We Were Soldiers

98. Homeward Bound

The trek down the hill took forever. Every step seemed to last a lifetime. Peggy wished she had the power to leap from its height and land safely beside the road… but a part of her savoured the delays. Soon, very soon, she would see her brother again. She would have to face him, and tell him that he'd been right. And he would know that she'd given up on him. Mourned him, and moved on. Would he ever be able to forgive her? Even if he could, should he? He had every right to be furious and disappointed with her.

"C'mon Agent Carter." Sergeant Barnes' features were barely discernible in the darkness as he looked back over his shoulder. "We can't miss the rendezvous."

How on Earth had he got so far ahead? Surely she hadn't slowed her pace by that much, had she? It didn't matter. She jogged the distance to catch up with him, and let him lead the way down to the road. As she walked, she tried not to dwell on what might be. All she could do—all anybody—could do, was deal with events as they arose. Perhaps somehow, somewhere, an alternative universe existed, in which Michael never made it out of the camp alive. She was glad it was a universe she did not have to live in.

Beside the road they waited under cover of the trees. Normally a fan of silence, she now longed to escape it. To fill the moments with something other than thoughts of what she would say to Michael. Every time her mind strayed there, it went blank. She, who had never struggled for words, was at a loss about what to say to her brother.

"That was some very good shooting," she offered. "Howard would've been very impressed with your proficiency." Indeed, Sergeant Barnes had taken shot after shot with rhythmic efficiency, each shot sending its target departing swiftly from the world of the living. According to her count, he hadn't missed a single one.

He merely shrugged at her praise. "I just wish the rifle had a faster rate of fire. I'm pretty sure I could've done better if I'd had time to take more shots."

How much he had changed, since France. She remembered a man made queasy by his first kill. Now, his greatest regret was not that he'd had to take a life; it was that he hadn't been able to take more. That was the true toll the war took on soldiers. Not the losses that it inflicted on their friends and allies, but the losses it inflicted upon them. War would take the soul of any man who allowed it. When they returned to England, she would speak to Steve about helping Sergeant Barnes to find something else to fight for.

The chug of an engine further up the road stopped her thoughts in their tracks. Sergeant Barnes moved, but Peggy reached out to grab his arm and prevent him from standing.

"It may not be our people," she hissed.

"It's a road that leads only to the camp. Who else is gonna be coming down it at this time of night?"

He was right. She wasn't thinking logically. Thoughts of Michael were occupying her mind. There was nobody but Steve and his team left in that camp. She'd seen for herself, through the lenses of the binoculars, the carnage wrought during the fierce but brief battle. All HYDRA personnel were dead. Several prisoners had been killed too. At one point, a guard had fired at Michael's team, and Peggy's whole world had come momentarily crashing down. Then, the dust had settled, and Michael had appeared, and Peggy had simultaneously cursed him for his foolishness and thanked God for his survival.

She let go of Sergeant Barnes' arm and followed him onto the road. The truck slowed, and as it did, she spotted another pair of headlights behind it, and another behind that. When all three vehicles had stopped, Steve jumped out the back of the lead truck—and another figure followed. A figure that, until now, Peggy had only seen from a distance.

"Michael?"

He stepped forward, into the pale beam of the truck's headlights, and Peggy's breath caught in her throat. Even standing in front of her, she barely recognised the pale, emaciated man as her own brother. Her brother had never worn a beard, and his hair had always been immaculately combed into place. Her brother had enjoyed playing cricket and football; this man looked like the effort of holding a bat would be to much for his body to bear. Her brother had been tall and strong and full of life; this walking skeleton's shoulders were stooped beneath the weight of years of captivity.

"Look at you," said Michael. "My little sister, all grown up."

Tears welled in her eyes, until all she saw was a blurry shadow in front of the truck lights. He may not have looked like Michael, or moved like Michael, but he sounded like Michael. The long years of deprivation had not silenced his voice.

She stepped forward, letting him pull her into a fierce hug that she dared not return for fear of hurting his frail body. The smell of blood and sweat and everything bad drifted from his threadbare clothes to her nose, and fresh tears fell. None of it mattered. She'd bring him home. He'd be able to eat and bathe and wash away all that had happened in the camp, burying it beneath a blanket of comfort until he was fully recovered. Until she looked at him and saw the man her brother used to be. Perhaps that would be enough to quench the fires of her guilt.

"I knew I'd see you again," he whispered. "I knew I'd get a chance to make things right."

"You're here," she said, pulling away to look into his eyes. They, like his voice, had not changed. There was still a spark of life left in them. "That's right enough for me."

Steve stepped into view, his forehead creased with worry-lines. "I'd love to give the two of you more time, but we really need to get going. If we can make it to the rendezvous point before dawn, we stand a much greater chance of getting away without interference."

"Of course." Letting go of her brother was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. Now that she'd found him, all she wanted was to wrap him in swaddling and keep him safe in her arms until she could deliver him to her parents. If she could do that, if she could get him home and see him brought back from death's door… well, half the war was won. Where there was hope for one man, there was hope for all. "Come back into the truck," she said. "Sergeant Barnes and I have a backpack full of hardtack that you and the other prisoners can make use of."

"So long as you don't mind the taste of cardboard," said Barnes, from over her shoulder.

"You must be Captain Rogers' best man," said Michael, offering his hand.

"His best friend, certainly," said Barnes, shaking his hand. "Best man probably depends on who you ask. And just for the record, don't believe anything Dugan tells you. The man's a pathological liar."

Before Dugan could offer an interjection and delay their departure even further, Peggy chivvied her brother back into the truck, and clambered inside to join him. The sight inside was one of wretched despair. Many sat and lay wherever they could find space, their frail bodies crammed in like cattle to the slaughterhouse. The stench of so many dying and unwashed bodies made her eyes water, and not out of pity. This was going to be a long ride home.

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In the darkness of the truck, the snores were deafening as thunder. Peggy bit down on her lip to stop herself speaking out and suggesting they wake the sleeping men. These men needed sleep, and the snoring wasn't so loud that it would be heard from the road.

Their route back to their rendezvous point had hit a bump in the night. At one of the checkpoints they'd previously passed through without issue, a large force of Nazis had gathered. Steve had counted a dozen vehicles of all sizes, and a company of men. None of them could think of any good reason for their force to be there, save for the commotion they'd caused at the HYDRA camp. Steve had taken Falsworth, Dernier and Dugan, all dressed in their purloined HYDRA uniforms, for a stealthy closer look at what was happening at the checkpoint. Morita and Jones, who were never going to be able to pass as HYDRA soldiers even if they wore the uniform, were with the prisoners in one of the other trucks, whilst Sergeant Barnes slept in the back of the truck Peggy and Michael shared with a dozen other prisoners. The fact that he mumbled quietly in his sleep told Peggy that he was really sleeping, and not just faking it.

"How are mother and father?" Michael asked quietly, so as not to wake those who'd found the comfort of slumber. "And don't give me a platitude. Tell me how they really are."

"They're coping," she admitted. "Father works longer hours than he ever has before, and mother keeps busy with her volunteering. She organises womens' events, in support of the war effort. I only get chance to visit every few months, but I must admit, the house I grew up in no longer feels like home to me."

Michael nodded along to her sentiment, then too-casually, added, "And Fred? He's well?"

She reined in the urge to kick him. Healthy Michael would've laughed at her defiance. POW-Michael would probably have his leg broken by it.

"I've only spoken to him once, since calling off the wedding. And that was to return the ring. We didn't exactly exchange pleasantries."

"If it's any consolation, I'm sorry things didn't work out between you. Though I must admit," he said, giving her a familiar old cheeky smile, "I like your new man a lot more."

"My 'new man'?"

"Captain Rogers."

How presumptuous! She scoffed loudly, and opened her mouth to correct him. But before she could even get her first word out, he interrupted her intended tirade.

"Oh, don't give me that, little sister. When he speaks of you, he's like a blushing schoolboy with a crush, so at first I thought his feelings were unrequited. But I saw the look in your eyes as you watched him take a team to go reconnoitre that Nazi checkpoint; that was genuine concern I saw there."

"It's not like that," she countered. "We're not like that."

"Then maybe you should be. If you like this man, and he likes you, then you shouldn't let anything stand in your way. Not life, nor death, nor war. You owe it to yourself to find as much happiness as you can in this world, and hold on to it with every ounce of your strength."

"Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" she asked. His words were so unlike his parting shots at her, that it was hard to believe they were spoken by the same man.

"I just got a little perspective, is all. When you're facing death in a Nazi stalag, it kinda makes everything else seem… trivial."

Though she had never been in that situation herself, she could see his point. How many regrets had he lived in that camp? How many lost opportunities? The man who had come out of that camp was different to the one who had gone in. She would have to get to know her brother all over again. Just as she's told Steve, and his pig-headed best friend, that they would have to get to know the new men they had each become during their trials. How ironic, that her advice should come back to haunt her like this.

"What do you think of him?" she asked. "Captain Rogers, I mean."

"He seems a humble man," her brother replied. "Subtle as a sledgehammer, though I've yet to meet an American who understands the meaning of the word 'subtlety.'"

Humble. Yes. It was a description that fit Steve perfectly. He'd grown up poor, his mother his only family, and had put himself through college. Fame, rather than going to his head, had grounded him even further, and he was completely oblivious to the envious glances of men and the lustful stares of women. In his head, Steve Rogers was still the studious, shy kid from Brooklyn.

"I get the feeling that there's more to the Captain than meets the eye," Michael continued. At which Peggy could only smile.

Speaking of the devil, Steve and his team returned from their reconnaissance, and none of them looked happy about what they'd found. He called a meeting of the Commandos, and Dugan trotted off to the other trucks, to bring out Morita and Jones. Steve himself shook Barnes' leg until his friend awoke, bleary-eyed and yawning widely. As Steve dove in to his report, Barnes rooted through the backpack full of equipment, pulled out two ration bars, and ate them both.

"It's a fairly large gathering," said Steve. "While we watched, a couple of the vehicles took about a dozen Nazis off down the eastern road, but the remainder don't look like they're going anywhere. They're camped on either side of the road. The road which happens to be the only route to our rendezvous point in Prussia."

"Can we cut across country?" asked Michael, who'd invited himself to the meeting because he was an inquisitive busy-body. Nothing at all like Peggy.

Steve shook his head. "The terrain's too rough, and there are too many of these dense woodlands. We'd have to go on foot, and it's a long way. Even if my team could make it, the majority of the prisoners wouldn't."

"We need a diversion," said Barnes, swallowing the last of the second ration bar. "Something to draw them away from the checkpoint."

"We could parade you out there," Dugan suggested. "Awe them with how much food you can eat in one sitting."

Barnes flipped him the Vs.

"A diversion is a good idea," said Michael, right before Peggy could say it. She quickly clamped her mouth closed. Michael was insufferable when he knew he was right. "What did you have in mind, Sergeant Barnes?"

Barnes shrugged. "An explosion. Something big and flashy, to get their attention."

"That would be a great idea, if only we had something explodable," said Morita.

"Last I checked, gasoline was highly combustible, and we have three tanks full of the stuff."

Morita scratched his head. "Oh yeah. I forgot about that."

Steve stood up, and all heads swivelled in his direction. "I have a plan."

Barnes groaned. "Last time you said that, we ended up riding back home from Coney Island in a freezer truck."

"Actually, that was your plan."

"Alright, alright," said Dugan. "We can stroll down memory lane when we're back on friendly soil. Besides, we all know Barnes' plans are terrible. Let's hear what you've got, Cap."

"An explosion isn't going to be enough to draw the majority of the enemy forces away. Even if some of them go to check it out, others will stay behind. They might even send a message calling for backup. What we need, is something for them to chase. I could take the smallest of the trucks and use it to ram right through the checkpoint, breaking the barrier and giving the troops a reason to come after me."

Barnes raised his hand and yelled, "Shotgun!"

Even before he spoke, Steve shook his head. "Sorry, Buck, but I need you and the rest of the team to escort the men we've rescued to the rendezvous point. Besides, for what I have in mind, it might be too difficult for anyone else to pull off."

"I already hate this plan, then."

"What else did you have in mind?" asked Falsworth. "I hope you don't intend to let them catch you."

"I intend to lead them on a chase away from your route, then take the truck as far into a wooded area as possible before lighting the tank." He turned to Dernier. "Jacques, could you rig me some sort of fuse to ignite?"

A childish grin crept across Dernier's face. The man truly was a menace with explosives. "Bien entendu. Easy."

"Hey, why don't we use the noise-maker as well?" said Jones. "I recovered it after the fight at the camp. Stick it on the hood of the truck and have it blaring out as you drive through the checkpoint."

"Oh sure," Barnes scoffed. "And why doesn't he hang out the driver's window and take shots at them while he's at it?"

Steve, in that sweet, innocent way of his, nodded his head and took the suggestions entirely seriously. He patted the gun at his hip. "I do have some bullets left. And the noise-maker will definitely help get their attention."

"I do hate to be the voice of reason, Captain," said Falsworth, though he said it with some amount of regret, "but I think I have spotted a flaw in your plan. If you blow up the truck, how will you reach the rendezvous point?"

"I'll steal a vehicle from one of my pursuers. Or I'll steal the first one I come across. Drive it as far as I can, and go the rest of the way on foot."

"On foot? That's crazy!" said Barnes. "You'll never make it to the rendezvous in time."

That stubborn look flared in Steve's eyes. The same look that's appeared every time Hodge had kicked him down during testing for Project Rebirth. The look that said Steven Grant Rogers was not going to be told 'no.'

"I will make it," he said. "And if by some chance I don't, the rest of you will take the boat back to Gotland and I'll find another way of getting home."

"Like Hell you will!" Barnes was on his feet as fast as the scowl appeared on his face. "We don't leave people behind. Ever. That's the rule."

"I have to agree with Her Highness," said Dugan, gesturing with his thumb in Barnes' direction. "We go in as a team and come out as a team."

"Hear hear," said Falsworth.

"I'm not going back to England to tell Phillips we left Captain America in Poland," said Morita. The 'Captain America' part got a questioning glance from Michael, who probably hadn't been brought up to speed on Steve's abilities yet, but nobody took him on.

"You know, I could order you to go on ahead without me," said Steve.

"And then have us court-martialled for mutinying on our second mission?" asked Jones.

"You cannot do distraction without my 'elp," Dernier added. "If we must leave you behind, I not 'elp."

"For whatever my opinion is worth," Michael spoke up, "if your plan requires you to potentially sacrifice yourself, it's a bad plan. We should find another way."

Steve threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine! You've all made your points. I'll be at the rendezvous point, and you better make sure you wait for me. In fact, I'll probably be there before you. Try not to keep me waiting too long, alright? Now, if there are no more objections, can we please start making preparations? Jones, Falsworth, Carter—Captain, that is—empty that small Czech truck and get all the prisoners transferred to the other vehicles. Dugan, Morita, help Dernier with whatever he needs to get a fuse system set up, and transfer some of the fuel to the other trucks, I don't want them running dry before you get to the rendezvous, and they'll be carrying more weight now."

"I have a question," said Peggy. "How will you steal a vehicle?"

"Well, uh, I'll jump inside and drive it."

"And if there's no key? Do you know how to hotwire an engine?"

"Y'know, I left basic training before we covered that subject."

"Then I suppose I'll have to show you. That way you've no reason not to make the rendezvous, have you?"

"I… uh… you make a good point. I'd be grateful if you could teach me how to steal a vehicle." A sheepish grin tugged at his lips. "Mom would be so proud to hear me say that."

She led him to the nearest truck, and instructed him to pull away the protective panel covering the engine ignition wires. Not realising his own strength, he pulled the panel away, and snapped off part of the dashboard with it.

"Err, I hope that wasn't anything important," he offered.

Luckily, it wasn't, though the vehicle's horn would never work again.

"Lean in a little closer, so you can see," she told him as she pulled a flashlight from her pocket.

The man who was ready to take on a whole platoon of Nazis by himself leaned forward so gingerly that he seemed afraid of even touching her. Did he think she might take offence? Sure he knew her better than that.

"You're going to have to come a little closer, Captain, if you want to see which wires you'll need to find. I promise, I won't bite."

"It's not that," he said quickly. Then, more hesitantly, "I sorta took a bullet, back at the camp. It went through, but my shoulder hasn't healed up yet."

Fool man! How could he expect to carry out this crazy mission if he was injured? She shone the flashlight at him, and he winced at the brightness.

"Why didn't you mention this before? I'll have a look at your injury. Take off your shirt." He stared open-mouthed, so she added, "Captain, I've seen you without your shirt on before."

"I know, but this is hardly the time or place to be doing this. I promise, once we're safely on the boat, you can poke at my shoulder all you like. It will probably be healed by then anyway. Right now, I need you to show me how to hotwire an engine so that I can get going before more of the night is wasted."

She sighed. Should've known he'd be stubborn about it. He and Barnes really were two of a kind. "Very well. Since your shoulder isn't causing you enough pain that it warrants first aid, I'm sure you'll have no problem leaning in to see what I'm doing with these wires. I don't want you accidentally shorting something out and getting yourself stranded."

He rose to the challenge admirably, leaning in so close that his shoulder brushed against hers in a stark reminder of how much bigger he was than every other man. It was a wonder the HYDRA uniform fit him as it did without coming apart at the seams. She could still remember seeing him emerge from the vita-ray cradle, and how every jaw in the room had dropped; even hers. When a nurse handed over a shirt, it was one several times larger than the one he'd taken off only moments earlier. If only those women who fawned over Captain America could've seen Steve Rogers before the serum. None of them would've looked twice.

Perhaps Michael was right. Life was often too short and too unpredictable. Maybe it was time to admit that she did have feelings for Steve. She always had, since the moment she saw him struggling to pass the SSR's tests. Watching him try desperately to earn the respect he deserved was like looking back in time, at her own life's journey. Yes, the SOE had wanted women to work as operatives, but what they had really wanted, just like the rest of society, was obedient women. Brave women, yes, but women who would follow orders and not deviate from plans even if the situation warranted it. The SSR allowed more flexibility. It was a better option, even if she did have to fight for every inch she could get.

"I was thinking," she said, as casually as she could manage, "perhaps when we return home, we should go out for dinner one night."

Steve straightened up so fast that he clunked his head on the inside of the door frame. Wincing as he rubbed the sore spot, he asked, "You mean… like… well, on a date?"

"Yes, though it could be dinner between friends, if you prefer."

"No, a date is fine. Better than fine. It would be great. To go on a date. With you. I've been wanting to ask for some time, but I wasn't sure if the timing was right."

"The timing may never be right. We could wake up one day to find that time has passed us completely by, and the opportunity has gone forever."

"I couldn't agree more." He smiled, and the sincerity of it made her heart skip a beat. "Just so long as we don't have to dance."

"I promise there will be no dancing," she agreed. "Maybe even no music. I won't even so much as hum a tune."

She finished showing him the fine art of hotwiring an engine, and they returned to the waiting group. Sergeant Barnes' grin and wink at Steve was beyond childish. Michael was right; Americans did not understand subtlety at all.

"The noise-maker's rigged up on a five minute timer," said Jones. "Should give you plenty of time to get into position."

Dernier handed over a cigarette lighter. "Is not so much 'fuse', as 'rags.' Once you light, perhaps thirty seconds before fuel tank ignites. Maybe less. Don't be near explosion this time, comprendre?"

"Yeah, I comprendre," said Steve. He just wasn't taking this seriously at all. The man thought that just because he'd survived a couple of explosions in the past, that he was invincible. The bullet that had gone through his shoulder ought to be evidence enough that he was not as invincible as he might've believed. "Give me a ten minute head start, then head out to the road. Hopefully by then, I'll have the majority of the troops a couple of miles away. If there are any guards left, ignore them. Don't stop, not even if they shoot. Just keep going. I'll meet you at the rendezvous point."

"I still think I should be going with you," said Barnes.

"No offence, Buck, but you'd only slow me down. Anybody would. This is something I gotta do alone. Don't worry, I won't do anything too stupid."

The two men hugged briefly, and the rest of the Commandos saluted. Peggy wanted to slap them all for putting on such brave faces when their Captain was off on some lunatic mission, but she was doing exactly the same. She wanted to hug him tightly and tell him to be careful or else, but the brave face wasn't for everybody else's benefit; it was for hers. She couldn't afford to let fear and doubt creep in.

They watched as Steve climbed into the rickety old truck, their reliable chariot, and started the engine. They watched until he'd driven down the feeble earthen road to where the line of concrete provided a swifter journey. As the truck disappeared from sight, Michael asked, "What did he mean when he said anybody with him would slow him down?"

"Come and sit down," Peggy said, taking him by his arm. "That's a long story."

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When Steve had come up with his great diversionary plan, he had negated to factor one thing into his calculations: Real Life was not like the movies. In his head, Steve had pictured the whole plan from start to finish. First, he would tear towards the checkpoint, engine roaring, noise-maker blaring heroically, smash straight through the barrier—which would invariably splinter into a thousand pieces and maybe disable a few guards in the process—and then go thundering down the road while the Nazis scrambled to chase. The pursuit would be swift and intense. Steve would look in his rear view mirror and see their headlights far behind him. He'd put his foot down, and the Germans would try their darnedest to keep up.

The plan had not started out badly. The engine roared, because it was Czech, and probably under considerable strain. The noise-maker… well, it blared out, but it seemed to have gotten wet, so that his voice sounded garbled, as if yelled from underwater, and the background music was off-pitch. The crowds would not have been impressed.

The wooden barrier splintered, but not as cleanly or as destructively as he would've liked. The whole truck shook with the force of the impact, and the front bumper was ripped off at one side. It dragged along the road, sparks flying beneath, for almost a mile before it finally gave in to friction and fell off completely.

Now, the pursuit had truly begun, and he didn't have to look in his rear view mirror to see his opponents. German engineering turned out to be quite good, and the vehicles kept up with the truck very well. Every so often, one would draw level, and the Nazi in the passenger seat would take a few shots at him. Ducking took him out of harm's way, but also meant he couldn't see the road. The first time he lost sight of it, it curved to the left while the truck continued straight. He felt bad when he side-swiped an enemy jeep and sent it tumbling over and over down an embankment. Then he remembered that these men wanted to kill him, and he felt a little less bad about it. The next time a jeep drew along-side, he swerved into it, grateful that Czech engineering, whilst not particularly speedy, was very robust.

As another vehicle fell back to a more respectable distance, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. Then, something went BANG! The truck began to list like a small boat taking on water.

"Shoot," he grumbled, as he fought the steering wheel to keep the truck straight.

BANG!

The second rear tyre was shot out, but at least the truck was no longer tilting. Still, the two front wheels were dragging all the weight, the judging by the way the engine was screaming in complaint, he knew he couldn't keep this up much longer. Time to blow stuff up, and hope that not every mission he went on would end in an explosion.

Up ahead, he spotted a small access road. He'd purposely dimmed his headlights, to preserve his night-vision, and the road was as clear to him as it would've been in broad daylight. He kept his speed up until he was almost at the junction, then swerved tightly onto it. What tyres were still left squealed angrily, and the whole thing almost rolled onto its side. It seemed the only thing keeping the truck going at his point was his own force of will, and he wasn't sure how much longer that would last.

Reaching down, he groped for the large stone he'd put there earlier, and when he found it, he quickly pulled his foot off the accelerator and put the stone there instead.

"Just keep going a little longer," he said, patting the steering wheel. "I promise your sacrifice won't be in vain, and you'll get a viking funeral. Well, the fiery part of it, at least."

Thinking fast, he removed his purloined belt from his trousers and used it to lash the steering wheel to the headrest of his seat, so that the truck would at least stay fairly straight. Then, he turned, and pulled the lighter from his pocket. Dernier had done a good, if strange, job. The fuse was a length of rags that'd been torn into narrow strips, tied together, and doused in gasoline. The whole thing draped over every high surface and snaked across the floor before disappearing into a small gap that probably fed straight in to the gas tank. This had probably been the only way to give Steve enough time to get away from the explosion. It was some pretty good thinking from Dernier, to say he'd been put on the spot and forced to improvise.

"This one's for all the guys who didn't make it out of the camp," Steve whispered. He struck the lighter, and a flame danced to life.

The truck rocked violently as a wheel found a pothole, and Steve was knocked off balance. The lighter slipped from his grasp and landed on the floor in front of him… right beside the mid-point of the fuse.

He held his breath. One flicker, and the gas-soaked rag would go up in flames. Please don't, please don't, he desperately pleaded with it as he reached tentatively forward.

But it did. Perhaps just to spite him. Perhaps because its cousin-explosions hadn't managed to do more than singe him the last times. The flame jumped from the lighter, straight onto the rag. Steve's heart started flailing in his chest.

"Double shoot!"

He scurried back into the cab, braced his upper body against the passenger seat, and swung both legs to kick the driver's door open. The scenery flew by, rocks and trees and bushes of the thorny variety, but he had no choice. It was now or never, and he couldn't afford never: he had a date with Peggy to keep!

Her smiling face flashed before his eyes as he leapt from the cab, giving him the strength and courage to do something stupid. Again.

The ground greeted him with a full-body handshake, but he had no time to think about his pain. He let the momentum of the fall carry him, rolling him down a short embankment until he hit the bottom and had the wind knocked out of his lungs. In the darkness, the Nazis missed his departure, and kept following the truck until, just a few seconds after Steve hit the ground, the whole thing exploded in a brilliant fireball that engulfed vehicles and foliage alike.

"Dernier, I owe you one," Steve said. He pushed himself to his feet, checked for broken bones, brushed the dirt from his HYDRA uniform—or rather, smeared the dirt around on it—and set off in the direction of the explosion. Hopefully, one of the vehicles would be suitably unscathed. Otherwise, he knew at least half a dozen people who were going to be really pissed at him.

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Bucky pointedly didn't bite his thumbnail as he sat watching the road to the dock. Over the horizon, the first light of morning was lazily making its way across the sky. Soon, very soon, that light would come rolling into the bay, and the small ship would become visible to the naked eye.

As if to prove that point, one of the crewmen jumped down from the deck and jogged to where he and Peggy sat on the harbour wall, keeping their own private vigil.

"Sergeant, Agent, if we do not leave now, we may not reach Gotland. This ship was made to run at night, when there are no eyes to see her."

"We're not leaving until every member of our team is aboard," said Carter. She didn't glare frostily, which Bucky had been expected, but her tone said she would not be argued with.

"If we are caught, hundreds of missions just like this may be jeopardised. The food we bring through the blockade may not reach those who need it. There is more to this war than one man."

"Not this man. Now, if you want to make it back in one piece, I suggest you go and make the ship ready for departure. The moment Captain Rogers arrives, we'll get him aboard, but I won't hear any further talk about leaving before that moment."

The man spat, and strode back to the ship issuing an angry tirade of foreign curses that faded as he went below deck.

"Do you speak Swedish?" Bucky asked her.

"No."

Probably a good thing. No telling what she'd do if she knew what that guy was saying about her. Probably shoot him in the kneecap.

"Don't worry," he told her. "He'll be here."

"I know." She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, for all the world reminding him of his sister, Mary-Ann, when she disapproved of something. "What state he'll be in is another matter. That man seems to invite trouble."

He nodded firmly. "People never believe me when I tell them I'm the sensible one."

She snorted.

"What?!"

"Seen any vampires, lately? Or did you leave them all behind with the 107th?"

Great. Just great. He should've known Wells' bullshit was going to follow him around for the rest of his life. And Carter was exactly the sorta dame who never forgot a piece of bullshit, no matter how small it was.

An engine chugged along the road above the harbour, the vehicle hidden from sight by a protective wall. Bucky was on feet only a heartbeat before Carter, and he took a few steps forward, squinting in the semi-darkness at the shape above. Some sort of truck. He could just about see the roof of it over the wall. It chugged to a stop, and Bucky smiled. Trust Steve to leave it to the very last minute. Guy sure liked his dramatic entrances, these days.

His reflexes saved him. He heard the sound of a bolt-action rifle being loaded before the first bullet hit the rocky shore at his feet. Unthinking, he jumped backwards, pulled Carter into his arms, and rolled them both over the wall that had been their seat only seconds ago. He landed on his back, rocks poking through his threadbare shirt, stabbing painfully into his skin.

"Weapons!" Carter yelled at the boat as she rolled off him and let him sit with his back against the wall. Gasping for breath, more out of shock than exertion, she asked, "How did you know?"

"I heard them. They weren't exactly being quiet. Where are our weapons?!" he aimed at the boat.

Dugan's head popped up, then ducked back down as somebody took a shot at it. "Jesus Christ, Barnes," he shouted. "Who ordered the party?"

"Now who's going to Hell for blasphemy, you bowler-hatted madman?!" he yelled back. "Come somebody please throw me a gun?"

Several pistols were flung over the side of the boat; two landed close enough for Bucky and Carter to grab one each. Finally armed, they turned to peer over the wall and take shots back at their attackers. But they had the low-ground, and Bucky didn't have his rifle. Their shots pinged uselessly off the wall.

Over the din of gunfire, the sound of a commotion drifted up from below deck.

"That is it, we are going!" said the ship's Captain.

"Captain, I must insist you take your hand off that wheel and step aside. We cannot leave while Captain Rogers is still out there." Monty.

"I do not care for your insistence, Major; those men shooting at us will have signalled our location. Within moments, a fleet of Nazi ships will be here. Or worse, U-boats. We can only outrun them in open water. Here, we are sitting ducks."

"Dugan, restrain that man!"

Crashing. Banging. The sounds of men struggling with each other. The ship's crew against the Commandos. And Bucky pinned down by Nazis, unable to get off an accurate shot, unable to return to the ship to help his team. Once more, useless.

Another engine approached along the road. Agent Carter hunkered back down against the wall. "They have reinforcements. Within minutes, they'll have this harbour surrounded. Maybe the Captain is right. We can leave, get these prisoners to safety, then come back for Steve."

"No."

"Sergeant—"

"I mean, no, I don't think these are reinforcements. There's something different about the sound of this engine. It's not the same. Smaller. Much smaller."

As the engine neared, voices shouted out in German. The ping of bullets hitting their wall ceased. The voices turned to cries, and Bucky dared to peer over the wall. He couldn't see what was happening, but German soldiers were being thrown like rag dolls over the wall… and it was quite a drop. Then, something red, white and blue flashed through the air before disappearing from sight.

"It's Steve!"

He couldn't help grinning like a school kid. Steve had made it, and just in time to pull their bacon out of the fire. That ship's captain was gonna eat his words, even if Bucky had to force-feed him each one.

Steve made short work of the Nazis, and the sound of the engine chugging along the road continued as it wound down into the harbour. When Bucky saw his friend approach, his jaw damn near dropped open. It was Steve, and he was riding a motorcycle. One with a Nazi swastika emblazoned across a small flag at the back.

At the road's end, Steve slowed the bike, grinned at his waiting friends… and then the whole thing toppled sideways, Steve included. He rolled the last few paces, finally coming to a stop at their feet.

"Uh, I haven't actually had chance to work out how to dismount the thing," he explained, picking himself up from the ground. "Guess I missed something."

"And you can tell us all about it later," said Carter. "But right now, we have to go, before the crew tosses us overboard for mutiny."

She chivvied them both aboard like a mother hen tending to her chicks. Below deck, the sight of Steve stopped the fight for the ship's control in its tracks.

"Thanks for waiting for me," Steve said. And everybody, crew and Commandos alike, broke off from the punches and kicks they'd been delivering. "I think we should get going."

"Glad to have you back, pal," said Bucky. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and led him down into the hold, where the prisoners were waiting. "Now, tell us all about your grand motorcycle adventure."

Steve gave him a boyish grin. "First, do you mind if I get a couple of hours of shut-eye? I don't think I've slept in three days, and it's finally starting to catch up with me."

"Sure, pal. Take your time."

And maybe one day, somebody would even make their story into one of those Captain America movies. Wouldn't that be something for the folks back home to see?

Author's note: Hope you've enjoyed this little foray into Poland. You can expect to see more of Michael shortly, and chapter 100 is something we've all been waiting a very long time for. Thanks for reading!