We Were Soldiers

78. The Hero

"Come on, ladies, keep it going!" yelled the drill sergeant.

Steve grunted as he ascended the cargo net. It was no physical challenge, but the other recruits were grunting with effort, and Steve was still trying to fit in. So, he grunted. He complained about aching legs after a gruelling session of running laps. He dragged himself out of bed in the mornings despite the fact he'd already been awake for hours. He was the model of a perfect recruit, and nobody but he knew how hard it was to be so… normal.

He made a point of breathing hard as he landed on the other side of the net, and as the rest of the recruits began climbing over, he turned to watch them. Each stage of the course had a designated 'spotter', a soldier tasked with staying behind until the last man had cleared the obstacle, and the cargo net was Steve's responsibility today. He offered shouts of encouragement for the tired men, claps on the shoulder as they reached the ground and passed him, and directed them on to the next obstacle as they struggled on.

It took a few minutes for the majority of the recruits to clear the net and pass on to the next section where the drill sergeant waited, but finally it was down to the last three. Tiberius and Briscoe stood waiting while Willy McDonald, in all his sweaty glory, slowly hauled his bulk against the hand of gravity. Steve suspected the guy would probably end up in a communications office somewhere, which was… probably for the best. Willy wasn't just big, he was also the gentlest guy Steve had ever met. He wouldn't even kill one of the many spiders which nested in the dark corners of the barracks and occasionally roamed into the recruits' beds in search of a meal; how he was going to kill Nazis was anyone's guess.

"Just my luck to get stuck behind Fatty McDonald," Briscoe grumbled loudly. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, "Get a move on, Fatty. Some of us wanna actually finish this course before Christmas."

"Give him a break," Steve said. He could tell by the focus on Willy's face that the guy was trying as hard as he could to go as fast as he could.

"Sure, because the Nazis will give him a break when they're shooting his fat ass," scoffed Briscoe. "Ah, bugger this, I'm not waiting any longer."

Briscoe stepped forward, grabbed hold of the net, and began to climb before Steve could tell him not to. It wasn't as if Briscoe would've listened anyway; the guy seemed to think he knew everything about everything. If there was one thing Steve disliked more than bullies, it was know-it-all bullies. He'd met a few in his time, and most of them had real spiteful streaks.

By the time McDonald was at the zenith of the net, Briscoe was halfway up. Tiberius was still on the ground, looking up at the two climbers, and even from a distance, Steve could see the worry etched on his face. It was a worry that was well-founded. Just as Briscoe was catching up to Willy, something cracked so loud that Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. For one second, he thought a thunder storm was approaching. Then, the cargo net began to fall back on itself.

Steve's heart leapt into his mouth as the screams of all three men filled the air. He wanted to move, to run forward, to do something, but his feet were rooted to the spot. All he could do was watch as the heavy wooden frame came crashing down, and Briscoe, Willy and Tiberius were lost in the mass of wood and net.

It was over in three seconds, but it took another three for Steve to recover his wits. For him to regain control of his feet. For him to look over his shoulder at the distant line of men at the next obstacle and shout, "HELP! WE NEED HELP!" He didn't wait to see whether his call had been heard, but set off running to the broken frame.

"Tiberius, Willy, Briscoe, are you okay?" he called. There was no response from the mass of broken wood and damaged rope, so he began to sift through the wreckage. It didn't take long for him to find an arm sticking out from beneath the rope net, and he pulled the rest of the rope away to reveal Willy, his eyes closed and head bleeding at the temple. Steve shook him gently by the shoulders. "Willy, can you hear me? Willy, say something."

It was like a scene out of a movie. Willy's eyes flickered open, unfocused and dazed. "Wha'?" he slurred. "Wha' happened?"

"The cargo net. It collapsed."

Willy's blue eyes filled with water. "It's mah fault—"

"No. Briscoe got on the net. The frame was fine until he started climbing."

"But if I wasn't so big—"

"Hey, listen to me." Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground the injured man in the present, and what had to be done next. "This isn't on you. You were at the top of the net, and there was nothing you could'a done. Now, I need you to get out of this mess and go fetch more men. We need to find Tiberius and Briscoe. Okay?"

Willy winced, and nodded. He squirmed for a moment, then let out a whimper of pain. "Mah foot's stuck. I think it's trapped under the frame."

"Is it broken?"

The Scot glanced at the mess around him. "I'd say so."

"I mean, your foot. Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Aye. I don't think it's broken. It's just stuck."

"I'm going to lift the frame, and you need to pull yourself clear. On a count of three." Steve took hold of the sturdiest-looking piece of wood, and braced himself. "One, two, three, now!" He lifted. His leg muscles and arm muscles complained, but he kept lifting until Willy's foot was free.

"Hey, I see somebody," said Willy.

Steve glanced over his straining bicep and spotted a uniformed body lying prone beneath the rope net. He couldn't tell who it was, but judging by his proximity to Willy, he guessed it was Briscoe. The guy had been closest to Willy when the frame collapsed.

"You need to drag him out," he told Willy. "I'm going to lift this frame higher so you can get closer to him, then you need to pull him clear. Okay?"

Willy nodded. Pushed himself to his feet. Whimpered, and collapsed into a quivering heap. "Actually, I may have been wrong about mah foot being broken. I can't put any weight on it, and I got a lotta weight."

"Then crawl."

Sweat began to bead on Steve's forehead. Ignoring it, he shifted his grip on the broken section of frame and lifted it up to the level of his chest, allowing Willy to worm his way under the rope and to the unmoving body. The Scotsman may not have been the fastest climber, but he was a fair crawler. He grabbed the arm of the unconscious man and hauled him out from under the netting. It was indeed Briscoe, his hair slicked with blood, his nose bent at a sickening angle, and judging by the angle of the arm Willy was pulling, it was probably dislocated at the shoulder. Bully or not, Steve prayed that he was alive.

As soon as Willy had pulled Briscoe free, Steve dropped the frame and began hunting for Tiberius. He found the young man close to the foot of the frame, and all he could see beneath the mass of rope was that the man's eyes were closed. For a split second, he was back in that secret SSR facility, looking down at the closed eyes of Dr. Erskine.

I'm not going to sit by and do nothing while another friend dies.

"Willy, I'm gonna need your help over here!" he shouted

Willy hobbled over, and Steve bent down to grasp the rotting wooden frame. It was heavier, here. A groan of effort escaped his lips as he put everything he had into lifting. Pieces of wood fell away, splinters raining down on him, but he merely closed his eyes against them and told Willy, "Hurry."

There was very little blood on Tiberius, but his face was pale, almost ashen, and even with his enhanced hearing, Steve couldn't hear any breath escaping his friend's lips. What he did hear were calls of other men, drawn by his initial cry for help. The first men to reach the scene took over from Willy, one hauling Tiberius out of harm's way, the other offering a shoulder for Willy to lean on as he limped back from the frame.

"Is everyone clear?" Steve asked. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back, and his arms and legs groaned in complaint. When someone confirmed that everybody was clear, Steve dropped the frame and jumped back before it could crush him, too. The ground shook with the weight of the impact.

Before Steve could get a single word out, things started to happen. The drill sergeant rushed forward to check on Tiberius, and instructed one of the recruits to tend to Briscoe. One man was sent for medical help, and another to report the accident to the camp's colonel. Only when Steve turned around, to face the other recruits, did he realise why everything was so quiet. Every last man was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he'd just sprouted horns and a tail… or perhaps a pair of feathery wings.

He was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

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

Colonel Wilkinson was a straight-talking, no-nonsense officer, and Colonel Phillips would've loved him. He hauled Steve into his office twelve hours after the incident, as soon as he'd gotten reports from all involved. Steve had heard that Briscoe and Tiberius were alive, but that was all anyone knew. Hopefully, he could wrangle some answers outta Wilkinson.

"It says here," said Wilkinson, tipping the report he held open in his hands, "that it took four men to move the remains of that frame."

Steve waited, but there was no question. He guessed he was supposed to comment. He'd been expecting the Spanish Inquisition for the past twelve hours, but he hadn't planned on what to say. He'd never been a good liar.

"I can imagine, sir. It was pretty heavy."

"And yet you managed to lift it by yourself. How is that?"

"Adrenaline, sir," said Steve. "It all happened so fast. I knew those men might die. Might already be dead. And that thought… well, it gave me the strength I needed to do what I did."

One of Wilkinson's grey eyebrows rose upward. "Private Rogers, I've heard of men in life-threatening situations doing incredible things. Exhausted soldiers finding the strength to haul a downed comrade off the battlefield. Men finding some inner strength to protect a loved one. Hell, last year, I heard of a woman down in Truro who tore half her Blitzed house apart to get to her crying baby. But I never heard of a man lifting two tons of sodden wood and rope by himself. Twice."

"Sir?"

"Says here that Private McDonald saw you lift the frame so he could crawl free with Private Briscoe, then lift it again so he could get to Private Worsthorne. And all without breaking a sweat."

"Trust me, sir, I was sweating."

"A metaphorical sweat, Private. Not a physical one. So." The colonel dropped the open file down onto his desk. "Care to explain to me how a U.S. Private manages to pull off such a miracle? This isn't the only… oddness… surrounding you, Private. Your drill sergeants tell me you're breezing through training like a ten-year veteran. You've smashed every record since getting here, for everything from stripping and reassembling a rifle, to hitting a target, to running the assault course."

"Oh, you know… good clean living," he offered. Clearly, he hadn't held back enough. He'd never intended to break records. To be different. "Fresh country air."

"Your file says you're from New York."

Damn that file. "I… err… may have prayed for divine intervention."

"Have you seen the refugees fleeing the war, Private? Have you walked beside death in a liberated Nazi concentration camp? Because I have. And it seems to me that God has not been in the business of answering prayers of late. Not for you, not for me, and not for the millions of people tortured and executed by the Nazis."

"I don't know what else to tell you, sir," said Steve. He put every once of conviction he possessed into his next words. "I'm just a soldier." And Phillips would kill him if he let slip the existence of Dr. Erskine's formula. Sure, the British were allies, but there were still protocols to be followed, and as far as Steve knew, nobody outside of the SSR or the SOE was authorised to know about Dr. Erskine's serum.

Wilkinson sighed. "Very well. You're dismissed, for now."

Steve stood and saluted. "Sir, could I see Private Worsthorne? I want to make sure he's okay."

The colonel shook his head. "He's still in surgery. Return to your barracks, Private."

There was nothing else for Steve to do. He hated lying to the colonel, but what else could he say? He'd been here for just twelve days, and he'd already screwed up. Not that he would've done anything different, if given a second chance. Except maybe punch Briscoe's lights out before he could get onto the cargo net.

He left the office and strode across the grounds towards the barracks. It was raining again, heavy and cold, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to press his collar closer to his neck to stop the rain trickling down it.

"Steve!" somebody hissed. "Over here!"

A hooded figure waited in the dry lee of one of the unused NAAFI buildings, and as Steve approached, he recognised Tickle.

"The heck are you doing out in this weather, Tickle?" Steve asked. "Training's suspended until tomorrow. Shouldn't you be relaxing in the barracks?"

"Sure I should. But, well, there's this girl I know, a friend from back home, and she's serving here as a trainee nurse."

Steve fought back the grin trying to creep across his lips. "Say no more."

"It's not like that. She wants to meet you."

"Oh. I, uh… well… I didn't exactly come here to… uh… meet dames."

"It's not like that, either," Tickle assured him. "C'mon, she's in here, where it's dry."

Tickle opened the door behind him and led the way inside, where it was at least dry, if not warm. There was indeed a nurse waiting, and she shivered beneath her coat. Her hair was damp beneath her skewed cap, but she offered a friendly smile for Steve.

"Private Steve Rogers, meet Betsy Jones," said Tickle.

Betsy gave a short curtsy before Steve could even think of offering his hand. "Private Rogers, thank you for seeing me," she said. "From what I hear, you're a hero."

"I'm no hero. Just a man doing his job. But why are you out in weather like this?"

"I've been taking care of Private Worsthorne," she said. "He was conscious, for a while. He wanted me to thank you for saving his life. Made me promise, in fact."

"He couldn't have waited and told me himself, when he's allowed visitors?"

Betsy hesitated, and Steve's stomach lurched. "I think he was worried. About the surgery. That he might not come out of it."

"Is it that bad?"

"It's hard to say. There was some internal bleeding, but the doctors stabilised that. It's the damage to his spine that worries them most. They hope if they can repair the damage quickly, they might save… well, never mind about that. I told him he could thank you himself, but he wanted me to pass on the message. Just in case."

Steve nodded. Tiberius must've been in a lot of pain, if he thought he might not survive the surgery. "How are the others?"

"Private Briscoe has a dislocated shoulder, a broken nose, and a shattered cheekbone. He'll need a week in recovery, but I don't think they'll let him stay and complete his training. Private McDonald has a nasty concussion, but he should be out in a day or two. The doctors just want to keep an eye on him. All in all, it's a miracle nobody died."

"Yeah." A miracle courtesy of Dr. Erskine. Even though he was dead, the man was still saving lives. If there was a real hero here, it was him, not Steve. "Well, thanks, Betsy, for letting me know what's going on. And for passing along the message."

"I should be getting back. If you… um… want to talk about anything, I'm in barracks number two." She shot him a quick smile, the sort Bucky got all the time from dames, then aimed a more friendly one at Tickle before pulling her hood up and heading out into the rain.

"Some fellas just have all the luck," Tickle sighed.

"Trust me, pal, luck with women is something that's pretty new to me. But as nice as Betsy seems, I'm not interested."

Tickle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh? Betsy's not good enough for you?"

"What?! No! I mean, back in London, there's this dame, and—"

"Relax, Steve," the other man chuckled. He clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder in a very Bucky fashion. "I was just pulling your leg." The light of humour in his eyes faded, and Steve knew what question he was going to ask before he'd even asked it. "So, what happened out there?"

Nobody had talked about it. Not to him. Oh, they'd whispered about it. Told stories of what they thought they saw. Made up different reasons for one man's unearthly show of strength. But nobody, outside of the colonel, had asked him about it. It was as if he'd become anathema to the other recruits, and he hated the way they looked at him when they thought he wasn't paying attention; with speculation in their eyes. He saw their looks. He'd always seen the looks people had given him. Always.

"Adrenaline," he offered lamely.

"Really? Because I heard there's something in those special ration bars of yours that make you super-strong."

"Tickle, trust me, there's nothing in the bars but a whole lotta protein and fat." Plus, they kinda tasted like sawdust. Stark claimed he was working on a new chocolate flavouring, but Steve wasn't sure 'chocolate flavouring' would be any better than 'chipped wood.'

"Well, alright. If you say so." Tickle nodded towards the door. "Guess we better get back to the barracks."

"Yeah. You go ahead, I'll be along shortly. Just wanna take a walk and clear my head."

Tickle gave him one of those 'you're crazy to be walking in this weather' looks, but didn't object. Alone, Steve leant back against the wall and took a deep, slow breath. He got the feeling that he hadn't heard the last about his feat of strength, but at least he could take comfort in the knowledge that whatever happened now, he'd done his best. He'd done the right thing. And hopefully he hadn't jeopardised his chance at being a soldier because of it.

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

"Ignore them," said Bartholomew. He gestured to two of Briscoe's pals, who were giving Steve the stink-eye across the mess hall. "They're not worth acknowledging."

"I just wish they'd give me a break," Steve said with a sigh. He stirred his bowl of broth and dumplings with his spoon and tried to ignore the two men at the table at the other side of the room.

"Some people are just… what's that word you Americans use? Jerks."

"Barty's right," said Tickle. "If they've got a problem with you, then it's their problem, not yours."

"It's not just them," Steve admitted. The past couple of days hadn't been easy. About the only people who'd talk to Steve were Bartholomew, Tickle, Willy and the drill sergeants. Most of the recruits weren't overtly hostile, like Briscoe's friends, but he could see the suspicion in their eyes. It didn't help that from their point of view, Steve was an outsider. He was an American. He wasn't one of them, and he didn't belong. Even with Falsworth's phrase book, some of the things they said went over Steve's head. And just because he could strip and rebuild one of their weapons in record time didn't mean he belonged.

"Well, I'm grateful you were there," said Willy. Since being released from the hospital, he followed Steve around and offered to do anything Steve wanted. Shine his boots, write his letters, run his errands… as happy as Steve was that he wasn't being ostracised by everybody, he found Willy's gratitude a little stifling.

"Rogers." The appearance of a drill sergeant put a stop to the glaring from Briscoe's friends. The sergeant stopped by Steve's table, and waited until all the recruits had risen and saluted. "Colonel wants to see you in half an hour."

"What about drill?"

"You can catch up with drill once you've seen the colonel."

"Yes sir." Steve saluted, and the sergeant left. A cold knot began to form in the pit of his stomach; the same cold knot he'd gotten that day at the World Trade Fair, when he'd been caught lying on his enlistment form. Whatever the colonel wanted with him, it couldn't be good.

"That sounded ominous," said Bartholomew, giving voice to Steve's private concerns. "I hope you're not in trouble. Have you done anything else heroic over the past couple of days?"

"What? Of course not. For a start, you guys have barely let me out of your sight."

"Maybe it's good news," said Tickle. "Maybe the colonel's going to make you the section commander for next week's battle simulations."

"I doubt the colonel would call me in for something like that."

"Maybe you're going to get a commendation for saving us," said Willy. The expression on his podgy face suggested he fully believed Steve deserved a commendation.

"Yeah, maybe." He just didn't have the heart to dismiss Willy's suggestion as wishful thinking. "Well, I better go see what the colonel really wants. Wish me luck."

"You'll be fine," Bartholomew assured him. Steve only wished he could believe it.

He was a little early for his appointment with the colonel, so he sat and waited under the watchful gaze of a dragon of a secretary. The woman watched him like a hawk, as if worried he might start stealing from the open stationery cupboard if she took her eyes off him. When he tried for a smile, the glare only became more frosty. That cold knot in Steve's stomach grew a little bit colder.

When he was finally admitted into the colonel's office, he saluted and stood to attention. Colonel Wilkinson eyed him up before inviting him to stand at ease.

"Private Rogers, I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me what happened three days ago when you saved three other recruits from being crushed to death."

The knot hardened. "Sir, I'm sorry, but there's nothing else I can tell you."

"Very well." The colonel sighed, and reached into drawer to pull out a sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk and nodded for Steve to pick it up.

They were discharge papers. In a neat, monospace type, they laid out that Private Steven Grant Rogers had completed his twelve weeks of basic training and was to report back to his commanding officer in London for new orders. As he read it, Steve's eyebrows rose.

"Sir? I don't understand."

"What's not to understand? In the eyes of the commanding officers of this facility, you have completed your training."

"But… I've only been here for two weeks." His hopes for a normal military career were dashed and broken upon the rocks like a ship in a storm.

"Even if it wasn't readily obvious to your drill sergeants that you have little need for basic training, your own CO seems quite eager to have you back in London."

Uh-oh. "You… err… spoke to Colonel Phillips, sir?"

"Right after your heroics." Double uh-oh. Phillips was going to chew him up and spit him out. He could see it now. "He's sent orders for you to return to your headquarters and report to him as soon as you reach London. You'll leave tomorrow on the afternoon train at fifteen hundred hours. It seems there's little point you continuing with the rest of the recruits today, and your sergeants have been advised not to expect you for any further training."

"Sir, can I see Private Worsthorne before I go?"

The colonel pursed his lips as he ran his gaze over Steve. "Could I really stop you, if you wanted to?"

Steve stood a little straighter and looked Wilkinson right in the eye. "Yes, sir. If you order me not to, then I won't. But Private Worsthorne is my friend, and I'd like to say goodbye to him."

"Very well. I'm told he'll be well enough for visitors tomorrow. Report to the hospital at midday, and I'll ask the medical staff to let you see him."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

"Believe it or not, I am grateful to you for saving the lives of three recruits. You did a good thing, rescuing those men. I just hope that when you get to the front lines, you don't show the same mercy to the Krauts."

Steve nodded, though he wasn't so sure that showing mercy, even to the enemy, was a bad thing. It was Bucky's lack of mercy, when he shot the commandant of Krausberg, that worried Steve the most. To see his friend become someone so cold that he could kill without warning or offering the chance of surrender… it was sobering. And it was something he had to try to undo. To help Bucky remember the man he was before HYDRA got their claws into him. He owed that much to his friend.

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

Steve had always held a special dislike for hospitals. They were where people went when they were sick, and where people went to die. He'd been in hospitals more times than he could count, first as a patient, then as a visitor. Every time his asthma became problematic, he had hospital visits to look forward to. It wasn't always so bad, because Mom had worked at the hospital, and sometimes she came to see him during her breaks. Sometimes, he saw her more when he was a patient at the hospital than he did at home, and it was only now that he could appreciate the irony.

Later, when Mom had gotten sick, he saw things from the other side, and if he'd thought being a patient was bad, he quickly learned that being a visitor was worse. Seeing somebody you loved languishing in pain, slowly dying… Steve would've taken a lifetime of asthma attacks over that. Would've taken a thousand bouts with pneumonia over watching his mother succumb to the disease she'd helped so many others fight.

I guess the Krauts are like tuberculosis, he thought, as a nurse led him down to Tiberius' room. Only, they're a disease big enough to punch.

Outside the door, the nurse stopped and turned to face him. "If he says strange things, don't be alarmed. He's on heavy pain medication. It's making him a bit woozy."

When Steve nodded in understanding, the nurse opened the door. Tiberius was lying in bed, and he looked like hell. He looked almost as bad as Bucky had looked, when Steve had pulled him off the table in Krausberg. His eyes were open but heavily lidded, and dark circles ringed them. His hair was lank and dull, and the room smelt faintly of urine. On the bedside table, a radio sat silent, and somebody—probably a nurse—had put out a vase of flowers. They, like the man on the bed, were wilting.

"Steve," Tiberius croaked. "They told me you'd be coming by. It's good to see you. Is something wrong?"

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat. Being here, like this, had brought it all back. That last visit to the hospital. The last time he'd walked its corridors. The last time he'd stepped onto the T.B. ward where his mom lay dying with the other patients too far gone to save. The flimsy face mask the doctors had made him wear for his own protection. How it had broke his heart to think that his mom had died seeing her son's face hidden behind a mask.

"No. Nothing's wrong." He blinked away the lie with the unshed tears in his eyes. "Just glad you're awake. I'd worried you might be sleeping."

Tiberius sighed. "Sleeping. It's all I do, now." He gestured towards a rickety old chair in the corner of the room. "Pull up a seat."

So Steve did. And when he was as comfortable as the paper-thin seat cushion would allow, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know. Could be worse." The expression on the young man's face said it couldn't really be that much worse. He reached out and plucked at a loose thread on the blanket covering his body. "My dad's arranged for the best spinal surgeon in the country to see me. One of the perks of having a dad as a doctor, I guess. I'm being shipped out in a couple of days. Guess I'm going to spend the rest of the war in a recovery room. My great contribution."

"Maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Even if you can't… I mean… even if that spinal surgeon isn't able to get you running marathons, there are still jobs you could do. Somebody has to man the communications, right?"

"A desk job." Tiberius scoffed loudly. "Would you be satisfied sitting on the bench, watching other players running out onto the field?"

"No, I guess not. But it's better than missing the game completely."

Tiberius looked away, focusing on the woolen thread as he plucked at it. Moisture glistened in his eyes, and one hand curled into a fist. "I'm glad the others are okay. One of the nurses told me that Willy's back to training, and that Briscoe is being dishonourably discharged for endangering lives through negligence."

"It's what he deserves."

"No. It isn't. The accident… it's my fault."

"What?" Steve leant forward to rest a hand on his friend's shoulder. "C'mon pal, it wasn't your fault. I was there, and I saw everything. Briscoe got on the net while Willy was only halfway over. His weight on that frame caused it to collapse. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Tiberius shook his head, then brushed the tears from his cheeks with the back of one hand. He bit into his lower lip, as if welcoming the distraction of pain, and when he finally looked up at Steve, it was with wretched sorrow in his eyes.

"Can I tell you something secret? Will you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Of course," Steve promised.

With a long, deep breath, Tiberius began. "Ever since I got conscripted, I've been terrified. Terrified of going out there, of being shot at. Hurt. Killed. Of watching friends die, and of dying myself. I couldn't figure any way out of serving, though. They shoot deserters without mercy. So, the day before the accident, I went to the chapel, and I prayed like I've never prayed before. I begged God for a way out. I begged him to find some way to keep me from being sent to the front lines. Something to keep me out of the war, and all wars, for good." He wiped away another stray tear, and a humourless chuckle escaped his lips. "I'd always heard that God moves in mysterious ways; I just didn't know they were cruel ways. I guess this is why they say 'be careful what you wish for', right?"

"Tiberius, this isn't your fault. God didn't do this to you; it was an accident. A coincidence."

"Or me getting what I deserve for being a coward."

"You're not—"

"Yes, I am." The man's glare of defiance was almost a welcome relief from the wretched sadness. Almost. "I know what I am, and I'm not going to lie about it. I don't want people to try and make me feel better, and I don't want pity. I brought this on myself. I made my bed, and now I'm going to lie in it, because that's about all I can do."

Steve sat silent for a moment, allowing his friend's anger to fizzle out. If Tiberius was going to beat himself up over this, then there was nothing Steve could do or say to make him feel better.

"Yknow, out there, everybody gets a bum deal," he said. "I figure you've gotta be either crazy or desperate to actually want to go out there and fight. So, maybe you're not a coward. Maybe you're just sane."

"If you've gotta be crazy or desperate to want to fight, which are you?"

Steve offered a small smile. "Both. Will you do me a favour?"

Tiberius snorted quietly. "So long as that favour doesn't involve me leaving this bed."

"It might not feel like it, but you've got a second chance. You could've died three days ago, but you didn't. Maybe, if this really was some act of God, he wasn't responding to your prayer; maybe he knew there was something else you needed to so. Some other place you needed to be. Now that you've got your second chance, don't waste it. Whatever the future holds, just be the best you that you can be. Whatever you end up doing, do it with all your heart and soul, because second chances don't come around that often."

"And if my future involves me paralysed from the waist down for the rest of my life?"

"Don't use that as an excuse for failure; use it as a reason to succeed. If you really think this is the price you have to pay to get out of the war, then don't dwell on it, and don't let it bring you down."

"You make it all sound so easy."

"What can I say: I'm an optimist."

"I wish I could bottle up some of that optimism and take it with me." Tiberius nodded at Steve's dress uniform. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I've been recalled to London. Guess that's my basic training over." And he wasn't convinced the rest wasn't needed. There was still so much he hadn't done. Field exercises, mission simulations, not to mention the whole six weeks of tactical planning and strategy.

"They'll send you off to the front?"

"I have no idea," Steve admitted. Knowing Phillips, he was as likely to stick Steve in a lab as he was to allow him to fight on the front. "But whatever it is, I'll do my best."

"Take care of yourself out there, Steve. It's a big world, and not even a man as strong as you can fight the whole thing by himself."

The very Bucky-ness of that statement made Steve want to grin. Instead, he shook the hand that Tiberius offered, and mentally prayed that those spinal surgeons could work miracles.

His train wasn't until three o'clock, but he didn't want to stick around. He'd already said his goodbyes to the other recruits, and had brought his bags with him to the hospital. Sergeant Rushford had offered to try and start up the old bus to take him to the station, but Steve had told him not to bother. It wasn't too far to the town, and he could use the walk to clear his head… and to worry about what new fate awaited him back in London.