea if that was true. She'd seen Danzig around a few times, and he'd studiously ignored her. In a way, she would have preferred cat-calls and wolf-whistles. It was easier to change the minds of men who saw her as goal to be attained, than those who didn't see her at all. The nurses didn't have that problem. Everybody saw nurses, because they were doing something worthwhile and respectable. Society said women made good nurses, and these women were good nurses.

Peggy Carter was not a good soldier, even though she was an excellent fighter and marksman. She would never be a good soldier, because society said she wasn't allowed to be.

"You're awfully quiet, Audrey," she said, after a round of card-taking.

Audrey Klein was a plump, rosy-cheeked girl from New Jersey. She was usually quick to laugh at the friendly female banter, but today she was as focused on her cards as Lieutenant Danzig had been on ignoring Peggy.

"Go on, Audrey," said Patty, "tell Peggy. Maybe she can help."

Curiosity was immediately piqued. The nurses were a very self-sufficient group of women. They dealt with their own problems and had the Quartermaster so in fear of them that they never had to complete a single requisition form.

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey said, as a pink blush coloured her rosy cheeks. "It's probably nothing. A mistake. A wrong name. A practical joke. You know what jokers they can be, sometimes."

"Come on Audrey, you've got my attention now. Whatever it is, spit it out, otherwise we'll never finish this round."

"Ohhh… very well." Nurse Klein reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She held it out to Peggy, who took it and unfolded it as she listened to the young woman's explanation. "I found this in the hospital, on one of the desks. It was in an envelope, and it had my name on it. It's a… um…"

"It's a love letter!" Peggy smiled at the sight of the neat writing below the 'Dear Nurse Klein,'. "Do you mind? Of course, I won't read it if you don't want me to."

"You might as well," Audrey sighed. "Everyone else here has read it. The nosey old busybodies."

Peggy scanned the letter. It was sweet, not too forward—heck, it even started with the words, 'I hope you don't find this too forward,'—said some very nice, flattering, professional things about Nurse Klein, and was signed… 'Paul.'

"That's it?!" Peggy demanded. "Paul?" It was like getting to the end of a good Sherlock Holmes novel and then never finding out who'd committed the crime. "Who the devil is Paul? Why didn't he include his surname, or heck, even his rank?"

"Maybe he's shy," said Marielle. "Ah once had a fella who was shy. He was the sweetest thang."

"We've done some digging through the medical files," said Patty, "and there are ninety-three Pauls in this camp. If we discount the ones who are married—"

"You probably shouldn't do that," Peggy advised. "You know what men are like."

There was a round of nods and hums of agreement. Yes, they did indeed know what men were like.

"This is very distinctive writing," she said, holding it up to better see it by the dim light of the oil lamp. "Very neat. Now, it stands to reason that any man writing a love letter would want to write his neatest, but there are some things that don't change much, even when a person tries to write with a neater hand. For example, the way these t's are crossed at a slight angle, and the way the g's loop underneath."

She put the paper down on top of her chips and tapped it briefly with her finger as ideas whirled through her mind like a pair of dancers. The thought of dancers brought to mind an image of Steven Rogers. It had been several days since she'd last thought of him—work and the recent tragedy had kept her too busy for frivolous thoughts—and she hoped he wasn't finding the USO stage too embarrassing.

"Audrey, I'm going to find your Paul. That is, if you want me to." She focused her gaze on the rosy-cheeked face. "Do you want me to?"

Though the other nurses said nothing, she could feel them silently willing Audrey on. Egging her forward with the intensity of their wide, girlish grins.

"Well… I suppose, yes, I would like to know who sent the letter," Nurse Klein said at last. "I mean, if there's a soldier out there, watching me, it's only right I know who he is. Isn't it?"

"You are absolutely right, Audrey," said Peggy. "Just give me twenty-four hours."

She never had been able to walk away from a good mystery.

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

Colonel Phillips hadn't yet decided which route to take. The pass through the hills would be difficult for the vehicles—especially the towed plane—but the only alternative route posed the danger of land mines. The mines could be cleared, eventually, but they might waste more time doing that than trying to get through the pass. Mine clearance was painfully slow work. Rather like trying to change the minds of men, actually.

The lack of movement meant there was little for Peggy to do, officially speaking, and since Phillips had not summoned her, and Howard had no need of her, she considered the morning her own and was already putting it to good use. Tucked beneath her arm she carried a clipboard, on which were the full names, ranks and regiments of every 'Paul' in the camp. She'd already been through the Medical Corps, the Engineers and the Signals; now she was moving onto Infantry.

With around a hundred and sixty men, the 107th Infantry was one of the largest regiments assigned to the SSR, and normally their area of the camp was abuzz with activity. Today, the mood was somber, and it saturated the air, making Peggy feel like an unwelcome intruder. But she had a mission to undertake, and the 107th had five Pauls within its ranks.

She found a group of soldiers sitting outside the 107th's tent, polishing their boots in near silence. As usual, all eyes came up as she approached, and she recognised a few faces; could even put names to some of them.

"Agent Carter. You look stunning as always. To what do we owe the pleasure?" asked Sergeant Wells. But the usual mischievous glint in his eyes was absent. He spoke the words as if merely keeping up pretences, and he certainly didn't sound as if he considered her presence a pleasure right then. Perhaps she was starting to change his mind.

Peggy brought out her clipboard and read the names. "I'm looking for Privates Simpkin, Jackson and Colclough, Pfc. Wallis, and Corporal Ferguson."

"Gusty!" Sergeant Wells called, and a tall, lanky man appeared from the tent. He blinked a few times when he saw Peggy standing there, as if he didn't quite believe his eyes. "Here's Corporal Ferguson, Agent Carter. Wallis and Simpkin have gone to play poker somewhere with the 69th, Jackson's on guard duty, and Colclough went to the pits about ten minutes ago; he must have an upset stomach, because he's not back yet."

"Well, I'll find them, I'm sure," she said. But first… "Corporal Ferguson, I'd like you to complete this form." She took a sheet of paper out from the clipboard, and handed it over. The corporal blinked at it a few times.

"What is this, Agent Carter?" he asked.

"You've been randomly selected to take part in a survey," she explained. "Mr. Stark would like ideas for new inventions from men across the different regiments. Just write down as many ideas as you can. Things that you wish you had, or think you might find useful in the field. Anything and everything. Oh, and you should do this in private. They must be your ideas, so that Mr. Stark knows where to give credit due. I'll be back to collect your sheet before dinner."

"What about the rest of us?" asked Sergeant Barnes. There were dark circles beneath his blue-grey eyes, and Peggy suspected he'd not been sleeping well. "We have ideas, too."

"Yeah," agreed Sergeant Wells. "I have lots of ideas. Seems nobody around here thinks my ideas are any good, but maybe Stark will."

"Maybe Stark wants ideas from those of us he doesn't allegedly hate," Sergeant Barnes countered. "You know, those of us who aren't already geniuses with above-average intelligence. Just plain old bread-and-butter soldiers, like me and Carrot."

"Maybe you and Carrot could share a form and help each other with the big words," Sergeant Wells shot back.

"Um…" said a flame-haired corporal whom Peggy guessed to be 'Carrot.'

She left the men to their arguing. Though she tried not to put too much stock in camp rumours, she wasn't ignorant of them entirely. And rumour had it that yesterday, Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Weiss had gotten into a fight, and then Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Wells had fallen out. Where Sergeant Weiss was she had no idea, but if he had any sense about him, he'd stay far away from his regiment's tent until tempers cooled down.

Men, she had found, were often far too emotional for war.

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

By the light of the oil-lamps, they studied the forms that every Paul on the base had completed. Surprisingly, there were some good ideas amongst them, and Peggy diligently set those forms aside to discuss later with Howard. Seven pairs of hands made short work of ninety-three forms.

"What does this one say?" asked Janie, holding up a form that looked like it had been written by a child suffering epileptic fits.

Everybody squinted at it.

"I think that word is 'self-propelling'," said Alice. "Gosh, I wonder what—" she peered at the name on the bottom of the form, "—Corporal Ferguson wants to be self-propelled."

"Hopefully we'll never have to find out," said Peggy. "At any rate, that's definitely not the handwriting we're looking for."

In fact, the handwriting they were looking for was nowhere to be found in any of the ninety-three forms. Peggy felt like the elusive 'Paul' was slipping out of her fingers all over again. Then, Nurse Madeley came up with a suggestion.

"Maybe Paul isn't his first name. Lots of guys who don't like their given names use their middle names. Or it might even be a nickname given to him by his fellow soldiers."

"That means it could be just about anyone!" Audrey wailed.

"It means," Peggy said, more determined than ever to solve this damn mystery, "that I have to expand my search. I'm going to give them all questionnaires. Each and every one of them. Regardless of whether Paul is his first name, or his middle name, or his nickname—or heck, even his surname!—I'm going to find him for you, Audrey. That's a promise."

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

The ambiance in the 107th's area of the camp was no better the next day. In fact, it had worsened. The other regiments had started to give the place a wide berth; they avoided walking too near in case they got sucked down into the foul mood. Even most of the 107th seemed to be avoiding the area; two dozen soldiers was all she found outside their tent. The rest had seemingly found ways of entertaining themselves elsewhere. And until Colonel Phillips decided on a plan for moving the camp, she suspected things would not change.

"Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "Two visits in two days. It feels like Christmas and New Year come at once. But if you're looking for Gusty, he's not here. Gone somewhere quiet to read a book."

"Actually, it's the rest of you I was after," she said, pulling forms from her clipboard and distributing them among the enlisted men. "Howard would now like everybody else to come up with ideas."

"Funny you should say that," said Sergeant Wells, eyeing up the forms. "We went to see Howard after your last visit, to see if he'd like our ideas too—"

"Some of us have more practical ideas than others," said Sergeant Barnes. "For example, jet boots are not very practical—"

"—except if you happen to be landing in a swamp—"

"—how would you even fuel them—"

"—that's what Stark's supposed to figure out—"

"—far more practical to have a hovering landing platform for multiple troops—"

"—I also had this idea for a flying tank—"

"—my idea was for adaptive camouflage clothing—"

"My god, do either of you ever stop talking?" she asked, when she was able to get a word in edgewise. Both men glared at her, while the rest of the two dozen soldiers began slinking away one by one in a slow and stealthy exodus.

"As I was saying," Sergeant Wells continued, "we went to see Stark and he claimed not to know anything about this ideas initiative of yours."

Damn. She hadn't been expecting that. But she'd been in stickier spots than this.

"Tell me something; when you went to see him, did Howard remember either of your names?"

"No," Sergeant Barnes admitted.

"Howard Stark is an eccentric, absent-minded egomaniac who doesn't like anything he hasn't thought of first. Even if he remembered asking me to poll the troops for new ideas, do you really think he'd admit to wanting help generating new inventions? And from common soldiers, no less? Of course he denied all knowledge of this exercise. When he finally comes up with some significant breakthrough, he can pretend to be surprised about its source."

"Huh. Guess he really is a genius," grumbled Sergeant Wells. "Fine. Gimme the form. I have loads of great ideas Stark can pretend to be surprised about."

"Me too," said Sergeant Barnes.

Peggy left them each with a form, and she should have left it there. Instead, she did a remarkably stupid thing: she tried to offer them some friendly advice.

"Have you considered having some time apart?" she asked.

"Apart from what?" asked Sergeant Barnes, his face a frowning mask of confusion.

"Each other. I mean, you've done nothing but argue the whole time I've been here. You've fallen out, yet neither of you has made any effort to move away or patch things up. You seem to be sitting here, arguing with each other, being childish and insulting towards one another, simply for the sole purpose of making each others' lives—and the lives of those around you—an unpleasant hell."

They both looked around, at the now-empty clearing, and at each other.

"That's a good idea, Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "Maybe you should write it on a form."

"And then run it by Stark, so he can be surprised about it," added Sergeant Barnes.

"Alright, I give up," she said, raising her hands in defeat. "Make each other miserable, for all I care. I was just trying to help."

She about-faced and marched away, their conversation fading as she left.

"Dames," scoffed Sergeant Barnes.

"Yeah," said Sergeant Wells, "what do they know?"

"You shouldn't put your jet boots idea down. It's still stupid."

"Not as stupid as…"

"Men!" she grumbled quietly under her breath. "That's the last time I try to play the part of a bloody good Samaritan."

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

Seven pairs of hands did not make light work of over eight-hundred forms. Whoever 'Paul' was, Peggy was slowly coming to hate him for all the work he was putting her through to find him. Every enlisted man, and every officer below the rank of colonel, had been given one of the forms to complete. Some five-hundred forms into the pile, Audrey let out a sigh of despair.

"Maybe it was one of the nurses from the night shift playing a joke on me."

"You mustn't think that, Audrey," said Peggy, offering a squeeze of her arm. Hugging was not something Peggy did well, and she didn't think Audrey would appreciate a friendly thump on the shoulder.

"Why not? I mean, I'm no looker. I don't have Janie's pretty green eyes, or Marielle's southern charm, or Alice's dirty mind. I'm just… me."

"And you're a wonderful Audrey Klein. Isn't that right, ladies?"

"Darn right," Nurse Madeley nodded firmly. "And any fella would be lucky to have you. You have excellent child-bearing hips!"

"That's hardly—"

"Oh my golly gosh, Ah think Ah've found it!" said Marielle. Her mouth literally fell open as she looked at the form in her hands. "Oh boy. Wow, Ah dunno where he got 'Paul' from, but he's got some crazy ideas. Jet boots?"

Peggy's heart sank. What were the chances of two soldiers having ideas for jet boots?

"What's the name on the form?" asked Patty.

"Sergeant Wells." Marielle lay the form side by side with the letter, and even from across the table, Peggy could tell they were a perfect match. From the distinctively crossed t's, to the loops on the g's, the letters were the same.

Peggy's heart sank further. The most important thing now was damage control. She had to try and stop Audrey from getting her hopes up. And tomorrow, she would take Sergeant Wells apart piece by piece until he apologised to the young nurse and begged for forgiveness.

"Which one's Sergeant Wells?" asked Janie.

"One of the young sergeants from the 107th who found the baby," said Nurse Madeley.

"Ohmygosh," said Audrey, her cheeks flushing pink again. "Those sergeants who came in with the baby? I don't know which one is Sergeant Wells, but they're both dreamy. It… it's gotta be a mistake, right? A practical joke. I mean, why would a guy like that be interested in me?"

Hearing Audrey sound so hopeful, and yet so fearful, made Peggy's heart want to break. She would definitely make Sergeant Wells regret this tomorrow.

"Sergeant Wells is the one with black hair and blue eyes," Elsie was explaining to Audrey. "He's really friendly, and nice—"

"Nice?!" Peggy spluttered. All thoughts of damage control went flying out the window. "Sergeant Wells is an arrogant, egotistical, childish, manipulative cad!"

The nurses all stared at her as if she'd gone mad.

"So… you're saying the letter's a joke?" asked Audrey, and Peggy kicked herself. The young woman's eyes were brimming with tears.

"Audrey, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I barely know the man. And yes, he may have the emotional maturity of an over-sized child, but I can't for one moment imagine that he would purposely mislead you like this. I'll tell you what, since I started this whole investigation, let me finish it for you. Tomorrow, I will very discreetly ask him about the letter. He might have a very valid reason for hiding his true identity. And whatever he says, I'll tell you, and you can decide what you want to do about it. Does that sound fair?"

"I… I guess so. Thank you, Peggy. Thank you so much."

Peggy didn't get the chance to respond, because Audrey flung herself at her, pulling her into a rib-crushing hug. All nurses had to be strong enough to hold a grown man down on a bed; even the slightly built ones were deceptively strong, and Audrey Klein had a grip like a bear.

There was no poker that night, for which she was glad. Her thoughts were already turned towards tomorrow, towards Sergeant Wells. He would pay dearly for making light of a young woman's feelings. He would know the wrath of Margaret Elizabeth Carter.

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

Vengeful wrath had to wait until after midday, because work came first. Colonel Phillips had finally decided on which route to take to the next site. They would go through the pass, rather than risk land mines. Camp would be broken at nightfall, and they would try to get eight hundred men, a dozen jeeps, six howitzers, four tanks and an airplane through the pass under the cover of darkness. The closer they got to Italy, the more Phillips feared the Luftwaffe spotting their company.

When she was finally dismissed, she ignored Howard's invitation to join him for lunch, and made her way towards the 107th's tent. Discretion and wrath warred within her. On the one hand, she didn't want to embarrass Audrey any further. On the other hand, she wanted Sergeant Wells to know that if he ever did anything like this again, she would do everything within her power to destroy him. And as the SOE's attaché to the SSR, she had considerably more power at her disposal than one sergeant. Discretion, or wrath?

The choice was made for her. A half-dozen members of the 107th were playing a game of poker outside the tent. They all stood as she approached. Why did men always stand when a woman entered a room or approached their table? Tipping hats was one thing, but why did they always have to get to their feet? Did they think women couldn't walk into a room to the sight of seated men? That the very idea might make a woman feel faint? It was a stupid, pointless act pushed upon everyone by society, and it pushed her over the knife-edge into wrath.

"Agent Carter—" Sergeant Wells began.

She didn't let him finish. She didn't care for whatever platitude he was spewing out today, because now she knew that every word from his mouth was a lie. Quicker than anyone could blink, she pulled back her arm and socked him heavily on the cheek. It wasn't an open-handed girly slap of the type Hodge had probably been expecting when she'd hit him. It was a full-on punch, because she wanted to hurt him, and she knew damn well how to fight. Sergeant Wells didn't fall on his ass, like Hodge had, but he did go staggering backwards. The rest of the men around the table leapt back.

"What the hell?!" Sergeant Wells demanded, his eyes flashing equal parts anger and confusion. "Are you crazy? You don't just hit a guy like that!"

"You wrote this letter!" she spat, unfolding the love letter from her pocket, holding it up for him to see.

His eyes scanned it briefly. "Yeah. So? I didn't mean anything by it. You know I've only got eyes for you, Agent Carter."

"No, you don't!"

She swung again, but this time Sergeant Wells leaned back and caught her fist in his hand. She had another fist, so she dropped the letter and swung that one; again he caught it. Anger that he'd seen her second punch coming gave strength to her legs, and she kicked out at his shins. It was all he could do to dodge without falling flat on his back.

"Jesus, lady… Biggs, restrain Agent Carter!"

Before Peggy could react, she felt herself grabbed from behind. Huge arms wrapped themselves around her, holding her arms firmly against her sides. When she tried to kick backwards, she was lifted into the air, where her legs couldn't reach any shins.

"Sorry 'bout this, Agent Carter," said a voice beside her ear. "Can't let you go beating up Sergeant Wells."

An angry growl escaped her lips. "Let me go, you… you—"

"Please try not to kick Private Biggs, Agent Carter," said Sergeant Wells. "He's just had a piece of shrapnel removed from his leg. If you'll stop struggling, I'm sure he'd be happy to put you down, and then I'll explain everything."

She didn't want to acquiesce, but if it meant getting another chance to kick the guy somewhere painful, she would do it. When she stopped trying to lash out, the man holding her up slowly put her down, and released her warily, as if expecting her to go on the attack again at any moment. He wasn't half wrong.

"Explain fast," she scowled.

"Alright. See, every guy needs a Plan B, in case Plan A doesn't work out. And with you acting the frost queen, I figured, what the heck, I've nothing to lose, right?"

"Plan B?! Of all the vile, cruel, despicable… What part of your twisted mind thinks it's acceptable to toy with a young woman's feelings like this? To lead her on with words of affection, and then claim she's your 'Plan B'? And why didn't you just put your own name on the damn letter? Why pretend to be 'Paul'? Was it cowardice? Shame? What kind of sick joke are you playing here?"

Sergeant Wells' eyes darted quickly back and forth. The shiner on his cheek was already turning purple. Good. "Pseudonym," he said. "All the great writers have them. In fact, my great, great uncle six times removed is—"

"Sarge, it's okay, you don't have to lie for me anymore," someone piped up from the group of poker players. A tall, gangly corporal appeared from the crowd. She recognised him from the day before yesterday; Ferguson, she thought. He stepped forward and picked up the letter she'd dropped during the fight. Dusting it off, he straightened it out, folded it up, and tucked it into his pocket. "I wrote the letter, Agent Carter. Only, my handwriting is so bad that I asked Sergeant Wells to rewrite it for me. I left it on one of the desks in the hospital tent, three days ago. That was before… before…" His eyes went watery behind his glasses. Steeling himself, he lifted his gaze to Peggy's face. "Please tell Nurse Klein that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have written it. It was inappropriate, and I meant to see her myself, and explain it… but then, things changed. Please tell her I really am sorry. For all of this."

And then he walked away, into the tent, and the rest of the 107th watched him go.

"Gusty's having a bit of a rough time at the moment," Sergeant Wells explained quietly. "Three days ago he saw a kid get blown into pieces so small they couldn't bring anything back to bury."

Peggy wished for a huge, dark chasm to open up in the ground and swallow her whole. When she'd heard of the tragedy on the recon mission, she'd just assumed—an assumption bolstered by their recent behaviour—that Barnes and Wells had been the ones on the mission. That they blamed each other for the death they couldn't prevent. She hadn't imagined that Corporal Ferguson, and probably Private Biggs, if he'd just had shrapnel removed from his leg, had been the ones with Private Tipper at the time of his death. Now, everything made more sense. Why the mysterious 'Paul' hadn't come forward after delivering the letter. Why it was written in Sergeant Wells' handwriting. Why Wells had let her believe the letter came from him. And now she'd just punched a man for trying to look out for a friend.

Where were those dark chasms when you needed them?

Turning, she found Sergeant Wells focused on his wristwatch.

"I'm sorry."

"One minute and forty seconds," he said. "Not bad. I was wagering with myself that I'd be waiting at least two minutes for an apology. And don't forget Private Biggs; you kicked him in his shrapnel leg."

"I'm very sorry for kicking you, Private Biggs, and I hope I haven't caused further harm to your injured leg," she offered.

"It's just my feelings that you hurt, Agent Carter," the huge man said sadly. He wandered off into the tent, leaving Peggy feeling about a hundred times worse.

"Look, Sergeant Wells, I may have acted rashly—"

"Understatement," he interrupted.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed on. She was going to regret this. She already knew she was going to regret it.

"If there is any way I can make it up to you, to show you that I genuinely am sorry for punching you in the face, please let me know."

Sergeant Wells studied her for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful. "Actually, there is something you could do for me."

"And what's that?" she asked. And if it sounded like something said through clenched teeth, it was because her teeth were clenched.

"If I write a letter," he grinned, "would you deliver it for me?"

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

She'd been expecting some foolish expression of interest written down to be delivered to one of the nurses, and couldn't decide whether the reality was better, or worse. Still, at least he wasn't having her sing the damn thing.

Sergeant Barnes was sitting on the bank of the stream, absently throwing small pebbles into the water, watching without watching as they went plop and sank. He didn't react when she approached, and barely even seemed to notice when she sat beside him.

"Is everything okay, Sergeant Barnes?" she asked.

"Everything's fine," he replied in a dull monotone quite at odds with the pleasant splashing and bubbling of the stream's song. "I was just remembering the last time I sat by the water, throwing stones in. I was fifteen, and my dog had just got run over. And now I feel bad that I'm likening this to that. This is nothing like that. You ever have a dog, Agent Carter?"

"Yes, when I was a little girl," she said. "Picasso. He was a little Lhasa Apso. Went everywhere with me, until I had to leave for boarding school."

"Ever lost any friends?"

"Yes. One I lost just before being shipped out here, in fact."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be. My friend was somebody I looked up to and admired very much. He was murdered; killed before his time. He had so much left to give, and that was stolen from him. But the life he did live was as fulfilling as a life could possibly be, and I know he had very few regrets. He died in the line of duty, doing something he loved, and as terrible as death is, knowing that the people we care about die doing something they feel is worthwhile… well, it makes their deaths a little more manageable. Or at least, I think it does."

Thoughts of Doctor Erskine still stung, but the stings were growing less painful with every day. Time could never completely erase the pain of a loss, but it could take the edge off.

"Does it ever get easier?" he asked, his grey eyes confused, hopeful, afraid.

"Never."

"Oh."

"You were expecting another answer?"

"I was expecting you to lie to me. So many people do. I think sometimes, I lie to myself as well. I'm worried that, one day, I might not be able to separate the truths from the lies."

"Then it's a good job you have friends to help you do that."

He scoffed. "No offence, Agent Carter, but I'd hardly say we're friends. In fact, I think you don't like me all that much."

"That's not true. I just don't have an opinion about you either way, yet. Besides, I wasn't talking about myself."

"Oh?"

Fighting a pang of irritation, she pulled a letter from her pocket. "I have a letter, here. I'm supposed to read it out to you. Can't believe I have to read it out," she grumbled. "Ahem. Dear Sergeant Barnes. I am sorry for 'being a jerk', but you are confusing the hell out of me. First you tell me that you don't want sugar-coated lies, but when I tell you the truth, you get 'pissy' with me. Do you want sugar-coating when somebody dies, and honesty the rest of the time? Despite what you might think, I don't actually like lies, and I don't enjoy telling them. So, make up your damn mind, because honest to god, trying to figure you out is going to fry my noodle.

"I'm sorry, too, for all that stuff I said when we were inventing things. Your hovering platform was a really good idea, and I think your adaptive camouflage concept has merit—but good luck getting Stark to see that. I didn't mean all those things that I said, except perhaps you and Carrot helping each other with big words on the form. But mostly I meant you should be the one helping Carrot, because you know how much he struggles with words longer than three syllables. So, again, I'm sorry. I know we said a lot of mean things to each other… for me, arguing seemed the easiest thing to do. A way of distracting myself from thinking about everything else. I guess I just took it too far. Maybe we both did.

"Hope you can accept my apology, because the… tea party…? is no fun without you.

"Wells.

"P.S. Agent Carter is reading this of her own free will. How neat is that?!"

"And by 'free will,' he means he blackmailed you?" Sergeant Barnes asked. Apparently, he knew his friend too well.

"No," she sighed wearily. "I offered."

"Why?"

Because I couldn't get the ground to open up and swallow me after the world's biggest faux pas, she thought. But she said, "It's an entertaining story that I'm sure Sergeant Wells is just itching to tell you himself. But what did he mean by 'tea party'? I didn't think you Americans drank anything but coffee."

Sergeant Barnes snorted, turning his gaze back to the water. "We're all mad here."

Peggy stood and dusted the dried grass seeds off her skirt. "You certainly are." And she'd had quite enough of this madness to last a lifetime. Leaving Sergeant Barnes to his melancholy, she set off back to the command tent.

It really was a shame that there were no more women in the army. A company full of armed Nurse Madeleys and Nurse Wards would do far better at war than the overly sentimental men who insisted on acting like they were boys in the school yard. If they couldn't even hack the action they were seeing in France, how were they ever going to cope once the real mission started?

Author's note #2: Merry Christmas to all of my readers! I'd like to say an especially big THANK YOU to my amazing regular reviewers. I truly appreciate how much time and effort you put into your reviews, and the level of feedback you give. It's always a joy to hear your thoughts on the story, and hope it will continue to entertain you. Enjoy what's left of your Christmas, and if you don't celebrate this particular holiday, then Happy Unremarkable 25th December to you! I'll post the next chapter on New Years Day, so that anybody who is feeling a little delicate after NYE celebrations will have the perfect excuse to lounge around in bed reading fanfiction.