We Were Soldiers
107. Recovery
"The hell are you doing, Dugan?" Morita demanded as they sat cloistered inside the bare belly of the airplane.
Bucky squinted at Dugan in the near-darkness. The guy's cheeks were puffed up, and his face was decidedly pink. Was he feeling sick? It was bad enough with Dernier making dreadful dry-retching noises near the tail-end of the plane, to where he'd been banished. The last thing they needed was Dugan getting ill, too.
"If you must know, I'm holding my breath," Dugan explained.
"Why? I know the smell's bad, but you kinda can't survive without air."
"That's not why I'm holding my breath." He thumped his chest with his fist. "I'm doing it to make myself lighter."
His announcement earned a round of blank stares and silence. Finally, Steve spoke up.
"Um, Dugan. You realise that breathing doesn't make you lighter, right?"
"Course it does! Think about it, Cap. When you take a deep breath when you're swimming, you automatically start to float. Because breathing in air makes you lighter."
"Lighter than water, you dingus," said Morita. "When you're surrounded by air, and you breathe in air, you still only weigh as much as yourself."
"Ah, but the higher up in the atmosphere you go, the lighter air becomes. So up here, I'm breathing in lighter air, right?"
"Captain Stone," Morita called into the cockpit. "Tell Dum-Dum here that that's not actually how air works."
"Please stop talking," Stone called back. Bucky was beginning to suspect the guy regretted giving them permission to remove the solid door between the cockpit and the passenger bay. "It's taking every ounce of concentration for us to hold the plane in the tailwind currents. Even a tiny slip could force us to lose valuable momentum and send us hurtling to a watery grave in the Channel."
Dernier made another almost-vomiting noise, and the rest of the Commandos fell silent.
Ruben and Antje were handling it well. They sat motionless, hugging each other for warmth. Antje still had his jacket, so Bucky tried his very best not to shiver with cold. He didn't want her feeling guilty and trying to give it back. Besides, he'd probably have to requisition a new one anyway, unless the army tailor could fix the tear in the arm made by the passing bullet.
A swelling of sympathy for the pair blossomed in his chest. Less than a year ago, he'd been in their place. Travelling to a new country, unsure of what the future held. The difference was, he'd had his friends to help him through. His brothers-in-arms. All Ruben and Antje had was each other.
"I'm going to call in our position," said Captain Stone. "We won't make it to Tempsford." He picked up his cockpit radio and pressed the 'transmit' button. "South-east Control, this is Flamingo-six-five-Charlie-Tango, cleared to land at RAF Tempsford, requesting alternative landing site due to a damaged fuel tank. Please advise."
A burst of static issued from the radio, followed a few seconds later by a scratchy voice.
"Flamingo-Charlie-Tango, this is South-east Control, you are cleared for approach to RAF Hawkinge. The runway has been cleared for your arrival, and a fire crew is on standby."
Fire Crew?!
"Thank you, Control. Please advise our boys flying interception that we are not an enemy bomber on an approach run. I'd like to get this plane home in one piece." He glanced sadly back at the spartan passenger bay. "At least, one piece of what's left."
"What does all that mean?" Antje spoke up.
"It means we'll soon be on the ground," said Steve, armed with his best reassuring smile.
"Dieu merci," Dernier muttered into his bucket.
"Captain, we have a problem," said the navigator. A deathly silence fell inside the plane. Even Dernier managed to stop retching. The navigator consulted the map spread out across his knee. "We're still too heavy. We're a few miles short of reaching Hawkinge. You'll have to put down somewhere fast."
Steve pushed himself to his feet, chin lifted heroically. "I'll jump into the Channel," he offered. "Cold water doesn't bother me, and I can swim to shore easily enough. Maybe that'll make you light enough to make it to Hawkinge."
"Five minutes ago, I would've pushed you out myself," Stone said. He sounded entirely serious about it. "But we're no longer over the Channel; we've reached land, and a fall from this height, without a chute, would kill even you."
"According to the map, there are empty fields up ahead. They're not flat, but we've landed on worse," said the navigator.
Stone nodded. "Alright, call it in."
"Control, this is Flamingo-six-five-Charlie Tango, unable to reach RAF Hawkinge, advising new landing co-ordinates of approximately five-one point one-one-nine by one point two-seven-four. Please dispatch emergency and recovery crews to the site."
"Roger that, Flamingo. And good luck."
"Alright, here we go," said Stone. He called back over his shoulder, "You might want to hold onto something."
"Very funny," Bucky quipped. Virtually everything had been removed from the cabin. There was nothing left to hold on to.
The plane began to descend. Bucky could feel it by the decrease in pressure in his ears, and the way the pitch of the engine noise changed. In fact, the engines didn't sound particularly healthy. They were starting to cough and splutter… probably because they were running on fumes.
When the plane rolled sharply to the left, Bucky's stomach rolled with it, and he finally understood what it meant to be Dernier. He expected the plane to be righted a few seconds later. When it wasn't, he called out, "Why are we at angle?" He wasn't the only Commando fighting to stay upright.
"The ground is sloped," Stone called over the engine's drone. "We have to come in at the same angle it slopes, or the force of landing might damage the chassis."
Damage the chassis was just fancy pilot talk for 'tear the plane in half'. Bucky could see it in his mind. The cockpit torn from the cargo bay, both parts careening across the ground, probably going over some inconveniently placed cliff. But he put on a brave face. Tried not to let Antje see his fear. For her sake, he had to pretend that all was well. That the Commandos did this every day. Nothing to worry about.
Then the engines failed. It was the absence of their persistent whir that was most terrifying. Silence was not a sound you wanted to hear when you were inside an airplane about to touch down on the ground. But he forced a grim smile onto his lips. Keep up the pretenses.
The first thud of the wheels touching the ground jolted him sideways. Morita was flung against his left side; somebody else's elbow jabbed into his right-side ribs. Antje screamed as the plane jolted and bounced along the uneven ground, and Bucky's teeth rattled as if being shaken loose from his head.
It lasted less than thirty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime. When the plane finally stopped, everybody inside let out the breath they'd been collectively holding.
"Is everybody okay?" Steve asked. The plane was still tilted at an angle, so when he stood up, he had to lean backwards to prevent himself falling over. "Anybody hurt?"
"Just my pride," Dugan grumbled. Somehow, in the chaos, Dernier had lost his grip on his bucket. It, and its contents, hand landed squarely on Dugan's chest.
"Ruben? Antje?" Steve asked.
"We are okay," said Antje. She still clung to her grandfather, as if afraid she'd lose him if she ever let him go.
"Glad to hear everyone's fine," Captain Stone said. "Now, if you've found your ground-legs, kindly get out of my plane. You smell awful."
Jeez, you'd think the guy wasn't grateful to be given the opportunity to fly dangerous missions behind enemy lines!
Monty and Morita helped Ruben and Antje up as Bucky and Steve threw their combined weight against the door lever. With a groan of complaint, the door opened. Fresh air and the first rays of morning sunshine flooded into the plane.
They were home.
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Rays of morning sunshine peeped around the edges of the curtain, small slices of light dancing across the ceiling and walls. The good thing about being a civilian again, Danny decided as he lay on his back watching the play of light above, was that he didn't have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn to march for twelve hours straight or dig a half-dozen holes deep enough for a man to hide in.
Footsteps thudded up the stairs, thud thud thud, coming to a stop outside his bedroom door. Bang bang bang, somebody knocked loud enough to wake a man from sleep. Then Rosa's voice called out. "Danny, get up. Breakfast is ready."
The bad thing about being a civilian again was that Rosa was a harsh task-master, and she ran her home even more tightly than a five-star General ran his army. She didn't wake him at the ass-crack of dawn, but he didn't exactly get the lie-ins he'd been accustomed to back home. And there would be chores to do, after breakfast. Hauling water from the well to the barn. Feeding and milking the goats. Churning butter and cheese. There was no such thing as 'weekend' when you had animals to care for.
Still, it was a damn sight better than marching, digging trenches and getting shot at. Plus, he no longer had to eat rations. So he wasn't going to complain.
He hauled himself out of bed and spent a moment looking at himself in the mirror as the cold morning air made goosebumps pepper his flesh. He no longer looked like the Danny of six months ago. The Danny who'd had to march long and hard carrying a heavy weight on not enough food. The Danny who'd gone days or weeks without having the chance to bathe. The Danny who'd killed men and seen men killed and lain in bed for hours each night feeling bad about Carrot and Davies and Franklin and all the other friends the war had claimed.
His arm was still a bit of a mess; he'd lost muscle through lack of use, and the raw scar tissue twisted and pulled his skin in ways that ached when the weather was cold. But apart from his arm, he looked and felt a whole lot healthier than he had since shipping out from Last Stop. His ribs were no longer visible. His cheeks were no longer gaunt. The dark circles beneath his eyes had faded, and though he was in desperate need of a shave and a haircut, he no longer looked like some homeless vagabond. The clothes that Rosa had found for him now fit him well; his shoulders filled the shirt, though he still needed a belt to keep the pants up. Out in the world, war waged on, but for Danny it was kept at bay by the remoteness and relative uselessness of Castello Lavazzo.
He trudged down the stairs and wondered how little Billy was doing. Billy was the baby goat born yesterday; the first new baby of the season. It took only a few minutes for him to stand and start feeding, and Danny hadn't been able to keep the smile from his face as the little kid greedily sucked at his mother's teat. It reminded him of foaling season at his uncle's ranch. Baby goats weren't all that different to baby horses. And both were considerably quieter than baby humans. At least, if the baby the 107th had rescued in France last year was anything to go by.
How was little Matilda doing? Was she with a nice family? Would they one day tell her of the soldiers who'd brought her to the village? Maybe one day, after the war was over, he could go back and find out what'd happened to her. Make sure she was happy.
"Good morning, Rosa," he said, stepping into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. Looked like he was the first one down. It made a nice change to not be the last one to wake up! "Is everyone else still in bed?"
She shook her head. "Paolo has gone fishing with a couple of his friends."
"But it's February. And the river has only just thawed out."
"Yes, but they think they will find fish, and I did not have the heart to tell them not to be so foolish. Besides, it will do him good to spend the day outdoors; the winter has kept us all confined more than we like. Adalina has gone to the barn, to see if any more goats were born during the night. It's likely we may have another kid or two today."
"Guess we'll have our work cut out for us." He grabbed a slice of bread and lathered it with goats' butter. "I'll go and give her a hand with the water buckets."
Rosa pursed her lips. "Don't bother. Today you will work with Matteo, in the forge."
"Uh, what?"
"Are your ears filled with wool?"
"Okay, why am I working with Matteo today?" There was nothing he would like less. Well, maybe there were a few things he would like less. Latrine duty. Sitting in a foxhole with Gusty on a particularly nervous day. Enduring one of his father's 'you're a disappointment' speeches.
"Because he feels that cooking and milking goats is not a job that is suitable for a man, so he will show you something of metal-working. He's just had a large order placed, and it is too much work for him and Ludovico alone."
Paolo's sudden desire to disappear 'fishing' now made a whole lot more sense. He was a smart boy.
"But I am completely okay with doing jobs not suitable for a man!" he objected. Working with the goats was tiring, and churning even more so. But he'd actually started to enjoy helping Rosa out in the kitchen. It was always warm and always smelled amazing. The things she could do with a bunch of raw ingredients and a few herbs, using recipes she stored in her head… it was like art and science combined into one. If she ever teamed up with Howard Stark, they would probably take over the world.
"Even so, you will help Matteo today."
"Are you sure my arm is up to it?" he offered feebly.
"We will find out."
"I don't think my arm is up to it."
"It will survive one day in the forge."
At that moment, Matteo came down the stairs, so Danny decided to drop the objections. Besides, maybe if the work was too hard to manage, or he did really badly at it, Matteo wouldn't want him in the forge again.
Rosa's husband grunted his morning greeting then sat down to eat several slices of bread washed down with a cup of hot milk. Halfway through his breakfast, he asked Danny, "Has Rosa told you you'll be helping me in the forge today?"
"Yes, I'm looking forward to it."
The lie earned him a grunt of acknowledgement and another few minutes of silence. Whilst Matteo polished off his fourth slice of bread, Danny grabbed his jacket and his boots in preparation for the trek to the village. There was no harm in pretending to be eager. Besides, the sooner they got there, the sooner they would start work, and the faster the day would be over. At least, that was his working theory.
Winter's harsh grip on northern Italy was beginning to relent. The rivers that ran down from the mountains had thawed and were swollen with the melt-water of glaciers… or something. Danny would be the first to admit that he hadn't paid much attention in geography class. And none of his geography classes had touched upon the seasonal features of Italy. Ironically, he'd learnt more about Europe in the army than he had done in school.
Matteo didn't exactly set a fast pace to the village, but his stride was long, and Danny was forced to jog at several points to keep up, like some naughty kid trailing reluctantly after his parent.
Castello Lavazzo, nestled in the valley, was a welcome sight. Though the people in the village had now accepted that he really was some distant relative of Matteo's come to escape the horrors of his home in France, he didn't want to push his luck, so he only went into the village once every couple of weeks or so, and only when either Rosa or Adalina was able to accompany him. It would be just his luck that he'd run into Nazis or some other sort of trouble if he went there alone.
The forge was on the far side of the village, some distance behind the church, at a place where a small tributary of the river forked into two directions. When they arrived, they found the front door open and Ludovico already stoking the fire.
"Ah, Pierre, welcome," the young man said, when he spotted Danny lurking behind Matteo.
"Good morning, Ludovico," he replied. "I look forward to seeing the work you do here."
Ludovico offered a quick smile before refocusing on the fire. Danny had found the young man, who was the older brother of Adalina's best friend, the easiest of all the young people in the village to get along with. He didn't seem as suspicious as the others, and he had a sense of humour that the war had not been able to dampen.
"So, what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Two things," said Matteo. He pointed to a nearby bucket, and then at a large wooden barrel. "First, fetch water from the river to fill the slack tub."
Fetching water. Sure, he could do that. It was no different than fetching water from the well for the goats. Easy.
"And the second thing?"
Matteo patted and instrument with a large wooden handle. "Once we get started, you will work the bellows. The fire must be kept at a steady temperature to allow us to work. Too much or too little air and the temperature will drop or rise, making it impossible for us to heat the metal properly. It is a very important task."
It sounded more like menial labour than an important task, but Danny was hardly in a position to argue. And he was still conscious that Matteo might send him out to live with the goats if he put a foot wrong.
Resigned to his fate, he picked up the bucket and headed down to the river.
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It had taken three baths, and nearly five hours of scrubbing, but Steve was finally clean and odour-free. Their arrival at RAF Hawkinge had been met with much good-natured ribbing, but his team and their civilian refugees had been provided with hot food and full access to the base's bathing facilities. Everybody, even those who hadn't crawled through the sewer, took advantage of the offer of fresh water, whilst Ruben and Antje were taken to the base's hospital so they could get checked out and have Antje's bandages changed.
The one good thing about their unplanned arrival at Hawkinge was that Peggy was not there to meet them. By the time she arrived with three cars from RAF Tempsford, Steve was cleaner than he'd ever been in his life, and a plate of food the size of a small mountain had finally silenced the grumbling of his stomach.
She'd listened in silence as he explained the presence of Ruben and Antje. It was hard to know what she was thinking, because she had a poker face that could put the rest of the Commandos to shame. All she said was, I'll make arrangements. Then she chivvied both the civilians into the car with her and her driver, and instructed the rest of them to be back at HQ before nightfall.
Steve hadn't seen her since then. He and the Commandos made good time to London, and when they reached HQ he dismissed everybody but Bucky and Monty, who he kept with him to provide their own reports to Colonel Phillips on events that had transpired after the team split up.
Now, standing outside Phillips' door, Steve knocked, waited, and felt like his ten year old self standing outside the principal's office after being caught fighting in the schoolyard again.
"Come in."
Steve took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Somehow, it was often easier to face Nazis than it was to face Colonel Phillips. For some reason he couldn't grasp, he always managed to inexplicably piss the guy off. Even when his missions were a success, Phillips found something to grumble about. Steve suspected he might still be a bit sore about not getting his own way about the candidate for Project Rebirth. So far as Phillips was concerned, Hodge should've been the guy doing these missions.
Bucky and Monty were right on his heels as he entered the room, and as a group, they saluted. Phillips pursed his lips, the early signs of a frown already drawn across his face.
"Agent Carter tells me that we have two new mouths to feed," he said.
"Err, yes sir. It's a long story."
Phillips shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "What is it with my men and bringing back civilians from missions? At least these two don't need diapers." Diapers? "Very well, let's hear your report, Captain."
So, Steve told him everything. And when he'd told as much as he could, he handed the story over to Monty, who explained what had happened with their Resistance contacts. Then Monty gave the tale to Bucky, who added his own part. Steve picked up the last, describing how their ride had taken a round of flak and how they'd stripped the plane down to its bare bones to make it back home.
"Ah," said Phillips. He picked up a telegram message from his desk. "That explains the communication I received from your pilot earlier today. He cleared his throat. "Colonel Phillips, please find another pilot to carry around your team of madmen. Sincerely, Captain Stone."
"Sir, that couldn't be helped," Steve assured him.
"Maybe not. But at the very least, you could've brought back something of value for the inconvenience you caused your pilot; those two prisoners you captured, for example. They could've been a valuable source of intelligence."
"Sir, if you want to send us on a mission to capture enemy soldiers for interrogation, then my team and I will make it our top priority. But that was not what our last mission was about. We accomplished what we were sent to do, and I was forced to make a choice. And if I was forced to make that choice again, I would make the same one."
"Of that I have no doubt, Rogers." Phillips rubbed his temples, as if massaging away some perpetual headache. Steve thought he could guess at the source. "I'll expect to see your mission reports typed up and on my desk by oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"
"Yessir." He could feel Bucky's mental groan. While the rest of the Commandos would be drinking in the Fiddle, the three of them would be stuck behind typewriters. If he knew his friend, it would be a very brief report. "Sir, if I may ask, do you know what happened to the civilians we brought back? I'd like to check in on them, when I have a spare moment."
"Agent Carter is arranging accommodation for them. I'm sure she'll fill you in once she's organised everything. Until the next mission, you and your men can have some down-time. Just don't forget about those reports. You're all dismissed."
Steve saluted again. Bucky and Monty were only a split second behind him. And, once out in the corridor, Steve let out the breath that had kept his shoulders squared. Standing in front of Phillips could be as taxing as a ten-mile hike through enemy territory. Mentally speaking, at least.
"What do you think will happen to Ruben and Antje?" Bucky asked, as they made their way to the administration area. Hopefully they could find three free typewriters.
"In all likelihood they'll have to be housed in communal accommodation," said Monty. "We've already taken in a number of refugees, and almost every hotel is packed to the brim with Allied servicemen. But at least they will be out of the cold, and they will be given a ration allowance just like everybody else. They will survive. And after the war is over, they can hopefully start living again."
After the war is over. Monty made it sound like the outcome was a foregone conclusion, but Steve was not so sure. Yes, they were putting a serious dent in Hydra's operations, but it still felt like they were catching up to an enemy who was ten steps ahead of them. Ten steps ahead of everybody. The challenge now would be to stop Schmidt before he could gain any more ground. Before his focus moved away from the European front… and his gaze turned to America's shores.
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An overwhelming array of beautiful dresses hung before Peggy's eyes. Once upon a time, they had barely seemed enough for one woman; now, she recognised them for the extravagance they were. Spoilt. She had not been ungrateful for all her parents had provided, but she had definitely been spoilt.
How greatly experience could change a person. The dresses that had once been so important to her were now a hindrance. She couldn't run in a dress. She couldn't fight in a dress. She couldn't win a war in a dress. She couldn't hide a weapon in a dress. Unless… perhaps some sort of thigh holster was in order?
Shaking her head, she set her thoughts aside, along with all the dresses. All except one; the red dress she had worn when she went to meet Steve in the Fiddle after they returned from Italy. This one would come with her.
She folded it neatly, then placed it into her army-issue duffel bag. On top of it went a couple of sensible skirts and blouses, and several of her more comfortable undergarments. In a way, this was just like leaving for boarding school. Only, this time, she knew in her heart of hearts that she would not be coming back. Oh, she would return to visit. This would always be a place where she would be welcome. But this time, when she left, it would no longer be Home.
"I really don't see why this is necessary!" her mother repeated.
Peggy turned, facing down her last remaining obstacle. Her mother, perched on the edge of the bed, held a handkerchief clasped between her hands, and her eyes were still watery from the tears she'd shed.
"Just look at this bed," her mother said, before Peggy could even open her mouth. For emphasis, she stretched her arm across the width of it, leaning her body across it to smooth down the quilts. "There is certainly room for two young women in here. Probably even three! The more the merrier—isn't that what they say?"
"They do say that," Peggy agreed. "Just not usually on the subject of sleeping arrangements."
"But darling, what do we even know about these people?"
"That they're good, hard-working people who have suffered terrible, terrible tragedy at the hands of our enemies." She took a seat on the bed beside her mother, resting her head on her shoulder, as she'd done when she'd been a little girl. "Our compassion for those in need is what separates us from them. Besides, my room is hardly being used. I spend most of my days and nights at Headquarters; this simply means that I won't have to make the commute back on the few nights I'm free."
"I don't like the thought of you spending your time in a hotel room surrounded by soldiers," mother offered feebly.
"I spend most of my time in the SSR; the hotel room is just a place to rest my head at night. Besides, I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."
Her mother sighed. "I know, but it's still my prerogative to worry about my children. With Michael spending most of his time in the drawing room with his book, and you off on your missions, I feel like I barely even have a family anymore."
As far as emotional blackmail went, it wasn't a bad attempt. But Peggy had seen war, up close and personal. Her mother's appeal paled in comparison.
"But you do have a family. A lot of innocent people don't, because of what the Nazis are doing. This war demands that we all make sacrifices. Ruben and Antje have sacrificed enough; more than anybody should ever have to. They deserve a respite from all of that, and I intend to see that they get it."
Mother stood up, squaring her shoulders. "Very well. I can see that your mind is set, and I know better than to argue with you when you get like this." She gestured to the clothes in the wardrobe. "Should I have your dresses sent to you at the hotel?"
"No. I've no need for them. Let Antje have them, though you may need to take them in so that they fit her. Anything that she can't use, you can re-purpose into more functional clothing and give it away to those in need."
"And this?" Mother reached into the back of the wardrobe and pulled out a large cardboard box. "Should I 're-purpose' this, as well?"
Peggy swallowed the lump in her throat. It was the wedding dress her mother had given her; the one that Grandma Alice had worn and passed down from mother to daughter. It was not rightfully Peggy's. Not anymore.
"Keep it safe for me," she said. "Grandma Alice wouldn't want it picked apart."
Mother accepted the suggestion with a nod, then carried the box out of Peggy's room. Probably going to squirrel it away in her own wardrobe until the day Peggy needed it again.
Her last pair of sensible shoes went on top of the clothes in the bag. And that was that. Packing done, she slung the duffel over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and didn't look back as she walked out the door.
She made it as far as the downstairs hallway before almost being run-over by Michael. Her brother had a mug of hot cocoa in one hand, a plate of jam and cheese on toast in the other, and a far-away look on his face. He offered Peggy an apologetic smile as he quickly regained control of his mug.
"So, you're finally flying the nest, are you? Good for you!"
"It's just temporary," she said, knowing he wouldn't believe that any more than she did. "To give Ruben and Antje somewhere to stay."
"Ah yes, I'd heard we were having guests." His wrinkled nose told her what he thought of that idea.
"Please be polite to them, Michael. They're been through so much."
"So long as they're kept out of my way, I'll be as polite as the King." He offered mock bow, and almost spilled the contents of his mug again. "I can't be having interruptions to my creative process."
A knock on the front door cut off her reply. "Remember," she warned as she trotted to the door, "be polite."
He gave another mock bow as he retreated. "I'll be in the drawing room if you need me."
Mother flowed regally down the stairs, patting her curls into place. "How is my hair, dear? Oh, don't look at me like that, Peggy. It never hurts to make a good impression."
"Antje has spent the past few years disguised as a boy, and Ruben is blind. I doubt they'd care if you were wearing an old potato sack and hadn't curled your hair in a week."
Mother gave a scandalous tut, and Peggy opened the door. The SSR driver paused mid-knock, said "Good evening ma'am," then stepped back to allow Antje to lead Ruben forward. They'd both been given a clean change of clothing; Antje's dress hung from her gaunt frame, while Ruben's jacket was too large, and his trousers too short. But the clothes were clean, almost new, and of far better quality than anything either of them had been wearing. And Antje's short hair, no longer hidden beneath a boy's cap, was a few shades blonder than it had been a few hours earlier. The wonders of shampoo!
"Welcome Ruben, welcome Antje," said Peggy. "Please allow me to introduce Amanda Carter; my mother."
"Welcome to you both," Mother said. "Please, come inside and out of the cold."
"Thank you very much for your hospitality, Mrs Carter," said Ruben, as Antje helped him through the door. "I hope we are not causing you or your family any trouble."
"It's no trouble at all," Mother insisted. She might not like that Peggy was moving to a hotel in the city centre, but she was unfailingly polite as a hostess. "You'll find our means a little meagre, due to the rationing, but what is ours, is yours."
The way Antje's mouth fell open at the sight of the chandelier above the stairs suggested she wouldn't believe the claim of meagre living. And she would be right to doubt it; money, food and clothing materials were tight, but not as tight as for most. Father's job meant he was granted certain favours and perks… the Carter family was hardly subsisting in squalor.
"If there is anything you need, or anything I can get you to make you feel more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask," said Mother.
Antje's smile was small, but full of gratitude. "Thank you. To be honest, after so long without any comfort at all, I would simply enjoy having a quiet place to practice my needlework."
"Oh? You like sewing?" If Mother was a dog, her ears would've been pricked right up.
"Yes, it was my favourite thing to do, at home. I dreamed of opening my own dress shop one day."
"Some friends and I get together every couple of weeks to chat while we sow," Mother said. She took Antje by her free arm and guided her, with Ruben in tow, towards the sitting room. "Perhaps you'd like to come along and…"
Mother's suggested faded as the trio left the hallway, but Peggy suspected her mother was already mentally sourcing clothes racks for Antje's shop.
With mother occupied, Peggy took the opportunity to sneak out the front door and into the waiting car. She'd never been one for grand goodbyes and emotional farewells. Simpler was better. Besides, it wasn't as if she was moving to the other side of the world; London's centre was barely a stone's throw away.
The driver took her bag and stashed it in the boot, then held the passenger door open for her. "Where to, ma'am?"
"To the Wheatsheaf Hotel," she said. And to whatever adventures awaited.
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"You've both done good work today," said Matteo. "You can finish up and head home. I will complete this last piece and then lock up."
The words were music to Danny's ears. Every muscle in his arms, back and shoulders ached, and his shirt was soaked with sweat, not just from exertion but from the heat of the forge. If it was this bad in winter, how insufferably hot must it be in summer?
"Tell Rosa I will be along for dinner shortly," Matteo added to Danny.
Grinning, Ludovico approached. "We may make a smith out of you yet, Pierre." He slapped Danny on the shoulder, sending a lightning-bolt of pain along his arm. When Danny winced, the grin disappeared. "Oh, sorry, is your shoulder hurting you?"
"It's nothing," he lied, cradling it with his other arm as a sling. "Just a little tender."
They stepped out of the forge and into the cold black of night. The sweat on Danny's shirt quickly cooled and chilled his flesh, so he grappled with his coat and managed to ease his sore arm into the sleeve. Ludovico bade him good night, and they set off in opposite directions.
Danny trod very, very carefully. Heavy footsteps jolted his arm, bringing momentary searing pain. It wasn't easy; the warming sun turned the snow to slush, which overnight froze into sheets of ice. It made walking without slipping an extreme challenge, and he didn't think he could afford to fall on his injured arm, given the beating it had already taken today.
Fortune was on his side. He managed to slide his way out of town and make it up the hill to Rosa's house without falling. As soon as he opened the door, he was hit by a wave of heat and delicious smells from the kitchen.
"Danny!" Rosa's voice was both concerned and accusatory. She abandoned her wooden spoon in the pan of whatever she was stirring and herded him towards the fire. "What have you done to your arm. Did you overwork it?"
"I didn't." He yelped as she yanked the coat from his shoulders.
"Tsk. You should not have let Matteo work you so hard."
"Try telling him that!"
"Here, hold this," she said, grabbing a glass of water from the table. When he reached for it with his left hand, she batted it away. He took it with his right, but couldn't hold the weight; water slopped all over the floor as the glass toppled from side to slide.
"Looks like I won't be drinking water for a while," he quipped.
"Go upstairs and get changed," she instructed. "Before you catch your death in that shirt. I will bring you your dinner in bed tonight."
He tried to tell her that he wasn't an invalid and could eat at the table with everyone else, but she chivvied him upstairs like a battle-hardened drill-master chivvying new recruits to the obstacle course for the first time.
As instructed, he changed. Then he got into bed. Even before Rosa brought his dinner up, he could feel his eyelids drooping. She'd probably known all along how tired he would be after working in the forge. A year ago, the most strenuous thing he did was calculate business taxes; a far cry from the forge, and the goats, and the Army.
The one good thing about his arm being this sore was that he wouldn't be able to do any more work with Matteo for a few days. Maybe he could do the forge's taxes instead. If he could find a way to save Matteo some money, perhaps he wouldn't have to work the bellows again.
With thoughts of numbers and money on his mind, he drifted off into an exhausted sleep so deep that he didn't even feel the pain in his shoulder.