We Were Soldiers

28. Carrot's Cake

It was midday, and the persistent rain of the past twenty-four hours had finally relented, petering out to a light drizzle. As he walked from the mess tent back to the 107th's barracks, Bucky tried to dodge the worst of the puddles, to keep his boots as mud-free as possible. By the time he made it back to the shelter of the tent, the formerly shiny black leather was caked up to the bottom of his laces.

Great.

Inside the barracks, several of the 107th, who'd opted to sleep in following their late-night mission, were finally rousing. Bucky found Wells in a state of half-dress beside his bed, a groggy, just-woken expression on his face.

"I'm worried about Gusty," he said, as Wells buckled up his pants.

"I'm worried about me. Look at this," his friend replied, sliding his thumbs beneath his belt and pulling it away from his stomach.

"It's your belt. So?"

"So I've had to tighten it by a whole notch! You know what that means, don't you?"

Bucky shrugged. He'd had to tighten his belt by a notch a week earlier. He'd gone to sleep still hungry for so many nights that he no longer felt hunger in the same way. Back home, his mom had insisted on three hearty meals per day, and there were always snacks to be had. His exercise regime had mostly consisted of boxing-related activities, which had kept him fit and pretty strong.

He was still fit, still strong, but he was leaner. The portions served in the mess were smaller than those his mother insisted on giving him, but it was the walking that had caused him to drop weight. Each time the camp was moved, they undertook loaded marches of anywhere between five and twenty-five klicks. They carried not only their own gear, but their tents and communal equipment, too. And even when the camp stayed put for a couple of days, there were still patrols to be done, and scouting parties to be sent out. Sometimes, exhaustion suppressed hunger.

"It means we're slowly being starved to death," Wells answered himself. "Another six months and we'll be walking skeletons!"

"You're hardly starving," Bucky scoffed, as Wells pulled his shirt over his head and scowled at him.

"I obviously am, or I wouldn't have to tighten my belt, would I?"

"Your body's just adapting to doing lots of marching."

"My body wasn't made for doing lots of marching."

"I guess you should'a joined the Navy, then."

Wells flipped him the two-fingered salute. "What's this about Gusty?"

"Like I said, I'm worried about him. He just seems so… down."

"Of course he's down. The first time he got to lead a team, he saw a guy exploded by a mine. He probably sees that every time he closes his eyes."

"Any suggestions on how to cheer him up? And don't say 'dames'," he added, when Wells grinned and opened his mouth.

"You can't shoot down my ideas before I've given them. That's just plain unfair. Anyway, dames always cheer me up. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that is that we're not exactly in downtown Brooklyn. We have a distinct lack of dames in this camp."

"We could force Hodge to dress up like a dame," said Wells. "It would be hilarious. Ooh, or we could get Tex to dress up as Hodge, and Mex to dress up as Agent Carter, and have them re-enact that famous punch which knocked him on his ass."

Bucky treated his friend to a long, level stare. "Sometimes I really worry about you."

"Agent Carter punched me, and I didn't get knocked on my ass."

"Could you focus on Gusty for a moment?"

"That's what I'm doing! I think he'd get a kick out of seeing that."

"Look, it's his birthday tomorrow," Bucky told him. "I overheard him mention it to Hawkins, before Tipper died. I think we should do something nice for him. We could… bake him a birthday cake."

"We? Why are you always dragging me into your crazy schemes?"

"Whose idea was it to sit outside in a storm on the Monty? Or to give Danzig laxative chocolate? Not to mention that night in Plymouth? The pot's got no right to call the kettle black. Anyway, this isn't crazy, and it's not a scheme, but I need your expertise."

Wells flopped down on his bed and gave a defeated sigh. "Have I ever given you the impression that I know how to make a birthday cake?"

Bucky clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I have just the guy in mind for that part."

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"But Sarge, I don't know how to bake!" Biggs complained.

Bucky stared at the private. "Biggs, you baked a birthday cake for your mom, even though it's not her birthday till December. This is literally something you can do in your sleep."

"But it didn't taste good, Sarge. And just because I did it in my sleep, doesn't mean I'd know how to do it when I'm awake."

"I'll do it," Carrot piped up from the makeshift poker table. "I used to do baking with my mom all the time."

"Finding your inner house-wife?" Wells asked.

"It's lots of fun, Sarge. And she always let me lick the spoon, afterwards."

"That sounds wrong in so many ways."

"Alright, Carrot," said Bucky. "You can do the cake. But first, we need to get you into the kitchen."

"And decide what flavour cake you want," Carrot said, and tossed down his cards. He accidentally tossed them face-up, and the rest of the players at the table groaned when they saw he'd had a full house. Poor Carrot still hadn't gotten the hang of folding correctly.

"You can do flavours?"

"Sure. Though, it depends on what ingredients they have in the kitchen. I'll need an assistant, too. To help me measure things, and stir things, and… things."

"Wells would be thrilled to help you," said Bucky, clapping a firm hand onto his friend's shoulder to prevent him escaping.

"Why are you punishing me like this?" Wells moaned in a wheedling tone.

"C'mon, Sarge, it'll be fun," said Carrot. "I'll even let you lick the spoon!"

"Never, ever say that again, Corporal."

"Has anyone seen Davies?" Bucky asked, and received a chorus of 'no' in return.

"What about Mex?" prompted Wells. "Anyone seen him?"

"Yeah," said Franklin, "he went to play dice with a few guys from the 370th."

"Ugh. The 370th are all the way across the other side of the camp." Wells looked down at his boots and gave a forlorn sigh. "I only just got them clean from last night."

"Come on," Bucky said. No amount of trawling through the mud was gonna bring him down. If it helped to cheer Gusty up, he would do it gladly, a thousand times over. "You too, Carrot."

Thoughts of baked goods were on his mind, so as they crossed the squelching, muddy ground, he was struck by how very pie-like the camp was. The 107th had a wedge, and next to them was the 69th's slice of ground. On the other side of their wedge was the motor pool and the medical tent, and a little further away, the chaplain's tent and the nurses' barracks. The 370th had the final slice of pie, and right in the middle of the whole dish was the command tent, and the tent where Stark spent most of his time coming up with new inventions.

Dozens of dark faces turned to watch Bucky and Wells and Carrot as they squelched their way through the 370th's section of the camp. There were some faces Bucky recognised by sight, but most of the men here were strangers to him. He hadn't socialised much with the members of the 370th… then again, he hadn't socialised much with the 69th, either, and what little socialising had been done was mostly in the form of regiment vs. regiment competitions. Keeping an eye on the 107th—and its members out of trouble—took up most of his time.

"You fellas lost?" the 370th's dark-skinned captain called from beneath the regimental tent awning.

"We're looking for Private Hernandez," Bucky told him. "We heard he was maybe playing dice over here."

"Check around back. There are a couple of dice games going on right now."

"Thanks, Captain..?"

"Banks."

Around the back of the tent, they found a patch of drier ground and two groups of men playing different games of dice. Mex was at the second game, and judging by the grin on his face, he was doing well for himself.

"Aw, hell," Mex grumbled, when he caught sight of the others. "Oh, hey Sergeants, Corporal, fancy seeing you guys all the way out here. Have you come to play dice?"

"We're looking for Davies," Bucky told him.

"He's not here."

"Obviously not. Do you know where he is?"

"Nope."

"Hernandez, you lying rat," growled Wells. "There's nothing going on in this camp that either you or Davies doesn't know about. Now, wherever he is, spit it out."

"I can't say!"

Wells shot a scowl at him. "He's making moonshine, isn't he? That bastard, I knew he had access to another still somewhere. If you don't tell us where he is, Mex, you're gonna be on foxhole duty for the rest of your nights, and latrine duty for all of your days."

"Aww, Sarge, that's unfair!"

"Damn right it's unfair. So what's it gonna be?"

Mex glanced around, and seemed to realise for the first time that everybody at the game was paying real close attention to the conversation. He squirmed a little before responding.

"Alright, fine. I'll tell you. But I gotta whisper it to you, and you're not allowed to tell anyone else."

So Mex whispered something to Wells, who gave the private a somewhat disbelieving look.

"Seriously? Why does he always have to pick the most dangerous places to make his bootleg liquor?"

"Because he's crazy. Can I get back to my game now?"

"Yeah, sure. C'mon Barnes, Carrot."

They set off after Wells, back the way they'd already come. By now, Bucky had given up all attempts at keeping his boots clean and dry. He trudged through the mud, resigned to another night of vigorous polishing.

"So, where's the still?" he asked.

Wells grimaced. "You know that area behind the motor pool, where they keep and closely guard the camp's supply of gasoline?"

"They're making gas-flavoured moonshine?!" Carrot gasped, his blue eyes wide with horror.

Bucky tried not to grin as Wells shook his head.

"No, Carrot, contrary to what your dear Mom might'a told you, making moonshine near gas does not make gas-flavoured moonshine. There is, in fact, no such thing as gas-flavoured moonshine. The addition of gas to alcohol would be highly poisonous and would cause anybody drinking it to go blind. Not even Davies is that crazy."

They made it as far as the front of the motor pool before they were intercepted by an on-duty mechanic. The guy stepped forward and brushed his hands on overalls that somehow managed to be cleaner than Bucky's mud-spattered uniform.

"Sorry guys, but general personnel aren't allowed beyond this point."

"They are if you don't want Colonel Hawkswell finding out about your illegal moonshine still," Wells threatened.

The mechanic issued a frosty glare. "You wouldn't."

"It's no skin off my nose. All we wanna do is go talk to Davies. If you wanna play hardball, then so be it."

"Alright, you can go on in," the man relented. "But if the brass find out, I'm gonna know who to blame."

"You know blackmailing is bad for your karma, don't you?" Bucky asked his friend, as the mechanic stepped aside to allow them to pass.

"I'll take one for the team. Besides, bad karma for a good cause kinda balances out into a unique equilibrium."

"Plus, you want to stuff yourself with cake because you think you're being starved," Bucky pointed out.

"Yes, there is also that."

Several of the jeeps had been parked in such a way that they screened the back of the motor pool from outside observation. They found Davies and another Pfc. from the 9th Infantry sequestered between the jeeps and a tank, beneath a small awning designated for gasoline storage. Though Bucky had an uncle who brewed his own cider, he'd never seen a distillery before, and what he saw under the awning was both fascinating and impressive to behold. Three small metal containers had been painted in the army's standard olive drab, and various copper and glass pipes connected them in a series of twists and spirals. A camping-sized propane gas heater was beneath one of the containers, presumably keeping the contents at a fairly steady temperature. The last container in the chain had a small tap on the side of it, and water poured out from the bottom of a funnelled chute, into a bucket placed below. The whole thing looked like some sort of crazy science experiment.

"Wells. Barnes. Carrot," said Davies, when he spotted the three approaching. "I see Mex squealed."

"Like a pig," Wells nodded.

"I'll have words with him later. So. Whaddya want?"

"Before we get down to business," Bucky interrupted, with a gesture to the still, "what the hell are you even making moonshine out of, Davies?"

"Potatoes."

"Seriously? Where did you get potatoes from?"

"Grew them."

"How?!"

Davies sighed and looked over to the other Pfc. "Keep an eye on the still. I'll be back in a few minutes. Come with me, you three, if you want to be inducted into the magical world of illegal alcohol production."

He took them around to the other side of the gasoline store, where a second, smaller awning had been set up. This one didn't look official; it was patched together with different materials, not just the khaki colour of the main tents, but grey, beige, olive drab and, in one or two places, bright red. Under the awning were three standard-issue footlockers, two of them open to display their contents, one of them closed.

"When I left home, I took with me half a dozen potatoes which were sprouting," Davies began. "They were planted in fertilised soil, in these," he handed over a battered old steel helmet into the bottom of which holes had been drilled, "and watered daily until we reached England. There, I transferred the growing plants to these footlockers." He gestured at the two footlockers which were full of soil, and from out of which multiple plants were growing.

"How'd you get footlockers full of potatoes onto the King George?" Bucky asked him.

"I have connections in logistics."

Carrot lifted the lid of the third locker, and Davies reached out quickly to slam it down, damn near taking the corporal's fingers off.

"Do not open that," Davies glowered at him.

Carrot's eyes opened a fraction wider. "Why? What's in it?"

"Mushrooms." He rolled his eyes at the expression on Bucky's face. "The normal, edible kind. They're at the stage where they need to be kept hot and humid. Just… don't touch anything, okay?"

Bucky opened his mouth, to ask about getting Carrot into the mess, but a strange brwoaaaaakkk bwaaak bwaaak brwoaaaaakkk sound from nearby froze him on the spot. Instead of asking about the mess, he asked, "The hell was that?"

"That might be the chickens."

"You smuggled chickens from Last Stop?!"

"Please tell me you incubated them in your boots," said Wells.

Davies shook his head. "Not even I'm that good. No, these are locally sourced birds. Seems the 9th got stranded here en route to England from Africa. They did some trade with the local Resistance, and were given a few chickens to eat. The SSR got here before the 9th had to resort to chicken slaughter, and when we arrived, Phillips instructed the 9th to hand the birds over to the mess, to be turned into fried chicken. We saw potential for egg production and intercepted the chickens before they could be killed."

"We?" Bucky asked. "Who exactly do these chickens belong to? In fact, who does any of this belong to?"

The explanation was accompanied by a brief shrug. "There's a syndicate."

Bucky glanced to Wells, who held up both hands in self defence. "Hey, don't look at me; I'm not a member. Though, if I'd known you had eggs, I probably would have applied before now."

"How do you even keep chickens hidden from the brass, Davies?" Carrot asked. "Also, can I look at your chickens?"

"No. And we keep them hidden by keeping them covered when we move. When it's dark, they go quiet. We have a mobile chicken run that we set up a short way outside camp, and we keep a guard on it at all times. Unfortunately, today's been too wet for them to go out."

"Do they have names? Can we name one 'Henrietta'?"

Davies gave Carrot a look so stony that it was carved entirely from granite. "No. They have numbers based upon their level of productivity. This isn't a petting zoo, Carrot, it's a business."

"Aww."

"And speaking of business, what are you guys actually doing here?"

"We need to get into the mess kitchen so we can bake a birthday cake for Gusty," said Bucky. "Can you help us?"

Davies reached into his pocket and brought out a licorice root, which he chewed thoughtfully while the chickens clucked quietly in the background. Carrot kept peering in the direction of the sound, clearly dying to see them for himself.

"It would be easier to get someone from the kitchen staff to bake the cake for you," Davies said at last.

"We wanna do it ourselves," said Bucky, before either of the others could object. "It makes it more personal."

"Alright, it's your funeral," Davies shrugged. "But it's gonna cost you a month's worth of extra foxhole duty."

A month?! It was more than Bucky had been expecting. Much more than the packet of smokes it had cost to get a rose to Samantha.

"How come the cost's so high?" he asked. "We only wanna bake a cake. It didn't cost nearly so much to help Carrot, back at Last Stop."

"But that was back at Last Stop," explained Davies. "So we could basically do it at cost. Out here, time is the most valuable commodity to trade. In fact, it's about all we got to trade. Everything costs more, in the field."

Bucky glanced to Carrot and Wells. He was more than willing to pull a few extra guard duties, if it meant cheering Gusty up. In fact, if sixty members of the 107th volunteered for one extra guard duty each, that meant they'd only have to do it once, and only a third of the regiment need get involved. He was pretty damn sure he could get sixty guys to give up one night each, for Gusty. Everybody liked Gusty. Everybody who wasn't Jewish, presumably.

But Carrot and Wells would be the ones who had to pull this off. They had to bake the perfect birthday cake, and if it went wrong, those sixty members of the 107th would be pretty pissed.

"What the hell," said Wells. "I say go for it. I'm expecting good karma to catch up with me next year, and provide a delicious chocolate cake on my birthday. It needs to be three-tiered, with chocolate sprinkles, too. And a layer of cream somewhere."

"I'm in," Carrot agreed. "And I know everyone else will be, too."

"Looks like we have a deal," Bucky said to Davies.

"Alright," said Davies. "Now, here's what I need to make it happen."

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"Remind me again what this thing looks like," Bucky whispered, as he and Wells crept through the small tent and tried not to trip over items that lay strewn across the groundsheet.

"Thirty centimetres long, with a sort of loopy bit on one end, and a tapering point on the other end."

If the thing had a name, he hadn't been told it. Then again, knowing its name wouldn't help him locate the damn thing. Stark seemed to take a teenager's bedroom approach to storing his stuff; it wasn't so much stored, as casually discarded in random places.

"You check up there," he said, gesturing to the shelves behind the workbench. "I think he keeps boxes of stuff down here."

Bucky crouched down behind the workbench and pulled out one of the boxes in question. He opened the lid to find it filled with various different wires. Nothing like the item Davies had described. He put the box back and pulled out another. Halfway through rifling though it, he saw light as the tent flap was opened, and heard Wells quickly turn on the spot.

"Hey. Mr. Stark," Wells said. To someone who didn't know Wells, his greeting would have sounded casual. To Bucky, it sounded strained. And guilty. Very guilty.

Quietly, Bucky continued searching the box, hoping Wells could distract Stark for long enough.

"Oh, it's you," said Stark, in a tone that was less than impressed. "Sergeant… Sergeant…"

"Wells."

"Right. I knew that." Stark paused for a moment, and Bucky could imagine him looking around the tent for anything out of place. "Where's that other guy you're always hanging around with? You know…" Stark snapped his fingers a couple of times. "Private…"

"Sergeant…" Wells prompted.

"Right. Sergeant… Other-guy."

Holy mackerel! Stark really was that bad with names! But Bucky didn't have time to think about that now. He continued quietly rooting through the box.

"He's in a foxhole."

"Oh. So, what're you doing in my tent?" Stark asked.

"Looking for you, obviously," scoffed Wells. "For… um… advice."

"Advice?"

"Yes. About… um… dames."

"Dames?"

"Specifically, Agent Carter." Wells' voice became a little less tense as he found a familiar conversation piece.

"Agent Carter?"

"Will you stop repeating everything I say?! Now look, you've known Agent Carter for a while, right?"

"I suppose if you want to be vague about the passage of time, then yes, I've known her for 'a while.'"

"Got any tips?" Wells asked. "I mean, I've tried all my usual tactics. I even let her punch me—"

"I heard about that." Bucky could hear the smug grin in Stark's voice.

"But I can't seem to get her to warm up to me."

"Well, that's the thing. Peggy's not the kinda gal to fall for tricks. Oh, sorry, tactics. You've gotta be genuine."

"I am extremely genuine," Wells assured him, and Bucky snorted. As soon as he realised what he'd done, he clapped his hand over his mouth. Idiot!

Fortunately, Stark seemed not to have heard the snort. "She also likes men who are humble, generous, chivalrous and self-effacing."

Too bad Steve's not here, Bucky thought. He sounds like Carter's type.

"I'm… two out of those four things, at least. So I'm halfway there. Can't you… y'know… put in a good word for me?"

"I don't really see how that would help you."

Bucky's hand closed around something long and thin. As he brought the object out of the box, he dared to hope. At one end, he saw a loopy bit. The other end tapered to a point. This was it! Whatever it was, it was what Davies had requested. Maybe it was just a really advanced toothpick. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he'd found it. Reaching out, he tapped Wells' leg, and his friend glanced down quickly at the object in Bucky's hand.

"Oh, okay," he told Stark. "I understand. But… um… I think I've got something in my eye. Can you check it for me? Outside? Where it's light enough to see?"

"Fine, fine. But let's make it quick; I have lots of important inventing to do."

Bucky waited until his friend had led Stark a short distance away. Waited until it sounded like Stark was taking a real good look at the nothing in Wells' eye. When he peered out from the tent, he saw Stark's back to him, and he quickly dashed out. As he made off with his ill-gotten gains, he heaved a big sigh of relief. Unfortunately, though, this… thing… wasn't the hardest item to get from Davies' list.

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"I don't see why I have to do it," Bucky scowled.

"I told you," Wells replied, "I'm allergic to church. And priests. And all things religious, in fact."

"But I already told Lieutenant Olliver I'm not crazy. If I do this, he's not going to believe that anymore."

"Well… that's what you get for lying to a man of the cloth. Shame on you! Now, go do it, and make it quick."

When Bucky was shoved forward towards the church tent, he knew he had no other choice. But unlike Wells, he wasn't good at making up bullshit on the spot. He could think of no other way to get what he needed, except to ask for it.

"Sergeant Barnes!" Lieutenant Olliver smiled when he saw Bucky approach. It seemed a genuine smile. Lieutenant Olliver was a genuinely nice guy. "How nice to see you. I'm terribly sorry about what happened to young Private Tipper. Have you come to seek the comfort and clarity of the Lord?"

"Err, not exactly. I… um… actually, there was something else I wanted to ask you."

"Oh? And what's that?"

Taking a deep breath, he held out his flask of water. "Would you… err… bless my canteen?"

Lieutenant Olliver gave him a stare that suggested he'd thought Bucky was perfectly sane, and was now swiftly re-evaluating that impression.

"You… want me to bless your canteen?"

"Yes." Like lightning, inspiration struck. "It's for my friend, Sergeant Wells. You see, he got this new Army Editions book. Dracula. It's by Bram Stoker. Have you read it?"

"I try to avoid occult stories. I mostly read the Bible."

"Oh, right. Of course. Anyway, ever since he read it, he's been afraid of vampires," Bucky bullshitted.

"Does he know vampires aren't real?"

"I tell him that every night before bed, but you should see his face, all wide-eyed with fear, and he clutches his blanket so tightly that his knuckles go white. Anyway, I told him that vampires can be driven off by holy water, and he asked me to get some for him. He would've asked you himself, but he's in awe of religious figures."

"I see. Well." Poor Lieutenant Olliver looked completely at a loss. "Perhaps you should advise Sergeant Wells that regular attendance at church is the best vampire deterrent available."

Bucky nodded solemnly. Had to bite his bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. Bit so hard that he actually tasted blood. His eyes began to water. "Oh, I certainly will, Father. But, could you just humour him on the holy water? He's already gone three nights without sleep. I'm afraid he won't be fit for duty if this carries on much longer."

Lieutenant Olliver gave a weary sigh, and Bucky felt momentarily sorry for him. This was probably the first time he'd been asked to bless water for the purpose of warding off vampires. They probably didn't even cover this in army priest school. Then again, he hadn't covered any of this during his training for sergeant. Clearly, an army education wasn't worth the paper it was written on.

The lieutenant held his hand over the canteen and mumbled a few words in Latin.

"There. It's done. I hope this allows Sergeant Wells to find sleep tonight. And please, bring him along to my services as soon as you're able. He sounds like a man in dire need of ministering to."

"I will. And thank you, Father. Thank you very much!"

He dashed off and rejoined Wells, who was waiting around the other side of the medical tent. As soon as he stopped, Wells punched his arm. Hard.

"Ow. Why?"

"Vampires?! You bastard," Wells glared.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" he asked, rubbing his sore arm. "Anyway, it's not like you offered any better suggestions. Now, what's next on the list?"

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"What was it called, again?" Bucky asked, in a whispered shout.

Wells' returned whisper was just about audible through the canvas of the tent. "Nicely Spiced, and hurry up; the longer I stand out here, the shiftier it looks."

"Hurry up," he grumbled under his breath. "Don't see you offering to do all the hard work." As he approached the first footlocker, he sent a silent prayer for forgiveness. Despite having… redistributed… several items already, he'd chosen to leave this one till last. Being here, doing this, made him feel like some sorta creep. Back home, if he'd found some guy rifling through his sisters' belongings, he would'a socked him hard. His mom had driven into him at a very young age that Men Do Not Touch Women's Things.

Now, that was exactly what he was doing. Crouching down beside the footlocker, he opened it and tried to avert his gaze as he stuck his hands in. The contents of a soldier's footlocker were predictable, and pretty standard. Spare uniform, clean socks and underwear, a few books, maybe some writing equipment, and whatever contraband he'd managed to get his paws on. Bucky could stick his hands into a guy's footlocker and not have to worry about anything.

Not so, with a dame's. As he rifled through the contents, his fingers touched all sorts of strange—and possibly forbidden—things. Things with hard wire in them. Things which did not conform to any recognisable shape. Things which rattled as he pushed them aside, and oh god, was that lace?!

When his hand finally brushed against something that felt bottle-like, he grasped the item and drew it out before he could accidentally touch anything else. Holding the delicate glass bottle up to what little light was available, he read the label on the front. Peaches and Cream. "Stupid name for a perfume," he grumbled again, and moved on to the next footlocker.

He was just moving on to his fourth footlocker when Wells hissed out the pre-arranged code-word to tell him someone was approaching.

"Shit! Oh, hello there, Agent Carter," said Wells, affecting a casual air that sounded even guiltier than when he'd tried to distract Stark. "Nice day for a stroll, isn't it?"

"I was born at night, Sergeant Wells, not last night." Agent Carter's voice said it would brook no bullshit today. Suddenly, Bucky was glad he wasn't out there, in Wells' place. "Now, what are you doing outside the women's barracks?"

Wells tried for genuine surprise, and failed badly. "This is the women's barracks? Well, of course it is. I knew that. In fact, I was waiting here for you."

"Ugh. Sergeant Wells, you really must give up these attempts to ingratiate yourself. I have no desire to spend time with you, nor any other soldier in this camp."

Bucky moved on to another footlocker. Six down, six to go. Why couldn't dames just keep their perfume bottles on their pillows or something? Outside, Wells continued to dig his own grave.

"No offence, Agent Carter, but that's awful egotistical of you. Why've you always gotta assume that when a guy's talking to you, he's sweet on you? I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a beautiful dame and all, but you're no Rita Hayworth."

"You have three seconds to explain why you're loitering around this tent, and then I'm going to either call the MPs, or shoot you in the foot. I may even do both, and not necessarily in that order," she said, and Bucky winced.

Wells opted for a tried and tested distraction method. "I wanted to ask for your advice."

"Advice?"

Bucky grinned to himself as he worked his way through footlocker number seven. There was no possible way Wells could worm his way out of this one. Sure, he could pretend to want Stark's advice about Carter, but what could he pretend to want Carter's advice about? They had nothing in common.

"Yeah. About… Sergeant Barnes. See, we fell out again," said Wells. "Actually, he's been spreading rumours about me. Bald-faced lies. He told the chaplain I'm afraid of vampires!"

Bastard!

"Why would he do that? Vampires aren't even real."

"I know! But that's what he told the guy." Agent Carter must have had one of those expressions on her face that suggested she didn't believe a word he was saying, because Wells added, "Ask the chaplain, if you don't believe me! You know men of the cloth can't lie. Do you think maybe this is some sort of cry for attention? First-born son syndrome, maybe? I bet it's real hard being the first-born son, being the centre of attention until all those other siblings come along and steal that attention for themselves. I mean, why else would he go around telling lies like that?"

"Sergeant," Agent Carter sighed, as Bucky moved onto footlocker number eight and plotted all sorts of horrible revenge acts for his friend, "I stopped trying to understand the motives of men some time ago. About two weeks ago, actually. Right around the time your regiment was assigned to the SSR. Maybe you should just talk to Sergeant Barnes and ask him why he's spreading rumours."

"I can't do that!" Wells sound scandalised by the very idea. "You know what us guys are like. We can't talk about our feelings and stuff. That would just be wrong. I mean, what if he started opening up, or worse, crying? You know, sometimes, when I'm lying in bed at night, I think I can hear him sobbing to himself, real quiet."

Shoelaces. Bucky was gonna remove his friend's shoelaces from his boots, then he'd have to walk around with his boots flopping off his feet. And he was gonna switch a few of his sugar packets for salt, so that he'd be drinking salty coffee tomorrow morning. Maybe put some of that synthetic lemon powder in his canteen, too. And that was just for starters.

Nicely Spiced.

He read the name on the bottle, and the moment of elation pushed away all thoughts of revenge. Now, all he had to do was find a way out of the tent that didn't involved walking out the front door flap and being seen by Agent Carter.

"Could you maybe talk to him for me?" Wells continued. "You're a dame, so it's okay if he cries in front of you."

Thoughts of revenge swiftly returned.

"I'll see about it after dinner—"

"No! I mean, there are so many more rumours he could have spread by then! Can't you talk to him now?"

Bucky didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that Agent Carter was slowly making her way towards the tent flap. Wells' voice was becoming more and more tense by the minute, his bullshit more and more desperate. Trying to suppress panic, Bucky looked around, and finally saw a sliver of light coming in from a place behind one of the bunks, where the canvas wasn't pegged down quite as well as it should been. It would be a tight fit, but he had no other choice.

As Wells tried harder and harder to convince Agent Carter to go talk to Bucky, Bucky lowered himself onto the groundsheet and slid forward, prising the canvas up further still and crawling his way underneath it. When his shoulders got stuck, his heart began to sprint madly in his chest. Bad enough that Agent Carter caught him in the women's tent; worse if she caught him stuck between the tent and freedom.

With one desperate heave, he pushed with his knees, and felt the canvas finally let go. His legs scrabbled behind him, and as he reached the outside, he drank deeply of the sweet air of freedom. On tiptoes, and conscious that he probably wasn't as stealthy as he imagined himself to be, he crept around the side of the tent and gestured to Wells, who was staring at the front of the barracks as if expecting the sound of a gunshot at any moment. The look on his face was of palpable relief as he darted over to Bucky.

"Thank Go—ow!" Wells scowled, rubbing the arm that Bucky punched hard.

"Sobbing to myself?! She's gonna think I'm some kinda goddamn pansy!"

"Nonsense. Agent Carter is a very cosmopolitan dame, and I'm sure she'll find it endearing that a guy can let himself be vulnerable enough to cry in front of her."

"Wells, you just made that whole crying thing up!"

"She doesn't have to know that."

"Jeez. With friends like you, who needs enemies?" Bucky sighed. He held up the bottle of Nicely Spiced. "What does Davies even need this for?"

"I'm more interested in why he needs holy water," said Wells. A grin slid across his face. "Maybe he's baptising the chi—"

"Hey, you two!"

At the angry shout, Bucky surreptitiously slid the perfume bottle into his jacket pocket. Dugan stomped up to them, his moustache aquiver with anger, eyebrows drawn into a furious scowl.

"Where's my hat?" Dugan demanded. His head of tight auburn curls was bereft of its usual headgear, and he looked strangely different without it.

"Uh, why are you asking us?" Wells countered.

"Because wherever there's trouble in this camp, you two are not far behind. Now, gimme back my hat."

"Dugan, we don't have your hat," Bucky assured him.

"I can see you don't have my hat on you," Dugan said, his scowl becoming even angrier. "I want you to go and fetch it from wherever you've put it. And if you're back with it in five minutes, I'll forget this ever happened. Otherwise…" He curled up his fist and punched it into the flat of his hand with a meaty thwack.

"Honestly, Dugan, we haven't touched, or even seen, your hat," insisted Wells. "And if you need alibis for our whereabouts today, well, just go and ask Agent Carter, and Mr. Stark, and the chaplain. We have in fact had a very busy morning which has not involved your hat in any way, shape or form."

Their sincerity seemed to mollify Dugan… slightly. He gave a small grunt as he ran his eyes over them one last time, possibly to make sure they really weren't hiding his hat.

"Hmph. Well. If you see it…"

"We'll let you know," Bucky nodded.

And with that, Dugan stomped off to accuse someone else of hat theft. A small sigh of relief escaped Bucky's lips.

"What did Davies want Dugan's hat for, anyway?" he asked.

Wells gave an unconcerned shrug. "Dunno. But I'm real glad we sent Carrot to get it. C'mon, let's get all this stuff back to Davies. We still have a cake to bake."

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

"Can I open my eyes now, Sarge?"

"No," said Bucky, as he led Gusty by the arm towards the 107th's barracks. It was just after dinner time, and since the brass might decide to up and move the camp with only a moment's notice, Bucky and his co-conspirators had decided to bake and give Gusty his cake that very same day, rather than save it until his birthday, the following day. Unlike the chickens, he did not think a cake would survive the march.

There was an expectant hush outside the tent, into which Bucky and Gusty stepped. A large portion of the 107th had turned out for this; some of them had even brought birthday presents. He suspected Gusty was going to be getting a loooot of smokes, this year.

"Okay, now you can open your eyes," he told the corporal.

As Gusty's eyes opened, everybody gathered there cheered, "Happy birthday, Gusty!" Carrot struck up a chorus of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' as he and Wells brought out the cake. This was the first time Bucky had seen it, and Carrot really had outdone himself. The cake was a huge, two-tiered pale brown sponge, with cream in the middle and a layer of chocolate icing on top. The tiny flames of ten candles—probably all Davies had been able to find—were dancing merrily atop the cake, and as the song's refrain ended on '…and so say all of us!', Carrot instructed him, "Make a wish and blow out the candles!"

Gusty closed his eyes, and blew. As soon as the last candle was out, everybody cheered again.

"I can't believe this!" the corporal said, his eyes glistening behind his glasses. "You guys did all of this for me?"

"Of course," said Bucky, clapping him on his shoulder. "You deserve it, pal. Now, let's get you some cake!"

Carrot was in charge of cutting the cake, because he was fair. He'd also made enough that everyone who wanted some cake could have a small piece each, and by the time it had been shared out—with Gusty getting the largest slice, because it was his birthday, after all—there wasn't a single crumb of it left. Bucky thought it was better that way. It wasn't the eating cake that mattered; it was the sharing it.

"This is great," said Gusty, after a couple of mouthfuls. "How'd you know coffee cake was my favourite?"

"Because you told me, back on the Monty," said Carrot. "We were playing poker and talking about cake, and you said you liked coffee cake more than anything."

"Huh. Well, thank you."

"Shame you didn't make it a carrot cake," Franklin grinned. "Then it would have had symmetry with your name."

"My name's not actually 'Carrot'. It's Kenneth."

"Oh yeah. Right. I forgot."

Franklin's remark earned a round of chuckles, and then the birthday presents were brought forth. As Bucky had guessed, Gusty got a lot of packets of smokes. And, from Pfc. Davies, two hard-boiled eggs. Halfway through unwrapping his eighth packet of cigarettes, an expectant hush fell over the gathering as somebody new approached the tent. The white-clad nurse blushed when all eyes fell on her. Pleasantly plump with a girlish face, she wasn't Bucky's usual type, but pretty enough, especially with that blush colouring her cheeks. She cleared her throat as her fingers toyed subconsciously with her pinafore.

"I, ah, wonder if I could borrow Corporal Ferguson for a moment."

Gusty's face was a mask of shock, so Wells nudged him to his feet, and Bucky took the half-opened pack of smokes from his hands as he moved forward in a sort of dream-like trance. Only when the pair had disappeared out of earshot did the conversation resume.

"See?" said Wells to Bucky, wearing a self-satisfied smile. "Dames. He'll be cheered up in no time."