We Were Soldiers
46. Final Days
Bucky stood in the front row as they put Carrot in the ground. The faces around him were somber, painted red by the light of the sinking sun. Further back, a couple of the nurses were crying. Even Stark managed to look convincingly sad. Everybody had liked Carrot. He'd been an island of warmth and optimism in a sea of cynicism and bullshit. Where other men had bartered, Carrot had given freely. And now, that warmth and optimism and kindness were gone, and Bucky knew it was a loss they would all feel keenly.
The chaplain said many nice, comforting things. He seemed even more upset than the rest of the company. But then, Carrot had never missed a sermon, unless he was on a mission or sentry duty. He was probably the closest thing the chaplain had to a friend. Looking out over the flock wouldn't be the same, knowing Carrot would never be there again. Just as it wouldn't be the same for Bucky, waking every morning in the regiment's tent to an absent push-up count. The thought of the silence filled his eyes with tears, and he quickly squeezed them shut.
To close the service, a bugler from the 107th played out Taps, and then people began to drift away. Eventually, only the 107th were left to stand beside the grave, and they waited until the sun had fully set before slowly moving off. Nobody seemed to want to leave, and yet they knew they had to. There was still a war to be fought, and Phillips wanted the camp moved at first light.
He caught up to Wells a short distance from the regiment's tent, and pulled his friend aside as the rest of the men filed past into the dim interior.
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," he said. "I was a jerk, and I was out of line."
Wells shrugged. "No you weren't. You were just reminding me of my own advice. Nuthin' wrong with that. It was good advice. I'm gonna follow it."
"Alright. But if you wanna talk, just let me know."
"There's nothing to talk about."
Bucky wasn't so sure. Wells' eyes seemed unusually empty, devoid of their usual cheerful, mischievous sparkle. He reminded Bucky of how Gusty had looked, after he'd got back from the recon mission on which Tipper had died, and the thought of Wells growing more like Gusty made Bucky's gut churn badly. Despite his propensity for bullshit and gettin' Bucky in trouble, he liked Wells just the way he was. He didn't wanna see that cold, uncaring gleam in his eyes whenever he picked up a rifle. And he certainly didn't wanna see it out of combat, either.
But… he couldn't force Wells to talk. It was one of the unwritten rules, like naming conventions, or the Rule of Karma. The rule said you didn't talk about the bad stuff. You sat on it until it went away, or you used it to fuel your anger in combat. And if you had to talk about a guy who'd died, you didn't talk about how his death made you feel. How guilty and helpless and empty it left you inside. How many nights you lay awake in bed replaying the event in your mind, trying to find a way of saving a friend who was already gone. You only talked about the guy as he had been when he was alive. You remembered the good times. The adventures. The bullshit. When you could talk about those things without feeling weak, you shared them. And right now, it was too soon to share about Carrot. Hell, it'd taken a week before anyone had even been able to mention Tipper's name, after he'd been killed.
"Okay," he said at last, and decided to offer an olive branch. "Colonel Hawkswell said I can write something to go with the official letter to Carrot's family. I wanna write a letter to Samantha. Tell her all about the things Carrot got up to during his time with the 107th. Do you wanna help?"
Wells shook his head. "You're better at that sorta stuff than me."
"Right. Well, let me know if you think of anything I should include."
"I'm sure you'll manage. You're a very thoughtful guy."
Wells turned and disappeared into the tent, leaving Bucky as confused as ever. He couldn't figure out whether Wells was being aloof, sad, passive aggressive, or a combination of everything. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe, like Bucky after Tipper, he just needed some space for himself, to mull things over and come to terms with what had happened. And if space was what he needed, Bucky would give it to him.
The next day, after they'd packed up camp, then marched for miles, and set up camp again, and fetched water for the drinking supply, and dug foxholes for sentry duty, and eaten their second large yet strangely unfulfilling meal of the day, Bucky settled down on his bed with a pen and a piece of writing paper. One thing he'd noticed was that ever since soldiers had starting dying more frequently, everyone had been writing home a lot more. Danzig, Tipper, Nestor, Weiss, Carrot, those guys from the 9th… it seemed death cared nothing for rank nor experience. Sometimes it seemed death was dealt purely by the luck of the draw. Tipper had stepped on a mine, and that could've been anybody's fate. Maybe Nestor had driven too close to the edge and paid for his mistake with his life, but Weiss had been the toughest, most experienced guy in the whole company, and not even his previous experience of war had been able to save him from a Nazi ambush. Maybe they were all, each and every one of them, playing Russian Roulette every time they stepped out of camp on a mission. Which of them would be next?
He turned his mind from macabre thoughts of death, and fixed his gaze on the empty page. There was so much he could say about Carrot, and yet no words he could write would ever provide true comfort for the girl waiting back at home for the man who would never return. What could he possibly say?
He decided to start from the beginning. Told Samantha of the day he'd met Carrot in the barracks of Camp Shanks, and how he'd done up the beds real nice. Then he moved on to the time the 107th had banded together to help get her the rose Carrot desperately wanted to send, and how happy the guy had been to receive her note back. He smiled as he wrote about it, recalling all the crazy exchanges he and his friends had made for the sake of love, and how it had been worth it to see Carrot happy.
After that, he wrote about their time on the Monty, how Carrot had tried to learn to play poker, how he'd selflessly given up his cup of watery beer to cheer Wells up, how every night he'd brought out the picture of her, to look at her face before he closed his eyes for sleep. Left out the bit about Wells tormenting him over it, because he didn't think Samantha needed to hear about that.
He told more tales—about the cake for Gusty, and the play-fight in the river—and then went on to say how proud he had been of everything Carrot had done during his time with the regiment. Well onto the second page, he told her how Carrot would go out of his way to help a guy and ask for nothing in return. How every morning and night he'd gone to the chaplain's tent and prayed for the people back home and the men he served with. How he'd given his all, and never uttered a word of complaint.
And then he signed it off with his deepest condolences, and his wish that she find a way to find happiness despite her terrible loss. And maybe, just maybe, she might find some comfort in reading about the part of his life she had never known. It was all Bucky could really hope for. And maybe when the war was over, he'd find Samantha and check up on her. Make sure she was doing okay. He was sure Carrot would want that.
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The soft patter of rain had a steadying effect on Bucky's nerves as he thumbed off the safety catch of his rifle and waited for the rest of the men to report back. Knowing the final communications bunker would be heavily fortified by now, he'd done it right this time. Brought twice as many men. Requisitioned the use of every functional SSR-01 rifle in the camp. Tex still had his, and the four functional ones were in the hands of Hodge, Mex, Baker and Hall. They weren't as good a shot as Tex, but they were good enough for this.
They'd done recon. Jones had scouted out the bunker, and Gusty the new defences HYDRA had installed. Then Bucky and Wells had spent an hour coming up with a plan, drilling it into every man on the team. Bucky had hand-picked them all; he knew what they were capable of, how quickly they'd jump to obey his orders, and this time he was more confident that they'd come prepared.
"We're in position," said Wells, over the radio. He'd taken Jones, Tex, half a dozen men, the signal jammers and the Universal Key, and was as close to the communications bunker as he could get.
"We're ready too," Gusty reported. He had half the remaining men, along with Hall and Mex, ready to take out one of the machine gun emplacements. The other fell to Bucky. He had Hodge and Baker with him, and they'd already targeted more of those remote detectors which had caused them so much trouble on their first mission. Something must'a spooked HYDRA; not only were the guns hooked up to detectors, they were also manned. Why had they suddenly decided to ramp up their defences?
He shook his head. It didn't matter. This was the final communications bunker in the chain that spanned southern France. Once they'd taken it, the mission would be over. Doubtless there would be more missions, but at least he wouldn't have to go through all of this again.
Lifting the radio to his mouth, he gave the command that would both start and end it. "Go."
He and his team advanced on the machine gun. He heard crack! crack! as Hodge and Baker took shots at the detector, and heard the metal and plastic spray patter on the ground, louder than the raindrops. He didn't feel the dampness of his uniform as he lifted his rifle and fired; didn't feel his boots chafing his heels, or the rain trickling down the back of his neck. It was just pain. Just discomfort. He just wanted to put his last HYDRA soldier in the ground, get back to camp, and sleep for a week.
Sleep had not come so easy, since Carrot died. Every time Bucky closed his eyes, he saw Carrot's eyes, cold and unseeing. He heard the pained gasps of the young man's last breath, and felt again his own helpless despair. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, gasping for air that felt heavy as lead. Sometimes when he woke, he heard Wells snoring from the bed next to his, and he knew he was faking it, because Wells never snored when he was asleep.
He welcomed the rain. Its cool patter was refreshing against his skin. His damp, chilly clothes were uncomfortable, and he welcomed that, too. Discomfort was how he knew he was still alive. Still a human being. If he was breathing, and uncomfortable, then he was doin' okay, in the most twisted sense of the word.
The machine gunner died fast, his body riddled with bullets. Franklin stepped forward to disable it. Bucky sent Hodge and Baker to get a sight on the bunker, then he and the rest of the men continued towards their target. He didn't radio to check whether Gusty's team had been successful. Didn't need to. Gusty was an old hand at this, and he liked vengeance a little too much.
They reached the bunker before Gusty's team; two of Wells' men were waiting in the rain, their rifles held ready to fire in their positions flanking the open door. From inside the bunker, he heard the echo of gunfire.
"Did Wells lead the team in?" Bucky asked.
One of the men shook their heads. "Davies did. Wells took the back door."
Damn. He'd told Wells how he'd used the hatch to sneak in last time, but hadn't expected his friend to try the same thing. "Set up a perimeter," he told his sodden team, before turning to climb up to the machine gun position. It wasn't that he was worried about Wells' safety, but he could clearly recall the cold, empty expression in the guy's eyes as Bucky told him about Carrot's death. He wasn't sure if Wells was the kinda man to enjoy inflicting a little payback, and it wasn't something he particularly wanted to find out. One Gusty in the regiment was enough.
The hatch was still open, so he took hold of the ladder and climbed swiftly down. Rain pouring in had made the metal slippery; he slowed his descent when his boot went sliding on a wet rung and almost caused him to fall the last three feet.
He drew his pistol as his feet hit the ground, and thumbed off the safety. The door to the comms room was open, spilling warm yellow light into the dark tunnel. A pair of feet were sticking out into his view, the only visible part of a body fallen behind one of the communications consoles. Bucky's heart momentarily stopped beating. When he saw the colour of the pants above the polished boots, it resumed its regular functions. Those pants were not the olive-drab of a GI's uniform.
When he failed to spot Wells, he stepped out of his narrow, vertical tunnel shaft, and into the comms room. Then, he saw Wells. He was standing to one side of the door, pistol raised. Before Bucky could ask him what he was doing, the comms room door flew open to reveal an armed HYDRA soldier. The man's rifle was raised, and as he caught sight of Bucky standing next to the fallen officer, he braced himself and squeezed the trigger of his gun. Bucky's mind screamed at him to raise his pistol and shoot first, but he'd been surprised, and his reflexes were a split second too slow.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots made Bucky flinch, but the HYDRA soldier dropped like a sack of stones to the ground, and the reason for Wells standing beside the door suddenly made much more sense; anybody entering the room was running straight into a perfect head-shot.
Davies and the other three members of the strike team clattered down the corridor, coming to an abrupt stop when they saw the two dead bodies.
"Get 'em out of here," Wells instructed, holstering his pistol. As the men obeyed, he turned with a scowl for Bucky. "The hell were you thinking, Barnes? You almost got shot."
Bucky licked his lips. Sheer terror had given him a bad case of dry-mouth, but now the terror was wearing off, replaced with guilt. A familiar friend, these days.
"I'm sorry," he said. God, how often had he said that, this past month? "I didn't know what you were planning."
"What did you think would happen when I shot the guy in here? It was supposed to draw some of the soldiers away from the front door; give the others a chance to advance down the corridor."
"I guess I wasn't. Thinking, I mean." he admitted. He couldn't help himself. He glanced down at the comms officer. Two shots to the chest. The relief made him feel giddy. "I just wanted to… y'know… make sure you were okay."
"You don't trust me to get the job done without getting myself shot?" Wells demanded angrily. "Just because I can't juggle knives—" he held up his almost-healed hand as evidence, "—doesn't mean I can't carry out a mission without someone looking over my shoulder every five goddamn minutes."
"No, it's not that," Bucky told him quickly. "I just…" How could he explain? Subconsciously, his eyes jumped back down to the dead officer, and Wells made a pretty accurate guess.
"Oh. You just wanted to make sure I wasn't down here with the thumbscrews, sharing out some of the pain that seems to be going around these days." Bucky nodded mutely, and Wells sighed. He glared down at the body, then lifted his eyes to Bucky's face. "I thought about it. But what would be the point? Hurtin' these guys won't bring anyone back, and it would lower me to their level. Maybe even make me worse than them. When I get home, I want to be able to look myself in the mirror and know that all this ever was, was a job. That I came here, did what was asked of me, did it well, and didn't gaze long into the abyss."
Wells' admission brought Bucky some whole new levels of guilt. A Santa's sleigh full of guilt-wrapped gifts. He should'a had more faith in Wells. Should'a known his friend wouldn't do anything questionable like that. And because he'd doubted, he'd almost given the chaplain another body to bury. Almost screwed up the mission. Mentally, he kicked himself.
"I should'a trusted you," he admitted. Finally remembered to holster his pistol. Luckily, his hand wasn't shaking from his near-death experience. "I didn't mean to screw up your plan. I just… I guess I worry. About everyone, and everything. I've spent my whole life looking out for my brother and sisters, keeping an eye on them, trying to protect them… guess it's a hard habit to break."
Wells gave a soft grunt. "There are worse habits to have. Picking your nose, for example. Or cutting your toenails on someone else's bed. Just don't do anything like that, and I'll forgive you for the smothering big brother mentality."
The comment teased a smile across Bucky's lips. It was the first joke Wells had cracked since Carrot died. At least, he hoped it was a joke…
"Wanna help me dig some graves?" Wells asked. "Two bucks says I can dig one faster than you."
"Yeah, alright." It was the least he could do, after he'd nearly messed up the op. And besides, he could always use an extra couple of bucks.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
"I'm tellin' ya, Sarge, something isn't right," said Mex.
He kept up the running stream of chatter as he bounced between Bucky and Wells, who'd been summoned to the command tent. In the three days since they'd taken the last HYDRA bunker, everybody had grown increasingly tense. Even if nothing official had been said, they all unofficially knew that the mission was over. Since then, they'd had nothing to do but wait for new orders. It seemed finally, they'd come.
"Private Leonovics, from the 69th, he told me he was in his foxhole last night when a group from the 9th went out, and they came back two hours later with a civilian in tow. Stayed for an hour, then went back out, again with the civilian, and returned two hours later empty-handed. What do you think it means, Sarge?"
"I think it means Private Leonovics talks too much for his own good," Bucky told him. Hopefully, none of the 107th were unprofessional enough to spread gossip like that. It might be time to remind them of foxhole etiquette.
"When you find out what's going on, you'll let me know, won't you?"
"Sure," said Wells. "As soon as the brass confirm they want the news spreading all over the country, we'll come to you right away."
"Aww, Sarge—"
Mex didn't get chance to finish his sentence, because the trio arrived at the command tent, and Mex was forced to turn and leave, or be escorted away by two MPs standing guard outside the tent.
As soon as Bucky stepped inside the tent, he realised this wasn't a normal mission briefing. Colonels Hawkswell and Phillips were there, along with Carter and Stark. Captain Banks of the 370th, and Captain Aitkin of the 69th, were in attendance, along with Dr. Peacock and the highest ranking officers of the Engineers and Signal Corps. Both Bucky and Wells offered a salute, then joined the back of the long line of people far higher up the chain of command than either of them.
"Just over one month ago," Colonel Hawkswell began, his body practically rigid with official pride, "as we were beginning our mission here in the south of France, Operation Husky was being enacted by General Patton. This top-secret operation was a meticulously planned Allied invasion of Sicily, undertaken to give us a foothold from which to launch a larger campaign into Italy. It is my pleasure to announce that, six days ago, following a protracted offensive, Sicily was abandoned by the Germans and their Italian allies, and is now in the hands of Allied Command."
Inside Bucky's chest, his heart soared. They'd been so long without outside communication that sometimes it was hard to remember they weren't in this alone. That out there, the rest of the free world was fighting alongside them. These bunkers, they were trifles in comparison to the whole island of Sicily. How many men must have been lost in that campaign? How many tanks exploded, how many battles waged, how many families forever bereft of a son or a brother? It almost made Bucky feel bad for feeling bad about the few men they'd lost.
Almost.
"As such," Hawkswell continued, "we have been ordered to take part in the first series of incursions into Italy. Already, dozens of companies are being mobilised. In early September, the British Eighth Army and U.S. Fifth Army are expected to land at the southernmost tip of mainland Italy. Our orders are to hit the Nazis in the north, along our current latitude. Now, we don't have the ordnance required to mount a full-scale incursion, so our M.O. will be surgical strikes of key Nazi facilities; we're going to destabilise their operations in the area, and make it more difficult for them to send supplies to their troops in the south. Questions?"
Every hand was raised, and Colonel Hawkswell sighed.
"Yes, Captain Aitkin?"
"Sir, how will we be supplied if we cross over into Italy?"
"The same way as before; Allied Command will send planes to drop supplies at regular intervals. Captain Banks?"
"What are we to tell the men, sir?"
"Tell them the truth; that we're going to join the fight and show the Germans and the Italians just what American weapons are made of."
Stark opened his mouth—probably to tell the colonel exactly what American weapons were made of—and promptly shut it again when Agent Carter stamped down on his foot with the heel of her boot.
"Sergeant Wells?"
"If we're mounting an offensive into Italy, sir, doesn't that mean we have to cross the Alps?"
"That's correct. The Italian-French border is one of the least guarded areas in the whole of Nazi territory. We'll be exploiting the weakness in their defences. It is imperative we cross the Alps before the season turns; once Fall sets in, we expect severe localised snowfall to hinder progress significantly."
There were no more raised hands remaining, although Bucky could tell by the look on a few faces that nobody was keen to cross the Alps, snowfall or no snowfall. Even Phillips didn't look particularly pleased about it. Obviously, this mission, like Matilda, did not fall under the remit of the SSR. Hawkswell had got his command back.
"We'll set out first thing in the morning," Hawkswell said, when it was obvious no further questions were forthcoming. "It will take two or three days of solid marching before we'll reach the foot of the Alps proper, but as we get closer to Italy, we also risk encountering Luftwaffe patrols. To that end, we'll spend as much time as possible travelling at night, to avoid visual detection, and we'll send scouting parties ahead as we travel, to give advance warning of any—" He sighed when Bucky raised his hand. "Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"
"Sir, I think it would be a good idea to train additional staff in the use of the SSR-01 rifles. We currently have them in the hands of our best marksmen, but if we're jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, we have to face the fact that we're probably going to start losing more people. If we lost our best marksmen, we should have others trained to pick up the flag, so to speak."
"Not a bad idea," Phillips spoke up, before Hawkswell could respond. "Agent Carter, Mr. Stark, you'll select and train additional infantry members in the use of the weapons."
"You're all dismissed," Hawkswell told them. "Go and ensure your troops are ready to leave at first light. From this moment on, every step we take could lead us into combat. Make certain your men are adequately prepared. Sergeant Barnes, Sergeant Wells, you two are not dismissed. Please remain behind."
Bucky mentally cringed as he halted his swift march to the tent flap. As the rest of the officers filed out, he tried to figure out just what the hell he'd done wrong now. As far as he knew, he wasn't due a chewing-out. He'd certainly kept out of trouble these past few days. Hadn't 'redistributed' anything recently. Hadn't been sneaking around doing anything he ought not to.
He and Wells faced front and centre, utilising their much-practised stare over the brass' shoulder gaze. When Colonel Phillips stepped up, his expression was unusually severe, his craggy face particularly hard. It made Bucky's heart lurch in his chest. Hawkswell hovered in the background, and behind him, Carter and Stark were watching, their faces blank, eyes unreadable.
"Sergeants," Phillips barked, and Bucky very nearly jumped. That damn barking. Like a damn dog. He was never gonna get used to it. "It has recently been brought to my attention that we may have a problem. A serious problem. And, as with so many problems I seem to encounter these days, I find the two of you at the heart of it."
Bucky worked some moisture back into his mouth. His hands seemed to have the opposite problem; his palms were turning usually sweaty. "Sir?" he dared to ask. There couldn't be a problem. Especially not a serious problem. Everything was fine. He'd been well-behaved. Wells hadn't dragged him into any new trouble. All previous trouble had been accounted for.
"The 107th lacks a commissioned officer to lead it," Phillips elaborated. "Therefore, after considering all of our options and taking into account your leadership and service on recent missions, it is our solemn duty—and potential regret—to bestow upon you both field promotions."
A promotion? That's what this was about? Then why the hell had Phillips seemed so dour about it? Suddenly, he caught the twinkle of mirth in the colonel's grey eyes. The bastard enjoyed seeing people squirm.
"We can't promote you right up to the rank of Lieutenant," Hawkswell continued, stepping forward with new chevrons and pips in his hands. "But Staff Sergeant is a step in the right direction. And who knows; if you handle yourselves in Italy as well as you have in France, you may be commissioned before we reach Germany. Congratulations, Sergeants. I hope you'll continue to set a good—"
"Better," Phillips interrupted.
"—better example, for your men."
They both saluted, and Bucky said, "We'll do our best, sir."
Out in the open air, away from the eyes of the colonels, and Stark, and Carter, he glanced down at his new chevrons and took a deep breath.
"Imagine it," he said. "Our own commission. I mean, commissions. Plural. You'll get your own commission, 'cos you're not sharing mine."
"I don't wanna be a commissioned officer!" Wells groaned. "I'd have to be…" he shuddered for emphasis, "…responsible."
"You could order Dugan around. He's only a Sergeant."
Bucky could see him rolling the idea around in his head. Finally, he said, "Fine. I'll do it. But only so I can tell Dugan where he ought to shove his hat, then make it an official order."
Bucky merely grinned in reply. Just like his commendation, he knew he didn't deserve this promotion. He'd only got it because the 107th had run out of commissioned officers and senior sergeants. But then, Phillips and Hawkswell wouldn't have given him a new rank if he was entirely undeserving. Tonight, he'd write a letter home and tell his folks, and Steve, all about it. They'd be happy for him, he knew it. He could already see the pride in his dad's eyes as he showed the letter to the guys at the boxing club and told them of how his son had gotten promoted already.
When he glanced at Wells, he saw a secretive smile tugging at his friend's lips, but he didn't think it was for the promotion.
"What's got you so pleased?"
Wells tried, and failed, to smother the smile. "I don't speak Italian."
Bucky rolled his eyes. He should'a known it would be something like that. "So, Staff Sergeant Wells, how would you like to celebrate gettin' off the hook for translating?"
"Hmm. I have an idea. I think," he said, with a familiar mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, "we should sneak into the mess kitchen tonight and bake ourselves a huge, celebratory chocolate cake. Maybe twist Davies' arm, get him to give us some of that moonshine. Whaddya think?"
Bucky threw his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I think that's an excellent idea."
Author's note: A couple of interesting facts! The date is now 23rd August 1943, and it is a Monday. In the 44 days that the 107th have been assigned to the SSR, they've loosely zigzagged approximately 330km across the south of France, most of it hauling heavy gear and equipment. That would equate to 7.5km per day, if they had spent every day travelling. As we've seen from their adventures so far, at least a third of their time has been spent undertaking missions and waiting for further instructions. Time spent travelling to/from individual mission sites, and undertaking reconnaissance, is not included in that figure. Our Heroes are understandably pooped! But maybe they'll catch a break in Italy… right?
We'll now take a 2 week break and be back on 7th May with more exciting adventures!