We Were Soldiers

61. Second Chances

Steve pushed his way through the teeming, olive drab mass of soldiers, and nobody looked at him twice. He wasn't out in public as Captain America. Today, he was Private Steven Grant Rogers; just another face in the crowd. The Star-Spangled uniform, for which he'd come to establish a special love-hate relationship, was back at the spacious, five-storey hotel which served as the USO's headquarters on Sicily. He hated the attention it drew when he wore it, and the inevitable requests for handshakes, autographs and photo ops which followed. At the same time, he loved it for the anonymity it afforded him. Put it on, and he was a symbol. Take it off, and he was a man. It was a tenuous truce, but it worked.

As he walked, comments about last night's show drifted in to his sensitive ears from men within the crowd around him. None of the voices carried Brooklyn accents. None of the voices were Bucky's voice.

"Did you see the pins on those dames on the stage?!"

"Man, I wish I had a girl like that."

"Do you think he gets to share a room with them?"

"Man, I wish I could share a room with them."

"I heard one of them is Rita Hayworth!"

Steve groaned inwardly at the last comment. Somebody—he suspected Kevin—had started a rumour that Rita Hayworth was one of Captain America's dancing girls. Steve hadn't thought anybody would be gullible enough to believe the rumour, but Rita had entertained Palermo a couple of weeks ago, and men had come flocking at the rumour she was still in the city. The half-empty arena had filled faster than Coney Island on a hot summer day. He just hoped that rumour wouldn't eventually make it back to the star herself. He doubted Rita would be thrilled about the idea of being one of Captain America's dancers.

The show had been… well, it had been different. The audience here wasn't the same as it was back home. In the U.S., it had been families and kids who filled most of the seats. Here, there were no families. No kids. A few women had been present, but they were locals who hung off the arms of the comparatively wealthy American servicemen, and Steve didn't think they were the type of women who were looking to settle down with families any time soon.

The men in the audience had cheered loudly when the dancers took to the stage. The reception for Captain America himself had been less enthusiastic—at least, until he'd asked for a volunteer. The soldier who came up to the stage was large, almost as big as Steve himself, which made it all the more impressive when Steve lifted the guy clear over his head.

Kevin, again. They hadn't been able to bring the motorbike along on the tour, so Kevin had suggested incorporating an interactive element into the show. Now, instead of lifting a bike, Steve lifted a soldier. He formed the base of a human pyramid for the girls, who were surprisingly good at balancing on his shoulders despite their high heels and short skirts. Steve was very careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, when he was in the pyramid.

He still punched Hitler's lights out, because everybody got a kick out of that. Hitler's actor hadn't come over for the European tour, but Kevin had found a clerk in Palermo's USO office who was the spitting image of the actor who played Hitler back home. The guy's timing wasn't brilliant—it took him a couple of seconds and a hissed prompt from Steve to fall down after the 'punch'—but that was something they could work on.

"How do you feel about juggling knives?" Kevin had asked after the show, while the girls were dancing on stage following calls for an encore.

"You can't be serious?" Steve had asked. But Kevin was very serious.

"We can paint them red, white and blue. It will be very patriotic."

"Absolutely not."

"Bazookas, then? Oh, don't worry, we'd take the missiles out. I wouldn't have you juggling live bazookas, buddy."

"Yeah, because that would be crazy."

As he walked down the streets, he tried not to gawk like some uncultured tourist. His first taste of Italy reminded him in many ways of New York; the crowds of shoppers, the locals hawking their wares at the nearby market, the groups of women carrying baskets on their arms as they weaved their way around the groups of men who watched them with interest… it was a little slice of the familiar amidst the strange.

But the smells here were different. The air was perfumed with the aroma of sweet pastries and exotic fruits. The salty tang of the Med was over-powered on occasion by the less pleasant miasma of backed-up sewers. The sounds, as well, were different. Not just the accents of the locals, which sounded like swift, intricate songs to ears which were more used to hearing a slower Brooklyn drawl, but the other noises, too. There were less motorcars on the roads, and what cars there were spluttered and choked their way over rough, cobbled streets. The gulls, though, cartwheeling in the air above the market as they watched for an easy meal of dropped pastry, cried just the same as in New York. Seeing them brought a smile to his lips.

Flash.

Steve closed his eyed against the blinding light as bright flecks danced across his dark lids.

"Darn it, Freddie, can't I even get a bit of sightseeing done without you flashing that thing in my face?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes to clear his vision.

Freddie Lopresti allowed the sling around his neck to take the weight of the camera as he reached up to throw an arm around Steve's shoulders and offer a gleaming grin.

"You're an artist, Mr. Rogers, so let me paint a picture for you." He gestured with his hand to a family of locals, a man, his wife and their two children, going about their daily business at the market, ignoring the throng of soldiers around them. "The war's over. You're back home with a doll of a wife and a couple of little tykes to bounce on your knee. Little Jimmy or whatever, he asks you, 'Papa, you got any pictures of yourself in the war?' So you bring out your box of keepsakes and show little Jimmy all the excellent pictures your good pal Freddie took of you during the war. No stars, no stripes, no mask, just plain ol' Private Rogers walking the streets of Palermo surrounded by his fellows-in-arms. How does that sound, Mr. Rogers?"

"It sounds like you think I'm a piece of toast, Freddie." When the young man lifted his eyebrows in question, Steve elaborated. "You're buttering me up."

Freddie chuckled and dropped his arm. Probably couldn't feel the blood flowing to his hand anymore; Freddie was Charlie's age, but he wasn't as tall as Bucky's younger brother. He had quite a reach to get to Steve's shoulders.

"I can't help it, Mr. Rogers. The camera—"

"Loves me. I know," Steve sighed.

"What are you doing all the way out here, anyway?" Freddie looked around at the dusty market and the pot-holed roads. "This isn't exactly the ritzy part of town. I mean, look over there, you can see a bombed out building that they haven't even started to clean up yet."

"I'm looking for souvenirs for some of the folks back home." Not entirely a lie. Just not the whole truth. He was also scanning the faces of every soldier in the crowd. Looking for a pair of blue-grey eyes twinkling with humour. Listening for the familiar sound of a Brooklyn accent.

At that moment, a young woman approached them carrying a tray full of trinkets. They were shells, mostly, on delicate threads, some of them bordered with colourful beads. She babbled something in Italian and began picking out trinkets, pushing them towards Steve's hands.

"Looks like you're in luck," Freddie said. He picked out one of the trinkets and held it up, scrutinising it. It had a cowrie shell at the top, and several strands of small beads and polished shell fragments hanging from it. If Steve squinted just right, it kinda looked like the figure of a person. Some sort of charm, perhaps?

"Do you have any bracelets or necklaces?" he asked. Might as well make good on his half-truth.

The woman continued pushing random trinkets towards him, so Freddie babbled a line of Italian at her, and she began sifting through her wares.

"You speak Italian?" Steve asked.

"You don't?"

"Of course not. I've never been to Italy before."

"Me neither," Freddie grinned.

The woman finally came up with two shell-and-bead bracelets in her hand. Then she said something Steve did understand.

"Five dollars."

Steve reached for his wallet. It seemed a high price for two bracelets which didn't even have a scrap of silver about them, but he could hardly say no now that he'd asked for them. He'd heard that the war had driven up prices in Europe. Freddie, however, reached out to lower the wallet Steve was bringing out from his pocket.

"Mr. Rogers, you can't give her five dollars, it's extortion!"

"But she said—"

"I know what she said." The young man sighed and rolled his eyes. "This isn't America, Mr. Rogers; you don't pay the price on the label. You haggle."

"I don't know how to haggle," he admitted.

"Here, let me show you. How much do you think the bracelets are worth?"

"Jeez, I dunno." He ran a hand through his hair as he studied them. He didn't wanna go to low and insult the woman's work or something. "How much do you think they're worth?"

"No idea. Let's find out."

Freddie picked up one of the bracelets and began gesturing at it as he spoke in Italian. The woman scowled and flapped her hands around as she replied. Freddie shouted a little louder. The woman raised her voice, and her scowl deepened. Steve had no idea what she was saying, but he could imagine it went something like, 'I have four starving children to feed.' Maybe he should've just paid the five bucks…

The exchange of shouts drew glances from passing soldiers, but not from the local folks. After another moment of shouting, in which Steve wished he were smaller, or further away from the pair, the woman snatched the bracelets back and started to walk away. Freddie stepped after her and appeared to cajole her back. Finally, he turned to Steve with a smile.

"They're worth three dollars and fifty cents."

"Really?

Freddie shook his head. "No, they're worth less than that, but three-fifty is the least she will take. Apparently, she has an ailing mother to buy medicine for, and father too sick to work, whom she must take care of."

"Oh." Guilt niggled from inside his stomach. "Well, if that's how it is, maybe I should pay the five dollars."

"Mr. Rogers, everybody has circumstances," said Freddie. Right then, he seemed wise beyond his years. "I may not have been to Italy before, but I grew up in Little Italy. Compared to the rat-house tenements of the Lower East Side, Sicily is the Ritz. In fact, my folks didn't even have a house during the first three years of their marriage. They lived in a jalopy, and my oldest brother was born on the back seat. At nights, they'd stick him in the trunk, 'cos they couldn't afford a crib."

"Really?"

"No, of course not really! What kinda nutcase would put their kid in the trunk of a car, even if it was a nice one? My point is, times here are tough, but nobody's starving. And trust me, the locals will be playing the dumb soldiers for all they're worth. There are prostitutes in this city earning more money than you, and by quite a large margin. You gotta take everything people say with a pinch of salt."

"Huh." Steve took out three dollars and fifty cents, and handed it over to the woman. She gave him the bracelets and departed with a "Ciao!", her eyes already scanning the crowd for her next victim.

"You should'a let me get a picture of you standing next to her," Freddie said, patting his camera. "It would'a made a good story for the kids."

"Maybe next time," he snorted. Kids. It was a thought he'd never entertained before. Most of the time, he still felt like a kid himself, even though his mom had once told him he'd grown up too fast. That had been just before she'd died.

"So, where to now, Mr. Rogers?"

He checked his watch. Not even midday yet. Plenty of time to get some Bucky-hunting done.

"I dunno. What is there to see around here?"

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

Danny woke in a bed. A blanket covered his body, and a pale yellow ceiling greeted his eyes. Noise, musical, drifted into his ears. He turned his head, saw a wind-chime made of shells and hollow wooden tubes suspended in an open window, blowing gently in a breeze which smelt faintly of flowers.

I'm dead, he thought. I'm dead and in heaven.

His suspicion was confirmed when a young woman's face appeared above him, dark-haired, dark-eyed, her skin flawless, a warm shade of olive. In her hand was a cool, damp cloth, which she dabbed across his forehead. When she saw his eyes open, she smiled at him, and suddenly everything seemed right with the world.

"Are you an angel?" he asked.

The language she responded in wasn't English, but it was familiar, and her conversation wasn't aimed at Danny, but at somebody on the other side of the room. Angel language, probably. Then the face disappeared, replaced by another, fine age-lines beneath the dark eyes and around the mouth, threads of silvery grey winding through the dark hair.

"Are you an older angel?"

"You are safe," the older angel said, her English marked by a strong accent.

"Because I'm in heaven?"

"Because you are in my home."

"Your home in heaven?" he insisted.

"A couple of kilometres outside Castello Lavazzo. I would not call it heaven, but it is pleasant enough."

"I'm still in Italy?"

"Where else would you be?"

He tried to push himself up. "I have to get back to my camp." The searing stab of pain in his shoulder brought a whimper to his lips, and the woman placed her hand on his chest, forcing him back down. She didn't need very much force. His whole body ached, and the bed was very comfortable.

"You are going nowhere. You are very sick, signore. You have been drifting in and out of sleep for days, and your fever has not yet broken."

Days?! Oh no no, this couldn't be! If he'd been gone for days, everyone would think he was dead. The brass would have written to his parents by now, the quartermaster would have reassigned his stuff, and Barnes would have read his letter. The entire world had changed, because he'd survived death.

"Tonight," the woman continued, "a doctor will come to see you. He will need to take the bullet out of your shoulder. I would like you to drink some water and have some soup, before that. You are weak; you must build up your strength before the doctor comes."

"Or," he said, as visions of huge metal tweezers being jabbed into his shoulder flew by his eyes and made his stomach heave, "we could leave the bullet in and I'll just work around it."

The woman shook her head. "I'm no doctor, but even I know the bullet has to come out. Where it is lodged, it is damaging your muscle, and probably your veins. There is infection in your arm that the doctor cannot treat until the bullet is out."

"Great."

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Sergeant Daniel Wells."

"Where are you from, Signor Wells?"

A thread of paranoia wound its way through his head and left a sharp taste in his mouth. Why did she want to know where he was from? What did it matter? Maybe she was a German spy, or reporting to the Nazis about American troops in the area. He clamped his mouth shut, declining to answer.

"It's okay, we can talk more once the doctor has seen to you. My name is Rosa and this is my daughter, Adalina. She will stay with you whilst I prepare you a bowl of soup, but she does not speak English."

The woman left, replaced by the girl, who resumed cooling his face with the water-dipped cloth. This time, he did not let himself be fooled by her smiles. No German spies would be gettin' anything outta Danny Wells.

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

"Get to the ridge! Hodge, move it, they're right behind us!"

"Where's Banks? Has anyone seen Captain Banks?"

"Where'd that tank come from? It's firing on the Nazis! Is it ours?"

"Barnes, wake up."

The ground around Bucky exploded. Bodies went flying. He dropped to his knees from the force of the impact and clasped his hand firmly around the stock of his rifle. In the darkness, there was chaos. He didn't know where Captain Banks was. Didn't know who was in command anymore. All he knew was that the Nazis had been pushing them back, and then a tank had arrived. It was the biggest damn tank he'd ever seen. When it had opened fire on the Nazis, he and the others with him had cheered. When it turned its turret to the men in Banks' taskforce, those cheers had turned to screams.

"Dammit, Barnes, if you die now, I'm gonna whup your ass so hard they'll be hearing it in Berlin."

He retreated, and took as many of his men with him as he could gather. They made for a half-crumbled wall, one of the few solid structures left in Azzano. His legs ached. His lungs burned. The air was filled with dust and smoke and the scent of fire and death. A Nazi popped up in front of him, and he shot without aiming, hitting the guy in the stomach. Didn't occur to him until after the fact that the Nazi had been running blindly from that tank.

In the shelter of the crumbling wall, he sank down and tried to draw breath into his lungs. Hands shaking, he reloaded his M1. Almost outta ammo. Looking at the sooty, dirt-stained faces around him, he realised the others were no better off. Gusty had discarded his M1, falling back on his pistol. Biggs had lost his helmet somewhere, and Hodge was limping. A short distance away, a group from the 69th were returning fire, guns aimed at a new group of soldiers, men who wore uniforms he had never seen the like of before.

"C'mon princess, you're heavier than you look, and I'm not gonna carry you much further."

"Gusty, take Hodge and Biggs and anyone else you can find, and get back to camp," he instructed.

"Sarge, we can't just leave you—"

"Yes, you can, because I'm giving you an order. The brass need to know what happened here. They need to know about the tank, and whoever these new guys are. Wherever it came from, it's no friend of the Nazis or ours. It's intel that's too important to ignore. Now, I'm gonna join up with the 69th, and I'll send anybody else I can to follow you. As soon as we've evacuated as many men as possible, I'll join you back at camp."

Gusty offered a salute. He and Biggs each hooked one of Hodge's arms around their necks, and Bucky lay suppressing fire as they hurried back towards the forest. When he was sure they were clear, he sank back down behind the wall. The tank was drawing nearer. It didn't go around buildings; it went over them. Something that big… it was unstoppable!

He joined Dugan and a few men from the 69th. Together, they stood their ground. Watched the bodies of enemies fall. Then, the tank turned its turret towards them, and everything went dark.

Bucky opened his eyes and found himself looking at a very familiar moustache.

"Dugan?"

"'Bout damn time, Sleeping Beauty," Dugan said, the worry in his blue eyes belying his mocking tone. "I was beginning to think you'd hit your head harder than I thought."

He sat up, and promptly coughed up a lung. Something—he suspected smoke, or dust—was stuck in his throat, irritating his windpipe, choking him. Dugan handed a canteen over, and Bucky drank deeply, until whatever was choking him was clear. When his coughs stopped and his eyes cleared, he looked around. He was inside some dim interior, and when the interior rocked, he realised it was the back of a wagon. A dozen other men were in there with him; Dugan, and a few of the 370th. Seated on a nearby bench were two guards, faces obscured by goggled helmets, wicked-looking rifles aimed at Bucky and the others.

Prisoners. The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He let Dugan help him up onto the bench, where he sat back against the side of the rocking vehicle.

"What happened?" he asked.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Standing with you. Firing at a group of soldiers." He nodded his head in the direction of their impassive guards. "Then, the tank aimed at us. How are we not dead?"

Dugan snorted softly. His face was grey with ash, flecked with the blood of friends and foes alike.

"Their aim was off. The blast came close, but it didn't hit us directly. Most of my men were killed. You and I were thrown clear. These sons of bitches came and started picking up survivors. They were gonna shoot you, thought you were too badly injured, but I told 'em I'd carry you—"

"'Preciate it," Bucky said, swallowing the lump in his throat. He'd come so close to death today.

"Anyway, they marched us for a couple of miles, then loaded us all up into this wagon, and others like it."

He glanced again at the guards. It was hard to judge their mindsets when he couldn't see their faces, and he didn't recognise their uniforms. Automatically, his mind groped for advice from Boot Camp. Intel. He needed to know where he was. Who his captors were. How many men were with them. How many had gotten away. Then, he could start to formulate a plan.

"What happened to Captain Banks?"

A new voice spoke up. "Dead. I saw him get hit by a Nazi bullet, right before that tank appeared," said dark-skinned Private Jones.

"I don't suppose any of you still have your sidearms?"

Dugan shook his head sadly. "No. They searched us as soon as they got their paws on us"—Bucky's hand leapt to the inner breast pocket of his jacket, and he let out a breath of relief when his fingers felt the edge of the envelope—"and took anything that could be used as a weapon."

"Any idea where they're taking us?"

Again, a head shake. "But I think we're not in Italy anymore. I caught a glimpse of a road sign a couple of miles back, and it sure as hell wasn't in Italian. Switzerland, Austria, Germany… we're in one of those places, I reckon."

They didn't have long to ponder their fates. A few minutes after Bucky woke, the rocking of the vehicle ceased, and the engine cut out. As if sensing this was the opportune moment to escape, the guards stood and gripped their rifles more tightly. Bucky glanced at Dugan, and knew he was thinking the same thing; they wouldn't be quick enough to take the guards, and there was no guarantee the rest of the men would push forward if taken by surprise. They'd have to wait.

More guards arrived. The prisoners were ushered down from the wagon and directed, through the use of rifle-prodding, to the front gates of a towering building, a hellish nightmare of dark stone and uniform rectangular windows too small to fit a body through. Still a little unsteady on his feet, Bucky wobbled until Dugan offered him a broad shoulder to lean on.

I feel like Steve, he thought, as they stepped through the heavy iron gates. How many times did I carry him home after he got KO'd in some back alley? I just wish it was home Dugan was taking me to now.

The courtyard was bleak and bare. Nothing grew, and it looked like nothing ever had. Not a single wisp of grass could be seen, not a single tree or bush, not even a weed. It was as if life itself had forsaken this place, and it made Bucky shiver anew. Atop watchtowers stationed around the compound's chain link fence, harsh searchlights roamed, and he closed his eyes as one flashed across his face, blinding him with its brightness.

They were led through the courtyard and into the foyer of the dark building, where Bucky fully expected to be officially processed. But instead of being met by some administrative officer, instead of having their names and serial numbers catalogued, they were separated into smaller groups and frogmarched in different directions. Bucky opened his mouth to object to the men being split up, but Dugan gave him a not-so-gentle nudge in the ribs and shook his head in warning. The two of them, along with Private Jones, were prodded towards a small, dark corridor.

As they walked, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. Tried to take in anything and everything that might help them to escape. The windows were high, barred. Too small for Bucky and his companions to get through, even if they were able to reach them. At the intersection of every corridor, guards were posted. The place was a veritable maze.

When they were finally stopped, they found themselves in a huge room containing barred cells. The cells went on for as far as the eye could see, but not all of them were occupied.

It was to one of the occupied cells that Bucky and his companions were led. Three men were sitting inside the cell, each of them with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and when the door was opened, Bucky and the others were pushed inside. The guards laughed with each other and conversed for a moment in German. One of them went to a wooden crate and brought out a couple of blankets, tossing them through the bars so that they landed at the prisoners' feet. Bucky didn't need to touch one of the blankets to know they were the itchy, woollen type, and they probably smelt as bad as they looked.

Their work done, the guards left. Dugan shoved his hands on his hips and looked at the solid iron bars.

"So. What now?"

The answer came from one of the men on the floor. "Bienvenue à Hell, amis. J'espère que vous ne manquez pas les menthes sur vos oreillers."

Bucky knew just enough French to know he didn't know very much French. After a certain amount of badgering, Wells had taught him a few sentences, but none of those sentences matched what the man on the floor had just said. Dugan seemed less than impressed.

"I don't remember asking for no French dames to share a cell with," the big man scoffed.

The man on the floor was on his feet in a heartbeat, blanket falling from his shoulders as he put up his fists and spewed several sentences of rapid French at Dugan. The guy wasn't very tall, and he had a sort of homeless, unshaven look about him.

"Just what we need," a second man sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. "More Yanks."

The second man was taller even than Bucky and Dugan, and slender despite the thick blanket around his shoulders. Beneath the blanket he wore a khaki-coloured paratrooper's jumpsuit, and a maroon beret was perched atop his head. His soft-spoken voice carried a British accent full to the brim with elocution; it was like hearing Agent Carter in male form.

"What, you got some other Americans hidden around here?" Dugan scoffed.

"He's talking about me, ace," the third man said, as he too pushed himself up from the dusty floor. He was barely taller than the Frenchman, and though the accent was American, the face would've looked more at home on a Jap combatant in the Pacific Theater. "Private Jim Morita, 6th Ranger Battalion," he said, just to put any doubts to rest.

Bucky stepped forward. "You're from the 6th Rangers?"

"Yeah. What's it to you?" Morita asked, eyeing him warily.

"Nothin'. I mean, I met a few of your regiment just a couple of days ago. Captain James, Sergeant Kagawa… a few others with them. And Colonel Taylor."

Morita grimaced. "So, you've had the pleasure of the colonel, huh?"

Bucky very nearly grinned. Taylor hadn't made much of an impression on him. Seeing Phillips get one up on him had been a real pleasure. He offered his hand to the shorter Japanese man.

"Sergeant James Barnes, 107th."

Morita shook his hand, but still seemed wary. His tall companion, however, was much more jovial.

"Major James Montgomery Falsworth, 3rd Parachute Brigade," the British man said, shaking Bucky's hand quite firmly. "And this good man is Jacques Dernier. He understands more English than he speaks."

"Je suis impatient de vous voir pousser des chariots lourds de machinerie nazie autour," said Jacques.

"What'd you say about my mother?" Dugan scowled.

"He said it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Major Falsworth offered.

"That's not actually what he said," Private Jones spoke up.

"You speak French, Jones?" Bucky asked. He hadn't known anyone else in the SSR was fluent.

"Sure do."

"So what'd Frenchie actually say?" Dugan prompted.

Jones' eyes went suddenly shifty. "Uh, he's looking forward to working with us."

"Working?"

"This place is some sort of Nazi forced labour camp," Major Falsworth explained. "They bring us out in shifts to build things. I've no idea what, but it's big, whatever it is. Some of the parts are immense."

"Tanks, maybe?" Dugan offered to Bucky.

"Maybe. Major, when we were brought here, there were other men with us, but they were taken somewhere else."

"Straight to the factory floor, no doubt. They've been undermanned for weeks now. Their commandant—a thoroughly unpleasant chap named Colonel Lohmer—apparently has a daily production quota to satisfy. When he doesn't reach it, he gets nervous. And when Colonel Lohmer is nervous, that's bad for all of us."

"You should all get some rest," said Morita, nodding to the blankets on the floor. "Manual labour is exhausting, and if you collapse before your shift's over, they beat you till you can't even walk and they still expect you to carry out your shift the next day."

Dugan and Jones reached down to pick up a blanket each, then looked at what they held in their hands. Rough-hewn squares of wool, dyed grey and still smelling of the sheep they'd initially come from. The other three prisoners seemed grateful for the warmth they afforded in the cold cell.

"Uh," Jones said, "there's six of us here, but they only gave us five blankets."

Major Falsworth offered a grim smile. "They think it's amusing to provide less than their prisoners need. They want to see us fight over our resources. It not only entertains them, they think it divides us. Prevents us from forming friendships and alliances which might lead to us attempting to overpower the guards and break out."

"Oh, so they just told you all their top secret plans to demoralise us?" asked Dugan. "That was handy."

"Not at all. They were laughing about it amongst themselves, and I just happen to speak German quite fluently, thanks to long summers spent at my Great Uncle Alphard's holiday retreat near Cologne." The major gave Dugan a wistful smile. "I have some very fond memories of travelling around Germany with my cousin Bernhardt."

"Well gee, I hope we didn't accidentally shoot cousin Bernhardt out there."

"Very unlikely, given that he was killed during a failed assassination attempt on Hitler's life very early in the war. Not all Germans are Nazis, you know. I just wish Cousin Bernie had succeeded; you would all be back home right now, and I wouldn't be sitting in a cell with a group of Yanks and a blanket that somehow manages to smell of wet dog."

"You guys take the blankets," Bucky told Jones and Dugan. "I'll stay awake."

Dugan scoffed loudly. "What, you think just because you were unconscious for a few hours, you've already slept? Hate to burst your bubble, Sleeping Beauty, but those two things aren't the same."

"He's right," said Major Falsworth. "If you were injured earlier, you should sleep now. You can't afford to get sick in this place."

He could see Dugan wasn't going to take no for an answer, so he accepted one of the blankets and huddled down on the floor beside the other three. None of them had any coins, so Dugan and Jones played rock-paper-scissors for right to the last blanket, and planned to switch after a couple of hours. Jones won, so he joined Bucky and the others on the ground.

Despite Falsworth's advice, it wasn't easy to find sleep. The ground was hard, the air was cold, and the iron bars of the cell pushed against the muscles of his back. When sleep eventually began to claim his mind, another thought occurred to him.

"Has anybody ever tried to escape?" he mumbled.

"One, but it was before my time," said Falsworth. "I've only heard about it through rumour."

"Did he manage to get out?"

The answer came from Jacques Dernier, a long stream of French translated by Jones.

"Jacques says he knew the guy. A member of some U.S. cavalry division captured in Africa. The guy jumped his guards and managed to grab one of their guns, which he shot them with. He himself was shot in the leg by Colonel Lohmer as he ran towards the front gates. Colonel Lohmer threw him back in his cell with his wound untreated. A few hours later, the guy used the edge of his dog tags to slice open his own wrists."

The tags against Bucky's chest suddenly felt cold as ice.

"Why don't they take our tags from us?"

"Because they simply don't care if we hurt ourselves or each other," said Falsworth. "They can always find new workers."

And with that cheery piece of information rolling around in his head, Bucky closed his eyes and sought the comfort of sleep.

Author's note: Welcome back to part two of the story! Questions, comments, criticisms; stick 'em in the box!