We Were Soldiers

43. A Matter of Logic

"About fifty pounds a day," said Wells as he and Bucky crawled along the dusty ground. Behind them came Carrot and Gusty, their M1s laid across their arms as they crawled after their sergeants.

Bucky released his grip on his gun to pull his radio from his pocket, whilst Wells removed his backpack and took from it one of the signal jamming devices fashioned by Stark.

"Alright, we're in place," Bucky announced over the radio. The other two teams confirmed they, too, were ready. "Activate jammers. Tex, would you be so kind as to deal with the detector hooked up to that machine gun?"

"It would be my pleasure, Sarge."

As Tex began hunting for the detector from four hundred metres away, Bucky turned his head to glance at Wells beside him.

"Why fifty pounds a day?"

"Well, I figure one lumberjack oughta be able to chop down about five trees if he's doing it by hand—"

"Wait, why bring a lumberjack into this?"

"We need to set a benchmark, however hypothetical," Wells explained. "This is how you science. Ask Stark, if you don't believe me. So anyway, five trees if it's by hand—"

"What kind of trees?" Gusty whispered from behind. "I mean, if they're hardwood trees, they're gonna take a lot longer than softwood."

Somewhere up in a nearby tree, something went 'plink' and rained down bits of plastic and metal all over the clearing.

"One detector dealt with, as requested."

"Good work, Tex. Jones: stick."

Across the other side of the clearing, a stick with a face was raised from the ground and waved around. The machine gun above the bunker didn't react.

"We're moving in," Bucky said. "Watch our six." He wished he could give the order to start digging holes, but he didn't wanna get cocky. It would be just his luck that he'd order holes dug, and something would go horribly wrong.

He pushed himself to his feet, and the three members of his team joined him in running in a crouch to the nearby trench.

"I don't know what kinda wood," Wells continued as they slid into the trench. "Softwood, I guess. Whatever's easiest to chop." He stopped by the bunker door and pulled Stark's universal key from his pack. "Anyway, a lumberjack doing it by hand, I reckon five trees per day, but once those trees are down he's gotta start chopping them up, and that sounds like a lot of work. If he chops for twelve hours straight, I reckon he's doing about 220 pounds." The key was attached to the door, and the 'unlock' button pressed. Things whirred as it went to work. "But that's a man, and if he's a lumberjack, probably a big man. When you factor in the tree-to-weight ratio—"

Bucky snorted loudly as he thumbed the safety catch on his M1. "You don't know a damn thing about lumberjacking, Wells."

"I know 'lumberjacking' ain't a word, Barnes."

The bunker door opened silently, and Bucky reached out to push it wide enough for them to enter two abreast. As they stepped into the darkness, they activated the flashlights on their helmets. Helmet accessories did not come as standard, but Stark had 'adapted' them. Bucky suspect he'd just copied off what miners had been doing for years.

"Um, Sarge?" Carrot whispered, as they crept down the dim corridor guided only by the lights on their helmets. "Just what is a woodchuck, anyway?"

Bucky didn't get to answer, because the door of the HYDRA bunk room opened with a creak, and he turned to shoot the man who stepped out. The look on the guy's face as he ate a volley of bullets was one of pure shock.

The sound drew more men; one from the bunk room, and two from the dining room. They fell easily, too few and too disorganised to form a counter-attack. Then again, they probably hadn't expected someone to come sneaking into their secret, well-defended bunker.

"It's some kinda beaver, probably," said Gusty, as they advanced towards the comms room.

At the door, Bucky stood to one side, and Wells to the other. He nodded at Gusty and Carrot, then pushed the door open. The comms officer leapt to his feet, a pistol already in his hands. He was too slow.

"Auf wiedersehen," Gusty said, as he put an extra couple of bullets into the dying man. He glanced up at the others. "That's German for 'goodbye.'"

One of Bucky's eyebrows curved up in surprise. "You speak German, Gusty?"

"No, but Franklin knows a few phrases, and taught me a couple. You wanna know how to ask for a yellow crayon?"

"No," Wells snorted humourlessly. "I really don't. Now, get Tex on the radio. He's one of those country types. He'll know what a woodchuck is."

Bucky lifted the radio to his mouth. "Boys, start digging holes. And, Tex? What's a woodchuck?"

"Beats me," the Texan drawled back. "Ah only knows about what ah've hunted, and ah ain't never hunted no woodchuck."

"I still say it's some kinda beaver," said Gusty.

"Go disable that MG properly," Bucky told him. Gusty set off towards the small door that led to the MG's fortified position above. "Let's get these bodies out of here," he told the other two. As Carrot and Wells made a start on dragging dead Germans out, Bucky brought the radio up one last time. "Jones, send in our Kraut friend. Might as well make himself comfortable while we clean up."

Phillips had relaxed his paranoia a little. Instead of making men from the 107th march to the bunker, take it, march back to report their success, then escort one of the German agents back to the bunker, and then finally come back again, he'd let them take the agent with them. Probably less worried they'd get the guy killed, now that they'd already succeeded at this a few times. Maybe Phillips was coming to understand that despite their reputation, the 107th weren't quite the incompetent joke the other regiments seemed to believe.

"MG's disabled, Sarge," Gusty reported as he climbed down the vertical metal ladder. "You think we'll have many of these missions left, after today?"

"Well, there are only two of those German agents left at camp, so I guess it's nearly over."

A sad frown drew itself across Gusty's face. "That's a shame. I'm gonna miss putting bullets in Nazis."

Bucky threw an arm around his shoulders and led him towards the comms room door. They stepped over the smear of blood left behind after the comms officer had been dragged out.

"There are always more Nazis, and always more bullets. I'm sure the colonel will have us in the thick of things soon enough. Now, go help the guys dig holes."

"Aw, Sarge, you know I hate digging graves for these murderers."

"Yeah, but the sooner we get them buried, the sooner we'll be back at camp, and the sooner you'll be able to get those blisters on your heels bandaged up at the hospital."

The thought of seeing Nurse Klein did it.

"Good point. I love digging holes. Reminds me of being a kid, when I'd go to the beach and build sandcastles with my pals."

As Bucky watched Gusty leave, a familiar heaviness settled in his chest. Ever since they'd lost Tipper, Gusty had been a harder man, at least in combat. He still laughed and smiled in the regiment's tent, he still joined in with the banter and occasionally blushed when somebody saw him walking with Nurse Klein as they tried to find a few private moments, but as soon as he picked up a gun, his eyes became colder. Every man present was fully prepared to shoot Germans; Gusty was one of the few who actually seemed to enjoy it. And that made Bucky a little afraid for the guy's soul.

Wells appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the jamb as he shouldered his rifle.

"Jones says it's some sort of squirrel."

"Huh?"

"A woodchuck. He says it's a squirrel that lives in the ground. Sounds like bullshit to me, but apparently his family comes from Minnesota, and those things are a plague up there."

"Do you like killing?" Bucky asked, his thoughts still full of Gusty.

"Uh, killing? You mean, killing woodchucks?"

"Killing Germans. The men we shoot."

"Of course not," Wells snorted. A small stream of blood trickled towards him, and he stepped aside to avoid getting his boots wet. "But this is war. I wish there wasn't a war, but there is. If we don't kill enemy soldiers, we don't win it, and that's bad for everybody who isn't a freedom-hating, genocidal fascist zealot. But how did we suddenly go from the science of chucking wood, to the morality behind war?"

"I'm worried about Gusty," Bucky said. And the rest of us, he didn't say. "He called these guys murderers… but aren't we?"

"Hell no." Wells stepped across the red stream and stopped in front of Bucky, his blue eyes full of self-assured confidence. "The way I see it, killing and murder are two different things. If we were shooting unarmed civilians, whether they be Americans, or French, or hell, even Germans, then that would be murder. But we're soldiers. These guys signed up—or were conscripted—just like we signed up. They know what war is, and they know the risks. Yes, we're killing, because you can't win a war without taking lives. But it's not murder. It's the job. And as long as I point my gun only at soldiers, never at civilians, I know that my conscience is clean."

Bucky nodded slowly. It made sense. He'd always thought of soldiers as attackers, but maybe they could be defenders, too. Not just of their way of life, but of those who couldn't defend themselves. The innocents, the civilians, the people who were caught in the middle or persecuted because of who they'd been born.

"I'm still worried about Gusty. I think he likes the killing."

"I think he likes revenge," Wells mused. "But we'll keep an eye on him. If he starts to like it too much, we can pull him off combat ops. At least until things start to really heat up. You never know; if we ever reach the front line, regardless of which direction we approach it from, we might be glad to have Gusty and his love of shooting Nazis."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I guess I just worry too much."

Wells smiled. "That's because you care. The moment you stop worrying about the rest of us, I'll start worrying about you. Now, let's get out of this dump. You've still gotta put your bet in with Davies."

"'Bout what?"

"How much wood a woodchuck would chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. It's high stakes, and we're gonna get the answer from Stark when we get back to camp."

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

When Bucky arrived back at camp with his team, the first thing he noticed was a strange smell in the air. It was familiar, tickling at something in his memory, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Though the smell wasn't unpleasant, it was definitely odd. But he didn't have time to worry about strange smells; he had to deliver his mission report.

He and Wells took Davies, who was carrying a box of technical things sent back from the bunker for Stark, to the command tent to deliver the news.

"Good work, Sergeants," said Phillips. "You and your men can stand down for the next couple of days."

They saluted, and collected Davies and his box from outside the tent. Stark had given the German man they'd left behind details about what equipment he needed brought back, and the man had diligently extracted it whilst the 107th dug holes.

Stark was at work in his tent, heating some sort of mixture in a glass beaker over a spirit lamp. Bucky had no idea what the mixture was supposed to be; it was brown, and it bubbled in a way that was reminiscent of his mom's soup. Only, Mom's soup was never brown.

The man glanced up from behind his lab goggles as the three stepped into the shade of his tent. "Ah, Sergeants One and Two, in whichever order you prefer. What can I do for you today?"

"We brought you that equipment you wanted from the bunker we just took."

Stark grinned as he glanced over the box, then pointed at a nearby bench. "Excellent! Just put it over there, Pfc. Davies."

"Oh, c'mon," said Wells. "You can remember Davies' name, but not ours?"

"Hey, I can't control what information my brain chooses to retain." He picked up a pipette and stuck it into the mixture, sucking up a small amount. Then, he advanced on Bucky. "Please open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

Bucky very purposely did not open his mouth or stick out his tongue. He fixed Stark with a glare that told the scientist there was no chance in hell he was gettin' Bucky's mouth open.

"It's just a new recipe I'm trying out for non-melting chocolate, to replace that garbage they put in the ration packs."

Wells leant over the beaker on the spirit burner and wrinkled his nose at the mixture bubbling below. "It looks kinda melted to me."

"Once it's set, it won't melt in temperatures under a hundred and forty. But I need to know it tastes like chocolate before I commit to the recipe. C'mon Sergeant, open up. Where's your adventurous spirit?"

"I left it back at the barracks," Bucky said, and closed his mouth again before Stark could get any dumb ideas.

"Fine," Stark sighed, "I guess I'll just ask Agent Carter to try it for me. At least she's not a big scaredy— Hey, don't touch my stuff!" he scowled at Davies, who was rooting through a pile of what looked like junk on a tabletop.

Davies pulled out a long length of rubber tubing. "Can I have this?"

Stark's eyebrows lowered. "Depends what you want it for. If you're planning to use it for the purposes of strangulation, I'm gonna have to say no."

"It's for the still."

"He knows about the still?" Wells scoffed.

"These chuckleheads know about the still?" Stark countered. "Fine, fine, take the tubing. And I'll have you know, Sergeant One-or-Two, that I own two-fifths of that still. I also have a quarter share in the eggs."

Davies shrugged when Bucky and Wells aimed questioning stares at him. "Sometimes it pays to have a rich, unscrupulous backer."

"I object. I have scruples… they're just not particularly high. Now, if you aren't gonna participate in my perfectly safe and legal experimental science, I've no use for you. Shoo. Leave me in peace."

"Alright, alright," Bucky said, backing away. "But could you at least tell us what that strange smell is?"

Stark eyed the three of them up. "Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, but you really should wash your uniforms more often. Not your fault, you're busy guys, but you shouldn't let your personal hygiene standards slip."

"I washed my uniform three days ago and it still smells of daisies," Wells scowled. "Manly daisies."

"That's not the smell I'm talking about," Bucky said. Maybe it was time to wash his uniform again, though. Three days was probably long enough, and he suspected his nose had grown immune to the smell of living in a tent with over a hundred other guys.

"Then it's probably the latrine pits."

"It's not the pits."

Stark put down his pipette and sniffed the air a few times. Finally, the light of understanding shone in his brown eyes. "Ahhhh, that smell! Yes, that's fish."

"You made your chocolate smell like fish?" Wells grinned. "Glad you didn't try and make me taste it."

"Of course I didn't make my chocolate smell like fish, you buffoon. My chocolate smells—and tastes—like chocolate. Probably. Hopefully. But whilst you and Other-Sergeant and your band of Merry Men were out neutralising German targets, Sergeant Weiss got permission to take a team fishing. Said he wanted a little variety in his diet. They brought back quite a catch, too. It's gonna be baked fish for dinner tonight."

"My mom occasionally cooked fish back home," Bucky said. "But it didn't smell much like this."

"That's because we in New York are lucky enough to live on the coast; most of our fish comes from the sea, and is naturally salty. It produces a very distinctive smell when cooked. Sergeant Weiss got these fish from a lake a few klicks away. Freshwater fish always tastes different. Now, if you come across Agent Carter out there, will you ask her to come see me?"

"Before we go," said Wells, "maybe you could answer a question for us. We wanted to know how much wood a woodchuck would chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood."

"Hardwood, or softwood?"

"I think we agreed on soft," Davies said.

"Well, I suppose it would depend on how much wood he was inclined to chuck. I'll do some calculations and get back to you."

They left Stark to his suspicious-lookin' liquid chocolate and made their way to the mess tent. Sure, the fish didn't smell anything like the fish he'd had back home—it was French fish, after all, and therefore probably a wonder it didn't smell naturally like garlic—but it was something different. A change from shit-on-a-shingle or spam and beans or mystery meat stew. Whatever vegetables were being boiled or steamed would be a welcome accompaniment to the fish.

Weiss and three of his men strolled by, geared up for a mission, their boots shiny and their weapons loaded. The elder sergeant gave them a knowing grin as he passed.

"You boys enjoy dinner. Catching those fish was a lot of hard work."

"Where are you going now?" Wells asked, eyeing up their M1s. "Bringing some venison to the table, too? Some wild boar, perhaps?"

"Recon. Brass want the camp moved in the morning. Somebody's gotta pave the way. Why should you boys get all the fun?"

"Fun," Bucky scoffed, when the team was out of earshot. "Like storming bunkers and shooting Nazis is fun."

"It might not be fun," said Davies, "but it's more interesting than recon, or foxhole duty."

"We can argue what's more fun later," said Wells. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at the mess tent. "I can't wait to try some of that baked fish."

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

Sergeant Weiss was dead.

Bucky heard the news when he woke the next morning. Pfc. Baker, who'd been part of the recon team, came to the regiment's tent blood-covered and exhausted, his eyes taking on a familiar, far-seeing stare as he explained how the mission had gone sideways.

"We travelled through the night, a steady pace that we knew would get us there and back on time. Had to divert around a village that wasn't on the maps. About eight klicks due east, we came to a small wooded area. You know the type, pine and cypress and low shrubs. Just as we'd gotten about halfway through it, we came under attack. German patrol. We didn't have much cover, so Weiss ordered us to fall back behind a rocky bluff. He was covering our retreat when he was hit. We managed to drag him back to the bluff, and used our grenades to launch a counter offensive. A bullet grazed Bramson's arm, but he wasn't too badly injured to keep shooting. We took care of the patrol, but Weiss' injuries were too severe. We brought his body back."

A dark cloud hung over the camp for the rest of the morning. Everybody had been prepared to move to a new site; now they prepared for another funeral service. It had been only three days since they'd buried Corporal Durkin and Private Compton from the 9th. Now it was the 107th's turn again.

Bucky picked at his breakfast, in no real mood to eat. A few others from his regiment seemed to feel the same way. Those who'd known Weiss the longest, and had been closest to him, pushed their SOS around their trays, watching the slivers of pale, meaty pink swim in the lake of pale, creamy white.

Finally, Bucky could stand looking at breakfast no longer. Alone, he left the mess and made his way across camp, to the chaplain's tent. Weiss' body had been dressed and laid out, to give people a chance to pay their respects in private before he was put in the ground. A few men were seated in the tent, heads bowed, cheeks damp. Bucky took a chair on an unoccupied row, and looked ahead to the still form of Sergeant Weiss.

Seeing dead bodies no longer made him feel queasy, as it had when he'd come across his first two, the day he'd found Matilda. Since then there had been Danzig, and Durkin, and Compton, and Rutter-the-German-spy. At least Weiss looked relatively peaceful. His face had been washed, his eyes closed, his short grey hair neatly combed. The chaplain had clad him in a clean, mostly unwrinkled dress uniform. If it weren't for the grey pallor of his face, he might be sleeping.

Conflicting emotions kicked up a storm in Bucky's stomach. He still hadn't forgiven Weiss for taking him down so easily after Bucky had punched him, nor for the callous things he'd said after Tipper's death. But part of Bucky suspected Weiss might have been right all along, and he hated that every time they lost someone, he became a little more accustomed to death. He was still trying to reconcile the desire to save as many men as he could with the knowledge that he would inevitably lose people. Still trying to figure out how to be a good sergeant and a good man without compromising either.

A shadow fell briefly across him as somebody took a seat a couple of chairs down. The shadow morphed into the broad-shouldered form of Sergeant Dum Dum Dugan, his hat in his hands as he lowered himself onto the chair.

"The 107th have lost another good man today," said Dugan quietly. A hint of anger twisted his words. "It's a damn shame." He made a cross sign over his chest, to make up for having cussed in what passed for a church.

"Did you know Sergeant Weiss well?"

"He wasn't much of a poker player, but I rolled dice with him a few times. I knew him enough to know that his loss is a kick in the teeth to the whole company. He was a man's man with a cool head on his shoulders and more experience under the belt than most of our officers combined. I'm sure he'll be greatly missed by his family."

His family. Not just the 107th, but the wife and kids he'd left behind. Something like regret stabbed at Bucky's gut; Weiss had mentioned his family, but Bucky had never really asked about them. He knew that the guy's son and daughter were grown up, that he was protective of his kids as any father ought to be, but that was about all. And now, it was too late. He'd never get to ask those questions. To listen to stories about Weiss' kids growing up, about the trials they went through, the good times and the bad. Instead, Bucky had carried on his stupid, childish grudge, and never had chance to apologise for punching the guy.

Or rather, he'd had the chance, he just hadn't taken it. It had been three weeks since Tipper had been killed, and Bucky could've used any moment in those three weeks to say sorry. To try to make amends for losing his head. He'd never be able to do that, now.

"Did he tell you anything about them?" he asked Dugan.

"Just their names. His wife was Doreen. His kids were Lucinda and Thomas."

Lucinda and Thomas. Doreen. They'd lost their husband and father to a war that had already cost the world countless husbands and fathers, not to mention brothers and sisters, mothers and grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins. Would there be any families left, when this was was finally over? Or would countries keep being pulled into it, one by one, so that by the time it was finished, there was nobody left to remember what they were even fighting for?

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

They put Weiss in the ground. The camp moved. Life went on. The following morning, Bucky accompanied Carrot to the morning service at the chaplain's tent, and offered a silent prayer for Sergeant Weiss. He went to breakfast, and shovelled down what was on offer without letting it stay in his mouth long enough to actually taste it. He settled in for a day of boot-polishing and gun-cleaning, and around mid-morning, he and Wells were summoned to the command tent.

When they arrived, it wasn't Colonel Phillips they found there, but Colonel Hawkswell.

"Sir?" Wells ventured, as they both saluted. "You sent for us?"

"Yes. I have a mission for you. Something a little less challenging than the missions Colonel Phillips has been sending you on." Hawkswell's lips twisted very slightly in distaste. Bucky knew Hawkswell didn't know everything about those bunkers… hell, Bucky himself probably didn't know everything. But Colonel Hawkswell didn't like being kept in the dark. He was a stickler for doing things his way, when it didn't impede the SSR's mission.

"What's the mission, sir?" Bucky asked.

"The kitchen staff inform me that augmenting the camp's diet with locally sourced produce could extend our supplies and make us less dependent on re-supply drops. They're already in the process of identifying edible vegetation, and those fish Weiss brought back from his excursion were a good start." Bucky's heart sank. It didn't take Stark-levels of genius to know what was coming next. Hawkswell gestured to a map pinned to a cork board. "Two klicks north of here is a lake. I'd like you to go there and bring back as many fish as you can. The jeeps Sergeant Weiss used have plastic containers in the back, which can take fairly large loads. Be back by sunset."

Outside the tent, Bucky turned to Wells, and asked the question he knew was forming on his friend's lips.

"Have you ever been fishing before?"

"A couple of times. There's a creek near my uncle's ranch in Wyoming, but I only caught small fry. And that was quite some time ago. You?"

Bucky shook his head. "I sometimes went crawling the shores of the Hudson for shellfish, but I didn't find that many."

"That's okay, we'll take Tex. He's practically an expert when it comes to killing animals."

"But Sarge, ah don't know anything about fishin'," Tex complained five minutes later, when they put the suggestion to him. "Ah've only hunted on land."

"Think of it like water-hunting," Bucky told him.

"Y'wanna take a couple of the guys who went with Weiss last time?" Wells asked. "I mean, surely they know what they're doing."

Bucky shook his head. "No. Let's give them some peace and quiet." Those men had been particularly close to Weiss, and Bucky didn't want to force onto them the memory of their last day together. "We can handle this."

They picked a half-dozen of the 107th to accompany them, armed themselves in case they ran into German patrols en route, and found the three jeeps in question parked at the motor pool. The large plastic containers were wedged into the back pretty tight, and didn't slide around too much with the vehicles in motion.

It was a pleasant enough journey up to the lake. The ground was relatively even, and the heat of the sun was mitigated by sporadic white clouds blowing gently across the sky like fluffy lumps of cotton candy. Bucky couldn't remember ever seeing so much of the sky back home. New York's skyscrapers and apartment blocks seemed to reach up to the heavens, obscuring the horizon and making the world a much smaller place. Out here, the world felt bigger, and much, much emptier. A twinge of homesickness played across his heartstrings; he hadn't realised, until now, just how much he missed the bustle of a city. It felt like they'd been out in the sticks forever.

They stopped the jeeps a short distance from the lake shore and went the rest of the way on foot, advancing in a loose formation and making the most of what cover was available. It was quite a large lake; Bucky could just about see to the other side. Its shore was rocky, with a line of driftwood marking its highest point. Of human activity, there was no sign.

"Right," Bucky said, once they'd established there were no German patrols nearby. "Franklin, Hawkins, keep watch for unwelcome guests. Carrot, head back to the jeeps and bring the fishing poles. In fact, put the poles in one jeep, and drive it down here."

Carrot nodded and dashed off. He returned five minutes later, and hopped out of the jeep with a concerned frown on his face.

"Um, there aren't any poles."

"There's gotta be poles," said Wells. "That's how you do fishing. Even I know that."

They had a good hunt around the jeep for the poles, but couldn't find any. Bucky sent Tex and Hodge back for the other two jeeps, in case Carrot had missed the poles. But it turned out he hadn't missed them.

"How the hell are we going to catch fish without poles?!" Wells demanded.

"Are we sure there's no nets, either?" Franklin called over. "Nets would work."

"No nets," Bucky replied, after they'd triple-checked the vehicles. "Maybe Stark has the poles, and we should'a collected them before leaving."

"Maybe we oughta round 'em up, like cattle," said Tex, eyeing the water.

"That's stupid," Wells scoffed. "How do you round up fish?"

"Well, maybe a couple'a guys could wade out there and sorta drive 'em towards the shore, so we can pull 'em out by hand."

"We might as well give it a try," Bucky sighed. Otherwise they'd have to go back to camp and ask for fishing poles, and re-earn their reputation as incompetent bullshitters. "Hodge, Carrot, get out there and make a commotion."

Carrot paled. "But Sarge, I can't swim! What if it gets deep?"

"Alright, go keep an eye on the perimeter with Franklin. Hawkins, you fancy a dip?"

A childish grin spread across Hawkins' face. "Sure, Sarge. Water looks real nice in this heat."

Hawkins and Hodge took off their jackets and belts, kicked off their boots, stuffed their socks inside, and rolled up the legs of their pants so they could wade in without getting their clothes too sodden. They both looked down as they advanced towards thigh-height.

"See anything?" Wells called to them.

"Just the mud we're kicking up," said Hawkins. "I think there's— No, wait, there's a fish! It's heading your way, Hodge! Grab it, quick!"

"And don't forget to account for refraction!" yelled Wells.

Hodge tensed, poised like a cat ready to pounce. He waited, pale blue eyes scanning the water, until he judged the moment to be right. He dove down, hands out in front of him, and disappeared under the surface. When he came up a few seconds later, coughing and spluttering, his strawberry-blond hair plastered to his head, water liberally pouring off him, his hands were empty. Everybody jeered and laughed at his disappointed dampness.

"I lost it!"

"The water's too deep out there," said Bucky. "Try herding them towards the shore."

The next time the duo spotted a fish, they tried splashing around it, to frighten it to where the others were waiting on the shoreline. It turned out that, in water, fish were much faster than men. It escaped easily before it was close enough for Bucky to even see. He recalled the pair to shore, so they could come up with a new plan.

"Okay, this isn't rocket science," said Wells. "Weiss managed to bring back three jeepfuls of fish, and we're much younger and more excited about the prospect of not eating spam stew for the third week a row, than he was. Let's think it through logically. Over there we have a big heap of water. Over here we have three relatively small containers. Maybe we're looking at this backwards. Maybe the trick isn't to take the fish out of the water, but to take the water away from the fish."

"Jeez, you guys are hopeless," Davies scoffed from his position atop one of the jeeps. "Were they just handing out sergeants' chevrons the day you two got promoted?" He grabbed his pack, strode to the shore, opened the bag and took out a concussion grenade. He pulled out the pin and hurled it as far as he could into the lake before Bucky could even think of opening his mouth. As soon as it flew, everyone who wasn't Davies' hit the deck. Bucky's first thought was Davies is crazy! His second thought was Davies is fuckin' crazy!

The resulting boom sent a plume of water high into the air, like one of those geysers Bucky had seen pictures of at school. What that famous one called? Old Faithful. It was a nice name. If Davies was deserving of a similar moniker, it would be Old Crazy. Even Wells looked shocked, and anything that shocked Wells was practically deserving of a reward. Waterfowl took to the wing, ducks and geese and small black birds honking and squawking and screeching as they tried to get away from the source of the noise as fast as their wings could carry them.

"Davies, what the hell?!" Wells demanded, as they all got back to their feet. He gestured at the lake. "That's nature. You can't blow up nature!"

Davies merely shrugged. "Do you have any idea of the force of the overpressure caused when a high energy TNT-filled demo grenade is detonated?"

"No."

"Me neither. But I bet it's pretty impressive." Davies peered at his fingernails, as if checking them for dirt. "And, as you know, sound travels considerably faster through water than it does air."

It didn't take long for the fish to start floating. Bucky had no idea whether they were dead, or just stunned from the force of the blast wave, but they weren't doing a whole lot of moving.

"You're welcome," Davies grinned.

Bucky could hardly complain. Hawkswell had sent them to get fish, and here were fish. He stripped off everything but his pants, and waded out to start collecting them up. Soon, they had one of the jeeps completely filled. He suspected the blast had scared away all the fish it hadn't managed to knock out, but if they went around to a different part of the lake, they could probably do this another couple of times, and bring back all the fish the kitchen staff needed.

Hodge struggled to shore with a long, large, vicious-looking fish that was yellowy-green and built like a torpedo. "Look at the teeth on this guy," he said, opening the fish's mouth to reveal rows of wickedly sharp, backwards-curving teeth.

Wells shuddered. "Imagine how much it would hurt if that guy got hold of your family jewels; it doesn't even look like it's capable of letting go. I swear, I'm never taking my pants off in a lake."

"Stick it in the crate with the others," Bucky told him. "Then let's see if we can catch some more. There are a lot of people at camp who'll be happy to see us get back with this lot."

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

They pulled up outside the mess tent, and the kitchen staff descended like a plague of locusts. They hauled the fish away under the watchful gaze of Agent Carter, who today was clad in a brown jacket, her arms folded over her chest as she observed the proceedings.

Bucky grinned at the expression she was trying so carefully to hide. "You look surprised to see all the fish we caught, Agent Carter."

"Disappointed, more like," she said. "I bet Howard you'd come back empty handed. Congratulations; you've exceeded my expectations, fed the camp with something other than spam for another night, and cost me five dollars."

"Wait a minute… You weren't the one who told Hawkswell to send us on this errand-boy mission, were you?"

"Of course not." Agent Carter treated him to an overly sweet smile. "Colonel Hawkswell is a very old fashioned officer who doesn't like to hear ideas from women. I simply told him that the two of you were far too busy and important to be wasted on simple supply missions." She straightened up and nodded at a couple of the kitchen staff as they passed. "Well, I suppose I should go and pay Howard before he comes looking for his money. Good evening, Sergeants."

"Y'know," Bucky mused, "I don't know whether all British people have the ability to be completely horrible whilst being unfailingly polite, or whether it's something unique to Agent Carter."

"I'm guessing the latter," Wells snorted. "I don't remember meeting any dames like her in Plymouth. I have this theory that she hates men. You're nice to her, she hates you. You're firm with her, she hates you. You try to joke with her, she hates you. Either she's gonna live bitterly alone, or she's gonna find herself some spineless mouse of a man to intimidate into marrying her."

Bucky just chuckled quietly. This was usually around the time that Wells claimed he was gonna marry Agent Carter himself, but ever since that business with the German spies, he seemed to have cooled towards her, and Bucky wasn't exactly sure why. He knew that Wells was pissed at Carter for being prepared to shoot him, and Carter was pissed at Wells for deceiving her into being tied up, but it seemed deeper than that. More personal, somehow. All he had were some very vague, hazy memories of the two of them arguing. But whatever their beef, the last thing he wanted was to get stuck in the middle.

"Y'wanna get a poker game going after dinner?" he asked instead.

"Sure. I've got time to kill."

"Will you take my rifle back to the barracks?" he asked, handing his M1 over. "I wanna make a quick visit to the chaplain's tent."

Wells rolled his eyes, but accepted the gun. "More prayers? Do they really make you feel better?"

"A little. Why don't you come?"

"Thanks, but I'd rather clean my rifle. It's of more use to me in a firefight than God."

"Suit yourself." He made his way to the chaplain's tent and tried not to dwell too much on what beef Wells had with the church. Much like whatever problem he had with Agent Carter, it was just something Bucky didn't want to end up in the middle of.