We Were Soldiers

105. Make-believe

"Watch your footing here, the ground is a little uneven," said Falsworth.

The old man's grip on his arm tightened, his pace slowing as he crept forward. Up ahead, Morita simultaneously kept watch on the forest and tried to pick the least difficult path back to the cars. Their going had been very, very slow, and his respect for both civilians rose. To cross Europe at this pace, under the constant threat of discovery… they must have nerves of steel.

"How far do you reckon?" he called out to Morita.

"Not far," the shorter man replied without looking back. "When we get to the outskirts of the town, I recommend we stay off the road. Leave the car a couple of hundred metres out, and walk the rest of the way. We'll be less visible."

"Agreed." As frustrating as it was to travel at a snail's pace, they had to do what was safest. That was, if they could even find the cars again. And get the non-broken one started with what little petrol Dernier had given them. "Private, may I ask you a question?"

"Call me Jim. And shoot."

"How do you know we're going in the right direction? All this forest looks the same to me." It had been a longstanding joke amongst his fellow recruits in basic training that Falsworth couldn't navigate his way out of a wet paper bag. He was handy enough with a compass and a map, but when those things were taken away… one rock looked pretty much the same as the next, and looking for north by checking moss on trees wasn't exactly helpful when trees had moss growing all the way around their trunks. Morita's unerring sense of direction was something he had envied ever since meeting the man.

Morita lifted his rifle, pointing its muzzle up at the sky. "See that bright star up there? That's actually Venus. When we were heading out of the clearing where we left the cars, Venus was over my right shoulder. It's simply a matter of reversing our path in relation to Venus after having accounted for the movement of the celestial bodies in the night sky."

"I see."

"Plus," Morita continued nonchalantly, "I left myself a breadcrumb trail to follow. Just in case."

"Err… breadcrumbs?"

"Yeah. You know, like in the fairy tale, Hansel and Gretel?" He snorted. "They're not literal breadcrumbs, of course. That would be stupid. Take a look." He stopped beside a tree and aimed his flashlight at the trunk. There, at Morita-waist height, was a small, vertical white line. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a piece of chalk.

The envy swiftly faded. "Ah. That… is brilliant in its simplicity."

Ruben's grip on his arm suddenly tightened, and the old man let out a sharp gasp. "I'm sorry, but would you mind if we took a short break from this walking? My legs are not what they used to be."

The man's face was pinched, his forehead creased with pain, breaths coming shallow and fast. Perhaps the pace had been too fast for him.

"Jim, why don't you take the petrol to the car and get it ready for travel? We'll rest for a few minutes, then I'll follow your chalk lines and we'll meet you there."

"Sure thing. But remember, we gotta get a message out before the extraction plane leaves the airfield. We can't afford to rest for too long."

Falsworth helped Ruben lower himself to ground. He seemed to find his breath a little easier, when he stopped exerting himself. After a few moments, he leant back against a tree trunk and opened his blind eyes.

"Thank you for indulging my need for rest," he said. "You have an air of patience about you that I would not expect to find in a soldier."

"I'd prefer not to have to be a soldier at all," Falsworth admitted. "And once the Germans are defeated, I don't intend to stay with the army." In truth, Ruben reminded him very much of Great Grandpa Gil; his father's grandfather. The old man had been half blind, half deaf, incontinent, and crabby enough to drive almost all of his family away after only a few minutes in his presence. But Falsworth had loved listening to the old man's tales of adventure. Gil had been quite the explorer back in his day, sailing for the East India Company and taming the wilds of the Asian continent on the order of Queen Victoria herself. And Gil seemed to appreciate that at least one person enjoyed spending time with him; he was always a little less incontinent whenever Falsworth was around.

"What will become of us, in England? Where will we go?"

"Don't worry. The SSR will find somewhere for you. You won't be without a home."

"Is it four walls and a roof that make a home, Major Falsworth?" The old man continued before he could answer. "Walls are just walls. What makes a home is the people that live within those walls. The bonds which bind them together. I had a home. It has been destroyed, forever, by Nazis. Even if I could return to the walls where I lived, it would never be home. I have come to accept that the end of my life will come at a time when I am homeless.

"But it does not have to be that way for Antje. She is young, and will one day have a family of her own. Her home will be wherever she chooses to make it, be that in Antwerp, or London, or elsewhere. Will you promise me something? Will you promise me that whatever happens to me, Antje will not be alone?"

Falsworth opened his mouth, then stopped. How could he make that promise? Regardless of what he wanted to be, he was a soldier. Half his time was spent in enemy territory, carrying out dangerous missions. The remainder was spent training or strategising or trying to beat Dugan at arm-wrestling. He didn't have enough free time to dedicate to keeping a young woman from feeling lonely.

But… there were plenty of people back home who could help. His mother knew countless young women who would be happy to take Antje under their wing. Or perhaps he could ask Agent Carter to keep an eye on her, while the team were away.

"I can promise that Antje will never want for friends or company," he said. "But I can't promise that she won't be lonely. There are times when each of us feels lonely, even when we're surrounded by our closest friends and family. It's not something that can easily be driven away. It can only be fixed with time, and change."

"Hmm. I would think you a liar if you made promises you could not keep, just to mollify me. But I am pleased that Antje will be cared for. It brings me comfort enough to continue our journey to your car. Please, help me to my feet."

The knowledge that his granddaughter would not face her future alone really did seem to give Ruben strength. Though his breathing was still laboured, he moved more swiftly, and with new purpose. It didn't take as long as Falsworth had feared to reach the place where they'd left the cars. And when they got there, they found Morita sitting in the one with the dodgy suspension, engine running and a grin on his face.

"Gentlemen, your chariot awaits."

Falworth helped Ruben onto the back seat, then took the front passenger seat beside Morita. "Please drive sensibly," he warned. "This vehicle might fall apart if you go over bumps too fast."

"Hey, who do you think I am—Dugan? I've been driving cars since I was big enough for my feet to reach the pedals."

He bit back an unnecessarily scathing quip about Morita's height. Really, he'd been spending too much time with the Commandos. They were a very bad influence on him.

Turned out Morita was being honest about his driving skills. Somehow, he managed to avoid the worst of the bumps, and the journey back to Ottange was much smoother than it had been with Falsworth himself at the wheel.

"I think you may just have nominated yourself as the team's designated driver," he said.

Morita scoffed loudly. "No way. I'm gonna let Cap do that. I like my booze too much. Anyway, that's Ottange, just up ahead." Squinting, Falsworth could just make out the dim outline of several buildings further up the road. "Want me to pull over?"

"Yes. As you said, we'll walk the rest of the way." Turning in his seat, he looked back at Ruben. Then, he felt like an idiot, because Ruben couldn't see him. "Once we reach our contact in Ossange, you can rest in a nice, warm house. By the time Antje returns with the others, you'll feel like a new man."

"I'll settle for a slightly less broken one," Ruben countered.

They abandoned the car by the side of the road and set out on foot. Ruben required much less assistance than he had whilst passing through the woods, and Falsworth was able to dedicate more attention to his surroundings. His training told him that this was the perfect place for an ambush. Open road, plenty over cover for snipers up ahead, enough moonlight for enemies to see them by… but the whole area was quiet, asleep, and there was nothing in Ottange that was worthy of German notice.

"Something's wrong," said Morita. He pointed at the village, to an area of light. A house, fully lit.

"Isn't that Mariette and Jean's home?"

"Yeah, I think it is. But why would they still be awake? We left hours ago, and there's still enough night left for them to get a decent amount of sleep."

"I've got a bad feeling about this," said Falsworth. "Ruben, there's a narrow alley just ahead of us. We'll take you to it, and need you to wait for us there. We have to take a closer look, and we don't want to put you in danger if anything is wrong."

"Yes, yes, I know I am a liability and will slow you down." Ruben gave a dismissive wave. "I will wait wherever you leave me."

They settled him into the alley as best they could, then took to the shadows of a nearby home. From there, they ghosted forward, hopping from shadow to shadow, senses strained for sound or movement. It wasn't until they reached the house at the end of the street that they realised just how very wrong things had gone.

"Is that a German patrol car?" he asked, squinting at the vehicle parked up outside Mariette's home.

"Two German patrol cars," Morita corrected. He had his binoculars out, a scowl drawn across his face. "One driver in the car closest to us. One guard outside the door. Probably six guys inside the house. I think it's safe to say this mission has gone crab."

"Crab?"

"Yeah. They walk sideways. Don't you have crabs in England?"

He was pretty certain England had crabs, but neither central London nor his family's summer house in the Cotswolds were prime crab territory. He would just have to take Jim's word on their method of locomotion.

"Of course. But what are we going to do about those soldiers? It's not fair to leave Jean and Mariette in the hands of the enemy. Those patrols were probably out looking for us. Maybe they made our plane on the way in. We need to rescue them."

"Not to mention we need their radio to contact HQ for a new set of extraction co-ordinates and a time," Morita pointed out. He peered through the binoculars again. "At least there's one thing in our favour—they're not HYDRA. I see the Nazi flag hanging at the back of their car, but no creepy tentacle-flag."

Falsworth nodded. It might seem a small blessing to be fighting one group of Nazis over another, but at least the non-HYDRA personnel only carried standard firearms. He and Jim only needed to worry about being shot with bullets, rather than vapourised into nothingness.

Two against eight, though. The odds were not brilliant. Did they even stand a chance, outnumbered four to one? Probably not, but they still had to try. Mariette and Jean were counting on them. Ruben was counting on them. Captain Rogers and the rest of the team were counting on them. If he and Jim couldn't get to that radio, the plane would come at the wrong time and the wrong place. There would be nobody to extract, and the team would have to find another way back to England. It would not be easy, especially with two civilians in tow.

"If we're going to do this," he said quietly, "we have to do it now, while we still have the element of surprise. We'll have to deal with those two quietly, so they can't raise the alarm. If the soldiers inside know that something is amiss, they might shoot Jean and Mariette on the spot."

"If only I had some piano wire," Morita sighed. When Falsworth raised a questioning eyebrow, Jim drew a line across his throat with his finger and made a crunching 'krrrrrch' sound.

"We'll just have to suffice with our knives." He slung his rifle across his back and pulled his knife from its sheath. The Commandos had all practiced hand-to-hand combat, but they'd never actually had to put that training to use. Until now. "Once we deal with those guards, we can take a peek through the windows and see how many are inside."

"Alright. But try not to get too much blood on their uniforms," said Jim. "We can dress you up as one of them. You can get within striking distance, so long as you keep your face down."

"That's… not a bad idea at all."

"Hey, I'm a fountain of good ideas. Just don't tell anybody else; they might start having expectations of me, or somethin'."

"I promise I won't breathe a word of it to anyone," he agreed. "Now, you take the soldier in the car, I'll take the one outside the door."

"Alright. I'll follow your lead. Whenever you're ready, boss."

He'd thought it would be difficult. Sneaking up on an enemy standing guard. Preparing to kill up close. Passing un-noticed through the village. But it was surprisingly easy. The chug of the car engine masked any sound his footsteps made. The shadows he moved in kept him hidden from view. The narrow alleys between the houses provided perfect cover. In less than a minute, he was only a dozen feet behind his target, who was idly toying with a spare ammo clip as if his task was the most boring one in the world.

He'd never wanted to be a soldier, but the Nazis had forced it on him, and now they would regret it.

He moved forward, leaving the safety and obscurity of the shadows. The first half-dozen paces, he kept up his silent crouch. Then, the soldier heard him. He started to turn. As Falsworth came within striking distance, the guard opened his mouth. Dropped the ammo clip and tried to lift his gun. But it was too late. Falsworth's aim was too good. With all the force he could muster, he thrust the blade towards the man's throat, angling it at the last moment so that it would travel up through the jaw and the soft palate, and pierce the brain. It was the swiftest, most efficient, and least messy way he knew of ending a life.

The man's eyes widened as the blade hit its mark, and he slumped to the ground, unmoving. A pained gurgle from the car told him Morita's attack had been just as effective. When Falsworth joined his teammate, he found Jim hauling the dead guard out of the car. There was a considerable amount of blood gushing from the wound on his throat.

"I guess you win in the 'don't make a mess' stakes," Morita said dryly. "You grab your guy's clothes, and I'll find somewhere out of sight to put these bodies." He grabbed the corpse by the ankles and began pulling it towards an alley. A large, red smear followed. "Ah, we'll worry about that later."

The cold air nipped at Falsworth's skin as he swapped his uniform for that of the dead German. Overall, the outfit was a decent fit, if a little tight across the shoulders. The man's hat completed the ensemble, and not for the first time, he felt a right prat for wearing a dead Nazi's uniform. Still, the mission came first…

Morita, returned from disposing of the bodies, ran a critical eye over him. "I'm resisting the urge to heil right now. The Fuhrer himself wouldn't look twice at you."

"Jolly glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense. You could've put on the other uniform, you know."

"With this face?" Morita snorted. "They're Nazis, not idiots. Speaking of, let's take a look at what we're up against inside."

They had to try four windows before they managed to find one that offered a view of anything other than Mariette's curtains. One pair of curtains was open just wide enough to allow them to peer in and observe two armed Nazis point weapons at Jean and Mariette, who had been forced to kneel with their arms behind their heads. A fifth man, well dressed in civilian clothing, stood off to one side, as if observing the whole exchange.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" Morita hissed.

"No. But more importantly, where are the other guards? A standard patrol is four men per car, but there are only two men in there. Add that to the two we already killed, and we're four Nazis missing."

"Maybe they're searching the rest of the house, looking for the radio equipment or something."

"Maybe." He didn't like now knowing all the variables, but sometimes you had to do the job before you with the information you had. "I'll head in there and deal with those two guards." He patted his pistol, holstered at his hip. "Take up a position near the bottom of the stairs. If any guards are up there, they're bound to come running at the sound of gunshots."

"If only I had that piano wire…" lamented Jim. "But sure. You leave the rest to me."

The front door was unlocked. He stepped into the hallway, and made his way towards the living room, where the two Resistance members were being held. One of the guards glanced briefly back as he approached, but only enough to glimpse Falsworth out of the corner of his eye before focusing his attention back on his captives. Reaching for his pistol, Falsworth disabled the safety catch and had his weapon pointed at the first guard before anybody could notice anything was amiss.

Blam!

The guard toppled, a spray of red erupting from his chest. Then, everything happened at once. As Falsworth turned, so did the second guard. He was fast; his pistol was in his hand in the blink of an eye. But Jean was just as quick; he tackled the German from behind, and they both went sprawling to the floor. The pistol was dropped. They both scrambled for it. Jean had the advantage of height and weights; he pinned the German by the shoulders, socked him hard on the jaw, and managed to grab the gun as the Nazi lay dazed on the floor. Three gunshots followed. Three bullets in the guard's chest.

Mariette leapt towards the guard Falsworth had shot first. With shaking hands, she pulled his pistol and cocked it at the other civilian, the well-dressed man whose hands had been thrown up in the air in surrender.

"What—" Falsworth began.

Blam!

The bullet found the man's forehead. He toppled back, slumped against the wall, his eyes glazed. Mariette, breathing hard, her hands still shaking, lowered the weapon.

"He was a neighbour," she said. "A collaborator. He deserved far worse than that."

A clatter of noise from behind, and Jean and Mariette were only a split second behind Falsworth, aiming their guns at the hallway. When Morita saw the weapons aimed right at him, he slammed on the breaks and held up his hands.

"Hey, it's just me, don't shoot."

"I don't understand," said Jean. He tucked the pistol into his belt, then grabbed one of the German rifles now going spare. "What are you doing here?"

"We had car trouble," Falsworth explained. "We need to use the radio to arrange a new extraction."

"Then you must hurry," said Mariette. She held the second German rifle so casually that he suspected this wasn't the first firefight she'd been in. "The equipment must be destroyed before it can fall into enemy hands. And we must leave this place immediately. It is no longer safe."

"Jim, get on the comms. Explain what's happened. Get a new set of co-ordinates," he instructed. As Morita followed Jean to the radio, Falsworth turned to Mariette. "We were expecting more soldiers here. There are two cars outside. Do you know where the rest have gone?"

She shook her head. "There are no more here. Those cars are for us—the soldiers were to take us back to the local German headquarters, for interrogation. There was another vehicle, with soldiers, but it left about thirty minutes ago. They went the same way you did; looking for your team, we believe."

"Then we have to get to Captain Rogers as swiftly as possible. He won't be aware that an enemy is following from behind. He could be caught in an ambush."

"Please excuse me, I must pack a bag." Mariette hurried up the stairs, and a loud series of thuds and bangs swiftly followed.

What a mess this mission was turning out to be! Their Resistance contacts had been exposed. Nazis were on on the team's trail. The radio equipment would have to be destroyed. And all because of one traitor. He had no sympathy for the dead man. There weren't enough bullets in the world for collaborators.

Jean and Morita reappeared, the latter carrying a scrap of paper that he waved at Falsworth before tucking it into his breast pocket. "I got the new co-ordinates, Major."

"And I have made sure the Germans will not be able to use our radio for their own means," added Jean.

"Good. We have to get moving right away," he said to Morita. "Mariette told me that another patrol followed us from town, about half an hour ago. They could be preparing an ambush for our team, on their way back from the mission. We have to stop them."

"And we will come with you," said Mariette. She descended the stairs with a large carryall slung over her shoulder. "We may not be soldiers, but we can fire a gun."

"What about Ruben?" Jim asked. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to take him after that patrol."

Falsworth slapped his palm against his forehead and groaned. How could he have forgotten the old man?

"Who is Ruben?" asked Jean.

So, Jim explained the situation to them. How they'd found the Belgians. How Antje had offered to show Steve and the other where the compound was. How they'd left Ruben in a nearby alley, out of harm's way.

"Perhaps you could help us out with that," Falsworth spoke up, as inspiration stuck. "We obviously can't take him into a firefight, and now that the Nazis know this place is a Resistance house, we can't leave him here. Would you consent to taking him to the extraction co-ordinates that Private Morita has just received? Wait for us, and keep him safe."

"We can do that," Mariette agreed. "But are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of us to go with you? An extra gun might prove useful."

It was a tempting offer. But… "You've done so much for us already," he objected. "You should stay together. We can't guarantee your safety, but together, you might guarantee Ruben's."

Husband and wife nodded at each other, and Falsworth allowed himself a tiny sight of relief. For some reason, the Commandos' missions were never straightforward! It was as if some higher power delighted in making them all toil and sweat. But at least nothing else could go wrong today… could it?

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

Cries of "Euuuuugh!" and "Zut alors!" and "Oh God, what did I just put my hand in?" echoed up and down the cramped length of the sewer pipe. Steve kept his mouth clamped firmly shut, and fervently wished for a nose peg.

It had seemed like an excellent idea. Avoid unnecessary confrontation by taking the sneaky way in to the facility. But, as with many of his excellent ideas, it had its drawbacks. The God-awful smells. The lumps of squishy stuff that had adhered to the pipes. The drips of water—hopefully water—that fell from above and trickled down his neck. The rats. Sometimes you didn't realise a rat was not a 'squishy stuff' until you'd put your hand on it and it squeaked angrily at you before darting off.

"Y'know," he said, as he continued to shuffle forward, "back when we were kids, Bucky and I would play at war. We'd re-enact the Alamo in his back yard using cardboard boxes and wooden swords. War was much cleaner, when it was make-believe."

"This is one thing they definitely missed off the recruitment posters," Jones agreed.

"And this is one part of Europe I wished I wasn't seeing," added Dugan.

"Jacques? How are the explosives? Still dry?" Steve called back to Dernier, directly behind him.

"Oui. All good. Drier than my shoes."

"Amen," said Jones. "I swear, after this, I'm never gonna complain about doing missions in the rain ever again. At least rain is clean."

How long had they been crawling through the pipes? It felt like hours. In truth, it was probably just over ten minutes. But the going was slow, because the pipe was narrow, and difficult, because they still had to drag their weapons and gear, and unpleasant, because squishy stuff. He was gonna be smelling like this place for weeks.

Oh lord, what if Peggy was waiting to debrief them at the airfield when they returned home? He'd have to greet her looking like this. Smelling like this. He could already see the revulsion on her face. She'd never let him forget about this. He'd be hearing about it for the rest of the year, at least.

Without warning, something changed. A gust of fresh air hit his face, bringing a momentary reprieve from the stench. He tried to peer back, to where Dugan was crawling behind, but there wasn't even enough room to do that.

"Hey, Dugan, I think there's a surface access point up ahead, in a pipe that goes off to the right. Once I take the left pipe, go check it out. If it's a way up inside the fence, you and Jones can take it and go find somewhere to wait and hide while we set up these explosives.

"That's music to my ears. And to my nose. I'll be right back."

It didn't take Dugan long to confirm that the pipe led to ladders, which gave access to the surface via a grate. Steve sent his two teammates off with instructions to lie low until the action started. With luck, and skill, and more luck, they could hopefully remain hidden until Steve and Dernier could blow the main facility. That would really put paid to HYDRA's operations in this country.

"Looks like it's just you and me now, pal," Steve said to Dernier, as they continued their journey.

"Good, good. We move faster, just two. Less complaining, also."

He had to admit, the Frenchman had a point. Dugan sure did like to complain. But Steve could understand where it came from. Dugan had a good heart. He wanted to help. To do more. He hated sitting around, waiting for orders, waiting for things to happen. He preferred to be in the thick of the action. When he wasn't, he felt helpless. When he felt helpless, he got grouchy. When he got grouchy, he complained. It was just his way of venting his frustration. Everybody coped in different ways.

He cleared his throat. "You know, I meant what I said earlier. If you want to stay in France, see your family again, I wouldn't hold it against you."

Though he couldn't see Dernier's face, he could hear the determination in the man's voice. "And I mean what I say. I am with you until France is free. Until Nazis are driven out of Europe. And SSR still pays better than Resistance."

Steve chuckled. Jacques was right; the SSR paid pretty well. After all this was done, he'd have a pretty nice nest-egg to build his future on. And Kevin still hadn't paid him the profits from the last Captain America USO tour back home.

Of course, his future very much depended on what Peggy wanted. She wasn't your typical dame. She wasn't your typical anything. Peggy looked at the world, and everything it had to offer, and asked, "what boundaries?" She wouldn't be satisfied staying at home raising kids while her husband went out and won the bread. She didn't just want to exist in the future—she wanted to shape it. And that was one of the things he loved most about her. That when other people told her something couldn't be done, she proved them wrong. He couldn't ask her to give up her strength, or her drive, so he would just have to be there beside her, wherever it led.

I should never tell Peggy that I daydreamed about our future together whilst crawling through a sewer, he decided. Or Bucky. I'll never hear the end of it.

As luck would have it, his current situation soon demanded his full attention. Their pipe branched out into three different directions. With no better idea of which route to take, he took that pipe that led straight ahead, because it didn't smell as bad that way.

From behind, he heard the huffing and grunting of Dernier as the Frenchman tried to keep up. "You still with me, Jacques?" he asked.

"Oui. Until the end."

"Want me to go faster?"

"Non, non. Do not worry, I will keep up. Just feeling a little ill in the stomach, because of these smells."

"Doesn't smell much worse than that mouldy cheese you tried to feed us at Christmas."

"Eh, Americans 'ave no taste."

"Monty didn't like the smell of it either."

"That is because the English have no taste, either. Though, I do enjoy their fish and chips. Just don't tell Monty I say that, eh?"

"He won't hear it from me. I promise."

Steve's luck held out for once. The pipe he'd picked led into an open chamber, which was covered above by a sort of lightweight mesh grating. Water dripped constantly from the metal, to the accompaniment of a deep thrumming that Steve felt within his bones.

"I think we might be below the machinery. Are you ready?"

Crouched beside him in the wider area, Jacques nodded. "Oui. Sooner, better. I cannot wait to be out of 'ere."

Steve braced his shoulders against the grate above and quietly lifted it out of place. As Jacques slipped into the room above, he sent a silent prayer that the rest of the team were doing okay.

Author's note: Sorry it took so long to get this chapter up, I was going to have one super-long chapter to conclude this mission, but then I decided it was too super-long, so I've ended up splitting it in two. On the bright side, 106 is 75% written and will be ready for next weekend :)