We Were Soldiers

104. Casket

Taking a civilian along on a mission didn't sit right with Steve. It was one thing to work with members of local resistance groups. It was one thing to allow Freddie to join in on those missions deemed safe enough for a wartime photographer to be present. But it was quite another to take along a young woman who'd spent a considerable period of her life hiding from Nazis.

But the other options didn't sit right with him, either. He couldn't've left Antje and Ruben behind; they might've been picked up by a patrol, or moved on in the night and disappeared forever. Nor could he have aborted the entire mission for the pair. The stakes were too high for that.

Since he only had a general idea of the location of the HYDRA facility, and his team may have wasted long hours searching for it, it made sense to bring along the one person who'd seen it with her own eyes. Taking the old man was out of the question, but he dearly hoped he wouldn't later regret sending both Monty and Morita back to Ottange with Ruben. Maybe he should've kept Morita with the group, for the extra manpower.

The rest of the team didn't seem to share his concerns. Dugan kept his beady eyes on the forest ahead, vigilant in unfamiliar territory. Jones and Dernier whispered quietly together, something about one of Jacques' first missions for the French Resistance. Something involving pancakes.

And Bucky… Bucky was doing one of the things that Bucky did best: chattin' to dames. He walked beside Antje, dividing his attention between the girl and the forest. Steve would've rolled his eyes at the typical Buckyishness of it, only, his friend hadn't been typical Bucky lately. In fact, it was so nice to see Bucky without a frown, or the shadows of Krausberg lurking behind his eyes, that Steve took a few steps aside, to try and give them the illusion of privacy. It didn't work. Super-hearing.

"Your English is very good," said Bucky. "Much better than Dugan's."

"Shove it, Barnes," Dugan grumbled from ahead.

"Thank you," said Antje. "My grandfather is a good teacher, and we have had a long time to practice. I think he only started teaching me to keep my mind off worrying about how we would survive another day."

"I can't imagine how tough the past few years have been on you. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Antja shook her head. "It is just me."

"Wasn't that kinda lonely, growing up?"

"Oh, no! I had many friends, and two cousins who used to drive me crazy when they came to visit every weekend. Nobody can be lonely, in Antwerp." A wistful smile tugged at her lips. "I even miss school, sometimes. And I miss going to the synagogue, even though I thought it was very boring. Why is it that we never appreciate what we have until it's gone?"

"Human nature, I guess," said Bucky. "We take everything for granted. Even the stupid little things that don't seem important at the time."

"Well, from now on, that is not me." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. After everything she'd been through, it was a wonder she had any strength left. In her situation, Steve was sure he would've buckled after the first few days. He didn't handle loss very well. "I will be grateful for every scrap of food and every pair of half-worn shoes and every ray of sunshine and every blade of grass. Back in Antwerp, I would've turned my nose up at dressing in a boy's shirt. Now, a new shirt would be such a luxury that I would feel blessed."

"When we get back to England, we'll get you some new clothes. Shirts or dresses or whatever you want. They might not be brand new, but they'll be in much better condition than what you have now."

Her responding smile was shy, but there was a sparkle of excitement in her blue eyes. "With a few scraps of material and a sewing kit, I could make my own dresses. I used to love doing my needlework. When I was younger, I thought I might become a seamstress, and make fine dresses for fine ladies."

"You don't wanna become a watchmaker, like your grandfather?" Jones chipped in. Somewhere along the way, listening to Antje had become more interesting than listening to Dernier's pancake story. Even Dugan had slowed his pace a little, to listen in on what she said. Steve let that slide, because his senses were keen enough and the forest was quiet enough for him to hear or see anything long before Dugan would be aware of it. And besides, listening to Antje helped to remind them all what they were out here fighting for: to help people whose lives had been destroyed by the machinations of evil men.

Her wrinkled nose was all the response she needed to give. "No. I learn because teaching me helps Opa to keep his mind off thinking about how we will survive another day. And because, in his heart, he believes my father is dead. He wants somebody to carry on the family tradition, even if no woman has ever become a watchmaker before. But it is not where my heart is." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "My friends and I used to talk about having a shop in Antwerp, where we could sew and sell fashionable clothes. We thought we would be famous for our stylish designs, spoken of from Amsterdam to Paris. Women from as far away as London and Milan would come to buy from us. But those were stupid, childish dreams. My friends are all dead, or have fled the country. Even if the war was to end today, it would not bring them back."

"Here, take this," said Bucky. He shrugged off his backpack, unbuttoned his jacket, and draped it over Antje's shoulders. "You must be freezing in those patchy clothes."

She clasped it closed with a grateful smile. Steve suspected that, when they got back to England, Antje might be just what Bucky needed to start healing the wounds inflicted by Krausberg. Showing the young woman around the city, helping her find her feet, would certainly give him something to look forward to between missions.

Not for the first time, he realised how lucky he was. Antje hadn't just lost her family; she'd lost her entire world. Her hopes and dreams and her childhood had been snatched away from her. Steve had lost a lot, but to lose everything… it was more than he could bear to think about.

Dugan cleared his throat, and asked, "Did you say you passed this facility two nights ago?"

"Yes. But we had to travel very slowly, because of my grandfather. At this speed, we will reach it much faster. Before the sun comes up."

Steve nodded to himself. He'd figured it might take them several hours to walk what should've been less than an hour's drive, especially since their pace was moderated by the forest. He knew he could keep the pace up all night, and probably the Commandos, too. But Antje was another matter.

"Just let us know if you start to get tired," he told the young woman. "I don't expect you to march at an army's pace all night."

"I will keep up," she assured him. "The sooner your mission is over, the sooner we can leave, and the sooner we will be safe." And, just when he thought she couldn't possibly make him feel any worse for her, she chewed on her thumbnail for a moment before saying, "The reason we have to go slow for my grandfather is not because he's blind. I see for him, but when he walks for a while, he gets pains in his chest. He struggles to breathe. Sometimes, his lips turn blue, and I fear he might stop breathing. Please, promise me you will do whatever you can for him. He is the only family I have left. If anything happened to him, I don't know how I will live without him."

"We'll get the doctors to take a look at him," Bucky promised. "They're good doctors, they've helped a lot of people. He'll be in good hands."

"Thank you." She brushed a tear from her cheek, and it made her seem very young.

"If you don't mind me asking," said Steve, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," she said. "Opa wishes he started teaching me watchmaking when I was younger. I'm a little too old to start; most men are only boys when they begin to learn the skills."

Seventeen. About the same age as Bucky's youngest sister. Not far off the age Steve had been when he'd lost his mom.

"You've got a milestone birthday coming up, then," said Jones. "Are you looking forward to turning eighteen?"

"No. The day I turned fourteen was the day the Germans invaded my country. Each year, that date is a painful reminder of everything I lost that day. I will never celebrate my birthday again."

The story of Antje's life was like one long tragedy. Hearing everything she'd endured certainly put things into perspective. And even as he walked through the cold French forest, his mind took him back, to his own past...

The casket was dark, and when Steve reached out to run his fingers along the grain of the lid, it was cold to the touch. This was to be his mother's final resting place. This cold, dark, 'basic' model. The only one he could afford.

Wrenching his hand away, he blinked back tears and looked up at the sympathetic face of the salesman. And that was when he realised. He couldn't do this. It was too much. All of it. Too much for him to bear. The casket. The flowers. The endless stream of well-wishers stopping by the apartment. The six casseroles sittin' in the coldbox in the kitchen. The prayer. The hymns. The memorial book. The photograph.

He didn't know how to arrange a funeral. And he didn't want to.

"Please, take all the time you need," the salesman said. "I understand that this is difficult for you."

All the time in the world wasn't all the time he needed. There wasn't enough time. Not for this. Two days ago, the coroner had signed the death certificate. And just like that, Sarah Rogers had been declared officially dead. As if it wasn't enough to sit by her bedside and listen to each painfully rattling breath. As if it wasn't enough to feel the grip of her hand on his becoming softer as she slipped further and further from his reach. As if it wasn't enough that he'd heard something inside her chest go pop and then heard no more breaths taken in. There had been no rush of nurses to her bedside. Nobody had called out for help. They hadn't tried to bring her back. There was nothing to bring her back to; just a body too ravaged by tuberculosis to nourish the kind, gentle soul that had lived inside it.

As if all that wasn't enough, he'd then been handed the certificate. As if he didn't already know his mother had died.

The cold, dark wood of the casket brought his mind back from the worst moment of his entire life. He didn't know what kind of wood it was, only that it wasn't good enough for Mom. It wasn't just the wood; it was the shape of the casket. It was plain. Undecorated. Too obviously casket-shaped. It wasn't a resting place; it was a box for a body to be buried in.

Well, his mother was not going to be 'a body'. She was going to be seen off in a casket more befitting the wonderful, caring person she'd been.

He cleared his throat. Tried to swallow the lump that'd stuck there since Ward Sister O'Toole had told him to get to the hospital and say his goodbyes. Blinked back the tears that stung his already-raw eyes.

"Show me something else."

"Of course. Please step over here… this is the next model up in our price range." The salesman stood beside a nicer casket. This one was an improvement. The wood wasn't as cold, and it had a little brass decoration on the handles.

"How much?" he asked.

The salesman told him. Steve's fingers curled up, nails biting into his palm Why did it cost so much for a wooden box?

"As you can see," said the salesman, lifting the lid to display the inside, "the lining is a very fine material blend. This is one of our most popular models for those on a budget. Here, feel the lining for yourself, if you like."

He didn't like. He didn't want to reach out and touch it. To forever imagine the box his mother would be buried in. To picture her pale face contrasted against the navy-blue material. He didn't want to do this.

But this casket was better than the cheapest one. He could afford it. If he started walking to the college campus, instead of taking the streetcar, he could afford it. If he went down from three meals per day, to two—he could afford it. If he sold the Lou Gehrig baseball card Bucky had given him for his birthday last year… he could afford it. Mom was worth all that, and so, so much more. She'd been his rock. His strength. His comfort. She believed in him, and so he believed in himself. She was the only family he had… and he didn't know how to live without her.

"Steve! I'm so sorry we're late!"

Mrs Barnes swept into the room, her black dress billowing around her. Uncaring of the salesman, she pulled Steve into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder. Her dress smelled of the lavender sprigs she hung in wardrobes and secreted in drawers to keep the moths away. Mom did the same thing. He would never smell lavender without thinking of her.

"Mrs Barnes, you really didn't need to come," he said, his words muffled against the fabric of her dress. When she finally released him, she was replaced by Mary-Ann, and then Mr Barnes, and finally Bucky. Steve's best friend pulled him into a tight hug bereft of its usual jovial shoulder-slap.

"Nonsense," Mrs Barnes replied. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. They, like Steve's, were bloodshot. "Charlie's more than happy to look after Janet for an hour or two. I couldn't bear the thought of you coming here alone."

"That's right," said Mary-Ann. She clung to his arm, her hand tight as a vice in his. He didn't have the heart to tell her that her grip was painful. "You shouldn't be alone, Steve."

Alone. A word that defined him. No father. No mother. A grandmother he'd only met twice in his entire life. Maybe she was dead, too. It was easier to imagine that she'd passed away, than to imagine that she was still living out there, wanting nothing to do with him or Mom.

"We were just discussing the merits of this casket's quality lining," the salesman said.

"What about that one, over there?" Mrs Barnes crossed the room to the section Steve hadn't even bothered examining further. He could never afford anything as nice as those.

"Ah yes," the salesman said, his tone immediately brighter. "That model is at the top end of our Trappist casket range. Please, come for a closer look."

Mrs Barnes followed the salesman, and Mr Barnes followed her. Steve had no choice in the matter. With Mary-Ann clinging to his arm, and Bucky's arm around his shoulders, as if they were simultaneously propping him up and stopping him from leaving, he was led over to the glossy, expensive section.

"This is the finest model money can buy," the salesman continued. "Note the exquisite pattern of the wood; Trappist caskets are crafted from only the finest pieces of polished walnut, and are inlaid with a luxurious silk lining. All hand-made in America, of course."

"It's beautiful," Mrs Barnes said. "Don't you agree, Cal?"

"I'm sure Sarah would approve," Mr Barnes agreed.

"What do you think, Steve?"

"Mrs Barnes, I can't afford this," he said. No point mincing words, or pretending the situation was anything other than what it was. Mom had put a little money away, to help with costs, but even then, it wasn't enough for this.

"Steve, you can be such a doofus at times," said Bucky, squeezing his shoulders.

"You don't think we'd let you bear this cost alone, do you?" Mr Barnes added.

"That's really nice of you and all," he began, "but you don't have t—"

"Steven Grant Rogers, not another word!" said Mrs Barnes, pressing her finger across his lips to prevent another objection. "I know you feel like you have to do this all yourself, but nothing could be further from the truth. Now, I know how stubborn and proud you can be, but there's one thing you have to understand: Sarah was my best friend, and I owe her so much. All those nights she stayed up to help me when Janet had colic, even though she'd just come off a night shift. The time she looked after you kids when I tripped and broke my arm. The way she sewed up Cal's busted head, after he got into that stupid fight. All the wonderful times we shared together. I want to buy this casket for her, but if you would prefer something plainer… well, I'll be hurt and upset and positively devastated, of course, but I'll defer to your wishes. Or, if you approve of the casket, you can contribute towards it. Because I think Sarah would want us to do this together. So, what do you say, Steve?"

"Steve? Are you listening? Steve!"

The insistent tone of Bucky's voice pulled him from the funeral parlor, back into the wintry woods. All of the Commandos stared at him as if he was mad.

"Sorry. Just going over attack plans in my mind." He hoped that, in the darkness, nobody could see the flush of warmth on his cheeks. He'd never been a very good liar. It was why Bucky always beat him at poker. "What were you saying?"

"Just that I think we should take a short break." He tilted his head in Antje's direction. The young woman's breaths were coming hard and fast. Definitely not used to an army's marching pace. "It'll give me chance to go do a little recon," he added.

"Alright. But I'll come with you. I want to get the lay of the land." He turned to the others. "Dugan, Jones, Dernier, take five. We'll be back shortly."

His three team-members shrugged off their packs and brought out their flasks of hot coffee. He didn't have to tell them not to a light a fire; they knew what they were doing. "C'mon," he said to Bucky. "Let's see if we can find a little high ground."

They walked in silence for several minutes, Steve's mind still full of the cobwebs of memory, Bucky's still full with… well, whatever Bucky's mind was full with these days. There were times when his best friend still felt like a stranger… but on the bright side, at least he seemed finally recovered—physically speaking—from his ordeals. In fact, he was probably in the best shape he'd been in his whole life.

"Aren't you cold without your jacket?" he asked.

Bucky shook his head. "Not so long as I keep moving. Wouldn't wanna stop for more than a few minutes, though."

"Y'know, Phillips is going to give us the chewing-out of our lives, when we bring back two civilians."

A smug grin inched its way across Bucky's face. "Give you a chewing-out, you mean. You're our fearless leader, after all. Monty might get some, too. The rest of us dupes are just following your orders."

"It was your idea to take Antje and Ruben back with us," he reminded his friend.

"I was just the first one to say it. You're not trying to tell me you would've left them out here if I hadn't suggested taking them back, are you?"

"No." Damn Bucky, and his salient point. "Of course not. I came out here to save lives. And it'll be a cold day anywhere before I leave innocent people to the mercy of the Nazis."

"Do you really think all their family is dead?" Bucky asked after a moment.

"I don't know. I hope not… but maybe that's a fool's wish."

Bucky stopped, and turned to face him. In the darkness, he could just about make out the frown on his friend's face. "Remember last year, when I shipped out? I told you not to do anything stupid."

"Of course I remember."

"Well, I take that back. You're allowed to do stupid things. And if hoping Antje's family are alive is a fool's wish, then you're allowed to do foolish things, too."

"So glad to have your permission." With a quiet sigh, he gestured around at the forest. "Unfortunately, I don't think we're going to find any high ground around here. It's been pretty flat since we left Ottange, and we must be over the border by now."

"I bet we could climb one of these for a better view." Bucky patted the truck of the nearest tree, and Steve eyed it warily. It looked pretty thin. Bucky seemed to sense his hesitance. "C'mon, you're great at climbing trees. I remember you used to climb that old apple tree in my backyard faster than anyone."

"Yeah, but that was when I weighed about ninety pounds." Out of all their childhood friends, the only one who could get to the high branches with him was Mary-Ann. "I'm not sure that tree will hold my weight, much less both of us combined."

"Only one way to find out," twelve year old Bucky grinned at him. "Unless you're chicken, Rogers."

Before Steve could object, Bucky jumped to catch the lowest branch, then hauled himself up. Really, it was as if Bucky hadn't mentally grown up at all. And if Steve was just a little quick in following, it wasn't because he wanted to show his best friend that he was still the fastest tree-climber in Brooklyn… he was just concerned for his friend's safety. That was all.

The cold wind tugged as his jacket as he climbed. It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought, to haul his greater mass up the tree. Then again, he also had a lot more muscle to support that mass. He not only caught up with Bucky, he overtook him. Finally, not far from the top, the branches became perilously thin, and he was forced to cease his ascent.

The view from his perch was bare and bleak. The branches of the leafless trees rose up to the sky like skeletal fingers, and the moonlight bathing the area was cold and weak. Yet in just a few short months, this whole area would be carpeted in green, from the ground up to the treetops. Nature was a wonderful, powerful thing.

"Didn't think it would be so breezy up here," said Bucky. His knuckles were white as he gripped the branch above him to try and limit the swaying.

"It's fresh alright," he agreed. He bit back his next words before they could escape his lips. He wanted to ask if Bucky thought Monty and Morita were okay. But then, he'd come across as a worrier. A worrier who didn't have faith in his team members. Bucky and the rest of the guys needed to know that Steve's mind was in the here and now, focused on the mission ahead, not looking back at the men they'd left behind.

"Look! Over there!" Bucky pointed to something over Steve's shoulder, then made a desperate grab for his branch as the wind surged around them.

Slowly, carefully, Steve turned. At first, he thought Bucky's eyes were playing tricks on him. Then, something pale and grey curled into the sky. A plume of smoke, scattered as it rose by the gusting wind. And beneath it, just about visible above the trees, a series of three rectangular blocks; chimneys. Judging from the distance, their team could probably get there within two hours.

"She did it," he said, turning back to his friend. "She brought us to the right place."

"Finally something's going right," Bucky agreed. "And it's about damn time."

"C'mon, let's get back to the team. The sooner we get this over and done with, the sooner we go home."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Bucky gratefully accepted the flask of steaming coffee from Jones as Steve told the others what they'd seen in the distance. When he was done, he turned to Antje.

"Is there anything you can tell me about the layout of that place? Any intel you can give will help us plan our attack, and if we know what we're up against before we get there, we can get it done faster."

The young woman shook her head. "Little. As soon as I saw the fencing around the building, I took Opa away as fast as I could."

"What kind of building was it? Did you see any guard posts? Or a gate leading in?"

"No. I'm sorry. I did see many large trucks parked inside the fence, but I had only a brief glimpse of the building. Its windows were barred, and men were on patrol inside. Though… I thought I saw a small space underneath the fence. As if a rabbit had burrowed beneath it. Though the fence is high, I don't think it goes far below ground. You might dig under it."

"Been a while since I had to use my entrenching tool," said Dugan. "I'd hoped I'd seen the last of digging holes in Europe."

"It'll probably be quieter than trying to go over the fence," Steve mused. "Antje, did you see how many soldiers were patrolling the grounds?"

"I only saw one pair, but then, I only saw a small part of the facility. And it was all dark and shadowy. I'm sorry I could not be more help."

"Not at all, you've been a great help. Now, let's try to cover the ground as quickly as we can. I'll think about how we're going to tackle this, but I'll need to see the place for myself before settling on a plan. If you're all ready, let's move out."

They set out in the direction of the factory, marching in silence. Steve took point, and Bucky covered their six. He kept a watchful eye on Antje as they travelled. Even with his jacket draped around her shoulders, she shivered with the cold. But at least her ordeal—this part of it, anyway—was nearly over. Soon, she'd be safe from the Nazis. And she'd never have to worry about sleeping outside again.

Five miles later, they reached the outer perimeter of the factory. By the time Steve called a halt, a couple of hundred metres back from the fence line, Antje was panting hard. The march had taken a lot out of her, and she wouldn't have long at all to recover her stamina. Maybe bringing her along was a mistake after all. It wasn't her fault, but her presence would slow their escape, and they already had a lot of ground to cover to reach Ottange.

Well, what was done, was done. Antje had saved them valuable searching time, and if she was too tired to make it back to Ottange, he would just carry her, piggy-back style. She was probably no heavier than his pack, anyway.

Steve pulled out his binoculars, keeping up the pretense that he actually needed them despite everyone knowing he had 50/50 vision. When he was done, he passed them on to Jones so the rest of the team could take a look at what they were up against. It was not a promising sight. There was only one guard tower, but it stood tall, with four guards atop it, each keeping watch over every direction. Two machine gun emplacements stood by the sides of the gates, a pair of soldiers manning each position. Pairs of guards patrolled the perimeter, armed with those damn energy-rifles that'd caused so much damage amongst the fleeing prisoners of Krausberg. Even Stark was horrified by those. Or perhaps impressed by them. It was hard to tell, with Stark.

"I say we storm the place," said Dugan as he handed the binoculars back to Steve. "Go in guns blazing. Overpower those machine gun positions and turn them on the troops inside."

"Alternatively, die horribly," Jones quipped. "They'd gun us down before we even cleared the fence. And that's assuming the fence isn't electrified."

"Besides," added Bucky, "we already have a plan. We're digging under the fence, remember?"

"Actually, we may not have to." Steve had a focused look on his face. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Jones. "All I hear's the wind."

Steve hoisted his pack onto his back. "Follow me."

They didn't have to follow for long. Bucky smelled what Steve heard before they reached the large pipe spewing grey water into a swollen stream. It smelt like Dernier on a plane, and it didn't look much better.

"This must be part of the waste extraction system," said Steve. "We might be able to get in through here."

"A sewer." Dugan's flat tone and deadpan stare said it all. "You want us to crawl through a sewer."

Bucky eyed the pipe. Its mouth was covered only by a flimsy metal mesh that gave way easily to Steve's well-placed kick. Probably designed to keep animals out, more than people. Even for Dernier, the smallest of their group, it would be a tight fit. He didn't relish the idea of crawling through there… not at all.

"The ground… is warm," said Dernier. Bucky almost gagged when the guy stuck his hand into the stream of grey water gushing out from the pipe. "Water is warm, too."

"Y'know," said Jones, "I bet this isn't just sewer waste. They're probably taking the water further upstream and using it to cool whatever machinery they have in that facility. That could be why it's coming out warm… and grey."

"Better grey than yellow," Dugan said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"I have a plan," Steve announced happily. Far too happily. "Dugan, Dernier, Jones, you'll come with me. We'll take this pipe and see if we can get into the facility this way. If they really are using water to cool their machinery, there must be access to it. Once there, Dernier and I will set the explosives. Meanwhile, Dugan and Jones will sneak into the yard and find a vehicle to commandeer. Once we blow up the machinery, it should draw most of the guard, and the two of you can use the chance to drive out of here. We're going to need some form of transportation to make it back to Ottange. Bucky, you stay with Antje and keep watch on the road. We don't want unwelcome guests crashing our party."

Babysitting duty? Again? Was Steve purposely trying to keep him out of danger? Didn't his best friend trust him in close combat? Was he still worried Bucky might go off the rails?

"Can I have a moment with you? In private?" he asked. Steve nodded, and followed him a short distance away from the rest of the group. "Why've I gotta be the one to stay out here?" he demanded. "Jones or Dugan could keep an eye on Antje just as well as me."

"I know," Steve said, his tone one of patience. "But if something happens out here, I need somebody who can make snap decisions and deal with whatever might arise. You have more experience than Jones and Dugan."

"Maybe, but you kept me outta the last mission, too."

Steve sighed and stepped forward to lay a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "You're our sharp-shooter, Buck. It's what you're good at. And it means that a lot of the time, you're going to be further from the action than the rest of us. If you don't wanna be our sharp-shooter, then I'll accept that, and ask one of the others to train with the SSR-rifle. But it's not what I need. It's not what the team needs. And I think your skills would be wasted."

"That's not what I'm saying. It's just that, if you need me to be your guy on point, I can do it. You can count on me in a fight."

"I know. And there may be missions in which I do need you on point, or fighting beside me. But this isn't one of those missions, and for this one, I need you to protect Antje and make sure our exit route stays clear. This is what we trained for, remember? All those scenarios in Coventry?"

Steve's explanation left Bucky feeling like an idiot. A paranoid idiot. Of course Steve didn't doubt him. Krausberg was… well, it was in the past. A slowly fading nightmare. Sure, dreams of that place still haunted his sleep, but the worst of it was over.

"Okay, I'll look after Antje and the road," he relented.

"Good. We're counting on you. Now, let's finalise this plan and get moving. I wanna be out of here before dawn."

Back at the group, Dernier had just finished wrapping his explosives in plastic, to protect them from water damage while crawling through the pipe. "Good to go," he announced. He patted his pockets for a moment, then brought out a packet of smokes, which he handed over to Bucky. "Not enough plastic. You take care of these. Protect with own life."

"Once we're finished setting the explosives," Steve said, "Dernier and I will retreat back through the sewer pipes and exit here, then make our way to the road where Bucky and Antje will be waiting for us. As soon we arrive, we'll blow the explosives, creating a diversion for you two," he nodded at Dugan and Jones, "to grab a vehicle, drive straight out the main gate, and pick us up. Then we'll head back to Ottange, collect Falsworth, Morita and Ruben, and drive to our new extraction co-ordinates."

"And then home, for a bath," said Dugan. He gave the grey water a contemptuous glance. "A long, hot bath."

"Let's get to it," said Steve. "And be careful, all of you. I'm making a new team rule: nobody's allowed to go home in a casket. So watch each others' backs, okay?"

The whole team saluted. They might have their occasional disagreements, but this was one rule they could all get behind.

Author's Note: Happy New Year to all my friends and readers here! :) You may have noticed I've been gone for a few months, and I apologise for my extended absence. After writing Fanfic for over five years straight, plus a lot of other stuff in between the Fanfic, I was starting to get writer's fatigue — especially with pressures of my new job heaped on top. So, I decided to take an unannounced break until the New Year, to re-prioritise and recharge my batteries.

After 3 months of doing no writing at all, I feel refreshed and re-invigorated. I'll still be updating this story on an adhoc basis, but I now have a new drive to keep writing it, where before I was hitting creative walls that sapped at my willpower. And I can see more clearly how all the chapter I've outlined will fit together and flow into each other — hooray for clarity!

If you've been following my Voltron story, you'll notice it's now gone. I wasn't happy with it. In a rush to get it all published before the end of the series, I wrote something that was sub-standard (and due to my absence, didn't get all the chapters out before the show ended anyway). On reflection, I realise it needs to be told in a different way, so one day I'll rework it, adding in extra content to make it a more fleshed-out and complete piece. For now, I'm prioritising this story, because there is still so much left for Bucky, Steve and the Commandos.

Thanks for reading, and here's to a productive and happy 2019 for all of us.

P.S. Remember how in Chapter 100, Steve asked Stark if his car's interior was walnut? Well, this was how he knew...