We Were Soldiers

106. Those We Leave Behind

Bucky's gaze never left the road. He could feel Antje shivering beside him, but there was nothing he could do about that. She already had his jacket, and he doubted she'd appreciate an offer of his slightly-worn, somewhat damp socks.

The night was quiet, save for the scratchy sound of the bare tree branches blown by the chill wind and the faint clang of machinery issuing from the factory further down the road. Here, they were well behind the front line, where the majority of the fighting was taking place. The Germans wouldn't be expecting an incursion here. Their guard would be down.

"Do you think my Opa is okay?" Antja asked through chattering teeth.

"He's better than okay," Bucky assured her. It was one thing he had learnt, since being plunged into the war. Hope was a precious thing; you never, ever took away a person's hope. For some, it was all they had to see them through the horrors of death each day. When a man lost one friend, you kept up the hope that the others would survive. "Right now, he's in our contact's home, drinking warm tea and enjoying a good, hot dish of home-cooked soup."

She smiled gratefully at him, perhaps aware that he didn't really know it for a fact. "That sounds so wonderful. Hot meals have been very rare for us."

"Well, that's about to change. From now on, you'll get a hot meal at least three times a week. Things might be tough in England, with the rationing going on, but they've perfected bitsa-soup."

"Bitsa… soup?"

"Yeah, y'know… bitsa this and bitsa that. Whatever's left over and can't be eaten on its own or cooked another way."

"If you had told me, before the Germans invaded, that I would one day wear boys' clothes and eat bitsa soup, I would have laughed at you." She rubbed her hands along her arms, trying to work some warmth through her body. "The very ideas would have offended me. It is funny what we are capable of enduring when we must survive, is it not?"

"It certainly puts things in perspective."

Like the simple pleasures of a hot shower and a clean bed, or enjoying a weevil-free loaf of bread. Back home, his idea of a good time had been a night out at the movies with Steve, or dancing with a dame. Now, it was going a full day without being shot at. A full night without a Krausberg-induced nightmare.

"Can I ask you a question, Sergeant Barnes?"she asked, and he nodded in response. "Why did you decide to fight in the war? America is a long way from Europe."

"Because I have a younger brother, and two younger sisters." Thinking of them brought a lump to his throat. But at least they were safe. "And I didn't want them to live in a world where evil men, like Hitler, have power to affect their lives. I want them to live in a world that has no monsters lurking around each corner, waiting to jump out and take their freedoms. I don't think Hitler will stop at Europe; if he gets his way, the entire world will be his. And that's not something I can sit by and watch."

"What are your sisters like?"

"They're as different as chalk and cheese. Mary-Ann's—" A noise from down the road cut his conversation short. The unmistakable sound of a car engine was chugging closer.

From his holster, he drew his pistol. Antje's eyes widened.

"What is happening?"

"Somebody's coming." He took her by the arm and led her further back from the road. No sense putting her in danger. Ruben would kill him if anything happened to her. "Stay here," he said, guiding her to the ground behind the safety of a tree trunk. It wasn't wide enough to completely shield her body, but it was better than nothing. "I'll handle this. Don't move until I come back for you."

Back at the road, he crouched down by the grassy verge and waited. This was great. Just great. As if it wasn't bad enough that their exit road wasn't clear, this new arrival meant that Steve was right. There had been a need for somebody to stay back and watch the road. And Steve could be quite insufferable, when he was proven right. He was too polite to engage in I told you so gloating, but he would be thinking it, and that could be just as bad.

The vehicle drew closer. Definitely a car. Too quiet to be a truck, too smooth to be a motorbike. Could it be Monty and Morita? No… they would be waiting at Jean's house. Besides, this car's engine didn't cough and splutter like the old French cars did.

A flash of headlights momentarily blinded him as the car came around the bend in the road. Damn Nazis—what the hell had brought them out here at this time of night?

He would have to worry about that later. Right now, he had a job to do.

As the car neared, he took aim with his pistol, tracking the car's front near tyre. Training with Stark's SSR-rifle, and his time on the front lines, had done wonders for his aim. Shots that a year ago would've been impossible to make now came as easily to him as if he was playing Skee-Ball at Coney Island. He squeezed the trigger, and the tyre went pop. The car careened out of control, sliding sideways along the road as its driver tried to bring it to a halt.

He didn't wait for the enemy soldiers to get their bearings. Even as the car was still sliding, he jumped up from the verge and took aim at the driver. Another squeeze of the trigger brought a melody of shattered glass and a pained gurgle as the bullet went through the driver's neck. A guttural cry of alarm came from within the car as the driver lost consciousness and slumped forward, the weight of his body pressing against the car's horn, forcing it to blare like a death-wail.

The other soldiers weren't slow on the uptake, and they reacted to the chaos faster than Bucky had anticipated. Two piled out of the back of the vehicle, their weapons drawn, and Bucky was forced to fling himself down onto the ground to avoid the rain of incoming bullets. As he dropped, he rolled, and found an angle beneath the car that gave him a clear sight of one soldier's legs. He took two shots, one bullet finding each leg, and the soldier crumpled like he was made of paper.

The second back-seat passenger, seeing his companion go down, lowered himself to the ground and began firing blindly beneath the car. But Bucky was already on the move. He pushed himself up and slid over the car's hood. The front-seat passenger was still fumbling with his weapon; a nervous-lookin' Charlie-aged boy who probably hadn't seen battle before. Allowing himself a brief moment of pity, Bucky struck out with his gun, delivering a harsh blow to the young man's temple. He, too, crumpled like paper.

Maybe we're all just paper characters in somebody's shadow-puppet show.

The thought came and went as he swung around to the final soldier. The man had ceased firing blindly; he pushed himself to his feet and tried to aim with his weapon, but Bucky was faster. He grabbed the man's collar, forced his head into the car, then slammed the door shut on it with all of his strength. Once. Twice. Three slams was all it took for the body to go limp and the gun to fall from his grasp. A pool of blood oozed slowly across the back seat.

A pained groan came from the front seat, where the young soldier was starting to come around from the blow to his head. Bucky quickly uncoiled the length of rope that was fastened through his belt and used it to bind the soldier's hands behind his back, then lashed him tightly to the car's door frame. He'd make a fine captive for interrogation, for the brass back home.

He took a steadying breath and surveyed the scene. Three dead bodies, one irreparably damaged car, and a whole lotta blood. From first shot to last, the attack was over in less than a minute.

"Antje! It's okay to come out now," he called.

Silence dominated, broken only by the whisper of the breeze through the skeletal fingers of the bare trees; a breeze that brought a chill to his skin and a cold knot of worry to his stomach.

He set off at a jog. Antje would be okay. She had to be okay. She hadn't survived all these years, come all this way, to fall victim to Bucky Barnes' bad planning. She was stronger than that. She was worth more than that.

He found here where he'd left her, face pale as she sat slumped against the tree, her right hand hand clasped around her upper left arm. Her ragged breaths were pained, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said, as he crouched beside her. "I was worried for you. I shouldn't have peered out from behind the tree."

"It's okay. It's not your fault. But I need to look at that injury."

She let him prise up her cold fingers, and blood seeped out from the wound through the tear in his jacket. She was lucky; the bullet had grazed her arm, passing straight through her flesh, avoiding the bone. It was what military doctors would call a 'flesh wound', and she was in no danger of dying from it. Thank God.

"You're going to be okay," he said. "I know it hurts, but the bullet just grazed your arm. Once it's healed, you'll probably have a small scar to show for your worry, but I don't think there will be any permanent damage. Come back to the road so we can wait for the others, and I'll put a bandage on your arm, okay?"

She nodded, and wiped her tears from her cheeks. Bloody smears from her fingers were left on her face, giving her the appearance of some grim angel of death. Bucky winced. Steve was gonna kill him. Ruben was gonna kill him. How was he gonna explain to the old man how he let his granddaughter get shot?

He helped her to her feet and they made their way back to the road. There, he sat her down just beneath the trees; he couldn't put her in the car, because there was too much blood, and because there was no telling what she might do to his prisoner if she found him. Bucky knew what he would do, in her situation, and he didn't want Antje to become like him. To become someone who closed their eyes and saw the faces of the men they had killed.

His first aid kit had sunk to the bottom of his pack, so that he practically had to pull everything out to reach it. Antje gave only a tiny whimper as he wrapped a bandage around her wound tightly enough to stem the bleeding, but not so tight that it would cut off circulation.

Over the past year, he'd been lucky to travel with the 107th and the SSR through France and Italy. Their contingent of medical staff meant that Bucky had barely ever had to use his first aid kit. The only real time had been when he, Gusty and Wells had been forced to put a tourniquet on Stoller's leg to save the young man's life. He'd lost his leg, but where was he now? Was he recuperating in some medical facility in Europe, or had he been sent back home already? Where was Gusty, and the rest of the 107th? Still fighting together, or had they been split up and assigned to different units?

Finished with the bandage, he handed Antje his canteen of water. "It's cold, but you can use it to wash your hands. And your face."

The chug chug chug of an unhealthy motor caught his attention, and he quickly reloaded his pistol while Antje was distracted. No need to worry her yet. The car was still a way out. There would be time for her to hide.

By the time the vehicle had drawn near enough for Antje to hear, the knot of worry in Bucky's stomach had melted away. "Somebody is coming!" she said. "Should we hide?"

He shook his head. "Not this time." The motor was one he recognised. He'd sat inside that rickety car only a few hours ago.

The battered old Citroen rolled to a stop behind the broken Nazi car. Monty and Morita, their weapons drawn, jumped out and surveyed the carnage.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Bucky asked.

Monty cleared his throat and glanced again at the dead German bodies. "We're… um… here to save you."

"Then you need to work on your timing."

"Where is my Opa?" asked Antje, approaching on wobbly legs, her injured arm cradled in her good one. "Why is he not with you?"

"He's with friends," said Morita. "They've taken him to the new pickup point."

"Jean and Mariette were betrayed by a collaborator," Monty explained. "When we returned to their home, we found Nazis inside and out. After we dealt with them, and contacted HQ for a new set of coordinates, we asked them to take Ruben to wait for the plane, so that we could come and help deal with these fellows." He gestured at the dead bodies. "We didn't want them sneaking up behind the team and catching you unawares. But it seems our assistance was not required after all."

"Dugan's gonna be pissed he missed all the action," Morita grinned. "Speaking of which, where's the rest of the team?"

A sound from the damaged Nazi car made both men jump. Oh yeah, he'd almost forgotten about his prisoner. "Hey, Morita, why don't you help Antje into the car and give her something warm to drink. She's been on her feet for long enough already."

As Morita led Antje to the Citroen, Bucky gestured Monty towards the Nazi car. The young soldier who was lashed to the frame started to rant and flail as he stared at Bucky through terrified eyes.

"Der Teufel! Der Teufel! Er hat sie alle getötet! Halten sie ihn von mir fern!"

"Figured we'd take Ludwig here back to England with us. Brass might wanna interrogate him."

"Very likely," Monty agreed. "Though he seems quite terrified. What did you do to him?"

"Me? I didn't do anything to him!" Bucky protested. "Why, what's he saying?"

"Mostly that you killed all his companions. Also he thinks you may be the devil."

Bucky snorted. "Of course I killed the others. That's how war is fought. Tell him that if he doesn't stop blabbering, I'm gonna do to him what I did to them."

He left Monty to convey the message and headed back to the Citroen. Damn Nazis. It was plain hypocrisy to call Bucky the devil after everything they'd done to countless millions of people in Europe. Besides, it was all relative. One man's devil was another man's angel. He couldn't bring back those who were already lost, but perhaps by killing these Nazis here today, he'd saved some other family further down the line.

At the car, the soldier's ranting had not gone unnoticed. Antje, her hands clasped around a thermos lid filled with coffee, scowled when Bucky slid into the front passenger seat.

"Why didn't you kill him like the others?"

"Because he's more valuable alive than dead." And because he reminds me of Charlie, in the same way that you remind me of Janet. You're both too young to die.

"Besides," Morita added, "I don't think—"

Whatever Morita didn't think was cut off by a flash of light that briefly turned the whole sky orange. A thunderous boom followed, deep enough that Bucky felt a faint tremor through the car's seat. Monty jogged over to join them.

"I take it that explosion is the handiwork of Mr Dernier?"

"Yeah," said Bucky. "That means we gotta get ready to move. Steve and Jacques will be here any minute; the team infiltrated the facility through a… uh… waste extraction pipe—"

"Wait, wait," said Morita, a nefarious grin spreading across his face, "are you telling me they got in through a sewer?"

"Pretty much." He was not looking forward to the trip back to England with four of the Commandos smelling like they crawled through something that died—several times. "Steve and Dernier set the bomb, and Jones and Dugan are using the distraction to get us some better transportation."

"Hmm." A thoughtful expression flickered across Morita's face. "So not only did Dugan miss out on all your action, and all our action, and not only did he have to crawl through a sewer, he also got stuck on grand-theft-auto duty? I wonder how I can put all of those things together into a single joke."

Morita's joking would have to wait. A very soggy, greyish-brown Steve and Jacques appeared from the direction of the sewer pipe. Bucky smelt them before he saw them, and as the pair approached, everybody had to hold their noses to keep out the vicious stench of waste."

"Major, what are you doing here?" Steve asked, as Bucky spoke up with "Did you have any troubles inside the factory?"

Monty cleared his throat. "We ran into a spot of bother at Jean's house. It turns out our travel through the town had not gone unnoticed. When we realised enemy soldiers would be coming after you, we decided to follow them and try to ambush the ambushers."

Steve glanced at the dead bodies strewn over the road. "In that case, good call. Looks like you made short work of them."

"Er, actually, we arrived a little late to this particular party." Monty re-arranged the angle of his hat, and Bucky made note of it; could be a potential poker-tell. "By the time we got here, Sergeant Barnes had already dispatched the soldiers."

One Steve's eyebrows rose in surprise as he turned towards his best friend. "Buck, you did this?"

"Hey, it's not like they left me much choice—"

"I didn't mean it in an accusatory way, pal. I'm just glad you were out here, is all."

And there it was. That near-imperceptible I-told-you-so tone. This would go in the official report. I left Sergeant Barnes outside the compound to cover our exit route, and he put down an enemy force that was approaching from behind. The brass would praise his foresight. Which, Bucky had to admit, they would be correct to do. But he still didn't have to like it.

An engine roared from further down the road, from the direction of the HYDRA factory. Former HYDRA factory. Now, the near-horizon was painted orange and red as the place blazed fiercely. By morning, whatever remained would be of little use to the Nazis. This would throw a decent sized spanner in Schmidt's works.

The roaring grew louder, and a truck appeared from the smoke. Even at a distance, Bucky could make out the bowler-hatted form of Dugan at the wheel, and as they drew near, an unmistakable "WaaahooOOOOO!" issued from the cab.

The truck came to a halt, and both men, equally as soggy and dirty and Steve, jumped out. Each wore a cartridge belt around their necks, and carried one of those deadly HYDRA weapons slung across their shoulders. Dugan had a black eye, and Jones was bleeding from a shallow gash on his forehead. Wisps of smoke curled up from a cigar clasped between Dugan's teeth, and in his right hand he carried a bottle of vodka with Russian writing on the label.

"You fellas won't believe all the action you missed," the madman grinned.

"Where did you get the cigars?" asked Steve.

"And the booze?" Morita chimed in.

"Spoils of war, my friends. Spoils of war." He took a swig of the vodka and wiped his sleeve across his moustache.

"Dugan, you can't drink on the job," Steve said, in a tone Bucky had normally heard aimed at himself.

"Cap'n," said Dugan, "I just spent the night jumping out of a plane, hiking through two countries, crawling through Europe's dirtiest sewer, and fightin' a bunch of fascists so I could steal a ride. And pretty soon I'm gonna have to endure another journey with Dernier's stomach, followed by six to eight hours of bathing to get rid of the smell of shit. It'll be a cold day in hell before I give up this small comfort, and if you wanna court-martial me when we get back, well, I wouldn't blame you."

During Dugan's tirade, Bucky managed to sneak up close. As soon as the big man's guard was down, he snatched the bottle from his hands. Dugan's scowl was murderous.

"Just need to borrow this for a moment," Bucky said.

"Give it back, Barnes. Find yer own damn vodka! I stole that fair and square."

Bucky could already see the disapproval on Steve's face, so he quickly explained before he could hear round 23 of Sober Steve's Alcohol Lectures.

"It's not for me. Antje's been shot. It's not a serious injury, but I can use the vodka to disinfect it and re-bandage her arm. C'mon Dugan, surely you won't let the poor girl suffer."

Dugan's grumbling was not audible, but he had a good heart, for an over-sized orangutan. "Fine, fine, but I'm gonna want that back before we get on the plane."

"Bucky, can you do the bandage while we're en route?" asked Steve. Worry-lines had formed across his forehead. "That explosion is bound to attract attention, and I want to be long gone by the time reinforcements arrive."

"This car is really old and feeble," said Morita. "I should probably drive it myself, try and keep it steady while Barnes changes Antje's bandages."

"And I should ride, as you Americans call it, 'shotgun'" said Monty, nodding fervently. "So that I can… ah… navigate for Private Morita. And uh… help provide a counter-balance for the suspension."

"You don't wanna ride with us because we smell bad," Steve accused.

"Pal," said Bucky, "you smell like something that died. Several times. We're gonna need nose-pegs just to survive the plane ride."

"Fine, you four take the car, we'll take the truck. But let's get going. We have a rendezous to make."

"Wait!" Bucky said, as he remembered one other thing. "I almost forgot, I've got a gift for the brass." He showed the Commandos to the young German soldier he'd captured. The boy was slumped against the car, eyes downcast, a very teenager-like scowl etched across his face. "I thought he'd be useful for intel."

"Huh." Dugan twirled his moustache around his finger. "Funny old world. Jones, show them our 'gift' for the brass."

Jones trotted off to the back of the truck. There was some banging, and when he returned, he was leading a bound HYDRA soldier. The man's stare was wide, but not in a terrified sorta way. More in a fanatical, completely-cuckoo sorta way. As well, his chin was bloody, and the blood was clearly fresh, because a few more drips spilled out from his mouth.

"Thought he'd be useful for intel," Dugan echoed.

"Why is he bleeding?" Monty asked.

"Oh, we had to perform some ad-hoc amateur dentistry, and we only had a pair of mechanical pliers close to hand."

"Dear lord, why?!"

"Because," said Bucky, "HYDRA soldiers have cyanide capsules in their teeth. When they're captured, they kill themselves so that they can't be interrogated."

"Egads, that's barbaric!"

"Barbaric, but effective," said Steve. Bucky could tell by the way his eyes had gone unfocused that his friend was deep in some painful memory. "The HYDRA operative who killed the man responsible for Project Rebirth… he used a cyanide capsule to kill himself after I captured him. Not just to escape interrogation, but to escape justice. They use death to cheat the law because they have no respect for life. Not even their own."

"What should we do with them, Captain?" Monty asked.

"Both prisoners can ride with us in the back of the truck. That way, I can keep an eye on them. Now, let's get moving."

It was a relief to be away from the smell of sewer. Morita started up the car as Bucky slid onto the back seat. A moment later, they were moving. For once, Bucky didn't pay any attention to the view from the window or the direction they were taking. He trusted Morita and Monty to get them there.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Antje. Though her eyes were closed, he could tell she wasn't sleeping. Her breathing was too fast, too shallow.

"It hurts," she said, opening her eyes. "I try to tell myself to ignore the pain. That this is nothing compared to what many people have endured at the hands of the Nazis. But how can you ignore pain when it hurts like this?"

"You can't," he said. "You've just gotta wait for it to pass. Here, I've got something that will help." He removed the cap from his canteen and poured a measure of vodka into it. "Drink this. It'll take the edge off."

He expected her to object, but she was so exhausted and in so much pain that she didn't even question what it was. She gulped it down as if it was water, and didn't react as Bucky unwrapped the bandage around her arm.

"This will sting," he explained, pouring some of the vodka onto a wad of bandage dressing.

She simply nodded, too weary to speak. Though she flinched when he dabbed around the wound with the alcohol-soaked dressing, she didn't cry out or make any sound. It seemed the events of the night, and of the past few years, had finally caught up with her. The alcohol, coupled with the rocking motion of the car, worked quickly, and she was soon asleep.

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

By the time their small convoy reached the rendezvous point, the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. In the back of the truck, Steve's stomach growled hungrily. Though he was several hours overdue for one of his high-protein ration bars, he was loathe to touch food until he'd undergone several rounds of bathing. Right now, he wasn't willing to test just how strong his constitution was.

When the truck slowed and stopped, and Dugan shouted out that they'd reached their destination, Steve and Dernier ushered the prisoners outside, and joined the rest of the team out in the fresh air. It didn't escape his attention that they surreptitiously sidled away from him.

It was a strange sort of reunion. Antje flung herself into Ruben's arms the moment she saw him; tears spilled down both civilians' cheeks, while Mariette, a German rifle cradled in her arms, watched on with a soft smile on her face. Jean, meanwhile, was over by the plane, in deep discussion with the pilot.

"Alright everyone," Steve. "Let's get ready to head out."

"Excuse me, Captain Rogers." The plane's pilot approached with Jean in tow. The grim frowns on their faces made Steve's heart freeze a little. Something else had gone wrong. He just knew it. "Your French friend here tells me that you want to take a couple of civilians back with us?"

Steve nodded, and gestured at the two prisoners. "And those soldiers. We want to hand them over for interrogation."

The pilot shook his head. It was the same man who'd flown them into Norway. Possibly the craziest guy in England, right after the Commandos themselves.

"I'm sorry Captain, but we were spotted coming in and we took some flak. A round pierced our fuel tank; damn lucky we didn't explode mid-air. My navigator's patched up the tank, but we lost fuel. If your whole team left behind their bags, weapons, and any other equipment you're carrying, we could take one extra passenger with us. But only one. And it will be very close if the winds suddenly turn against us."

It was only then, standing in a field full of silence, that Steve realised everyone present had been listening to the conversation. And as the Captain finished explaining their situation, all eyes turned to him.

"You must take Antje," said Ruben, before anybody else could speak. "She is the only thing that matters. Take her to safety."

"Opa, no!" New tears spilled from the young woman's eyes. Steve's heart went out to her. She had already lost the rest of the rest of her family. Her grandfather was the only person she had left. "I will not leave without you. If you are not going, I am not going either."

The world seemed to reel around him. Light-headed. Needed food. The down side of an enhanced physiology. What should he do? Only one spare place on the plane. Ruben would not go and leave Antje behind. Antje would not leave unless her grandfather could go with her. Could he take one of the prisoners? The young man Bucky had captured would have knowledge of Nazi activities in the area. But the man Dugan had captured would know HYDRA secrets. How often did they get chance to capture a HYDRA soldier before they swallowed their pills?

This was possibly his fault. He was too big. Captain America had the mass of nearly two men. If only he was still skinny ol' Steve Rogers, there might've been room for two more people on that plane.

"Mr Rogers," said Mariette, stepping forward. "This young woman needs medical attention. Her wound must be stitched and tended to properly."

"I'm not leaving without Opa!" Antje insisted.

"We can take your prisoners," Jean spoke up. "We can use what information we can get from them. And we can find a family for Ruben to stay with. Provide him with false papers."

"Antje, listen to me," said Ruben. He held the girl's face cupped in his hands, as if trying to impart what strength he had left to her. "You must leave me. It is time for you to live your life."

"No! I'm not going without you. You can't make me leave you. I won't go!"

Monty stepped forward, joining Steve and the pilot. "Captain..?"

"Stone," the man said. "Captain Edward Stone."

"Captain Stone, I once found myself in a similar predicament when being flown to a drop-zone in Italy. Our plane took damage during the flight, and we started losing altitude. We managed to survive by jettisoning all non-essential equipment and furnishings; the oxygen tanks, the emergency transponder… we even unscrewed the seats and threw them out of the cargo door. Could we do something similar here, to free up enough weight for one more passenger?"

Captain Stone sighed. "And I'd just got her balanced perfectly. Fine, you have ten minutes to strip out every last ounce of non-essential weight. Ask my navigator to tell you what can be removed. We leave in ten minutes with or without your passengers. The people who shot at us won't take long to find us out here."

Tired as they were, the Commandos worked with renewed energy. Under the guidance of the navigator, they stripped the plane to its skeleton. There would be no seats to sit on during the voyage home, but it was a short trip, and a small price to pay to save two lives.

Ten minutes later, they assembled. Captain Stone assessed what they'd removed and, very reluctantly, declared that they might make it back to England carrying two extra passengers. If they weren't shot at again. And if the tailwinds remained. And if they could radio ahead to land on the first scrap of open land they would reach upon making it across the Channel.

Steve and the rest of the Commandos handed their backpacks and weapons, along with the two prisoners, over to Jean and Mariette. Dugan gave the bottle of vodka one last, loving stroke before offering it to Jean. It all went into the German car. Might as well give the Resistance everything they themselves wouldn't need, so that it could be put to good use.

"We'll pass along any intelligence we get from your prisoners," said Mariette. "And perhaps the next time we meet, it will be in a France that is free."

"I hope so," Steve agreed. "Good luck, to both of you."

He watched as Jean and Mariette got into the vehicle and drove off towards the nearest road. He didn't know where they were heading, but he knew they could take care of themselves. They were fighting for their home; that was all the strength they needed.

Antje reached out to grasp his arm, her eyes watery in her pale face. She was a pretty girl, and now, hopefully, she would have the chance to grow into a beautiful woman.

"Thank you, Captain," she said. "Thank you for not leaving my Opa behind."

"Don't thank me yet; we still have to reach England."

"But thanks to you, he has a chance. Thanks to you, we both do."

He nodded, and watched as she took her grandfather's hand, to lead him up the loading ramp, then turned to face his team. "C'mon Commandos, you know the drill. It's time to go home."

Author's note: Sorry that this chapter is a week later than promised... at first I wasn't going to have Antje be shot. Then I decided the chapter needed some injury, so I needed time for a rewrite. Thanks for reading :)