We Were Soldiers

71. Blighty's Shores

"Do you think we'll see you again, Sarge?" asked Gusty.

Bucky finished dumping the last of his belongings into a box—only 48 hours after he'd last unpacked them—and turned to face his gathered friends. It hadn't taken long for word of the SSR's withdrawal to spread, and most of the 107th had heard about it before Bucky had.

He had mixed feelings about leaving Italy. On the one hand, he and the others from Krausberg would get some much-needed rest and recovery. But that meant the 107th was being split apart. Those who'd been taken hostage at Krausberg were going to London with the SSR, whilst those still fighting-fit were being merged with what was left of the 6th Rangers and 69th Infantry under the command of Colonel Hawkswell.

He knew that, in all likelihood, the majority of those taken prisoner at Krausberg would be sent home for R&R until they were well enough to be rotated back out. Not Bucky, of course, because he was just fine and didn't need to go home, but some of the other guys were in bad shape. For the first time since reporting for duty at Last Stop USA, Bucky would be officially apart from the rest of the 107th. And of those who were staying here, on the front lines… he might never see them again.

"Of course you'll see me again," he bullshitted. "A bit of English cuisine and bed rest and I'll be back out here in the middle of it. After all, someone's gotta help you keep these goons in line."

The goons in question were Biggs, Mex and Hodge, along with a few others who'd come to say goodbye to Bucky. They loitered in the barracks tent, watching him pack his life into a box. It was a pathetically small box.

"What do you think the SSR will have you doing?" Mex asked.

Hodge snorted. "Probably shining Captain America's boots."

"I still can't believe you're best friends with Captain America, who turned out to be the tiny guy from the Project, Sarge." Mex offered him an easy grin. "Y'know, my Mama says everything happens for a reason, and I think this proves it."

Bucky bit his tongue. Everything happened for a reason? Not a chance. That meant there was a reason why Bucky had been tortured for weeks by HYDRA. There was a reason why Tipper and Carrot and Wells and all the others had died. Bucky just couldn't believe it.

"Don't forget your promise, Sarge," said Gusty. "You're gonna deliver that speech at my wedding, right? When the war's over?"

"Of course. You've got the address of my folks back home. Send me an invite, and I promise I'll be the best best man you could ever want."

It was a hug-filled goodbye. First Gusty, then Biggs, followed by the others. Each hug lasted exactly three seconds, because everybody knew three seconds was the limit on guys sharing hugs. Bucky didn't mind, though; it was so rare for them to be able to say goodbye to a comrade without digging a hole that he would've happily accepted more than three seconds, if needed. But he didn't wanna make the fellas feel uncomfortable.

"You want me to carry your bags, Sarge?" offered Biggs. "Leave your hands free for your box?"

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks."

In the end, Biggs carried his duffel bag, Gusty grabbed his pack topped with his sleeping roll, and Mex picked up his rifle, bandolier and helmet. With his box clasped in his arms, Bucky led the small procession out towards the waiting wagon. Steve, Dugan, Jones and the others from Krausberg were already packed and sitting on the uncomfortable wagon benches, and three other wagons came before them in the convoy. With the Luftwaffe still being a nuisance in the skies above Italy, Phillips had decided to return to England by boat, and Bucky was anticipating a long, bumpy ride to whatever port they'd be departing from.

"Took your time, Princess," said Dugan. A wide grin split his face. "And you even had these fine gents to carry your bags."

Bucky ignored the taunt. He wasn't in the mood for banter. Not today.

His friends handed up his bags into the wagon, and Bucky turned back to face them. These were men who, if it weren't for the war, he would probably never have met. Men who'd lived and laughed and fought by his side. He'd lost so many friends already, and there were no guarantees these men would see the end of the war. Perhaps it was a good thing he was leaving. This way, he wouldn't have to write any more condolence letters.

"It's been an honour, Sarge," said Gusty. He jumped to salute, and the rest followed suit.

"Take care of each other," he told them. "Remember, you're family. Brothers in arms. Never forget that."

"We'll see you again, Sarge. At the victory celebrations, if not before."

Steve reached down to give Bucky a hand getting into the wagon, and Bucky found himself practically lifted right off his feet. Big Steve was taking a hell of a lot of time to get used to.

"Y'okay?" Steve asked.

"Sure. Fine." Bucky brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away any errant moisture. Sure, he was a bit emotional, but he and the guys from the 107th had been through a lot together.

"Alright. Just checking."

When the convoy started moving, Bucky realised they'd been waiting for him. The wagons rolled out of camp, and the small group of soldiers still holding their salutes grew smaller and smaller. Bucky watched until they disappeared from view, then turned his gaze to the dim interior of the wagon. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but at least he wasn't alone.

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

The chill breeze of the English Channel made Bucky's eyes stream. He stood at the fore of the ship, dressed in as many layers as he could find, and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, which he held closed against his chest with one freezing hand. His teeth chattered, but he did his best to ignore the cold. On the horizon was a thin sliver of brown. England.

Again.

"Hey."

Steve's boots clunked heavily across the open deck as he joined Bucky at the rail. Unlike Bucky, he was dressed only in his uniform and the bright orange life jacket the crew made everyone wear on deck. Bucky had escaped the life jacket by borrowing a page out of Wells' book and bribing the sailor on door duty.

"Hey," Bucky returned. The brown was getting larger. Why did everyone say England's shores were green, when really they were brown?

"Kinda cold out here, isn't it?"

Bucky shrugged. He was freezing, but he wasn't going to miss this for the world. The first time he'd sailed to England, Wells had told him they'd see Dover for its white cliffs. They hadn't seen Dover, because they'd actually ended up in Plymouth, but the SSR was heading to London, and Carter had assured him they would see Dover on the way.

"Wanna go dancing when we get to London?" he asked.

"C'mon, Buck, you know I can't dance."

"First time for everything."

"I think first, we should get you checked out." Bucky fought back a sigh as Steve continued. "I'm worried about you. You look pale, you're quiet, and you've not been eating."

Bucky pulled his face as the memory of two weeks at sea came rushing back. "I've had my fill of nautical cuisine. If you really wanna see me back to my old self, you'll get me something real to eat as soon as we hit dry land. Stew with dumplings as big as my fist. Or a fine cut of steak, if there are any cows left in England."

"Ship food isn't that bad." Steve grinned beneath Bucky's withering stare. "Okay, okay, it's bad. Guess I don't have much of a choice. My metabolism runs so fast that I need double the calories just to be up and walking around. Mr. Stark said he's working on a new type of army ration for me. He claims it's seventy-five percent fat."

"Whatever he makes, it'll probably taste better than what they're serving here," Bucky assured him.

"I hope so. Anyway, I'm gonna go for a walk to the back of the ship, stretch my legs. Wanna come?"

"Aft."

"Huh?"

"The back of the ship is called the aft."

"Oh, right. Guess I've still got a lot to learn." Steve gave him a gentle elbow nudge. "Good job I've got you here to teach me."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Ever since they'd left camp, Steve had been going on and on about how much he needed Bucky around. Bucky knew loads of stuff Steve didn't. Bucky knew how to talk to Phillips without pissing him off, and how to put the troops at ease, and how to pack writing supplies into a backpack so that the inkwell didn't spill over everything.

He knew what his friend was trying to do, because Bucky himself had done it back when he and Steve had been kids. How do you solve this equation, Steve? Wow, Steve, your tips for my history report really paid off, I got my first A! I'd've failed calculus by now, if it wasn't for you. And whilst those things had been true, Bucky had purposely laid it on thick, especially when Steve was feeling down in the dumps.

"I'm fine," Bucky said, trying to weight his voice with as much conviction as he could manage. "I just wanna enjoy the sight of England."

"Alright. Well, come find me if you want company."

"I will."

Steve left, and Bucky continued gazing at the horizon. What was it Wells had said? We'll sweep into London with our roguish good looks and wild frontier charm, go dancing every night before we're posted…

How young and naïve they'd been. It was only five months ago, and yet it felt like it belonged to some whole other life. A life before he knew about death and loss and killing. A life in which war had been an adventure first and a responsibility second.

It was a shame Wells couldn't be here to see Dover, and London. To go dancing every night with pretty dames, even if that had been complete bullshit. He'd bigged the city up so much that Bucky could imagine him standing on deck, describing all the fun they were going to have.

When he got to London, he would have a drink for Wells. And one for Tex, and Hawkins, and Carrot and Tipper… one drink for every friend he'd lost.

With a quiet sigh, he leant forward against the cold metal rail. He was going to need a lot of drinks.

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

Bucky's first view of London was not from a ship, but from a wagon. According to the crew, ships weren't allowed up the Thames right now, so they disembarked at Dover and transferred to the roads. He found himself wedged between Steve and Falsworth, being bounced around on the potholed roads.

"Don't you people ever fill in the potholes?" Dugan grumbled as he was thrown against Dernier. The Frenchman uttered a string of colourful French expletives.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we've been rather preoccupied for the past five years with the small matter of defending the entire free world single-handedly against the rampaging Nazis," said Falsworth. "There seems little point filling holes in the roads when the Luftwaffe is so determined to make new ones every night."

"He's got you there," Morita said with a chuckle.

London was everything Bucky had imagined, and nothing like what he'd expected. Its partially cobbled roads and grand architecture were muted by a layer of grey soot. Every window was framed by blackout curtains waiting to be employed, and no brightly painted signs adorned the doors above the local businesses. Street vendors pushed rickety wooden carts, and the people who walked the streets wore cloths in dull greys and browns. Bucky's mind was immediately transported back to fifteen years earlier, when financial austerity had been a cold, hard fact of life. Bucky's family had weathered the Great Depression, but not every family had been so well off.

"Place needs a lick of paint," said Dugan, his blue eyes assessing the city buildings around them. He anticipated Falsworth's response even before the British man opened his mouth. "Yeah yeah, I know: there's no point painting when the Nazis are hellbent on kicking your toys over."

The wagon stopped outside a tall building bearing a simple sign which said Strand Hotel. Just as Bucky was about to call out in question to the driver, a pair of heels clicking along the sidewalk heralded the arrival of Agent Carter. Her gaze swept over the men in the back of the wagon and lingered a fraction longer on Steve's face.

"Gentlemen, welcome to your temporary home." From one pocket she produced several folded sheets of paper, and passed them around the men. "Here are your room listings. The Strand Hotel is one of the finest in London, and as representatives of the United States Armed Forces, you are expected to be on your best behaviour. That means no fights, no rowdy behaviour, no bringing back women, and no vomiting all over the carpets if you foolishly spend your scrip on getting sauced. Anybody who cannot follow these simple rules, or anybody bringing the SSR's name into disrepute, will swiftly find themselves relocated to standard army barracks. Is that understood?"

The men offered a chorus of "Yes ma'am." Finally satisfied, Carter lowered the tailgate and allowed them to disembark with their bags. She left them in the care of the hotel concierge, a bald man wearing an impeccably pressed hotel uniform. He cleared his throat as they lined up outside the door, and Bucky realised for the first time exactly how dirty and bedraggled he and his fellow soldiers truly were. Italy and the HYDRA workhouse had taken their toll, and being aboard a ship for the past five days certainly hadn't helped matters. Steve had foolishly attempted a saltwater shower, but Bucky had known better. As a result, he smelt a little ripe.

"My name is Mr. Chipperton," the man offered. "On behalf of all at The Strand, I would like to welcome you to our hotel, and thank you for your participation in this war. If you would like to follow me, I will show you to your rooms. Oh, don't bother about your bags," he said, when he saw them all reach for their possession, "the bellboys will bring your belongings to your rooms."

As if on cue, a swarm of uniformed young men poured out the front door and descended on the bags. Bucky's first instinct was to growl a warning at the man who made a beeline for his duffel bag, but nobody else seemed bothered by it. Relax, Barnes, he told himself. This isn't Krausberg. Nobody's gonna take your stuff and try to tell you you're not a person. You'll get it all back.

Besides, most of his stuff could be replaced. It was standard G.I. gear, and some generic writing equipment. Everything important, he carried on his person. His dog tags, which proved he was a real person and not some numbered experiment, were around his neck. The letters he'd received from home over the past few months were packed tightly into one inside pocket, and his—Wells'—copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn was tucked inside the other. He carried a pack of smokes for trade, and a bar of chocolate for when he needed a moment of sweetness to remind him of the things life was worth living for. His tiny can opener was affixed to the ball chain of his tags, and he carried a small switch blade along with a Zippo in a hidden pocket of his jacket. Five months ago, surviving with only the contents of his duffel, backpack and belt pouches seemed an impossibility. Now, the duffel, backpack and belt pouches were a luxury.

He tagged onto the back of the line of men filing into the hotel behind Mr. Chipperton. As soon as he stepped into the lobby, his mouth fell open. Everything here was elegant architecture, gold foil and intricate brocade. This hotel would not have been out of place in the swankier districts of New York. In fact, Bucky had been to Broadway theatres less ritzy than this.

"You'll all be housed on the third floor," Mr. Chipperton was saying. Bucky looked up at the impressive crystal chandelier suspended above his head, and had never felt so out of place in his life. "Rooms are single, and each has an en-suite shower. Should you prefer a soak in a tub, the men's bathing room is on the lower-ground floor; please ask a member of staff to show you the way. A cooked breakfast is available in our dining room from seven o'clock until nine thirty. Prompt dining is recommended, as our kitchens are understandably busy."

The man stepped forward, through the lobby and into a spacious, carpeted reception area. A grand staircase stood at the back of the entrance hall, with elevator doors on either side.

"As London's premier hotel, we possess all the modern conveniences, including lifts and indoor plumbing. We offer room service for a nominal fee, and have a full bar on site for those who prefer being entertained within close proximity of their rooms. We also have an arrangement with a local taxi company to provide discounted transport for our guests; please enquire further at reception."

They followed Mr. Chipperton up to the third floor, and he began to call off names and room numbers from some invisible list in his head. "Major J. Falsworth, room six. Private G. Jones, room seven. Mr. J Dernier, room nine. Private J. Morita, room twelve. Sergeant J. Barnes, room thirteen—" Unlucky thirteen… great. "Sergeant T. Dugan, room fifteen. Mr. S. Rogers, room sixteen—"

"I think you mean Captain Rogers," said Jones.

Mr. Chipperton raised one eyebrow and withdrew a list from his pocket. His grey-eyed gaze danced down the page as he scanned what was written. "Not according to my records. Moving on: Private P. Kirklees, room eighteen."

Bucky's former cellmates looked to Steve, whose cheeks turned decidedly pinker as he shrugged. "Like I told you, I'm technically not a Captain. I'm barely even a soldier."

"I've heard a lot of bullshit in my life," said Dugan, elbowing Bucky in a very meaningful way, "but that just about takes the cake. I don't care whether you've got gold or silver on your collar, or chevrons or stars. As far as I'm concerned, you're worth two of any other captain I've met."

"Hear hear," Falsworth agreed.

"Wish I hadn't left my pompoms back in the internment camp," said Morita dryly. "Or I'd lend them to these guys."

Dernier rambled off a sentence in French and pointed to the doors.

"I think he just said, 'Why are you jackasses just standing around here when we could be showering right now?'" said Bucky.

Dugan grinned and stepped aside with a dramatic flourish of an imaginary cloak. "Make way for his royal highness, the Princess Barnes."

"Jackass," Bucky scoffed as he pushed past the rest of the gathered men.

The room was nice. A single bed had been made up with fresh linens over a generously thick doona. When Bucky sat on the bed, it sank several inches beneath his weight. The pillow covers and comforter had a floral scent about them… lavender, he thought. It reminded him of the lavender sprigs his mom used to put underneath their pillows and inside the cupboard drawers. Hell, she still did it now, so determined to see Bucky and his siblings as kids despite the fact they were almost all grown up.

He kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed. It was so new that the springs didn't creak as he shifted. Not for the first time, his thoughts went to home. He'd written his parents a letter after returning to his regiment's tent, following his discharge from the hospital, and had handed it in for morning post the very next day. He'd filled two whole sides of paper with promises that he was fine, that he was sorry, that it was all a big misunderstanding, and please don't be upset. The thought of his mom in tears over his death made his heart constrict painfully, as if squeezed by some malevolent hand. Hopefully, his folks would get the letter real soon. Hopefully it would put an end to any suffering and heartache they felt.

Thank God I don't have a dame waiting at home for me. Once, he'd envied men like Carrot. Now, he was simply glad that his supposed death couldn't hurt anyone else.

Somebody knocked on his door, and Bucky was on his feet before he could even wonder who it might be. His heart pounded in his chest, a terrifying drum beat prompting him to run, to get away from whatever danger was out there. But at the same time, his body froze rigid; like a rabbit in the headlights, he just couldn't move.

"Excuse me, sir?" The voice was young. Muffled. English. "I have your bags here."

The drumbeat subsided. Aching muscles relaxed. Bucky strode to the door and yanked it open. Sure enough, there was a bellhop with his belongings. The young man offered a brief smile. "Would you like me to bring your bags in for you, sir?"

"No, it's fine. I'll take them from here. Thanks." He glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. "Here, thanks," he said, pulling a dollar bill from his pocket and thrusting it at the bellhop.

"Thank you, sir," the young man said, accepting the note. If he cared that it was American money, he didn't say. "Please let me know if you need anything else."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks."

Bucky waited until the bellhop had gone, then dragged his bags into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. Though his heart was no longer racing, his hands were shaking, and his legs felt weak. He closed his eyes, and images of the dark Krausberg laboratory came flashing into his mind, bringing with them the sharp taste of blood. Get a grip, Barnes. You're not back there. You're never going back there. You're safe. Relax.

Time to take his mind off his scare. He had no idea how long he'd be staying here, but he emptied his bags anyway. His clothes went into the small wardrobe in the corner of the room, and his socks, underwear and personal items went into the chest of drawers beside the bed. There was a small coal fire set into the chimney a few feet from the foot of the bed, with a brass fire guard around it. Bucky set a fire going, then closed the curtains over the small window. They were blackout curtains, and the room was plunged immediately into darkness. With icy tendrils of panic setting back in, he managed to fumble his way to the chest of drawers—stubbing his big toe painfully in the process—and found the switch for the bed-side lamp. Let there be light! The soft glow of the electric light bathed the room in warm yellow, banishing the cold panic.

The en-suite bathroom was small, but a luxury compared to latrine pits and bathing in rivers. Bucky's first taste of civilisation in five months came not in the form of stew and dumplings, but a heated shower. He ran the water as hot as it would go, stripped out of his dirty uniform, and stepped into the small cubicle. The shower curtain tried to cling to his skin, but he ignored it. Closing his eyes, he let the hot water soak his hair and run down his face, washing away days' worth of sweat and grime from his body. The water pressure wasn't great, but damn, it felt good to be clean again.

He found a complimentary bar of soap on the soap tray, and worked it into a lather as he cast his mind back to the last time he'd had a shower. Plymouth. The cool showers after Danzig had forced them to do laps until they'd sweated out every drop of water in their bodies. It felt like a lifetime ago. Hard to believe it had been just five months.

A fluffy towel awaited him, along with the smell of fresh linens that was so reminiscent of home. He dried himself off, dressed in his cleanest uniform, and met his weary reflection in the full length mirror inside the wardrobe door.

He had a small shaving mirror in his personal effects, which he'd used a couple of times since coming out of Krausberg, but this was the first time he'd truly seen himself, and now he understood why Steve and the others were worrying about him. He still looked like himself, but somehow… less. His eye were ringed by shadows of tiredness above cheeks that were too gaunt. His hair, even fresh out of the shower, seemed lanky and dull, and his new jacket, which he'd requisitioned from the quartermaster before leaving Italy, didn't fit quite right across the shoulders.

Maybe they really did take something out of me, on that table. I've lost weight, but what else have I lost?

A nasally voice echoed inside his head. "You are the first subject to survive stage two. I cannot wait to see what new revelations stage three brings!"

Bucky closed his eyes, banishing his reflection, trying to banish the voice. "I'm not a Subject," he whispered. "I'm a person. I'm James Buchanan Barnes, and I'm safe from you, you twisted son of a bitch."

A knock came again from the door, but Bucky managed to keep a handle on his nerves this time. Besides, he recognised that knock. Quiet, tentative, as if the person knocking was hesitant to draw attention to himself. Only one person knocked like that.

"It's open, Steve," he called. His first mistake. Should'a locked the door. After all, just because he was in England, didn't mean he was a hundred percent safe. HYDRA had come after Steve and that doctor who'd juiced him up, in New York. If their reach extended that far, it probably extended to England, too.

Steve's head appeared in the doorway, followed by the rest of Steve, all six-foot-something of him. Even now, days after seeing Steve 2.0 for the first time, Bucky was still continually surprised by his friend's new size.

Like Bucky, Steve had showered and changed, and when he saw his friend, a grin slid across his face. "Who are you, and what've you done with that dirty, smelly guy who was in this room earlier?"

"Believe it or not, I've been dirtier than that." During the battle for Como, they'd fought for days, bloody, bruised, their skin almost as dark as the members of the 370th. There'd been times when he feared they'd lose Como to the Krauts. Bathing had been the last thing on his mind.

"I believe it," Steve assured him. "Remember that time in ninth grade when we went beach-combing for shellfish in those rock pools, and you thought it would be a good idea to cross the 'sand'?"

"How was I supposed to know it was a giant mud-hole? But at least we managed to get the stink of the Hudson off us, after a couple of baths."

"My clothes were ruined. Mom wouldn't even attempt to wash them," said Steve.

"As I recall, we had fun, and that's what's really important."

Steve chuckled and clapped a hefty hand on his shoulder. "Truer words were never spoken. Anyway, some of the guys are talking about going out for something to eat. Apparently, Falsworth knows a great place a few streets away. You in?"

Bucky looked back at his small room. It was dark, it was comfortable, and he felt at ease in it. But he couldn't hide away from the world forever. He had to get better to get back in the fight, and if there was one thing he had learnt from being in the army, it was the first step to recovering from injury was a hearty meal.

"Yeah, I could eat," he agreed. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he would make himself eat until he was fat if it meant getting back to the front lines. After all, there was still a war to be fought, and he had a lot of pain to pay back.