We Were Soldiers
96. Dag Gadol
The inside of the barracks was like being inside the belly of some great beast. Dark, damp, claustrophobic. What little air was available was heavy with foul smells that waged a successful campaign against Steve's nose. Not for the first time, he wished his senses hadn't been quite so enhanced by Erskine's serum.
Michael's bunk groaned beneath the combined weight of both men, but Steve didn't dare talk across the barracks in case they were overheard by the wrong people. Instead, they sat side by side, to whisper as co-conspirators.
"You seem a motley group," Michael observed. "Are you all Americans?"
"Not all of us. My second in command, Major Falsworth"—Steve gestured to Monty—"is one of your countrymen, and our demolitions expert, Mr. Dernier"—Jacques offered a little wave at the mention of his name—"is French Resistance. As well, two of our 'guards' are Polish soldiers, and the other… well, hopefully he'll keep out of the way."
"Have you done this sort of thing often?"
"What, infiltrated enemy territory to rescue prisoners from HYDRA work camps?" Michael nodded. "Once."
"And did you get everybody out alive?"
"Most of them." Some had been lost during the breakout. A couple had died from illness or injury after getting back to the SSR camp. But that had been a different kettle of fish. More guards. A larger facility. No actual plan. This time, he would do better.
"I suppose 'most of them' is good enough," said Michael. "Acceptable losses and all that. If I can see my men returned to their homes and families… well, that's all I ask. Get them out, Captain. Get them out, and get them home."
"I promise I'll do my best."
"Thank you." Michael closed his eyes for a moment and leant back against the rough wooden wall behind the bed. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose word of our survival came as quite a surprise. How did Peggy take the news?"
"As well as can be expected. I can tell by the way she speaks about you that the two of you were very close." As close as he and Bucky.
"We were. I suppose that's why we fell out so badly the last time we were together. I knew she was meant for more than a quiet life as a housewife. She always was such a precocious child. Drove our mother to despair."
A smile tugged at Steve's lips. He could well imagine Peggy's prim and proper mother driven to annoyance over her unruly daughter's behaviour. And he could equally imagine Peggy falling out with her brother over his disapproval of her plans.
"She said the two of you fell out because you didn't approve of her getting married," he offered. Michael seemed to want to talk about it. Maybe talking about it with Steve would help him talk about it with Peggy, once they were out of this hell.
"It's not the fact that she wanted to marry that I disapproved of; it was her choice of husband. Fred was content to sit in his office and let other men do all the dirty work in this war. He wanted a pretty wife to bear his children and wait at home for him to return every day. Somebody who would support his work and his career by running a home and raising a family. Any woman could've done that. But Peggy… it was a waste of her talents. He would've held her back and stifled everything that is wonderful and strong about her."
Steve made a quick 'shoo'ing motion at the Commandos, and they dispersed to find bunks of their own and talk quietly with the other prisoners. Steve hated prying about Peggy's life behind her back… but he couldn't stop now. It was easier hearing this from Michael than from Peggy herself. He didn't get quite so tongue-tied around her brother. His questions weren't quite so obvious.
"You think he didn't love her?"
"I suppose he did, in his own way. As much as any man can love a beautiful woman. But Fred wanted what was best for himself—not what was best for Peggy. Perhaps if this was a time of peace, I would not have been so disapproving… nor so harsh with my words to my sister. But these are difficult and extraordinary times, and they call for extraordinary people to step forward and strive to reach their full potential."
"I couldn't agree more." Once again, Steve lamented the death of Dr. Erskine. Michael would've been the perfect candidate for Project Rebirth—he was sure of it. And he was sure Abraham would've felt the same way.
"So. Tell me a little about yourself, Captain." Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow at Michael's request, and the man elaborated. "I'd like to know something about the man who's risking his own life to save mine."
He ran a hand through his hair and tried to think of what to say. His life, until very recently, had been pretty boring and uneventful. Besides, he didn't want Peggy's brother to see Captain America. He wanted him to see Steve. "There really isn't that much to tell. I was born in Brooklyn, New York, and raised by my mom. My dad fought and died in the Great War, and I never met him. The man watching over this camp with your sister is the closest thing I have to family—growing up, we were as close as brothers."
"Since you're an officer, I presume you have an education?"
"Yeah. After I got my high school diploma, I went on to study art. For whatever that's worth."
Michael gestured at his dusty civilian disguise. "Drafted?"
"Volunteered. I joined the SSR last year, and haven't looked back."
"And Peggy's a part of this SSR, too?"
"For a lot longer than any of us," Steve agreed.
"How did that come about? I can't imagine Fred would approve of her choice to serve."
"I don't know what he thought about it—she called off the wedding after the news of your 'death.' I don't think she's seen him since. Your mom told me she's removed all photographs of him from the family albums."
A suspicious gleam shone behind Michael's eyes. "You've met my mother?"
"Briefly, just before Christmas."
"I bet that was—ouch, dammit." Michael sat up and reached down to his leg to rub his shin through his faded trousers. When he saw Steve watching, he said, "Old war wound. When I was a boy, probably no older than eleven or twelve, I thought it a grand idea to climb the tallest tree on the street. I got halfway up before I lost my footing and fell. I was lucky; I came away with only a hairline fracture to my tibia. Even though it's healed, I still get an occasional twinge of pain on cold days. Don't worry, it doesn't slow me down. I'll keep up."
Steve let the claim lie. It wasn't Michael keeping up that he was worried about. Many of the prisoners were in worse condition; even now, many slept fitfully in the deep sleep of true exhaustion. He just hoped they weren't too late to save these men, after so many others had died.
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The air was charged with excitement. Word had been spread amongst the prisoners. As soon as the shift change began, their salvation would come. Before the end of the night, they would be free. They whispered about it in huddled groups, their words unintelligible to Steve's ears.
A few hours earlier, several of the Jewish prisoners had taken cups of water down into the mine for those toiling for HYDRA. With them, they'd taken news of the impending rescue. Every POW within the camp now knew the plan. Steve didn't like so many people knowing, but he liked even less the thought of confused prisoners running out into a firefight.
Darkness came early. By four o'clock in the afternoon, the sun had set. None of Steve's team had managed to get any shut-eye. They were too wound up, and the stench of the barracks was too harsh on their unaccustomed olfactory senses. The prisoners had fewer troubles; they no longer noticed the smell, and most were too exhausted after toiling long in the mines to do anything more than whisper and sleep in turn.
Right on cue, the barracks door opened, and two HYDRA guards stepped in. Neither of them were the men who had accompanied Steve's team… he prayed they were safe and well.
"It is time to go to work," one of the guards said.
Steve nodded to his fellow Commandos. In his back pocket was the noise-maker that one of the Jews had managed to retrieve from the truck earlier in the day. When they were ready, he would slip it to Michael, who would take it to a good place to activate it. The Commandos would have only brief moments to get to the truck and retrieve their weapons. It wouldn't take long for the guards to get organised once they realised they were being attacked from within the compound. Hopefully, Bucky could keep them on their toes.
They filed out of the door two at a time. Once they were out in the yard, he slipped the noise-maker out of his pocket and prepared to palm it to Michael.
"You. Stop where you are."
Steve froze at the command. His heart started beating madly inside his chest, a frantic rhythm that probably would've put old-Steve in an early grave. Every instinct in his body told him to fight, but if he started throwing punches now, the guards would be on him in a heartbeat. He thought he could take them, but he and the other prisoners would be at the mercy of the armed guards in the towers.
He closed his eyes, expecting at any minute to feel a hand grab his arm, or the butt of a rifle jabbed into his back.
"You will come with us. The kommandant wishes to speak with you."
The voice wasn't aimed at Steve. It was behind him, near the door. He dared to open his eyes and turn his head to glance back. The guards had stopped Falsworth as he exited the barracks.
"Me?" the Major said, the surprise in his voice completely genuine. "Why does he want to speak with me?"
"He will tell you that himself. Now move. Or do we have to drag you?"
"No need for dragging. My legs are fine."
Falsworth shot a helpless look at Steve as he was marched away. One of the other guards instructed the prisoners to keep moving. Uncertain, they milled, lost in this new turn of events. They'd been told they would be rescued, but one of their rescuers was being taken away. Already, the prisoners in the mine were being brought to the surface, glancing around as if ready to bolt for their safe places there and then.
And Steve was stuck in the middle of it. If he acted now, Falsworth would probably be shot at the first sign of trouble. Their team would be one man down—and one man might make all the difference. But if he didn't act, his team would be forced to work a twelve hour shift in the mines. They'd be tired, hungry, thirsty… they will have gone more than twenty-four hours without food or sleep. Could he risk all that, for one man?
He glanced at Michael. He was already risking everything for one man. He'd done it before, risking everything for Bucky, and he'd do it again. He couldn't, and wouldn't, sacrifice Falsworth's life for nothing.
He just hoped Bucky wouldn't choose to act and force his hand.
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The world was once again rendered in vivid detail as Bucky peered down the scope of his rifle. The first time he'd done this, he'd seen the faces of young men not so unlike himself, and he'd hesitated. Now, the faces at the end of the scope were meaningless. HYDRA lackeys. Men whose deaths would make the world a better place.
"I have them in my sights," he whispered in the darkness. Why was he whispering? There was nobody nearby. Nobody to hear or see them. He cleared his voice and spoke at a more normal level. "Just give the word." Not that he expected a word to be necessary. Just for kicks, Dugan had activated the noise-maker in Jones' hotel room, back in London. They'd heard it on every floor of the building. That thing was designed to draw maximum attention, and Bucky had no doubt he'd hear the thing as soon as it was activated. Then, it was just a matter of waiting a few moments to be sure the Commandos could get to the truck and grab their weapons before he started adding to the chaos. Bucky Barnes; Agent of Chaos. Had a nice ring to it.
"Wait." Carter's voice sliced through the air, sharp as a knife. "Something's wrong. Major Falsworth's being led away from the group. They're taking him towards the camp's officer barracks.
He very nearly sighed. Of course, something was bound to go wrong. Something always went wrong.
"What's Steve doing?"
"He's just… standing there. Hang on a moment… he's moving."
"Towards the truck?"
"No. Towards the mine entrance."
"Are you shittin' me?"
She drew her gaze from the binoculars to glance at him. "I assure you, Sergeant, I'm not 'shittin'' you. It would seem this turn of events has delayed the Captain's plans."
"Want me to take the shot anyway?" The man at the end of his sight looked a little too smug for his liking. "It can be the new diversion." No doubt it would get their attention. "Steve and the others could get to the truck."
"And what about Major Falsworth? He's inside one of those buildings, now. They'll likely shoot him the second the alarm is raised. Are you willing to risk it?"
He lowered his rifle. Shit. "Alright, let's imagine we're Steve. We've told everyone that we'll be escaping during the night shift change, but then something goes awry. You're forced to wait, and do a shift in the mine. Do you change your plan and have a morning escape, or do you wait until the following night?"
Carter gave the situation some serious, forehead-wrinklin' consideration. Finally, she said, "He'll act in the morning."
"Really? I thought he'd wait until night. How d'ya figure?"
She began to tick off the points on her fingers. "Too many people know about the plan. Every delay increases the chances of somebody making a mistake and letting something slip in front of the guards. As well, the chances increase that the guards notice something is afoot."
"But it's safer to act under the cover of nightfall. If we break out at night, we can travel at night."
"That wasn't Captain Rogers' initial plan, though. He wanted to perform a rescue as soon as he arrived."
"Yeah, but that was before he knew they'd have to work a gruelling shift in the mine. Our guys probably won't have slept, and they arrived too late for the one meal per day, so they'll be hungry and exhausted. At least if they wait, they can have one meal and a few hours' shut-eye."
"There are other factors to consider," she countered. Jeez, it seemed like she enjoyed arguing merely for the sake of arguing! "The longer our truck is in there, the higher the chances of somebody searching it and finding our weapons. Plus, the greater the chance of them sending a communication to check on the validity of the orders requesting new workers."
"But I thought the guys you put in the comms bunkers in France were gonna intercept anything like that?"
"All the bunkers we know about, yes. I'm not naive enough to assume that those were the only communications outposts Schmidt possesses."
Great. So all the work the 107th did—all the trials and the losses—might've been for nothing? Just some fool's errand?
"We can't both be right," he said.
"No. We can't." She sighed, and lowered the binoculars. "We'll just have to continue to watch for any sign of communication."
"How will he communicate? He'll be in a mine. And it's dark."
"Then we'll watch until something happens. He knows we'll be watching. So long as we're ready, it doesn't matter when he enacts his plan."
He had to admit—somewhat reluctantly—that she had a point. Whether Steve carried out his plan during the morning shift change, or the evening, made little difference to Bucky's task. Wait. And, at the appropriate moment, kill. Morning or evening, the timing was irrelevant. The time of day only had impact on the rest of the plans.
"If I take the first shift watching, will you at least get some rest?"
"No. Until Michael's safe, I don't think I could sleep for even a moment. You take a rest. I'll keep watch, and wake you in a few hours."
"Alright." He handed over his rifle. "Here. In case something happens and you need to act."
"Thank you. I promise I'll be careful with it. Howard will have no reason to complain."
He found an area a short distance away where a dip in the ground formed a natural barrier against the cold wind. It wasn't much of a shelter, but he hunkered down as best he could, tucked his hands beneath his arms, and pulled the collar of his jacket up as high as it would go. Once again, he was left behind in safety while others took all the risks. It wasn't fair. He oughta be down in that camp with his friends.
A tiny voice inside his head told him that Steve had arranged it this way to keep Bucky out of another POW situation. To keep him safe. Maybe even because he didn't trust Bucky to keep it together if he was captured again. But this time, Bucky ignored the tiny voice. Of course Steve trusted him. And as much as he wanted to be down there with his friends, he knew that his talents were best served here. This was the best use of his skills. Besides, somebody had to protect Carter from the Polish wildlife. Or, more likely, protect the Polish wildlife from Carter.
High above, the clouds parted to reveal a star-spattered sky. It was humbling to think that out there, somewhere else in Europe, the guys of the 107th would be looking up at the same night sky, and a few hours from now, when the sun set over America, his family would see these stars, too. They were the same stars that, tens of thousands of years ago, primitive man had told stories beneath, and even longer before that, dinosaurs—giant reptiles that knew nothing of war or genocide—had lived and died under the watchful gaze of the tiny, twinkling eyes. A hundred years from now, Bucky would be gone, but the stars would still be here, and that thought made him feel very, very small. Like it didn't matter what he did today, or tomorrow, or a year from now, because the world would keep turning beneath the stars.
He shook his head and tried to dismiss his thoughts. Of course his actions mattered. Maybe not in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, but to the people who had to live in the cold, empty universe; to the people who had to try to make sense of war and death and destruction, it mattered.
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James Montgomery Falsworth had never considered himself a coward, but as he was led towards the officers' barracks, his knees shook and his legs felt as wobbly as jelly. They didn't shake and wobble for himself—one didn't routinely jump out of moving airplanes without some pretty steely nerves—but there was more than his own life at stake here. An entire rescue plan depended on what happened next. Dozens of men would live or die on some German kommandant's whim.
The officers' area of the camp was upwind from the prisoner barracks, and smelt considerably better. He dared to breathe deeply, enjoying the crisp freshness of the air. No doubt this was a luxury afforded to very few of the prisoners.
Outside one of the buildings, his escort stopped him and made him wait until he'd knocked on the door and received permission to enter. When permission was given, a sharp jab of the rifle made it clear that James ought to enter the building quickly, and he readily obliged.
It was a small office that he stepped into, no larger than Colonel Phillips' office in the SSR's headquarters, though not quite as sparsely furnished. One wall was adorned with a chilling flag, a white, eight-tentacled monstrosity upon a black background. Below it were two rusty old rifles that had seen better days, and were probably family heirlooms from the Great War. Beside the main desk was a smaller table with a piece of equipment that could throw a real spanner into the Captain's plans: a radio transmitter. At the first sign of trouble, the kommandant could send a message to other nearby facilities. They would be on alert for escapees. Two other doors were set into the other walls, and he suspected they led to a bedroom and a privy. It was considerably better than what the prisoners had.
The camp's kommandant was not what James had been expecting. Even standing up, he came no higher than his shoulder, and his uniform seemed ill-fitting, as if the sleeves and trouser legs had been made for a larger man.
"Welcome, welcome," the man said, gesturing James to a chair in front of his desk as the door behind him was closed, cutting off his exit route. "I am Colonel Alfred Schultz, commander of this camp. I am told you hold the rank of Major, yes?"
"Major Thomas Moore," Falsworth agreed. He'd chosen the moniker before the mission even began, just in case their captors had been issued with a list of escaped prisoners from the Krausberg facility. It would be far too great a coincidence for one man to be captured twice by the same organisation.
Schultz tutted and shook his head. "A travesty, that they should send an officer here. The hard labour is more suited to uneducated men, but you are not the first officer to have been assigned to us. No doubt you have already met some of your fellow Englishmen in the barracks, yes?"
"That's right," Falsworth agreed. No point playing dumb. The guards would expect the prisoners to talk amongst themselves, and to pretend otherwise would raise suspicions.
"Did they tell you that one of their number escaped, not too long ago?"
Falsworth sat up a little straighter. The first woman he'd courted had been a thespian, and now it was time to see if what he'd picked up around the theater house where she'd spent most of her free time was of any use. "Escaped? How?"
"They dug beneath the fence, a hole small enough for one man to crawl through. It was some time before his absence was noticed, and we have yet to recover him."
"Well, I can't say I'm sorry to hear that."
"I did not think you would be." Schultz once more gestured to the chair, and Falsworth finally took it. Let the little man think he had won, for now. "Since then, we have implemented much stricter regimes. No more than eight prisoners may take fresh air or water at any given time. And the guard in the yard has been doubled. Believe me when I say, there will be no escape. The only way out of this facility is by the front gate."
"And that gate may not necessarily remain closed to all prisoners?" he guessed. There was no other reason for the colonel to be telling him this, except to tempt him for some reason with the idea of freedom.
Schultz smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I am glad to see you are an intelligent man, Major Moore. Tell me, how well do you know those prisoners who were transported here with you?"
"Not very well," he lied. "Most of them I'd never seen before we were rounded up into the lorry. Most of them are French, and only one of them speaks any English; and he doesn't speak it well." Another part of the cover. Mr. Dernier had taught the Captain and Sergeant Dugan how to say 'I don't understand' in French, so that neither of them would have to speak. They could pass as French prisoners along with Jacques, which would remove the need to explain why American POWs were not in uniform.
"And the Americans?" the colonel prompted, referring to Privates Jones and Morita.
"One of them asked me if I had any cigarettes, and the other called me a 'bloody limey'. Other than that, we've barely spoken. Why?"
"It seems to me that we have the opportunity to help each other." Schultz sat down and drummed his fingers across the top of the wooden desk. "I would not have chosen to oversee this facility. In fact, the four years that it has been operational have felt like punishment. The Jews are lazy and duplicitous, and we are so remote that we go hungry between food deliveries. For now, I bear it because I have no choice… and no leverage."
"And this is where I'm expected to help you?" Falsworth scoffed. "I'm actually pleased to hear that you suffer along with your prisoners."
"You say that now, but after a few months of toil and deprivation, you will change your tune." The colonel shuffled his chair closer, and it screeched across the floor like nails down a chalkboard. "Consider this. If I had information of value, I could use it to bargain my way to a better command position. And if that happened, I would not be opposed to taking a well-educated, useful prisoner with me. Perhaps along the way, I hand you back to one of Hitler's POW camps for officers. I am told those camps are well stocked, and men can while away their time reading books and playing croquet."
"And in turn for your benevolence, you're asking for..?"
"Information. Nothing more, nothing less."
Falsworth stiffened in his seat, and affected an insulted tone that was not entirely false. "I won't betray my country. If you want information, you'll have to torture it out of me."
The colonel laughed. Laughed! He even wiped a fictitious tear from his eye, putting Falsworth's feeble theatrical skills to shame. "Ah, Major, you misunderstand. I do not want information about your country or your army. But I would like to know about American troop placements and plans."
"And why do you need me for that? I'm sure you have men who are skilled at extracting information from prisoners."
"Torture." Schultz wrinkled his nose in disgust. "A messy affair. And I do not personally believe it effective. A man under torture will say whatever he believes his tormentor wishes to hear. The truth becomes fluid, rather than absolute. But men in difficult situations talk between themselves. The English and the Americans are allies. If, during some talk, you should learn of American troop movements, or war plans, even individual missions, and you were to pass this information along to me, I would make sure you were suitably rewarded."
How very unusual. Schultz must be desperate indeed to get away from this place, if he thought he could get more intelligence from enemy informants than from torture. Perhaps this was something Captain Rogers could use to his advantage. It might be worth playing along, to see how far this could be taken.
"And what assurances do I have that as soon as I'm out that door, you won't be making exactly the same offer to the Americans?"
Schultz laughed again. It seemed his new batch of prisoners had put him in good humour. "Major, no offence, but your people and mine have been fighting this war for years. I'm sure there's nothing we don't know about each other, and such things are better left to our superiors. But the Japanese awoke the sleeping dragon, when they attacked Pearl Harbor. Nobody knows what the Americans will do or what they are capable of. Their army is mighty, but their tactics are unknown—if they even have any. That information is worth its weight in gold, and will secure me a new posting; and you, your freedom."
"And what about my fellow Englishmen? I can hardly leave them behind."
Schultz merely shrugged, as if they were of no consequence. "I can have them transferred to another facility. One with better conditions. Think about it, Major. All I am asking is for a little information, and nobody need ever know that you gave it. You can go home, to your family, or return to the fight."
"And I have your word for that?" Not that he would believe any promise the colonel could make. He wasn't just a Nazi—he was HYDRA. That was, if at all possible, even worse.
"My word as a fellow officer," Schultz agreed. "My guards will return you to the mine. I suggest you tell your fellow prisoners that I merely interrogated you, and think about what I've said. I am a patient man, and neither of us are going anywhere for the foreseeable future. When you are ready to provide information, I will be here to listen. Simply ask one of the guards to bring you to see me."
"I will certainly give your words due consideration."
The guard was called back into the room, and Falsworth was led out of the office. Schultz had given him much food for thought, and hopefully Captain Rogers could use this information to his advantage.
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"What're we going to do?" Morita whispered to Steve.
"Just keep your head down and haul ore," he replied.
"What do you think they're doing to Monty?" asked Dugan.
This time, Michael answered. "Probably just basic interrogation. My men and I had the same when we first arrived. The camp's commander is a greedy, ambitious man who hates that he's been stationed here. He considers it an insult, to be overseeing the work of predominantly Jewish prisoners. That man would sell his own mother for a promotion or reassignment."
Steve looked around. They worked by lamplight in semi-darkness, but his eyes were good enough to make out every line of worry on their faces. They were too close, too clustered together. It looked suspicious.
"Morita, Jones, go work with some of the Jewish prisoners in one of the other tunnels. Keep an eye on things. Reassure them that we're going to get them out of here; our plans have just been delayed. Dugan, Dernier, you do the same. Remember, we aren't supposed to know each other. Let's not give the guards reason to watch us more closely."
The men separated and disappeared down different tunnels. A tiny sigh of relief escaped Steve's lips. Now he could speak without spreading his fears to the rest of the team.
"Do you really think Monty is okay?" he asked Michael.
"No doubt. There aren't so many workers here that Schultz can afford to injure a healthy one."
"And do you think I did the right thing? I know a certain Colonel who, in my position, would've gone ahead with the plan and hoped Monty could handle himself."
Michael stopped swinging his pick for a moment, and stood up to knuckle his back. It was a wonder he could still work at all.
"I firmly believe that war requires sacrifice, however, it shouldn't require needless sacrifice. Our situation is not so dire that your plans couldn't be delayed by a few hours or a day. In your position, I would have done the same. As Captains, our men need to know that if we do ask them to take a risk, it's for a good reason."
"I hope I never have to ask that." He would rather walk through the fires of Hell himself than ask one of his men to risk their lives. "Maybe—"
He let the sentence die as the sound of footsteps approached. The image of a helmeted guard flashed through his mind, and he tightened his grip on the wooden handle of his pick, ready to wield the tool as a weapon if the need arose.
The footsteps drew nearer, but they were more of a weary trudge than the purposeful march of a guard. Steve's fingers relaxed, and the pick was once more just a took for breaking rock, rather than a weapon for breaking heads.
One of the prisoners materialised out of the darkness, a Jewish man whom Steve had noticed in the barracks. The man joined them, and kept his voice to a whisper.
"I just thought you would want to know that your man has been brought back from the kommandant's office. He's in one of the other tunnels, with your uniformed friends."
"Thank you, Steinberg," said Michael. "Captain Rogers, this is Hanan Steinberg, a trusted friend and what passes for a leader amongst the Jewish prisoners."
Steinberg was older than Steve had first realised; probably fifty, at least. It was a miracle that he was still hale and strong enough to work at such gruelling tasks. Though his face was smeared with grime and his lank hair hung well below his shoulders, he didn't have the same emaciated appearance as most of the Jews.
"I see your thoughts, Captain Rogers," said Steinberg. "As a skilled man, I do not usually work in the mine, but one of the prisoners is very sick, and I offered to work here in his place. Normally, I am a cobbler. I repair the heels under which we are crushed like ants."
"Soon, you won't have to repair another German heel ever again," Steve told him. "Will your people be able to keep the plans quiet a little longer?"
"Of course, Captain. We are patient. Many of us have waited a long time to taste freedom; we can wait a little longer."
"Good. Would you show me where Major Falsworth is working? I need to talk to him about what just happened."
"Follow me." Steinberg turned and gestured for him to follow. "He is not far."
Despite Michael's assurances that the kommandant wouldn't hurt Falsworth, Steve had his doubts. He knew all too well what HYDRA personnel were capable of, and they wouldn't hesitate to inflict pain to achieve their goals.
Falsworth, uninjured and in good spirits as he joked with Morita and Jones, was a sight for sore eyes. He saluted when he saw Steve approach, and launched into an immediate whispered sitrep.
"I'm fine, Captain, though I've just had a very illuminating chat with the camp's colonel, a man named Schultz. It seems he wants me to gather intel on American troops movements and report back in exchange for my freedom. I think this can work to our benefit."
"How? We need you on the inside, to help us break out. There's not much you can do from outside the fence."
"Schultz has a radio transmitter; if I can get to it before we enact our plan, I can ensure that nobody sends an outgoing transmission for help. In fact, we could even use it to further enhance our deception. I could use the radio to advise nearby facilities that a number of prisoners were killed during an attempted breakout, and request a fresh supply of workers. It will take a couple of days for them to arrive, but if we radio for more workers, nobody will suspect that anything is amiss, and by the time they get here, we'll be long gone."
"I like the way you think, Major," said Captain Carter. "Schultz would be so eager to hear what intelligence you've discovered, that he'd let you walk right into his office. Could you subdue him unarmed, though?"
"Yes, I think so. He's not a large man, and I've been told I have a mean right hook." Falsworth raised his fists, to prove that he really did know how to box. "If you can manage without me, I think my efforts would be best spent handling Schultz. It will also help to destabilise the troops, if there's nobody to issue them orders."
"Alright," Steve agreed. "I'm sure we can come up with some suitable intel for you to pass along. The only question now is, do we carry out the plan in the morning, during the next shift change, or wait until nightfall?"
"It would be more convincing if we waited until nightfall," said Falsworth. "After all, it will look very suspicious if I come up with some intel too quickly. Plus, it will give us chance to rest after working in the mine."
"What about Barnes?" Morita asked. "We can't get a message to him now; he might decide to take action."
Steve shook his head. "Bucky will be watching, but he knows to wait for our signal before launching his attack."
"Are you sure? Maybe to him, it looks like something's gone wrong and we really have been taken prisoner."
"I trust Bucky to wait. Besides, Pe—I mean, Agent Carter, is up there with him. They'll be fine for another day."
"In that case, we should get back to work," said Michael. "The less we're seen talking together, the better."
"You're right," Steve agreed. "We'll talk further in the barracks. For now, let's act like prisoners. By this time tomorrow, we need to be ready to make our move. Steinberg, can you pass the word around to all the prisoners? I want them to know when this is going down."
"I'll make sure of it personally," the Jewish man agreed. "We will be ready."
After Steinberg left, Steve joined Dernier and Dugan so that the 'French' prisoners appeared to be sticking together. Michael went back to his own tunnel, and Morita and Jones continued working beside the Jews. Soon, very soon, this would all be behind them.
Author's note: In response to Guest user's comment about Article 13: I'm not personally too concerned about Article 13 affecting my work, since it does not make profit. The Article, from what I can tell, seems to be aimed at controlling content that may be displayed on sites which have for-profit features, and I suspect will hit things like image-hosting sites and youtube harder than fanfiction. If it does turn out that Article 13, or Net Neutrality, or any other piece of internet legislation does interfere with this site, then any of my readers can simply email me (see profile, email address also listed on my primary website) to receive chapter updates by email. That is, of course, providing I couldn't find a workaround such as a link-only Googledocs file, or a private/password-protected page on WordPress. Content filters may not detect what cannot be archived by search engines. That's my theory, anyway. The short of it: don't panic. I will get you chapters.
In other news, anyone seen DeadPool 2? Do we think Cable's daughter's name is a massive piece of foreshadowing for what DeadPool 3 might be about, or a simple nod to the comic lore? Leave thoughts in box. Leave cookies too.