We Were Soldiers
85. The Unsinkable Ship
It was hard to find time to get Steve alone. After Stark and the others came back from breakfast, and Steve from his morning run, Carter shipped them all out to the countryside, so they could engage, quite literally, in field exercises.
Rural England was very different to anything Bucky had experienced so far. Here, it was all open fields and hedgerows and gently rolling meadows. When Gabe pointed out that it wasn't much like France or Italy, she had an answer for that, too.
"Should you find yourselves undertaking missions in Holland, Belgium, Denmark, or the northern areas of France, you'll find the landscape and climate not too dissimilar to Coventry's countryside. Remember, gentlemen, that the Alpine and Mediterranean landscapes you've fought in so far have been two extremes, and not all of Europe is mountains and dry hills."
Field exercises involved infiltrating a country manor which had been occupied by Nazi forces—the Nazis portrayed, again, by members of the Home Guard. It reminded Bucky of all the HYDRA bunkers he and Wells had captured. Not for the first time, he wished his friend was still alive. He suspected Wells would understand where his frustration about Steve's orders was coming from… and that with Wells there, perhaps he would've felt a little less alone.
After their field exercises, they had a lunch of cold meat, hard bread and ration bars, then had an afternoon of lessons from Falsworth in how to correctly land without breaking their legs during a parachute jump. With most of Europe largely inaccessible, Agent Carter assured them they'd be doing a lot of parachuting. Towards the end of the afternoon, Falsworth brought out a used parachute and showed them how to correctly pack it into its bag, whilst assuring them that they would never be expected to pack their own chutes before a jump.
"What the Hell is this made of?" asked Dugan, as he rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. "It feels strange."
"Silk," said Falsworth.
"Come again?" Morita spoke up.
"Silk."
Dugan's face was such a picture of disgust that Bucky elbowed Freddie to take a snap of it. "You expect us to jump out of airplanes with only pieces of silk strapped to our backs? As in, the stuff my mom's stockings are made out of?"
"It's quite safe," Falsworth assured him. Dugan didn't look convinced, and Bucky certainly wasn't. In fact, nobody but Falsworth looked thrilled by the idea. "Silk is very strong."
"Stockings!"
"I've heard that some of the American parachutes are starting to be made out of some thing called 'nylon', but we only have silk." For some reason, Falsworth didn't seem particularly unhappy about that. He was obviously crazy.
"And what are we supposed to do with the parachutes once we've landed?" asked Gabe. "They're kinda big, and something tells me we won't always have time to fold them up and hide them somewhere convenient."
"For the most part," said Carter, "once they've been used, they can't be used again. So, cut them up for bandages. Or in cold or wet weather, use them to augment your sleeping bags and blankets. You won't be expected to recover the chutes, so do with them whatever is best for the situation."
"Nous pourrions en faire des bas," said Dernier. "Alors Dugan n'aurait pas à emprunter les bas de sa mère si souvent!"
Gabe laughed, but the frown-lines on Dugan's forehead merely deepened.
"Alright Frenchie, now I know that one was about my mom."
"He said you could make them into stockings for dames," Gabe translated, though Bucky wasn't convinced that was what Dernier had actually said.
It wasn't until they got back to camp that Bucky found a moment alone with Steve, and it wasn't entirely of his own doing. As usual, he started doing the rounds with the canteens, and just as he was about to ask Steve if he wanted a refill, Steve said, "I'll come with you. Give you a hand."
They walked in an uncomfortable silence until they were out of sight and sound of the tents, and Bucky jumped in right away.
"I'm sorry for disobeying your orders. And I'm even sorrier for my behaviour since then. I just want you to know that I didn't disobey because I don't trust your judgement, but because when it came down to it, I realised I couldn't do what you were asking me to do. I needed more time to reach my targets and make my shots. It was a risk, yes, but if I hadn't taken it, I guarantee you the mission would've failed because I wouldn't have been able to play my part."
"And I'm sorry for not trusting your judgement more. I should've remembered that you always did have a good head for tactics, even when we were just kids defending the Alamo." Eleven year old Steve smiled at Bucky from across the years, and twelve year old Bucky grinned back. "Those were good times. I remember how you used to strut up and down with your wooden sword, giving the orders, makin' speeches."
"They were different times," Bucky corrected. "Now it's your turn to strut up and down, to give the orders and the speeches. And I know you'll do a bang-up job. What matters is that we're still fighting together, side by side."
"You're right. And if you need to change orders part-way through a mission, I trust you to do what is best. That goes for everyone on the team. I can't be everywhere at once, and I want my men to be able to think for themselves."
Something still wasn't right. Bucky could feel it churning around inside his gut like an undercooked steak. Even though he and Steve had made up, there was something still between them, some invisible boundary that made the silence they walked in a little less comfortable than it once would've been. In many ways, Steve still felt like a stranger, and it wasn't until they'd reached the faucet and filled up the canteens that Bucky realised what the problem was.
The problem wasn't Steve; it was Bucky. If Steve still felt like a stranger, it was because Bucky had made him that. He'd been so caught up in his own problems that he'd shut himself down. Get to know the man Steve is, Agent Carter had suggested, but for the past few weeks, he'd done exactly the opposite. Pulled himself away. Kept everything quiet. He'd hadn't wanted to get to know Steve all over again, because it was easier not to. Easier not to get close to people and lose them, as he had with all the friends he'd made in the 107th.
It was time to fix that.
"So… how've you been?" he asked. "I mean really been."
A puzzled frown crept across Steve's face. "You mean since we last spoke, all of five minutes ago?"
Bucky shook his head. "I mean with everything. You've told me all about Project Rebirth, and the stuff you did during the USO, but I haven't exactly been Mr. Share Information. I don't think I ever once asked how you felt about it all. I've been so caught up in my own stuff, that I never even considered that maybe you find this all as strange and overwhelming as I do."
"You don't need to apologise for needing time and space," Steve assured him. "You've been through a lot. Heck, you've been through more than me, and I am literally a new man."
"Still, I want to know how you're handling everything." Listening to his friend was the least he could do after weeks of self-pity.
"I don't even know where to start." Steve ran a hand through his hair. "On the one hand, it's great being fit and healthy. I can breathe without wheezing. I can run a mile without having an asthma attack. And you know how my heart used to do that fluttery thing?" Bucky nodded. He used to joke that if Steve ever met the girl of his dreams, his heart would flutter right out of his chest. "Well, it doesn't do that anymore."
"Except around Agent Carter," Bucky chipped in. Steve's ears went pink, but he didn't deny it.
"And on the other hand, it's hard getting used to how people treat me. I mean, sometimes, I forget that I'm different. I'll see dames giving me the eye, or guys backing off and giving me space, and I'll wonder what's up with them. Then I remember that I don't look like sickly Steve Rogers anymore."
"You ever look in the mirror and see a stranger looking back?"
Steve laughed heartily. "Every morning." Something else they shared in common. Only, Steve saw a bigger and better man looking back at him; Bucky saw someone broken and tired. "The hardest thing, though, is trying to live up to the expectations of others. I wish, now, that I hadn't done the USO stuff. The shows, the comics, the radio programme—"
"The movies."
"—which, by the way, I forbid you from ever watching. Those things, they made Captain America, and they made him larger than life. I'm not talking figuratively, either. One of the comics has him… me… whatever… defeating an oversized Hitler then enjoying a victory dance with the Statue of Liberty. Everybody has high expectations of me… and I'm worried I may fall off that pedestal they've put me on."
"Don't worry about it," Bucky told him. "I know it's hard to just not worry about something like that, but one man can't win the war by himself, and it's unfair of them to expect it. I'm pretty sure that despite your upgrades, you're still human. You are still human, right?"
Steve punched his shoulder—gently—in response. "Of course I'm still human, doofus! Dr. Erskine told me that the serum would just push me to the very edge of human limits. To the maximum extent of physical evolution, whatever that means."
"It means you're still one of us. And I'm pretty sure that if they thought one super-man could win the war, they wouldn't have planned to make an army of them. Right?"
"I never thought of it like that."
"That's because I'm the brains of the outfit," Bucky told him, with as much smug as he could muster. "And by the way, the next time I tell you not to do anything stupid—"
Steve rolled his eyes. "I know, know; don't."
"No, do. Life's too short to always do the smart thing. And sometimes, the stupid things pay off." Like most of the plans he and Wells had come up with to capture the HYDRA comms bunkers in France. He saw, now, that doing the smart thing was okay when you were back home and safe, but out here, in a war zone, sometimes smart wasn't always best.
Steve goggled at him. "Who are you, and what've you done with Bucky?"
"I'm still me. Just a little richer in experience." And poorer in friends. But maybe that's the way things worked. Maybe you couldn't gain in one place without losing in another. Still, Steve seemed to have avoided that fate…
"Well, Mr. Experience, what say we get these canteens back to camp and put our feet up for a while? Dugan's cooking tonight, and I'm looking forward to seeing what he comes up with."
Putting his last thoughts aside, Bucky made a mock flourish of an imaginary cape and stepped aside. "Lead the way, Captain America."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Eight days ago…
Peggy stepped into Colonel Phillips' office and saluted. He glanced up at her face, then gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
"Take a seat, Agent Carter."
She settled herself, and waited for Phillips to finish reading whatever report he had in his hands. At last, he closed the file, placed it on top of a pile of other files, and fixed her with a weary gaze.
"As you know, the President has authorised the creation of a team of elite soldiers, to strike at Schmidt and HYDRA whilst the bulk of the army is engaged with Hitler. Private Rogers—or should I say now, Captain Rogers—will head up this team."
"I'm sure he'll do an excellent job," she said, whilst her heart slowly sank. She'd been hearing rumours for days that a new team of operatives would be put together to take out HYDRA… but she'd hoped she might be the one chosen to lead it. Outside of MI6, there were few soldiers with as much experience and knowledge as Peggy, and certainly none with any real experience of undercover operations within the U.S. Army.
She knew she ought to be grateful that within the SSR, at least, she had the freedom and trust to put her skills to use, but it was disheartening that the traditional army chain of command still saw an untested young man as more competent at warfare than a woman with years of field experience.
Still, she could hardly complain, for if she did, she'd no doubt develop a reputation as a woman who was never happy with her lot in life, and generally speaking, she was quite happy with her lot. Of course, things would be better without the war, and she wished dearly that Michael was still alive to counsel her during the times her anger got the better of her… but it could be worse.
"I've selected you to be Rogers' liaison," Phillips continued.
Peggy's heart skipped a beat. "Liaison?"
"Yes, you know, tell him what missions he's on, supply him with local intelligence, organise his transport. Oh, and I'll need you to take them somewhere quiet for a couple of weeks, for training. You know, all that sneaky stuff you're so good at. And for Gods' sake, try to teach Rogers something about strategy. He can't just go bull-headedly tearing into HYDRA facilities. It may have worked last time, but now they'll be expecting us."
There was a twinkle in Phillips' eye as he spoke… or perhaps it was a trick of the light from the desk lamp. Sometimes, it was hard to know whether Phillips' orders were intended to punish or to reward. In this case, she suspected it might be both. The colonel enjoyed tweaking brass noses, which was one of the reasons he let Peggy go on so many missions. That a woman was succeeding in espionage often made men bridle with indignation.
Perhaps this liaison role could be another feather in her cap. If Peggy couldn't lead the team herself, she could at least train them to the best of her ability. The team trained by a woman. She would do everything within her power to see them succeed, and not just because she wanted that feather; it would be good to see Steve come out on top. All his life, he'd been the underdog. Now was his chance to show people what he was made of.
And perhaps secure some more funding for the SSR. The purse-strings were starting to get a little tight…
"These are the men Rogers wants," said Phillips, sliding the files across the desk.
With his permission Peggy opened them, and with each new file, her eyebrows rose higher and higher. Certainly, these men could fight, but whether they could be taught other, more useful skills, was another matter.
"Your thoughts?" Phillips prompted.
Peggy sat up a little straighter. That he was asking for her thoughts meant that he was genuinely interested in her opinion. And, unfortunately, she would have to be honest with him.
"Mr. Dernier should prove very useful," she said. "And Sergeant Barnes has some skill as a sharpshooter. As for the rest…" She selected two of the files and lay them side by side. "Privates Jones and Morita will be no good for undercover work. Simply put, their faces are too memorable, and they will stand out like sore thumbs. Sergeant Dugan may be handy in a tight spot, but I'm not sure he'll have an affinity for covert operations. Major Falsworth may do a little better; he has some command experience, and he already knows how to jump."
"Those were my thoughts, more or less," Phillips admitted. "So, you agree that this team is doomed to fail?"
Peggy hesitated. Six months ago, she would've said yes. But six months on deployment with an American taskforce had shown her that what the Americans lacked in experience and knowledge, they often made up for in exuberance and creative thinking.
"Not necessarily," she said. "It seems to me that a group of men who trust each other and have their minds focused on a goal, can achieve what might otherwise be deemed impossible."
"Is this you admitting you were wrong to tell me what a horrible mistake I'd made in letting Barnes and Wells handle those HYDRA bunkers back Frog-side?"
"I may have been a little too quick to judge," she said. It was the closest he would get to an admission of fault, and damn him if he tried to wring more out of her! "It's a mistake I don't plan to make again. The odds are stacked against Rogers and this team he wants, but weren't they also stacked against us in France? I'd like to see the odds defied again."
Phillips grunted. That usually mean she'd won some argument, even if she didn't always know what the argument was. "You think you can teach these men?"
"I'll pack both my carrot and my stick. One invariably works."
"Good. Oh, and one last thing. The brass wants this whole thing documented. They're sending a war correspondent, some kid named Frederico Lopresti." He handed her a slip of paper. "Here's his contact details. Have him start with whatever training you organise for Rogers' team."
"Very well, sir." She would pass the photographer's details on to Howard, and let him organise a meeting; Howard loved the press.
"Stark's in the process of designing some new equipment," said Phillips, possibly reading her mind. "Go find out where he's up to with that, and put in a request for anything you think you might need."
"Is there anything else you need me to do, sir?"
"One last thing. On your way out, grab me a coffee from the pot outside. Private Lorraine always puts too much sugar in my coffee; I think she's trying to assassinate me through heart disease."
Now…
Peggy stood in the doorway, propping it up in case the house should randomly decide to fall over. In front of her, the men were chatting idly about their families back home. She stood so still and so quiet that they seemed to completely forget she was there. Blending into the background was a skill not easily developed, but with time and patience, one could learn to diminish their own presence in a way that encouraged others to speak more openly.
Where Howard was, Peggy did not know. He'd been gone when the team arrived back from their field exercises, probably on some illicit rendezvous with another dental nurse or whatever. She didn't approve of Howard's many escapades with women, but she had to give him his due; he never lied about what he was. Never pretended to be something he wasn't. An oversized man-child with an enormous libido he might be, but at least he was honest about it.
From further down the street, Steve and Sergeant Barnes appeared, and she could tell immediately that they'd patched things over. Both men travelled with springier steps than they had for the past couple of days, and their shoulders were straighter, as if weights had been lifted. Atlas times two, she mused to herself. And, knowing them, their reconciliation had probably involved punching each other.
Soon enough it was time for dinner. Dugan was cooking today, but the air was suspiciously absent of delicious cooking smells. In fact, he hadn't even lit the stove. As she watched, Falsworth and Dernier brought out the small collapsible chairs they used for sitting around the stove, and readied them for the impending meal.
"Take a seat, everyone," said Dugan. He had donned a cooking apron which was spattered with something red. The blood of an animal, Peggy suspected, though surely he couldn't expect everyone to eat raw meat?
One by one, the men took their seats. Steve and Barnes were both grinning like idiots, another sure sign that they'd made up after their falling out. A few seconds after the last man was seated, Dugan exited the tent carrying a covered serving tray. Just where the Hell had he gotten that from?
Oh yes. Howard. The billionaire may not have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but he certainly seemed determined to die with one.
"Ta-daaa!" said Dugan, lifting the lid on the tray. A dozen or so sandwiches sat there, neatly cut into perfect triangles. "I give to you, PB&J sandwiches, as promised during one cold, lonely night back in Krausberg." Unfortunately, he lifted his head and spotted Peggy standing in the doorway. "Hey, Agent Carter, come join us for dinner! We have a spare chair!"
Just to prove that they did indeed have a spare chair, Freddie went and grabbed it. He set it up beside Steve, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he patted it. Though he was a scant eighteen years old, he sometimes seemed too worldly for his own good.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to deprive you," she called back.
"Nonsense! I've made enough for everyone. And I insist."
She had no other objections prepared, and she was too tired to think of any on the spot. All she could do was graciously accept the offer, and lower herself down into the rickety chair as Dugan made the rounds, bowing with a flourish as he presented the choice of sandwiches to each man. Morita, Jones, Freddie, Barnes and Steve accepted with glee. Dernier and Falsworth, on the other hand, looked less than impressed. The Frenchman took one and cradled it in his hands as if he feared it might explode without warning, whilst Falsworth opened his up and peered at the stuff inside.
"Well, I see the peanut butter," he said. "But where's the jelly I've been dreading?"
"Where's the jelly?" Dugan huffed. "Do you need spectacles or something, Monty? That pink stuff, right there, smeared on top of the peanut butter; that's fine raspberry jelly. I prefer strawberry, but I couldn't get hold of any at such short notice."
"That isn't jelly," said Falsworth. "That's jam. Look, I can see the seeds and everything."
Peggy decided to translate for him. "Jelly is what the Americans call jam," she said. "And what we call jelly, they call jello."
The major's brows lowered into a frown. "I can see there's still much I have to learn about American culture. My apologies, Captain, but it appears that book I gave you is missing an entry on the intricacies of jelly versus jam."
"Don't worry about it, I think this is one I can remember," said Steve.
"Thank you, Sergeant Dugan," she said, accepting one of the neatly sliced triangles. She bit into it, and the sweetness of the jam exploded over her tongue.
Falsworth eyed her warily, as if worried she might suddenly break out in hives. "How does it taste?"
"Surprisingly good," she admitted. "C'est trés bon," she added for Dernier's sake. "Though, Sergeant Dugan is right; it's better with strawberry jam than raspberry."
"Just how many languages do you speak?" Barnes asked.
"And when did you try PB&J with strawberry jelly?" Morita added.
"Just French, German and Russian," she said. "I tried Spanish, but it wasn't for me. And I recently spent some time in New York… as well as considerably more time under it," she told Morita. "I had the opportunity to try several signature American dishes. PB&J was, unfortunately, probably the best of them."
"I feel like I should learn a foreign language," said Steve. "I think Bucky and I are the only ones here who couldn't get by outside of England."
Sergeant Barnes offered a shrug. "Je parle Français en petit pois."
Peggy laughed at his claim, as did Jones and Dernier. Still, at least Barnes was trying.
"I guess I sit corrected," said Steve.
"Don't worry, Cap, I only speak good ol' American English, too," said Dugan. "I concentrate on the hard work, like shootin' Nazis, and leave the translating to guys like Gabe, who have a head for that kinda thing."
"Speaking of hard work," said Barnes, "I don't suppose, Agent Carter, that you or Stark brought a projector and a few copies of those Captain America movies out here with you?" He clapped Steve on the shoulder. "I'd like to see what this big galump's been doing for the past six months."
Steve's cheeks flushed a subtle shade of pink, and Peggy stifled the smile that tried to creep across her lips. Captain America blushed much more easily than his fans would probably suspect.
"Didn't I already tell you guys that you're banned from watching those movies?" he said, a mock-scowl covering up the blush. "It's a proviso of being on the team."
"That's a real shame," said Freddie. "I thought the movies were very inspiring. My favourite was the one where you had a knife-fight with those five Gestapo in that French villa."
"Did they ever do a movie about your origin story?" asked Gabe.
Steve shook his head, but couldn't quite hide the sadness in his eyes. Peggy knew that he still mourned the death of Abraham Erskine almost as much as she.
"No, Captain America is supposed to represent something bigger than one man. He could be anybody. He could be every soldier out there, just waiting to find greatness. The embodiment of freedom and righteousness."
"If only they knew about that time you stole Mrs. Carmichael's apple pie, right from where it was cooling on her windowsill," said Barnes, his face illuminated by a gleeful grin.
"Uh, Buck, that was you who stole that pie. You cut a slice for me, Mary-Ann and yourself, then slid it back onto the sill. By the time she realised three slices were missing, we were half a street away and wiping the crumbs from our chins."
Sergeant Barnes ran a hand through his hair and looked for all the world like a naughty boy who'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Umm, I forgot about that. Still, you didn't say no to a slice."
"Mrs. Carmichael did make the best apple pie on the whole block… right after your mom, of course."
"Personally," said Major Falsworth, "I've always found apple crumble to be superior to apple pie."
The men immediately fell to arguing about the merits of crumble vs. pie, and Peggy decided that if the current war ever ended, the next Great War would probably be started over baked goods.
She couldn't help but smile as she sat surrounded by inane arguments and idle banter. Being with Steve and his team… it was giving her some indication of what her own brother might've experienced during his time as a soldier. And she realised, now, that she'd judged them too harshly. She'd imagined whole armies of Gilmore Hodges, of men who were full of their own self-importance. Somewhere along the way, she'd forgotten that there might also be whole armies of Michael Carters, and that every man out here was a son, a brother, a nephew or a grandchild… and for the most part, they were just men trying to do what was right.
It was a rare insight, and the thought of her brother sitting in the circle, arguing about apple crumble whilst politely snacking on PB&J sandwiches, brought a tear to her eye. It was because of Michael that she'd joined the SOE, and she would always regret that he could never see what she had made of her life. Still, she knew he would be proud, and for now, that was enough. She would keep his memory alive through her actions, and in her heart. She just wished he could've had the chance to meet Captain Rogers… he would've liked Steve more than he'd liked Fred.