We Were Soldiers

73. Waiting Game

Steve yelped as the seamstress's hand brushed his inner thigh. The woman gave him a frosty glare, and in her cultured English accent, said, "Please stand still."

Instead of objecting that he'd stand still if she'd be a little more careful where she put the measuring tape, Steve clamped his jaw shut and tried to refocus on Kevin. Now that he was back in civilisation—and away from muddy landing strips—Kevin was back to his usual cheerful, forthright self.

"Of course, you'll have to complete your basic training," Kevin was saying as he read from a memo fresh in from Senator Brandt. "A week of crawling through the mud does not a soldier make."

A medal of commendation had achieved what months of Steve pleading had not. Senator Brandt was finally releasing Steve from his USO obligations and allowing him to properly join the military as an infantryman. Now, Steve was being measured up for his combat uniform, since 'Steve-sized' wasn't a G.I. standard. As well, the measurements would be sent back to the States, where Senator Brandt fully intended to rope some Steve-sized patsy into donning the Star-Spangled costume for autographs and photo ops. It was the only way for Captain America to be in two places at once, and Steve sincerely hoped his replacement enjoyed the attention of the limelight.

"But twelve weeks of crawling through the mud makes a soldier?" he asked.

"That's what the brass claim."

Steve wasn't so sure. He'd seen the state of the soldiers in the SSR camp. Even the ones who hadn't been captured and tortured by HYDRA had been battle-weary and shell-shocked. He suspected it took a certain kinda guy to enjoy living constantly on the edge, and that most of the men fighting in this war weren't that kinda guy. Losing friends, taking lives… a guy could quickly go crazy, doing too much of that. For the first time since signing his name on the USO contract, he was grateful for Captain America. Perhaps the larger-than-life character helped to remind the soldiers on the front lines of the bigger picture. Remind them what they were sacrificing for.

But now, it was time for somebody else to carry the flag. Steve was looking forward to being a regular old serum-enhanced soldier.

He inhaled sharply as the seamstress ran her tape up the back of his thigh. She was doing it on purpose. Probably laughing on the inside at making him squirm. Well, she wasn't fooling him with her stony countenance. Steve forced himself to stand rigid and deny her the pleasure of seeing him made uncomfortable.

"Senator Brandt's thrown some weight around on the Hill," Kevin continued. "He's convinced a couple of generals that once you've gone through basic, they oughta make your title a rank and give you your own command."

Steve groaned, earning another glare from the seamstress. "But Kevin, I don't want to skip ranks. I'm an enlisted man, not an officer. I don't want special treatment."

"If you don't want special treatment, maybe you shouldn't have disobeyed orders and flown off to rescue a thousand men from HYDRA confinement—"

"It was more like two hundred," Steve corrected. A thousand?! The number got bigger with each retelling, and Kevin ought to know better because he'd been there.

"Point is, you reap what you sow. You wanted to save your friend. Noble. But if any other soldier had done what you did, they would'a been court-martialled. Is that what you want? You wanna be sent home to dance on the stage a bit more?"

"No, but—"

"Exactly. You can't have it both ways, Steve. A good leader knows how to compromise. You're protected from being sent home. That's special treatment. But you can't dictate where the special treatment ends. Like it or not, you are special. And your country needs you. We don't need Private Steve Rogers; we need Captain Am— I mean," Kevin corrected, seeing the expression on Steve's face, "Captain Steve Rogers."

"I see. So, when can I start my Basic?"

"That depends on our allies." When Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow, Kevin elaborated. "All our soldiers get their basic State-side. Nobody ships out here without having gone through it. So, naturally, we've no basic training camps established in old Blighty. The Brits do have camps, though. You'll have to tag along with one of the English regiments. It'll be roughly the same as what we do back home, except the food will be worse, the weather will be damper, and you'll have to learn the British names for things."

Basic with the British didn't sound too bad. After all, Falsworth and Peggy Carter had gone through it, and they were doing alright for it. And the English had been holding out against the Germans for years already. Clearly they were doing something right.

"For now," Kevin continued, "just relax and take it easy. You've earned yourself a break, and once the medical exams are completed for the troops freed from Krausberg, you'll get your training date."

"Okay. Thanks, Kevin. For everything." As infuriatingly tight-lipped as the guy could be sometimes, Steve owed him a lot. Kevin had been a friend when Steve had nobody else to turn to. Not a close friend, not like Bucky or the guys they'd grown up with, but close enough. "Are we done here?" he asked the seamstress before she could chastise him for leaving without permission.

She pursed her lips and wound her measuring tape up. "We're done. You'll have your uniform before the end of the week."

"Great. Thank you. I appreciate it."

The watering hole favoured by Falsworth and some of the other guys rescued from Krausberg was the Whip and Fiddle, a quaint tavern in Pimlico full of old world charm. As he made his way there, Steve dodged locals and service personnel who mingled together with patience and familiarity. Not for the first time, he was struck by the similarities—and differences—between London and New York.

On the surface, everything was the same. The daily routines, the commutes, the couples raising families. Underneath, there were differences. Back home, groups of soldiers walking down the streets would've raised eyebrows. Here, the people were used to seeing military personnel from various different countries. They served black soldiers right alongside white ones, and didn't provide separate dining facilities for the coloured troops. Steve supposed that to people who'd been living in the shadow of war for so long, there were more important things to worry about than the colour of a guy's skin.

For Steve, the differences were a welcome change. He'd hated seeing Terrence treated so badly in L.A., but here, Jones could walk straight into the Fiddle and ask for a pint of warm flat beer and not be told he wasn't on any "guest list."

Music spilled out into the street from the open door of the Fiddle. The pub had been given permission to open early and close late, to help cater for and entertain the foreign and domestic soldiers during their period of R&R. When Steve stepped through the door, he had to navigate a swarm of RAF pilots and Australian soldiers before he found his friends at their usual table. They were tipsy despite the early hour, and looked to be engaged in some sort of drinking game involving a pair of die. Bucky wasn't with them, but a quick visual scan of the room found him at the bar, nursing a glass of amber liquid. Steve made his way over and clapped his friend on the shoulder. The pained wince on Bucky's face made him regret the gesture. He was still getting used to his own strength, and Bucky had been through more than most soldiers.

"Drinking to remember, or drinking to forget?" he asked, gesturing to Bucky's drink. His best friend still hadn't told him anything about his time in solitary confinement in the Krausberg camp, and as far as Steve knew, Bucky hadn't confided in anyone else, either. Hopefully, alcohol would loosen his lips. It wasn't good to keep things buried inside; he knew that from experience.

"Both."

"Need a drinking partner?"

Bucky shook his head, fixing his bloodshot gaze on the glass before him. "Thanks, but I'm not in the mood for company."

Steve bit his tongue, holding back the that's not like you, comment he wanted to say. Of course it wasn't like the Bucky he'd known before: this wasn't the Bucky he'd known before. Pre-war Bucky had been chatty, social and happy-go-lucky. Maybe he could one day be that guy again, but it was too soon, and some things were too heavy to bounce back from. If Bucky needed time and space to come to terms with everything that'd happened in Europe, then Steve would make sure he got it.

"Alright. I'll go and have a drink with the others. You can join us whenever you're ready."

Bucky merely nodded. Steve gave his friend a more gentle pat on the shoulder this time, then ordered his drink and joined Dugan and the others. No matter how long it took, he would be there for Bucky.

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

At the bottom of the glass of brandy, Bucky found the face of Lieutenant Nestor. He'd barely given the lieutenant a thought since the man's death, but since he was toasting the memories of the friends and colleagues lost in the war, it seemed only fair that he include all members of the 107th. He'd already done Tipper and Danzig, and he still had a long way to go. This would definitely take more than a single day of drinking.

Across the room, Dugan, Falsworth and the others were singing a chorus of Row, row, row your boat, each singer coming in anew on the refrain. Steve had left almost an hour ago, probably because he no longer felt the effects of alcohol like he used to. Bucky couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Alcohol was one of life's few joys, and one of the few things which allowed him to forget about the cold metal table in Krausberg for more than a moment. He suspected, however, that there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to permanently erase the tender care of Doctor Zola and his HYDRA lackeys. The best Bucky could hope for was revenge, and he didn't care how cold it was served.

For the first time in three days, his mind wandered towards the subject of his medical assessment. No matter what the doctors said, he couldn't let them send him home. How could he go home and look his family in the face after he'd wished for other men to take his place on Doctor Zola's table? How could he go home and accept their comfort after he'd put a gun to his own head and tried to end his own life? He'd been a coward, and not worthy of being called friend to anyone, not even Steve. Before he went home, he had to atone. He had to make up for putting other men on that table in his place. He had to erase his cowardice in trying to end his own life. He had to do something big. Something grand and selfless. He had to feel like a hero inside, so that he could go home and not have guilt gnaw at him if others called him a hero when he didn't deserve it. No matter how long it took, he had to make things right.

"Can I getcha another drink?" asked Lizzy, the barmaid. She was a pretty enough dame, with tight red curls and a face painted just enough to highlight her dazzling green eyes and pouting lips, but she had an eye for Dugan, which just went to show that British dames had no taste.

"No thanks, I'm done for the night," he said, his words barely slurred despite the three large glasses of brandy he'd consumed.

"Then how about a sympathetic ear? You look like a man who has a lot on his mind."

"Given the state of the world, I'd be surprised if there's a man alive who doesn't have a lot on his mind."

"But not all of those men have access to sympathetic ears."

Bucky smiled. "True. But I'll pass. I've got a lot of stuff to figure out on my own. But I appreciate the offer."

"In that case, I'll see you tomorrow for more alcohol therapy."

He slunk out of the pub unnoticed by the others and turned up the collar of his jacket as he set off along the waterfront. The cold November air nipped at his skin, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, tensing and flexing his fingers to work his circulation through them. Others walking out were similarly hunched against the elements, their heads bowed into the chill breeze and lack of eye contact discouraging conversation.

That suited Bucky just fine. Even if he had someone to talk to, how could they possibly understand what he'd been through? It wasn't just Krausberg, it was everything that'd happened before it. The men he'd killed, the friends he'd lost, the sacrifices he'd made for a greater good he wasn't even sure existed anymore. The single consolation he had was that his family were safe. But they were also thousands of miles away, and he didn't know whether he'd see them again. Maybe he wouldn't be able to atone for all he'd done. Maybe he could never make up for wishing someone else to be tortured in his place. If he couldn't find a way to come back from that, how could he ever go home?

His guilt was made worse whenever Steve was around. Steve had come out here to find his friend, but Bucky wasn't even sure that guy existed anymore. Six months ago, he'd been a different person. One untouched by the darkness of war, one who didn't know anything about loss and pain. Could he ever go back to being that person? After the war, could he put it all aside and pretend like it had never happened, or would it always be there, haunting him? Would his nights always be plagued by nightmares of Zola and his table?

He found his way back to The Strand and nodded to the doorman on duty. Eschewing the elevator, he opted for the stairs, unwilling to allow himself the comfort of modern technology. Once in his room, he kicked off his shoes and sank down onto the bed. For one long moment, he thought of nothing. Then, the copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn caught his eye. He picked it up and ran his thumb across the pages so they made a brief shhhhs noise.

Weeks ago, in some derelict Italian mine, he and Wells had mock-fought over the book. I'll bequeath it to you in my will, Wells had said. I don't wanna wait until you're dead before I get to read it, Bucky had countered. At the time, he'd figured the book might give him some insight into Wells' stand-offish personality, and help him understand his friend a little better. Now, he wasn't sure he wanted to understand. His friend was gone, and understanding who he'd been wouldn't make any difference to anything. Besides, he suspected Wells didn't want to be understood. After all, he'd done everything within his power to keep the book from Bucky. Maybe Bucky would just keep the book and not read it, to remind himself that there wasn't always an answer for everything.

He put the book aside, then rolled onto his stomach and settled himself into a semi-comfortable position. After the war, when he eventually got home, he would read the book. When he had long, carefree days to mull it over, he would study it. Until then, he still had a war to fight, and there was still so much he had to atone for.

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

He shivered, but his shivering brought no warmth. He was too cold for that. Bone-cold upon a table of steel and ice. This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream; a nightmare. He'd already done this once. He couldn't be back here again. He'd sooner die than let Zola get his hands on him again.

"Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes," the familiar, nasally voice said. Zola's face appeared above, a gleeful smile on his cruel lips. "I'm eager to begin stage three. Who knows what discoveries we will make? And we shall make them together! Isn't it exciting?"

We're toys to him, Bucky realised. We're toys for him to play with, and he doesn't care if he breaks us. Why care for one toy, when you can just go out and get another?

A needle pierced his skin, cold like a shard of ice. He tried to wrench his arm away, but it was lashed to the table and offered not even an inch of movement. His heart began a race, beating wildly inside his chest, and through sheer strength of will be managed to move his head a fraction, to glance down at the needle in his arm.

It wasn't a needle stuck into his vein, but an icicle, long and wickedly sharp. Bucky yelled and flailed, but that only made Zola laugh.

"Don't worry, Sergeant Barnes. What we do here is making you strong. Stronger than any man has ever been before."

But the icicle in his vein wasn't making him strong; it was making him cold as ice, cold and brittle. Bucky screamed, and Zola laughed.

BANG BANG BANG

"Sergeant Barnes? Are you in there? Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky's eyes flew open and his stomach lurched. But Zola wasn't there to greet him. It was just the ceiling of his room in the Strand, and there was no cold metal table, but a comfortable bed. Safe. He was safe. Zola would never hurt him again.

"Sergeant Barnes? Please open up."

Bucky pushed himself out of bed, uncaring of the blankets that dropped to the floor, and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he found a Pfc. waiting. The man saluted, and held out an envelope.

"Sorry to wake you, sir, but I was asked to deliver this."

The envelope bore the official stamp of the U.S. Armed Forces. Maybe another letter from home. Hopefully a reply from his parents, though it would be some miracle to get a response so quickly.

"I didn't know the mail got delivered so early," he said.

A bemused frown spread across the Private's lips. "Early? Sir, it's one o'clock in the afternoon."

As if to confirm that, Bucky's stomach let out a hungry growl. "Oh. Um, I had a bit of a late night," he lied. "Thanks for the mail."

"No problem, sir."

Bucky closed the door and returned to his bed, sinking down onto it and running his hands through his hair. The dream lingered, and he shivered at the memory of icy needles in his arms. To take his mind off it, he got up and stoked the small coal fire set into the hearth opposite the foot of the bed. The dying embers fanned to life, and he held his hands towards the small flames.

His dream had felt so real. The things Zola had said were more like a memory. Had the scientist said those things whilst Bucky had been in a state of semi-consciousness? If so, they had to be a lie. Zola had killed countless test subjects already. What he was doing wasn't making people stronger, but killing them. Some sort of chemical warfare. The man was a butcher, and nothing more.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter and absently tore it open. He was halfway through the first paragraph before his mind truly clocked the words, and when it did, he went back to the start of the paragraph and read more slowly. Another shiver stole over him, but this one had nothing to do with the cold or the lingering nightmare.

Sergeant James B. Barnes

107th Infantry

Upon the recommendation of the United States Army medical staff, you are hereby ordered to stand down from active duty and to return home for an immediate period of recovery, until such time that you are deemed medically fit to resume your duties.

Your exemplary service to date has been noted, and the thanks of your government and the entire free world are extended to you. Please report to your commanding officer for further information regarding your debarkation date and time. I wish you a swift and uneventful journey home.

Sincerely,

Chief of Staff, Gen. C. Marshall

The letter was signed per procurationem. General Marshall didn't know about Bucky's service to date. He probably didn't even know about the letter. Just some carbon copy sent out to any soldier deemed medically unfit to serve. It wasn't right! He was fine! He didn't need to go home and recover. How would that help anything? He needed to get back out there, back into the fight. He needed to put a stop to Zola, and Schmidt, before they could hurt anyone else.

When the sound of ripping paper filtered through the angry haze descending over his mind, he glanced down and found the paper with his orders crumpled in his clenched fist. He quickly uncurled his fingers and smoothed the paper out over his knee.

Somehow, some way, he had to get these orders cancelled. But how the hell was he going to do that?