We Were Soldiers

59. The Bridge

Bucky stared at the chunks of pale pink floating in runny, gelatinous white, and tried to decide whether he was hungry enough to eat shit-on-a-shingle. His stomach said no. So did his head. The camp cook standing behind the dented metal gastronorm container stared at him long and hard, a ladle full of slop poised in one hand.

"Are you gonna hold your meal tray out, or am I just gonna dump this on your boots?" the guy asked at last.

He held out his tray. A hard biscuit was deposited on it, then drowned in the ladle full of disgusting white. "Thanks," he said, and turned away from the serving area so the next guy in the line could take his turn at feeling revolted. Biggs was sitting alone at a table, so Bucky joined him. For a few minutes they merely pushed the pink blobs around the white liquid, and Bucky finally took the plunge. It tasted as bad as ever. Not even a smidgen of salt for seasoning.

Opposite him, Biggs was silent. His ear was a bird's nest of stitches, the skin around it red and black and purple. The past couple of days had not been easy on the private. He'd gone back to blaming himself for the deaths. Begged again to be banned from combat missions. Wouldn't listen when Bucky and Gusty tried to talk sense to him. Bucky had very nearly show him the letter, or at least the part of it where Wells had foreshadowed his own death. Common sense stopped him. Wells wouldn't have wanted that letter read by anybody else, and it wouldn't have cheered Biggs up in the slightest.

Whilst Biggs agonised over his perceived role in the death of his friends, Bucky had agonised over what to do about that damn letter. He couldn't keep it in his footlocker, because if anything happened to him, somebody might go through his stuff and find it. And that would probably be okay if it was Gusty or Biggs, but he didn't think anybody else would understand. Anybody else might hand it in to the brass, and that would be Wells' posthumous reputation in tatters. Maybe even Bucky's, too.

He couldn't burn it, either. It was all he had left of his friend. And despite how wrong it was for a guy to have those feelings for another guy, he couldn't help but feel just a tiny, little bit flattered that his friend cared about him enough to put his heart and soul into a letter. He suspected Wells didn't put his heart and soul into much. Certainly not religion. Definitely not family. This was the one small part of Wells that Bucky could keep safe. The words had been written and could never be unwritten. Wells was gone, but his feelings had been real. Regardless of how inappropriate they were, Bucky couldn't bring himself to destroy something that had meant so much to his friend.

He put down his spoon and reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, letting his fingertips brush against the corner of the envelope, making sure the letter was still there. On his person was the safest place for the letter to be, but he worried constantly over it somehow falling out of his jacket, even though it was an inside pocket, even though it was fastened with a small button.

Reassured that he hadn't lost the letter since he'd last checked for it, all of seven minutes ago, he turned his attention back to Biggs.

"How's your breakfast, Biggs?"

Biggs continued pushing the bits of chipped beef around the white sauce. Didn't even bother looking up. "Terrible."

Bucky nodded. "Did Doc Peacock tell you when you can go back to have your stitches removed?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Bucky nodded again. Biggs had fallen out with him because he wouldn't take the private off combat ops. After Bucky had refused, Biggs had gone to the command tent and demanded of the colonels that they bar him from being sent into combat. The colonels had refused, and ordered a psychological evaluation for the private. None of the camp's doctors were qualified to perform psych evals. It would have to wait until they reached civilisation.

"Okay. Well. I'll see you back at the tent, maybe."

He took his half-eaten food to the scrap bucket and dumped what was left. Rinsed his tray using luke-warm soapy water, and stepped outside the mess. Almost as soon as he was outside, a heavy hand was clapped atop his shoulder.

"Barnes!" said Dugan. "Glad I found you. We have a two o'clock poker game behind the 69th's tent. Whaddya say?"

"No thanks."

"But Private Jones said he could whup your ass! You're not gonna let that slide, are you?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't wanna play poker right now."

"Go fish, then?"

"No thanks."

"We could shoot dice."

"I'm not in the mood for games."

Dugan's moustache danced to the sigh he heaved out. "Barnes, you can't mope forever. Tell you what, why don't we go and hide some of Stark's doohickeys? Seeing him frantically searching for his stuff ought to cheer you up. Right?"

"Thanks, but I have stuff to do."

"Stuff!" Dugan scoffed. "What the hell is there to do out here?"

"I have a book to read."

"Sergeant Barnes?" A private from the 9th appeared, earning Bucky's gratitude for his excellent timing. Ever since the mission to recover the supplies had gone sideways, Dugan had been trying to cajole him into games. He didn't seem to realise that all Bucky wanted was to be left alone. He didn't need cheering up. Sad was an appropriate frame of mind for someone who'd lost his best army friend, and Bucky wanted to feel the sadness, not push it away. "Colonel Phillips wants to see you in the command tent."

"Alright, Private, I'm on my way," he said. "Sorry, Dugan, looks like you'll have to fool someone else into taking the fall for you stealing Stark's stuff."

Bucky left Dugan spluttering in protest of his innocence. "Borrowing" Stark's things had been fun with Wells as a co-conspirator. With Dugan? He just didn't think it would be the same.

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

Colonel William Taylor had never heard of the SSR before happening across their camp. They were a motley assortment of branches poorly kitten out for open warfare, but his own battalion had been decimated by German opposition after they'd become separated from the main army, so he was simply glad to encounter friendly faces. He and the dozen of his men who'd survived the thrust into northern Italy stumbled into the encampment early in the morning, and Colonel Taylor was taken to see their CO right away.

Colonel Phillips was a grizzled veteran whose sharp grey eyes assessed Taylor keenly. Colonel Taylor was aware he didn't—at present—cut a particularly impressive figure; his uniform was soiled and bloody, his hair was in disarray, and the glass in one side of his spectacles was broken. Still, he managed to stand straight and proud as he explained his situation to Colonel Phillips. The man nodded along, and finally agreed to assist. He sent for his best man, and Colonel Taylor made small talk while he waited. At least, he tried. Colonel Phillips turned out to be taciturn and reluctant to chat.

A few minutes later, a sergeant appeared and offered a tired salute. The young man looked worn, and if his blue-grey eyes weren't fixed at a thousand yards, they weren't so very far off. Colonel Taylor straightened up again as he waited for the beleaguered sergeant to announce whichever officer Colonel Phillips had sent for.

"Sergeant Barnes, this is Colonel Taylor of the 6th Ranger Battalion," Colonel Phillips said.

"Sir," the sergeant greeted him, with another tired salute.

That was when Colonel Taylor realised this was the man Colonel Phillips had sent for. It must be a joke!

"Colonel Phillips," Taylor said, "perhaps I didn't quite stress enough the importance of this mission. If it fails, the whole of northern Italy will be lost. The mission calls for some enterprising Major, or at the very least a Captain." Not some shell-shocked young sergeant, he mentally added.

"Colonel, you stressed the importance good and plenty," Phillips shot back. "It just so happens that Sergeant Barnes has a certain flair for sneaking behind enemy lines and committing acts of sabotage. Isn't that right, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Yessir," the sergeant agreed dully.

"But…" Colonel Phillips sighed reluctantly, "…if you would feel more at ease with somebody a little more seasoned along on the mission, I could send Agent Carter, as well."

"Agent Carter?" Taylor asked.

"The Special Operations Executive's attaché to the SSR, and one of the SOE's finest agents. Carter's been active since early in the war, sabotaging Nazi plans even before we joined in."

"Very well," Taylor agreed. Perhaps with a man of Carter's experience along on the mission, it wouldn't be doomed to failure at the hands of a mere sergeant.

Phillips sent for Carter. Sergeant Barnes waited at his ease. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, and Taylor didn't like seeing it there. It was a secretive smile, one that made him feel uncomfortable, like Sergeant Barnes had just told himself a private joke at Colonel Taylor's expense.

A young woman stepped into the tent, and Colonel Taylor felt himself relax a little. It had been a long, perilous fight to the north of the country, and he was sorely in need of a cup of coffee. Since this was Phillips' camp, however, Taylor waited for the other man to request a drink from the woman first.

"Agent Carter, this is Colonel Taylor of the 6th Ranger Battalion," Colonel Phillips said.

"Sir," the woman said, with a rigid salute.

Colonel Taylor couldn't help but stare. At the same time, he felt an angry flush creep up his neck. Colonel Phillips had made a fool out of him! It was bad enough that he'd been made commander of a battalion half full of blacks and Nips. Bad enough that most of his force had been captured or killed during the northward advance. He wouldn't tolerate this sort of mockery from another Colonel!

"Colonel Taylor has a very important mission which needs to be undertaken," Phillips was saying. The man turned to face him, his grey eyes insufferably calm. Sergeant Barnes was practically grinning. Only, the grin didn't quite reach his troubled blue eyes. "Colonel, would you like to brief Sergeant Barnes and Agent Carter on the nature of the mission, or shall I take over from here?"

Taylor forced his hands, which had clenched themselves into fists, to uncurl. He'd had no choice but to turn to Phillips for help. If the mission somehow succeeded, then Taylor would still technically be the one in command. If the mission failed… well, he could hardly be blamed for the failures of another colonel's personnel, could he?

Stepping forward, he cleared his throat.

"One week ago, I sent a small company of men under the command of Captain Jonathan James to take and hold a route of strategic importance," he began. "A vital Nazi supply chain runs across a bridge, which provides the only access to Austria in this area that is traversable by wagons. Destroying this bridge will mean the Nazis have to take a considerable detour north, adding days to their journey. My men did not have the ordnance to destroy the bridge themselves, but they were to be met two days ago by a squad from one of the airborne divisions, who would bring along enough TNT to blow the whole thing to kingdom come."

"What went wrong?" Agent Carter asked.

"I received word that the airborne division were killed en route, and their cargo undoubtedly co-opted by the Krauts," he said. "My men will hold the bridge for as long as they draw breath, but unless we can get explosives up there, and fast, their position will soon be overrun. We won't get a second chance at this."

"Sergeant Barnes," Phillips said, "a small force could penetrate the Nazi line and make it to the bridge on foot in less than twenty-four hours."

"I already have a team in mind, Colonel," Sergeant Barnes said. If he was excited about the prospect of fighting Nazis, he gave no indication of it. His eyes lacked any animation at all.

Colonel Taylor cleared his throat again, to throw a minor spanner in the works. "You should know, intel suggests the Nazis have a small armoured cavalry contingent in that area. Lighter tanks, mostly, nothing as big as a Tiger, but they could prove to be troublesome for your 'small force.'"

"Agent Carter," Phillips spoke up, "before you leave, see Mr. Stark. I believe he's been working on a new tank-buster weapon and he's been itching to try it out. And I meant that literally; I've been finding his skin flakes everywhere."

"Stark?" Taylor asked. Surely had had misheard. "As in, Howard Stark?"

"The very same."

Colonel Taylor opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Felt like a damn fish out of water. Finally, he found a way to save face.

"You brought a civilian to a war zone?"

"The SSR is not a traditional army outfit," Phillips said.

Taylor huffed quietly as Sergeant Barnes and Agent Carter saluted and left. "Yes. I can see that, Colonel."

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

Captain James rubbed the gritty tiredness from his eyes, and peered over the boulder behind which he was sheltered, to the far side of the bridge. Morning was on them, and there was just enough light to see by. Enough light to see the grey tank rolling its way down the steep road. Enough light to see the horde of Krauts lurking on the other side of the bridge, waiting like cowards for the tank to do their work for them.

He reached into his bandolier and brought out his last ammo clip. Before pushing it into his M1, he kissed the clip and swore to God he'd make every shot count. If this was his final stand, he'd take eight of those sons of bitches with him.

Behind him, dark-skinned Private Clarke was praying in a hushed whisper. Captain James could just about make out the words of the Lord's Prayer whisked by the gentle wind from the Private's mouth straight to heaven. He himself couldn't pray. Not now. Not aloud. Not in front of the men. They'd need a goddamn miracle to get them through this day alive, and an act of divine providence to deliver the explosives needed to complete their mission. He wasn't sure whether he believed in miracles anymore.

"How's it going, Sergeant?" he asked of the man who was laid out a short distance away, behind the trunk of a fallen tree. Sergeant Kagawa mumbled something too quiet for James to hear. Might even have been something in Japanese. The man had lost a lot of blood, and only the tourniquet on his arm had stopped him bleeding out. He was delirious with pain despite the morphine they'd given him. Colonel Taylor had expressed doubts about Kagawa and the rest of the Japanese-Americans fighting in Europe, but Kagawa had been hit when he'd taken on a full squad of Krauts single-handed. As far as James was concerned, the Nips were just as good as anyone else out here.

Corporal Byrd sparked up his last cigarette, then slid his last round of Colt ammo into his sidearm. "They say your first smoke is the sweetest," he said around his cigarette. "Personally, I think the last one's the sweetest. But you know what? I'd trade it right this second for a howitzer. Maybe a bazooka."

"You ever think that maybe we should stop holding the bridge?" Lieutenant Astley called from his own shelter of rocks and bushes. "I mean, we can't hold out against those Krauts, much less the tank they have rolling down to join the party. We have no way of blowing the bridge ourselves, and it's only a matter of time before the Krauts overwhelm us."

"Our orders are to hold the bridge, Lieutenant," Captain James said. He was too tired to summon anger. When had been the last time he'd slept? Two days ago? Three? "And hold the bridge is what we're gonna do. If you wanna leave, then leave. But you know what we do to deserters."

There was no argument after that. They all knew they were going to die, but dying honourably in the name of the mission was better than living as a coward and deserter.

As the tank rolled closer, he rolled his shoulders, trying to work some of the knots and aches from his exhausted muscles. Around him, the few men he had left said their final prayers. Brought out the pictures of loved ones left back home. Crossed their hands over their chests as they tried to invoke some measure of spiritual protection. Captain James wasn't sure if God was even watching anymore.

He peered over his boulder. The Nazis were making another push forward, braver now that they had a tank at their back. He glanced back at his men, and nodded.

"Let them have it."

They lifted themselves up, peering over and around their meagre cover. The air was filled with the crack and bang of gunfire. The sound echoed down into the canyon, amplified a thousand times by the depth of the gorge and the shape of the mountain walls, so that it seemed a terrific battle was being waged by a whole army of men. Perhaps that would get God's attention.

A few bullets found their mark. Several Nazis went tumbling down over the low stone wall. Then, the tank cleared the bridge head, and Captain James saw its turret swing as its gunner took aim. He closed his eyes, and pictured his wife's smiling face.

"Light 'em up, Hodge!"

His eyes flew open at the command from behind. Before he could turn, he heard the hiss and whistle of a heavy, recoilless high-energy weapon fired nearby. Something shot across the canyon, exploding against the side of the tank. The vehicle slid sideways, crashing into the stone wall.

"Biggs!"

A second weapon was fired, the same hiss and whistle. The next projectile hit the tank in almost the same place, and the whole thing exploded in a fireball. The force of the blast sent it even further back, and the stone wall gave way. The tank went sliding over the side, hurtling to the bottom of the canyon as it burned.

The enemy ground forces recovered swiftly; they advanced, shooting wildly, while Captain James and his men sank quickly back down to cover. A small group of soldiers appeared from the forest behind him, a young sergeant at their head. He lifted his M1 and returned fire whilst a pair of sharpshooters—a tall, stocky man and a small, slender woman…a woman!…—took aim and fired at the Krauts on the bridge. More soldiers poured out from beneath the trees, each of them firing rifles, except for the two who carried some style of rocket launcher James had never seen before.

He could think only one thing. God has answered our prayers. Tears stung his eyes when he realised he and his men were no longer alone. They hadn't been forgotten. Backup had come, and now his men would live to fight another day.

The fight was soon over; the Krauts on the bridge, out in the open, hadn't stood a chance. They'd relied on their tank to shield them, and with their shield gone, they'd fallen swiftly. The young sergeant approached Captain James and offered a salute. Now that he was closer, he didn't seem so young. His lower face was rough with stubble, and his eyes had seen death; it was a look he himself was more than familiar with.

"Captain James?" the man asked, a strong New York accent on his tongue. "I'm Sergeant Barnes, 107th Infantry. Colonel Taylor sent us to help you complete your mission."

Captain James pushed himself to his feet and returned the salute. "Colonel Taylor… he's alive?" He'd had doubts the rest of the battalion would survive. So many had already been captured or killed when Taylor sent James and his men to hold this bridge.

"Yessir, and waiting for you at the SSR's camp."

He shook his head. "SSR?"

"I can explain on the way back." Sergeant Barnes looked around at the exhausted men. "Do you have wounded?"

"Yes. Sergeant Kagawa." He gestured to the fallen tree. "He's behind the trunk."

"Gusty, see to the sergeant."

A corporal appeared, first aid kit in his hands and a portable stretcher strapped to his back. He was followed by a private, the biggest man Captain James had ever seen, and one of the two who'd fired the anti-tank rounds.

"That's an impressive piece of technology," he said, eyeing up the bazooka-style weapon that the second man was holding.

"Yeah," Sergeant Barnes agreed. "You'll no doubt hear all about how it works when we get back to camp."

"Sarge, Ah got movement on the other side of the canyon," one of the snipers drawled in a marked Texan accent. "Looks like the Nazis are regrouping. Won't be long before they start firin' at us again."

"Take them out," the sergeant instructed. "Agent Carter, how's it coming?"

The woman had put down her sniper rifle and was busy assembling some sort of… contraption. That was the only way Captain James could describe it. A contraption.

"Just about done," she said, her voice lilting in a pleasantly cultured English accent. Most men would've been red-faced over being saved by a dame, but most men hadn't lost almost their entire team holding a target against an overwhelming enemy force. Captain James just couldn't bring himself to care that Sergeant Barnes had brought a dame along. The woman picked up the contraption, which looked like a cross between a bazooka and a gramophone, and fiddled with one of the dials on the top. "How long should I set the timers for?"

Sergeant Barnes' brow furrowed in thought. "Hmm. Last time I blew something up, we misjudged the time by about thirty seconds." A sad smile played across his lips before his eyes leapt up to the woman's face. "Three minutes? Same time it takes to boil… well, never mind. Just set it to three minutes. I'll get Gusty moving with the injured man first. We'll need to come back after, to make sure the job's been done."

"Err, excuse me, ma'am," Captain James spoke up, "but just what the heck is that thing?"

"This," she sighed, "is an experimental Composition C-2 launcher."

"You mean—"

"Yes," said Sergeant Barnes. "It fires and glues plastic explosive to whatever you aim it at. You're probably gonna want to stand behind Agent Carter when she pulls the trigger." As if on cue, the man with the sniper rifle began firing at the far side of the bridge. Sergeant Barnes unclipped one of the bandoliers he wore across his chest and tossed it to Captain James. "Gusty, are you ready to go?"

"Ready, Sarge," the corporal replied. He and the large private had Sergeant Kagawa strapped to the stretcher, of which they each carried one end. "We'll meet you at the rendezvous point."

"Captain," yelled Sergeant Barnes, as he began firing at the Krauts on the other side of the bridge, "you'll want to order your men to follow Corporal Ferguson, whilst you stay here with me and Tex to keep those Nazis back so that Agent Carter can handle the C-2 launcher."

He'd heard enough orders in his time to know when he'd been given one. And he'd worked with enough sergeants in his time to know to listen to their suggestions. Despite the man's youth, he obviously knew what he was doing. There was no tremor of excitement or nervousness in his voice, and the hands which fired the M1 were steadier than James'.

"Men, fall back," he instructed as he clipped the bandolier around his chest. "I'll be right behind you."

They quickly helped each other up and hurried after Corporal Ferguson. The rest of Sergeant Barnes' team flanked them, and within a few seconds they were out of sight.

He resumed his position behind the cover of the boulder, but this time he didn't kiss the ammo clip before loading it into his rifle. This time, he had enough bullets for everybody. He and Barnes kept up a steady stream of bang bang bangs whilst the deadly sniper rifle quietly cracked at slightly longer intervals. Agent Carter, meanwhile, crouched low and aimed her C-2 launcher at one of the bridge's stone supports. That done, she switched to the other side and fired at another stone leg, then called, "Two minutes left!"

"I said three minutes," Sergent Barnes scowled. "Three."

"When I saw the second tank coming down the road, I thought two would work better," she said, pointing up at the road above. Sure enough, there was another tank.

"Shit. Alright, let's go. Tex, get a move on, it's gonna be close."

Captain James didn't need telling twice. He was hot on the heels of the others, feeling bullets miss him by margins too narrow for his liking. They ran, and after almost two minutes of running, they stopped and took shelter behind the trunks of the largest trees they could find. Just as Captain James was about to ask why they'd run so far, he heard a thunderous explosion, and seconds later was buffeted by a brief but violent wind.

At Sergeant Barnes' command, they stepped out from behind the trees. Agent Carter pinned back a lock of hair that had worked its way loose during their flight.

"Howard always over-does his explosions," she said.

"I'm almost afraid to go check it out," Sergeant Barnes said, though he didn't look anything like afraid.

When they reached the bridge, Captain James' mouth fell open in surprise. He'd been expecting the C-2 to weaken the bridge legs and send chunks of it falling into the canyon below. Instead, the whole damn thing was just gone. Where there had been a bridge, there was now just a canyon, the mountain walls blackened with scorch marks. On the other side of the canyon, the tank was perched unmoving on the road. Probably asking for new orders, now that its only route across was gone.

"It's like he's over-compensating for something," Agent Carter mused as she glanced at the bridgeless gorge.

"Time to go," said Sergeant Barnes.

They found the rest of the men in a clearing a few minutes' walk away from the bridge's former location. The corporal and the huge private were seeing to Sergeant Kagawa's injuries, and Private Clarke was with them, offering Kagawa the comfort of another prayer, this one a prayer of thanks. The other men in Sergeant Barnes' team were divvying out ammo and breaking open their ration kits. Captain James offered his men reassuring nods as he walked amongst them. They looked bone-weary, and he knew just how they felt.

"Sir," said Lieutenant Astley, standing up as straight as his tired legs and aching back could manage, "I want to apologise for what I said earlier. I shouldn't have questioned your orders. You were right."

"Don't worry about it, Astley," he said, patting his second-in-command on the shoulder. "It's water under the bridge. Or it would be, if the bridge was still there."

"Then the mission was a success?"

For the first time in three days, he smiled. "It was."

Sergeant Barnes turned away to address everyone in the clearing. "We eat breakfast on the move, and so long as we don't encounter hostiles, we'll stop for a proper lunch. Gusty, you and Biggs keep an eye on Sergeant Kagawa, and let me know if you need a break or he needs to be put down. Hodge, you're on point with Tex. Mex, Agent Carter, you've got our six. Stay sharp, everyone, we're behind enemy lines and we just made one hell of a noise. Captain, I know you and your men are tired, but we've gotta march till nightfall, and then we can let you have a few hours of sleep."

"Don't worry about us; if you can handle Kagawa, we'll keep up."

They set off through the forest, each of them silent, his men due to exhaustion, Barnes' men due to the fact they were munching on dreadful K-ration chocolate. Sergeant Barnes didn't eat; his eyes scanned the forest continually, as if expecting Nazis to come popping out of thin air. Yet, he carried his rifle low, in a position designed for comfort, not defence.

"I'm sorry for your losses," the man said after a while. When Captain James aimed a questioning glance at him, he said, "Colonel Taylor told me he sent twenty-five of you to hold that bridge."

He nodded. "Thanks. And I'm sorry for yours, too." He received a questioning glance in return. "It's not hard to tell when a guy's lost friends. Do you do this often?" he asked, gesturing around at the men, at the mission.

"You'd be surprised."

Sergeant Barnes left the conversation there. He fell back to walk beside the big private carrying one end of the stretcher. After a few minutes, James heard the sergeant speak quietly to the other man.

"See, Biggs, you're not cursed. This time you saved lives."

Captain James wasn't sure what that meant. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know. Right now, he was too exhausted to think beyond the next footstep. For once, he was happy to follow someone else for a change. Later, he'd have letters to write to families. An officer's work was never done.

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

When Bucky and his tired team arrived back at camp, they found it abuzz with activity. Men were running back and forth with armfuls of ammo. Doctors and nurses were prepping the hospital tent. The tanks were being fuelled. Captain James and his men stared blankly at the action taking place around them. When Dum Dum ran past from the Quartermaster's tent, two boxes of shotgun ammo in his hands, Bucky called out to him.

"Hey, Dugan, what's goin' on?"

The big man grinned. "Barnes, you made it back just in time! We've got a new party to crash. No doubt the colonel will tell you all about it." And with that, he was off.

Bucky turned back to his team. "Gusty, Biggs, take Sergeant Kagawa to the hospital tent. Show the rest of the men the way; they could probably use a check-up. The rest of you head back to the 107th's tent, but don't get too comfortable. Sounds like we might be leaving again soon. Captain, you better accompany me to the command tent; we'll probably find your colonel there, and he'll want to know your mission was a success."

Captain James nodded, and everybody else obeyed. Bucky set off to the command tent with Captain James—and Agent Carter, of course—in tow. There they found all three colonels, along with Mr. Stark, Dr. Peacock and the chaplain.

"Sir," Bucky said, offering a salute which his two companions echoed, "mission complete."

"Hmph," Phillips grunted. There was a small, self-satisfied smile on his lips which was extinguished a moment later. "Good work, Sergeant. Captain James and Agent Carter can debrief us later. Are your men fresh enough to join the taskforce on the upcoming mission?"

"Yessir." They'd marched hard but slept well enough overnight. A quick meal in the mess would see them fit enough to head out again within the hour. "What's the objective?"

"Ever hear of Azzano?" Phillips asked, to which Bucky shook his head. "You will soon enough." The colonel gestured at a map on the table, and the red X marker which had been placed there. "We just received word that the Nazis are en route to capture Azzano. It's on our side of the line, but it won't be for very long if those Nazis aren't stopped. The town is in a strategically important location; we can't let it fall into enemy hands."

"We'll stop them, sir," Bucky assured him.

"That's what I was hoping to hear. Report to Captain Banks; he's leading the mission."

Bucky saluted and turned to leave. Before he reached the door, Captain James caught up to him, stepping in front of him and offering his hand.

"Before you go, Sergeant, I'd just like to thank you for saving my men. You and your team are a credit to the SSR. I hope that when you get back, and we get somewhere a little more civilised, you'll let me buy the first round of beers."

Bucky accepted and shook the proffered hand, and for the first time in many long days, found a reason to smile. Yesterday he'd saved a handful of men. It was a small victory, compared to the numbers being lost every day across the battlefield, but perhaps that was the point. You had to take your small victories where you could find them, and maybe those small victories would add up. Maybe one day, enough small victories would pool together to form one larger, final victory. And on that day, he'd buy a round of drinks for the friends he'd lost. He'd toast their memories, and the sacrifices they'd made.

But first, he had a town to defend.

This is also a cliffhanger.