We Were Soldiers

83. Growing Pains

Despite the lack of instructions, Bucky was doin' alright with the tent assembly. They weren't too much different to the tents used by the 107th and other regiments assigned to the SSR during its soirée through France and Italy, except these were smaller and easier to handle. He knew, though, that tents would probably be a luxury, once they left Coventry. By the sounds of it, their team was designed for rapid deployment to achieve fast results. That meant travelling light. No tents, and only as much equipment as they could carry.

By the time Steve returned from his private chat with Agent Carter, Bucky and Jones had almost finished with one of the tents, and Dugan and Falsworth were not far behind with the other.

"Good work," said Steve. "Need a hand?"

"Nah, we got this, thanks."

"In that case, I'll crack open these crates and take a look at what presents we've got."

The crates turned out to be food supplies and blankets, along with necessities such as soap, bandages and painkillers. The presence of bandages did not put Bucky's mind at ease one bit.

With both tents assembled, the bed rolls laid out, and the crates dragged inside to keep them dry in case of rain, they turned their attention to lunch. The small stove they'd been provided had a tripod and container big enough to hold a couple of cans of beans, but there was another problem.

"Where are we supposed to get water from?" asked Morita, sweeping the desolation with his gaze.

"The water mains on this street have been damaged." Agent Carter's voice came drifting on the breeze. When the group of men turned, they spotted her shouting down to them from one of the upstairs windows of the building. "There's an old hand-operated pump by The Coach-house on Main Street, and you'll find a pail inside one of the crates."

"This really is like being back in the field," Dugan huffed. "Alright, gimme the bucket, I'll go get the damn water."

"While he's doing that," said Freddie, "would the rest of you mind sitting in one of the tents and posing heroically?" He put down the film camera and plucked his regular one out of a crate. "I'd like to snap a few shots. You know, a behind-the-scenes kinda thing?"

"How about you just stick to action shots?" Steve suggested. "If you wanna take pictures of what we're doing, go right ahead, but we're not posing. This isn't the USO, and my days of posing for snaps are behind me."

"But Mr. Rogers, think of all the pictures you can show your k—"

"Sorry Freddie, that line's not gonna work on me anymore." Steve gave the guy a playful punch on the shoulder, which almost sent him sprawling into Dernier. "Err, sorry. Sometimes I forget my own strength."

While they waited for Dugan to return, Bucky plopped himself down on his blanket and pulled his copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from his breast pocket. Maybe he'd get chance to read it during this field trip.

Twenty minutes passed, and Steve's face grew frownier. He wasn't the only one starting to worry.

"Where the devil is Sergeant Dugan?" mused Falsworth. He paced up and down in front of the tent like a mother hen missing one of her chicks. "Surely it can't take this long to bring a bucket of water?"

"Maybe he ran into trouble," Jones suggested.

Morita scoffed loudly. "What? A dozen squirly Brits demanding a tribute of tea before letting him pass?" He stood up and dusted his pants off, then turned to Steve. "Want me to go find him, boss? He probably took a wrong turn at a pile of rubble or something."

"And if he's lost," said Steve, "what's to stop you from ending up the same way?"

With a deep chuckle, Morita tapped the side of his head. "I have the directional instincts of a homing pigeon. You don't get picked to be a Ranger if you can't navigate a couple of streets."

"Alright. But be careful."

Morita left, and Jones sank down onto the empty bed space beside Bucky's. "Ten bucks says Dugan got distracted by a pretty broad. Or that he found someone to arm-wrestle."

Another twenty minutes passed, in which Falsworth practically wore a hole in the ground. By now, even Bucky was worried. He hadn't believed Morita's suggestion that Dugan may have gotten lost. Dugan had fought in Como, and in a bunch of other war-torn towns with the SSR. Coventry was no different.

"Do you think this could be some sort of practical joke?" Falsworth asked. "You Yanks have the oddest sense of humour, at times."

"I don't think so," said Steve. He rolled his shoulders, making them crack in a way that sounded painful. "You up for a rescue mission, Buck?"

"Of course." He pocketed his book again, eager to see the expression on Dugan's face when he saved the guy from whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into.

Freddie hopped to his feet. "Ooh, can I tag along, Mr. Rogers?"

"Absolutely not," said Steve. "Stay here with Major Falsworth."

"What should we tell Agent Carter?" Falsworth asked.

"Don't tell her anything. Hopefully we'll be back before she finds out we've already lost a couple of men."

Bucky joined his friend, and they set off down the street. For the first time since leaving London, Bucky wished for a gun. Their instructions had been to leave all weapons at the SSR, but he would've felt a hell of a lot better with his Colt at his hip. Not that there would be any need for it. Dugan and Morita were probably just… playing a joke. Or something.

An unusual sort of silence pervaded the streets. In the distance, traffic sounds were plentiful, along with construction noises of hammers and hand-saws. Around the bombed streets, however, all sound felt muted, so that even when a blackbird skipped over a pile of rubble and trilled his call, it lacked the usual cheeriness of birdsong. The footsteps of both men felt oddly out of place, and Bucky had to resist the urge to walk more softly and stop himself accidentally kicking loose stones.

Steve broke the silence. "Do you think Stark has any chance with Peggy?"

"None whatsoever. That woman has an uncanny ability to see right through bullshit." He glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. Steve's shoulders had that troubled set about them. "Why? Do you think he has a chance?"

"I'm not sure. He seems very persistent. And he's rich. Maybe—" he stopped suddenly, head snapping up, eyes roving as he searched the nearby ruined houses. Bucky followed his gaze, every muscle tense.

"What?" he asked.

"I thought I heard something."

"Something like Dugan and Morita snickering like kids over their game of hide and seek?"

Steve shook his head. "More like the sound of something stalking us."

A shiver stole over Bucky's body, and his stomach tied itself in knots. Steve gestured for him to follow, and together they crept forward, towards a pile of rubble suspended over a twisted metal frame. Now that they were closer, Bucky heard it, too; the unmistakable sound of something moving parallel to their own course.

Five seconds later, a large brown rat, fur damp, emerged from the rubble and made a dash for cover. The knot in Bucky's stomach swiftly untied itself, and a quiet laugh escaped his lips.

"Steve Rogers: rat hunter extraordinaire!"

One of those self-conscious blushes he was so good at crept across Steve's cheeks. "I'm still getting used to having super-hearing. Everything sounds louder and bigger than it really is. That rat sounded like something man-sized."

"Well, we're looking for two things man-sized, so at least you're on the right track." Though if a rat sounded man-sized, would men sound elephant-sized?

They found Main Street easily enough, and the Coach-house pub was halfway down it, most of it still intact. Just as Carter had said, there was an old hand-pump around the back, and a dribble of water on the ground beneath it showed that it had recently been used. But of Dugan and Morita, there was no sign.

"This is… odd," said Steve.

"Very odd," Bucky agreed. He nodded at the damaged pub door. "Maybe they went inside to search for any leftover alcohol."

"For forty-five minutes?"

"Maybe they went in and got trapped due to structural collapse?"

"I suppose it's as good a theory as any," said Steve. "Let's check it out."

There was no indication that either man had been inside the pub. The dust coating every surface was undisturbed, and a pair of rats scurried under the bar as Bucky approached. There was no alcohol, either, which was doubly unfortunate, because he got the feeling this was going to be one of those missions.

Outside the pub, they stopped to consider their options.

"New theory," Bucky said. "They thought they'd take another route back to camp and somehow got waylaid."

"Does that sound like something either of them would do?"

Bucky shrugged. He hadn't known Morita very long, and there was no telling what Dugan might do; guy was crazy, after all. "Maybe they heard somebody calling for help and went to investigate?"

"Okay, let's look around. And I swear, if this is a practical joke, they're going to be doing push-ups until they're grey."

"Wanna split up?"

"No, better stick together. I don't wanna risk losing you, too."

They walked up and down the main street a couple of times, senses alert for sounds or sights or smells, something to give a clue about where their missing men had gone. If this had been a true war zone, Bucky would've gathered a heavily-armed search team and worked out a grid pattern, but this was Coventry, not Como, and no German soldier had ever set foot here.

At the end of the street, at its intersection with a smaller road, Steve bent down and poked at a pile of rubble.

"What is it?" Bucky asked.

Standing up, Steve brushed off his hands, planted them on his hips and looked around at the destruction. "Just as I thought. This street was bombed."

"Forget Captain America, they should call you Captain Obvious," Bucky teased. "I thought for a moment there you'd found a footprint or something."

"I thought tracking stuff was what we had Morita for. I never should'a sent him after Dugan alone."

"Let's go back to camp," he suggested. "When we get there, we'll probably find Dugan and Morita took some scenic route back and are waiting for us."

Steve had on his doubtful face, but he didn't object. They took the same route back as they had to get here, both on high alert for the missing men. This was not a good start to their training exercise, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something bad must'a happened to the men. Neither of them were the type to skip out on their responsibilities, nor were they some wet-behind-the-ears Privates who couldn't take care of themselves. Either someone had got the jump on them, or some mishap had befallen them. And with no enemy forces in England, it had to be a mishap. It just had to.

Back at camp, they found Agent Carter standing outside one of the tents, with Falsworth, Dernier and Freddie looking rather sheepish. Carter's expression didn't alter by even a fraction as Bucky and Steve approached. She must be one hell of a poker player.

"Your men are dead, Captain," she said.

Steve damn near tripped over his own feet. "I—what?"

Dugan and Morita, hands tied behind their backs, were frogmarched at gunpoint from the tent, four members of the Home Guard behind them. The British soldiers—three elderly men and a youth who made even Freddie look old—carried rifles, and the way they held them suggested they knew perfectly well how to use them.

"Lesson one," said Carter, "never send your men anywhere alone."

"But the training hasn't even started yet!" Steve spluttered.

"Wrong. The training started the moment you stepped onto the platform. You should always exercise caution, even in places you deem safe. You should never let your guard down, not out there, not here, not even in London. Expect the unexpected. Always." She turned and nodded at the soldiers. "Thank you, men. You can let your 'prisoners' go now."

The men untied the ropes fastened around Dugan and Morita's hands, then departed. A couple of minutes later, Howard Stark pulled up, a grin on his face and a bright red lipstick stain on his collar.

"You kids missed me?" he asked.

"If you're quite finished gallivanting around Coventry," Carter replied, "perhaps we could get to work?"

Bucky's stomach grumbled in disapproval. "What about lunch?"

"Your lunch break is over. If you're hungry, let that be a lesson. Now, we'll give you ten minutes to freshen up, and then we'll expect you lined up in the post office, ready to receive your equipment. Come along, Mr. Stark."

When the two disappeared into the building, Dugan turned to them with a very contrite expression plastered on his face. "I'm sorry, Cap. Without weapons, we didn't stand a chance."

"Don't worry, it's not your fault," said Steve. "I get the feeling Agent Carter's playing by different rules, and we have to figure them out as we go along. "

Bucky silently agreed. He didn't bother voicing his thoughts; that Carter had always played by different rules. That was something Steve would probably figure out, too.

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

"The first thing you're getting," Peggy said, ten minutes later, "is homework."

"And new toys," said Howard. The childish grin on his face made it clear which he considered the highest priority. At least, until Peggy glared at him. Then he cleared his throat and said, "But homework is of course just as important."

"Captain Rogers." Steve stood to attention as Britain's most beautiful SSR agent stepped up to face him. "As leader of the team, you'll be responsible for planning the missions and ensuring everybody knows what they're supposed to be doing. Though there's not much that can beat real experience, you don't have the luxury of years of on-the-job training. We can, however, give you a bump start."

She turned and picked up a stack of books, some thick and hardback, others bound only by flimsy metal ring spines. When she thrust them into his arms, he was mightily impressed by their weight. The top book was entitled, The Art of War.

"In that pile you'll find a half-dozen books and memoires written by men who lived, breathed and dreamed war. As well, you'll find reports from more recent campaigns, detailing Nazi strategies encountered by Allied commanders—mostly British, of course—and all we know about Schmidt and HYDRA from intelligence gathered by Dr. Erskine, myself, and others who managed to infiltrate the organisation. Know thyself, know thy enemy. Unfortunately for you, that means learning all you can about Europe's greatest megalomaniac."

"As for your toys," Stark picked up, "I'm still working on most of them, and they'll be ready for your real mission. I have, however, given the ol' vibranium a lick of paint, so she's ready to go right now."

Stark opened one of the small shipping crates and reverentially lifted out the shield that Steve had selected. He couldn't help but smile as the item was placed into his hands. Unlike the shield he'd commandeered from the USO show, which had served its function in a basic way, this shield felt as if it belonged with him. As if it had been made for him. He ran his hands over its smooth surface, and felt at one with it.

"Would you two like some time alone?" Bucky snickered beside him.

Steve glared at his friend, and Peggy leapt in on the offensive.

"Sergeant Barnes, I trust you did actually read the sharp-shooter instruction manual I gave you back in France?"

Bucky straightened up and gave a lop-sided salute. "Yes ma'am, cover to cover."

"Good. Here are three more."

The books she shoved at Bucky were smaller than those she's given to Steve, but they definitely weren't light reading. He could tell his friend wanted to groan at all the pages he'd have to slog through, but he managed to keep that inside.

"Toys!" Howard proclaimed happily, picking up a longer, slimmer storage box. He rubbed his hands together. "Y'know, I feel kinda like Santa Claus at Christmas." He opened the box and pulled out a very long gun, which he clutched to his chest as he aimed an accusatory glare at Steve's best friend. "Before I give this to you, I want to you promise that you won't break it with your heavy leaning. This is a weapon, not a walking stick. Capiche?"

"Jeez, you break one gun and never live it down!" bemoaned Bucky.

"You broke a gun?" Steve asked.

"There were… circumstances. And it wasn't broke, just a bit bent. But sure, Mr. Stark, I promise I won't break it."

"Good. The SSR-02 is my new prototype, and she's like the second child in the family; the child who fulfills the shortcomings of her older sister and is secretly loved the most." He glanced around at the blank stares on the soldiers' faces. "What? I assume that's how families work. I'm an only child." A tumbleweed-moment followed. "I'll just put this back in the crate for now," he said, packing the weapon away. "There'll be time to take her for a spin later."

The homework, and the toys, continued. For Dernier there was a pile of literature on explosive devices currently in use by the Germans and their allies, including information on disarming techniques, as well as a chemistry set full of volatile materials that made Steve glad Dernier wasn't sharing his tent. For Jones, Peggy provided a set of phrasebooks for various European languages to add to his repertoire, as well as more comprehensive French and German language books. The toy he got from Stark was what the inventor referred to as a "spy kit"—items a spy might find handy, cunningly disguised as every-day objects. Steve's favourite was the fake cigarette that doubled as a high-intensity laser. As Stark put it, shine this bad-boy into somebody's eyes and you're liquefying their retinas.

Dugan got a prototype shotgun from Stark, one which apparently had improved range and accuracy, but he didn't get any homework; a fact he gloated about later, in the tents. Morita got a compass with a built-in transponder and radio scrambler, which could not only allow for swift location and evacuation, but also disrupt enemy radio comms for a range of five-hundred metres. As homework, he was given a stack of maps, and told to memorise them to the best of his ability. Steve did not envy Morita.

Last but not least was Falsworth, who benefited from Stark's experiments with night-vision technology. He got a night-vision spyglass, a night-vision pair of binoculars, and a new rifle with a night-vision scope attached. His homework was a list of German ciphers he'd need to memorise and become efficient in so that the team could decrypt any intercepted transmissions without having to wait for a message to be relayed to Bletchley Park and back again.

"Now that that's out of the way," said Peggy, "we can get down to your training. Each day, you will have a series of tasks to complete. These tasks are designed to test and enhance your efficiency as a team, as well as to give those of you who don't have very much of it actual combat experience." She checked her wrist-watch, and pursed her lips. "We're running a little behind. In thirty minutes' time, a group of enemy soldiers will be advancing on this location to capture this 'asset.'" Said asset appeared from another crate; a little Union Jack flag with a heavy base for placing on a desk. Peggy put it down on the post-office counter. "Your mission is to defend the flag—which will act as a proxy for a rescued hostage—for a period of one hour, at which point the hypothetical extraction team will arrive and the mission will be deemed a success. Should you fail to protect the asset, the mission will have failed."

"And just how do you expect us to defend that thing with only three guns between us?" asked Dugan, his moustache quivering with indignation. Probably still sore about being 'killed' by three old men and a boy too young for shaving.

"Mister Stark?" Peggy prompted.

"You won't be using your new weapons for any of the training exercises." He opened up the largest crate of all and began handing out some sort of newfangled rifles. "Semi-automatic, each clip holds twenty-four rounds. New clips are available for purchase at the price of one credit per clip."

"Credit?" asked Jones.

"Credits are gained after each successful mission, two credits for each man left alive," said Peggy. Steve suspected she was enjoying this immensely. "You start training today with a grand total of fourteen credits, and I suggest you use them wisely."

"And the point of this credit system?" asked Falsworth.

"To encourage you to make every shot count. Out in the field, you won't have the benefit of your own private quartermaster. Your supply of ammo will be finite, and once you're out, you're out. As well, the credit system is designed to roughly approximate what you may exchange or barter for, with any interested parties or contacts you might meet on assignment. And finally, the credit system is to encourage you all to remain alive, to maximise your gains."

"Uh, no offence, but isn't not dying incentive enough to stay alive?"

"Ordinarily, yes," said Stark. "But these rifles don't fire live rounds; that would be crazy!"

Steve unlocked the clip holder from the rifle handed to him by Dernier and held it up for inspection. "Then, what do they fire?"

"Capsules of paint, in the closest shade I could get to blood. Your enemies will be firing the same, so rest assured that if you're hit, we'll know about it, and if it's a fatal hit, you'll be declared a casualty and removed from the battlefield."

"This is cruel and unusual," said Bucky. Steve could practically see him picturing trying to get paint out of his uniform. "Can't we just shoot at dummies, like in boot camp?"

"Not if you want to be part of this elite team of top soldiers," said Peggy in her driest tone. "Now, suck it up. The enemy will be here in just under twenty-five minutes, and you're wasting time by talking. There are sandbags in the cellar which you can use to simulate foxholes, and I recommend you start hauling them out fast."

"Come on," said Steve, ushering his team out of the room. "We better do as the lady says." Or this training session would end almost as soon as it had begun.

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

Bucky settled down into his position overlooking the enemy factory. It was like Krausberg all over again, only this time, he was part of the rescue operation—and the 'enemies' patrolling the compound were actually members of the Home Guard, armed with Stark's paint-rifles.

But apart from that, it was just like Krausberg.

Spotlights roved steadily over the bare winter ground in pre-determined search patterns, and Bucky had to focus real hard on staying in the moment and not letting his mind flash back to his arrival at the stalag every time one of the lights swung his way. His heart pounded whenever they flashed near him, even though he knew they couldn't see him beneath his mesh of camouflage, courtesy of the local flora.

"Pull it together, Barnes," he told himself. "We've got this one in the bag."

A dozen hostages—local folks from Coventry who'd volunteered their time—were being held in the compound, and Steve had come up with a good plan to save them. First, Bucky would get a sight on the patrolling perimeter guards, whilst Morita made his way to the base of the communications tower, and Dernier to the factory's external power generator. Then, Morita would disrupt the comms, Bucky would pick off the guards, and Dernier would blow the generator. After that, Steve would use one of Dernier's explosives to get through the door, and he, Dugan and Falsworth would go rushing in to save the hostages while Freddie took heroic action shots to show to the brass. An easy mission.

Or, it would be, if it weren't for the fact that Bucky's damn arm had started shaking over an hour ago. He'd dared to hope that the infrequent shakes he'd experiences in London had stopped. That being out and being active would somehow cure whatever ailed him. But they'd returned, and with a vengeance, first in his right arm, now in both. It was all he could do to keep the rest of him shaking along with his arms.

He now faced an unpleasant dilemma. Even at the peak of health, he had a difficult task. The guards did not patrol the same area, so he'd have to take out the first one, sprint to the location of the second, take him out, and then sprint to the location of the third, all before Dernier could blow the generator, and after Morita had disrupted the comms. Even if he made every shot on the first hit, it would be tight. But with his arms shaking, and his fake sniper rifle shaking too? He wasn't sure he was up to sprinting, much less making every shot on the first attempt. He would either have to suffer in silence and try to do the best he could, or try to get Steve to alter his plans mid-way through implementing them, to give Bucky more time to make his shots.

His mind made up, he plucked his short-range Stark-tech communicator from his jacket pocket, and said, "This is Barnes. I got a sight on my first target, and I need to take it now." If he waited any longer, the man would disappear behind a cooling vent for half a minute, and he'd lose an opportunity.

Steve's voice came back at him over the radio, crackly but resolute. "Negative. Morita isn't in place yet."

"If I don't take this shot now, I don't think I'll be able to make it in time to my other targets."

There was silence. And then, "How come you didn't mention this before, Buck?"

"Because all I had to go off was a crappy map. The terrain's rougher than it first seemed, and the distance between my targets is a lot wider in reality than on paper." Which wasn't a lie. He'd underestimated how long he'd need to get to his targets—and hadn't anticipated on his malaise returning to haunt him.

"Hey," said Morita. "My map wasn't crappy."

"We can't go changing the plan now, Bucky," said Steve. "Stick to it. Morita will let you know when you can take the first shot. I believe in you."

"But—"

"You've got your orders."

Stupid orders, Rogers, he grumbled to himself. And what did it matter if Steve had faith in him, when Bucky didn't have faith in himself? At that moment, he made a decision. Morita's part in the plan was not dependent on Bucky's. All that mattered was Bucky took out the guards before Dernier blew the generator. He needed more time, so he was going to take it.

He lifted his rifle. Sighted down the scope. The SSR-02 was considerably smoother than the SSR-01. Bucky felt barely any recoil as he pulled the trigger and watched the guard's helmet spattered with red. It took a few seconds for the man to remember to die, and when he did, he promptly dropped with a loud faux death-gurgle.

Bucky was up and running a few seconds before the radio crackled with Steve's demand to know what the hell was happening. He ignored the radio, because he needed all his strength for sprinting across the rubble-strewn ground, and for clinging to his weapon. There was a brief hairy moment when he almost lost his footing and nearly went cartwheeling out of control… but his own reflexes saved him, and he righted himself and continued with his sprint.

He reached his second target and sank down to the cold ground. His camouflage poncho had fallen askew, so he righted it before taking aim and searching for the next guard. When he eventually found the guy, he hissed a curse into the night sky. The man was patrolling a walkway, behind a long section of external venting, which meant everything above his upper shoulders was obscured from view. He couldn't make this one an instant head-shot.

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?" Steve demanded. "Did you just shoot someone?"

The radio was a distraction. One he couldn't afford. He turned it off. Focused on his gun. Found the target on the walkway. Aimed for the chest. Squeezed the trigger… and missed.

Damn.

The paint bullet exploded on the wall behind the guard, alerting him to the fact he was being shot at. He began to run for the stairs down to the ground, and Bucky quickly took aim before he could lose his target. This time, he aimed slightly ahead of the space the guard was running into, and his bullet hit its mark.

Two down, one to go.

He ran to his final sniping point and toyed with the idea of switching his radio back on. But if he did that, he'd have to endure a lecture from Steve whilst trying to concentrate on shooting. He could turn the radio on after he'd made his shot. It would be easier that way.

At his third point, he dropped to the ground and scanned the roof of the factory down the scope of his rifle. The final guard had the best view of everything that was going on, and Bucky had specifically picked off his targets in places that couldn't be overlooked from the position he knew that final guard would be located.

For a moment, he did nothing but aim at his target and breathe slow and deep. Each deep, slow breathe helped to control his trembling arm muscles, and slowly, the shaking subsided. When he felt he had the best chance, he squeezed the trigger. The guard took a paint bullet right to his head, and dropped down to play dead.

With a sigh of relief, Bucky switched his radio back on, and was immediately assaulted by calls of what's happening and should we proceed?

He pressed the 'transmit' button. "My targets have been eliminated. The plan can proceed."

"Morita, Dernier, go." Steve's voice was terse. "The rest of you, with me."

There was nothing else for Bucky to do, so he slowly made his way back down to the mission site. An explosion pierced the night air, accompanied by a brief orange glow. Carter wouldn't let Dernier actually blow more of Coventry up, so Stark has rigged up a pyrotechnic display to simulate a large-scale explosion. A smaller display was a mock-up of Steve blowing the factory door.

The spotlights had long ceases roving by the time Bucky reached the factory, their power source removed in the first explosion. Emergency floodlights running off a backup generator cast pale illumination over the ground. Bucky shouldered his rifle as the first of the hostages came trotting out of the factory, and a moment later he was joined by Morita and Carter, Dernier, Freddie and Stark. Dugan and Falsworth escorted the hostages out, and last came Steve, covering their six. Even beneath the Captain America helmet, Bucky could tell his friend was pissed.

"What the hell was that?" Steve demanded, stopping right in front of Bucky and gripping his weapon tight, as if he'd rather be ringing Bucky's neck.

"I call that a successful mission," Bucky countered.

"You went against my orders and jeopardised the whole thing!"

"I didn't jeopardise anything. You made a mistake when you ordered Morita to kill the comms before I took out the guards. It should've been the other way around."

"You missed your second target," Steve accused. There was an unusual harshness in his familiar blue eyes. "That guard could've radio'd for help and given us all away. That was why you were supposed to wait on Morita."

"But he didn't," Bucky pointed out. "And like I said, I needed more time."

"I told you I had faith in your ability to carry out your part of the plan."

"Well good for you." He didn't even try to keep the venom out of his words. Steve seemed to think this was all a game, but out there, in the field, crippling Bucky by making him wait for Morita could've endangered the whole plan. "Unfortunately, battles don't rely on faith to be won; they need skill and experience. And everything in my experience said that despite my skill, I needed more time to reach my last target."

"And yet despite your skill and experience, Phillips didn't make you the captain, did he?" Steve shot back like a punch to the gut. "If that's what you want, then here, take the shield." He held out the shield towards Bucky; the act of an angry child throwing his toys out of the pram.

Agent Carter stepped between them. "Gentlemen, why don't we discuss this in the mission report tomorrow? It's late, and our kind volunteers have beds to get to.

"Fine," Bucky snapped.

"Fine," agreed Steve.

Bucky ignored his friend as they walked back to their camp in the city centre. This wasn't the first time he'd butted heads with Steve over the training missions, but this was the first time it had escalated into a full-on confrontation. Steve seemed determined to ignore his advice. When Bucky pointed out better and faster ways of doing things, Steve stubbornly went on with his own plan despite the obvious flaws. A couple of days ago, when Bucky had said, That's not the way I'd do it, Steve had countered with, Why don't we give my way a try?

The mission had been a success, but only because dumb luck had been on their side. Since then, Steve seemed to believe that all his plans would work just because that one had. And all his plans had worked. But he took unnecessary risks. Put men in danger when there were other ways of succeeding. Sure, in Coventry it didn't matter if Steve slipped up with the plan and dumb luck saw them through, but out there, on and behind the front lines, Bucky knew better than anyone that Lady Luck was capricious and fickle, and likely to abandon them in their hour of need.

He just didn't understand why Steve was so fixated on doing things his way. Back in Europe, Phillips had given Bucky a fairly free rein to accomplish his missions. He and Wells had led teams to take out HYDRA, and they'd done it without this crazy power struggle Steve seemed bent on undertaking. Sure, they made plans, but they also knew that the heat of the moment often required room for improvisation.

So why couldn't Steve see that? It wasn't as if he was stupid; he was a smart guy. If he trusted Bucky to get the job done, why didn't he also trust Bucky's opinion of how to do things better, and safer? And why couldn't he understand that all Bucky was trying to do was stop him losing men and blaming himself for their loss?

Well, he was done trying to help his friends. If Steve wanted suggestions, he could ask for them. Bucky would keep his opinions to himself in future. Maybe once Steve learned the hard way, he would finally understand that it wasn't weakness to ask for advice.

Author's note: So, the website has been doing that thing again, where it doesn't notify you guys of my chapter updates, and doesn't notify me of your reviews. Hopefully that's fixed by now, and we're back to business as usual. Apologies to anybody whose review I missed responding to.

Thank you, Anonymous reviewer, for your comment about shell shock. The phrase isn't mentioned at all in the chapter you reviewed, so I'm not exactly sure which specific instances of it you're referring to. If it's Bucky/Steve using the phrase, then whilst it's true that the term 'shell shock' was replaced by various militaries during WWII, both of Our Heroes grew up listening to Bucky's dad and others of the previous generation talk about their experiences of war, including shell shock. It's therefore been ingrained into their consciousness for pretty much all of their lives, and as such is internally consistent for the characters and will continue to be used by them (in a similar way to how I tape movies and listen to books on tape, even though compact cassettes and VHS are pretty much extinct now.)