We Were Soldiers

75. A Wing and a Prayer

The air of the hall was heavy with gravitas, and the only sound which broke the reverential silence was the mumble of worshippers offering prayers for the fallen and the lost. Bucky averted his eyes from their faces, because all he saw on them was grief so deep that it cut him down to his heart. He imagined that his family had gone to church and mourned like this, after learning of his 'death'.

He took a seat on an empty pew, and spent several moments taking in the decor. It wasn't much different to the church he went to back home, except this one had blackout curtains covering its elaborate leaded stained-glass windows.

He'd wanted to visit St. Paul's Cathedral, the tallest building in London, but the Cathedral was closed to the public due to damage sustained during the Blitz. The church he found himself in now was nice enough, but nothing to write home about. It wasn't a national treasure.

For five days, he'd racked his brain trying to figure out a way of getting around his orders. Ironically, enemy fortifications were easier to overcome than his own military's chain of command. He'd tried thinking like Wells, and Davies, and Gusty, but he drew blanks every time. Dugan and the others had been told to expect their combat orders soon; Bucky was the only one who'd been told to go home, and he was still keeping that fact a secret from everybody but Steve.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his hands together in front of his chest and directed his thoughts to the altar at the front of the room.

Lord, I could really use a miracle right now, he thought. I know I got no right to be asking for things, not after it's been so long since I last attended a service that wasn't a funeral, but things have been kinda busy down here. It's no excuse, and I'm sorry, but I really need help.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a bad place. I tried to take my own life to end the pain. I wished for others to take my place and be hurt instead of me, and now I have to atone for my sins. I need to stay in this fight, to make amends for my wishing suffering on others. That's not what your son did, when they tortured him, but I'm a weaker man. If I go home, I won't get chance to make up for that. I won't be able to look my family in their eyes. When I look at myself in the mirror, I don't like what I see.

I need help, and I don't know where else to turn. Tomorrow, I'm being shipped back home for recovery, but I can't go. Not yet. I've thought of everything, and nothing I can think of stands a chance of working. The brass won't listen to a simple soldier, but maybe they'll listen to you. I know that staying in the war is dangerous, but I need to make things right. If you can make it happen, I promise I'll do right by you from now on. I'll atone for my sins, and I'll live a better life. I swear it.

He opened his eyes, and waited. Around him, the mourners continued to light candles and pray. If God had even heard his plea above all the others, there was no sign. Perhaps it was too noisy for him to hear a single prayer above the din, no matter how well-intentioned it was.

When he stepped outside the church, it was almost dark. How long had he been inside that place? It had felt like mere moments, but the sky didn't darken that quickly, not even in England.

He put it out of his mind and began a weary trudge back to the hotel. He was supposed to meet Steve and a few of the guys later for beers in the Fiddle, and now he would finally have to tell them about his orders. He was out of time, and couldn't delay it any longer. Telling them… it made it all real. He hadn't packed his bag, but now he'd have to. He'd have to pack his bag and tell his friends he wouldn't be there to fight with them in the future. Then he'd have to have one last drink with them, and get an early night, so that he didn't oversleep and miss his boat.

Maybe I should oversleep.

It wouldn't work. Phillips would just order him shipped out on the next transport, and he'd probably throw Bucky in a cell and have him escorted to the docks by MPs, just to ensure he didn't 'oversleep' again.

I could go AWOL.

And do what? He wouldn't be able to serve with the Army. He wouldn't be able to fight on the front lines, and make HYDRA pay for what they'd done. He'd be on the run, and he couldn't speak French or Italian, so it wasn't as if he could even join one of the foreign Resistance groups. His only use was as a soldier, and they wouldn't let him do that.

He stepped into the Strand's lobby at full dark, and doffed his army hat. The check-in clerk, a grey-haired, rather wizened guy called Thomas, beckoned him over.

"Letter for you, Sergeant Barnes. Arrived by courier just after you left."

Bucky accepted the letter and examined the envelope. His name and temporary accommodation was typed on the front, and it was stamped with the eagle. Probably another order telling him he'd been fully demobilised. That would be just his luck.

Thomas handed him a pearl-handled letter opener that was probably worth more than all of Bucky's possessions combined, and he slid it under the flap, prising it open. He pulled out the letter, and read it. His heart leapt in his chest, and he read it again. Giddy with joy, he reached over the counter and pulled Thomas into a rib-crushing hug.

"He's answered my prayers, Thomas!" Bucky laughed. Tears leaked from his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. "He's answered my prayers!"

"Can't… breathe," the man gasped.

"Oops, sorry."

Bucky let go of Thomas and raced back the way he'd just come, letter in hand. He tore down the street, dodged the downtrodden Londoners as they made their way home after a long day of toil, and narrowly avoided being run over by a car. By the time he reached the Fiddle, his lungs were aflame and his legs felt like jelly, but he ignored both, and pushed his way through the milling crowd until he found Steve sitting with Morita and Jones.

"Look!" Bucky said, thrusting the letter at Steve's chest. "I told you I was fit for duty!"

Steve took the letter, and read it aloud.

"Sergeant James Barnes, following your recent orders to be returned to the United States for a recovery period following your ordeals under enemy incarceration, it has been discovered that a clerical error was made regarding your medical record. The examinations results assigned to you in fact belonged to a different service personnel, resulting in an incorrect order being generated for your immediate return home. Owing to this error, the previous order has been rescinded, and you are instead instructed to undergo two weeks of rest with the remainder of the troops freed from the enemy facility in which you were held.

"I understand that you will be undoubtedly disappointed by this change in orders, and that you were in all likelihood eager to see your friends and family again, however, please be assured that your time will come soon. Until then, I am sure you will complete your duties to the best of your professional abilities.

Sincerely,

Chief of Staff, Gen. C. Marshall."

"What the hell?" said Morita. "You had orders to be sent home, and you didn't tell us?"

"Because it was a mistake," Bucky told him triumphantly. "I knew it all along."

"Damn," said Jones. "I wish I had a chance to go home and see my mom again. That's too bad, Barnes, it looks like you're stuck here with the rest of us."

"It won't be forever. We'll be sent back to the front soon enough," Bucky assured him.

"I'm happy for you, Buck," said Steve. He handed the letter back. "And you were right after all. I'm sorry for doubting you."

"I guess even perfect super-soldiers can make mistakes."

"I'm not perfect," Steve objected.

"And he sure does make mistakes." Jones grinned, displaying two rows of white teeth. "You just missed him telling Agent Carter that she has nice feet."

A faint pink blush suffused Steve's cheeks. "I meant I liked the shoes she was wearing. They were new. I just… get a little tongue-tied around dames."

"Same old Steve," Bucky chuckled. He shoved his new orders into his pocket and took a seat at the table. Now that he wasn't being forced to leave, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wouldn't even complain about the beer being flat and warm, if it meant he got to head back to the fight. "I could tell you guys some stories."

Steve cleared his throat. "Speaking of orders, I've just got mine. I'm heading out to one of the British training camps at the end of the week, to undergo my basic training."

"And a very high quality of training it will be," said Falsworth. He appeared from the crowd with Dugan in tow. Of Dernier, there was no sign. "I think you'll find the standard unrivalled in the civilised world."

"It can't be any worse than Camp McCoy," Bucky added. "I don't think there was a single day where the temperature rose above thirty. Half the time we had to crawl through mud, it was ice. Each morning, before doing laps, we had to dig ourselves out of our barracks, and cut a path through the snow drifts."

"I think you'll find British training facilities offer their own unique challenges," Falsworth said with an air of smug. "Have they told you where you'll be training?"

Steve pulled a square of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. "Some place called Pirbright."

"Really? Hmm. It's quite cushy there. I'm sure you'll enjoy your time at the barracks."

"Some people just get all the luck," Dugan sniffed. "I bet there's queues of pretty ladies just waiting for Captain America to arrive so they can get his autograph."

"You're not still sore about that, are you?" Jones chuckled. "Besides, I thought you had your eye on Lizzy." He gestured to the red-headed barmaid busy pulling pints of warm beer.

"That doesn't mean I don't wish I had hordes of adoring fans."

"Fame is overrated," Steve assured him.

"I dunno," mused Morita, "I wouldn't mind five minutes in the spotlight."

"Feel free to head down to the USO office, they're itching to get their hands on new talent."

"Well, I can carry a tune, but I doubt I'm the kinda guy the troops want to be entertained by."

Bucky let their banter wash over him as he tried to relax into his chair. Something still felt wrong. He'd had his orders changed, and that had made him briefly happy, but now the happiness was wearing off and he was left with a familiar sense of unease. Maybe he just need a good night's sleep. Yeah. He'd have a few glasses of whisky to help him along, and sleep off whatever was bothering him deep down.

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

Danny used his left hand to pull the collar of his loaned jacket up around his neck. The wind nipped at his bare skin, and he shivered beneath his layers.

"Come," said Adalina. Wrapped in layers of her own, she gestured at the drifts of snow, and the poor trail cut through them. She went ahead, kicking snow aside as she walked, forging a deeper path for him. Normally, the walk to the goat barn took thirty seconds, but with the snow burying everything, it took much longer.

"I'm not sure about this," he called as he followed her through the snow.

"Mama said you must use arm," she told him over her shoulder. Though the snow clung to her skirt, she didn't slow her pace. "This is good way."

"I have been using my arm."

She snorted in that same way her mother did when she didn't believe Danny's claims. "Fastening buttons does not count."

"I'm working up to brushing my hair, then my teeth."

That claim went down like a lead zeppelin.

He smelt the goat shed before they reached it, a scent of dung and hay and something he could only vaguely define as animal smell. It was the same on his uncle's ranch; the scent of horses permeated the air, seeping into clothes, and skin, and bed linen. The goats had a similar smell, though it wasn't quite as strong. Maybe because they were smaller, or maybe because it was winter.

Next, he heard them. Their bleats were loud enough to be heard outside the wooden walls, and held an insistent quality to them. Hungry, probably. Maybe bored of being cooped up in the barn. In summer, Rosa or Adalina took them up the mountain, to the pasture where they fed on rich meadow grasses. Danny could imagine the barn was small, boring and confining to creatures used to roaming free during the day. It was the same on his uncle's ranch. When the horses were brought in for sorting, breeding, and sale, they quickly became restless in the stables.

Adalina pushed the door open, and both the smell and the sound grew louder. The goats stuck their heads through the bars of their stalls and cried so loud that Danny would've covered his ears, if he'd been able to lift his right arm that high.

"I will show you," Adalina said. She grabbed a pail and a very low stool. "Then I will throw hay from… above." She gestured up at the hayloft. Her English was coming along well—better than his Italian—but she struggled with nouns.

Danny watched as she opened one of the stalls and fitted a goat with a small head-collar. She led it out of the stall, and closed the door behind her, so the other three goats couldn't get out. By now, the bleating had quietened somewhat, which was a blessing to his ears.

Adalina led the goat to the pail, and it stood patiently whilst she settled herself on the stool. When she was comfortable, she leant down and grabbed a teat in each hand, squeezing until milk began to flow. If somebody had told Danny, six months ago, that he'd be learning how to milk a goat, he would've laughed in disbelief. War was a strange thing.

"Now, you try." Adalina relinquished her seat, and moved around to hold the goat's head.

Taking a deep breath, Danny settled himself onto the stool and winced at the position it put his shoulder in. He no longer wore his arm in a sling, and Rosa insisted he do small exercises each day, to work the muscles and allow blood to flow around his broken bone.

He decided to use his left arm first, to get the hang of it before trying to bring his right arm into play. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of one of the teats hanging from the goat's udder. It was warm to the touch, squishy, but also hard.

The first time he squeezed, nothing happened, so he tried again. After his sixth attempt, he turned to Adalina. "It's not working."

"You must squeeze harder."

"Harder?! But I don't wanna hurt her!"

"You won't. Baby goats very strong in mouth. Your hands must be strong, like baby goat. Later, when stronger, I show you cheese press. For now, you must bring milk."

"Bring milk," he muttered. If only the guys back in the 107th could see him now; they'd be laughing their asses off!

He squeezed harder, as instructed, and was rewarded with a few dribbles of white liquid. It wasn't a pleasant experience. With each squeeze, he could feel liquid moving beneath the warm skin, the pressure building slowly.

"It hurts her to not be milked," Adalina told him. "You are helping her."

"This is revolting, you know." He'd spent summers mucking out stables, picking out hooves and applying lotion to breezefly bites, but he'd never milked an animal before, and he never wanted to.

Adalina cocked her head, her dark hair falling around her face. "Re-vol-ting?"

"Yeah, you know. Unpleasant. Horrible. Not nice."

She laughed, the sort of happy, unrestrained, innocent laugh that a guy could fall in love with. A guy in his right mind, anyway. The kinda guy Danny had been before shipping out to this insane asylum.

"There is no milk in New York?"

"Yeah, but it comes in bottles or cartons, which is right and proper for milk."

"How it get in bottles?"

"Fairy magic," he insisted. There was definitely none of this unpleasant milking business involved.

Adalina merely laughed again. "You milk. I feed."

Danny kept his gaze down as Adalina climbed the ladder to the hayloft and began pitching hay down from above. Not that it was difficult; the milking was taking up most of his focus and all of his effort. After five minutes, he'd worked up a sweat that was prickling his skin. Five minutes after that, he doffed his coat, and Adalina instructed him to bring out another goat.

He replaced the animal, though he struggled to handle the headcollar with only one good hand. Horses were bigger, but they were easier. The goats darted their heads this way and that, grabbing at strands of hay, doing everything they could to avoid capture. By the time he'd wrestled the second goat into submission and got it into position above the pail, he was positively dripping with sweat.

Milking goats was not as easy as he'd first assumed, and he quickly gained a new appreciation for both Adalina and Rosa's strength and stamina. They did this every day, in all weather, on top of taking care of the goats, making the cheese and taking care of the house and cooking. They did it without the conveniences of New York. They had no electric freezer, or even a cold-box; just a cool cellar beneath the house. There was no grocery store and no Five & Dime, and commodities were made within the village and traded for with goods and services.

"Use your other hand, too," Adalina called down to him.

Danny tried. Lifting his arm was painful. Squeezing was agony. Soon his muscles were trembling with exertion, and his lungs burned as if he'd run a marathon. Finally, Adalina took pity on him. She brought out another goat, and replaced him on the stool.

"You comb them," she said, handing him a small comb from the pocket of her pinafore.

The goats were happy to be combed. They chewed mouthfuls of hay whilst Danny brushed out the knots and checked over their coats. The goats, he decided, had a cushy life. Wake up, eat, be milked, get brushed, relax in the field or the barn, eat again, sleep… yeah, the life of a goat was an easy one. Easier than the life of a soldier, or an accountant.

"Now we are done," Adalina declared at last.

Danny stood up and dusted dry grass seeds off his trousers. His shirt was soaked and he felt like he had after his first day of basic training, back at Camp Ashfort. Adalina laughed at him as soon as she saw him.

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

"You look like… I don't know English word. Spaventapasseri."

Danny didn't know the English word, either, but when she reached up to pluck several long strands of straw from his hair, he could guess at what she meant. It was funny, in a way. The image of a scarecrow made him think of The Wizard of Oz, which made him think of that time Barnes had been drugged by Nazis and likened Danny to the Tin Man, the character questing with Dorothy to find himself a heart.

I guess neither of us knew at the time how apt that comparison was. I never knew what love was, until now. Kind of a shame it's not some beautiful dame who made me feel it.

Adalina shot him a coy glance through her thick lashes as she pulled a final strand of straw from his hair. "You have a… ah… innamorata, at home?"

"A what?"

Pink spots appeared on her cheeks. "A… wife?" She shook her head. "Lady?"

"Oh. Er. No, not exactly. I mean, I've had girlfriends before, but I don't have one right now." Alice, his last girlfriend, had started talking about baby names. Danny had ended it the very next day. In his opinion, kids were an unfortunate byproduct of what ought to be a very happy and carefree relationship. A few of his friends back home had gotten married and started families, and they'd ended up looking haggard and bored. When a guy had responsibilities like that, he couldn't just do what he wanted. It wasn't the life for Danny.

"Why not?"

"Because finding the right dame isn't easy."

"Maybe you find right… dame… in Italy."

"Maybe," he said, but he doubted it. His stupid traitor heart filled his equally traitor head with thoughts of Barnes too often. In all his life, he'd never felt like this about anyone before. He hadn't known feelings like this could exist. There would have to be one heck of a dame, to make him feel like this about her.

Adalina smiled and captured his good arm in hers, dragging him towards the door of the barn. "Come, we wash, then you can tell me what dames are like in America."

Danny's heart dipped a little in his chest. He'd seen the look in Adalina's eyes before. The early stages of a crush, when everything was exciting and new. Somehow, he had to find a way of discouraging her without hurting her feelings. He just hoped the snow would clear quickly, or this might prove to be a long, awkward winter.

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

Steve wound his way through the crowd, issuing quiet apologies to people he jostled. Over his shoulder he carried his backpack and sleeping roll, whilst behind him came Bucky, Dugan and Falsworth, each of them carrying some of his smaller items. He'd tried to tell them he didn't need a send-off, but they'd insisted.

A conductor directed them to the correct platform, where a soot-covered steam engine waited patiently for its passengers to board. Steve stopped beside the first carriage and turned to face his friends.

"Thanks for helping with my stuff, guys."

"I could tell you needed the help," Dugan grinned. He handed over Steve's duffel bag, while Falsworth passed over his helmet and rifle.

"I put this together for you last night," Falsworth said. From his pocket, he pulled a small notebook. Steve opened it at the first page and read the first line of words.

"Gas, petrol. Cookie, biscuit. Jumping jack, star jump. Truck, lorry."

"They're common words translated from American into English, to help you communicate with your fellow recruits."

"Thanks, Major, that's very thoughtful of you."

"And I got you these," Bucky said, handing over two packets of cigarettes.

Steve lifted a quizzical eyebrow at his best friend. "You know I don't smoke."

"Trust me, just keep hold of them. You'll find they come in useful."

He pocketed the smokes. "Thanks. I guess I still have a lot to learn."

"Just remember that you're still part of the U.S. Army," Dugan told him. "Show these tea-drinking Englishmen some real American gumption."

"I'll do my best," Steve assured him.

"See you in twelve weeks, Captain," said Falsworth. "And don't worry, Morita's promised to keep your seat at the table warm."

By silent agreement, Falsworth and Dugan retreated towards the stairs to the platform, leaving Steve to say goodbye to his best friend.

"Take care of yourself, won't you?" he asked.

Bucky snorted. "You know how good I am at taking care of people."

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about people, I'm talking about you." Bucky had spent his whole life looking after his siblings, his friends and Steve, but he tended to forget about himself at times. He was also stubborn, and resisted the attempts of others to help him out. Knowing that, Steve had met with Falsworth the night before, and asked him to surreptitiously keep an eye on Bucky.

"Yes Mom, I'll be sure to brush my teeth every night before bed."

"Not forgetting scrubbing beneath your fingernails," Steve nodded seriously.

That got a grin out of Bucky. "Remember when your mom made us scrub beneath our nails before eating dinner? One time, she said my nails weren't clean enough, and threatened to scrub them herself."

"My mom took hygiene very seriously. Part of being a nurse." And part of having a son who got sick at the drop of a hat. Mom's hands were often red and raw from the temperature of the water she washed the bedsheets at. It was a shame she couldn't see Steve now; he thought she'd be proud of the man he'd become. He brushed his hand against his breast pocket, feeling the small bump of his mom's locket within.

"Last call for boarding," a nearby uniformed man called out. "Waterloo to Weymouth, all aboard."

"Guess I better find myself a seat before they leave without me."

"Don't let those drill sergeants push you around just because you're not a Limey," Bucky said. "And don't go shooting your mouth off and starting fights."

"I never shoot my mouth off," Steve fibbed. "And it's the other guys who start fights."

"Riiiight." Before Steve could object again, Bucky pulled him into a surprisingly tight hug. "I can't believe you're going to be away for Thanksgiving."

"Our first Thanksgiving apart since we were kids," Steve agreed. The Barnes family had always invited Steve and his mom over for Thanksgiving dinner. After Mom had died, he'd been invited over every Christmas, too. He'd tried to tell Mrs. Barnes that he didn't want to put anyone out, but she was even more stubborn than Bucky, sometimes.

After breaking the three second rule, Bucky released him. "Go on, or you'll be running to Pirbright. And I bet you'd get there before the train, even with a full load to carry."

The piercing whistle of the train about to depart lent weight to Bucky's prediction. Steve grabbed all his gear and jogged to the nearest door. He climbed aboard the carriage and glanced back over his shoulder just as the train began to pull out of the station. Bucky waved, but Steve had no free hands to wave back. Instead, he watched until his friend was out of even his sight, then pushed his way deeper into the carriage. The next twelve weeks were gonna feel like forever.

The first carriage was packed with civilians, so he moved on to the second. All of the seats here were taken, either by civilians or army personnel. Steve offered around of "excuse me's" as he accidentally jostled people with his bags. In the third carriage, he found empty seats. He picked the closest one, stashed as many of his belongings as he could fit into the overhead compartment, and plopped down heavily onto the seat next to the window.

London passed by, a maze of grey and brown beneath a cloud-littered sky. The city-scape wasn't much like that of New York. Everything here seemed smaller, more restrained. The buildings were lower, the streets were narrower, the boats on the river were less grand.

I wonder when America outgrew Europe, he thought. And whether either place will ever be the same, after this war.

He caught snatches of conversation from the soldiers around him. One pair behind him seemed to be discussing the girls they'd left behind.

"…an' she has a right pair o' Scotches on 'er…"

Steve pulled Falsworth's book from his pocket, but there wasn't anything about Scotches in there. With a quiet sigh, he put the book away. Maybe he'd find some kind Englishman willing to translate for him for the next twelve weeks.

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

"Next stop, Brookwood Station!" a conductor called down the train. "Brookwood Station coming up!"

Steve grabbed his belongings and joined the queue of British soldiers waiting by the door. The train wheels squealed as the brakes slowed its momentum, and Steve grabbed hold of a handrail to stop himself sliding into the nearest body. The men who had spent the past hour bragging about how many Nazis they were going to shoot when they reached the front lines were now suspiciously silent, their faces uncertain.

Then the train stopped fully, the door was opened, and a sea of men spilled out onto the platform. Out here, able to see them more clearly, Steve realised how young they all were. Most looked no older than eighteen or nineteen… the same age as Bucky's younger brother, Charlie. And at the thought of these men shooting, killing, dying, his stomach turned.

On the platform, soldiers milled around as they waited for instruction. Steve drew a few curious glances, and after a few minutes, one of the recruits ambled over. His sandy-blond hair was a shade or two lighter than Steve's, and he didn't have the same jumped-in-the-deep-end look in his green eyes as most of the other young men.

"I say, are you lost?" he asked.

"No more than anyone else," replied Steve.

"Really? I'm not sure if you're aware, but this is the venue for British troop training. You Yanks have your own camps dotted around the country."

"I know. In fact, that's why I'm here. I… uh… kinda didn't undergo my full basic training, back at boot camp in the States. My CO wants me to complete the full twelve weeks, so I've been sent here to train with you guys."

"Splendid!" The man grinned and held out his hand. "My name's Tiberius Worsthorne, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Steve shook his hand, being very careful not to squeeze too hard. As far as he knew, the brass hadn't divulged any of the details of Project Rebirth to the overseers of Pirbright. As far as they were concerned, they were just getting a member of the USO to be trained in basic combat.

"Steve Rogers," he replied. "Always glad to make a new friend."

"So, Steve, how did you end up over here?"

"That's a long story." A very long story.

"In that case, save it for the barracks. No point telling it a hundred times." At that moment, Steve heard the sound of an approaching motor. It took another minute or so before the others noticed it. "This must be our welcoming party," Tiberius said. He grabbed his bags and made his way towards the steps down from the station to the road, and everybody followed him. Steve guessed that following the guy who seemed to know what he was doing was a sensible attitude for soldiers to adopt.

The motor was indeed a bus, a rickety old affair that looked like it was held together with bits of copper and tape. It pulled up at the station with a cough and a splutter, choking its way to silence. Its ancient door squealed open, and a man in a British Army uniform stepped out.

"Attention!" he called. Then, because he knew he was dealing with men still wet behind the ears, "That means form a line, side by side, and stand there until I tell you otherwise."

Steve, who'd already mastered standing to attention at Camp Lehigh, fell in beside Tiberius. This time, he didn't have the shame of being the shortest or skinniest man in the line. In fact, he was the biggest. He had to try very hard to keep from smiling at that.

"My name," the man said, "is Sergeant Harry Rushford, and as you've probably guessed, I'll be your drill sergeant for the next twelve weeks. Nobody moves on to stage two of their training unless they pass muster with me, so I expect each and every one of you to give a hundred and ten percent of your effort, a hundred and twenty percent of the time. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Steve intoned with the rest. He didn't bother pointing out the mathematical impossibilities of the sergeant's request; he'd promised Bucky he wouldn't go smart-mouthing people, and he didn't think Rushford would appreciate the sentiment, either.

"Good." As Rushford made his way down the line to examine each recruit, Steve realised the guy was older than he'd first thought. His hair wasn't blond, but white, and his face was lined with age. Maybe all the sergeants not too old to fight were already doing so on the front lines. When he reached Steve, Rushford stopped, giving him a look frosty enough to form icicles. "Ah, Private Rogers. I'd been told to expect you in with the new recruits. I've been asked to give you a basic military education, and I intend to ensure you leave with nothing less. You'll get no special treatment here."

Steve kept his gaze forward. "Thank you, sir. I don't expect or want any special treatment. Just a chance to prove myself."

"And you'll get it. Now, all of you, onto the bus. Not you three," said Rushford, indicating Steve, Tiberius and the guy to Steve's left. "You three will put your belongings on the bus, then return here to push."

"Err… push, sir?" asked Tiberius.

"Push. Push. You know what push means, don't you? The bus needs bump-starting once she'd stopped, and we don't have a hill to roll her down. You'll push until she starts, then run to the door and jump aboard so we don't have to stop and risk stalling."

When Rushford disappeared into the vehicle, Tiberius leant towards Steve to speak quietly.

"I hope the rest of the equipment we'll be training with isn't as… rustic… as this bus."

"So do I," Steve agreed. But he had a sinking feeling that the country had been stripped of all serviceable equipment. "But let's get this bus sorted before we worry about that, or Sergeant Rushford might start giving us laps."

Author's note: Thanks to everybody who's read, reviewed, followed and favourited so far. I'll be updating next Sunday, as usual, but I won't be doing any stand-alone Christmas-themed story or poem this year. If, however, you have watched Thor: Ragnarok, you could check out Chapter 4 of my story, Sibling Rivalry, which will be published next Wednesday, and which will be Christmas themed. If you haven't watched Ragnarok, I don't recommend reading the chapter or the story as it contains spoilers.

On another note, you can check out a piece of fanart by DraejonSoul at the following link: h-t-t-p-s (colon) (double slash) draejonsoul-dot deviantart-dot com (slash) art (slash) We-Were-Soldiers-719384107. As a disciple of stick-man art, I'm always envious of people who can draw people and make them look like actual people instead of formless blobs.