Author's note: Readers of my last fic, Running To You, will recognise parts of this chapter. Also, if you'd like to see pictures of my new puppy, you can visit my blog (theurbanspaceman dot net) and check out the post, "Spacepals Review Stuff #2 — Friendship" dated 15th July, and scroll about halfway down that post to where the beagle pictures begin. At the time of publishing this chapter, that particular post is the most recent one on my blog, so it should be the first thing you see.
We Were Soldiers
56. Changing Seasons
His feet pounded against the concrete as he raced down the street, dodging debris, glancing at the half-ruined buildings from the corner of his vision. Any one of those buildings could've held a squad of German soldiers, but he had bigger problems to worry about. Much bigger. He hadn't realised Panzer IVs were so big, or so fast.
The ominous rumble from behind spurred him on. Shots rang out, bullets whizzing past his head, and he had to fight the urge to throw himself down on the ground. Up ahead was refuge, and as he approached, a figure popped up and began shooting back at the men trying to hit Bucky as he ran. As soon as he neared the wall, he leapt over it and sank down. Wells fired two more shots, then joined him.
"This is the last time we do this by picking straws," Bucky warned.
"Hey, it was your idea," Wells countered as he reloaded his M1. He peeped over the wall and fired again. "You said it would be fun. I have to say, so far, I'm not really feeling it."
The ground began to shake as the Panzer drew nearer. A mechanical grinding sound was the tank aiming its turret at the wall behind which he and Wells were crouched.
"Look on the bright side," he said. "At least we didn't pick the shortest straw."
A huge explosion sent fiery debris flying everywhere. Bucky closed his eyes to shield them from a cloud of smoke blowing down the road, and Wells coughed into the sleeve of his jacket. When the smoke finally cleared, they peered over the wall at the destruction on the street. The blackened bodies lying here and there were the Nazi soldiers who'd accompanied the tank. Baiting the Panzers was surprisingly easy.
Together, they made their way up the street to where, less than an hour earlier, they'd dug a hole. As soon as they drew near, a piece of buff-coloured fabric was thrown back, revealing Mex lying on his back in a shallow trough. The private was wide-eyed, his pistol aimed up, ready to be fired.
"Whoa, calm down, Mex, it's just us."
"I never want to do that ever again," Mex said. He accepted both men's hands and allowed himself to be pulled out of the hole. "I could've been crushed!"
"Stark said the Panzer tracked wheels were too long and wide to dip into your hole," Bucky reminded him.
"And he made your adaptive camouflage shield flame-retardant," added Wells.
"I would have preferred it bullet-retardant, as well."
"Come on," Bucky said, "let's meet up with Gusty's team. Things have gotten suspiciously silent from their street."
They jogged to the rendezvous point and found Gusty's team embroiled in hand to hand combat with a small group of Krauts. One of the Germans had Gusty pinned to the ground by his neck and a knife raised above his shoulder, ready to stab down. Bucky lifted his pistol and shot him before he could strike, while Wells picked off a large Kraut harassing Hawkins.
"Y'know," said Bucky, offering his hand to Gusty, "some of us fight wars with guns."
"Some of us run out of ammo at inconvenient moments," Gusty sighed. "Lucky for us, the Krauts did too."
Bucky tossed him an additional clip for his M1. "Make every shot count. And remind me to teach you how to fight, the next time we make camp. If you're gonna be trading blows with Nazis, you at least need to know how to throw a punch."
A squad from the 69th arrived, led by Sergeant Dugan. The guy was actually nuts; here he was, on the outskirts of Nazi-infested Bergamo, and he still wore his black bowler hat. It wasn't even reinforced with steel; it was just a hat. Bucky had no idea how he wasn't dead yet.
"Sorry to crash your party," Dugan grinned, "but ours finished a little earlier than expected."
"You dealt with your Panzer?" Wells asked him.
"You mean that smoking pile of crap the Nazis called a tank? The 69th eat Panzers for breakfast."
"That certainly explains your breath."
"C'mon," said Bucky, as they dispatched the last of the Nazis, "I think I hear gunfire over to the east, which means Captain Banks' party is still going on."
"Excellent," Dugan said, with another crazy grin. He gave his shotgun a loving pat. "I love parties."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Nestled snugly beneath his blanket on his creaky camp bed, Bucky turned over and tried to figure out why he'd woken up. A few moments later, his uncomfortably full bladder provided the answer. He opened his eyes and met darkness. Late night, or early morning? Get up and answer nature's call, or try to ignore the need to pee so he could stay snug and warm in bed?
Whilst he was still debating his options, his bladder told him in impolite terms that he would get up and visit the latrine pit. With a silent groan, he threw back his blanket, reached for his jacket which he pulled on over his shirt, and tugged his boots onto his feet, tucking his trousers into the top to stop them getting damp or muddy.
When he stepped outside the tent, he found himself transported to an almost fairytale-like world. A sudden cold snap had struck, freezing the drew on the grass and the trees, turning everything a crisp, fresh white as far as the eye could see. He could smell the coldness in the air, and when he exhaled his breath fogged the air in front of him. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself and strode quietly in the direction of the pits.
Though the days still felt like summer, he knew winter was just around the corner; the early-morning frost was proof of that. Soon, the season would change. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year… all the holidays he would've celebrated back home with his family would go uncelebrated—or at the very least, minimally celebrated—out here. There would probably be no Thanksgiving turkey. No exchange of Christmas gifts, unless it was the exchange of smokes. The start of 1944 would be spent in the same way as the end of 1943: fighting Nazis. Trying to halt the spread of evil across Europe.
Back home, Mom would be cooking her usual fare for Christmas Day. She'd probably make Bucky's favourite apple pie, too. His mom made the best apple pie on the whole street. Maybe she'd save him a slice. Maybe she'd stick it in the electric refrigerator Dad had bought her six years ago, hoping he'd be back in time to eat it.
The thought that he might never taste his mom's apple pie again brought a lump to his throat and moisture to his eyes. He blinked rapidly, because the moisture made his eyes cold, and tried to swallow the lump. He was being foolish. Of course he'd have Mom's apple pie again. When this was over, and he got sent home, he'd write to her first and ask her to have a pie ready and waiting for him on the kitchen counter so that he could breathe in the scent as he walked through the front door. Everybody would be there, including Steve, and they'd all hug each other until their arms grew tired. Then there would be pie.
At the pit, he pinched the top of his leg between his forefinger and thumb, trying to snap himself out of his melancholy homesickness. Thoughts of home had weighed heavily on his mind since the accident in the mines. It had served to remind him that it wasn't just enemy forces he had to watch out for. Even something as benign as rocks might try to kill him. He knew first-hand what it was like to lose people to war, and he wasn't going to inflict that pain on his family. He was going home at the end of it, or his name wasn't James Buchanan Barnes.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
"You drop your elbow, Barnes."
"What? I don't drop my elbow."
"Yeah, you do. On your right. By an inch, when you're guarding."
Bucky stopped his bout with Gusty to aim a scowl at his friend. Wells was watching from his seat on the back of a parked-up, mud-plastered jeep, an open bag of sunflower seeds clutched in his hand. God only knew what he'd traded for those.
"Do you know how many championship titles I have under my belt?"
"Must be some other belt." Wells split a seed with his teeth and blew the shell out onto the ground. "One you left at home, maybe."
"I don't drop my damn elbow."
Wells rolled his eyes. "Corporal Ferguson, please tell Sergeant Barnes that he drops his damn elbow."
Both men looked at Gusty, whose eyes suddenly shifted hastily from side to side in the search for a way outta answering. "Err, I wouldn't really know what I'm looking for, Sarge."
"You're looking for a damn elbow that's dropping by an inch. You know what an elbow looks like, don't you, Gusty? And you've quite possibly been given the scope of 'an inch' by some poor, disappointed girl, right?"
Gusty cringed and turned back to Bucky. "Yeah, he's right Sarge, you drop your elbow by an inch."
Bucky fought back the pang of irritation bubbling inside his chest. Very few people were willing to expend the effort required to stand up to Wells when he had his mind set on something.
"Thank you, Corporal, you can go and do something else now," he told the man.
Gusty slunk away, seemingly glad to be out of the crossfire.
Wells grinned at him. "I thought you wanted to teach Gusty how to fight?"
"Well apparently I drop my damn elbow by an inch," Bucky growled. "How'm I supposed to teach a guy to fight if I drop my elbow?"
"Don't get pissy. Here, have a sunflower seed." Wells held out the bag, which Bucky ignored. Things had been tense in the 107th since Davies and Franklin had died, and Wells seemed to be the only one who hadn't taken it real hard.
"You're unusually chipper," Bucky pointed out.
"What's not to be chipper about?" Wells shrugged. "Sun's shining, we're in Italy, and we're not dead yet."
"You finally wrote your letter?" Bucky guessed. His friend had been agonising over the damn thing ever since they'd first talked about it, back in the mines. That felt like a lifetime ago.
Wells spat out another shell and crunched the seed. "Yup."
"Still not gonna post it?"
"Nope." Wells shook the seed bag at him, and Bucky shook his head. "Like you said, better I deliver it in person. After the war. Deal with the fallout right there and then, instead of sitting around waiting for a response that might never come, and I might not like even if it does come. I figure I've been running like a scared kid ever since my first time in that cupboard. About time I finally grew a pair and faced something head-on. And who knows, maybe I won't even need the letter. Maybe I'll get the opportunity to say it all in person. In fact, that's my plan. The letter is a backup. Just in case."
"Huh." He couldn't help looking at Wells like he'd just sprouted another two heads. "What changed your mind?"
"You did. After our little heart-to-heart under the mountain, I felt much better. Like, I'd been holding all this darkness inside me for as long as I could remember, and all I really needed was to let some of it out. Kinda like confessional, I guess, only you're a damn sight more useful than a priest." He cracked another sunflower seed open and chewed with an introspective look in his eyes. "I figure, it's gotta be healthy to clear the air. Get stuff off my chest. And really, what have I got to lose, right?"
As Bucky watched his friend, it was like seeing a new man emerge from the shell of an old one. Gone were the dark rings beneath Wells' eyes, product of guilt and too many sleepless nights. The twitchy sullenness he'd been prone to at times had evaporated like the morning mist. It must be great, to find such catharsis in talking.
"If you've got nothing to lose, why not send your letter now? Why wait until after the war?"
Wells shifted on his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time in days. "Because this is war, and the last thing I wanna do is go distracting anyone with my touchy-feely emotional baggage. Right now, the focus has gotta be on winning the war. Everything else can wait."
"Makes sense." Besides, the very fact that Wells had even listened to him at all was astounding. When he'd suggested the letter, he never thought his friend would actually go through with it. But maybe if he could get Wells to give way on one thing, he could get him to admit defeat on something else. "Now, put down those sunflower seeds and get in this imaginary ring. I'm gonna prove to you that I don't drop my damn elbow."
His friend shook his head. "I'm not gonna fight you, Barnes."
"Afraid?" Bucky grinned.
"Of you?" Wells scoffed. "Hardly. I just have amazing powers of precognition. I can tell you right now how it'll go. After a minute or two, I'll come at you with a left hook that you can't block 'cos you drop your right elbow, and you'll end up getting all pissy with me for being right."
"'Cept it won't go like that, because you're not right."
"I'm always right. It's called Wells' Law. And that law follows, 'Danny Wells is always right.' Besides, you're annoying when you sulk."
He was annoying?! The damn nerve of the guy!
"One," Bucky said, holding up his first finger of his right hand, "you're not always right." A second finger joined it. "Two, I do not drop my elbow." A third finger was raised. "Even if there was the slightest chance that you are right about this, I wouldn't get pissy with you over it. Scouts' honour."
"I don't believe for even a second that you were ever a scout. But…" Wells sighed and put his snack down. "If you insist. But first, you wanna change your belt to that one that's got all the titles under it?"
"Funny, Wells. Funny."
They squared up in the imaginary ring, and Bucky was glad of the screened off area they had behind the 107th's tents, away from the main crowd of the army. Not that he was concerned about spectators, of course. There was nothing to be concerned about, because he definitely did not drop his damn elbow.
They traded a few blows, light jabs to begin with, to get a feel for each others' style. Bucky had always been an out-fighter at heart, and he'd never done bare-knuckle fighting before joining up. Dad always insisted on gloves and mouth-guards as the bare minimum, but such equipment was not easily come by in the army. Especially not on deployment. At first he went easy with his punches, because the last thing he wanted was to knock his friend out before he had chance to prove him wrong.
Wells was light on his feet and pretty nimble; he matched Bucky for height, if not weight, and seemed at ease with his own defensive, counter puncher style. After Bucky decided his friend could take a little more pressure, Wells upped the ante by dodging faster, by making Bucky stretch a little further, work a little harder to try and land a punch.
"They really made you wear gloves in every fight?" Wells taunted, as Bucky followed his back-stepping around the imaginary ring.
"What, and you didn't?"
"Bare-knuckle boxing is a fine underground tradition in the Irish community."
"You're not Irish."
Wells shrugged and danced back again. "Third generation. Close enough. And I'm more Irish than you are a boy scout, anyway."
When Bucky realised his friend was trying to wear him down with missed-punches and feints, he stepped closer and switched to an in-fighter style. It wasn't his preferred style, but he needed to close the gap and get through Wells' defences before he was too tired to keep throwing punches. He landed a swift left-jab right-cross combo, then pulled down his left arm for a quick upper-cut… and went reeling as something came out of nowhere, catching him hard on his right cheek and showering his vision with a tumble of falling stars.
Dazed, he stood upright and shook his head. Only when his vision began to clear of bright flashes did he realise that 'something' had been a swift left-jab outta nowhere from Wells… and with more force than a counter puncher ought rightfully to have used for a jab. It felt more like taking a blow from a brawler.
"Y'know," Wells drawled, examining his own purple knuckles, "if you didn't drop your right elbow, you probably would have blocked that."
Bucky shook his head again, still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Wells had faked him out! Pretended he was a defensive fighter, all the while waiting to switch styles to a slugger. And now Bucky's cheek hurt like hell.
"Let's hear it," gloated Wells, looking smug.
"You cheated," Bucky scowled. "You said you were gonna come in with a left hook that I wouldn't block."
"I gave left hook as an example of something you wouldn't be able to block with your elbow an inch out. And you know as well as I do that there's no such thing as 'cheating' in a fight. There is winning, and losing."
"And cheating."
"Sure, be pissy about it. Thus Wells' Law is proven correct once again."
Bucky bit back his scathing reply and tried not to grumble under his breath. It wasn't that difficult; the stars had returned, momentarily distracting him. "Didja have to hit so hard?"
"No, I guess not. Sorry. I just wanted to make my point." Wells did sound genuinely sorry, and there was a measure of sympathy in his blue eyes, so Bucky let it slide. "How's your face?"
"You tell me. You're the one who punched it." It throbbed like hell below his eye. "I hope my face didn't break any of your knuckles; that would be just terrible."
"My knuckles will live," Wells chuckled. "Let's check out the damage."
Bucky held still, wincing in pain when Wells' fingertips gently probed his cheekbone, his touch cool against the burning sting of his skin. "Well? What's the verdict, doc?"
"That your face will live, too." He picked up the bag of seeds and offered a peace token. Bucky merely shook his head. This was the last time he'd be bare-knuckle fighting with Danny Wells.
"Hey, Sergeant Wells." One of the privates from the 9th Infantry appeared from between the tents. He stared at Bucky's bruised face for a moment, then looked to Wells and his nonchalant sunflower seed cracking, and shook his head. The private wisely decided not to ask the question. "Colonel wants to see you, double time."
"Thanks, Private, I'm on my way." The man disappeared, and Wells stepped forward to hook an arm around Bucky's shoulders. "C'mon champ, let's drop you off at the hospital on my way to whatever new chewing-out I'm about to get. I don't like the way you keep blinking and shaking your head."
"I'm fine," Bucky protested. "Just countin' stars." Besides, it wasn't possible to go to the hospital tent without being forced to give a pint of blood.
"There's only one star that counts, pal."
"Rita Hayworth?"
Wells gave him a happy grin. "See? This is why we get along so well. Now, if anyone asks, we weren't fighting." Bare-knuckle boxing wasn't exactly encouraged by the brass. "Just say you tripped and landed face-down on my fist."
"Yeah, real believable."
At the hospital tent, Wells left him to go get chewed-out by the colonel, and Bucky was admitted by a robust nurse with cold hands and a rough bedside manner. She practically hoisted him onto one of the hard examination tables, and her vice-like grip on his head was definitely on the firmer side of professional. She flashed a light into his eyes, and used her fingers to probe his cheekbone with much less care for causing him pain than his friend had shown. Then she stuck a thermometer in his mouth, because sure, maybe his mouth was broken, too.
"What happened?" she asked, pen poised above an official accident report form.
"I tripped," he said, around the tiny tube of glass poking out of his mouth.
"And fell on a fist?"
"Something like that that."
"Amazing, how much that happens in this camp." She sighed and scribbled down 'tripped' on the form, then manhandled him back into a reclining position.
"Do we really need to do this?" he asked, eyeing up the large needle, thin tubing and elastic strap she pulled out from a drawer.
She took the thermometer from his mouth and checked it. "You're healthy, you have blood, and we could always use more."
"What about my cheek?"
"It's fine, nothing broken. I'll give you a cold compress for it, to help take the swelling down."
Half an hour later, Bucky was back in his barracks tent, lying on his uncomfortable camp bed. His left hand held a wad of gauze to his right arm, which in turn held a compress against his cheek. Missing a pint of blood, and suffering at least a third of a concussion, he dozed for a while, feeling his mind slip in and out of a sleep which seemed determined to elude him. And just when he finally felt himself sink down, into the blissful murky depths of unconsciousness, a voice whispered quietly, right beside his ear, "You were right, the colonel hates me."
Bucky opened his eyes to find Wells hovering by his bed.
"Can I borrow a pair of your socks?"
He pushed himself up, checked his arm, touched his cheek, winced, and then finally clocked his friend's request.
"What's wrong with your socks?" he asked.
Wells worked as he spoke, switching his off-duty shirt for a combat one, pulling his jacket over the top and buttoning it up to the collar. His sidearm was slid into its holster, along with his knife into its sheath. "I'm only wearing one pair, and I need two. But my only spare is full of holes. I've requisitioned some more, but they won't come in time."
"In time for what?"
With a trademark grin on his face, Wells tapped his nose. "Top secret mission, pal. Very hush-hush."
"Tell me."
"Seems those fly-boys over-shot their drop point. Again. Colonel wants me to take a squad from the 107th, and go with Sergeant Haven and some of his boys from the 9th to pick up our gear before the Krauts can help themselves to it."
"Those pilots are overpaid," Bucky offered in condolence.
"Yeah. Anyway, the terrain's apparently too rough for the jeeps. Six-hour march there, and carrying a bunch of supplies makes it at least eight back. So whaddya say, can I borrow a pair of socks?"
"What if you don't come back? I might never see those socks again."
"Then you can have the socks I've requisitioned from the quartermaster, and Gusty will be one step closer to that promotion to Sergeant he's been coveting since we left NYPOE."
"Sounds fair. There's a pair of clean socks in my trunk. But I want you to wash 'em before bringing them back to me. I don't want anything that's been on your feet for twelve hours or more."
"Alright. How's your face?" Wells asked, as he hunted in Bucky's footlocker for the cleanest pair of socks he could find.
"Not broken, apparently." Though it still stung like holy hell.
"Good to hear." Once Bucky's friend was done lacing up his boots, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out, handing it over. It turned out to be the packet of sunflower seeds. "Here, knock yourself out while I'm gone. Just don't literally knock yourself out. You look pretty drained, I don't think you can afford to give another pint of blood today."
"Ha ha, very funny," he scowled. Wells merely chuckled and made his way to the tent flap. "Hey, Wells." Bucky waited until his friend turned back. "Be careful out there. I'd really miss those socks."
Wells gave him a grin and a sloppy salute. "See you tonight, Sergeant Barnes."