We Were Soldiers

63. What We Keep In Our Pockets

Danny opened his eyes to a pale yellow ceiling. The breeze moved the chimes hanging from the window, and he was struck by a strong feeling of déjà vu. Experimentally, he tried to move his arm, but found his shoulder too heavily bandaged to move. It still hurt, but the pain was less, and he no longer felt dizzy and lightheaded. Did that mean he was okay? No, not… not okay. He'd been injured before—broke his leg as a kid, when he fell out of a tree. It was an injury that had earned him an extra dose of the strap, since his leg in a pot meant he didn't fit in the cupboard for a while. But he knew how long it took a body to heal from something like that. He wouldn't go from shot to fine overnight. It would take time. But at least while he was healing from this one, he could still walk. Make his way back to camp before everything went to hell.

A face appeared above him, blocking his view of the yellow ceiling. It was a woman's face, lined around the eyes and mouth with age-creases. She looked familiar, and when she smiled down at him, he realised he'd seen her before.

"It is good to see you finally awake, Sergeant Wells," she said, with a lilting accent. Her voice was nice. Low, throaty. It said, no nonsense. No nonsense was good. He knew where he stood, with no nonsense.

"What happened? How do you know my name?" Dog tags and chevrons, stupid.

"I know your name because you told me," she replied. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down. "Please do not try to move. You are very weak. It's been over a week since the doctor took the bullet out of your arm. It was very badly infected, and we feared you might not pull through."

He looked down across his bare chest at the bandage wrapped around his shoulder. Some hazy memory of a doctor hovering above him lingered in the back of his mind, as well as something about his dad. But it was all one long, uninterrupted nightmare. Had it really been over a week? How long since he'd been shot? Had the army given him up for dead? Sent the letter home? Were his parents gleefully burying all memories of their youngest son?

"God, I wish I had a glass of moonshine right now."

One of the woman's eyebrows rose. "Moon…shine?"

"Strong alcohol, usually produced illegally. Though, I'd settle for a weak alcohol produced legally," he told her.

"I do not allow alcohol in the house." She gestured at a pitcher of water on the bedside table, and a full glass beaker standing beside it. "I do have water. Would you like a drink?"

"Yeah. Thanks." It was better than nothing. Maybe he could pretend it was alcohol.

The woman grabbed an extra pillow she'd been hiding under the bed, and helped him lean forward so she could prop it behind his back. She sat on the edge of his bed and picked up the glass of water, holding it to his lips. He accepted it grudgingly at first, with a small sip, but it ignited a deep thirst within him, and he quickly downed the whole glass. Somehow, right then, it managed to be better than alcohol.

"Who are you?" he asked, once his thirst was quenched. "Where am I? And how did I get here?"

"My name is Rosa Bianchi," she said. "You are in my home. As for how you came to be here… my husband's uncle found you, some miles away. He is a truffle picker, and his work often takes him deep into the woods. He was out with his dog one morning when he came across you lying in the forest. At first he thought you were dead, but when he realised you were breathing, he brought you to me."

"Then, thank you. I owe you my life. I don't suppose you've heard of any American army camps nearby?"

She shook her head. "I know of no such camps. The Germans have an airfield some twenty-five kilometres away, and sometimes the officers come into the town, but that is the only military installation I know of."

"I need to get back to my camp." Recalled some dim idea about punching the colonel so he could get a dishonourable discharge.

"Will your people be looking for you?"

"Doubtful. I'm not that important. They've probably declared me KIA already." All the men left behind had probably been declared the same. Of course, nobody had taken their tags, so there may still be some doubt. No tags, no death. He felt for the tags in the pocket of his jacket, then remembered he was no longer wearing it. Panic rose from his stomach, bubbling into his chest before spilling over into his head. "Where's my jacket?"

"Over there, on the chair," said Rosa, gesturing to a nearby chair.

Relief washed the panic away. The bodies of the men who'd died could've been eaten by wolves or bears by now; they might never be found, even if there was anyone looking for them. Danny had to make sure their tags got back to the brass so they could be given proper funeral services. So their families could be informed that they were definitely K.I.A. and not just M.I.A. He imagined it was probably worse living with a loved one missing, rather than dead. Always looking up at the opening of the door, always hoping, expecting them back, never truly knowing whether there was any reason for hope. Yes, he would certainly make sure those tags made it home.

"Can you pass it to me?"

She did. Only when he held the jacket did he realise how dirty it was. He'd worn the thing every day since arriving in Europe, and had only managed to wash it a couple of times with tepid water. It was not only dusty, it was also bloodstained, and it smelt like it had been worn for three months in all weather.

He used his left hand to open the breast pocket, and pulled out the three tags from metal was cold against his skin, and he read them in turn. James Hawkins. Anthony Jones. Oh. So that had been his name. Gilbert Martland. By some miracle, his own name was not amongst them. It didn't seem fair that they'd died and he'd lived… yet he was grateful that he'd been spared. Some people may have put it down to divine intervention. The grace of God. But not Danny. It was pure dumb luck that had saved him from being killed outright, and the combination of a skilled physician and Rosa's care that had stopped him from succumbing to his injuries.

"Where are my socks?" he asked suddenly. He had to get the socks back to Barnes, otherwise his friend would kill him. He could already hear the lecture in his head. That's the last time I let you borrow something.

"Everything you wore is in a drawer in the cabinet over there," said Rosa, leading his gaze to a chest of drawers with a wave of her hand.

Using his left hand, he lifted the blanket a little and found himself wearing a clean pair of grey linen pants.

"Who changed my clothes?"

"I did."

"Oh. Sorry 'bout that."

"How are you feeling?" she asked. "The doctor said you may experience weakness and exhaustion for some time."

"I'm hungry," he admitted. The glass of water had wakened a desire for something more substantial.

"Adalina is tending a pot of stew in the kitchen, and we have fresh bread in the oven."

"Thank you. I appreciate everything you've done for me. I don't wanna be a burden; if you fetch me my clothes, I'll get dressed and leave as soon as I've got something warm in my stomach."

"Eat first. Then you can see how you feel about moving."

"I'll be fine. Honestly." Besides, sooner or later he was gonna have to pee. Might as well get dressed at the same time.

Rosa merely gave him a very skeptical stare, then excused herself to check on dinner. He considered shouting after her, to ask if she could bring him a shirt, but decided against it. Maybe it had been too difficult to put a shirt on him with his shoulder so bandaged. Experimentally, he gave the dressing that had been taped down a small poke, and winced at the pain he caused himself. Idiot. Probably just went and poked out a stitch or something.

He relaxed back, and closed his eyes. He wasn't tired, but he knew the more he slept, the faster his body would mend, and the sooner he'd be back at camp. He had too much to do, to waste time on being injured. He had tags to take back, a letter to explain—and possibly apologise for—and a colonel to punch. The sooner he got back to camp, the sooner he could discover how terribly he'd ruined things. If is father were here, he would be gloating right now.

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

The whisper of voices pulled Bucky's mind from sleep. The heavy thud thud thud of booted feet encouraged his eyes to open. When the footsteps stopped outside his cell, he tried to push himself up, to give Colonel Lohmer no additional opportunity to make his life a further misery, but his aching limbs just didn't want to comply.

"That one," said an unfamiliar nasally voice. "Bring him."

An ominous shiver stole over his body. He didn't need to look up to know the owner of the voice was pointing right at him. The cell was opened, and he heard the guards approach. Forced himself not to back away as two pairs of rough hands tore the blanket from his shoulders and grabbed him under his arms, hauling him painfully to his feet.

"Where are you taking him?" he heard Dugan growl. There was no answer. When Dugan spoke again, his voice was even angrier. "I said, where are you—"

"Dugan, don't," Bucky gasped as the guards dragged him out of the cell. There was nothing Dugan could do, and his anger would only get him beaten again. Dugan's cheek was still blue from the last time he'd asked a question Lohmer deemed 'impertinent.'

When Bucky was brought face to face with his new tormentor, he blinked a few times, unsure if he was really seeing what he was seeing. The man was short, possibly even shorter than Steve, and had a pudgy face with beady eyes staring at Bucky from behind thin, wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a long white lab coat, and in his arms he carried a clipboard on which were papers covered in German scrawl. He looked nothing like one of Lohmer's usual goons.

The man lifted his clipboard, ticked something off, then turned and walked away. The guards followed him like well-trained dogs, and Bucky was dragged with them, his legs too exhausted to lift his feet to try to walk. He tried to turn his head, to look back at the men in his cell and somehow convey that they had to carry on with the escape plan without him, but the guards walked too fast, and Bucky's neck ached too much for him to turn it enough to see.

He was taken down unfamiliar corridors, and he tried to commit his route to memory so that he could make his way back if he had to. After the fourth or fifth turn, however, his feverish mind was hopelessly lost. A strange sound reached his ears, a sort of soft mumbling. It took him a moment to realise it was the short man in the lab coat muttering to himself.

"...no care at all for the value of the prisoners… so typical of soldiers… ought to report his conduct to Herr Schmidt…"

Bucky's skin turned to gooseflesh at the mention of the name, and all doubts about this being a HYDRA operation fled. Schmidt?! The head of HYDRA? Was he here? If so, and if Bucky could get close, he could try to take the man out. Would HYDRA collapse without Schmidt at its head?

"Where are you taking me?" Bucky croaked.

His question went unanswered. Maybe the small man hadn't heard him. He asked again, louder. Same response.

The corridors got smaller. Narrower. Colder. Darker. He could no longer hear the near-constant sounds of machinery chugging and whirring on the factory floor. When he exhaled, his breath fogged the air. But it wasn't until he saw a single metal door at the end of the corridor that he truly began to worry.

The back room!

It had to be. They were taking him to the back room, and Falsworth said nobody ever came back from the back room.

He found the strength, some last small reserve, to resist. He struggled, twisted, trying to free himself from the hands which held him. The guards barely even seemed to notice his struggle, and after a moment he gave up his feeble attempt, too exhausted to attempt more.

The door was opened and Bucky was carried into a laboratory. It was a cold, dark place and the sharp smell of iodine mingling with disinfectant wasn't enough to drown out the smell of blood and offal. His stomach turned, and he probably would've been sick if he'd had anything in to bring up.

"Let's start with blood samples," the doctor said without preamble. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, and gestured at the table. Bucky's stomach turned again. "Remove his jacket and put him into the restraints."

A flicker of strength came back, fanned to life by a bubble of anger. The guards tried to wrestle him out of his jacket, and he tried to wrestle himself away from the guards. His jacket held a piece of something from the outside—he had to keep Wells' letter safe, because it was the only part of his friend that was left. If HYDRA got their hands on the letter, there would be nothing at all of Wells left in the world, and Bucky owed his friend enough to keep that one tiny part of him alive.

"Get off me!" he threatened, throwing a punch that lacked real strength. The guard shook it off, then jabbed the butt of his rifle into Bucky's stomach. Winded, exhausted, in agony, he tried to back away, but he was outnumbered and too sick. They overwhelmed him quickly, issuing a few kicks and punches before one of them threw him face-down on the floor and the other yanked the jacket from his body.

The doctor watched in silence as the guards hauled him onto the table and slipped strong leather restraints around his wrists and ankles, pulling them tight. The cold of the metal swiftly penetrated the thin material of his shirt, chilling his back and causing him to shiver. Lying flat on his back, he turned his head to watch his tormentors.

One of the guards picked up his jacket, and Bucky pulled against his restraints, to no effect. "Get your paws off my jacket, you Nazi bastard," he growled.

The doctor glanced briefly at the worn, dirty olive drab garment, and told the guard, "Burn it." The guard left the room, taking the jacket with him.

Bucky felt the fight go out of him. They were going to destroy the last part of Bucky's friend, but he'd read the letter enough times to know it by heart. Words that he couldn't unread were seared into his mind, and they couldn't take the words out of his head. Better that the letter was burned, than it was read by these bastards. Better that they not get their dirty, murderous hands on it and taint it with their evil.

"Now we can begin," the doctor said. He approached the table, clipboard in hands, and suddenly he seemed so much larger than he had before. His cold, uncompromising blue eyes stared down at Bucky like a hawk staring at a mouse. "Do you smoke?"

Bucky's mind went blank. "What?"

"I asked if you smoked," the doctor repeated. And then, seeing the confusion on Bucky's face, "Cigarettes, cigars, pipes. Do you smoke?"

"I… no. Why?"

The doctor ticked something on his clipboard, and Bucky's mind cartwheeled further into confusion. In boot camp, he'd been told that if he was captured by an enemy, he might be questioned. Perhaps even tortured, if he was captured by the uncivilised, savage Japanese. He'd been warned that the enemy might question him about his regiment, his superiors, his mission, troop placements, and other strategic information important to the war. Nobody had warned him that he might be asked about his smoking habits.

"Have you or anybody within your immediate family ever suffered from blood clots, lung disease, or tumours?"

Bucky clamped his mouth shut and focused on shivering in silence. He didn't know why he was being asked such strange questions, but his drill sergeants had warned him against answering any questions. In fact, there were only four pieces of information he could give when questioned, and he gave those now.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank: Sergeant. Service number: 3255—"

The doctor scowled and reached with his hand down towards Bucky's throat. Bucky closed his eyes, braced himself for pain… and felt a tug as his tags were ripped from his neck. They jangled together like a windchime as the doctor lifted them up and then dumped them in a metal bowl on a nearby surgical trolley.

"Not any longer," the short man said. "Now you are Subject 36."

Bucky's mouth went dry. He swallowed, trying to work some moisture back with his tongue. Fixing his gaze on the dark stone ceiling, he said, "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank, Sergeant. Service number, 32557038. Age, 26."

The doctor favoured him with an unreadable smile. "Keep believing that, if you wish. Perhaps it will give you the strength to endure, when so many who came before you… did not."

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

Panting, Steve turned up the street towards the hotel and slowed his pace to a loping jog for the last hundred metres. It was all the cool-down he needed after an intense sprint around Palermo.

Though the sun was its own height above the horizon, the roads were pretty quiet. He'd purposely taken to running in the early hours to avoid any awkward questions if he was seen sprinting faster than a man ought to be able to run. There wasn't much chance of him running into soldiers at this hour; most of them were abed in their respective camps, on the outskirts of the city, but Palermo's local population were early risers and the streets would soon be full of sellers hawking their wares.

When he reached the hotel door, he spent a few minutes stretching and bending, working his muscles after their work-out. Poised with body bent over his straightened leg so he could grab the toe of his shoe, foot resting atop the waist-high wall which ran around the outside of the hotel, he heard laughs and giggles from the street nearby. He glanced under his arm at a small group of young women—locals—watching him and giggling to each other as they conversed in Italian. They were the same group who'd been there yesterday, and the day before. It hadn't taken them long to notice his early morning exercise schedule. All Steve could think was, a pity Bucky isn't here. His friend would've simply loved being the attention of so many pretty dames.

In image of Bucky's grinning face popped into Steve's mind. So far, he hadn't been able to find his friend in Palermo, but that didn't mean he wasn't somewhere on the island. Every evening, Steve made a point of visiting some of the bars which soldiers were known to frequent. He'd given up hope of seeing Bucky's face in the crowd, but now he looked instead for information. He'd met a communications clerk, a man named Wintergreen, who—in exchange for an autographed photo of Captain America—had searched the records of soldiers K.I.A. during Operation Husky, and Bucky's name wasn't amongst them. That either meant that Bucky had survived the operation and was somewhere else on the island, or he hadn't been assigned to the operation in the first place and was somewhere else entirely.

The young women disappeared when Steve made a beeline for the door of the building and made it obvious he wasn't going to be breaking with tradition by talking to them today. It wasn't that he disliked the attention; it was just strange, and a little sad. If Steve had looked like his pre-serum self, the eyes of those girls would've skipped right over him. Just about any dame who'd ever given him the time of day back then was Mary-Ann, but she was Bucky's sister, and like a sister to Steve, too.

Don't forget Agent Carter, his inner-observer pointed out. She smiled at you even before the serum.

He tried to ignore that thought, as he tried to ignore the blush slowly heating his cheeks at the thought of Agent Carter smiling at him. Just encouragement, he told his inner-observer. That's all it was. Encouragement for the skinny, asthmatic underdog.

To distract himself, he took his pulse as he walked. It was steady, a little over sixty beats per minute. Pretty damn slow, considering he'd just had an extended dash around Palermo. Another benefit of the serum. Even when he exerted himself, he didn't get truly tired. Though there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his body was already cooling and slowing. Being super-fit definitely had its advantages.

He considered hopping straight into the building's single shower, since it was free as he passed it… but he had no clean clothes to change into. "Where's the sense in putting dirty clothes on a clean body?" Mom used to say when Steve was a kid, before hauling out the metal bathtub and placing it in front of the fire.

When he reached his room, he pulled a clean shirt from his drawer, along with clean socks and underpants. He added a pair of fresh trousers for the pile, and glanced around for his jacket. A small frown played across his brows when he spotted the empty chair beside the dresser. He was sure he'd tossed his jacket over the back of it before falling into bed late last night.

He looked around, but it wasn't on the floor, either. A knot of worry began to form in his stomach, and he closed his eyes, recalling the moment he'd opened his bedroom door. Had it been locked? Yes, he'd locked it. Definitely had to turn the key to get in. That meant nobody could've come in and stolen it. But… the window was open. No, no, foolish. He was on the third floor. No chance of anybody getting in through the window.

He checked his wardrobe, in case he'd hung his jacket up without remembering. He searched under the bed. In his drawers. After a few minutes he'd ransacked the entire room, and his heart was now pounding in his chest. When he heard a knock on his bedroom door, he took two long strides and flung it open, half expecting somebody to be standing there holding his missing jacket.

Instead, Kevin blinked at him through bleary eyes. Clad in nothing but his undergarments and a dressing robe, he looked like he'd just stumbled straight out of bed.

"What's going on, Steve?" he yawned. "It sounds like a tornado just hit your room." His eyes widened as he caught sight of clothes strewn around Steve's floor and the furniture dumped unceremoniously in random places. "What the—"

"I've lost my jacket!" Steve blurted out. "I mean, I haven't lost it; it's missing."

"Did you check with Leda? She knows you go running early, maybe she took it for washing."

Steve frowned again. "She's only supposed to take things from the floor." But maybe the Greek woman who did the laundry for the third floor had thought she was being helpful by taking his jacket for washing. "Thanks, Kevin," he said, dashing past and racing towards the stairwell.

He took the stairs two at a time. Then he remembered he was very athletic, and leapt down each flight, landing firmly on his feet before darting to the top of the next flight. He had a hairy moment when his balance—still a work in progress—teetered upon landing, but he recovered by bouncing conveniently off the wall, knocking out only a little plaster in the process.

At the ground floor, he raced out of the stairwell, down the corridor, and to the smaller maintenance staircase which allowed the various workers to go about their business without crossing paths too often with the guests. The stairs here were smaller, undecorated bare concrete, and a chill crept over Steve as the cool air caressed his skin. During his first night in the building, he'd unknowingly gone down the maintenance staircase and been chased out by a fearsome woman with a feather duster who'd shouted at him in Italian. Feeling like a naughty kid being chastised by his mom, he fled. Now, he hoped he wouldn't run in to that same woman again, because if she tried to stop him, he'd have to be firm with her, and he didn't really know how to be firm with a woman who didn't speak any English.

He heard the chatter of the staff down the corridor, and followed the voices until he came to a wide, bare stone laundry room. The women who performed domestic work were already hard at it despite the early hour; they knelt in two rows over washtubs filled with hot water and bubbling suds, each one of them dragging some item of clothing up and down their washboards.

They didn't see right away, so he had a moment to scan their faces for one that was more familiar. At first, he didn't recognise Leda; she had a dark kerchief wrapped around her head to keep her long brown hair from dangling into the tub. As he watched, she ran the back of her hand across the sheen of sweat on her forehead, and a few white suds clung to her skin. When Steve spotted the familiar olive drab material half-submerged in the suds, he sprang forward with a cry that made all the women jump in fright.

"No, no, no no!" he said, as he rushed towards Leda and snatched the material out of her hands. The jacket was completely sodden. Water poured from it as he lifted it up, splashing all over his pants and his boots. Around him, the women were chattering at him, frowns fixed on their faces, fingers shaking in admonishment. Steve barely noticed them. He barely even noticed how Leda had jumped back, her face ashen at this strange act of roughness from him.

Please be there please be there please be there.

He chanted his mantra in his head as he stuck his hand in the inner breast pocket. It was empty. He turned his eyes to Leda's stricken face.

"Where is it?" he demanded. It wasn't in his pocket; that meant the tiny photos of his mom and dad weren't ruined by water. But it was still missing. "My locket," he said, grabbing Leda's wrist when she failed to answer. "Where is my locket? It was in this pocket, right here. Tell me where it is!"

"Safe!" she cried, and pointed towards an envelope on one of the shelves on the wall. "Safe."

Steve let go of her wrist and, still holding the jacket, took two long strides to the shelf. He grabbed the envelope, opened it up, and found the silver locket nestled there. For the first time since finishing his run, his heart finally started beating normally again. The metal was cool against his skin when he tipped the locket onto his palm. With shaking fingers, he gently opened it up and looked at the faces within. Mom and Dad smiled back at him, none the wiser about their near-washing experience.

"Leda," he said, guilt prickling within him, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, but this locket is very precious to me. Please don't take my jacket again; please just take the clothes from the floor."

"But sir," she said, eyes wide and moist with unshed tears that pushed Steve to a whole new level of guilt, "it was on floor."

"Oh. I guess it must'a fallen off the chair." Next time, he would hang it in the wardrobe. He should'a know that after days of taking only dirty clothes on the floor, Leda wouldn't go randomly taking clean ones.

Leda chewed her bottom lip as she began picking at the hem of her water-stained apron. "Please, am sorry. Please not tell Mr. Maniscalco. He think thief. I lose job."

"Of course I won't tell him," he assured her. "It was just a misunderstanding. You do good work, Leda. My clothes always come back smelling fresh." And he'd just about gotten over his horror at the idea of a strange woman washing his underwear. Kevin had thought he was crazy for worrying about propriety like that. "If Mr. Maniscalco asks, I'll tell him you're a very good worker. A hard worker."

A small smile softened her face. She'd picked up English faster than her Italian co-workers; they still tended to slip into German before remembering the people walking their streets weren't German anymore. Steve suspected they did it on purpose, though Mr. Maniscalco was quick to stamp down such slips; he wanted the people in his hotel—and their money—to feel welcome regardless of their nationality. Mr. Maniscalco reminded Steve very much of Kevin, sometimes.

"Thank you, sir. I work hard for you. I no make mistake again." She reached out to gently pull at the sodden jacket he still held in one hand. "I finish now?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you. I'll leave you to your work. I'm sorry again for scaring you."

The other women at their washboards gave him dirty looks as he left, but he supposed he couldn't blame them. He was just glad Leda was assigned to the third floor; he'd heard complaints from some of the other USO staff that their clothes sometimes came back still dirty, or smelling stale. Maybe the Greek woman washed clothes differently, or maybe she just didn't care that the Allies now held Sicily.

Glancing down at the locket, he put all thoughts of washing aside as he opened the clasp once more to look at the faces of his parents.

"Don't worry," he told them, "you're safe now. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

What would he do if he lost the locket? It had belonged to his mother, and it was the one link he had to both of his parents. He'd kept some of his mom's belongings, after she'd died, but he had nothing else of Dad. Without the locket, his family wouldn't be real; it would be a memory. Less than a memory, because Dad had died before Steve was even born. It would be an idea.

With a shiver of cold, he unhooked the tiny clasp, fastened it around his neck, and tucked the pendant beneath his shirt, so that it hung beside his tags. Now he could feel them pressing gently against his skin. He would never lose them again.