Author's note: If you would like a visual aid to the sort of terrain most of this chapter takes place in, you can look for the drier/rockier images in a search of "Montfuron." That's not exactly where the chapter takes place, but it's kinda like that.

We Were Soldiers

29. The Drop

When the dawn chorus woke Bucky in the early hours, he simply lay on his back in his camp bed, looking up at familiar khaki and listening to the morning's symphony. The sun is shining and everything is right with the world! the birds seemed to sing. But they were just birds. They didn't know anything. They didn't know about the uneasy feeling that had been sitting right in the middle of Bucky's stomach for the past few days. A feeling that something, somewhere, was going terribly wrong. He just hoped it wasn't something back home. Hoped it wasn't Mom and Dad, or Steve.

"It means something," said Wells, quiet enough that he wouldn't wake the rest of the sleeping regiment. For once, he wasn't in one of his dead-to-the-world sleeps. In fact, he hadn't done much sleeping at all, over the past two days.

"I know."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know."

"I think we should go over all of the facts," Wells continued. "And this time, I'll write them down. Maybe we'll get some ideas. C'mon, help me brainstorm."

Bucky rolled over onto his stomach and looked over to the next bed, where Wells was lying with his flashlight in one hand and the sketched emblem from the Nazi flag in the other. To say the guy had been obsessing about it would have been putting it mildly. It was all Wells had thought about—or talked about—for the past two days. He seemed determined to solve the mystery, and the more determined he grew, the more convinced he became that there was some sort of conspiracy going on. He was definitely, absolutely, no doubt about it, crazy.

"That's half the problem," Bucky told his friend. "We don't really have that many facts. Just ideas, and feelings."

"I'm writing 'em down anyway. Let's start with what the SSR is doing here. So far, the missions we've run have been pretty combat-heavy. So why would a scientific division be sent here? Also, all that stuff about field-testing Stark's designs is sheer baloney."

Bucky had to admit, his friend had a point. It made no sense whatsoever for Stark to be here.

"What about the intel the colonel has been gathering?" he offered. Wells grabbed a pen and a spare piece of paper, and began scribbling. "He knew exactly what kinda defences that first bunker had, and how many men were stationed there. At first, I thought he'd just got good aerial imagery, but that MG position was covered; aerial surveillance wouldn't have picked it up. The colonel must have eyes on the ground."

"French Resistance, I bet," said Wells. "Didn't Stark say we're in Maquis territory?"

"Yeah. And when Davies was telling us about those chickens, he said the 9th had made contact with the local Resistance."

Across the other side of the tent, one of the soldiers mumbled in his sleep. When he realised it was Gusty, a small smile tugged at Bucky's lips. Cake had definitely cheered him up. Or, more likely, Nurse Klein had cheered him up. Bucky had seen them a few times, walking through camp together, talking in their own little bubble of privacy, and, on one occasion, holding hands. The smiles on their faces had been cautious, shy, genuine… seeing them enjoying each others' company brought smiles to Bucky's face, too.

It also brought an ache to his chest. His last date with a dame had been only a few short weeks ago, and he could remember it well. The Expo. The music hall. The dancing. It had been fun. They'd both enjoyed themselves. Connie had been a great girl, beautiful, with sparkling brown eyes and an infectious smile. She'd laughed at his jokes and matched every step he danced perfectly. But he'd never had that moment. He'd never looked into her eyes and been blown away. Never felt his heart beat erratically in his chest in her presence—unless you counted the way in which it beat fast from the exertion of dancing. There had been something missing, and he still hadn't been able to figure out what. But looking at Gusty and Nurse Klein together, he was starting to get an inkling of it. There was a special sort of magic that surrounded them, or passed between them, when they looked into each others' eyes and smiled at each other. Something more than plain old physical attraction. Something that he'd never had, but now, he wanted.

He blinked, nearly jumped right out of bed, when a pair of fingers were snapped in front of his face, startling him out of his reverie.

"C'mon pal, don't do that introspective gaze thing. I need your focus here," said Wells, tapping the picture of the gruesome emblem.

"I was just thinking about Gusty and Nurse Klein. It's nice to see him happy, isn't it?"

"C'est fantastique," said Wells, rolling his eyes.

"No need to be so jaded."

"I'm not jaded. I'm happy for the guy. I'm glad something finally brought his stare a little closer than the thousand yards. But I also have more important concerns than Gusty's happiness." He tapped the image again. "I think it's an alien. Like the ones from War of the Worlds, or something. I think Nazis are leading an alien invasion of Earth."

"You know you're actually insane, right?" Bucky told him. "As in, if I took you to a psychologist and asked them to assess you, you would be deemed clinically insane. Aliens are no more real than vampires!"

Wells eyed the picture thoughtfully. "Vampire aliens. It would explain the myths…"

"Let's… just get back to the facts," he sighed. "That guy Gusty shot… when he died, he said 'Hail Hydra'. Not Hitler."

"I know that word. I've heard it before. Somewhere."

"Could you perhaps narrow it down a little more than 'somewhere'?"

Wells gave him a rueful smile. "Sorry, no. But maybe—"

The tent flat opened and morning sunlight streamed in. Wells quickly slipped the picture underneath his blanket, and switched off his flashlight. Bucky squinted at the figure outlined in the doorway, but he didn't have long to wonder about who was standing there.

"Umm, Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells?"

"Lieutenant Nestor?"

"Yes. I'm glad to see you're… err… awake. I, umm, need you to assemble fifteen men and meet me at the command tent in, um, ten minutes. We have a… ah… a mission."

"Yes, sir," Bucky said, and the twitchy lieutenant left.

"Guess we'll have to put our investigations on hold," said Wells. "I wonder what the brass want us to do now?"

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

"Last night," Colonel Hawkswell explained without preamble fifteen minutes later, "a flight of U.S. planes dropped a cargo of provisions for us. As you know, the nature of our mission leaves us with no supply chain, and it was always the plan to resupply us via air drops. In order to preserve the secrecy of our location, it was arranged for the first drop to be made several miles away from our camp." The colonel stuck a tack down onto the map, in a position several miles away from their camp's indicated location. "This was to be the designated drop point. However, due to what I expect are thoroughly fascinating factors, the pilots missed their drop zone, and instead deposited our cargo here." Another tack was added, this one considerably further away. Almost a day's march behind them, in fact.

"Your mission," he said, "is to get to the drop point and salvage as much as possible from the cargo. Food, medical supplies and ammunition are the highest priority. Take six jeeps, and bring back as much as you can. We're scheduled to move again tomorrow night, so I want you back by tomorrow afternoon. And just in case the Nazis saw that drop, go heavily armed."

The men offered salutes, then filed out. They didn't need to be told what to do; they were already heading back to the barracks for their backpacks, weapons and everything else they'd need. And in his head, Bucky was already dividing them into teams of three, figuring out where everybody fit in.

"Sir, would you like me to take point in the lead vehicle?" he asked Nestor.

"Um, yes, if you like. Whatever you think is best, Sergeant. I'll leave the, err, finer details, to you and Sergeant Wells. I'm sure this will be a, err, walk in the park, after those, umm, communications bunkers."

"I hope so, sir," he agreed.

They left Nestor to his twitching and followed the men back to the barracks. The mission seemed straight-forward enough. Simple, in fact. Definitely less challenging—and less dangerous—than their previous missions. It seemed a little unfair, though, that the 107th were called upon yet again to go trekking through the countryside. The brass seemed to prefer keeping the 69th close to home, for patrols, whilst sending the 107th further afield. Camp was probably a lot quieter, when Bucky and his friends were out on a mission. Hmm. Maybe that was why the colonels sent them in the first place…

"I'll take point," he said to the team, as they scrambled to prepare. "Gusty, you'll drive. Hawkins, you're with me, too. Tex, I want you in the back of the convoy with your own SSR-01. Davies, Biggs, you're with him. Wells, you take one of the centre vehicles with Lieutenant Nestor. Let's try to keep him out of the way."

"Ugh. Baby sitting duty? Really, Barnes?"

"Carrot, you will help Wells with baby sitting duty," Bucky added.

"Yes Sarge!" Carrot saluted.

"The rest of you, arrange yourselves three to a jeep and let's keep a minimum distance of fifteen metres between each vehicle, in case of mines."

They wouldn't need to be told twice. After Tipper, everybody had become more aware of the danger of mines. Each night, they tied Biggs down extra tight to his bed, just in case he sleep-walked. They all knew they could die on any mission, but none of them wanted to be the next guy whose tags were the only part of him left to be brought back.

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

The morning sunlight was a fleeting visitor which, as time marched towards midday, gave way to pale grey clouds. For once, Bucky was glad for the clouds. They were too light to threaten rain, and they kept the scorching sun's rays from burning his face all over again. The area through which they drove was both hilly and rocky; jeepable, but only just. It was slow going, and he kept a vigilant watch on the hills around him as Gusty tried to pick the least difficult path to traverse.

During their first week or so in southern France, Bucky had been confused and perplexed by the lack of German patrols. Now, he knew that the patrols rarely came this far into the 'wilderness.' Since Germany's advance south, following the figurative erasure of the Demarcation line which separated German-controlled northern France from the 'Free' Vichy-governed south, the Nazis had learnt which areas to avoid on foot. They might have rolled in with tanks by now, if it wasn't for the difficult terrain. Maybe that was why this area had such a strong Resistance presence.

Allegedly.

So far, Bucky hadn't seen even one Resistance fighter.

"I don't like it out here, Sarge," said Hawkins. He was on the back seat with Bucky, watching the other side of the jeep, his M1 ready to open fire at a moment's notice. "It's too quiet. It's like the whole of the south of France is just one big empty series of hills, and rocks, and trees."

"That's because the colonel has purposely avoided taking us anywhere near civilisation, Private. The towns are out there; trust me. The place where we took Matilda was nice and… well, relatively civilised, I guess." He smiled as the memory of a city skyline came to mind. "Not a patch on New York, of course, but nowhere's like New York. Maybe you're just feeling ill at ease because you're used to the big city. I don't much like the empty, rolling hills here, either."

In fact, other than Tex and Hernandez, the whole damn bunch of them were city-boys through and through. Bucky had seen horses before, and sheep and cows and the like, but only in fields, whilst being driven to his cousin's house for summer vacation. He guessed a guy who never left the big city could spend his whole life not seeing a horse or a sheep or a cow.

Or a chicken.

After another hour of driving, Gusty was forced to leave the road he'd been following; it led away from the direction they needed to travel. He put the jeep on an invisible track which took them up, into the hills, to a view of the craggy, tree-covered mountains that Bucky couldn't help but smile about. Apart from the occasional summer downpour, the south of France was turning out pretty nice.

He peeped down the scope of his rifle at the line of jeeps that had begun to climb behind him. In the vehicle behind, Hodge had the wheel, while Franklin and Corporal Jones kept watch from the back. A perplexed frown was written across Hodge's face, but that wasn't unusual; he was usually perplexed about something. In the third jeep were three of Weiss' men who'd been on missions with Bucky before; Hall, Hartley and a guy named Tucker. Good men who'd proven their levelheadedness in combat. Jeep number four had Nestor driving, with Carrot and Wells in the back. Both men were silent, their attention focused on the terrain around them. In the fifth jeep was Corporal Scott at the wheel, and in back, Mex and another man who was known to Bucky by name, but had never been on a mission with him before. Finally, covering their six, was Biggs at the wheel, and Davies and Tex in the back. Bucky was pleased when he saw Tex check behind the convoy with his SSR-01. It was good to know the private was aware that ambushes could happen from any direction; even behind.

Half an hour later, the view had grown old and the path more difficult. At some point in the distant past, half of the hill on which they drove had fallen—or been carved—away, leaving a sharp knife-edge ridge behind. Peering over the left side of the jeep, to the ridge edge just a few feet away, he saw a dizzying sheer drop which reminded him a little too much of Coney Island's Cylone roller coaster… and that terrifying, stormy night on the Monty.

The voice of reason in Bucky's head wanted him to speak out and warn Gusty about getting too close to the edge. But Gusty wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't blind. At least, he wasn't blind when he was wearing his glasses, which he was right now. The jeep was already listing to the right, with the natural incline of the hill; if Gusty drove any further from the edge, the jeep would probably roll over.

A loud screeching noise came screaming from behind, accompanied by panicked yells, by mechanical grinding, and a frightened scream cut off so abruptly that it made every hair on Bucky's body stand on end. As soon as he'd heard the first yell, he'd brought his SSR-01 up into firing position, and now he looked downhill at the tree line, trying to spot whoever was shooting at them. When Gusty slammed on the brakes, he wedged his foot beneath the back seat, to prevent himself being flung forward.

Dammit, where were they?!

"Can either of you see where we're being attacked from?"

"Sarge!" The terror in Franklin's call turned his blood to ice once more. "Sarge, we lost a jeep!"

Bucky put all thoughts of hostiles aside as he lowered his rifle and looked back to the commotion that had happened in the convoy. Where one of the jeeps should have been, there was only a gap, and a set of tire treads leading over the knife-edge. Even as Bucky jumped down to the ground, he heard more of the mechanical grinding, and finally realised what it was; jeep number four, rolling and crashing down the drop.

Carrot! Wells! They'd been in that jeep. They couldn't be gone. They couldn't. Carrot had Samantha waiting back home for him! And Wells… just that morning, Bucky had told his friend that he was basically certifiable. What kind of last words were they to say to a friend?

Most of the team had abandoned their vehicles to crowd a little closer to the edge. A plume of smoke rose from below, visible above the heads of men who looked simultaneously panicked and lost. If this was it, if they'd lost the jeep, Bucky had to get them away ASAP. Letting them stay, letting them watch and wonder who might be next, would do nothing for morale. But before he left, he had to be sure. He had to see every member of jeep four for himself. He couldn't leave without seeing.

"Move!" he barked, as he pushed his way through the crowd. "Get back; the edge might not be safe."

"Definitely not safe!" called a familiar voice from below.

Sickening relief flooded through Bucky's body, making him light-headed all over again. Not daring to step too close to the edge, he lay down on his stomach and inched forward, to peer directly below the rocky rim. Some fifteen feet down, he saw Wells clinging on to a narrow ledge. And clinging on to Wells' legs, was Carrot. Of Lieutenant Nestor, there was no sign.

"Get rope, now!" Bucky commanded, and half a dozen men scrambled for the coils of rope which lived as standard in the backs of the jeeps. Whilst they did that, he peered down again. Wells was hanging on by the skin of his fingers, and his face carried a sheen of sweat. "How are you doing down there?"

"Oh, great," Wells said. "We could do this all day. And by 'all day' I mean 'for about another fifteen seconds.' Right, Carrot?"

"I don't think I can hold on much longer, Sarge!" Carrot cried. His eyes were closed, and he had both arms wrapped around Wells' legs. Bucky's carefully laid rescue plan, which involved both stricken men keeping their heads, quickly went to pieces.

"Sarge, I got your rope!" said Hernandez, appearing with a loose coil.

"Good. Tie it around my belt, and tie it tight. Gusty! Tie the other end to the tow ring of one of the jeeps, and pick up the slack. Wells, if I throw you a rope, do you think you can grab hold of it?"

"Not a chance. Carrot's too heavy. Trust me to get lumped with the only guy in the whole army who doesn't lose any weight after three weeks of forced marches," Wells growled. "What the hell have you been doing, Carrot, pilfering food from Davies' chickens?"

"Carrot, could you grab a rope?"

"I think I'm gonna fall, Sarge!" Carrot wailed.

Shit. There was no chance of Carrot doing anything if he was panicked.

"Gusty!" he shouted, as Mex finished tying the rope so tight around the back of his belt that Bucky suspected he was never gonna get it off, "pick up the damn slack! I need to get down there. I need two more ropes, fastened to different jeeps."

"I can't hold on any longer!" Carrot yelled.

"Carrot, since we're about to die," Wells said, as Bucky felt Gusty take up the slack on the rope, "I just wanted to apologise to you. Y'see, every night, when you fall asleep, I borrow your picture of Samantha from your pocket."

"What?!"

"That's right. Sometimes I borrow her two or three times a night. I like the way she smiles at me."

"I'm gonna kill you, you bastard!" Carrot yelled.

"Uh-huh, sure—ow, that's actually my leg you're squeezing."

That's it, Bucky thought, as he lay the ends of the other two ropes over his shoulders and lowered himself down over the edge of the drop, keep him angry enough that he doesn't think about letting go.

He tried not to look down. Tried not to see the dizzying, Cyclone-like drop. Tried not to think about the jeep flaming on the stony ground far below, and the column of smoke that would be like a beacon for local Resistance and Nazi troops alike. He tried to focus on Carrot and Wells… but the drop was the pink elephant in an otherwise empty room, and he couldn't help but look. When the world spun, he immediately regretted it.

Ten seconds had passed, but it felt like ten years. Beads of perspiration slid down his face, dripping off into the nothingness below. He finally reached Wells, and called, "Just another couple of feet, Gusty!" The order was relayed back, and as soon as he came to a dangling stop beside Carrot, he worked as fast as he could to fasten one of the ropes around the young man's belt.

"Alright Carrot, you're safe. You've gotta let go of Wells," he said.

"I can't, Sarge, I'll fall!"

"You won't. You've got a rope around you. You're not going anywhere. You trust me, don't you?" Carrot nodded fervently. "Then let go. I can't get a rope around Wells while you're clinging to him. Just let go, the guys have got your slack, and they'll pull you up nice and slow. I'll see you back up top, and we'll all have a rest after this. Okay?"

For a wonder, Carrot obeyed. When he let go, he swung a little out to the side, then started to be lifted up. He kept his eyes closed the whole way, but that didn't stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks.

"Pull me up by a couple of feet, Gusty!" Bucky called. By now, he could smell the burning rubber of the jeep tires. And worse… he could smell burning meat. The combination made his stomach want to heave all of its contents, but he forced the feeling away. Forced the nausea back down. He'd only done half his job.

Two years later, he was back at Wells' level, and the first thing he saw was his friend's arms trembling with the exertion of holding on for so long.

"Now that the Germans have had a chance to shoot at you," he said, "you're not thinking of jumping, are you?"

"Barnes, seriously, not the best time to try and make me laugh. Besides, inappropriate humour is my thing. You can't go stealing my thing, not while I'm still around to use it. Get your own thing."

"I already have my own thing; my compulsive need to fix things, remember?" He picked up the second rope, and reached out to thread it through Wells' belt. "Right now, I'm trying to fix this little problem you seem to be having with gravity."

"Well, hurry it up, I think—oh shi—"

Bucky didn't need the verbal warning. He'd already noticed Wells' sweat-slicked fingers slipping from the ledge. He quickly abandoned the rope idea, and wrapped his arms around his friend's chest, holding on so tight that he feared he might crush ribs. Instinct, more than knowledge, prompted him to wrap his legs around his friend's lower body in a firm scissor lock.

"Pull us up!" Bucky yelled. "Wells, can you reach the rope over my shoulder?"

Wells didn't even bother glancing up. "No. Even if I could, I don't think I could hold on to it. My arms feels like they've been wrenched out of their sockets."

"Alright." Didn't matter. In another eight or ten years, they'd be pulled back up. "Then, you just do what you do best; sit there and look pretty."

There was a very small movement, before Wells asked over his shoulder, "Can you see this hand gesture I'm making at you?"

"No."

"Damn. What a waste."

Exactly seven years later they reached the lip of the knife-edge, and there was no shortage of hands to help pull them over the top. The last time Bucky had felt so groped was during his final medical check, back at Camp Shanks. It was an experience he'd hoped he'd never have to repeat.

As the two of them were dragged to safety, Gusty assured Bucky that he could let go, and he finally released Wells from the crushing scissor-hold. Wells rolled to freedom, but merely lay panting, exhausted on his back. Bucky sympathised. He knew he oughta get up and start doing command-related things… but right now, he liked the feel of the ground against his back too much. The lovely, wonderful, solid ground. Not far away, Carrot was slowly composing himself. His sniffles had subsided, giving way to quiet hiccoughs.

"Anybody want morphine?" Hernandez asked, as he tottered over with a first aid kit.

Bucky shook his head.

"I want water," Wells croaked, and fourteen canteens were thrust towards him. "Wait, did I say water? I mean, I want moonshine. Lots and lots of moonshine."

"Has anyone seen any sign of Lieutenant Nestor?" Bucky asked. All heads were shaken, except one.

"Ah have," said Tex. He held up his SSR-01. "But if y'wanna see, you're gonna need this. Smoke's kinda thick down there."

"It's okay. That you've seen him is enough." He didn't need to see for himself. He'd been to enough barbecues to be familiar with the smell of burning flesh.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, managed to unfasten the complex knot of rope around his belt, and somewhat shakily made his way back towards the ridge. Just to be safe, he stayed a few feet back as he looked down at the flaming wreckage. Rightfully, he ought to get lowered down there and retrieve the lieutenant's tags. They couldn't take his body back, because it would be too badly charred by the time the flames were finished with it, but he could at least bring back the tags.

It would be a delay. Who knew how many people had seen that column of black smoke by now? Besides, they still had a mission to complete. Somewhere, out there, were desperately needed supplies. Everyone would be tightening their belts again soon, if Bucky didn't get the supplies back.

"Brass are gonna think we have it in for our officers," said Wells. He'd managed to make his feet, and was standing a little behind Bucky, watching the smoke rise. Though he looked like he'd recovered faster than Carrot, Bucky didn't like the way he held his arms, as if it pained him to have them in a normal by-the-sides position. Wells and Carrot, he decided, were going to be on light-duties only, until they got back to camp for a checkup. They'd both lost their rifles in the accident anyway. "First Dancing, now Nestor. Maybe we're cursed."

"It could'a been worse," Bucky said. "Just like with Tipper, we could have lost three men, instead of one." A knife of guilt stabbed Bucky in the gut when he recalled how long it had taken him to be concerned about Nestor's welfare right after seeing the jeep gone.

He turned and addressed the troops. "We need to get moving. This fire's a beacon for anyone looking this way. Carrot, you sit in the jeep with Hodge, Franklin and Jones. Wells, in back with Tex, Biggs and Davies. We've still got a lot of ground to cover, and we're down one vehicle. That means we can't take as much back. So, if you can think of anything that's better off left behind, make note of it. When we find our supplies, we're going to need to do a fast inventory to decide what we can take with us. Now, let's move out. We're not stopping until we find that cargo."