We Were Soldiers

52. Beginnings

The command tent was full of commissioned and non-commissioned officers. Howard Stark and Agent Carter were there. Doctor Peacock and the stern Nurse Madeley were there. Lieutenant Olliver was there. But there was no sign of Roberto. It was as if the colonels had used the last twenty-four hours to make him disappear.

"As some of you are already aware," Colonel Hawkswell started, "Sergeants Barnes and Wells recently undertook a mission to bring back intelligence vital to our role in this war. From our informant, we have learnt that Mussolini has been deposed and the Italian government has announced an armistice, which will shortly be signed by the new Italian leaders." Mumbles spread quietly around the men in the tent like the buzz of swarming bees.

"We had hoped," Colonel Phillips continued, "that with the loss of Italy, the Germans would retreat to the borders, but it seems they're determined to hang on and protect the ground they've gained here. They've withdrawn to several key locations aimed at slowing the Fifth Army's northward advance. With the bulk of our forces in the south, around Salerno and Naples, that means for the most part, we're behind enemy lines and on our own."

"It also means," said Hawkswell, "that we're uniquely placed to interrupt important Nazi operations. We don't have the manpower nor firepower to attack, take and defend any of the larger northern towns and cities, so we'll be carrying out a series of lightning strikes against enemy targets. Munitions factories, work camps, supply depots, trade routes… we'll strike fast, without warning, and disappear before the Nazis can even think about striking back.

"We'll travel east, skirting the southern range of the Italian Alps, using the mountain chain to help hide us from our enemies. The going won't be easy, but by using the mountains as refuge we can make sorties as we travel. Our eventual goal is Austria. If we can cut off the German supply chain, we can starve the Nazis currently fortified along several lines in the Apennines of much needed weapons and food provisions, and make it easier for our boys in the south to reach the north."

"Some of you may be wondering why we started off in France, instead of joining the bulk of the Fifth Army in Operation Husky," Phillips said. Bucky stood up a little straighter. So far, the colonel hadn't mentioned HYDRA to anybody other than Bucky and Wells. He could feel the breaths collectively held around him. "The SSR was formed to counter and eventually take down HYDRA, Hitler's deep science division run by a madman named Johann Schmidt. While in France, the 107th undertook several important ops to capture HYDRA communications bunkers. Thanks to the success of those missions, we now have access to HYDRA's entire comms chain in France. Information intercepted by our operatives is sent back to England and analysed by the SOE. It's only a matter of time before we get a lead on where Schmidt is undertaking his research, and when that lead comes through, we'll be sent to put him down. Until then, we'll be assisting the Allied forces in Italy with the capture of this country and expulsion of Nazi forces."

"Men," Colonel Hawkswell picked up. He stepped forward, his cool grey eyes somber. "This isn't going to be like France. It won't be a walk in the park." Jeez, he thought France was a walk in the park?! "We won't have the element of surprise for very long. Sooner or later, the Nazis are going to know we're here, and when they do, they're going to send a force to stop us. Travelling along the southern edge of the Alps should help if we need to mount a defence, but Nazis aren't the only enemy we have to contend with. Not all Italian companies have surrendered; some remain loyal to the fascists, and are aiding their Nazi allies. Others are waiting for the armistice to be signed before officially lowering arms against us. As well, the season is changing. Sooner or later, we're going to see snow, and probably a lot of it. We aren't kitted out for a winter campaign, so it's imperative we reach the Austrian border as swiftly as possible. We'll be supplied by air drops, but we'll start seeing more Luftwaffe patrols as we travel closer to the Austrian-Italian border, which is another reason we'll be using the Alps as a base of operations. They'll find it harder to target us from above once we're hidden in the mountains."

"You'll each be assigned missions as we travel," said Phillips. "We expect resistance to grow heavier as we penetrate further into Italy. If you have any questions, now would be the time to ask them."

In the silence that followed, Bucky heard a pin drop. Stark quickly swooped down to pick it up.

"Sorry," the scientist said, holding up the ruby-topped item for everyone to see. "My lucky lapel pin. Never leave home without it."

"Alright, men," said Hawkswell, when nobody asked questions. "Get back to your regiments and start packing up; we leave tonight, and I want to spend Thanksgiving in Venice." A grimace twisted his lips. "The last time I saw the Fifth Army's commander, Lieutenant General Clark, he swore that his troops would be the first to enter Rome. Therefore, if we manage to reach Rome before the Fifth Army, I'll personally ensure that every officer present receives a one hundred dollar bonus to his pay, with a smaller bonus for all the enlisted men in the company."

That got the bees mumbling again.

"Dismissed," Hawkswell said. The mumbling stopped long enough for everyone to salute and exit the command tent.

"I guess this is it," Bucky said to Wells, who was walking beside him in silence. "This is where the war really starts for us."

Wells merely shook his head. "It started the moment we signed our names on that dotted line." His voice was so heavy with sadness and regret that Bucky stopped, forcing Wells to turn and face him.

"Do you wish you hadn't done it? That you never signed up?"

"That's… a difficult question to answer. Ask me again, after the war's over."

"What if the war doesn't end in our lifetime?" It was a horrible thought, that the war would go on until he was old and grey, but what if it was like this forever? One side gaining, the other losing, before their roles were reversed and losses became gains? What if they were on an eternal teeter-totter, unable to get themselves off the ride?

"It will end," Wells assured him. "This war is killing men faster than they're being born. Eventually, one side will run out of soldiers. A war won by attrition is still a win."

Bucky nodded. He had a point. If lots of men were away from home fighting, that meant babies weren't being made. No babies meant no future soldiers. No soldiers sounded like a good thing. No war sounded even better.

"C'mon," he said, clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let's go tell the men to start packing up for a long campaign, then we can start planning."

Wells offered him a puzzled frown. "Planning what?"

Bucky grinned. "Thanksgiving in Venice, of course."

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

Not for the first time since being unceremoniously shipped off to Europe, Howard Stark wished for earplugs. Sequestered in his tent, he was aurally assaulted by the laughs and calls and orders shouted by the soldiers in the camp. He'd taken to working at night, because that was the only time he could get real peace, but working by lamplight was putting strain on his eyes. Too much more of this and he'd need glasses.

The flap of his tent opened, a splash of daylight flooding into the room heralding Colonel Phillips flanked by Agent Carter. Howard squinted in a poor attempt to protect what was left of his precious vision.

"Have you made any progress on Project Lazarus, Stark?" Phillips asked without even so much as a 'Hello, how are you doing today?'

Howard straightened up from his usual slouched-over-workbench position. The colonel always glared at him when he slouched. "Colonel, if I'd made progress, I wouldn't be here. I'd be on a beach in Tahiti, sipping mojitos and being pampered by several beautiful, tanned, scantily dressed women, and this war would be being fought by big, stupid men with more bravery than common sense."

"Then why did you ask to see me?"

"Because of this." Howard pulled out one of the boxes beneath his workbench and took from it a tempered glass vial. "It's my truth serum."

"I can see that. Would you care to elaborate?"

Howard fought back the sigh of irritation which so desperately tried to escape his lips. He reminded himself that, sometimes, horses needed to be led to water before they could drink. Not everybody possessed an IQ comparable to his own.

"I would like to destroy it, Colonel, along with all my notes about its creation."

Colonel Phillips stared at him as if he was crazy, "In God's name, why?"

"Because we're about to enter the war for real, and I don't want to risk it falling into enemy hands. Can you imagine the chaos and catastrophe that would befall us if the Nazis got their hands on my truth serum? They could use it to interrogate captured soldiers and spies. Men could be forced to divulge secrets. Battle plans. Names of campaigns, and informants, and—"

"Alright, I get the picture," Phillips grumbled. He was finally drinking the water. "You really need to destroy all record of it?"

"Yeah. But don't worry." He tapped his temple with his fingers. "I've got the original formula stored up here. I can make more in the future… just, some place far, far away from enemy lines."

Phillips pursed his lips briefly as he considered the request. "Fine. Destroy everything you need to. Is there anything else you feel is too dangerous to risk falling into enemy hands?"

"Just about everything I invent is dangerous in the wrong hands," Howard smiled happily. "But most of my inventions are only dangerous on a small scale. Nothing that could lose us the war like men being forced to flap their lips."

"What about this?" Agent Carter asked. She'd wandered away to inspect his notes about Project Lazarus, and was holding some of the papers up in her hand for him to see.

"What about it?"

"Isn't it dangerous for this to fall into enemy hands, too?" she insisted.

"Not right now. It's incomplete. I sent a third of the chemical sequence to Kaufmann, another third to a trusted colleague of mine in Sweden, and the third I have here probably isn't any more than Schmidt already has from his own blood samples."

"Are you any closer to identifying the key components of the serum?" Phillips asked. Always with the serum!

"No," Howard admitted. Of course, it probably didn't help that he barely spent any time on the damn thing. The men who held the SSR's purse-strings seemed to believe that Erskine's serum was the best way to win the war, but Howard was far from convinced. Sure, it had worked. It had worked spectacularly. But Erskine had gone on and on and on and on about how he needed the right candidate for Project Rebirth. Had spent many long, boring hours warning Howard how everything would go horribly pear-shaped if the right serum was given to the wrong candidate. Even if he could manufacture the serum tomorrow, it wasn't as if they had another Steve Rogers just lying around waiting to be transformed into a bastion of truth and justice and scantily clad show-girls.

Some guys got all the luck. Still, Howard had money. Lots and lots of money. Show-girls liked money just as much as they liked big muscles and floppy hair.

"Redouble your efforts," Phillips instructed him. "We need Project Lazarus to be a success."

The colonel left, and Carter trotted out on his heels like an obedient dog.

Alone again, Howard let himself slouch over his workbench. Redoubling his efforts would still only mean spending half an hour per day working on Project Lazarus. And who named these things, anyway? Might as well call it Project Dead And Buried. Erskine had taken his secrets to his grave, and it would take more than Project Lazarus to bring Project Rebirth back from the ashes.

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

General Ernst Kaufmann walked beside Francis Pollard and pretended to be interested in what the SIS-man was saying. As he walked, he tried to ignore the two armed guards walking ten paces behind them. Told himself they were there for his protection. A guard of honour, perhaps.

"We apprehended another Abwehr spy posing as a refugee from Poland this morning. MI5 are going to have a chat with him about how we might help each other."

Pollard paused, and Kaufmann recognised it as a desire for input. He cleared his throat.

"Your MI5 has made impressive progress in capturing the spies," he offered. "And in so successfully using so many of them as double-agents. Your success rate is astounding."

"Almost one-hundred percent," Pollard gloated with a smile. "If it wasn't for that one who killed himself before we could bring him in, it would be a perfect record. MI5 are very proud of their work."

"As they should be."

The SIS agent's smile turned conciliatory. "Ahh, but forgive me General Kaufmann, I'm sure you tire of hearing me tell you about all your fellow countrymen we catch trying to sneak their way into the country."

"It pleases me to hear of your victories over Hitler," Kaufmann told him. Thoughts of Hitler still hurt deep in his chest. The lies, the slander… the bullet that went through his lung, missing his heart by millimetres. Yes, it still hurt to breathe deeply.

Small talk came to an end as they reached the laboratory. Pollard opened the door, and Kaufmann stepped inside. The dozen scientists in the room looked up; half of them nodded at him. His men. The best he had been able to bring with him. Those loyal to him after Sturmabteilung's fall. He trusted them with his life, because they had saved it. During the Night of the Long Knives, they had taken his dying body from Castle Kaufmann and brought him to safety. Others had joined them, a handful of SA soldiers who'd now been assigned to the joint British-American scientific service. Men who would give their lives to help bring down HYDRA and take their revenge upon Schmidt.

His hands shook, as they always did when he thought of that traitorous wiesel. He'd learnt, not long after making his deal with the English, that Schmidt had taken up residence in Castle Kaufmann, and the thought of the bastard living in Kaufmann's family home, walking its corridors, using its facilities as if he owned it… If thoughts of Hitler hurt, thoughts of Schmidt raged.

He forced his hands to calmness, let his fists open as he turned to the first of the scientists. He spoke to the man in German, knowing Pollard could understand every word. He asked how progress on Project Lazarus was going ("slowly"), and gave the man news about his family ("They are well. Still safe. Still healthy") and after he had spoken with the man, he repeated similar conversations with the rest. It was a routine, but one they all needed.

Nine years. This year it had been nine years since Schmidt's attempt to murder him. At first, Kaufmann believed that the scientist had acted on his own, jealous of Kaufmann's power, angry over his rejection. Then he'd heard a public denouncement. A broadcast in Hitler's own voice explaining how he, Kaufmann, had been executed for attempting to organise a coup! He'd scarcely been able to believe it. Almost hadn't. Almost went running to Hitler, to tell him of Schmidt's betrayal. It was only when his men begged and pleaded with him that he realised where the true betrayal lay.

The deal he had made with the English was not so bad. They called him General, even though he wasn't that anymore. They gave him a house to live in. Nothing compared to the extravagance of Castle Kaufmann, but decent enough in these troubling times. They allowed him to oversee his science team. They gave him updates—real updates, not just what their news service broadcast—about the war. They accepted the intelligence he provided for them, and listened to his recommendations. They allowed him a small staff to serve him, and gave him an allowance for buying nice things for the house they had given him. They allowed him to visit the theatre in West End, and permitted him to be escorted on long walks in London's more genteel districts. They sent young, educated men to show him around museums and art galleries, and some of those young men were quite amenable.

The food was terrible, of course, and the beer was worse, but at least he was alive. There were less comfortable places to be, in this war.

After he had finished speaking with the few men he could truly consider friends, Pollard hit him with a small bit of news.

"We've heard from reliable sources that Schmidt has a fellow named Arnim Zola working around the clock to replicate Dr. Erskine's serum."

Geduld, he told the hands that once again twitched into fists at that name. Geduld. Patience. Eventually, Schmidt would get what was coming to him.

"Arnim Zola is no biologist," he assured Pollard. "And better yet, he has no interest in biology. You need not worry, I think." Zola would die, too. When Schmidt had been dealt with, those who were loyal to him would be punished just as severely. Schmidt had slaughtered Kaufmann's entire staff, save those who had brought him to England. Zola, alone, had been spared. The man's fate was sealed.

"And what of your colleagues? Have they made any progress on analysing the blood samples we provided?" asked Pollard, as if he hadn't understood the entirety of the conversations held in German.

"Progress is slow," Kaufmann told him. "But sometimes, slow is good. You would not want to hurry this. Not after what happened the first time it was rushed. It hasn't even been three months yet."

Pollard gave a mollified grunt. "Very well."

Kaufmann glanced down at his wristwatch. Six-thirty. It was almost time for his evening's entertainment. The thought stirred something other than hatred inside him.

"Do you have somewhere to be?" Pollard asked, when he noticed Kaufmann's check of his watch, and the accompanying smile.

"As a matter of fact, Lord Kendrick has invited me to a private demonstration of the new telescope designed by the Royal Astronomical Society." He had no idea whether Thomas Kendrick really was a Lord, or merely given that title to pander to Kaufmann's whims. But it didn't matter. Lord or not, he had a handsome, chiselled face with luscious, full lips.

"I didn't know you had an interest in astronomy, General."

"I don't."

Pollard gave an awkward little cough. "Quite so. Well, I shan't keep you. Your driver is waiting outside, and your guards will see you safely to your destination. We will speak again next week."

"Next week," Kaufmann agreed.

His guards followed diligently as he swept along down the corridor of the now-familiar facility. Next week. Since arriving in England there had been 468 'next weeks,' and he longed for the day when he would no longer have to see Pollard next week. The only reason he had tolerated his exile for so long was the knowledge that there would come a time when Schmidt and Hitler were no longer, when all of his enemies had fallen and he could finally return home to take his rightful place as leader of a nation marching towards greatness.

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

Captain America was on the radio. The Adventures of Captain America. Steve had thought that it would be small fry compared to being on the big screen, but Kevin assured him that radio was bigger than the big screen. In order to see Captain America movies, people had to make the effort to leave their houses, and pay money, and put up with annoying children shouting and jeering throughout the whole movie. It was something not everybody wanted to experience. Not everybody could afford.

Radio was bigger because it was already there. It was in homes and diners. All people had to do was switch the radio on, tune in to the right station, and there Captain America was. It was easy. It was ubiquitous. It was advertising. Those people who didn't want to experience Captain America on the big screen might change their minds after hearing him on the radio.

Steve hadn't met the voice actor who played Captain America on the radio, and he didn't want to. The man had a voice with a deep, heroic timbre, and he sounded nothing at all like Steve. But he sounded like Captain America, and that was what counted.

He pushed himself up from his hotel bed, strode the two long paces to the radio, and unplugged it from the wall. Silence reigned, but it wasn't a true silence. For Steve, there were no true silences anymore. Project Rebirth had honed his senses, as well as altering his physiology. His eyesight was the sharpest of his senses; he saw everything up close in perfect detail. He could make his way through a room of obstacles with only the smallest iota of light to see by. He could make out writing on signs from remarkably far away.

His sense of hearing came in close second. In a quiet room, he could hear his own heartbeat. He could hear footsteps approaching from the furthest length of a corridor, or the footfalls of people walking far behind him down city streets. The buzz of flies was an annoying drone; he heard them as if they hovered directly in his ear. Even now, in the radio-less silence of the hotel room, he heard noise. The voices from the rooms around and below his. The traffic on the street far below. The swish of the ceiling fan as its blades cut the air. The quiet rumble of the building's plumbing as faucets were switched on and off in different rooms.

The world was alive in ways it never had been before, and at that moment it was alive with the approach of familiar footsteps on the carpeted floor outside his room. Steve opened the door and found Kevin standing there, his hand half-raised in preparation for knocking. The man's eyes widened slightly at the perceived prescience, and a smile quickly slid across his face.

"I got your message," Kevin said, thumbing a direction over his shoulder that was probably meant to indicate the reception desk. "What's so important that it can't wait till tomorrow's show?"

Steve gestured for Kevin to enter his room and take a seat on the long chair in front of the vanity unit. As Kevin unbuttoned his jacket and made himself comfortable, Steve took a deep breath. Went over the lines in his mind. He'd gotten pretty good at memorising lines. The shows had been good practice; the moving pictures, even better. He didn't even need cue-cards, now.

"I've been thinking long and hard about my future," he started. When he realised Kevin was looking up at him, he sank down onto the edge of his bed. Tried to appear less imposing. "And I don't think I can do this anymore." Kevin opened his mouth, but Steve rushed on. "Don't get me wrong, I'm truly grateful to you and Senator Brandt for everything you've done for me. I can honestly say that I've done things I never would've imagined myself doing. Been places I never even dreamt I'd see. But I don't belong here. The stage isn't where I was made to be. Neither's the big screen, or the radio. I'm meant to be on the front lines, serving my country. I've done everything Senator Brandt has asked, and the Captain America wagon is well and truly rolling. You've got three movies, and the fourth is being released in a couple of weeks. You've got the comics. You've got the radio shows with a guy who sounds much more heroic than me. Heck, you could stick anybody in the USO costume, and people would believe it's "me" on that stage. I wanna pass the torch. Let someone else be Captain America, now. I want to be Steve Rogers again. Private Steve Rogers. I wanna be a soldier, and I think I've earned that right."

When he realised he was toying with his hands, picking at his thumbnail, he forced himself to stop and meet Kevin's gaze. This wasn't a decision he had taken lightly, and he knew Senator Brandt wouldn't let him go easily, but it was taking too long for them to get him to the front lines. He'd enlisted. Already done one week of Basic. With the connections he'd made thanks to Brandt, he could approach someone in the Army, beg to be assigned to some training camp to complete his Basic training, and perhaps finally be sent off to fight. Sure, it would take nearly three months, but if he could get shipped out straight after boot camp, even as nothing more than a private, he could be in Europe in time for Christmas.

Kevin stood up, heaving a long, slow sigh as he paced the room a couple of times. His dark eyebrows were pulled down into a low frown. "Well. I gotta admit, that's a real blow to us, Steve. A real blow. I was counting on you joining us in Europe next month. But I understand, you gotta do what you gotta do. It's not like we could stop you; I mean, you wrestled a submarine for godssake." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll call Bob Hope. He's done a few shows on the west coast, he might free up his schedule for a trip to Europe. A real patriot, Bob."

Steve was on his feet in a heartbeat; his own heart was beating pretty damn fast.

"What do you mean? We're going to Europe?"

Kevin ceased pacing and turned to face him. "Well, we were."

"Since when?!"

"I found out two days ago, from Senator Brandt, and—"

"Why didn't you tell me?!" Steve demanded with a groan. And to think, he'd almost gone down to the local enlistment centre earlier that afternoon to sign up again as Steve from Sausalito.

"I wanted it to be a surprise! I was gonna wait until your 75th show next week, and give you the good news at the end of it."

"Why now?" he asked. Months of nothing, and now that he'd threatened to leave, they were giving him what he wanted? "Why's it taken so long?"

Kevin seemed shocked by the question. "Steve, in case you hadn't noticed, there's a war going on! About the only safe place we could've gone was England, but that's not exactly 'the front lines' like you wanted; unless you were happy to entertain the Krauts, of course." He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, we got word less than a week ago that Patton now holds Sicily, and our boys have launched an invasion of mainland Italy. That means we now have air bases in the Med. That means we can fly directly to Sicily without being shot down by the Krauts. Did you think we were going to risk your life—not to mention the girls' lives, and mine—by flying us over enemy territory without air support or a safe place to touch down? Now that we've got a foothold in Europe, we can start sending the USO there. The Senator's working on a schedule for you as we speak."

"Oh." Steve couldn't decide whether he felt like a fool who'd been played, or a fool who'd brought his own foolishness on himself. "When do we leave?"

"If all goes well, and Patton holds on to Sicily, mid October."

Steve nodded. Mid October. Just over a month. He could handle that. Another month of shows, and movie scenes, and photograph poses, and autograph signing, and hand-shaking. A month, and he'd be in Sicily! Was Bucky there? Had he been a part of the invading force? Would Steve look out across the audience and, with his new keen eyes, see his best friend looking back?

The thought was enough to make his stomach churn like a bucketful of worms. At least with his mask on, Bucky wouldn't recognise him. If Bucky was there, on Sicily, in the audience, Steve could find a quiet moment to change into something less flamboyant than his costume, find his friend, and explain exactly what had happened. He'd written to the Barnes family a couple of times, and had asked them not to mention anything about his… transformation, in their letters to Bucky. Steve himself hadn't written any letters because heck, what could he possibly say? "Dear Bucky, yesterday I was a Frankenscience experiment, and now I can wrestle submarines"? No. He couldn't do this in a letter. He had to find his friend and explain in person. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

"Why don't I give you some time to get your head around the idea?" Kevin asked, when Steve offered no other comment. "There's no hurry. If you've got anything you want to do before we go, any business you wanna take care of, you have a whole month to do it in. Take it easy, Rogers, and I'll see you tomorrow at the show."

Kevin clapped him on the arm, and left. Steve's thoughts ran at a thousand miles an hour, his brain already compiling that list of things to do. One, visit Terrence's kids' school again. Two, write to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes and explain to them he was going to join their son. The Barnes family were like family to him, and had been even before his mom had died. He'd written to them, whilst on the tour… maybe he'd have chance to see them again, before leaving for Europe.

Yes. He'd go home, one last time. See Bucky's family. Ask them if they had any letters they wanted him to take for Bucky. Then he could take care of his final piece of business. One last wreath to put on his parents' graves. He'd leave an order with a florist to keep up the deliveries, but he couldn't go to war without seeing his mom and dad one last time. It had already been too long, and who knew how long he'd be in Europe for? Maybe it wouldn't end there. Maybe after Europe, they'd send him to the Pacific, to help the war effort against Japan.

He didn't dwell on the minutiae. Didn't worry about how he'd get from performing on the front lines to fighting on the front lines. He'd plan for that later, when he was finally on foreign soil. Somehow, he would find a way to make it happen. He was going to Europe, and nothing would hold him back.