We Were Soldiers
95. Michael
Steve watched until Bucky and Peggy were out of sight. His best friend and the woman who'd made him feel things no woman had before. He prayed for their safety, but in truth, their role carried considerably less risk than the rest of the team's.
As the truck continued its journey, Steve turned to Falsworth and asked, "How're we doing?"
Falsworth glanced at his watch, and his grimace told Steve all he needed to know. "We're behind schedule. If we're lucky, and don't encounter another patrol, we might make it in time for the prisoner shift change, but we won't get much opportunity to warn the prisoners of our plan. If we do this too fast, the risk of casualties increases. But if we leave it too long, the risk of getting caught increases also. I'm afraid that all those stops and inspections have really thrown a spanner in the works."
Nothing going to plan was starting to become a familiar sentiment to Steve. It seemed every time he made plans, they inevitably went awry. It wasn't anything new—even when he'd made plans as a kid, he'd always end up bumbling and somehow getting in his own way—but it had become more apparent since joining the SSR. First was the plan to become first in a line of super-soldiers; a plan that had ended with Erskine's death. His plan to get to the front had ended with him dancing on a stage, and his plan to rescue Bucky had snowballed into a huge explosion and the rescue of a couple of hundred prisoners of war.
As the truck swayed from side to side, he closed his eyes, clasped his hands in front of his chest, and thought, Please, God, if there was ever a time that I needed a plan to go off without a hitch, and with no unexpected surprises… this is it. Just give me this one, please.
"C'mon, Cap. The situation's not that dire."
Morita's voice pulled Steve out of the prayer, and he offered a wan smile. "I know. But it never hurts to ask for a little extra help. For us, and for the men in that camp."
"Huh. I never thought of that. Guess I'll ask the big guy upstairs to keep an eye on us too."
"My mom always told me that God helps those who help themselves," said Jones. His eyes got that misty look in them, like they did every time he talked about his mom. He sure did miss her. "This one time, a few years back, we got hit by a pretty nasty flood over winter. Water pouring in, drowning livestock, filling the food cellars with the foulest water you've ever smelled. We were fighting just to keep the water from reaching the stairs and flooding the whole of the second floor… sandbags will only do so much when the river's burst it's banks.
"One neighbour, Mr. Willis, he just sat on his roof praying to God, asking what we'd done to deserve this, begging Him to make it right. I asked my Mom why we weren't praying too, and she told me, "Honey, I don't know if God made the river burst and the floodwaters come, but if he did, there was a good reason for it. Now, maybe that reason was to test our mettle. Maybe it was to punish us or teach us a lesson. Maybe it was to find out which of us is devout enough to sit and pray while the waters come rushing in. A man can go crazy, trying to figure out God's will. But the God I pray to, he's the kinda God who helps those who help themselves. And just because I'm workin', doesn't mean I'm not prayin'.
"It wasn't a good winter, but the following summer, we had some of the greenest pasture you've ever seen. Those of us who'd worked to keep the water out of our homes, we raised a lotta good calves that year. But Mr. Willis' house was ruined. He had to move in with his daughter in Louisville."
Gabe's story reminded Steve of the tale Bucky's dad had told him, about the forest fire making way for new life. Was it true, then, that even great disasters served a greater purpose? Was it the same for the war, as well? Would there be some Genesis-type of explosion of life if they could put paid to the Nazis and their allies? Or would nothing change? Would war follow war, in an unending cycle of destruction, until nobody was left?
The truck slowed and came to a stop. Steve fought back his annoyance and called through the thin wall, "What is it this time?"
"I thought you should know, we're at the foot of the mountain. We will soon be visible from the camp. If there is anything else you need to say or do, now is the time."
"Alright. When we get up there, let's try to make it look like we're keeping to ourselves. And we probably shouldn't tell the majority of the prisoners that we're there to get them out until an hour or so before enacting our plan. We don't want to risk them talking about it or being overheard. I'll find Captain Carter and clue him in, and ask him to keep it between him and a couple of his men. They can make sure the rest of the prisoners know at the appointed time, and keep them somewhere safe and out of the way." He turned to their guards. "Will you and Hans be okay with the HYDRA personnel?"
"As far as they are concerned, we have spent the past year in France, manning HYDRA communications bunkers, before being transferred to prisoner escort duty. Your Sergeant Barnes has given us enough information to be convincing in our previous HYDRA activities. You can count on us to keep up appearances… providing we do not have to do so for too long." He thumbed in the direction of the cab. "I do not think Hans' nerves are up to sustained subterfuge."
Secretly, Steve shared the same fear. The Poles were soldiers, trained as SOE Agents, with the guts to match. Hans was a scientist unused to peril. He'd spent the better part of a decade living a cushy life in London. He was the weakest link in the plan, but he was also the only one of Kaufmann's men who'd volunteered to help. Sometimes, you just had to work with what you were given. Now doubt Gabe's Mom would also have some saying for that.
"We're ready to go," Steve shouted to Hans.
The truck moved forward, and soon began to climb. The truck didn't like to climb. That much was obvious from the high-pitched strain on the engine. One by one, the gears dropped, until Steve risked a glance out the back and realised they were crawling at a snail's pace. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and chewed on it—an old habit, and something his mom used to lecture him for.
"Can't this thing go any faster?" he called out.
"It is an old truck, Captain Rogers. We'll be lucky if we reach the camp, and when we get there, I suspect the camp's personnel will not be impressed. HYDRA equipment is far superior to this," came the response yelled over the engine's screaming complaints.
"If anybody asks, our real truck broke down en route, and we had to borrow this one."
"Ah, the old truck switcheroo." Morita nodded knowingly.
Dernier's forehead creased into a frown. "Switch-er-oo?"
"I'll explain it to you some other time, when we're not in mortal peril."
Without warning, the ground levelled out. The truck stopped screaming, and slowly came to a halt. Steve place his finger across his lips, asking for silence. So far, they'd been lucky. Now they needed to act the part of downtrodden prisoners. Luckily, this wasn't Steve's first acting gig.
A metal screech, like a fork across a plate, made Steve wince, and he pictured the compound gates sliding open. Thud thud thud went pairs of approaching feet in their heavy, military boots. Steve's thoughts went to Bucky, watching all of this from some safe distance. Far enough away to give him a good view of the camp. Too far to come rushing in to pull his ass out of the fire if something went wrong.
Voice drifted in through the canvas covering, the German language as harsh as ever to Steve's ears. By comparison, Hans sounded less confident. There was a hesitancy to his voice that just didn't scream HYDRA. One of their Polish guards jumped out the back and joined Hans in the conversation that none of the Commandos could see and few could understand.
Steve dared a whisper to the second guard. "What's going on?"
"The men in the camp say they have issued no request for additional workers, and no record of any being assigned," the man whispered back.
"What about the codes? They should confirm the orders."
"They are still suspicious. It is not surprising. Following the escape of a prisoner, they will be more on guard."
Of course. Steve should'a realised that their arrival less than two weeks after the escape of a prisoner would seem conveniently timed. There was nothing they could do now but trust to Hans' bluffing skills.
They were doomed.
There were more harsh words, and then came the sound of screeching metal again. The gates were closing… with the Commandos on the wrong side!
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Bucky watched until the truck was out of sight, then made for the woods that lined the road. Not far from the road towered a hill not quite large enough to be called a mountain. It was heavily wooded, and directly opposite where the camp was located. The perfect position from which to watch and wait.
He set a fast pace, because they had a steep climb ahead of them, and they needed to be in place before the truck reached the camp. If the pace was too fast for Carter, she didn't complain. He had to hand it to her; she was one tough cookie. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of his eldest sister, Mary-Ann. She, too, knew what she wanted and went after it with single-minded determination. God help the world if the two of them ever worked together on something.
There was no sign of winter relinquishing its grip on Poland any time soon. Though the ground was blessedly free of snow, it was hard with frost, and there was a chill to the air that made Bucky wish he still had the thick winter coat he'd worn in Norway. Back home, he'd liked the snow, and frosty winter mornings. It was great to take a walk in the crisp air, then step into a warm office or come home to the smell of Mom's cooking. As Dorothy once said, there's no place like home.
"What'd you tell your parents?" he asked on a whim. "About your brother being alive, I mean."
"I didn't tell them anything." Carter fixed her gaze ahead, pointedly not looking at him. "I wasn't about to get their hopes up. I'll tell them about Michael when he's safely back in England. They don't deserve to lose him a second time."
"Don't you think they have a right to know?"
She stopped, and turned to face him. There was that hardness again; the same one she'd shown back in France, when she'd likened he and Wells to children playing at war. It galled him, now, to think that she'd been right. Still, he would've given anything to go back to that time.
"Imagine it's your parents. They were told you were dead. They mourned you. Came to terms with their grief. Now, imagine that Steve hadn't rescued you, but several years from now, your fate was discovered. Imagine that during your rescue, you were killed. Or perhaps you were too starved and sick to survive the journey home. Imagine your parents were told about your true fate. Do you think they would take comfort from knowing you suffered for years while they moved on with their lives? Would it make them feel better?"
"When you put it like that, I guess not." Better that they believed him dead all that time.
"I'm glad you understand. Now, come along. Time is a commodity we cannot afford to waste."
Well, that was him told. "Yes ma'am."
He watched her from the corner of his eye as they continued in silence. Technically, he oughta to be giving her the talk. He oughta be warning her to treat his best friend right, or there'd be Hell to pay. But he didn't think that kinda talk would go down too well. Carter wasn't some coy dame who would wrap a man around her little finger and make sure she got her own way, and she did genuinely seem to care about Steve. Perhaps it was time to help them out.
"So," he said as they marched, "has Steve asked you out for a second date yet?"
She shot him a look so sharp that he felt it like a knife in the shoulder. "I wasn't aware we'd had a first date."
Crap. "Oh."
"Did Captain Rogers tell you that we'd been out on a date?"
Crap. Technically, he hadn't. He said they'd gone out for dinner one time. It was Bucky who'd stuck the 'date' label on it. "Actually, no," he admitted. "Guess I just assumed you had. Since he likes you so much, and all. And yes, he did tell me that."
"Can we please focus on the mission? I have no desire to discuss my private life."
"Why not?"
"Because it is exactly that—private. And because I need to focus one-hundred percent of my energy on getting my brother safely home."
"Gotcha."
The forest was eerily silent, devoid of birdsong or the scuttle of small animals. What kinda animals did Poland have, anyway? Were there wolves here? Bears? Wildcats? Maybe he should'a done a little more research before the mission. Carter had her sidearm, but Bucky's rifle would remain in its case until they reached a good position… not that it would be of much use in close quarters anyway. They were poorly equipped to deal with a bear.
To take his mind off being eaten by Polish wildlife, he asked, "You got any other brothers or sisters?"
"No. Just Michael." After a moment, she asked, "What about you, Sergeant? Do you have any siblings?"
It was more interest than she'd ever shown about his life. Maybe being around the Commandos was smoothing off some of her rough edges. "Yeah, I got a brother and two sisters. Charlie, Mary-Ann, and Janet. And Steve, of course. Growing up, he was always like a brother to me. After his mom died, we were all the family he had."
That finally brought a smile to her lips. "He's often spoken of how close the two of you were, growing up. He's lucky to have people he can call family. Not everybody is so fortunate."
How true her words rang. Family was everything. Not just blood relatives, but the family of people he could rely on to watch his back and do right by him.
"That was a nice thing you did for Howard, the other day," she said. "Including him in your surprise party, making him feel like one of the team. Not many people would've done the same."
Bucky shrugged. He'd yet to meet a guy who didn't want to belong to something, no matter how abrasive he might be. There were guys like Wells, who'd been hurt so many times by those closest to them that they thought being alone was safest, and guys like Hodge, who wanted nothing more than to make their moms proud. There was more to Stark than met the eye; he was sure of it.
"I don't see the point in fighting for our ideals and our way of life if we have to give those things up in the process," he mused aloud.
"A very noble sentiment. I only wish all soldiers shared it."
"You must've met some pretty unpleasant soldiers, to have such a low opinion of us."
She snorted loudly. "You met Private Hodge, didn't you?"
It was a good point, though Bucky believed the guy had some redeeming qualities. He was no coward, for a start. Sure, he'd been an ass to Steve and Peggy, but unlike most bullies, he wasn't afraid to pick up a weapon and put his own life on the line. Still, it was good to see Carter starting to revise her opinion of soldiers. Sooner or later, she'd come to realise that a lot of good men were risking everything to fight the Nazis. And most weren't like Hodge.
The terrain started to get steeper, and all thoughts of conversation fled. It was hard enough to walk uphill without puffing and panting—how unfit he was! No doubt Gusty and the rest of the guys from the 107th would get a good laugh outta seeing him struggling to keep up with a dame, even if that dame was Agent Carter.
They stopped beside a cliff to get their bearings. Carter pulled a pair of binoculars from the backpack she carried, while Bucky took a few sips from the canteen whilst trying to make it look like he wasn't desperately thirsty for water. "How are we looking?" he asked.
Carter pursed her lips as she peered through the peepers. "I can see the top of the compound fence, but we need to get highe—oh, shoot!"
"What is it?"
"I see the truck. It's climbing… slowly. Looks like it might start rolling back downhill at any minute. But at our current pace, the truck will be in place sooner than we are."
"Time to shift up a gear, then." He hoisted his backpack and picked up his rifle case. "Let's show Steve that we can outrun some ancient Czech truck."
They jogged uphill, and it almost killed him. His lungs burnt and his leg muscles ached. But he wasn't the only one panting for breath. Carter was feeling it every bit as much as he; her rapid breaths and red-cheeked face were evidence of that. How much more terrible would this climb be in the stifling summer heat of southern France? He prayed he would never have to find out.
After an eternity of burning lungs and aching legs, they stopped again near an outcropping of bare rock. Carter pulled out the binoculars, dropped to the ground, and crawled forward towards the edge of the outcrop. It didn't take long for her to provide a sitrep.
"This is a good place. From here, we'll have an excellent view of the camp, and as long as we keep a low profile, we shouldn't be seen."
That was what Bucky had been waiting to hear. He put down his gear and opened his rifle case. "Can you see the truck."
"No, it's not—wait, yes, there it is. It will only take a few minutes to reach the gates. The guards in the towers have already spotted it. They're mustering a small force. I suppose they fear an attack."
He fumbled the two main parts of his rifle. Stark had designed the thing to be quick and easy to assemble, but the swift climb and his nerves were getting the better of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Get a grip, Barnes. This isn't your first dance. You've done this dozens of times.
Dozens of times, perhaps, but none of those times had involved Steve. Bucky still had to protect his best friend, but now he had other things to protect him from than back-alley bullies. Sure, there were Nazis, and Schmidt, and HYDRA. That he would protect Steve from those was a given. Worse were the closer things he had to protect his friend from. There were men back home sitting in cushy offices, passing judgement over everything 'Captain America' did. Waiting for him to slip up so they could boast about how right they were that a science experiment who treated blacks and Japs and criminals as equals couldn't be trusted with the hard missions. Even one failed mission would see Steve led to the noose, and the rest of the Commandos wouldn't be far behind him. They'd gotten lucky in Norway, but he knew from experience that luck would only see them so far. Luck was what you hoped for when the chips were down and your opponent had you on the ropes. Lady Luck was a capricious paramour.
The moment of calmness and clarity did wonders for his nerves. His fingers ceased their fumbling, and moved instead as if by second nature. In just a few seconds, he had his rifle assembled, and joined Carter on the outcrop.
The butt of the rifle fit so snugly into his armpit that the weapon might well have been made for him alone. In fact, since Howard had Bucky's measurements, it probably had been made to fit him. Just one more thing to be grateful to Stark for.
When he brought the rifle scope up to his right eye, the mountain opposite was rendered in such near details that it briefly made him dizzy. He adjusted his angle until he had a fix on the camp, though with a much narrower field of vision than one provided by the binoculars.
The guard towers were formidable iron constructs, though the guards were either incompetent or complacent; they stood upright, their guns aimed down towards the gates, exposing their torsos above the level of the protective metal barriers surrounding their posts. It should be relatively easy to pick them off one by one.
He found the truck soon after. It lurched to a halt outside the gate, and Bucky could do nothing but watch the scene unfold.
A group of soldiers approached the gate, and when they drew close, it opened. Three of them stepped through it, and Hans jumped out the cab of the truck to greet them. They saluted, HYDRA-style. There was conversation, and Bucky wished he'd been given training on how to lip-read. Not that it would've made much difference; he didn't speak much in the way of German.
If there was one thing he did understand, it was frantic gesticulating, and Hans was a master of it. One of the Poles jumped out of the back of the truck and joined him. The Pole didn't gesticulate much, and certainly not frantically, so it was hard to judge how the conversation was going. From the look on Hans' face, he guessed not well.
There was another salute. The camp soldiers turned and walked back through the gate. The gate closed behind them, and Bucky's heart skipped a beat.
"What just happened?" he asked. Hans was returning to the cab, and the Pole to the rear of the truck. They hadn't been fired upon, but that was little comfort.
"I don't know," Carter replied.
"Why weren't they granted entry? They had the codes!"
"Sergeant, I'm privy to the same information as you," she snapped. "I don't have any answers. We'll just have to keep watching. Captain Rogers will let us know when it's time to act. Until then, try to remain calm."
Remain calm! He was hardly actin' frantic. Remain calm!
"Wait," she said, as she moved her binoculars a tiny fraction. "Something's happening. Men are coming out of the mine. Wait, what time is it?"
He checked the watch his father had given before before shipping out to Europe. Old reliable, his father called it. So long as it was regularly wound, it had never let him down.
"Nine o'clock exactly," he told her.
"Then this must be the prisoner shift changeover. Yes, more men are coming out of the prisoner barracks. I suppose the camp guards wanted to perform the shift change before allowing newcomers into the facility. Lessens the risk of escape if the gates are closed while all the men are in the compound yard."
Bucky scanned the faces of the prisoners one by one, searching for Michael. It was only then he realised one major hitch with the protect Michael at all costs mission Steve had given him. He had no idea what Michael looked liked. Luckily, there was someone with him who did.
"Do you see your brother?" he asked.
Carter shook her head. "The prisoners are moving too closely together, and the faces are a little blurry despite these binoculars being at their maximum focus." She eyed his rifle like one cat contemplating another cat's dish of cream. "Give me your gun. It has a much greater range than the binoculars."
He clutched the rifle tighter beneath his arm. "Not a chance. The signal from Steve could come at any minute. I need to be ready to act in a heartbeat."
She turned to him with such an expression of hope and despair that it made his heart lurch inside his chest. "Please, Sergeant—Bucky—I haven't seen my brother in three years. I would give anything just to glimpse his face, and if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't hesitate to grant your wish."
Dammit! She sure did know how to tug on his heartstrings. That dame was much too smart for her own good. Maybe he would give her the talk after all. Later. After they'd rescued her brother.
"Alright alright, point taken." He handed over the rifle. "But be real careful. It's my neck for the noose if another of Stark's toys gets damaged, and he's already holding a two-hundred dollar bottle of Scotch over my head."
She took the gun and aimed it with the confidence and surety of a trained soldier. God help you, Steve. "Don't let him hold it over you. That bottle was just one of a crate he was gifted by some rich Scottish landowner looking to curry favour two years ago. It cost him absolutely nothing. He wasn't even going to drink most of it; he wanted something with alcohol in it to polish the intricate metal parts in one of his experiments, and Private Davies' moonshine wasn't of a high enough quality."
Bucky quickly rescinded his former goodwill towards Stark. Anyone who would use a two-hundred dollar bottle of Balvenie, whether he had paid for it or not, for cleaning machinery, was little more than a criminal.
A sharp intake of breath from Agent Carter halted his cursing of the eccentric inventor. He shuffled closer to her, and pawed at the gun.
"What is it? Do you see your brother?"
"No. But I just saw a man in a British Army uniform. At least one member of his team survives." He pawed at the gun again, but she ignored his attempts to reclaim his weapon. "Dammit!"
"What? What is it? C'mon, Agent Carter, if you're not gonna give me my gun back, at least give me the binos. I hate sitting blind up here."
Reluctantly, she relinquished the rifle. "The prisoner shift change is over. All of the men who were in the mine are now in the barracks, and all of the men who were in the barracks are now in the mine. And I didn't see Michael's face amongst them."
A quick peep down the rifle's scope confirmed her assessment. The compound yard was clear of all prisoners. But if their intel was correct, and there were some fifty POWs down there, it wouldn't be possible to check them all in such a short space of time. Not with the rifle. Its field of vision was too small.
"That doesn't mean anything," he told her. "Just that you didn't see him this time. I bet—" Movement by the gates caught his eye. The gates were opening again. A soldier was gesturing the truck through! "Wait, our people are moving. Looks like you were right. Now that the shift change is over, they're being granted entry." Thank God the codes still worked. The relief was palpable.
The truck rolled into the compound, and the gate closed behind them. Steve and the other 'prisoners' were offloaded, frisked by the facility's guards, and directed towards the prisoner barracks. That was good. At least they weren't being put to work right away. It would give them a chance to get a feel for the prisoners and the best time to escape.
"There's nothing to do now but wait for further instruction," said Carter. She pulled the binoculars away from her eyes and blinked rapidly several times. "Sorry, just got a little dust in my eyes."
"It is pretty dusty up here," he offered. "Just let me know if you want another look through the rifle. Any time at all, I don't mind."
She smiled at him. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it." After all, he could offer her no less after she'd helped Steve rescue him from Zola's clutches. Just one more debt to repay.
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The screech of the compound gates was becoming a familiar sound to Steve, but at least this time his team were on the right side of the fence. Too bad the right side just happened to be the bad side.
"Hopefully we'll have a smoother ride from hereon," Falsworth whispered. Jacques nodded fervently.
The smoother ride was not forthcoming. In fact, the ride got progressively worse. It was like Coney Island's Cyclone roller coaster all over again, only without the certainty of solid ground to stand on after the train pulled into the platform.
A group of HYDRA guards descended on the truck. There was much yelling—in German—and waving of rifles. Orders were barked in broken English, and Steve and his fellow commandos were corralled towards a long, low barracks building. Even from a distance, Steve didn't like the smell of the place. The scent of urine and sweat and sickness and death lingered in a broiling miasma that assaulted his nose and made him want to gag. But nobody else had noticed it—not yet—so he focused on breathing through his nose and tried to put aside thoughts of what he would find inside.
Conditions were grim. The prisoner barracks windows were few and far between, and they didn't so much admit light, as diffuse it through years' worth of dust, creating a dim, murky nightmare of an interior to which Steve's eyes adjusted too quickly. He registered the rows of rickety metal bed frames and the thin mattresses which adorned them; he registered the pale, skull-like grimy faces with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones which turned towards him with pity and resignation; he registered more strongly the stench of sickness and decay; he registered them all, while his brain took longer to process the horror around him.
"Sweet mother of Jesus," Dugan swore softly under his breath.
"And I thought Krausberg was bad," Morita agreed.
Now that they were alone, it was time to start enacting their plans. Steve approached the nearest bunk, where two emaciated men lay exhausted. "Excuse me," he whispered, "I'm looking for Captain Michael Carter. Is he here?"
The men simply stared. Either they didn't understand, or they were too exhausted—or mistrustful—to answer the question. Steve moved on to the next bunk, but received a similar response. The other Commandos spread out and began questioning the tired prisoners. It wasn't until a few more bunks had been canvassed that Steve received a more promising reply.
"Captain Carter?" asked a young man wearing a threadbare British Army uniform. A scowl of suspicion crept across his dusty face. "How do you know that name?"
"I'll answer that question to Captain Carter himself. Is he still alive?"
"I'm alive."
The voice came from the next bunk over as a thin, dark-haired man sat up from the lower bunk and swivelled so that his feet were touching the ground. His uniform was in no better condition than the other young soldier's, and his face just as gaunt; his eyes, as tired and devoid of hope. Seeing the state of the Captain and the rest of the men, he quickly re-evaluated his chances of bringing everybody out alive. He'd hoped Cromwell's state of ill health had been caused by the escape and a stressful journey from Poland, but none of the other prisoners were any better. In fact, some were worse.
Steve crouched down beside him, to better speak without being overheard.
"Captain Carter, my name's Captain Steve Rogers, with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Your sister sent me to get you out of here."
A spark of bitter humour lived within him still. Following a snort and an exaggerated roll of the eyes, he said, "If Peggy knew I was still alive, she wouldn't have sent someone else to try to rescue me. She would've come herself."
"You're not wrong." He pointed to the window, even though he knew it wasn't facing the right direction. "She's here. Out there, not two miles away as the crow flies, with my best man. As soon as we've dealt with these guards, we'll rendezvous with her, and she can tell you all about our journey herself."
Hope and disbelief warred behind Michael's eyes. The latter won. "Nazi lies and plots. To what end I don't know, but you'll get nothing from me."
The urge to shake some sense into the man rose, and was swiftly pushed away. He couldn't afford to be harsh with a man whose body and spirit might be easily broken beyond even Stark's repair. How could he prove the truth to such a suspicious mind?
"It's not a lie," he said. "Your Lieutenant Cromwell made it to England. If you want proof, I can tell you the contents of the letter you wrote to Peggy."
"That's not proof Cromwell made it to England. Just that he was intercepted by the Gestapo and his letters used to improve the legitimacy of a convincing Nazi infiltrator. If Peggy truly sent you, you'll tell me something only she or I know."
Steve racked his brain. Most of what he and Peggy had talked about had been war-related. Job related. He liked to think he knew a lot about her, but pretty much everything he knew was fairly common knowledge. Nothing that a thorough Nazi investigator couldn't uncover. Unless…
"When you were younger, Peggy had a dog called Picasso. A Lhasa Apso. One year, the two of you posed for a photograph with the dog in front of the Christmas tree. She was heartbroken when she couldn't take him to boarding school with her."
Michael's face paled, and he reached out to lay a hand on Steve's shoulder. It was a hand that shook with a feeble grasp. "My God, Peggy really did send you! And she's really here, just outside the camp?" Steve nodded. "I'd berate you for bringing my little sister into danger, but knowing Peggy, I suspect she didn't give you much chance to argue."
"I didn't even try," he admitted. He made a quick visual of the inside of the barracks. "Is it safe for us to talk?"
"Yes, so long as we keep it quiet. The guards watch us like hawks when we're out in the yard, but they don't bother when we're in the barracks. It's not like we have anywhere to go. Now, tell me everything I've missed. How is Lieutenant Cromwell? How goes the war effort? What's your plan to get us out of here? And how's Peggy? I can't imagine Fred was very happy about her being out here."
Fred. The man who Peggy had once promised her heart to. He hadn't yet had chance to speak to her about that, what with the mission to Norway, then Bucky, and now Michael… so many things seemed to get in the way of him asking the questions he so desperately wanted answered—including Steve himself.
He put aside the burning desire to ask about Fred, and instead gave Michael a report on Lieutenant Cromwell, and the SSR, and how his family were. Michael was a good listener. He nodded along as Steve talked, and didn't interrupt with questions. The subject of how Steve had met Peggy never came up, and he didn't bother offering an explanation. Michael probably just assumed they'd met through work, which was technically true, and Steve was happy to leave it at that.
"As for the plan," he continued, "it's risky, but I think we can pull it off. You recall how I told you Peggy's up on that hillside with my best man?" Michael nodded. "He's also my sharpshooter. Best shot in the whole US Army. He's got a very advanced sniper rifle trained on this camp, and at the appropriate time, he's going to start taking out the soldiers in the guard posts. The truck we came in on has secret compartments hidden around it. We've stashed weapons and other equipment in concealable places, and when we're ready to make our move, we'll create a diversion so that we can get to the truck and grab our gear. Once we have it, we'll fight our way out while my guy on the outside covers us from above."
"That may get us out of the camp," said Michael, "but some might call that out of the frying pan, into the fire. We can hardly stroll down to the nearest airstrip and request the use of one of their planes."
"We've got that covered, too. Cromwell told us that there are trucks stationed here, for transporting ore. We'll use those trucks to transport all the prisoners across Poland and into Prussia, to the northern coast, where a ship will collect us and take us to Gotland. Same way we got in."
Michael nodded along as Steve spoke. "Alright, it's a crazy plan, but it's better than no plan. And if we're to die, I'd rather die on on outside of that fence, than the inside. What do you need us to do?"
"Be ready. And when the time comes, find somewhere safe to wait out the firefight."
Michael's 'disgusted' face was so similar to Peggy's that it brought a smile to Steve's lips.
"You're asking us to sit by and do nothing while other men risk their lives for our freedom?"
"No offence, Captain, but you and the other prisoners are hardly in the best condition to fight. If anything, you'll be a liability if the guards think to grab a couple of you as hostages. These sort of missions are what me and my men have been trained to perform. Just leave it to us."
"That's a very polite way of saying that we'll only get in the way. Very well, Captain Rogers; we'll defer to your judgement."
"I believe there's always room for politeness in the world," Steve agreed. It was good to know Captain Carter was as astute and level-headed as his sister. "There's one more thing I'll need from you. We need to get word to the other group of prisoners, the ones down in the mines, that this will be happening soon. I don't want them to run the wrong way in the chaos of battle. They need to know in advance where they'll be able to retreat to and wait it out."
"Leave it to me. We have ways of passing messages between prisoners. None of the guards speak Hebrew, but most of the prisoners do." Michael paused, and Steve could see ideas forming behind his eyes. "It will have to be tonight, at the change of shifts. I can ask one of the prisoners who takes water down to the miners to pass a message along. You mentioned a diversion—we can help with that. We're very good at diversions."
"That would be useful. We already have a device prepared for a distraction. Under the front driver side wheel arch of our truck is a…" He turned to face his fellow Commandos. "Hey guys, what are we calling the noise-making device?"
"A noise-maker," said Jones. Steve gave him the ol' blank stare. "I'll just point out that Stark's other invention names include 'Patented Stark Industries Mobile Magnetic Door Locker And Unlocker' and 'Auto-Gun Foil.' I think we got off pretty light."
"Could one of your men retrieve the noise-maker?" Steve asked Michael. "Once I have it, I can show you how to operate it. It's very simple, but if one of the prisoners can set it off, it will increase our chances of getting to the truck unnoticed."
"Of course. Just leave it to us. I think I know the perfect place to set it off, too."
"Good." How fortunate he was, to have an unexpected ally in this. Until now, he'd thought of the prisoners as broken men; victims. And though it was true they weren't up to the task of fighting, they still had their wits about them, and they could still help with the plan. Now, to figure out how to communicate the plan to Bucky. "I need to get a message to my sharpshooter. Are prisoners allowed out of the barracks during the day?"
"Yes, we can access the yard for the water pump, or some fresh air. But how are you going to get a message out?"
"Why don't you come with me? I'll show you. Peggy will be watching, too. I know you won't be able to see her, but she'll be able to see you."
Captain Carter was on his feet even before he'd finished speaking, and it seemed his posture was a little straighter than it had been before. Even in the dim light, his eyes shone with excitement. Steve prayed that Bucky and Peggy had reached their vantage point in time. He wished with all his heart that Peggy could see her brother again, even if from a distance.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
His dad had once told him that fifty percent of army life was spent waiting, but as he lay watching the camp for any signs of movement, Bucky quickly revised that estimate up to ninety percent. Wait for orders. Wait for transport. Wait for rescue. Wait to recover. Wait for more orders. Wait for a communication. Wait wait wait. It hadn't been like this on the recruitment advertisements they showed before the main feature in the cinema. Bucky felt more like a man of inaction than one of action.
This particular waiting wasn't all that dissimilar to another mission which had involved a lot of waiting and watching through the scope of a rifle. With his eye still on the target, he angled his head slightly towards Agent Carter and asked, "Hey, remember that time we had to stake out our own camp with SSR1s to wait for the Nazi spy to make a move?"
The binoculars might as well have been glued to her face. She barely even moved a muscle as she replied, "Of course I remember it; it was only a few months ago."
Talk about leading a horse to water…
"We really need to work on your banter skills," he informed her.
That got a raised eyebrow and a brief glance. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a mission. Besides, my response was perfectly appropriate. You asked a question, and I answered it."
He couldn't decide whether she was being purposely dense, or whether she just didn't understand the whole point of banter. Probably best to assume the latter.
"Sure, we're in the middle of a mission, but we're not actively doing anything except watching. And besides, I thought da….err… agents were good at multi-tasking?" That earned him Frosty Glare of the Day #1, so he hurried on. "Anyway, you're not supposed to answer literally. That's not how you play 'do you remember?'"
"Oh, so this is a game?"
"More a way of bonding."
"And you're trying to bond with me?"
"Why do you have to make it sound bad?" God help him. God help Steve. "I just thought you'd like to reminisce about the good old days. Share some memories. Pass the time. Help take your mind off the wait."
Silence reigned for several minutes, and just when he'd decided this conversation was a lost cause, she sighed quietly and asked, "Very well, then. How does one play 'do you remember'?"
"It's easy. I ask, 'remember this?' or 'remember that?' and you embellish the memory with your own addition. For example, my 'remember that mission where we staked out our own camp' might move to you saying 'yeah, I can't believe Hodge boasted nobody would get past him,' and then I add more memories."
She risked another incredulous glance at him. "And this is what you and your fellow members of the 107th did with all your spare time? Reminisced about the past?"
"And speculated about the future. See, the past and the future are pretty safe topics. You can look back at better times, and pretend the next days are going to improve. It's a good way of getting you somewhere—anywhere—other than the present. Because the present is a dangerous place to be. You just gotta pretend the present doesn't exist. That it's some transitory stage you're going through. No man, or woman, can change his or her present… but we can change our futures."
"It sounds like you've given this a lot of thought."
He shrugged and fixed his gaze back to the camp. "You get a lot of time to think, when you're strapped to a medical table and routinely tortured."
Humour probably wasn't the most appropriate way of dealing with memories of Zola, but it was the only way he had. Maybe if he could make people feel awkward about what'd happened to him, they'd finally stop asking.
Thankfully, she didn't probe any further. Whatever her thoughts were about his ordeals in Krausberg, she kept them to herself. Perhaps she had the right of it. Perhaps waiting in silence really was the best way.
"I've got movement," she said, those three words filled with more tension and excitement than he would've thought possible.
He'd already seen the movement through his own scope. Steve stepped out of the prisoner barracks, clad in his tattered civilian attire, he expression as clear as if he was standing right in front of Bucky. Behind him came a prisoner, the opposite of new-Steve in every way. His dark brown hair fell lankly to just above his shoulders, the lower half of his pale face was hidden beneath a patchy beard, and his uniform was so tattered that it was hard to make out which country and service he belonged to.
Pain shot through his arm, and he let out a yelp, pulling his gaze away from the scene before him to glance down at the source of the pain. It was Agent Carter's right hand, gripping his sleeve so hard that she was pinching the skin beneath. In her left hand she held the binoculars, her attention still focused on the camp despite the pain she was causing him.
"It's Michael!"
"How about letting go of my arm so I can see for myself?"
She released her grasp without so much as an apology, and Bucky once more found the camp through his scope. Steve and Michael had moved on to a rusty old water pump—Steve seemed to be getting a lesson in how to operate it. After a quick demonstration, Michael picked up one of the equally rusty cups and began to pump water into it. Meanwhile, Steve crouched down to tie his boot lace… and simultaneously opened up an empty compartment in his heel, from which he withdrew a small object. With a quick glance at the guard towers to make sure he wasn't being watched, he angled the object so that the sun's rays caught it in a way that reflected the light towards the hill on which Bucky and Agent Carter waited.
With a few flicks of his wrist, he flashed out a message encoded in Morse. Wait evening shift.
Great. More waiting.
"It seems we were too late to catch the morning shift change-over," said Carter.
"Mmm-hmm."
Steve, finished with his message, quickly tucked the small mirror back inside his secret boot compartment, then straightened up and pretended to be fascinated by the water pump. Guy could probably go a week without a drink of water, these days.
With the message delivered, Steve and Michael returned to the barracks. Good idea, Steve. Keep your head down. Keep out of sight. Don't give them a reason to look at you twice.
A soft sniffing sound beside him broke his focus. Tears tracked down Agent Carter's cheeks—tears she brushed away with her sleeve as she retreated from the overhang so she could sit upright for the first time in an hour. Her voice barely cracked as she said, "We should take it in turn to watch the camp in shifts. Just in case anything unexpected happens." More tears replaced those she wiped away.
"Are you okay?" Surely the sight of her brother was reason for celebration, not tears.
For a moment, she said nothing. Merely chewed her bottom lip. When she finally met his eyes, there was terrible sadness and guilt within hers. "I looked right at him. I looked right at him, and didn't even recognise him. I moved on to the next man."
"What are you—"
"Earlier. When I was looking at the faces during the shift change over. I saw my brother, and didn't even recognise him." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "I must be the world's worst sister."
Bucky shuffled closer, and lay his rifle over his knees. "Not from where I'm sitting. Your brother's been through a lot. Time has changed him. What he's been through has changed him. You were looking at him through a pair of crappy standard issue binoculars, and through the eyes of memory. Nobody can hold any of that against you. Hell, I didn't recognise Steve, when he pulled me off Zola's table. Does that make me the world's worst best friend?"
The question brought a wry smile and a small hiccough. "No. I suppose not. I just feel so… so…"
"Guilty?"
"What gave it away?"
"Nothing. But I know that it's been eating you up since the moment you found out. That you're kicking yourself for not doing more. Not trying harder. Not being stronger."
She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Am I truly so transparent?"
"No. But that's how I'd feel in your place, and I think we're more alike than you realise." After all, they both liked guns, and dogs, and Steve. That was probably more common ground than he'd ever had with any other dame.
"Maybe we are."
"There. Was that so hard to admit?"
One corner of her lips pulled up into a smile. "Yes. Now, would you like to take the first watch?" She offered the binoculars—probably more comfortable than holding the rifle for hours—and he recognised the order-posed-as-question.
"Sure. I've got time to kill." Time, and evil HYDRA scientists.
"Will you do me a favour? If you see Michael again, please let me know. I'd like more than a ten second glance at him."
"Of course. Get a little rest, if you can. I'll shout the moment anything of interest happens."
He settled back down onto the rocky ground, and listened as she moved a little further back into the forest. She probably wouldn't get any rest, but he could hardly blame her. If it was his brother or sister down there, he'd move Heaven and Earth to save them. He just hoped Steve and the others were ready for the coming storm.