We Were Soldiers
39. Peaches and Cream
"Is he awake?" Carrot.
"I think he's waking up." Gusty.
"Are you sure? He looks like he's still asleep." Franklin.
"He looks half dead." Hodge.
"That's still better than you look on a good day." Mex.
"I gotta go feed the chickens. Lemme know if he dies." Davies.
"Ooh, can I help feed the birds?" Carrot again.
"Ah think ah saw his fingers twitch." Tex.
"Maybe we should get a nurse." Biggs.
"Look, his eyes are flickering." Hawkins.
"C'mon, Barnes, don't be a damn drama queen. Just open your eyes." Wells.
Bucky licked his parched lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. Behind his closed eyelids, he imagined his friends from the 107th crowding around, peering at him like he was some sort of interesting specimen to be studied under a lens.
"Don't wanna open them," he said, his voice cracked and hoarse, his throat rough sandpaper. "Don't want your ugly mugs to be the first thing I see."
"You aren't exactly a vision of beauty yourself," Wells scoffed.
Bucky finally peeped his eyes open. Several pale, blurry moons hovered before a dark, khaki ceiling. Every inch of him ached, from his scalp down to his toes, and he felt oddly thin. Not thin in a 'lost a lot of weight' way… more like, the very fibre of his being had been pulled and stretched in different directions, until he'd almost reached snapping point. Memories assaulted his mind. A forest. A fire burning inside him. An aching desire to find Steve. The need to uncover perceived conspiracies. The fear of being poisoned.
The pale, blurry moons coalesced into faces looking down at him. On those faces, a dozen emotions were etched: worry, unease, concern, relief, and a bunch of other stuff he was too exhausted to put names to. He hoped to God he was alive, because if this was Heaven, it was a huge disappointment. No Rita Hayworth, for a start.
"What happened?" he croaked. Somebody handed him a glass of water, and he took several large gulps. God, it tasted good! Sweeter than honey and colder than ice.
"You lost consciousness not far from the camp," said Wells, perching on the edge of the bed and shoo'ing everybody back by a couple of paces. "Agent Carter and I managed to haul your heavy ass the rest of the way. It was touch and go for a while, but Stark's cure seems to be working. You're not fully mended yet, but you're out of the woods."
He nodded, trying to fill in some of the blanks. His thoughts had been so frantic, so chaotic, so full of heat and anger, that they didn't feel real. They felt more like an infection that had been lanced from his body, leaving behind nothing but hazy memories and a small scar.
"Will you give us a moment?" he asked the rest of the guys.
They all nodded. Gave him encouraging claps on the shoulder. Ruffled his hair. Found some way to touch him, as if making sure for themselves that he really was alive and well. As if touching him made his recovery real. They mumbled well-wishes and offers of fetching him anything he needed, and they filed out as a group, their conversation turning to the upcoming poker match against the 69th, because it was easier to talk about poker than it was to talk about how close they'd come to losing another member of the regiment. Bucky couldn't blame them. He wished he had nothing more important than a poker game to think about. Unfortunately, he had about a thousand wrongs to right.
"How many apologies do I owe you this time?" he offered, as Wells made himself more comfortable—and helped himself to a glass of Bucky's water.
"Just one. If you'd got that toothache checked out when I told you, maybe they would'a caught that compound in your blood sooner, and all of this could'a been avoided."
"Nobody likes a know-it-all," he grumbled.
Wells chuckled. "I'm not a know-it-all, I'm a smart-ass. There's a difference. And anyway, if I'm gonna be good at something, it might as well be that."
Bucky raked his teeth over his lower lip as new thoughts darted through his mind. "I didn't hurt anybody, did I?"
"Nurse Klein's still a little shaken up. And Agent Carter's gonna be pissy over you shooting at her for the rest of her life. But you didn't hurt anyone."
A deep sigh of relief escaped his lips. If he'd hurt someone… he didn't think he could live with himself. He'd signed up to fight for freedom. To save the lives of innocent men and women; not to take them.
"I told her it was a warning shot, by the way," Wells added. "Was I right, or was your aim off?"
Bucky's guts twisted unpleasantly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I barely even remember taking aim. I hope you're right. How long has it been since you brought me back?"
"Less than ten hours. Stark said his cure ought to work pretty quick… if it worked at all."
"I think it's working. I feel like me again. Or, more like me than I did yesterday. Though, I'm surprised the colonel didn't order me restrained again. Just in case Stark's cure didn't work like he hoped."
"After you slipped the last restraints, I think he thought it would be pointless." Wells reached over to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, pal, there are a couple of armed MPs outside the hospital, and they're under strict orders to shoot you if you try to leave."
"Oh. That's real comforting, thanks."
His friend grinned. "And you've got your sarcasm back. I'm no quack, but I'd say you're definitely on the mend."
"Thanks to you. I appreciate you coming after me. But—" time to beat some sense into Wells, "—it was a stupid thing to do. What were you thinking, coming after me unarmed? Carter was right. The next time I go crazy, you need to stop me before I hurt someone. Promise me you won't do something that stupid again."
Wells' blue eyes clouded darkly beneath a scowl. "It wasn't stupid. I'm not an idiot, despite what you may think—"
"I don't think you're an idiot. You're one of the smartest guys I know. But it wasn't a smart thing to do. I could've killed you."
"Yeah, you could've," Wells agreed. "But you didn't. When you had that SSR rifle in your hands, you could'a killed a lot of people. Taken out the sentries to stop them raising the alarm. Shot anyone pursuing you. And maybe if you'd shot someone, I would'a come after you with a gun. Okay, several guns. And all the sharp-shooters in the camp." His friend squeezed his shoulder, driving home the weight of his decision. "I do believe that deep down at the core of who you are, you're a good man. A good man who stands zero chance with Rita Hayworth, but a good man nonetheless. And when you fled, you proved there was still some of that good man in there, because you didn't leave a pile of bodies behind you, despite having one of the most frightening weapons in the whole camp in your hands."
He wanted to argue further, but couldn't find a suitable point of attack. He'd thought Wells' decision to come after him unarmed had been borne of some misguided sense of loyalty, coupled with doing what he thought was the soldierly thing to do. He hadn't realised Wells actually believed in that decision, or that he believed in Bucky to the extent that he truly expected to come to no harm whilst pursuing him. That he'd made a believer out of the most irreverent, sceptical guy in the camp, was kinda humbling.
"I should go tell the colonel you're compos mentis again. He asked to be informed when you woke up." Wells pushed himself off the bed and straightened his jacket. It was fastened correctly. For some reason, that made Bucky smile. "To quote verbatim, 'I need Sergeant Barnes back in the field to deal with real Nazis, not imaginary ones.' It's like he doesn't trust my ability to deal with Nazis without you," he sighed. "If you need anything, anything at all… find out which nurse is on shift. If it's Nurse Sanders, send for me. Anybody else, send for Carrot."
"Alright. And thanks again. Say hi to the rest of the guys for me."
"I will. And I'll stop by again after dinner, to make sure they're feeding you properly."
Wells left Bucky alone, with only his thoughts for company. In the airy hospital tent, with daylight streaming in and the nearby hum of voices, he could almost believe that the past twenty-four hours hadn't happened. That it had all been some dream, distorted by sleep… or perhaps a nightmare. He couldn't recall every moment, but the moments he could recall were frightening.
In those moments, he had truly and completely believed in his own delusions. The German voices conspiring in the night had seemed so real that he could still hear them in his mind. He remembered talking with Gusty and Wells, accusing his friends of not believing him. Most of his irritability had come from the pain in his mouth, and possibly the combination of drugs they'd pumped into him to help bring the infection under control. After that, things got kinda hazy. He remembered wanting cookies… and then everything started to blur, his thought gripped by a paranoia so strong that he'd actually believed he could find Steve.
Idiot.
An hour after Wells left, Colonel Phillips arrived, accompanied by Dr. Peacock. The doctor seemed nervous; kept taking off his spectacles and cleaning them on his coat, even though they weren't dirty. The furtive glances he shot at Bucky suggested he half expected him to grab another scalpel and start threatening people again.
"Sergeant Wells tells me you're feeling much better, Sergeant Barnes," Phillips said, with considerably less bark than usual.
"Yessir. And I'm eager to get back to work."
Something like a smile tried to twist the colonel's lips, and ended up coming out more like a grimace. "Good. I want you ready to deal with the real Nazis, not the damn imaginary ones in your head."
Bucky had to bite his lower lip to stop himself grinning at how accurate Wells' impression of Colonel Phillips had been. To disguise the encroaching grin, he gave a fake cough, covering his mouth with his hand until he had his lower face under control.
"Yes, sir," he agreed. "And I'd like to apologise for my behaviour, sir. I wasn't myself."
"No apology is necessary, Sergeant. You were sick. Just try not to make a habit of it."
"I will." He glanced across to Dr. Peacock, who'd been silent so far. "Have you any idea how I got sick in the first place? Wells said something about a substance in my blood that was making me crazy."
"We have several theories but no concrete answers, I'm afraid," the doctor said. "It's most likely you came into contact with something on your last mission. It's also possible that the… substance… Mr. Stark exposed you to in gaseous form somehow lingered in your system, mutated, interacted with the infection in your body and the drugs we gave you, and somehow formed an entirely different compound. Or maybe you ate something that was contaminated, but your compromised immune system meant you succumbed to it when others didn't."
The doctor's vague response did not ease the concern currently swirling around in Bucky's stomach. It sounded like guesswork. Like he had no real idea about how Bucky had gotten sick.
"If you don't know how I got sick, how are you going to stop me—or other soldiers—getting sick again? What if next time, an entire regiment go paranoid and crazy?"
"We're looking into transmission vectors," the doctor offered lamely. "Examining infection sites and considering new contamination controls…"
And that was what doctors did, he realised. When they didn't have answers, they tried to fob you off with medical babble in the hopes of confusing you so much you stopped asking the questions they couldn't answer.
"We'll leave you to get some rest, Sergeant," said Phillips.
"Sir, when can I return to my own bed?" he asked. The hospital beds weren't exactly uncomfortable, but there was no place like home. He missed the familiarity of tying Biggs to his bed before settling down for the night. Falling asleep to Hodge's snores. Waking up to Carrot's push-ups. Trying to guess what bad dream Gusty had suffered based on how bad his flatulence was. Throwing things at Wells to wake him up. Spending the first few minutes of the day listening to the rest of the guys talk about what they wished they were having for breakfast. Daydreaming over bacon, sausages, eggs, beans, hash brown, and toast so warm and buttery that it was actually soggy.
"Tomorrow," the doctor replied instantly. "At the earliest. You're very lucky to be alive, Sergeant Barnes. We want to observe you overnight, and Mr. Stark needs to continue your treatment, to ensure the compound that made you sick is fully neutralised before we release you back to your regiment's tent."
Bucky nodded. If all it took to be released from the hospital was getting stronger and complying with the medics, he would be a model patient. He'd sleep on command, eat whatever soft food they wanted him to eat, and would take his medicine in whatever form it came. Hopefully it would come in tablet form.
The colonel and the doctor weren't the only visitors Bucky had that day. As midday approached, Howard Stark stopped by, and he brought Agent Carter with him. Seeing Carter brought back more hazy memories of stumbling through the dark, wishing he had a pistol in his hands, listening to her argue with Wells about making hard choices. As glad as he was that his friend had brought him back unharmed, he was also glad Carter had been there. To make the hard choice, if it was necessary. Better that than letting me hurt someone.
"Sergeant Barnes, you broke one of my babies with your heavy leaning," Stark accused, his dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes.
"You remembered my name!" Bucky grinned.
"That's your name? Huh. I just took a guess. I was fifty-fifty on whether your name was Barnes, or… that other guy," he said, snapping his fingers to try and jog his memory.
"Wells?"
"No, no… Banks."
Bucky gave Stark his very best unimpressed stare. "Banks is from the 370th Infantry. And he's a Captain. He's also black."
"Like I said, it was fifty-fifty."
"It's good to see you looking more like yourself, Sergeant," Agent Carter spoke up.
"Thanks. And thank you for coming after me last night. I'm sorry Wells gave you a hard time. Truth is, we need people who can make the difficult choices. I wouldn't have held it against you if you'd shot me."
"Fortunately, it didn't come to that." The small she gave him was a shade warmer than usual. It seemed not even Agent Carter could be one hundred percent frosty with someone who'd nearly died.
"Yes yes, you're very lucky," Stark added. "But that rifle is never going to be the same again. Even if I can fix it, I'm not sure I want to give it back to you. Not if you're going to mistreat it like that and use it for menial leaning."
"That's fine by me," Bucky told him. "I like my M1." It was less sneaky. The weapon of an infantryman. If it was good enough for the rest of the guys of the 107th, it was good enough for him. Let someone else sit behind the SSR-01 and kill coldly from a distance.
"Huh. Well. Glad we're in agreement," said Stark. From his pocket he drew a small, narrow container. "Now, just relax while I give you this medicine."
He peered over as Stark opened the container, hoping for a tablet. It wasn't a tablet. It was a syringe.
"Why does medicine always have to come in needles?" he sighed.
"If you prefer, I could put it into a suppository?"
He shuddered as Agent Carter stifled a cruel smile. "Needles are fine."
"I thought you'd say that." Stark removed the cap from the needle and advanced with a maniacal grin. Bucky thought he was enjoying himself far too much. Possibly, this was his revenge for Bucky damaging his 'baby.' "This cure is highly experimental," he said chattily, as he found a vein in Bucky's arm and stuck the needle into it. "I have to monitor the exact dosage very carefully. Too little, and it won't neutralise all of the compound in your blood. Too much, and it could leave you a vegetable. You're lucky I'm here, Sergeant; I doubt there's anyone else in this camp with the knowledge and skill to develop and administer such a pioneering and dangerous drug."
"And your bedside manner is impeccable," Bucky added. "I feel comforted and reassured already."
"Come on, Mr. Stark," said Agent Carter. "Let's leave Sergeant Barnes to his bedrest. We don't want to over-excite him, do we?"
After the pair left, Bucky spent some time just staring at the vein into which Stark had injected his… cure? Antidote? Whatever it was, it was coursing through his veins. Attacking the invasive compound in his blood. Not unlike how he and his fellow soldiers were fighting the Nazis, really. Hopefully, they'd be as successful against the Nazis as Stark's cure was against whatever had made him act like a genuine crazy person.
"Um, excuse me, Sergeant Barnes?"
Nurse Klein was standing at the foot of his bed, a mess tray in her hands. Bucky swiftly stopped poking his vein.
"Nurse Klein. Um… How are you?" What the hell were you supposed to say to someone you'd threatened with a scalpel and accused of being a German spy?
"I'm fine. I brought you some lunch."
"Is it cookies?"
"No, sorry." She set the tray down on the edge of the bed. It was stew. And more canned pears in syrup, for dessert. "Whilst you were… um… unwell, your gum started bleeding again. It will be another day or two before you can eat anything hard." She gave him a smile that dimpled her pink cheeks. "But I've put some cookies aside for you, for when you're up to them."
"Thanks. I'm glad you stopped by. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for threatening you." He wouldn't apologise to Agent Carter, because she'd known when she'd set off after him how dangerous he might be, and she'd been prepared to do whatever was necessary to stop him causing more harm. But Nurse Klein had been an innocent bystander. Just doing her job. Trying to help him. And he'd come so close to hurting her.
"You weren't yourself," she said. "There's no need to apologise. I know you wouldn't have behaved like that if you were feeling well."
"So you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive."
"I'd like forgiveness anyway," he said. Needed it.
"Oh, very well," she sighed, issuing him with a stern glare. "I forgive you. But only if you'll eat these pears and pretend to be happy about it."
"Of course," the model patient said. He could already feel his strength returning. Trickling back slowly, to be sure, but it was better than nothing. He knew of no better panacea than food and sleep… even if that food was in soft or liquid form. Besides, he had cookies waiting for him.
He drank the stew. He ate the pears. He pretended to be happy about it. He thanked Nurse Klein profusely, and she took the tray away, ordering him to have a little nap. He decided to obey that order. It was probably the nicest order he'd been given since joining the army.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Marielle Green smoothed down the white pinafore of her uniform as she slipped out of the women's tent. She didn't have the night shift today, but that was no problem; if the soldiers in the camp looked at her twice, it was because they admired the way her uniform hugged the curves of her body in all the right places. She had learnt long ago that most men did not care to look beyond a pretty face. That was why she had been chosen.
She stepped quickly, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the patches of silvery moonlight. Ein geist, she knew how to pass through a camp full of soldiers without making a sound. Lord knew, she'd had enough practise.
The note had been very specific, the handwriting harsh, blocky; clearly fake. She'd been so excited when Peggy had suggested polling the soldiers with questions to try and discern the identity of Audrey's mystery letter-writer. So sure she could use the opportunity to finally find the man who held her leash. But none of the handwriting had matched. She'd kept those forms even after Peggy had finished with them, checking and double-checking each one against the writing she had memorised because she dared not keep the notes. It had been futile.
She reached the area between the motor pool and quartermaster's tent and waited, hugging her bare arms despite the warmth of the night air. He never kept her waiting long. They never met in the same place twice, and he never let her see his face. She didn't even know how tall he was, nor whether he was a soldier or another member of the camp's staff. All she knew was that he was a high-ranking member of the Gestapo. That he had the Führer's ear… and the power to make her disappear.
Tonight, she had more reason than ever to be afraid. She had acted on her own initiative, and she knew there would be a price to pay.
"Guten abend, Fräulein."
The voice came from several feet away, from the dark moon-shadow of a tank. Caught off guard, she jumped, and quickly cast her gaze to the ground
"Guten abend, mein Herr."
It wasn't easy to put aside the accent she practised so often. The way they spoke in the American Deep South was more like singing than talking. The words lilted, running into each other, the stresses and inflections all wrong, a foreign invader on her tongue. She was sure her own Berlin accent was suffering because of it.
"You have been foolish, Fräulein," he accused softly. "You have jeopardised our entire operation. The Führer will be most displeased."
"I'm sorry!" she said quickly. She daren't look into the shadows, to plead with her eyes, so she put the feeling into her voice instead. "I panicked, sir. Sergeant Barnes, he overheard us talking, and I knew the only way to discredit his claim was to make it seem he had lost his mind. I miscalculated. The serum is stronger than we had anticipated. More potent. I would have checked with you first, but I had no time. I needed to inject him before he came around from his tooth extraction. I didn't know what else to do!"
"You should have done nothing!" The voice turned harsh, and Marielle flinched. "Even if Colonel Phillips had believed Sergeant Barnes, his investigations would have turned up nothing. I am too well hidden."
"But I am not! Sergeant Barnes told them he heard a woman's voice, and there are not so many women in the camp that I would have been beyond suspicion. They would have questioned me. Maybe even searched my footlocker—"
"And they would have found only a lady's personal belongings," he snapped. "Instead, you have ruined many carefully laid plans. The timetable must now be brought forward. We cannot wait for the Americans to finish dealing with these HYDRA facilities. Stark has an antidote, crude as it is. We must act before he further refines it. Tomorrow night, you will put the remaining serum into the camp's water supply. When more and more men start losing their minds, the Americans will have their hands full. Depending on how this trial goes, our undercover operatives may start distributing the serum into our enemies' civilian water supplies."
"Of course," she agreed, head bowed. She did not tell him how hard it would be gain access to the water supply. She would simply have to find a way.
"One more thing." The voice paused, and Marielle held her breath, expecting at any moment the harsh punishment to fall. "Perhaps we can make Stark believe that his 'cure' is a failure. You will inject Sergeant Barnes with a further dose of the serum. Twice was much as you gave him last time. His death will make Stark more reluctant to use his cure on others. It may delay their response."
Her stomach lurched. It had been hard enough to get a moment alone with Sergeant Barnes to inject him the first time. If he was to die before she contaminated the water supply, she would have to inject him tonight. Tomorrow he would be released back to his barracks, and there would be almost no chance of getting him alone after that. Not without heavily incriminating herself.
"I will do it right away," she agreed.
"Good. If we are successful, I will ensure the Führer hears of your accomplishments. You will be well rewarded for all you have done for the Reich."
"Thank you, sir." His words stirred something within her. A pride often buried by fear. A desire half-forgotten during the daily ennui. In the end, her toil would be worth it. She would help her country become great again; a power to rival even America! From England to Russia, German would be the lingua franca, and the world would know strength and purity. The Führer would know her name, and it was not Marielle Green.
"Go. See that it's done. Twelve hours from now I want to be watching another body put into the ground."
"Heil Hitler," she whispered quietly. There was no response. There never was. That she said the words was enough.
Back at the women's barracks tent she worked as quietly as she could. Most of the nurses were deep sleepers, but Agent Carter had a habit of waking up at small, furtive noises. It was as if the British woman had been born with some supernatural sense for detecting all things sneaky. It was much harder to keep up appearances around the women than it was the men. They were far more judgemental and nosey.
She opened her footlocker and took out her makeup kit box, removing the deep tray with its false bottom. In the small space below was a length of rolled-up material, which she unravelled to reveal a syringe within. Small items often went missing from the hospital. Syringes rolled off tables, if they weren't put down the right way. None of the medical staff grew too suspicious, so long as the disappearances were small and infrequent.
From her footlocker she withdrew a bottle of what seemed an innocent perfume. Peaches and Cream, the bottle said. Lucky for her, the nurses had a great sense of propriety. Had any of them thought to borrow a spray of what was actually inside the bottle, they would have wound up almost as agitated as Sergeant Barnes.
She took the top off the bottle and inserted the needle of the syringe, taking up twice as much of the liquid as she had last time. It was hard to believe that such a small measure of the substance could have such a devastating effect on a person. Clearly, it was true what they said about good things coming in small packages. Or at least, strong things coming in small packages. She was no fool; she knew the substance itself cared nothing for morality. It would attack friend and enemy alike without prejudice.
The hospital's storeroom was her final stop. The medical staff kept a small supply of food separate from the mess, mostly high-energy biscuits, a small quantity of chocolate, and canned fruit that was most suitable for those undergoing treatment. She took a couple of cookies from an already open packet and put them on a small mess tray. Such a shame she couldn't prepare a cup of coffee, too. Hopefully, Sergeant Barnes would be asleep, and she would be able to administer the serum without any interference. But if he was awake, it would be necessary for her to be creative. Men were suckers for a pretty girl who came bearing cookies.
She slipped the syringe into her pocket with its protective cap on, and set off towards the hospital. Two MPs were on guard outside the tent, and they nodded in greeting as she approached. By now they were used to the doctors and nurses coming and going at all hours to treat patients. This was nothing out of the ordinary for them.
As she entered the tent, she felt no guilt or regret. Sergeant Barnes would not be the first man she had killed in service to her country, nor would he be the last. He was just a soldier, and America churned out tens of thousands like him every year. In many ways they had become a plague, and the serum she had helped to develop was a cure for that plague. With a smile on her lips, she stepped forward and prepared to carry out her role as exterminator.
Author's note: The conversation between Marielle and the other guy was spoken in German. However, most of my readers aren't German, and I'm too lazy to translate more than an occasional sentence back and forth. And let's face it, CA:TFA had entire chunks of dialogue between Schmidt and Zola in English (not to mention between Schmidt and the Nazi trio inspecting his base) for this very reason. I embrace my laziness proudly, without fear!
Also, I'm away next week to a place in the sticks, which means no interwebs. So, I'll publish the next chapter as soon as I return home on Sunday (12th March). I know, I know, I'm a horrible person. Super sorry about the massive cliffhanger!