Author's note #1: If, like me, you're getting the "Fanfic error type 2" whilst trying to submit a chapter to the document manager, you can get around it by selecting Copy & Paste method, instead of upload. Just be careful, because C&P from some editors seems to introduce format errors (I've had the issue with google docs and Word before, which is why I generally stopped doing it. Scrivener seems fine, though.) Hopefully TPTB will fix the problem soon, so we can all get back to properly updating our stories.
We Were Soldiers
57. Dulce et Decorum est
A cry of 'Medic!' pulled Bucky from a dreamless sleep. His eyes flew open and met the bland khaki of the tent above. He was on his feet, pulling on his uniform, even before his mind was fully awake. Calls for medics weren't exactly uncommon in the camp, but it had been sixteen hours since those pilots had missed their supply drop-point, and the teams lead by Wells and Sergeant Haven of the 9th Infantry were overdue.
Outside the tent, in the pre-dawn haze, Bucky looked around, and finally saw a group of soldiers being hurried into the hospital tent; his eyes picked out the shoulder insignia of the 107th and the 9th amongst the patches of the medical corps. His stomach immediately tied itself into a knot of worry.
The hospital was in organised chaos when Bucky pushed aside the large door flap and stepped inside. The medical staff were busy administering painkillers and antibiotics, stemming the flow of blood, hooking up drips to put blood back in, applying tourniquets to limbs that could not be salvaged. Bucky's stomach turned, but he fought back the unease as he tried to find a familiar face amongst the mass of injured soldiers.
Private Biggs was upright on one of the medical beds, his face a bloody mess, the lower half of his left ear missing. The medics had not yet seen to him; the walking wounded couldn't take priority. Bucky dodged one of the harassed medical staff and made his way to the soldier.
"Private, what happened?" Bucky asked.
Biggs looked up at him with a thousand-yard-stare, his face numb with shock despite whatever pain his ear must've been giving him. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then mutely shook his head. Bucky reached out a hand, placing it on the man's shoulder, giving a very gentle shake.
"Biggs, tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time.
"G—Germans." Biggs took a deep breath, closed his eyes and steeled himself. "T—They got there first, Sarge. T—Then the shooting started. We were outnumbered."
Bucky looked up at the beds, did a quick head-count. They were five men down.
Shit.
"Where's Sergeant Wells? Sergeant Haven?"
Biggs shook his head. "Haven… gone to report to the brass. Mission failed."
Four. If Haven had gone to report, that meant four men missing. Bucky couldn't see all the faces of the injured, because the medics were busy working to salvage whoever they could, but he could count insignia, and there were three 107th patches missing, to the 9th's one.
"Who'd we lose?"
"P—Private H—Hawkins… C—Corp—Corp…"
It was no use. Biggs began shaking, shock properly setting in. Bucky pushed the man onto his back and shoved a spare pillow beneath his legs, then covered him with one of the itchy grey woollen medical blankets. He silently berated himself. Biggs had been through enough. Bucky would find Wells, and Wells would tell him who they'd lost. It wasn't fair to make a private report this.
"Where's Sergeant Wells?" he asked the shaking man. Was it his imagination, or was his head shaking a little harder than the rest of his body? "Sergeant Wells, Private?"
"D—Dead."
Bucky's world did not come crashing down. It didn't come crashing down because his friend could not be dead. Wells was too full of life to be a cold, empty shell. This was a joke. A tasteless, terrible joke. Wells would appear and say something stupid, like 'Ha, I bet for a moment you were really worried about those socks.' And then Bucky would punch him, because that was what you did to people who pretended to be dead just for laughs.
No, he would find Wells with Sergeant Haven. Reporting to the brass on how the mission had gone sideways. Telling them how one guy from the 9th Infantry and three from the 107th had been lost along with the supplies. And then, after a chewing out, Wells would come back with him to the hospital tent to check up on the rest of the men. In fact, Bucky could prove, right now, that Wells wasn't dead.
"Did you get his tag?" he asked.
Biggs shook his head. "H—Haven said he s—saw the Sarge and th—the others g—get h—hit. Ordered us to f—fall back."
"Did you see them get hit?"
Biggs shook his head again, and Bucky left him to his shaking. A small measure of panic had begun to set in. Maybe Wells and the others had come under fire, and Haven had abandoned them. After all, only one guy from the 9th was missing. And the 9th didn't have the 107th's motto. They didn't know the rule about death.
Outside the Colonel's tent, Bucky stopped when he heard voices from within. The loudest was Sergeant Haven's, and Bucky listened as the guy finished his report.
"…and then Sergeant Wells took the left flank, while I led my men right. We were s'posed to advance together, but Sergeant Wells got ahead, and his team came under fire first. I saw Sergeant Wells, Corporal Jones and Private Hawkins go down, and when I lost Private Martland I knew we didn't have enough men to advance and bring back those supplies…"
As he listened, he felt his hands shake before curling into fists, his fingernails biting into his palms. Haven, that bastard, was trying to blame Wells and the 107th for the mission going sideways. Bucky had been on dozens of missions with Wells, and he knew for a fact that his friend wouldn't let his team get ahead. To him, it wasn't a competition. It wasn't a race. Wells wouldn't put the mission at risk by trying to jump the gun on the plans. Hearing Haven blaming Wells… It was too much. You didn't kick a guy when he was down. Bucky pushed his way into the tent, all thoughts of military etiquette flying out the window.
"You're a real bastard, Haven," he growled, squaring up to the shorter man. "Trying to pin your failure on someone who's not here to defend himself."
"Sergeant Barnes, you have not been asked to attend this debriefing, and you are out of line," said Colonel Hawkswell. "You will leave this tent and wait outside."
Bucky ignored the command. There was too much at stake. "Sir, I'd like permission to take a team to recover the men and the supplies lost on Sergeant Haven's command."
"Permission denied. Now wait outside, Sergeant, or I'll have the MPs drag you out."
Desperation grew inside Bucky's chest. Every moment that he lost was a moment in which the danger to Wells and the others increased, and the further away the Germans were getting with their supplies. He had one last chance. Hawkswell wasn't the only one who could authorise a rescue. He turned to Colonel Phillips.
"Sir, please. We can't abandon those men. Or the supplies. Let me take out a team. Haven can give me whatever intel he's got on enemy placements and arms, and I can make sure the job gets done."
Because that was what he did. Time and time again, he and Wells had been given the tough missions, the dangerous missions, the missions that made the other regiments sweat, because they could take out a team from the 107th, get the job done, and bring most of their men back alive. They were the best. Everyone knew it. Impossible odds? Send Barnes and Wells. Mission into the heart of darkness? Send Barnes and Wells. A dozen times or more they'd done the impossible, taken on the tough missions, performed the army's dirty work. And now getting Wells back was the impossible, the tough mission, the dirty work. Bucky had to get his friend back because he didn't think he could keep doing those things alone. Without Wells, it would be hard enough to keep himself together, much less the team.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Phillips. There was a small measure of sympathy on his craggy face, but it was no comfort. "I have to agree with Colonel Hawkswell. It's too dangerous. I'm not sending more good men to their deaths. The Germans have already taken too many in this war. Now, you're dismissed, Sergeant Barnes. You too, Sergeant Haven. Go see to your men."
Haven gave a rigid salute, about-faced and left the tent. Bucky threw a sloppy salute and raced after him.
"You left three of my men behind," he accused, standing in front of Haven, blocking his path to the hospital tent.
Haven's brown eyes were unsympathetic, and he refused to rise to the anger. Refused to give Bucky a reason to push him into a fight. "Your men are dead, Barnes."
"Did you get their tags?"
"There wasn't ti—"
"No tags, no death," Bucky shot at him. The motto of the 107th. Wells, Hawkins, Jones… they were still alive. Otherwise, someone would've brought back their tags.
He didn't have time to argue with Haven. He had to mount a rescue. If the brass wouldn't authorise it, Bucky would. One man would be able to sneak back there. He could take a jeep. Get the men back, get the supplies back, get his damn socks back. And he'd never let Wells borrow his socks again, because clearly the guy could not be trusted.
As the rest of the camp woke, oblivious to their overnight loss, Bucky snuck into the quartermaster's tent, grabbed a bag and filled it with ammo for his rifle. He also took an emergency medical kit, a couple of blankets and a few tins of food, because it might be a couple of days before he got those men back to base camp.
"Sarge!"
Bucky jumped out of his skin as Gusty flew into the tent, and his panicked heart almost beat itself to death. With a scowl, he held a finger to his lips, instructing the corporal to be quiet.
"I just heard, Sarge," Gusty whispered, his eyes wide and afraid behind his thin-rimmed spectacles. "Figured you might try to do something stupid."
"Don't try to stop me, Gusty," he whispered back.
"I'm not here to stop you, Sarge. I'm here to sign up for the rescue mission."
Bucky quickly shook his head. "I can't let you do that. You'll be court-martialled."
"Better than leaving men behind, Sarge. And with two of us, we've twice the chance of succeeding."
"Are you sure? If we do this, I'm not gonna be able to protect you." Hell, he wouldn't even be able to protect himself. His papers would be served so fast that he'd be in some MP cell as soon as he set foot back in camp, given his dishonourable and sent back home in shame before the end of the week. And that was okay for him, because a sergeant in the 107th had to watch out for his men. But Gusty wasn't a sergeant.
"Dead sure." The man gave an uneasy wince. "Sorry. I mean, completely sure. We'll bring 'em back together."
"Alright," Bucky relented. Gusty was obviously mad, and there was no point trying to talk sense into a madman. Besides, he didn't have time to argue right now.
Gusty looked both terrified and relieved. "So, what's the plan?"
"Take a jeep. Drive to the drop site. Bring our people and our supplies home. It's not a very complex plan, Corporal."
"Right… but…" Gusty's eyes shifted from side to side. "You wanna go now? In broad daylight? Shouldn't we wait for night? You know we'll only get picked up at the perimeter. They'll shoot our tyres out to stop us leaving. And we don't know where the drop happened. We'll need to get into the Colonel's tent, to look at the map."
Bucky closed his eyes. Gusty was right. He hadn't stopped to think this through. It was a terrible plan. All he'd thought of was not delaying for even a moment. But if he was gonna bring those men back, he needed to do it with a cool head. Rushing off in the middle of breakfast wouldn't get him very far. Much as he hated the thought of delay, he needed to wait for the right moment.
"Okay. We'll go back to the barracks. Wait there until nightfall. As soon as it's dark, we'll slip out, get recon from the Colonel's tent, take a jeep to the site. I'll take this bag and stash it under my bed. The quartermaster won't notice this stuff missing."
"Right, Sarge. Nightfall."
"Until then, act normal," Bucky instructed. "Don't do anything out of the ordinary. Just go about your day as you would any other."
Gusty nodded. "Don't worry, Sarge. They won't get anything out of me."
They returned to the barracks. After a while, Gusty left to visit the men in the hospital tent. Just a normal day of seeing his injured comrades. But Bucky didn't go with him. He needed to keep an eye on the supplies he'd stolen. He sat on the edge of his bed, checking his watch every five minutes. Why was nightfall taking so long? Why couldn't the sun sink faster? It hadn't even finished rising yet. Didn't it know that the missing members of the 107th had probably been captured by the Germans by now?
The rest of the 107th cleared out to give him some time to plot alone. At midday, two corporals entered the tent and stood to attention. Bucky didn't recognise their faces, but their patches told him they were something to do with logistics. The only thing he cared about right then was that they were intruding on his waiting.
"What?" he demanded.
"Sir, we're here to reassign equipment."
Reassign equipment? What the hell did that mean? The only time equipment got reassigned was when someone died. Those vultures went through a guy's footlocker and stripped it of anything that belonged to the army, redistributing it to other soldiers because gear was in short demand on the front lines, especially since the pilots flying resupply missions kept missing their damn drop points.
"Well, go reassign it somewhere else. There's nothing to be reassigned here." When they didn't move, he scowled at them. "That's an order."
"Sir, you can't give us commands. We're operating under orders from the quartermaster."
"Then go and get the damn quartermaster, because I'm not letting you reassign anything. These men are coming back. You'll see."
The corporals looked at each other. Bucky ignored their silent communion.
"Sir, we'll give you an hour to go through their effects and take out anything personal. After that, we will be back. And we'll bring the quartermaster, as you suggested."
Bucky shot another scowl at them as they left, but they didn't see it. Damn vultures. They'd take everything away now, only to have to bring it back when Bucky returned with the missing men. Well, fine, if they wanted to waste time, he would let them. At least there were things Bucky could keep safe for his comrades. Personal items. Pictures. Letters home. He could make sure they stayed out of the hands of those parasites.
He started with Wells' footlocker, because it was closest. Wells had asked him to take care of his letter to his brothers, and Bucky would keep hold of it for him until he brought his friend back.
He opened the trunk and rooted through it. He found an envelope, but it wasn't the right one. It wasn't the letter he'd written to his brothers, because it said 'Sergeant Barnes' on the front. Bucky rolled his eyes. How typical of Wells, to leave him a note to remind him not to forget about the letter to his brothers. The guy could be so patronising, at times.
A few minutes later, a small worm of worry burrowed itself into his stomach. He'd been through the whole trunk and found no letter addressed to Wells' brothers. Maybe he'd missed it. He took out everything from the trunk, turned clothes inside out, rooted in pockets and folds, even looked underneath the trunk in case it had somehow fallen out. Nothing.
Shit.
Wells was gonna kill him, when Bucky brought him back. He'd already lost the letter his friend had written to his brothers. Now Wells was going to have to write it out again, and he'd never trust Bucky with it a second time. Not after he'd managed to lose it the first time.
He put all the clothes back in the trunk. Then he took them out again and turned them all the right way 'round, just to be triply sure that there definitely was no letter. There wasn't.
Shit.
Wait.
Maybe the letter was inside the envelope addressed to Bucky. Yes, that made sense. Wells had made sure Bucky would take care of it for him by putting it inside another envelope. Relief flooded through him as he picked up the envelope with his name on it. Now that he knew where Wells' letter was, he didn't need to open it. He could just give it back like this.
He hefted the envelope. Felt pretty light. Maybe it was more of a memo to his brothers, than a letter. But Wells wouldn't have spent all that time agonising over composing a memo… would he?
Indecision gnawed at his guts. The envelope didn't feel heavy enough to contain another envelope with a letter inside it. Bucky needed to know that Wells' letter to his brothers was in here, but if he opened it, that meant Wells was dead, because you couldn't open a letter that had your name on it unless the guy who'd written it had been killed in action. Maybe… maybe he would just wait until Wells was back.
Unless… maybe Wells had hidden the real letter somewhere else, and this was a clue to its whereabouts. Pillow case, under the mattress, in his duffel bag… yeah, that made sense. Now, Bucky would have to read the note Wells had left him, to find the letter before those vultures came back and stripped the bed sheets and took everything away, letter included. It wasn't like he was actually sending the letter for Wells… he was just finding it, and keeping it safe until he could return it to his friend.
He took a deep breath and slid his finger beneath one corner of the sealed envelope. This didn't count as carrying out a dead soldier's last wishes, because Wells wasn't dead. He was just pinned down. Maybe a POW. Waiting to be rescued. Trying to keep Hawkins' and Jones' spirits up. Probably telling them bullshit stories about POW camps to try and make himself feel better about getting captured.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he dragged his finger down the length of the envelope flap, tearing it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper filled on both sides with Wells' neat script. Bucky found the front page, and read.
Barnes,
If you're reading this, I'm some form of I.A. Maybe K, maybe M, guess it doesn't really matter by this point. You're here, you're reading, that means the brass think I'm not coming back. That you think I'm not coming back. And you're probably panicking like crazy because you can't find the letter I wrote for my brothers. Well, you can stop panicking. I never wrote it. I told you I'd write a letter to the people I care about, and that's what I did. We haven't really known each other that long (though sometimes it feels like forever), but in the short time we've known each other, I've come to care about you more than I ever did for my own brothers, for my own family. You're thinking that's pretty messed up. It's fine to think that, because you know how awful my life back home has been.
It's hard to write this without knowing the circumstances of my death. Were you there? Was it slow? Did I manage to tell you some of this as I lay dying? And if I did, I hope you got me back to the hospital ward, and got Nurse Sanders to take good care of me. She's the pretty one, with the green eyes and warm hands. Not like that Nurse Madeley, with cold hands and no bedside manner. But just in case you didn't get me back to the medics, in case the shooting was too intense, in case I stepped on a mine, I guess I should try to say here everything that I would've wanted to say to you if I was in the hospital ward with enough time to say goodbye. The things I wish I had the time, or opportunity, or courage, to say before.
I know I've been on borrowed time right from the start. That mission Carrot ate a bullet on… it should have been me. Carrot had so much going for him, and a beautiful girl waiting back home. He broke a heart by dying before he was supposed to. That bullet had my name on it, but it missed its mark because I wasn't where I was supposed to be, so Carrot got it instead. I saw how cut up you were after Carrot's death. You tried to hide it, but you're a terrible actor, and too honest to convincingly bullshit your way out of it. So, I guess the first thing I'd tell you is, don't be cut up like that over me. I've been waiting for that bullet to find me ever since Carrot died, and I've made as much peace with my impending death as a guy probably ever can.
I also wanted to say thank you, for being my friend. I know I didn't always make it easy, and at times, it wasn't easy for me, either. Although I've never wanted for friends, I've never had a friend like you before. Most of the time, when I'm acting like a jerk, people say, "Oh, it's just Danny being Danny." And they tut and roll their eyes and wander off, leaving me alone, waiting for me to stop being a jerk and start being a likable guy again. But you never did that. Even when I was more than a jerk, when I was just plain rude to you, you never left me alone, or tried to push me away. You stood up to me when I was out of order, and let me rant when I needed to get it out of my system, even when it would have been easier for you to just walk.
I never told you this, but from the moment we met, I looked up to you. I guess I saw a little of myself in you, only, in you I saw the guy I might have been if I'd had a better family and learnt to shut my mouth a little sooner. Try not to let this inflate your ego too much, but I admired the way you handled everything from the moment we met at Last Stop, USA. Everyone seemed to like you, and you had a natural way of making everyone feel welcome, and wanted. When the other regiments were bickering and scrapping, the privates and corporals looked to you as their example, and you set a good one, even when I was goofing around and winding people up to make myself feel better about being there. We can proudly say that the 107th held it together, and that was down to you.
Damn, running out of paper. P.T.O.
Knowing you, and the rest of the 107th… it's been an honour. But more than that, it's given me so much to think about. At the start of the voyage, when Carrot kept bringing out that picture of his girl, I thought he was a real dumb-ass. She'll never wait for him, I thought. He'd wake up one day to a Dear John and we'd have to pick his broken-hearted ass out of the mud and bully the stupid kid into keeping going forward. Now, though, months down the line, I'm not so sure. My perspective has changed, and that's something else I have to thank you for.
I used to think that love was any pretty dame who could tolerate enough bullshit, but that's not love, that's just pretty dames. No, I had to come halfway across the world to figure out that love isn't a pretty face; love is when you find someone who fills the empty places inside you. Who makes you feel like you don't have to be even 30% bullshit, that you can just be yourself, and being yourself will always be enough because even when it isn't enough, the other person fills in for what you're missing. Some of us find that in our family, in our parents, our brothers and sisters… or cousins and uncles I guess, for those Deep South types. Some of us find it in our girlfriends, and that's how the Samanthas of the world end up engaged to the Carrots of the world. Because love is blind, and if you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the person you love, then it doesn't matter what they look like, even if they're ginger. Love, when it boils down to it, is acceptance of somebody despite their flaws. Maybe even because of them.
I wasn't expecting to find acceptance in the army. The 107th are the family I never had. I always thought I had three brothers who were strangers; now I know that I have a hundred strangers who are brothers. I think that is a fair trade, and I wouldn't change it, I wouldn't change these past few months, for anything. Meeting you really knocked me for six. I never thought I would find anybody I would care about enough to make sacrifices for, but for you I would have sacrificed anything. Everything. Hell, I would even have given up my claim on Rita Hayworth, let you marry her and have that happiness for yourself. Promise me you'll do that, when you get back. Promise me you'll find Brooklyn's golden girl and ask her to marry you, and don't forget to include me in your speech on your wedding day. And say something nice, too, don't go telling everyone what I jerk I was when you first met me, and how I nearly ended up marrying your girl.
There is no bullshit in this letter, not even 1%. This is me. 100% genuine. There's probably loads more I could say, but I don't think I need to. You can fill in what I'm missing. You always did. And I bet you're probably around a nine, right about now. I think I would be too, in your place. But now you know me. It's up to you what you do with this letter. Keep it, burn it… it doesn't matter. They're just a dead man's words; what you do with them, that's your choice, Barnes.
Dulce et decorum est pro amicus mori.
- Wells
P.S. Gutted I never got to meet your sister. Whoops, there's your 1%.
Bucky stared at the letter in his hands. He re-read the second page, just to be sure he wasn't imagining what he was reading. Just to be sure he hadn't taken hold of the wrong end of the proverbial stick. Most of the letter was full of a sort of brotherly camaraderie, and only the ending was ambiguous. But… that was just Wells yankin' his chain. Wells liked dames too much to have… those sort… of feelings for a guy. And not even Wells would be stupid enough to go to sleep every night with his own blue discharge at the foot of his bed. Would he?
Yes. Yes he would.
He re-read the second page for a third time, just to be triply sure he wasn't completely misunderstanding what his friend was saying. Misunderstandings were easy. After all, Wells had talked about people finding love and acceptance with their families and friends. That was what he meant. He meant Bucky was like a brother. Just like the rest of the 107th. An extended family.
But then… why would he write that there was loads more he could say? And why suggest burning the letter if he wanted to? There was nothing in the letter worth burning. Just one guy saying some nice things about his friend. When he got Wells back, they'd be able to straighten things out.
It was not a conversation he was looking forward to, because what if—just what if—Wells was actually saying more than the letter technically said? And what if he wasn't joking, and was 100%—or at least, 99%—serious, like he'd implied? What if everything was really awkward, afterwards? Or, what if somebody else found out and it got back to the brass, and they suspected Bucky of somehow encouraging that sort of sentiment?
"Sarge!"
Bucky leapt practically out of his skin as Gusty came charging into the tent. He quickly shoved the letter under his pillow, hiding the offending evidence. Not that there was anything offensive about it; just one guy writing his last letter to a friend, and Bucky getting hold of the wrong end of the stick.
"What's wrong, Gusty?"
"I just saw two of the Quartermaster's staff heading this way!" He peered at Bucky from behind his glasses. "Are you okay, Sarge? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Bucky shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs of thoughts in his mind. "I'm fine. If they're coming to redistribute stuff, we need to take all personal effects out of the others' footlockers. Keep everything safe until we get the guys back. I've made a start on Wells' already. Did you know Corporal Jones at all?"
"Not really. Wish I'd taken the time to get to know him a little better."
"There'll be time when we get him back," Bucky assured him. "You do Hawkins' locker, and I'll do Jones' once I've finished up with Wells'."
They worked swiftly. There wasn't much else in Wells' locker; Bucky already had the letter, which he would figure out later. He also took the writing equipment, a couple of packets of smokes Wells was no doubt keeping back for trade, and a small personal shaving kit. The only other thing was a book. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. That damn book. Bucky threw it onto his own bed, then quickly found Jones' footlocker before the vultures could return.
"How are the rest of the team?" Bucky asked, while the Quartermaster's staff reappeared and began redistributing all army equipment.
"Biggs will be discharged from the hospital tomorrow morning," Gusty told him. "A few minor injuries going around, but mostly shock. Biggs said it was a difficult trek back, carrying so many wounded. We may have lost more men, but the 9th received more injuries."
"We didn't lose any men," Bucky corrected. "They were captured."
"That's what I meant."
"Will you tell Biggs and the others I'll come visit them in the hospital before dinner?" he asked, keeping a wary eye on the two corporals going through the open footlockers.
Gusty nodded. He didn't need to be told that Bucky wanted some time alone. He went back to the hospital, where he could sit with his friends and watch his girl at work. Briefly—very briefly—Bucky considered leaving without Gusty. Keeping the corporal safe from the repercussions of an unsanctioned rescue. He quickly dismissed the idea. Gusty had earned the right to choose for himself to disobey orders. Besides, he was right about one thing; they stood a better chance of success with two people to carry out the mission.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
The words of the letter swam in front of his eyes. He'd read it so many times that he could practically recite it from memory, and he was still no closer to figuring out exactly what Wells had been trying to say. Struck by a moment of inspiration, he'd flicked through every page of the A Tree Grows in Brooklyn book, certain that Wells had left some sort of coded clue within its paragraphs; letters circled, words underlined, some sort of invisible ink, perhaps… but there had been nothing. No secret messages. Nothing that spelt out, 'Ha, gotcha!' or anything of the sort.
He'd whittled the answer down to two possible options. One, Wells had been completely and utterly bullshitting. Or two, Wells was being a hundred percent serious and had pretty much declared his inappropriate feelings for Bucky in letter form, which was ridiculous because Wells had never given any indication he felt that way, and Bucky wasn't a dame, and he certainly hadn't done anything to deserve those sorts of feelings.
He found himself analysing every interaction he'd had with Wells that he could consciously recall. It had always been hard to get a handle on where Wells' head was at, because the guy had swung between moods worse than any dame, at one moment sullen, the next full of humour, then twitchy or paranoid or suddenly open and honest, like that time he'd confided in Bucky about his childhood, back in the mine.
Now, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because his annoying bastard of a friend had gone and left him with one infuriating last enigma to ponder. If Wells really was dead—which Bucky couldn't let himself believe—then he'd never know for certain whether he'd been telling the truth in his letter. Bucky had to get Wells back just to put the matter to rest in his own head. And if it turned out that he'd been telling the truth, well… they could burn the letter and never talk about it and pretend it had never even happened. That way, Wells would be safe from a blue discharge, and everything would be as it had been before.
Only… Wells had said the letter was supposed to be a backup, in the event of the worst case scenario. Now, their discussion yesterday took on a whole new meaning. Wells claimed he wanted to deliver the letter in person, after the war. That he didn't want to do it now, because he didn't want it to be a distraction. Which meant it probably was real. And he'd probably want to talk about it, because Bucky had been a complete idiot and encouraged him to open up about things, and Wells had said that it felt good to get things off his chest. And that had been fine when 'things' meant talking to his brothers about the torture his parents had put them all through. It wasn't the same when it meant talking to Bucky about feelings he ought not to have. Feelings Bucky couldn't ever return, because even though he did care about his friend, he didn't have any sort of romantic feelings for him.
One line of the letter jumped out at him over and over again, searing itself into his brain. "… if you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the person you love, then it doesn't matter what they look like…" That line, out of the whole letter, made Bucky believe he wasn't misunderstanding things. That his friend was being genuine. Wells hadn't said, "If you can close your eyes and sit in silence and still feel complete when you're with the people you love," he'd said the person. He wasn't talking about Bucky being like a brother to him, like the rest of the 107th. He was talking about serious, the one type of stuff. He was talking about Carrot and Samantha. Mom and Dad. Grandma and Grandpa. And it made a sliver of anger wind through Bucky's stomach; anger that Wells had dumped this on him, because he could not be the one for a guy.
Gusty slunk into the tent and hurried over to Bucky's bed. Bucky folded the letter up again and tucked it into his breast pocket. Later, after the rescue mission, he and Wells were gonna have a long talk.
"Sarge," Gusty whispered. "I just saw the colonels head to the mess tent. That means the command tent's empty. We can get a look at the map."
"Alright," he whispered back. "It's dark enough. I'll bring the bag with me, and if we can get a jeep, we'll go right now."
Bucky grabbed the bag of supplies from beneath his bed and followed Gusty out into the night. He tried to look casual. Like someone who wasn't thinking of stealing a jeep to run off half-cocked on a rescue mission. They got all of ten paces before they were stopped by Mex approaching with a rather shifty expression on his face.
"I want in on the rescue mission, Sarge," he said as he sidled up.
A quiet sigh escaped Bucky's lips. Mex wasn't the first to assume there was an illicit rescue mission planned; several other members of the 107th had also asked about it, over the course of the day. Gusty swore to God he hadn't said anything to anyone, which meant Bucky was just becoming far too predictable.
"Mex, the best thing you can do is stay here and keep up the pretence of normalcy," he said, not even bothering to deny it. He'd stopped trying to deny it after Hodge had asked. Mex didn't seem convinced, so Bucky pushed the point home. "We need all the room in the jeep for bringing back the missing men."
"Are you sure? I mean, maybe we could take a couple of jeeps?"
Bucky shook his head. "Before he left, Wells said the terrain was rough. That was why they went on foot in the first place. We can't go getting multiple jeeps stranded. We're taking one, and we'll drive it as far as we can before going the rest of the way on foot. If you want something important to do, then cover for us after we're gone. You're good at that sort of thing."
"Well… alright," Mex finally relented. "Good luck. Don't get shot by Nazis."
With a clear path to the command tent, Bucky and Gusty hurried on. Inside, they brought out a flashlight and began searching the board and the table for the relevant map. Bucky prayed silently that the colonels still had it. That they hadn't taken off the marker.
"Here it is!" said Gusty, holding up a small waxed paper map. He lay it flat on the table and Bucky ran his eyes over it, taking in the contour lines and the distance to the drop point. Wells had been right; a series of small but steep ridges sat between camp and the place where the supplies had landed. A large chunk of it was unjeepable.
"Are you ready?" Bucky asked.
Swallowing, Gusty nodded. His hand went surreptitiously to his Colt, tucked into his belt at the back of his pants; to allay suspicions, they'd left their M1s behind.
Quietly, they crept down to the motor pool. There, they hit a snag.
"The tanks are empty," Bucky said, as he recalled Agent Carter's anti-saboteur safety measures. "We'll need to get gas, first." He threw his bag into the back of one of the jeeps. "I'll distract the guards at the gas supply, and you fill a jerry can."
"How are you gonna distract 'em, Sarge?"
"I don't know. I'll think of something." If necessary, he'd knock them out. He was already facing a court-martial for disobeying orders. Might as well add a few more black marks to his name. It would be worth it, to get the missing men back.
En route to the area where the gas was kept under guard, they were intercepted again, this time by a less welcome face. Sergeant Haven's expression said he meant business, and he'd brought three of his men with him.
"Sergeant Barnes," he said, stopping in front of Bucky. "I thought you might try something stupid."
"Don't try to stop me, Haven." Too predictable indeed, if even Haven knew he was going to disobey orders.
"Men, take Corporal Ferguson back to his regiment's tent," Haven instructed. "I want to speak to Sergeant Barnes alone for a moment."
Gusty glanced at Bucky, who gave a small nod. It didn't matter. He could go back for Gusty later. Or he could stick with his original plan of going alone. Wouldn't be too hard to knock Haven out. Of course, he'd still have to find a way to get some gas. And he'd have nobody to act as lookout during the journey. Nobody to help him carry men who might be injured.
"Sergeant Barnes," Haven said, once they were alone, "I know how difficult it is to lose men. To lose friends. I lost a lot of good people, fighting in Africa. I lost a lot more when our transport was torpedoed. And whilst assigned to the SSR, I've lost men in combat, and I've lost men who were murdered in their sleep. Nobody hates the Nazis more than me. I've seen how they treat their POWs, and I wouldn't leave a single man—not yours, not mine—to their tender mercy. Wells, Jones, Hawkins, Martland—they're dead. I saw them hit. I saw them fall. I wish I hadn't. I wish I could report that they were merely missing in action, and not killed. If I thought for even a second that they were still alive, I'd be right there with you, stealing a jeep to bring them home.
"Martland was a good friend of mine. He helped keep us sane throughout the worst of the fighting in Africa. You can't go through hell like that and not care about the men under your command. So believe me when I tell you this: my friend is dead. Your friends are dead. The only thing you will be able to go back for is their tags, and the chances are you'll run into the same Nazis we did. You'll get yourself killed, along with anybody who goes with you. Then the 107th won't have somebody to watch their backs anymore.
"I know it's hard, but you gotta let 'em go. Let them all go, and keep doing your job. If you want to try your luck out there, if you wanna drive and walk and bring back tags, and then get court-martialled, then go ahead. But I've warned the men on sentry duty to keep an eye out for people leaving camp tonight, and I've assigned an additional couple of MPs to keep watch over the gas supply. You won't get very far."
Bucky felt his heart sink low. He didn't wanna believe Haven… but it was hard not to. He'd lost a lot of men in the last three months, and other than Tipper and Pearson, he'd seen all the bodies for himself. But those two deaths had been witnessed by fellow members of the 107th. Tipper's death had traumatised Gusty, and Pearson's death had been reported by Biggs and Wells; they'd brought back his tag. Nobody, other than Haven, had seen the missing men get shot. All Bucky had was a stranger's word for it. But why would the guy lie? Why would he leave behind one of his own men, if he wasn't sure the missing men were dead?
Was he in denial? He tried to let his mind wander to thoughts of Hawkins, and Jones, and Wells, lying cold on the ground. He couldn't. It was too hard. Too hard to imagine that Bucky would never again throw things at his friend to wake him up in the mornings, or plan any more crazy missions, or listen to Wells go on about Rita Hayworth. If Steve had been his best friend in civvy life, then Wells was his best friend in the army, and he couldn't imagine life without either of them.
"You might wanna go see the chaplain," Haven continued, not entirely blind to Bucky's inner turmoil. "See if he can help you find some peace."
Haven left, and Bucky trudged back to the regiment's tent. One scene replayed in his mind; the night he and Wells had been on guard duty in the mine tunnel. The sad smile Wells had given him when he suggested delivering his letter in person, after the war. I know I've been on borrowed time right from the start, his letter had said. I've made as much peace with my impending death as a guy probably ever can.
If Wells had made peace with his own death, maybe Bucky had to make peace with it, too. He just didn't want to. He didn't care about the awkward letter, or the equally awkward conversation they needed to have. He'd gladly deal with those, somehow, if he could get Wells back and make everything right again. Who was gonna come up with crazy plans, if he couldn't get Wells back? Who was gonna tell him he was outta line, or knock some sense into him when he needed it most?
At that moment, Wells and the others truly died. He'd considered it. Contemplated it. Tried to see how tomorrow would play out. He'd made it real, not just by reading the letter, but by accepting that it could be true. He'd made their deaths real, if only for a moment, and now they were gone forever.
His mind settled on numb haze, because that seemed easier than thinking and feeling and wondering what he was gonna put in the letter to Hawkins' parents. He'd let the colonel send the general condolence letters for Wells and Jones, because Wells' parents didn't deserve more than that, and because Bucky hadn't known Jones well enough to write something personal.
He barely registered when he entered the regimental tent and sank down on his camp bed. Only realised he was no longer outside when Gusty appeared in front of him, pale, spectacled face hanging in his field of vision.
"Sarge, what's happening? Are we gonna go soon, or leave it until after lights-out?"
"They're dead," he said, his voice a stranger to his own ears. "There's nobody left to rescue."
"Don't say that, Sarge! They might still be ali—"
"They're not," he interrupted. "They're gone, Gusty. It's time to face the truth."
"I don't wanna."
"Sorry." He gave Gusty a gentle pat on the shoulder. The corporal had been close to both Wells and Hawkins. "Maybe you should go check up on Biggs again." Maybe Audrey could help get him through yet another loss. At least now, the corporal would be safe from a court-martial.
Gusty nodded, then left. Bucky lay back on his bed and stared up at the dull khaki tent. A few days ago he'd been excited about the prospect of Thanksgiving in Venice. Now, the idea of Thanksgiving anywhere seemed bleak. He wasn't sure he had very much left to be thankful for.
Author's note: A blue discharge (also known as a "blue ticket") was a form of administrative military discharge formerly issued by the United States beginning in 1916. It was neither honorable nor dishonorable. The blue ticket became the discharge of choice for commanders seeking to remove homosexual service members from the ranks. They were also issued disproportionately to African Americans. Service members holding a blue discharge were subjected to discrimination in civilian life. They were denied the benefits of the G.I. Bill by the Veterans Administration and had difficulty finding work because employers were aware of the negative connotations of a blue discharge. Unlike a dishonorable discharge, which punished service members for what they had done, a blue discharge punished them for who they were. (Source: Wikipedia. For a more informative view of this racist/homophobic practise of dismissing service members, check out the wiki article on blue discharge.)