We Were Soldiers

88. Agent 24

When Bucky heard that the English called The Feast of Saint Stephen, "Boxing Day", his immediate thought was that it would be good to blow off a little steam. After the present-opening, he invited Steve to go a few rounds in the morning, and Steve—his dewy-eyed gaze focused on Agent Carter with a deep expression of rapture—mumbled distracted promises that he definitely wanted to do… what was it? Oh, boxing, yes. He could do that. Sure.

It was only later that evening, after Morita and Dernier were carrying Jones up to his room, that Monty explained how the Boxing Day tradition did not involve men donning their gloves and duking their way back to sobriety, but instead harked back to some boring cultural blah blah blah. Bucky's hopes of starting up an unofficial boxing club for enlisted men and officers alike was cruelly dashed on the shores of reality, and his estimation of the English fell.

What the Brits called Boxing Day, Colonel Phillips called Getting Back To Work Day. He summoned, via a depressingly chipper Agent Carter, the Howling Commandos to his office at eight-thirty in the morning, and had them line up before his desk so he could pass stony-faced judgement over them.

All in all, they weren't in a good way. Steve and Monty, those total brown-nosers, stood rigid to attention. The rest made an effort, but Gabe was still half-drunk, Morita looked like he hadn't shaved in two days, Dernier's shirt was spattered with what looked at first glance like blood but in fact turned out to be a particularly fine merlot, and Dugan, who'd gotten into a fight with the coat-stand in lieu of an actual arm-wrestling opponent, was sporting an impressive shiner. That coat-stand was a formidable foe.

Bucky was unsteady on his feet, but for all the wrong reasons. Christmas had been good. Too good. He should'a known his good luck wouldn't hold. After crawling into bed at two o'clock, he was plunged into a nightmare of the Zola variety. Needles. God, it was always the needles. But this time, Zola went further. He didn't just stick them beneath Bucky's skin; he stuck them into his eyes.

He woke with a scream, body drenched in sweat, shivering and shaking, his heart beating madly against his ribcage so that it sounded like somebody pounding on his bedroom door. He tried to get to the bathroom, because instinct told him to take a hot shower, but his legs trembled so bad when he tried to stand that he didn't make it two steps before collapsing.

There was nothing he could do but lie there in his boxers, hugging himself for warm, his teeth chattering so hard that he feared they'd break against each other. After what felt like an hour, he managed to drag himself inch by inch back to his bed, where he crawled beneath the doona and curled himself into a shivering ball of misery.

The next time he looked at the clock, it was six in the morning. A half-hour later, Steve knocked on his door and asked if he wanted to come downstairs and eat left-overs. Bucky croaked out that he felt too hung-over for food, and Steve swallowed the lie that was fed to him.

By the time Agent Carter came banging on his door, ordering him to report to the Colonel for duty, he'd managed a quick, luke-warm shower, and had found a clean uniform to don. He and the others had made their way towards Whitehall on foot, since no public services were running, and Bucky had stuck close to Gabe, using the other man's hangover as an excuse for his own slow pace. He hated the subterfuge, but pity would be worse. Being frog-marched to a medic would be worse. Being left behind would be worse.

"Men," barked Phillips, snapping Bucky out of his reverie, "if you take a good look at the wall behind me, you will see two important things. One is a picture of the President of the United States of America. The other is a picture of the Statue of Liberty. One is who I fight for. The other is what I fight for. Not all of you are Americans, but that doesn't mean that what you fight for is any different. I expect each and every one of you to give a hundred and ten percent when you're out there in the field, because it's not just freedom you're fighting for, it's to prove rich men in fancy suits wrong about what makes a good soldier. I don't care about skin colour and I don't care about what country you're from, all I care about is that you can get the job done." He ran his gaze over each of them. "So. Are you ready?"

"Yes sir," said Steve, as somebody rammed the iron rode even further up his back. "Just point us in the right direction."

"Hmph." Phillips relaxed back to his chair and gestured to the man waiting at the side of the room. "Mr. Stark?"

Howard Stark strode forward, none the worse for last night's revelry. "A very important colleague of mine, Dr. Per Selvig at the Stockholm University, has a sister who's married to a Norwegian whose brother-in-law is a member of the Norwegian resistance, and he's gotten word back that the Nazis have just set up some new sort of top-secret U-boat factory, not far from their base at Trondheim. Apparently, this factory is in the process of designing a new type of U-boat, one with a greater range and more firepower than the standard model."

"As you know," said Phillips, "German U-boats are a menace to the safe transport of Allied goods and personnel. If the Krauts are designing something new, something bigger and meaner, our ability to cross the Atlantic will be severely hindered. Carter? Tell the men what they're to do about it."

Agent Carter stepped forward, eager as ever to be issuing orders to soldiers. Bucky was sure she got some sorta kick out of it.

"At twenty-hundred hours, you'll leave England on a plane bound for Norway. Once there, you'll make the jump and land on Norwegian soil, where you'll make your way to these co-ordinates." She handed a dossier to Steve. "Memorise them, because everything in that file is classified and doesn't leave this office. We have arranged for you to be met by SOE Agent 24, who will help you to reach this alleged factory, confirm its existence and destroy it."

Steve visibly deflated as he thumbed through the dossier. "So… our mission is to chase down a rumour that 'a friend of a friend of a friend' may or may not have made up? No offence, Sir, Agent Carter, but I thought our team was supposed to be… y'know… elite."

"That's exactly why you're being sent," said Phillips. "We can't mobilise forces based on unsubstantiated intel, but we also can't wait for more accurate recon and intel to reach us—it could be weeks before we hear anything concrete from our operatives in Norway. But we can send a small team, one capable of gathering intel and taking with them enough plastic explosive to put the facility, if it does exist, out of action."

"It does exist, Colonel," Stark rallied. "Dr. Selvig isn't the type of man to overreact about something his sister's husband's brother-in-law might tell him. He's very level-headed. That he's passed this on to me, on unofficial channels no less, tells me that his information is solid, and that he's worried about leaking plans by going through more official lines."

"I've already requested that you be kitted out for Arctic warfare," said Carter. "I'll be overseeing the mission from the ground here, and I'll make sure your extraction plan is in place at the appropriate time." She tapped the dossier in Steve's hands. "You have thirty minutes to study this."

"Why?" asked Falsworth. "What happens in thirty minutes?"

Carter smiled. "We take a road-trip. All SOE drops in Europe are carried out from one of two airfields designed to appear nothing more than working farms. We'll be heading to RAF Tempsford, where some of you will have your first experience of flying. I hope you're ready."

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

Though Bucky had heard of sea-sickness, he hadn't considered there might be such a thing as air-sickness, too. After watching Dernier throw up into a bucket for over an hour, he was just glad that air-sickness wasn't something he suffered from. At least with sea-sickness, you could go up on deck and get some fresh air. In contrast, the plane's belly, where the Commandos waited for their drop, was stuffy and confined. The smell of vomit was making everybody queasy, even those like Bucky, who travelled well.

Steve stood up and, over the loud drone of the engines, yelled, "Alright, time to switch to CET. We don't want to be late for our rendezvous."

One by one they began tugging their watches from underneath the arms of their heavy winter coats so they could put the time forward by an hour. Bucky was careful not to tug too hard; this was the watch his dad had given him before he'd shipped out. The same one he'd worn during the Great War. Maybe one day, Bucky would pass the watch on to his own son. Hopefully it wouldn't be for the same reason.

The cockpit door opened, and the RAF navigator stuck his head into the bay. "ETA to the first D-Z is five minutes, so get yourselves ready to jump. We don't want to spend any longer than necessary in occupied airspace."

Bucky's stomach began fluttering, just like it had before his first date with Kathy Stiles, back in high school. Relax, Barnes, he told himself. The date went well, and so will this mission.

Of course, his date hadn't involved jumping out of a moving airplane with a couple of pounds of Explosive 808 strapped to his back. Dernier's idea, that. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, especially not when they're explosive eggs. The team were jumping in two groups, separating in case the Germans swooped in. The first group was Steve, Dugan, Morita and Dernier with one payload in his backpack, and the second was Falsworth, Jones, Freddie and Bucky with his own block of plastic. Nobody had forced him to carry the explosive; he'd volunteered. Figured it was the least he could do to start making amends.

As the second group started checking the first group's gear, Falsworth gave them yet another run-down of how and when to deploy their chutes. How to land, how to disengage, how to hide the material so it wasn't easily visible. He was like an over-protective mother hen.

Helmets were fitted. Goggles were pulled into place. Straps were tightened. "Remember," said Falsworth, "when you're falling is when you're at your most vulnerable from enemy attack. Don't pull your chute too early, or you'll widen the window in which you're a target. But if you deploy too late, you'll risk breaking every bone in your legs upon landing."

"Now there's the pep talk we've all been waiting for," Morita scoffed.

"Freddie." The kid glanced up to Steve, his face a shade or two paler than usual. "Are you sure you want to come along? You can still choose to go back with the pilots."

"And miss the Howling Commandos' maiden mission?" He reached behind his back to pat his equipment bag nestled beneath his parachute. "I wouldn't miss this for the world, Mr. Rogers."

"Alright. Just stick close to Bucky, okay?"

"Like glue," Freddie assured him, and Bucky mouthed a sarcastic 'thanks' at Steve.

With impeccable timing, the navigator's head reappeared from the cockpit. "We're almost above the first drop-zone. Time for the first group to make the jump. Good luck, and Godspeed."

It seemed to Bucky that Falsworth opened the door of the plane with more glee than any sane man rightfully ought to show, and he seemed to be the only one relishing the idea of the jump. Morita and Dernier were tight-lipped; Freddie, pale. Gabe's hands were clasped around a string of prayer beads he'd pulled from beneath his collar, and Dugan was strangely silent for once, his gaze fixed on the inner wall of the plane.

"You're up, Captain Rogers," Falsworth shouted over the din of rushing air.

Not for much longer, thought Bucky. But he didn't say it aloud, because he didn't think this was the right time for shooting his mouth off. Besides, his stomach was doing some rather unpleasant things. He was starting to regret the large meat and potato pie dinner he'd eaten before boarding the plane.

Steve didn't look thrilled about the idea of jumping out of a plane, but he didn't seem afraid of it, either. Then again, he'd already done it once, and with far less training than Falsworth had given them. "I'll see you all at the rendezvous point," he called as he stepped up to the open door. He didn't so much jump as dive, head-first, like a high-diving lunatic. Bucky didn't even have time to wish him a safe landing.

"Dugan, you're up," said Falsworth.

"I nominate Morita to go before me," Dugan offered.

"If it means I don't have to sit here listening to your belly-aching, sure."

As Morita readied himself to jump on Falsworth's command, Bucky wished he could switch places with the other man. Sure, jumping out of a plane was terrifying… but sitting here, dwelling on it, increased the terror ten-fold. He'd been dreading it since boarding the plane, and now he simply wanted to get it over and done with.

Morita disappeared, and was replaced by a very green-faced Dernier. "I feel better on ground," the Frenchman said. He offered them a salute, and then he too jumped on command.

It took Falsworth and Bucky together to haul Dugan to the plane door, and Bucky cursed him all the way in an attempt to inspire him. "C'mon you big pansy, you've baited tanks and fought hand-to-hand with Nazis; this is no different."

"Gravity makes it different," Dugan said. "I'm a big guy, and these parachutes are nothing but silk."

"You're no bigger than Captain Rogers," Falsworth pointed out. "And silk parachutes like these deliver cargo drops heavier than you."

"Dernier and Morita did it," Bucky added. "You're not gonna let a Frenchman and a Jap do one better than you, are you?"

"Yeah, I am."

Falsworth nodded at Bucky, and they gave Dugan a very hard shove backwards. His eyes widened in surprise as he tripped over the doorway, and the last thing Bucky saw was a look of sheer terror on his face. Then, he dropped like a stone, a trailing yell of "WAAAaaaaaahhhh…" borne away by wind into which he fell.

"And that," said Falsworth, "is why I jump last." He glanced around at the pale faces of the men in his group, Bucky included. "I trust nobody else will need pushing?" They all shook their heads. "Good. In that case, Sergeant Barnes, you're up next."

Swallowing his fear, Bucky nodded. The thousand what-ifs that had been plaguing his mind became more clamorous. What if his chute didn't deploy? What if he misjudged and left it too late? What if he hit a tree on the way down? What if he landed in a lake? What if somebody shot at him? What if his chute was pierced? What if he landed hard and the payload in his pack exploded? Dernier had assured him that plastic explosive 808 was nothing like TNT—it wouldn't sweat or explode without a detonator—but what if he was wrong?

God, if only Wells could hear him now. His friend would roll his eyes and take the piss out of Bucky for his paranoid panic. Then he'd come out with some stupid fact about how swift and painless death from impact would be. Here one minute, gone the next. No lingering in agony, like Krausberg.

The thought of that place brought a calm to his mind and gave him a strength he didn't know he possessed. He'd survived Krausberg. He'd survived Zola's experiments. He'd survived the pain and the humiliation and the German opera. In comparison, jumping out of a plane would be easy. And it was something he was doing of his own volition. He was helping Steve. Making a difference. Saving lives. The first step on the road to atonement. He had no right to be afraid. If something went wrong… well, it was nothing less than he deserved. And he'd deal with it.

"I'm ready," he said to Falsworth. And it wasn't a lie. Somewhere in the centre of the storm of fear, he'd found the calm.

"We've reached the second drop-zone," the navigator called back. "We'll see you at the L-Z once your mission's complete. Good luck."

Bucky stepped forward and pulled his goggles down over his eyes. Falsworth made one final check of Bucky's straps, then clapped him on the shoulder. "You're good to go. See you at the rendezvous point."

He nodded. Placed his foot on the lip of the doorway. Took a deep breath. Cold air was already streaming past his face. Too late to go back. Steve was counting on him. Time to go.

When he launched himself forward, he imagined free-falling would be a lot like swimming. That the air would support him like water did. That he could kick his legs and swim through it. In reality, it was nothing like that. The air buffeted him, but it did not support him. He didn't sink through it slowly, he hurtled through it like a blazing comet. The wind raked its icy fingers against him, trying to steal away his helmet and his backpack and his parachute. It stole his breath, too, so that when he exhaled, he struggled to pull more air into his lungs.

Assaulted by the windy thief, he lost track of how long he'd been falling. How many seconds had Falsworth told him to count before pulling his chute cord? He shook his head. Better to deploy the chute too soon than too late. Too soon, and he might be shot at. Too late, and he would be turned into Bucky-pâté on impact.

When he pulled the cord, the chute deployed with all the grace of a tap-dancing elephant. It was lucky he had no breath in his lungs, because he was pretty sure he would've been badly winded by the force of the chute catching the air. But as his slower descent began, he was finally able to breathe again. He gasped in icy-cold air and kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

This being Norway, he'd expected snow, but he hadn't expected it to cover everything in such a uniform white blanket. He saw what he suspected might be a stand of trees, and luckily avoided them, but he had no real control over the direction in which he fell.

Fate, that fickle mistress, was smiling on him for once. As the ground drew near, his chute carried him over an area of unbroken white. Thoughts of crashing into trees or mountains or drowning in a lake fled his mind as the chute deposited him neatly on the even ground.

He sank to his chin in the world's deepest snow drift. Powder snow flooded in like water, trickling down beneath his collar, his sleeves, and into his boots. With a yell of alarm, he tried to wade out, but at that moment his parachute came down on top of him, and the open darkness of the starry sky was replaced by the suffocating darkness of his chute.

Panic began to swell. In his mind's eye, he saw his gravestone. Bucky Barnes, 1917-1943. Drowned in snow and parachute. He began to flail, which only caused his chute to tangle further. Terrified, cold and exhausted, he stopped to recover his breath. He closed his eyes, because somehow, the dark of his lids was preferable to the dark of the chute. Inside his chest, his heart and lungs felt ready to explode. The chances of his teammates finding him like this were slim to none. There would be nobody to come and rescue him this time. He was alone.

Just breathe, he told himself. Like you said to Wells, back in that collapsed mine. Breathe. You can't do anything when your head's in a panic.

So, he breathed. It helped to imagine that cave, because it had been warm, and there had been a light source, and he hadn't been alone. Breathe, he told himself. It isn't possible to drown in snow. And it's definitely not possible to drown in silk. You're in a pickle, but you'll get yourself out.

Falsworth's instructions came trickling back in along with his calm. Fingers cold even inside his gloves, he fumbled for his knife and eventually managed to pull it from the scabbard at his hip. He pulled off his other glove with his teeth, and in the darkness managed to feel his way to the chute cords. After slicing through them, he put his knife away, put his glove back on—because Carter had told them stories of frostbite so horrible that Bucky was wearing three pairs of underpants—and began to pull the pile of silk to one side.

Eventually, his slow work paid off, and the sight of the stars twinkling brightly greeted him from above. The used chute was no longer such a formidable foe, and in fact, it helped him to work his way out of the drift. His flailing with no purchase had been an exercise in futility, but the pile of silk helped spread his body weight and gave him something to flounder out on.

At last he was free of both snow and silk, and he stood panting a few dozen feet away. How long he'd been stuck in there he had no idea, but it was time to make for the rendezvous point and hope he could find the rest of his group along the way. His concern was especially great for Freddie. Carter had given the kid some basic combat training, but he carried a camera instead of a gun. Said carrying a gun would only make him a target. Bucky didn't bother pointing out that to HYDRA, pretty much everybody was a target whether they were armed or not.

After consulting his compass and map, he set off in the direction of the stand of trees he'd passed during his descent. All his life, he thought he'd known snow. Sometimes it drifted to a height of a few inches, sometimes even a foot, in New York. There were times when it had been difficult to discern street from sidewalk… at least, until the men had come out armed with shovels to clear paths for people to walk down.

Out here, there were no streets. No sidewalks. No men armed with shovels. Just an empty expanse of trees and snow so virgin that after Bucky had waded through it, he was certain no other path would cross his before it melted. And wade through it he did, his legs stiff, his arms swinging to give himself momentum. It was like wading through treacle; frozen, powdery treacle, and it made his legs ache badly.

As he approached the trees, he heard someone… or something. It was a sort of heavy pant, kinda like the huff of the grizzly bear he'd seen in the Brooklyn Zoo when he'd gone on a school field trip.

He reached for his sidearm, groping with numb fingers. Did Norway have grizzly bears? Would a sidearm stop a hungry grizzly? Maybe if he aimed real well and made his shot count. He didn't want to kill an animal, but if it was a choice between shooting a grizzly or being eaten by a gizzly, he would pick the former every time.

A shambling form emerged from the woods, but it wasn't a grizzly bear; it was Gabe, his winter hood pulled tight around his face. When he saw Bucky, he waved.

"Hey," said Bucky, stowing his pistol and hurrying over. "How was your landing?"

"Terrible," Gabe admitted. "I hit a tree and was stuck flailing for fifteen minutes. I bet I looked a right sight."

"I landed in the mother of all snow-drifts and almost got buried by snow and my chute," Bucky admitted. Somehow, knowing Gabe had looked just as foolish as him made his own inelegance okay.

"I bet Monty executed a perfect landing. We'll probably hear about it for days."

"Speaking of, have you seen Monty? Or Freddie?"

Gabe shook his head. "Thought I caught a glimpse of another chute passing overhead as I came down, but I was spinning out of control at the time, so I've no idea who it was or where he landed. Guess we'll just have to meet up at the rendezvous point. Don't wanna be late for the party, right?"

"Right."

At first they waded side by side through the snow, but Bucky soon realised it would be faster for one person to carve a path and the other to follow. They took turns at taking point, and whoever followed, navigated. After an hour of intense wading, during which time Bucky started to sweat despite the sub-zero temperatures, they closed in on the rendezvous point.

The rendezvous location had been set in an area sparsely populated with evergreen trees. The smell of pine sap brought back memories of southern France, and a much warmer time and place. But these weren't the bare-trunked, sun-scorched pine trees of France; they were Norwegian Spruce, towering and thick with needle-rich branches. Their cones were almost as long as Bucky's hand, and as hard as rocks when he picked one up and hefted it.

Steve's team were standing in a cluster at the rendezvous point, though there was no sign of Monty or Freddie. Dernier had regained his colour, though, and was no longer a shade of sickly green.

"Did you two have any trouble?" Steve asked.

"Nope," said Gabe, with a wink for Bucky.

"Everything went smoothly," Bucky lied. "Has our contact shown yet?"

"No, but we're early," said Steve.

"I hope this contact take us to his secret base," said Morita. He tucked his gloved hands beneath his armpits he spoke through chattering teeth. "His fully heated secret base, with blankets and hot cocoa."

"And cookies," Bucky added.

"C'mon, it's just a little fresh," said Dugan. He slapped Morita on the shoulder, almost sending the shorter man sprawling.

"In California, we call sixty degrees 'fresh.' It must be ten degrees out here."

"In New York, we call that fresher," Dugan said with a laugh.

Monty and Freddie turned up ten minutes later, the latter with a heartbroken expression on his face. In his hands, he cradled his camera—with its cracked lens.

"I had a bad landing," said Freddie explained, unshed tears in his eyes.

"I'm just glad you're okay," said Steve.

"To be honest, Mr. Rogers, I would've rather broken my leg than my camera."

"Out here, in winter, a broken leg means certain death." The voice came from not far away, and every man in the clearing reached for a weapon as a figure stepped out from behind a nearby tree. How the hell had he managed to sneak up on the group? To sneak up on Steve?

"Who are you?" Steve demanded. He looked almost comical in his star-spangled outfit—and how he wasn't freezing his butt off, Bucky couldn't even begin to guess—but there was nothing comical about the pistol he aimed at the stranger. Bucky just hoped Steve would use the gun, if necessary. If not… well, that's what best friends were for.

"I am Agent 24." The man stepped forward, his hands raised to show they were empty. He, too, wore a thick winter jacket, and a woollen hat covered his head, with warm flaps for his ears. It was hard to make out his features, obscured by darkness as they were. His English was clear, though strongly accented. It wasn't all too dissimilar to a German accent. "You must be the SSR."

"That's right," said Steve. "I'm—"

Agent 24 held up his hand. "There will be time for introductions later. First, we must move. Your insertion may not have gone unnoticed."

With a 'follow' gesture, the man turned and led them to a place a short distance away where he'd prepared some meagre supplies. They each had a few mouthfuls of thick, warming soup from a hot flask, and ate some sort of chewy biscuit.

"You must keep up your strength," the man explained. "Out here, weakness and hunger mean—"

"Let me guess: certain death?" Morita asked dryly.

"You catch on quick. Winter takes the slow and the weak."

"I've always preferred summer," Bucky said. Give him the beach over the snow any day. Not that New York had much in the way of sand.

"What're these?" asked Dugan. He was standing by several pairs of long, thin slats. Next to them were sticks with wide, round shapes at one end.

"Skis," said Agent 24. "It is how we will travel to our refuge, and then to our target."

"This isn't our refuge?"

"This is just where I could get the skis dropped off by a friend. We have a way to travel before dawn."

Dernier picked up one of the skis and examined it closely. Both eyebrows came up as he asked, "These skis? Don't look like skis. Should be wider."

"They are cross-country skis, the fastest way to travel over heavy snow." He picked one of the skis and beamed at it proudly. "Skiing is a Scandinavian invention, you know. We have a saying, that Norwegian babies are born with a pair of skis on their feet. The Germans try, but they are too slow to catch us." He passed pairs of skis around, and showed everybody how to fix them to the toe of their boots. "When we go, go in a line, one after the other. It will be easier for those in the back, plus it will stop the Germans from knowing how many are travelling if they come across our tracks. I will lead the way. Stay close enough to see the man in front of you. The nights here are long, and we will not find anybody who gets lost."

Falling behind in the frigid Norwegian countryside was not a pleasant thought. The thought of leaving somebody behind was even less pleasant, so Bucky offered to take up the rear of the procession, and Steve agreed.

Cross country skiing was the strangest thing Bucky had ever done; stranger even than jumping out of a plane. The form of movement felt like a mixture of shuffling and ice-skating, with the long poles—one for each hand—used to propel himself forward. It took a while to get the hang of it, but Agent 24 hadn't been lying; they had a way to travel. After a couple of hours they had a quick rest, but Agent 24 soon had them going again.

When they finally reached their destination, it turned out to be a series of what Agent 24 called 'hides'. They were tent-like structures crafted from interwoven tree branches, and covered with a thick canvas fabric painted white for camouflage. Much like the army's pup-tents, each structure was large enough to house two men.

The most welcome sight, however, was of a cache of frozen steaks which Agent 24 dug out from beneath stone and snow, and a decent sized oil-burning stove. Agent 24 set the steaks on an iron grid above the flames, and the Commandos clustered around the fire to try and warm themselves up.

"So, what should we call you?" Steve finally asked their guide.

"Agent 24."

"You don't have a name?"

"Names are a dangerous thing to use, in my line of work." His blue eyes were full of wary suspicion. "If you must call me something, you can call me Leif. It is not my real name, but it will do."

"Well, Leif, I'm Captain Steve Rogers—and that is my real name." Steve offered his hand, and Leif shook it.

"You are either brave, foolish or a madman, Captain Rogers." His gaze took in Steve's star-spangled uniform. "I pray it is the former."

The rest of the Commandos introduced themselves, then Dugan asked, "How'd you get involved with the SOE?"

"They supplied me with the training and equipment required to sabotage German operations in Norway." The flames of the fire danced in his eyes. It complemented the grim frown on his narrow, pale face. Bucky was surprised at how young the guy actually was; no older than he or Steve. "For three years, my country has been occupied by Nazis. I will do anything, and work with anyone, to drive them out."

"Have you been able to scout out the area of the alleged Nazi factory?" asked Steve.

Leif shook his head. "I was pushed just to meet you on such short notice. I had to cross the border from Sweden, and it is not always an easy task."

"What were you doing in Sweden?"

"Hiding." Leif shrugged, as if it wasn't important. "The Gestapo have been hunting me for almost two years now. Whenever they get too close for comfort, I have myself smuggled into Sweden. As a neutral country, the Germans cannot follow me there. After a few months, I come back with a different disguise and a different identity."

Bucky couldn't imagine the thought of being hunted by the Gestapo. Just the very idea of them made him shiver with fear. They were said to be the worst of the worst. So cruel that even other Germans feared them.

"The meat should be cooked now. After eating, I suggest you all get some rest. The sun will be up in an hour or two, and we can scout out the facility. When night falls again, we can begin our sabotage."

Leif passed around the stakes on battered tin plates, then handed out mismatched knives and forks. Bucky's mouth was already watering with the smell of the meat; how long had it been since he'd last had steak? He couldn't even remember.

He bit into it. It wasn't the succulent slice of cow he'd been expecting. It was tough, and stringy, and the flavour was much stronger than anything he'd experienced before in meat. He wasn't the only one having problems with it.

"This is… erm… unique," said Falsworth. "What is it?"

"Elk," said Leif.

"The hell's an Elk?" asked Bucky.

"Big deer with long, flat antlers, like this." Leif held up both hands, his fingers outstretched, and placed them above his head.

"Oh, you mean a moose," said Dugan. Leif shrugged.

"I think it's great," said Morita. He was already half way through his moose steak. Dernier watched him with an expression of confusion, his own steak barely touched. "You gonna eat that?" Morita asked him.

"Tuck in, everyone," Steve commanded. "We need to keep our strength up."

Easy for him to say: he had a pocketful of Stark's newly invented high-energy bars to snack on. Probably didn't even need to eat moose. But Bucky didn't object aloud. Steve was right. They needed to keep their strength up to accomplish their first real mission together. And hopefully, it would be the first of many.

Author's Note: SOE Agent 24 was Gunnar Sønsteby, who died in 2012, aged 94. For more information about the Norwegian resistance and Gunnar Sønsteby, please consult your friendly neighbourhood Norwegian.

To answer the question of guest user WinterWidow, yes, you'll get some more substantial updates on Wells once the Italian weather gets a little better. I just wanted to remind readers that he's still around, before heading into a bunch of very Commandos-focused chapters.