We Were Soldiers
97. The Amazing Escape
Bucky lay atop the cliff, the work camp visible in intricate detail through the lens of his scope. The men toiling below scurried here and there like ants… in fact, they were ants, running back and forth over the ground, filing into and out of their tunnels in the world's largest ant-hill.
An itchy feeling between his shoulder blades told him he was being watched. The same itchy feeling he imagined a deer felt, right before the hunter's bullet found its heart. Once, long ago, he'd lived in a big city and been a man. Now, he lived from mission to mission, sometimes the hunter, sometimes the prey, and at times he forgot what it was like to be a man.
Slowly, he turned his head, glancing over his shoulder through his peripheral vision. Nothing. Just the cold, bare forest. Not even the sigh of the winter breeze disturbed the air. But that didn't mean he was alone.
The clouds parted, stars shining bright as diamonds, thousands of tiny spotlights, sparkling eyes in the night. They were watching. Always watching.
He turned his rifle towards the biggest, brightest star, waiting for it to come into focus. Sure enough, right on top of the star sat a man with a rifle of his own, watching Bucky was he was watched in turn. His finger wasn't on the trigger, though. The man wasn't ready to shoot. Not yet.
He moved his rifle's aim to a more distant star, one that dimmer, not as bright. This star, too, had a man; a man who took aim at the first man on the brighter star, though the first man was unaware he was being watched from behind.
"Look out behind you!" Bucky yelled. The man on the star yelled something back, but he was too far away for Bucky to hear. "Behind you!" Bucky tried again, this time pointing with his free hand to over the man's shoulder. The man pointed back, and shiver crept over Bucky's skin. He turned, rifle at the ready, to aim at the star behind him. And sure enough, there was a man on the star taking aim at him. And behind that man, another star with another man. Everywhere Bucky looked were men on stars, each aiming at the other, all hunting for some unknown quarry.
They turned like a cascading waterfall, each man looking behind, then looking ahead. How long before one of them took their shot? Could Bucky shoot first? But which one should he shoot? How did he know which was the real hunter, and which were just pale reflections cast back by the night sky?
In that instant, he knew that he could never pull the trigger. If he did, the entire thing would come crashing down, every star falling from the sky in blazing destruction. But the other men didn't know that. Even now, some of them were taking aim again, preparing to fire on their quarry. Bucky dropped his gun and waved his arms, desperate to get their attention. "Don't do it!" he yelled. "Don't pull the trigger!"
A loud crack like the first peal of thunder pierced the air. A star began to fall. Down and down and down. And then, crack, crack, crack. More gunshots. More falling stars. They fell from the sky like burning tears, colliding with each other, exploding when they touched, hitting other stars, until the entire sky was filled with dying stars, and Bucky felt them start to burn his skin to char—
"Sergeant Barnes, wake up!"
Bucky's eyes flickered open to pale light and an equally pale face. He couldn't tell whether it was worry or excitement that he saw in Agent Carter's eyes; it might've been both.
"What's happening?" he asked, as words slurred on his tired tongue.
"The prisoners have just been fed. If Captain Rogers is going to make his move, he'll do it soon, and since you're a better shot than me with this rifle, I think you should be the one to use it."
"What? It's that time already? Why didn't you wake me sooner?!"
"You were sleeping quite soundly; it seemed a shame to wake you."
A shame! As if it was perfectly fine to let a guy sleep outside in the middle of Poland during an important mission! Besides, it wasn't as if he was still unwell and in need of bed rest.
He yawned as he pushed himself to his feet, and asked, "What's for breakfast?"
"Same as dinner yesterday. Rations and water." She held the rifle out towards him. "But with any luck, we'll be eating on the move. I suspect this is the moment we've been planning for."
He didn't bother arguing. He merely followed her back to the outcrop overlooking the camp, and rifled through the backpack for a ration bar while Agent Carter crawled forward with the binoculars. Mentally cursing the most uncomfortable waiting spot in the whole of Poland, Bucky joined her, stuffing a whole bar in his mouth to keep his hands free for his rifle. Carter gave him a look of utter disgust.
"Stark seth I hath to eath," he managed to get out around his mouthful of food.
"Oh, as if you need that excuse!" she scoffed. But it was a half-hearted scoff, and her attention was swiftly turned back to the camp.
Bucky settled his rifle into the crook of his arm and peered down the scope. It didn't take long for his arms to start aching. When he got back, he'd definitely be asking Stark for some sort of tripod on which to balance the gun for missions that involved a lot of waiting. That, and better-tasting ration bars.
He sensed the shift change by Agent Carter's tense position. She didn't need to narrate the activities in the camp below, but she did it anyway.
"It looks like the shift is about to change. Yes, the prisoners are being brought out from the barracks. And over there, the mine workers are being led out of the tunnel. Be ready, Sergeant."
Maybe it was because he was still sleepy, maybe it was because his mind still lingered in the dream, or maybe he just wasn't seeing a whole lot of tension down there in the camp, but he didn't feel ready. In fact, this felt more like a dream than the world full of falling stars.
He spotted Steve, down below. His face was dusty, his blond hair more grey after a stint in the mines. The other Commandos didn't look any better; they all moved stiffly, their muscles unused to such long hours of repetitive toil. The familiar sting of guilt bit into Bucky again. The guys were down there workin' hard, suffering at physical labour, while he was up here with a grand view and an ample supply of army rations. On the other hand, they'd only done a single shift in the mine. It was nothing compared to what the prisoners had gone through. Nothing compared to what Bucky had endured at Krausberg.
What had they had for breakfast? Cromwell had mentioned some sort of stew and sauerkraut. It didn't sound particularly appetising, but then, it probably couldn't be too much worse than ration bars.
"They're moving!"
Bucky quickly switched his focus from food back to his friends. Carter was right; they were moving towards the prisoner barracks. This time, there was no uncertain glancing, no nervous shuffling; everybody seemed to be confident in what they were doing, including the prisoners.
"It's not gonna happen now," Bucky said.
"Just give them a few more minutes," Carter countered. "There's still time."
But Steve and the others were heading into the barracks. Nobody so much as even glanced at the truck. The door closed behind them. The prisoners who'd rested overnight filed back into the mine, away from the sun's pale light for another twelve hours. What a terrible way to live.
"You were right," Carter admitted as she lowered the binoculars. It sounded like the most difficult admission she'd ever had to make. "He's going to act at night."
"Your reasoning was sound, though," he offered. "I bet he's got some new information that's made him decide to wait. Otherwise, it would've made just as much sense to act now."
"Either way, it looks like we have another twelve-hour wait." She rolled her shoulders and winced in pain. Clearly, the long hours of staring through the binoculars had taken their toll.
"Why don't you go and get some rest?" he offered. "I know you said you wouldn't be able to sleep, but at least stretch your legs, maybe take a walk down to the road to make sure it's still clear, and give your body a break. You want to be in best condition for the break-out, right?"
"I suppose that would be for the best," she agreed. "But you'll come and get me if anything happens?"
"Of course."
Getting Carter to agree to anything she hadn't thought of herself was like drawing blood from a stone, so he was pleasantly surprised when she took one of the ration bars from the backpack and ambled off downhill to stretch her legs. Now, it was Bucky's turn to be patient. He found a relatively comfortable tree to set his back against, and settled down with the binoculars for the long wait.
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Michael and the other prisoners were so exhausted that Steve let them sleep the day away. His own team weren't as mentally tired, but they were physically tired from the hard work, so they dozed fitfully as best they could. Steve desperately wished he had somebody to talk to. Somebody to go over the plans with one last time. Falsworth's calculated wisdom would've been most welcome, and Michael was a constant source of calmness… but he didn't have the heart to wake either man, so he sat in silence and tried not to dwell on everything that might go wrong. Hopefully, the plan was straightforward enough that there was little room for error. The prisoners knew what to do and when to do it, and earlier in the afternoon Steve had been out to flash another message to Bucky and Peggy. Everything was in place.
A couple of hours before the shift change, the prisoners began to wake. They wandered outside in twos and threes to grab a drink from the pump and a brief period of fresh winter air. Michael was one of the last to wake, and when he did, he sat up and blearily rubbed at his eyes.
"I had a strange dream that I was back home, in my own bed," he said. "A woman—not my mother—brought me breakfast in bed. I think it was my wife."
"What's so strange about that?" Steve asked.
"I'm not married." He stretched and pushed himself out of the lower bunk he called home. "That's one thing I'm looking forward to more than anything else. Breakfast in bed. A big fry-up. Sausages and bacon and eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms… and French toast. Do fry-ups still taste the same?"
"They've gotten a lot smaller," said Monty. "Because of rationing. But they do taste just as good, when one can get them."
Michael smiled. "Major, would you mind giving me a moment alone with Captain Rogers?"
Falsworth, ever the courteous gentleman, acquiesced immediately. "Of course not. I was about to go and get a drink of water anyway. I'll return before the shift change is due."
Alone in the gloom save for a few still-sleeping prisoners, Michael rested back against the wall of his bunk. Steve had a suspicion about what Michael wanted to discuss, but when the man spoke, it wasn't the words Steve was expecting.
"Those other prisoners you rescued… what became of them?"
"You've met some of them," Steve told him. "The Commandos were all prisoners in that work camp. But most of the men from the camp were sent home for R&R."
Michael nodded, as if Steve's reply confirmed his own suspicions. "And that will be our fate, too, should we make it home. Assigned to R&R, or demobilised entirely. We'll be put out to pasture like the injured and the infirm, left to sit by and watch while others fight."
"Just until you're recovered," said Steve. What he didn't say was that their recovery might take a very long time indeed.
"No need to mince words out of politeness, Captain Rogers." Michael gestured to the door leading outside, where his team were taking in the fresh air. "I look at my men and I see shadows of their former selves. The years in this place have taken a harsh toll on them; and on me, as well. It will take more than a fry-up and a few days of bed rest to see us back to health. We rely on you and your men to save us, and see us safely home. We'll return not as soldiers victorious in battle, but as prisoners broken and defeated."
Was that why Bucky hadn't wanted to go home for R&R? Steve had assumed his friend was being his usual stubborn self in refusing to comply with orders, but if the same fears had festered inside Bucky's heart, it was hardly surprising that he hadn't wanted to return home. Now that Michael had said the words, Steve could imagine Bucky going through the same thing. He hadn't been able to see it from Bucky's point of view, because he was too close to his friend, too worried for his safety. Sometimes, it was easier to hear the truth from strangers than from family.
"Captain, you and your men have risked everything for us," Michael continued. "But there is one final favour I must ask you for. When the attack begins, let me and my men assist you. Let us fight for our freedom alongside you."
Steve shook his head. Peggy would kill him. "It's far too dangerous. The weapons the guards carry are capable of disintegrating a man on the spot, and you and your men are not in any condition to fight."
"Please, Captain. This will be the last any of us will see of this war. Don't let us return home as defeated prisoners, but as men who were willing to fight until the last. I know the risk, we all do, and I won't force any of my men to fight. But for those who want to, and it is the majority of them, we would rather give our brief lives taking back our freedom, than spend the rest of them lamenting that we could not even lift a hand to help our saviours. I would rather die today than live another fifty years with that weight upon my shoulders, slowly grinding me down."
Michael's earnest desperation stopped Steve from saying 'no' on the spot. Though Peggy would no doubt have his head for it, he could easily understand Michael's feelings. How could he send these men home without their pride? Already, they faced a long road to recovery, and there were some things that doctors could not provide. But Steve could.
"Alright," he relented. "But you work as a team. Three of you to a guard. You don't tackle any groups, and you fall back with the other prisoners if things start to go sideways."
"Don't worry; we won't get in your way. We'll just take a little of the heat off you."
Michael stood and stretched, and as he walked to the door, there was a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. "I'm going to have my last drink of gritty water in the Godforsaken place. When we get home, I will take you and your men to the best pub in London, and we'll toast our victory together."
Lord, I hope so.
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Nightfall brought cloud, and Bucky was fine with that. He didn't need the moon and the stars to see by; the camp's floodlights provided all the illumination he required to make his shots. Those guards were sittin' ducks.
He checked his watch. Eight-thirty. Just a half hour until the shift change. Soon they'd all be heading back to England. But first, he had a job to do.
He crept to where Agent Carter was resting, in the same small hollow that he'd slept earlier. She'd finally managed to doze off, and had slept soundly for hours. A couple of hours after what should've been lunch time, Steve had appeared in the camp's yard, and signalled another message to him. Nightfall. Cover Michael. As if Bucky needed reminding of the personal mission Steve had given him.
At the hollow, he reached down to shake Agent Carter's shoulder. "Hey, Agent Carter, wake up."
She snapped out of sleep and onto her feet with such speed, that Bucky was reminded of a school trip to the zoo, where he'd seen a viper striking lightning-fast at the mouse the zookeepers put into its vivarium. Thank God she didn't have a gun in her hands!
"Sergeant Barnes?"
"Who else would be waking you up?"
"I don't know. It's dark. I can barely see a thing. What time is it? Why didn't you wake me sooner?"
Clearly, her eyes were still clouded by sleep. Sure, it was dark, but there was light enough to see the rocks on the ground and the outlines of the trees swaying in the wind.
"It's eight-thirty," he said. And, because he saw her open her mouth to upbraid him, "I didn't wake you sooner because I wanted you to be well-rested for the rescue. Steve's already sent me a message to say we're going ahead as planned, and I've been watching the camp like a hawk."
"Then we should get into position, just in case they move earlier than expected." They wouldn't move earlier than expected. Bucky had watched enough shift changes to know the HYDRA soldiers ran that place like clockwork. You had to say that about Germans; they were sticklers for time-keeping. "Which way back to the cliff?"
"This way," he said, turning.
"Sergeant, I can't see which way 'this way' is. You'll have to lead me."
Geez, maybe her eyes really were taking a long time to adapt to the darkness. No matter; they'd soon have a view of the camp and its floodlights that would ruin both their night vision.
He took her by the sleeve and guided her around loose stones, back to the overhang that had been their uncomfortable waiting place for the past two days. Creeping forward, he looked down his scope as Agent Carter employed the binoculars. When she spoke again, there was envy in her voice.
"I wish we'd brought another of those rifles. We would be twice as effective at taking out the guards."
"There wasn't room in the truck for another sniper rifle," he said, telling her what she already knew. "And Stark hasn't finished building the second weapon."
"I know. But I can still wish it."
He knew all too well how she felt. Until she could get a gun in her hands, she was effectively an observer. And observer who'd planned most of the logistics of the mission, but an observer no less. Perhaps there was something she could do, though.
"Would you mind calling out my shots?" he asked.
A quiet snort told him what she thought of that idea. "Sergeant, you're more than capable of finding and hitting your own targets."
"Yeah, but I'll only have a limited view of the camp." He'd already memorised and practiced—with the safety catch on—moving from one tower to the other in turn, and was pretty sure he could make the shots with even less lighting than what was available. "You'll be able to see more. You might see men in trouble, or you might be able to better call the shots to disorientate the guards. I'd hate to miss something important."
"Hmm. Well, I suppose that makes sense. The binoculars do have a much wider field of view than the rifle. Very well, you take the shots as you've planned, and I'll call out anything that needs your attention."
Movement down in the camp caught his eye. Though a few prisoners were milling around the water pump, this person moved with focus towards one of the guards. It was Monty! What the hell was he doing?
Monty and the guard spoke for a moment, and Bucky desperately wished he had some way of knowing what was being said. If this was part of Steve's plan, he hadn't mentioned it. Was the idea to coax the guard inside and jump him for his weapon? Was this a signal to Bucky to take out this guard first?
The guard turned and led Monty away, and Bucky's confusion deepened. He wished he had someone to give him some orders, but there was only Agent Carter, and she liked giving orders so much that the last thing he wanted to do was encourage her. Besides, maybe this was all a part of Steve's plan. If something had gone sideways, Steve would abort the rest of the plan. All Bucky had to do was keep watching, and be ready to act. Or not act, as the case may be.
He glanced briefly aside. Agent Carter's posture was rigid. He could've balanced a spirit level across her shoulders and found them perfectly level. He couldn't recall ever seeing her this tense before, not even after Wells tied her to a tree back in France. Pissed off, yes, but not tense.
"Do you ever get nervous before missions?" he asked.
"Not usually. Though I must admit that I'm feeling a certain level of trepidation over this one. I suppose that's only natural, when there's a personal investment. What about you? Any pre-mission nerves?"
"No. Not anymore." The more missions he went on, the easier they became. The more men he killed, the less the killing weighed on his conscience. There had been no easy introduction to war; he and the rest of the 107th had been thrust into it. They'd killed men and lost men on their very first mission. A baptism by fire. Besides, the piece of him that regretting having to kill had been left behind on some cold metal table, and he wouldn't get it back until he'd put a few bullets into the man who'd taken it.
A blare of sound came thundering from the camp, forcing Bucky to put aside all thoughts of Zola and revenge. For the moment, there was only the mission.
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Not long after Monty left for his meeting with the camp's kommandant, the guards arrived to escort the prisoners to the mine. Michael managed to slink away in the direction of the electric fence. His intention was to activate the device's timer and throw it over the fence to prevent the guards discovering it quickly. Noise coming from outside the fence would seem like a genuine attack, rather than an internal distraction.
Steve didn't have long to wait. No sooner had Michael returned to the group when the most atrocious noise came blaring from a couple of dozen feet outside the fence: Captain America, ordering his enemies to stand down, to the tune of one of his shows. One of Stark's more embarrassing inventions.
The effect on the camp was immediate. Guards began yelling and hurrying towards the source of the cacophony. Spotlights were swung in the direction of the sound. Shots were fired into the darkness. Steve could not have hoped for a more convincing distraction.
"Quickly," he hissed to the remaining Commandos. "To the truck!"
The prisoners were well-informed. Steve and his team dodged emaciated men who fled to pre-arranged hiding places. Those who'd come out of the mine turned back and ran into it; their guards ignored them, because once in the mine, they were effectively trapped.
"Captain Rogers! Over here!"
The call drew Steve's attention to the facility's large garage; Antoni was waiting for him beside their commandeered truck. He'd already made a start on recovering the weapons, and handed the smaller sidearms over to Jones, Dernier and Morita.
"Where is Major Falsworth?" he asked.
"Dealing with the kommandant. He'll join us as soon as he's able."
"Good. It won't take them long to realise this is merely a ruse. Soon, we will need every pair of hands capable of carrying a weapon."
"Where's Pawel? I thought the two of you would be sticking together."
"Pawel decided it would be better for one of us to keep an eye on Weimer. He does not handle stress very well. He has been sweating profusely since we arrived. Here, Captain. I believe this is yours."
Antoni tossed him the shield Stark had made for him, and he smiled at its familiar weight. As far as he was concerned, the shield was worth a dozen pistols. Though he was still getting used to fighting with it, he could imagine endless possibilities. If he threw it just so, it would fly in an arc and return to his hand. Depending on how much force he put into the throw, the shield could perform a gentle flight, or knock a man clean off his feet.
The last weapon produced was Dugan's shotgun. The guy was even more attached to that gun than Steve was to his shield. Ol' Reliable, he called it, on account of how many times it had saved his life.
"Is everybody ready?" Steve asked. He received a round of 'aye' and 'yes' and 'oui' in return.
"I just hope Sleeping Beauty isn't dozing on the job."
"Even if he was," said Morita, "the sound of Cap ordering a surrender oughta have woken him by now."
"Alright, let's do this," said Steve. He accepted the pistol offered by Antoni, and led the way out into chaos.
The noise-maker was still active, but it was being ignored by men who were frantically firing at random into the empty air around them. Steve didn't have to wonder why for very long; a pained cry from above was followed by a body dropping like a sack of stones. The Commandos scattered, and the body hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Judging by the hole in his chest, the guy had been dead before impact. A small mercy.
Another guard fell, his outline clear to Steve's enhanced eyes. Bucky was certainly creating an effective distraction. The camp guards couldn't pinpoint his location; perhaps they thought there were multiple shooters. It was a perfect time to strike.
He threw his shield horizontally towards one of the guards on the ground. It hit the man's head, bounced off his helmet, and returned straight to Steve's hand. He threw it again, this time up at one of the towers, and dislodged a supportive wooden beam. The two men atop it wobbled and clung on for dear life as the structure began to lean.
Several figures rushed from the shadows towards the falling tower; Michael and his men took quick advantage of the situation, clambering over the broken frame to knock out the guards and take their guns.
Another guard came running around a corner of a building, and Steve had no chance to call out a warning as the man pulled the trigger of his weapon. A flash of blinding white light shot through the air towards Michael's group, and his stomach lurched. The English soldiers threw themselves aside; too slow. One was engulfed in flame that did not burn, and his scream echoed inside Steve's head even after his body had been vapourised into nothingness.
"Michael!" Steve ran towards the men. Bullets whizzed past him. One grazed his shoulder. He ignored the pain. Pain was nothing. He would sooner suffer all the pain in the world, than tell Peggy her brother had been killed. That there wasn't even a body to take back and bury.
One by one, the Brits picked themselves up. Steve rushed through them, checking every face, as around him the screams of the dying rang out.
"Where's Michael?!" Steve demanded.
"I'm here."
The familiar voice was like a glass of cold water on a burning hot day. Michael cradled his left wrist in his right hand as he pushed himself up from the splintered ruins of the guard tower, but he was alive.
"We lost Turner," one of Michael's men said.
"Captain Rogers, look out!"
The look in Michael's eyes had Steve turning even before the verbal warning. He spun on the spot, towards the HYDRA soldier stood with his weapon pointing straight at his head. He drew back his arm, knowing even before he could release the shield that it was too late. That he would be dead before the shield even left his hand.
Another bright flash of light. Steve closed his eyes… but the moment of pain did not come. When he opened his eyes, when the after-image of the flash cleared, the soldier was gone. Standing off to the side was Falsworth, his nose bloody, one eye swollen, with one of the enemy rifles in his hands.
"Sorry I'm late, Captain. The kommandant was a rather vicious fighter, for such a small man. Coincidentally, I think my nose may be broken."
"No need to apologise, Major. You arrived in the nick of time. Now, take Captain Carter and his men, and secure the vehicles. We're going to need them all to get out of Poland." And that should keep the English prisoners out of trouble.
Monty saluted and led Michael and his men towards the garage. Steve turned his focus back to the rest of the battle. Dernier and Morita were tackling a group of guards who'd holed up in the soldiers' barracks. Dugan and Jones, meanwhile, had taken shelter beside the prisoner barracks, where they were pinned down by a group of guards. Men still fell from above as Bucky continued to take his shots, but Steve could tell that his best friend didn't have a line of sight on the guards keeping Dugan and Jones in place. Steve would have to deal with them himself. He drew back his arm, and prepared to throw his shield.
Keen reflexes, or perhaps an act of providence, told Steve to duck and roll at the last moment. His action saved his life; the bolt of weapons fire that would've erased him from existence instead hit the bare ground. The shield flew from his grip even before he'd regained his feet, cutting through the air towards the source of the weapons fire. It hit the soldier square in the chest, sending him flying backwards.
A roar of defiance thundered from the mine, followed by the rumble of footsteps. Two dozen Jewish prisoners rushed forward, towards the guards nearest to them, uncaring of the bolts of destruction cutting through their ranks as they wrestled their captors to the ground.
Didn't anybody listen to Steve's plans?!
"Get back into the mines!" he yelled at them. They promptly ignored him.
The remaining guards fell swiftly; they stood little chance against the combined force of the Commandos, the now-armed Jewish prisoners, and Bucky's lethal accuracy. Mere moments after the Jews stormed the yard, the last of the guards was captured. Though Steve didn't know what the final death toll would be, he knew it was above the threshold for acceptable losses.
He strode over the bullet-ridden bodies that littered the ground, all of them HYDRA. Those hit by the guards' weapons had no bodies left to bury.
"What were you thinking?" Steve asked Steinberg. The man had a weapon in his hands, though he held it tentatively. "You were supposed to leave the fighting to us. You were supposed to stay safe."
"Captain Carter told us his team would be partaking in the battle," Steinberg countered patiently. "We could not sit by and do nothing. Most men here have lost everything: their homes, their families, and everything they ever held dear. Many of us have nothing to go back to. Nothing to hope for, except perhaps that justice will one day be meted out to our captors—if any of us even survive that long. For many of us, this was our final act of defiance. One last chance to show the Nazis that the Jewish people will not go quietly to the end of our days, no matter when or where that end might be. I offer no apology, Captain Rogers, and I expect no forgiveness."
"Alright, I understand where you're coming from. Just get your people together. We need to move as soon as we have the trucks ready."
As Steinberg started to organise the Jewish survivors, Steve made a round of the camp. A few prisoners had been taken, though they didn't survive long. Those damned cyanide pills again. Just like in New York.
"It's a thing that they do," Jones explained, after Steve's first failed attempt to question one of the guards ended with the man choking on his own bile. "We travelled the whole of France without managing to capture a single one alive."
As unpleasant as it was to see men biting down on suicide pills, it did at least solve one problem: Steve wouldn't have to ponder the conundrum of what to do with the guards taken prisoner. And he wouldn't have to listen to Bucky offer to 'clean up' the mess again. It was a small thing to be grateful for.
When the final cost of the rescue came in, it made for grim listening. As well as Michael's man, Turner, six Jewish prisoners had lost their lives, along with Pawel. In the absence of a body for identification, the latter was related by a very pale-faced Weimer.
"He died saving my life," the German scientist explained in a croaky voice. "We were firing at the guards, and one of them turned his gun towards me. Pawel jumped in front of me, and the beam of light took him."
"Death has been a constant companion in this camp," said Steinberg. "I wish that she would be satisfied with this final meal, but I fear that we will see her again before this is over."
"Not if I can help it," said Steve. He turned to Dugan and Jones. "Go through the guard barracks. Bring out any spare uniforms you can find. Steinberg, can you gather the other prisoners and meet me at the garage?"
"Of course, Captain. We will be ready to leave on your command."
Inside the flimsy wooden garage, Monty and Michael's team were making the vehicles ready for departure. Monty stepped away from the work to offer Steve a sitrep.
"We've filled all the tanks with petrol, and done our best to make the backs of these things comfortable with a few spare blankets we found in storage, but I'm afraid it's going to be a cold ride for the prisoners. One of the lorries also lacks a spare tyre, so we'll have to hope that the four it has remain in good condition during the journey."
"Good work, Major. I've asked Dugan and Jones to gather guard uniforms and bring them here. When they do, we'll change into their clothes, so that we can pose as guards during our journey. In the meantime, will you take care of sending a message across the radio?"
"Just leave it to me. I'll send a convincing message."
Monty darted off, leaving Steve to survey the activity across the camp. This mission had taken longer than anticipated, and the losses had been higher than he'd hoped, but it could've gone much worse. At least Michael was still alive. So many families had been torn apart by this war, that it would be good to see one put back together.
Author's note: Steve and Danny thank you for the birthday wishes, passing guest reviewer!