Author's note: San Vinadio is a fictional village, and can't be found on any map. There is a town named Vinadio which is similar, if you'd like a Google for a visual. Also, the only Italian I understand is the sorts of words you'd find on a piece of sheet music, so unlike for French and German, all mistakes this time are entirely the fault of Google Translate.

Ciao!

We Were Soldiers

48. San Vinadio

Bucky pulled off his boots and tugged his pants down his legs. The warm evening air slid across his skin as he grabbed the pair of civilian pants he'd been given and shoved his feet into each leg. The clothes were made of softer material than his military uniform, but they didn't mould to his body in the same way. The shirt pulled across his shoulders. The pants were a little big around the waist. The jacket was short on the sleeves and chafed the dry skin on his elbows. The shoes rubbed uncomfortably against his big toes. He had no mirror, but he could picture himself in the dusty grey pants and the off-white shirt beneath the faded brown jacket, and in his mind's eye, he looked odd.

He glanced over his shoulder. Wells, with his back to him, was almost finished with his own change of clothes. It was the first time Bucky had seen him dressed in something other than GI duds, and he looked as odd as Bucky felt. Wells' clothes weren't quite as ill-fitting as Bucky's, but then, Wells wasn't quite as broad across the shoulders, and the jacket he'd been given had a more generous sleeve length.

As Wells finished dressing, Bucky pulled the length of cornflower blue material from his bag. Strong doubts about this method of identification assaulted his thoughts. What if the neckerchiefs weren't the right shade of blue? What if there were other guys in that bar wearing blue scarves? What if the Nazis had been tipped off, and were on the lookout for men wearing them? Would it be better to put the scarves on once they got to the bar and made sure no other men were wearing them? No… that was stupid. Two guys donning scarves in a bar would look suspicious. They had to stick to the plan.

He tied the scarf around his neck. He tied it too tight and it choked him, so he untied it and fastened it differently. Now, one end hung low, dangling down his chest. With an irritated huff, he unfastened it and wrapped it around his neck in a different way. Again, he did it wrong, and wasn't left with enough material to tie it off with. A glance at Wells, who was checking over his pistol, showed him his fellow sergeant had managed to fasten the scarf around his own neck in a way that looked natural, like it wasn't some awkward prop to attract the attention of a member of the Italian resistance.

Bucky took a step towards Wells and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. Wells flinched, almost dropping his pistol.

"Kinda jumpy," Bucky pointed out.

"Of course I'm jumpy," Wells grumbled absently as he slid his ammo clip back into his Colt. "We're about to do something completely mad, and I don't know about you, but I haven't been trained for this covert sneaky stuff."

"We'll improvise." He held out his creased scarf. "Can you help me with this? Without a mirror, I can't see what I'm supposed to be doing with it."

Wells pursed his lips in disapproval, but he shoved his pistol into the inner pocket of his jacket and grabbed the blue scarf. "Jeez, I thought you were past the age of needing someone to dress you. I don't need to fasten your shoelaces as well, do I?"

"No, but if you wanna polish my boots when we get back to camp, I won't complain," he offered.

"In your dreams, Barnes."

When Wells had finished tying his scarf, Bucky pointedly didn't lift his hands to see how it felt. Though he was used to wearing a tie for his civilian job and formal occasions, he wasn't used to a scarf, and he knew he'd only spend the whole evening toying with it, drawing attention to it, if he let his hands wander.

He checked his own pistol to make sure it had a full clip, then they returned to the rest of the team. They had their own orders to carry out, and as much as Bucky wished he could stay and oversee them himself, he didn't wanna risk Wells going into that village with anyone other than him. Gusty could keep an eye on the team and make sure they were all in place, but Bucky wasn't entirely confident that Wells could handle his side of the mission. If things were going to go south, they wouldn't go south out here, in the middle of the woods; they'd go south in the village, right in the middle of the damn place.

"You know what you've gotta do?" Bucky asked Gusty.

The corporal nodded. "But if you ask me, it's a waste of perfectly good rice. Why can't we just cut the fuel lines?"

"Because fuel lines can be repaired." He checked his watch. "Eight o'clock. I've no idea what time our contact is meeting us, so keep your eyes open and your bags packed. If all goes well, we'll be back in a couple of hours with nobody the wiser to our presence. If things go sideways… be ready for a firefight."

"Don't worry, Sarge, we'll be in place."

"Ready?" he asked Wells.

"I'd feel a whole lot better if I could bring that phrasebook with me."

"How would you explain an Italian phrasebook written in English, if somebody saw you with it?"

For a reply, Wells pulled out his Colt from his jacket pocket and gave it a small wave through the air. "The same way I'd explain possessing a GI-issue sidearm if somebody saw me with it."

Bucky had to admit, Wells had a point. The phrasebook was something no Italian citizen ought to have. But then, so was the pistol.

"Okay, bring the book."

Wells grabbed the book from his musette bag, slid it into his jacket pocket, then shoved the pistol down the back of his pants, wedging it between his shirt and his belt for easy access. Then he nodded, indicating his readiness.

They carried no bags as they set out towards the village. The only weight Bucky carried was his Colt pistol and the few Italian lire lining his pocket. He had no idea where the colonels had gotten Italian currency from, but they'd provided just enough to ensure two men could order a couple of beers each while waiting for a rendezvous, and no more. Bucky intended to make his beers last as long as possible. He didn't wanna do this mission while tipsy, and he had no idea how strong Italian beer might be.

The village of San Vinadio sat nestled snugly in a narrow valley. Its small roads had been draped loosely up the steep valley sides and were bordered by old grey stone buildings. The highest building in the valley was the church; its white, regal spire seemed to reach to the heavens like a pillar of sun-bleached bone, and was topped with a simple white crucifix. By comparison, the village's one and only bar was at a lower altitude, built right on the valley floor. Bucky imagined that the villagers spent their days travelling up the hill in the morning to visit church, and then down the hill in the evening to drown out their woes.

His team had surveilled the village from a distance for the past twenty-four hours, and the map they'd drawn had been detailed enough for the purposes of their mission. Keeping out of sight, they'd identified several key buildings, including the small house halfway up one of the valley slopes where a group of Nazis were holed up. What the Nazis were doing there was anyone's guess, but Mex had gotten a good view of their communications equipment, and he believed they were a message relay post. If that was true, it was a much more humble affair than HYDRA's communications bunkers had been.

"I'd like to stress again that this is a terrible idea," Wells said quietly. He trod softly beside Bucky as they walked towards the lights of San Vinadio's houses. Ahead, the first of the evening's stars were making their slow trek across the deep blue sky. Wells continued, his eyes scanning the ground for stray rocks or tree roots that might trip him. "I can speak French with a slight Parisian accent because that's what I grew up hearing, but I dunno what an Italian accent's supposed to sound like. I'm gonna come across as some dumb Yank who picked up a holiday phrasebook and thought he could pass as a local."

"Just do your best," Bucky told him. "Hopefully we won't have to speak to anyone other than our contact, so it's not like you need to pass yourself off as a local. And if push comes to shove, try some of those Italian lines with your slight Parisian accent. Then maybe you'll sound like a dumb Frenchman who picked up a holiday phrasebook." He stopped and waited for Wells to glance up at him. "Once we reach that village, we're not gonna be able to talk. I mean, at all. Not even in whispers. We can't be overheard. We know there are Nazis in that village, but there might also be German spies or sympathisers. I mean, the Italians are willing Nazi allies. Things won't be like they were in France."

"I know. And don't worry, I've already got a code worked out. If I need to draw your attention something, I'll kick your leg under the table."

"Gee, thanks, you're a real pal." He cast his gaze to the nearby lights of the village. It looked quiet enough. "Well, let's get this over with."

As they reached the nearest road, Bucky's mind went back to France, to the little village in which they'd left Matilda. This place had the same sort of old-world feel to it; the buildings sprawled at angles instead of being organised into neat rows like the streets of New York, and no building was over two or three storeys tall. But, unlike Aureille, the people here didn't seem to live in fear of the Nazis; their leaders had welcomed them openly, and in the course of their surveillance, the team had seen Nazi officers come and go from their post to the shops and the church with little or no response from the locals.

They found Basilico easily; it sat on the eastern side of a tiny courtyard illuminated by a single street lamp, and at the centre of the courtyard was a bubbling fountain in the shape of a cherub playing some sort of heavenly horn. Water spilled out from the horn, splashing around the cherub's feet. As they approached, he saw a couple of men cross the courtyard and enter the… pub? Tavern? Bar? He wasn't exactly sure what the Basilico was classed as. Maybe there wasn't a word for it in English. But more importantly, the men did not stop and stare at Bucky and Wells, which meant their disguises were passing. From their shirts to their shoes, they looked like nothing more than a couple of labouring men.

When Bucky gestured to the bar, Wells nodded, his face pale in the dim twilight. For the first time since leaving for the mission, his heart started beating rapidly. Taking a deep breath, he tried to control it, to will it to resume a more regular rhythm. Mind over matter didn't seem to be working, so he ignored his racing pulse and made for the door of the bar.

The inside was smaller than he had imagined, the tables wedged close together, the ceiling so low that he felt the urge to duck as soon as he stepped through the door. A thin smoky haze clung to the ceiling, and the once-cream-coloured walls were stained a darker shade of nicotine-yellow. The walls were adorned with colourful paintings, and bunches of dried herbs hung upside down from behind the bar; Bucky thought they might be oregano, but it was hard to smell anything over the miasma of beer and cigarette smoke.

The room, animated by the quiet mumbles of voices speaking in Italian, grew quiet as Bucky and Wells stepped into sight. Men halted their conversations mid-sentence to glance over the strangers. Their roving eyes took in their dusty shirts and worn jackets, their ill-fitting pants and their thin-soled shoes. Then, their conversations resumed, their eyes sliding away. Just two more men looking for work as they felt the pinch of the war on their purses.

Bucky made a quick visual assessment of the room. A table in the corner appealed right away. In the corner, he and Wells could sit with their backs to the walls and see all who entered. Nobody would be able to sneak up on them. But then… nothing said 'clandestine' like a table in the corner. Instead, he chose an empty table in the middle of the room, and took a seat as a young, tired-looking woman carrying a serving tray made her way over. She stopped at the table as they both pulled their seats in, and rambled off a short sentence in Italian. Bucky listened in rapt fascination; it sounded nothing like the French he'd heard spoken in Aureille. The woman's words rose and fell in a musical lilt, as if she sang her vowels instead of speaking them.

"Due birre, per favore," said Wells, holding up his hand in a 'two' gesture, just to be absolutely sure he was getting his point across. The woman rambled something else, and Wells clearly didn't understand, because he repeated, "Due birre."

That seemed to do it. Whatever the woman was asking, she gave up and went to the bar to pour two beers. While she wasn't looking, Bucky handed all of the change in his pocket over to Wells, and let his friend count out however much money he thought was going to be needed. The beers materialised, and Wells gave the barmaid a few of the coins. She returned two of them, along with a couple of smaller coins in change. With the look of somebody thoroughly fed up by her lot in life, she left them alone and went to see to the needs of other patrons.

To wash his mouth of the taste of everyone else's cigarette smoke, Bucky picked up his beer and took a small sip. It was nice, much nicer than the ale they'd been forced to drink in England; it tasted fruity, and though it wasn't as cold as he would have liked, it did a decent job of making his mouth taste less like an ashtray.

Unfortunately, Wells went and ruined the moment by pulling out a packet of smokes and some matches. He lit one of the white sticks for himself, then offered the open pack to Bucky with a look in his eyes that said, Everyone else is smoking, and we want to fit in, so…

Swallowing his sigh, along with another mouthful of beer, Bucky took one of the smokes and the matches. He stuck the damn cigarette in his mouth, but drew the line at puffing on it. He'd just let it burn down on its own.

They sat in silence, nursing their fruity beers, Wells smoking and Bucky not-smoking. As he sat there, drinking slowly, pretending to smoke, he tried to keep his gaze down. Tried not to peer curiously at the faces of the men who shared the room. Any one of them could be their contact; or perhaps their contact had yet to arrive. Perhaps he was the lone man in the corner, reading a book by the light of a hurricane lamp. Or maybe he was one of the three men at a long table playing some sort of card game. Maybe he was the man at the bar, busy reattaching the strings of some sort of banjo-looking instrument. Perhaps he was one of the men from the group of five who were engaged in some loud, animated discussions that involved lots of frantic gesticulating.

He was just in the process of lifting his beer for another small sip when the bar door opened to admit two new patrons. When his eyes fell on their uniforms, he froze, and his heart skipped several beats. Nazis! He forced his arm to keep moving, to bring the glass to his lips. His beer, once so fruity and delicious, was now tasteless. He fixed his eyes on a knot in the wood of the table so they couldn't follow the Nazis as they walked past and took the seat in the corner of the room. Both men wore their sidearms openly, and their boots were the cleanest things in the whole place.

Almost without thinking, he took a puff on his cigarette. When he realised what he'd done, he tried to exhale swiftly, but ended up swallowing some of the smoke. He coughed long and hard, his face burning hot the more he tried to suppress the cough. Opposite him, Wells looked like he was ready to carry out his threat of kicking under the table.

Several gulps of beer was enough to end the coughing fit, and Bucky fell to taking slow, shallow drags of the cigarette. Now was not the time to pretend to be smoking. Now was the time to pretend like he really enjoyed smoking and that he did it every day, whilst inside his head, his mind had a minor panic. What if the presence of the Nazis was enough of a deterrent that their contact decided to bail? What if more Nazis arrived? What if they already knew about the meeting, and had come along to arrest Bucky and Wells and the member of the Italian Resistance?

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Whose stupid idea had it been to meet this guy in the middle of a goddamn bar? Why couldn't they have met him by some quiet stream, or in the middle of one of those empty meadows? It was madness. It was holiday-making madness, topped with cherries of insanity. The next time Phillips wanted some clandestine rendezvous, he could send someone else. Maybe trying to talk Italian would wipe the smug off Dugan's face.

The Nazis were clearly a regular feature. The barmaid didn't need to take their order; the barman poured two beers and sent her over to the corner table. Italian lire were handed over in exchange, and then the barmaid went to serve somebody else, apparently unconcerned that she'd just brought drinks to men who probably spent their spare time murdering Jews and plotting world domination.

The seconds ticked by as minutes. The minutes became hours. And about ten hours after the Nazis had entered the bar, Bucky was reaching for his second cigarette. Opposite him, Wells was affecting an air of casual indifference, and managing it a lot better than Bucky. Hell, if he didn't know better, he might even think Wells hadn't seen the damn Nazis, except that his blue eyes glanced over them once or twice as he seemingly took in some of the paintings adorning the walls. He looked at ease in his seat, and puffed on his cigarette as if it was the most fun he'd had all night.

Bucky didn't dare glance down at his watch, to see whether this nightmarish turn of events really had distorted the passing of time. Only men who were waiting impatiently looked at their watches, and he wasn't waiting impatiently; he was enjoying his beer, and his foul-tasting cigarette, and relaxing without a care in the world except his rapidly beating heart, which felt like it was trying to escape out of the bar and run as far away from this situation as it could get.

As the hours ticked by, the Nazis called out something in rough Italian, and the barmaid returned to their table. A conversation ensued, and Bucky watched from the corner of his eye. They were asking her something. She responded, and they asked her something else. One of them gestured at Bucky's table, and his heart leapt into his his mouth. He washed it back down with a mouthful of beer. He was getting through the beer too quickly. Soon he'd have to order another.

Then the Nazis were rising. Walking. Strolling over to Bucky's table, straight-backed, confident, arrogant. Bucky kept his eyes down. Mad as it seemed, the idea fixed itself in his head that if they looked at his eyes, they'd know he was American. Somehow, they'd know, and then he and Wells would get arrested and the mission would fail. If he didn't look at them, they couldn't see the guilt, and the lies, and the American-ness in his eyes. If he didn't look at them, Wells would find some way to fix this before things could get ugly.

The two men loomed ominously over the table. They weren't particularly tall; probably not as tall as Bucky and his friend when they were standing. But he and Wells weren't standing. They were sitting, and they looked like poor labourers, while the Germans were polished and coiffed to perfection. It seemed to give them extra height.

One of the Nazis said something in Italian. The words came out wrong, harsh and angular, not at all like the lilting songs of the locals. Wells glanced up and gave the man a look of brazen blankness. The man repeated whatever he said. Wells opened his mouth to reply, and Bucky closed his eyes. This was where it would all fall apart. They'd hear one word of Italian from his mouth and know that he didn't speak it any better than they did.

"Non parlo Italiano," Wells said. "Nous sommes simples ouvriers agricoles à la recherche de travail. Nous avons perdu nos emplois quand un raid aérien Anglais a détruit la ferme de notre employeur, et nous avons entendu qu'il y avait du travail à faire ici."

The Nazi repeated his question, and Wells repeated his response. "Non parlo Italiano."

It seemed the message got through. Wells didn't speak Italian, but he could ramble in French with the best of them. One of the Germans glanced up to take in the rest of the room, and for the first time, Bucky noticed all other activity had stopped. Nobody was speaking now, not even in hushed whispers. The card game was halted mid-deal. The barmaid stood as if frozen in time, a bottle in one hand, empty glass in the other. When the Nazi said something aloud to the patrons, one of the men from the group of five stepped forward. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and he dry-washed his hands as he approached half-bent at the waist, as if unsure whether he ought to bow.

Sweaty countenance. Dry-washing. Kow-towing. Never a good sign.

More conversation happened, and Bucky felt completely and utterly helpless. The Nazi said something in broken Italian to the man, and the man said something in French to Wells. Wells said something back, and the man translated it into his Italian song. Bucky swore to himself that after this mission was over, he was gonna make Wells teach him how to speak French. He hated not knowing what was happening, and maybe if he spoke French, he and Wells could've spoken privately in public before now, instead of sitting here in their stupid, American silence.

He didn't speak French, but he was beginning to recognise words. When the man translating gave Wells another sentence, Bucky picked up a couple of the words, and the sound of them made the blood drain from his face.

"Ils croient que vous êtes avec la Résistance Française."

French Resistance?

No no no, this was bad. Couldn't those stupid Nazis tell the difference between Americans and the French Resistance? Wells' French wasn't that good.

Wells gave a tight smile, shook his head, and offered a response. "Ils se trompent. Nous sommes des fermiers à la recherche de travail. C'est tout."

More talk. The Germans seemed to be getting more and more annoyed. Bucky wasn't the only one who saw it. The men playing cards left their game on the table and slipped out the front door. The barmaid disappeared out back. The rest of the patrons watched the exchange with expressions of horrified fascination. Clearly, they understood both sides of the conversation, whilst Bucky was left understanding bupkis.

"Ils disent que vous allez avec eux pour les questions. Si vous essayez de résister, ils vont vous tirer dessus," the translator said.

Bucky had no idea what he said, but as soon as he'd said it, Wells finally brought his gaze across to Bucky's face. The look in his blue eyes didn't need translating. It said, This is going to get messy, fast. Then, Wells loosened his grip on his cigarette, making it appear to have slipped from his grasp as it dropped to the floor at the Nazis' feet.

When Wells reached over the side of his chair to pick up the fallen smoke, the Nazis were so busy watching his left hand that they didn't see his right hand dip behind his back in a movement that was seemingly for counterbalance. But Bucky saw it. Even as Wells straightened up with his Colt in his hand, Bucky pushed himself to his feet and grabbing his glass, throwing the contents into the face of one of their aggressors. Wells shot the first Kraut point-blank in the stomach, and Bucky took advantage of the second German's surprise to smash the beer glass into his dripping face. It hit with a solid crunch, and the Nazi screamed in pain as glass shards pierced his skin and sank themselves deeply into his cheek and nose. Even as he was screaming, he was groping for his sidearm, but Bucky swiftly stepped back and allowed Wells a clear shot. This time it hit the centre of the chest, and the man crumpled to the floor with a gurgling wheeze of expiration.

It happened so fast that it was a few seconds after the violence that Bucky felt adrenaline course through his body. Screams and cries of alarm pierced the night air. All of the bar's patrons had fled, and people in the nearby houses had been disturbed by the sound of gunshots. Of their Resistance contact, there was no sign.

"We gotta get out of here," Bucky said. He pulled his own Colt from the back of his pants and made doubly sure the safety was off. Fool me once…

Wells gave a quick nod. "We tried. I doubt our guy's even in this village. Probably got picked up by Gestapo or something. And pretty soon, the rest of the Germans in that house they've commandeered are gonna hear the screams and come looking for their buddies."

"I'll take point. Stay close."

Things were happening in the courtyard when Bucky poked his head out. Lights came on in the houses all around. Curtains twitched. He could hear the songs of men and women yammering at each other loudly from behind closed doors. He waited only as long as it took to make sure there were no more Germans lurking in the shadows. At a run, he set out across the poorly lit stone flags, dodging the cherubic fountain. His heart was… surprisingly steady. Now that the worst had happened, he could deal with it. He didn't have to live in unknowing anticipation, questioning, doubting, imagining. The nail-biting fear of the unknown was gone, replaced with the familiar fear of getting shot.

Shadows beckoned, and Bucky picked the deep shadows of the village's small school to run to. They embraced him, wrapping their cool darkness around his body, protecting him from prying, hostile eyes. Wells fell in behind him, his breath a ragged pant that seemed loud until Bucky realised he was panting loudly, too. Not from exertion, but from tension. The mission had gone sideways. The most important thing now was getting his team out. Later, he'd have to explain to the brass what had happened, and take responsibility for the failure. It was something he would happily do, if only he could get everyone back in one piece.

"I take it your 'I'm actually French' excuse didn't fly?" he asked, as he pressed his back against the shadowy wall and tried to ignore the way his body trembled with nervous tension.

He couldn't see Wells' face in the shadows, but he could hear his dry tone of voice. "Yeah. We were strangers in a small town, with no real reason to be there. If I'd had longer to think, I might've come up with something more believable than a 'farm hands looking for work' story. Guess we don't look the farming type."

"At least you tried. Now all we've gotta do is—"

"Mi scusi!" a voice called from the shadows behind them.

Bucky jumped and spun, his arm leaping up with his Colt tight in his hand. Wells' gun was up too, his hand so tense around the grip that his knuckles were white. Slowly, a figure appeared from the shadows. It was a man, dressed plainly, his face familiar. His aquiline nose had been broken at least once, and his brown eyes were fearful as he stared down the barrel of two pistols. Bucky placed it first.

"He was in the bar, reading a book in one corner," he told Wells. Then, to the man, "Who are you? Why are you following us?"

"Ero di incontrarvi in Basilico, ma avevo bisogno di essere sicuro che i Nazisti non avrebbero preso insieme."

"Wells?" Bucky asked, not removing his gaze from the man's face for even a moment.

"Damned if I know. Non parlo Italiano, remember?"

"Maybe he's our contact. Ask him the question." And maybe, just maybe, this mission could be salvaged.

Wells dipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out the phrasebook. He put his pistol away so he could thumb through the pages.

"I thought you had the question memorised?" Bucky accused.

"Yeah, but that was before I had to ad-lib a load of French and kill two Nazis. Stress does nothing for my short-term memory. Ah, here it is. Vuoi qualcosa da bere?"

The man blinked, and said, "Ho già avuto tre oggi."

"That's it," Wells announced, closing the book and pocketing it. "The countersign."

"Are you sure?" If Wells was wrong, they could be taking a spy back to their camp, and he'd had quite enough of German spies to last a lifetime.

"Positive."

"Really? Because thirty seconds ago, you'd forgotten the pass phrase."

"Yeah, but I remember the counter. Trust me, Barnes. If I thought this was the wrong guy, I'd put a bullet in him right now."

Voices from the courtyard behind them grew louder as people started leaving their houses. In his mind, he could picture them crowding around the bar, glancing in at the dead—or dying—Nazis. Wondering what had happened. Sending for the rest of the Germans in their tiny base. Soon, the other Nazis would give chase. There was no time to doubt Wells, or ask for the book so he could cross-examine the man himself. He'd just have to trust his friend was right, and that they weren't leading a wolf to the flock.

"Follow me," he said. "And tell that guy to stick close."

"You," Wells said, pointing at the man's chest, "stay close. Closi."

Bucky shook his head. He was pretty sure that wasn't Italian, but he had more important things to think about right now. He set off, sticking to the shadows, making his way around houses, ducking under windows, slowly heading in the direction of the woods. Whenever he heard voices, he froze, blood whooshing through his ears as he waited for the voices to pass. Twice he saw men—civilians—patrolling the streets with rifles, but clad in his shadows, he was safe from their eyes.

On the outskirts of the village, where the settlement met the woods, they found Tex and Stoller waiting. A little further away, Hawkins and Mex were peering through binoculars, keeping a close eye on the action in the village.

"Sarge, Gusty's ready and waiting at the rendezvous point," said Tex.

Bucky nodded. "Lead the way."

They stepped into the deeper shade of the trees, and the twinkling lights of the village grew dimmer. Thirty seconds later, a pair of engines roared down the road behind. They sounded like they were getting closer.

"That'll be the Krauts looking for us," said Hawkins.

Suddenly, the engines began coughing and spluttering. They choked themselves to death, a noise punctuated by the fading call of angry German curses.

"That'll be the Krauts realising we put rice in their radiators," Mex said, a grin in his voice.

"Now, imagine if we'd had popcorn kernels to put in there," said Tex.

Bucky smiled, and the adrenaline finally stopped coursing around his body. They weren't out of the woods yet, and they had quite a way to go before they'd be safe from German pursuit, but they had a head start, and they knew where they were going. With a little skill and a lot of luck, they'd be back at camp while the Nazis were still scouring the area for non-existent French Resistance members. Perhaps Wells' subterfuge would not be in vain after all.

Note 2: I forgot to mention last week, but you can check out a related one-shot fic called "The Letter" by fanfic writer by7the7sea: it's a really sweet look at present-day Bucky making good on his promise to check up on Samantha (Carrot's girl), and can be considered canon for my story so far and for the events of Running To You.