We Were Soldiers
94. The Road to Hell
The mood was so heavy that Bucky could feel it pressing down on his shoulders, squeezing his lungs. The inside of the small blockade runner, S.S. Tycho, was reminiscent of the bowls of the Monticello, albeit without hammocks, and on a much smaller scale. Dernier's stomach proved as unsettled on the ocean as it had in the air; Carter had banished him to an astern seat, as far from her as humanly possible. A couple of the other passengers were looking a little green, too.
The smell of vomit and the tense mood aside, he was actually enjoying being on a ship again. Each roll of the waves reminded him of his time on the Monty. Those had been good times. Simple times. Free times. Times when his spirit had been buoyed by hope and adventure, unburdened by the weight of loss.
"Hey."
Steve's greeting pulled him from a memory of playing poker in the 107th's area of the Monticello in an attempt to distract Hawkins from his sea-sickness. At a gesture from his friend, Bucky scooted over on the bench, allowing Steve to sit beside him. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, it must be serious; he'd barely left Carter's side since they got the news about her brother.
"Hey," he returned.
With a grimace, Steve lowered himself down onto the bench. "Y'know, I never thought there'd be a downside to being cured of sinusitis. Why'd you never tell me that everything smells so… strong?"
"I guess I never really thought about it before. Smells are just smells."
"But they smell. And I'm not just talking about the smell of Dernier's lunch coming back up with a vengeance… everything has a smell. Even things I didn't think would."
"You do have a super-nose now," he pointed out. "That serum enhanced all your senses, right? Wait, is that why you've been showering so much recently? Back home, you'd shower twice a week. Now you shower twice a day."
Steve blushed a little, but didn't deny it. "I never knew I smelt so bad."
"You don't. And didn't. To us average human beings, you'd smell just fine even if you were showering every other day. Besides, I've seen your work-out regime. You have to run ten miles in full gear before you even start to sweat. But I'm guessing you didn't come over here to complain about the subtle aromas of the ship."
"Yeah… I thought I'd use the smells as an opener." A hint of a smile tugged at Steve's lips. "What I actually wanted to talk to you about was Krausberg."
The groan was out of Bucky's mouth before he could even think about stopping it. "Aw, this again? You already gave me a notebook to write in."
"I know. And I'm sure you haven't." Stupid Steve and his stupid perceptive guesswork. "But I recently came to understand something. That soldier who came out of the work camp where Peggy's brother's being held… he said that even though he was out, the place was still with him. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there, living it all again. And that made me realise what you must've been going through all these weeks. What you're probably still going through now. And I just wanted you to know that I understand. And that I won't bring it up again. I don't want to keep reminding you of Krausberg, and taking you back there. I want you to know that you're out. You're free. You're never going back. And I hope one day, it can fade enough to be nothing more than a distant memory."
A familiar prickling feeling wormed its way back into his stomach, as it did every time he thought of Zola's torture. Steve was doing his best, and he thought he understood what Bucky was going through, but he didn't know the half of it. He could never know the full extent of the Hell of Krausberg's back rooms.
"It was like that, at first," he admitted. "The memories felt more real than anything else. And you don't dare to hope, in case you wake up and find you were dreaming. But I can close my eyes now without seeing it. Don't worry about me."
"You spent so much time when we were growing up worrying about me, that it's time for me to do the same for you." Steve leant back, and the bench creaked beneath his weight. "Anyway, worry aside, what do you think of our chances on this mission. I mean, what do you really think?"
"Yeah, because I've always been hesitant to give my real opinion," he scoffed. But, since Steve was askin'... "It's going to be difficult to come out of this with everyone in one piece. Even if everything goes to plan at the stalag, we've still got to survive the journey there and the journey home. But Phillips wouldn't have green-lighted the mission if he thought we were gonna fail."
Steve nodded along to Bucky's assessment. "Y'know, everything's easier in the movies. You just go in, guns blazing, and the bad guys fall at your feet. You don't have to worry about riskin' innocents or collateral damage."
"Plus, the hero always gets the girl," he said, nodding in Carter's direction.
Steve followed his gaze, and his expression turned gooey. Carter had been a lot quieter than usual, since receiving the news about her brother. Normally she'd be in her element right now, issuing orders, bossing soldiers around… but now, her gaze was fixed on the ship's inner hull in a very unseeing way. Wherever her mind was, it wasn't on the boat with the rest of the troops.
It hadn't been easy to figure out a plan to get everyone in and out of Poland without getting caught. Going by road was suicidal; by plane, not much better. In the end, the Commandos had to compromise. They'd taken a plane to Gotland, off the coast of Sweden, and from there had been kitted out in preparation for Phase Three. But first came Phase Two; a perilous journey across the Baltic sea from Svalbard to Prussia in a ship so small and agile that it could hopefully outrun or outmaneuver any Nazi naval blockades or, worse, the packs of U-Boats that hunted beneath the surface. From the Prussian coast, it was theoretically a short—if dangerous—drive down to Poland.
"I have to make sure we get Captain Carter out alive," Steve said quietly. "It would break Peggy's heart to lose him again. I know I have no right to say this, and that no man's life should be worth more than any other… but I want you to see to his safety. You'll have eyes on the stalag the whole time. I want you to do whatever you need to do to protect Michael Carter. Even if it means letting me take a bullet."
Bucky fought the urge to squirm. But Steve was right. Captain America wasn't bullet-proof, but he could take a couple and keep going—as long as they weren't to the head. Captain Carter and the other prisoners… they didn't have that luxury. They'd be in bad condition, probably even worse than the bunch from Krausberg, if Steve's assessment of the escapee was any indication.
"Alright," he agreed. "I'll make Captain Carter's safety my highest priority."
It was like lifting the weight of the world from Steve's shoulders. He sat up straighter, and the bench creaked again.
"Thanks, Buck. It gives me a hell of a lot more confidence, knowing that you'll be looking out for him. His very own guardian angel."
"Guardian angel? I like the sound of that." And he could already hear Mary-Ann teasing him over it.
One of the Swedish sailors came down from above deck, wrinkled his nose at the stench of Dernier's dinner, and made his way over to Steve.
"Captain, we've just made sight of land. You and your men will need to move swiftly once we're ashore. It won't take long for the Germans to spot us."
"I thought it would still be dark when we struck land?"
"They have RADAR."
Steve sighed. "Fantastic. In that case, I better go help Dernier get to his feet."
"Rather you than me, pal," Bucky told him. He'd had enough of Dernier's upset stomach to last a lifetime.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Peggy paced back and forth, feeling every stone bite into the soles of her feet through her paper-thin shoes. Her 'disguise' was as itchy and uncomfortable as she'd imagined—sweat-stained labourer's overalls over a dirty grey shirt, topped with a cap large enough to hide her pinned hair—but she wasn't about to complain. Michael was no doubt far more uncomfortable than she. But not for much longer.
The men were, infuriatingly, at their ease as they awaited the next Phase of the plan. So far they'd waited over an hour by some little-used road in a gloomy Prussian woods; Dernier had even brought out a pack of cards, claiming poker would help settle his stomach.
Not for the first time, her gaze wandered over the men assembled in front of her. Steve was busy keeping a vigil above the road, concerned about missing their contact. Sergeants Barnes and Dugan had joined Dernier and Morita for round of poker, while Private Jones studied a pocket edition of the Bible closely, and Major Falsworth chatted quietly with the two Polish SOE agents, Pawel and Antoni, their last names unnecessary, accompanying the Commandos for their expertise on their native country. Off by himself, nervously chewing his thumbnail, was Herr Weimer, the German scientist who'd volunteered to be a part of the rescue operation. He and the Poles, who spoke fluent German with the right accents, were clad in very convincing replicas of HYDRA uniforms. The details was as damn near perfect as they'd probably ever get, recreated from the memories of everyone who'd been close enough to discern whether the HYDRA jackets were held closed by buttons of brass or silver.
She wasn't the only one wearing threadbare attire. All the Commandos were disguised as prisoners of various sorts. Falsworth's British Army uniform had been ripped in places and dusted up, and a light sprinkling of fake blood, courtesy of Jones' spy kit, had been applied. Steve, Dernier, Dugan and Barnes had been dressed in civilian clothing, like Peggy. They could pass for locals well enough. Jones himself, along with Morita, were another matter. They'd been told to keep their American Army uniforms; nobody would believe either of them to be Polish.
Peggy joined the German on his fallen log of a seat. "You shouldn't do that," she said, gesturing at his thumbnail. "HYDRA soldiers don't get nervous."
"Then I wish I was a HYDRA soldier." He brushed his hand against the sidearm at his hip. "I have never been in a fight in my life!"
"Don't worry, Captain Rogers will ensure your safety."
The man grumbled beneath his breath too quietly for Peggy to hear. She just hoped his nerves wouldn't get the better of him. That he could play his part well enough for the plan to succeed. Once Michael was safe, the German could go back to his quiet life in his lab, to wait until the end of the war.
Michael. The thought of him toiling in some German stalag was like a punch to the gut. The fact that he was toiling for HYDRA was just extra salt for the wounds. Schmidt would pay for all the lives he had taken. Peggy would happily have stuck the knife in his back right then, had he been there.
The sound of a motor spluttering its way down the road put paid to Peggy's thoughts and the game of poker. Everybody was on their feet in a heartbeat, and they made a dash for the cover of the underbrush lining the sides of the broken stone road. Just because there was somebody approaching, didn't mean it would be their contact. Every moment they were in Prussia, they ran the risk of encountering German patrols.
Steve pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and handed them to Peggy. Even at night, he didn't need them.
"Thanks," she whispered, and he smiled at her.
The vehicle travelling down the road was larger than a jeep, and it sputtered to a halt just a few dozen yards from the rendezvous point. Two men stepped out, and one of them lit a cigarette.
"They're not Germans," Steve whispered to her.
"Unless they're spies," said Morita. "Most of us aren't in uniform, either."
"The only way Schmidt could know about our plans is if he has somebody on the inside of the SSR," Peggy told the group. "After Dr. Erskine was murdered, Colonel Phillips conducted a thorough investigation, and is confident there are no more. We haven't come this far to get cold feet now; we proceed as planned."
They didn't hesitate. At a nod from Steve, they left the undergrowth and stepped out onto the road, weapons drawn but not aimed. Peggy followed, and Antoni, Pawel and Herr Weimer joined her behind the motley group of soldiers.
A few feet away from the vehicle—which Peggy now realised was a German army truck—a voice called out in Polish, to which Pawel replied in kind. Then, he turned to Steve, and said, "All is well. This is our contact, with the truck we require for the next stage of our plan."
The man beside the truck stepped forward, in front of the vehicle's lights, so that he could be seen. A member of the resistance, he was no better dressed than Dernier and the others. "I don't suppose any of you have cigarettes?" he asked, gesturing to the little white stick pinched between his fingers. "We are down to our last one."
"Sorry, we didn't exactly come prepared for barter," said Steve. "But if we can pull this off, I'll owe you a packet."
"Eh, good enough," the man shrugged. "Come, see your chariot. May she carry you safely across our country." The man gestured them forward and showed them the cab where the fake HYDRA officers would sit. "The heating does not work," the man explained. "These older models are not the most reliable. Built by the Czechs and stolen during the Nazi invasion of that country, I believe. Come, see the back."
It was hard to tell whether the truck had been used for transporting soldiers or prisoners, but whoever had been carried in it last had suffered a grim ride. The benches running down each side were wood and metal, hard and cold even in summer—freezing to the touch, in winter. There was no heating in the back, and no storage for bags or personal items. Luckily, their small strike team hadn't brought much in the way of personal effects.
"Here we have constructed a small storage space where you can hide weapons," the man said, pulling up a piece of the truck's flooring to reveal a long, narrow space. "We have also rigged up several holders on the underside of the truck; you can suspend additional weapons there."
Sergeant Barnes immediately rushed forward and placed his SSR2 sniper rifle, still in its box, reverentially inside the narrow space beneath the floor. "What?" he asked, when the rest of the team stared at him. "It's a delicate and precision piece of software. I ain't suspending it underneath the truck; Stark'll kill me if I don't bring it back in mint condition."
"Any ideas where I could store this?" Steve asked the Polish man as the rest of the team began secreting their smaller weapons around the truck. He hefted his brightly painted shield and spun it in the air before catching it. He seemed to like that thing more than he liked his gun.
"There is a cover over the spare wheel on the passenger side of the truck. We could hide it in there. It is the right size, and if we turn it around, it would pass as a hubcap at first glance.
"Great idea. Thanks."
As Steve hurried off to hide his shield, Peggy stepped forward. "Do you have any intel on Nazi troop placements between here and Torun?"
The man's eyebrows shot up so high that his unruly hair obscured them entirely. "You are a woman!"
"Yes, I'd noticed." One day—hopefully one day soon—the idea of a competent woman would not come as such a surprise to men. Jones and Morita, despite their obviously foreign looks, drew far less attention than Peggy, and half the world's population were women! You'd think by now, men would be used to seeing them.
"Who brings a woman on such a dangerous mission?!"
"We do." Steve reappeared at the man's shoulder. "Agent Carter has more experience of war than the rest of us combined. Now, please answer her question."
The man rambled off a rapid stream of Polish before throwing his hands in the air and heaving a large sigh. "Very well. You can expect patrols at regular intervals; we will mark the guard posts on your map. Ordinarily I would recommend you avoid these, but"—he gestured at the three men dressed in their HYDRA uniforms—"it would seem you prefer a more direct approach. I hope your people are prepared."
"Is there any artillery we need to be aware of?" Falsworth chimed in.
"Between here and Toruń? Sure. We'll mark emplacements on your map as well. But most of the heavy artillery has been moved to the Eastern Front. The Germans, they fear the Russians breaking through, you see. Though you will undoubtedly encounter patrols and Gestapo en route to Toruń, artillery presence should be light."
Steve handed over his map, and the second man, who'd thus far been silent, began marking off patrol routes and artillery placements. The rest of the Commandos finished hiding their weapons and returned to the rear of the truck.
"I suppose it's time to get going," said Barnes. "If we want to make it in time for the prisoner work detail change over, we can't waste too much time."
"Agent Carter?" Steve pulled back the heavy flap of material covering the rear of the truck and offered his hand. "After you."
She fought back a grimace and let him help her into the truck. It was part of the agreement she'd made; a sacrifice to allow her a place on the mission. A woman would not be sent for a labourous work-details, and her presence would only raise suspicious. So, she was dressed as a man, to pass quick visual scrutiny, she would stay at the very back of the truck, out of immediate sight, and she wouldn't be going into the camp itself. She, along with Sergeant Barnes, would slip away from the vehicle before it reached its destination and find a place overlooking the camp to give Sergeant Barnes a decent angle of fire with his rifle.
It rankled her more than she cared to admit, that she couldn't go into the camp and be there for Michael. To hold him close, tell him he was safe, and warn him of the violence about to erupt. In her mind's eye, she saw it over and over again. He'd be in the mines. She'd have to hunt for him. With each passing mineshaft she'd grow more and more frantic. Then, right at the bottom of the longest shaft, she'd find him. He'd smile at her, and forgive the last words she'd ever spoken to him. Then she'd take him out of that place, and see him safely home.
But it wasn't to be. Steve had assured her he'd ensure Michael's safety, and there was nobody she would rather have looking out for her brother. If Peggy couldn't be there, Steve and the Commandos were the next best thing.
Provided they could make it that far.
The back of the truck was cold, creaky, and smelled strongly of urine. A series of brownish stains painted a grim picture on the hard floor. Whether the dried blood had come from prisoners or wounded soldiers, she could not guess and was to travel in ignorance.
Sergeant Barnes took the seat beside her—another of Steve's suggestions. He didn't want his sharpshooter near the truck's tailgate, where he'd be the first to suffer any German bullets should somebody decide to shoot at them. Peggy suspected that secretly, Steve didn't want to put his best friend in harm's way. An admirable, if misguided, sentiment.
One thing she was grateful for was the absence of Freddie Lopresti. Both Steve and Colonel Phillips had agreed with Peggy's assessment that an incursion into Poland was far, far too dangerous for a civilian. Besides, it wasn't as if they had need of a photographer for this, and Peggy didn't want pictures of her brother and the other suffering prisoners plastered all over some report for the brass… nor plastered all over the front page of some tabloid.
Once all the Commandos were settled in the back of the truck, their Polish contact handed over one last item; a backpack filled with hardtack. "Those prisoners are unlikely to have been fed enough. Hopefully this will help give them a little strength—even if it's just the strength to die beneath an open sky."
"Nobody's dying," said Steve, though she knew it was for her benefit, and not the Pole's.
"I pray that it is so. Good luck to you all."
He banged on the side of the truck, and the vehicle rolled into motion. Towards Toruń. Towards Michael.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Michael was a lucky man, Bucky had decided. Even though he'd been captured, he had a sister who would move the Earth to save him, and a loving family to go home to at the end if it. The parallels between their situations were not lost on him. Two men, both captured by HYDRA, both presumed dead, both able to return home. Would Michael be suffering the same mental and emotional torments? Regardless, Bucky was determined to be there for the guy. Maybe they could not-talk about their ordeals together.
"Patrol!"
The word was yelled back from the German driver, and barely audible over the roar of the engine. Bucky tensed automatically, as he had every time they'd encountered a patrol or a checkpoint. The checkpoints were the worst; Gestapo stopped every vehicle for rigorous inspection, and so far, the team had managed to avoid raising suspicions.
The patrols weren't as bad. Sometimes they stopped the truck, sometimes they just watched it pass by, probably assuming the truck was following some kommandant's orders. But the patrols were, in some ways, more dangerous. The checkpoints were clearly marked on the map and could be prepared for. The team never knew where they'd be on a patrol's given route. Patrol inspections were more spontaneous.
This time, the truck slowed to a halt, and Bucky tensed even more; so much that his ass went numb on the metal seat. What he wouldn't give for a rifle in his hands! Something to defend himself if this patrol decided something was out of the ordinary with the prisoners and their HYDRA escort. Jacques muttered something quietly in French.
"What'd he say?" Dugan asked Jones.
"That he hopes those German codes will hold up."
"They will," Carter chimed in. "It's German procedure to change the codes on a weekly basis. We'll get a few days' use out of these codes before they're changed again."
The codes. The majority of the rest of the plan hinged on those codes. One set to get the team safely across Nazi-controlled Poland. One set to grant them access to the HYDRA facility. The standard German codes had come from the Brits—they apparently had teams working round the clock to decipher encoded Nazi communications. The HYDRA codes had come from the bunker network that Bucky and co. had captured in France. It almost made the sacrifices of the 107th worth it. Almost.
Right on cue, a pair of German officers pulled back the tarp covering the rear of the truck and peered closely at the occupants. Dugan and some of the other prisoners of Krausberg had taken HYDRA rifles from the prison, and those that hadn't been taken apart by Howard Stark were now being put to good use as props to support the SSR's elaborate show. The Commando's 'guards' each wielded a rifle as they watched over their 'prisoners'. It made for an unfortunately authentic experience.
Carter wisely kept her head down, and Bucky did the same. If the German looked in his eyes, they wouldn't see a defeated and downtrodden prisoner. They'd see a man who wanted to grab a weapon and put a bullet through their heads. Maybe he'd get a chance on the way out.
A conversation in German took place between the Nazis and Herr Weimer. Not for the first time, Bucky lamented his lack of talent for languages. Thanks to Dernier, his French was slowly improving, but he was still wholly reliant on others when it came to understanding German. He at least wanted to say, "That's for Krausberg, you monster," to Zola before sticking a knife in his gut. A bullet was too good for that guy. He needed to die slow, and knife to the gut was the slowest and most painful way Bucky knew.
Something sharp jabbed into his ribs and damn near made him jump out of his seat. He turned his head slightly to glare at Carter, and found her poised with her elbow ready for another jab, a questioning look on hher face. It wasn't until she glanced down at his hands that he realised why. He was gripping the seat so hard that his knuckles had turned white. It took some real effort to let go, and when he did, he focused his gaze back down to the floor and tried to put aside thoughts of revenge.
The voices rose in volume. Some sort of argument between the patrol and Weimer and Pawel. One name was thrown around several times; Herr Schmidt. It didn't seem to be having the desired effect. Perhaps Schmidt's name had lost currency.
He didn't have to look up to the faces of the other Commandos to know that they also felt something was wrong. He could feel the tension mounting all around, and vocalised in the increasingly rising pitch of the arguing voices. If things fell apart now, it wasn't just Bucky and the rest of the team who'd be in jeopardy—it would be the prisoners mining for HYDRA, too. They wouldn't get their rescue. They wouldn't get to go home.
A third German officer appeared. How many were in the patrol? If it came down to a fight, could the Commandos overpower them? Their own weapons had been secreted away, which meant they wouldn't be within easy reach. They'd have to take the weapons of the three Germans, and hope their Polish 'guards' wouldn't accidentally shoot them in a crossfire.
The third German seemed less interested in the prisoners. His tone was flat, almost bored. From the corner of his eye, Bucky saw the guy examine the very authentic paperwork and authorisation code presented by Weimer, and hand-wave it away with a "Ja, ja, das ist gut." His underlings didn't seem happy about it, but they saluted, waited until the fake HYDRA soldiers had heiled Hitler, then marched back to their own vehicle. The collective sigh from all the Commandos would've been audible to the Germans, if it hadn't been masked by the thrum of their departing engine.
"What was all that about?" Steve demanded of their guards.
"Those two Gestapo had issue with Schmidt getting his pick of healthy prisoners to work for him. They wanted to take you to one of the other facilities, and put you to work for the good of the Reich," said one Antoni.
"I've had my fill of toiling in German prisons," Dugan grumbled. "And I've not much patience left for this damned truck. Can we get going already?"
"We sure can," Steve agreed. "There have been more stops than we initially anticipated; we're behind schedule."
Their driver made up for lost time. Bucky could tell by the way the Commandos rolled into each other when the truck took a bend at speed. He got more familiar with Morita than he would've liked, but at the same time, Carter was rolled into him, which was kinda okay—save for the fact that she was Steve's girl, of course. But mostly okay.
Without warning, the truck screeched to a halt, and this time, Bucky was thrown against Carter. She huffed in annoyance, but didn't chastise him.
"What's the problem?" Monty shouted through the truck to the driver. "Have we encountered another patrol?"
"No. We have reached the drop-off point."
Bucky's stomach knotted itself. "Already?" The journey that had seemed tortuously long and delay-filled was now over before he was ready. This was his first real mission since Krausberg. Norway didn't count because he'd spent half of it unconscious.
"You ready?" Steve asked both him and Carter.
"Sure," he lied.
"Since the moment we left England," Carter said, and he didn't think she was lying.
"Then grab your gun and your supplies and let's finish this."
Though he hadn't been mentally prepared for the suddenness with which everything happened, he didn't need telling twice. Out came his gun case from its hidden place beneath the floor, while Carter grabbed one of the hidden backpacks that contained a selection of tools, supplies and ammo that might come in handy. Finally prepared, they jumped down from the truck and turned back to look at the rest of the team. How far they had come… metaphysically, not geographically. Three months ago, they'd been strangers. Now they were the SSR's best chance of stopping Schmidt.
"I still don't like you going into that place without me to watch your back," Bucky told his best-friend-cum-commanding-officer. "I remember a time when you couldn't punch your way out of a wet paper bag."
"Yeah, but now I can punch hard enough to break concrete, and you don't have to watch my back, because you'll be watching from above. That's even better."
"True." Bucky grinned. "Just like God. I'm basically God."
"You'll burn in Hell for that blasphemy, Barnes," said Dugan.
I already have.
"We better get going," said Carter. She smiled at Steve. "Take care of each other down there. And remember; you're not alone. We'll be watching everything that happens, and we'll act on your signal."
"We'll see you real soon," Steve said. "And we'll be bringing Michael with us."
They watched the truck pull away, and a sinking feeling descended in Bucky's stomach. He hoped his best friend hadn't made any promises he couldn't keep.
Author's note: Update on a Friday?! I know, madness. But I didn't get to post this last Sunday as it required more editing than I remembered when I wrote it, and because it was written offline, I had to go back and change some of the geography to correspond to how Europes's borders looked during the 1940s. Next update will be Sunday 24th.
Huge thanks to everyone who's still reading and reviewing, and to guest reviewer Guest I Guess for your lovely words. To clarify, when I talk about disliking slash ruining a good bromance, I mostly mean established canon bromance, like Steve & Bucky, or Peggy & Jarvis (because men and women can totally have a bromance). What writers do with their OCs is entirely up to them. I'm possibly the least romantic person in the world, and as such, I generally avoid trying to write it, so writing about unrequited feelings in an era where those feelings were verboten has been a double challenge for me, and I'm glad you enjoyed that aspect of the story so far.
I now commence my attempt at a new personal record; writing 15 chapters in 18 days. Wish me luck!