We Were Soldiers
113. Freeze-Thaw
As the military transport vehicle pulled to a stop outside The Strand, Bucky looked up at his home away from home. Already, he could hear the bed calling to him. He felt like he could sleep for a week.
The journey back to England had been quiet and… well… not right. It just wasn't the same without Dernier making heaving noises into a bucket in the rear of the plane's hold. It wasn't until he was gone that Bucky realised how much of a presence the Frenchman had been.
But it wasn't forever. Jacques said he would come back, and Bucky had to believe that he would. The Commandos weren't the Commandos when one of their number was missing.
He grabbed his backpack and pushed the car door open, while Morita and Jones hopped out the other side. Steve remained in the vehicle, a grim expression on his face.
"Aren't you coming to grab a bite and a few hours of shut-eye?" Bucky asked his best friend.
Steve shook his head. "Gotta report back to Phillips. Let him know how the mission went."
"Are you gonna tell him the truth? Or let him think that Céleste is dead?"
"I'm gonna try for the truth," said Steve. "I don't think I can lie to my CO. Besides, if he found out, he'd never trust me again." That was Steve all over; honesty incarnate.
"You want some moral support?" he offered, desperately hoping Steve would say 'no'. In the end, he got his wish.
"Thanks, but Peggy has offered to come with me." He stuck his thumb out and gestured over his shoulder, where Carter rode with Freddie, Dugan and Monty in a second car that was pulling up behind. "And we kinda need to take Freddie with us so we can get his film developed. That camera is possibly the only thing standing between me and a court-martial."
"You're exaggerating," he scoffed. "Phillips won't court-martial you. Offer scathing criticism, maybe, but not court-martial. Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll see you later."
Bucky shut the door and rapped on the car roof to signal it to leave. When it turned a street corner and disappeared from sight, he joined the rest of the Commandos in their weary trudge into the hotel lobby.
"First thing I'm gonna do is dump all of my gear in my room," said Dugan. "Then I'm off to the Fiddle to find out how much Lizzie has missed me."
"Five bucks says she didn't even realise you were gone," said Morita.
Bucky doubted that. Lizzie definitely would've noticed the lack of tables being overturned due to arm-wrestling gone awry. She was pretty astute like that. Besides, Dugan was basically a mustachioed orang-utan. He naturally drew attention.
"I might join you in the Fiddle later," said Jones. "For now, I wanna go up to my room and write a letter home. I have a sudden and inexplicable desire to let my Mom know I'm okay, and find out how my brothers are."
"I must admit," said Monty, "the outcome of the mission has also left me feeling a little homesick. In fact, I may take the chance and head home for a couple of days. I can't imagine Colonel Phillips will want to send us out again right away, especially with Mr Dernier absent."
"Alright," said Dugan. "Barnes, Morita, you feel like coming along and helping dupe a few punters into arm-wrestling? I reckon we could make a fair buck tonight."
Morita shook his head. "I'm gonna hit the hay, I can barely keep my eyes open."
"And I am bath-bound," said Bucky. And possibly laundry-bound. His uniform was starting to smell a little ripe.
In the warmth of the hotel lobby, they all stopped at the sight of a bald head behind the reception desk.
"Mr Chipperton?" said Monty. "What are you doing here?"
The hotel's concierge didn't normally man the reception during the night shift; that was typically left to Jack and Charles, a pair of identical twins who liked to play pranks on guests by wearing each others' name badges. Nobody could tell them apart—except Steve. But he wouldn't tell Bucky how he knew which twin was which.
"Good evening, Major Falsworth," said Chipperton. "And team. There is a case of influenza doing the rounds in the hotel at the moment; both Jack and Charles are confined to their beds on doctor's orders. I'm also down three bellboys, six maids, two waiters and a cook."
This was terrible news! "Can I still have a bath?" Bucky asked.
Mr Chipperton did that superior British looking-down-the-nose-and-sniffing thing that British people were so good at. "Oh, I insist. Do you know where the men's bathing room is?"
"Of course." The nerve!
"Here." He pulled the large keyring from his belt and removed a brass key. "As we are extremely under-staffed, I am entrusting you with the key to the linen closet. There you will find freshly pressed towels and the hotel's supply of clean bathrobes. Please ensure you lock up and return the key to me after you are done with your ablutions."
"Enjoy your bath," Jones grinned. "I'm going to go write that letter to my folks."
"Ah, you're going up to the third floor?" asked Mr Chipperton.
"Er, yeah. That's where our rooms are."
"Excellent." Chipperton ducked behind the desk, then came up with a large U.S. military mail bag, which he thrust into Jones' arms. "The latest batch of U.S. mail arrived this morning, but I've been too short-staffed to have it delivered. You seem like a responsible young man, Private Jones. Can I trust you will see that these letters are delivered to their recipients on the third floor?"
"Oh. Uh, sure. Why not."
"Have fun, post-boy," said Morita, a childish grin plastered across his face. "Just try to keep the door-knocking down, I need to get at least eight hours of shut-eye to stay pretty."
"Ah, you're heading off to bed then, Private Morita?" Mr Chipperton's expression exuded innocence. He was clearly the guiltiest man alive.
"Well… yeah. Kinda beat." He gave an extra-wide, dramatic yawn for emphasis. "Y'know?"
"Certainly. I do wish you pleasant dreams, sir."
"Thanks."
"And whilst you're heading that way," Chipperton added, as Morita was mid slink-away, "I just remembered that, knowing your team would be away on a mission for a few days, the maids took all your bedsheets and pillow-cases for washing. If I could just ask you to stop by the laundry room and collect your team's fresh bedding and make up their beds, I would be eternally grateful to you."
Jones laughed. "And don't forget to put the mint on my pillow. Otherwise I might hold back your post!"
"Well," said Monty. He patted his pockets absently. "Look at the time. You know, I hate to be a burden on an already taxed staff… I think I'll go and visit my parents for a few days after all. With your blessing of course, Mr Chipperton."
"Of course, of course. Your absence would be most appreciated."
"Err, right. And is there anything I can help with, en route?"
"How very thoughtful of you to offer, Major Falsworth!" Chipperton beamed happily, then ducked behind the desk again and re-appeared with a duffel bag in his arms. When he handed it over to Monty, it clinked and rattled like something heavy and metallic was inside. "If it's not too much trouble, would you mind leaving the long way, via the boiler room? The site custodian desperately needed these tools an hour ago… something to do with the hot water pipes. Not to worry, Sergeant Barnes, it's nothing that should interfere with your bath. However, if you notice a sort of boiled egg smell when the hot water runs, please don't be alarmed, it's perfectly natural."
"Sounds like you boys have got a busy night ahead of you." Dugan handed his pack over to Jones and curled up the corners of his moustache between his finger and thumb. "Me, I have a date with the most beautiful red-head in England."
"Ahhh!" said Chipperton, "would you perhaps be on your way to see Miss Elizabeth in the Whip and Fiddle?"
"That I am, Mr C. Untamed equines couldn't keep me away from that place tonight."
"Hmm, if I recall, Unsworth's Locksmiths is just a stone's throw away from the Fiddle. Isn't that right?"
Dugan had that look about him. That trapped rabbit look that made Bucky laugh on the inside. "Well, I guess so. Can't say I've really paid attention to the local locksmiths."
"Take it from me, then. Unsworth's Locksmiths is just a stone's throw away from the Fiddle."
"And you just happen to need some urgent locksmithing?"
"Indeed!" Chipperton removed three keys from his keyring and handed them over. "I need two copies of each of these keys. The maids are forever dropping them down the drains! And please tell Mr Unsworth that the cellar door is sticking again; it needs his tender touch, immediately."
"Are you sure they'll even be open at this time?"
"They are always open for The Strand," Chipperton assured him. "Just tell them you've come on my behalf."
"Is there anything else?" Bucky asked him.
"No, I think that will be all. Thank you very much for your assistance, gentlemen."
The team scattered before Mr Chipperton could think of any other ways in which they could be useful. Bucky made a beeline for the stairs. He was going to scrub himself so clean and fresh that his own mother wouldn't recognise him.
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While the rickety old elevator clicked and clanked its way down to the SSR's headquarters, Steve straightened his hat and desperately wished he'd had chance to change out of his field uniform… or at least have a hot shower… before reporting to Phillips.
"Don't be nervous," Peggy told him.
"Me? Nervous? What gave you that idea?"
"You just adjusted your hat for the eighth time since we got into the lift."
"I think I have a weird-shaped head. Or a weird-shaped hat. It never feels right on me."
"For what it's worth," said Freddie, sticking his head over their shoulders from behind, "I'm not nervous either." He patted his camera fondly. "There's some quality intel on this film."
"Do you think it will be enough for Phillips? For the brass?" he asked Peggy.
She pursed her lips before answering, and Steve's heart sank a little. She always did that when she was considering how to deliver bad news. Trying to think of ways to soften the blow.
"I don't think Céleste was lying when she said Generalmajor Sommer had fallen out of favour with Hitler's inner circle," she replied at last. "The documents in his office were of little importance to the overall war effort. They did, however, contain information of regional significance, including the names of nearby German outposts and fortifications, and their commanders. While we don't have anything that will turn the tide of the war, we do at least have an insight into Nazi operations in that area of France, which I'm sure the brass will appreciate."
"They'll also appreciate my delightful pictures of Marseilles, not to mention the quaint forest roads I took so many pictures of," quipped Freddie. "And I'm sure the picture of Sergeant Dugan falling off his motorbike will be well received by the upper echelon."
When the elevator stopped, Steve and the others stepped out. HQ was fairly quiet; a few men and women were at work, but the place lacked the usual hum of activity. Which reminded him of something…
"Where's Howard?" he asked Peggy. "It feels like forever since I last saw him."
"I haven't seen much of him recently, either," she admitted. "The few times I have seen him, he merely said he was busy working on a project. He's probably still trying to make ration bars taste better."
Private Lorraine was at her desk outside Phillips' office. She glanced up at them as they approached, and was it Steve's imagination, or did she look a little smug? "The Colonel is expecting you, Captain Rogers," she said.
Of course he was. Probably got told the moment Steve set foot in the elevator.
"How's the Colonel's mood?" he asked.
"He seemed just fine when I took him a fresh cup of coffee a few minutes ago."
Knowing how much Phillips hated Private Lorraine's coffee, Steve silently cringed. But there was nothing he could do about that.
He knocked on the door and pushed it open at the call of 'enter'. Phillips was entrenched in a mountain of paperwork, the tips of his fingers stained with ink. He looked up as the trio entered the room, but the first words from his mouth were not what Steve had been expecting.
"Agent Carter, what are you doing here?"
"Sir? I'm here to report on the outcome of the mission."
Phillips finished signing whatever document was in front of him, dropped his pen on the desk and leant back in his chair, rolling his shoulders a few times to work the knots out of them. For the first time, Steve wondered if Phillips actually liked desk-work, or whether he did it only because it had to be done. He'd always come across as a man of action, somebody who would prefer to do the missions than give the orders to have them done. For a man like that, being stuck behind a desk had to be galling. Just like the USO shows had been for Steve.
"Agent, when I send you out on official SSR-sanctioned missions, I will expect you to report back the moment you return to London. This mission, however, was a personal request, and the mission commander—Captain Rogers—is perfectly capable of reporting to me without having his hand held by you."
"Yes, of course sir, I understand—"
"Good." The curt tone of Phillips voice made Steve automatically stand a little straighter. Even Freddie stopped slouching. "You are dismissed, Agent Carter."
She very purposely avoided Steve's eyes as she about-faced and left the room. And she very purposely didn't slam the door as she left. At least now he knew what Private Lorraine was acting so smug about.
"Now, Captain," said Phillips. "Tell me everything."
So, he did. From their arrival in Marseilles to their departure from France, he left nothing out. When he came to the part about the pictures Freddie had taken of the German documents found in the study of the house, Phillips instructed Freddie to go take his camera immediately to the dark room for developing. With Freddie gone, Steve finished his verbal report and stood waiting for inevitable criticism. Or that court-martial.
"I'll expect your written report on my desk by this time tomorrow, Captain," said Phillips.
Steve could barely believe it. Where were the scathing put-downs? The sarcasm? The step-by-step dissection of everything Steve had done wrong? "Sir? Do you think I made the right call?"
"Rogers, do you know what I consider a successful mission? It's no more or no less than the fact that the job gets done and everybody makes it home. Maybe Dernier comes back, maybe he doesn't, but we were losing him either way—"
"He'll be back, Colonel," Steve assured him. Jacques said he was coming back, and come back he would.
"We'll see. But you accomplished what you set out to do. You may not like the resolution or the choices you were faced with, but your options were out of your control. You picked a course of action, so own it."
Own it. That made sense. Whenever he was out on a mission, he worried about what his superior officers would think. How they would be judging his performance and his team's performance. But those superiors weren't out there, dealing with the situations Steve and his team had to face. Perhaps his concern over his superiors' opinions was holding him back, at times. From now on, he'd try not to worry about whether the brass would approve of his decisions out on missions.
"Yessir," he said. "I'll make a start on that official report first thing in the morning."
"Dismissed, Captain. Go get some rest."
Steve couldn't keep a small spring from his step as he left Phillips' office. The whole journey back from France, reporting the outcome of the mission had been weighing on this mind. But perhaps those highest up in the chain of command cared more for the outcome of the war than the individual battles. If that was the case, then he could face future missions without having to worry about having somebody constantly looking over his shoulder.
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The winter thaw was well underway, and with every day that passed, more and more green grass was revealed beneath the Alpine snow. As the weather started to warm, it seemed rumours travelled on the breeze. Castello Lavazzo was abuzz with talk of an Allied advancement through the south of Italy, but everybody seemed to agree it would be a long time before British and American forces got this far north in any significant number.
For Danny, time seemed to pass at such an unimaginably slow pace that he felt like an insect encased in amber. Life in the sleepy Italian village was the polar opposite of life with the 107th, even though the settlement was in enemy-occupied territory. With the 107th, every day was a drama—in fact, sometimes there were several dramas each day. Out here, people had to make their own dramas; every minor argument was inflated with each retelling, and housewives relished their gossip. Overall, it provided a quietness and stability he had never experienced before, but there was always a little voice in the back of his head telling him that it wouldn't last.
On the day he woke up to sunlight filtering through the gaps in the window drapes, he decided it was time to do a little more exploring. When he'd first arrived here, just before winter set in, he'd been too injured to walk any real distance, and even now, walking to the village and back to Rosa's house left him short of breath. His fitness had suffered, and it was time to do something about it. But more than that, he had a strong urge to be more familiar with the land around him, and he blamed his basic training for that. His sergeants had drilled into him the need to be aware of his surroundings at all times, and right now the only thing he knew was that the nearby forest had a lot of trees in it.
He dressed in the spare clothes Rosa had given him and tugged his army boots onto his feet. Ever since the close call with the Germans during winter, his boots were the only part of his uniform she'd let him keep in the house. She wouldn't tell him where she'd put the rest of his uniform, or the tags he'd taken off the bodies of his team on the day he'd been shot, but she assured him they were somewhere safe. All he knew was that they weren't stashed in the goat shed or the forge.
Into one of Paolo's old satchels he packed some spare paper and his writing equipment. If he was gonna explore, he might as well make a map as he went along. Although he considered his memory pretty good, he didn't do quite so well away from street signs, and out here, one tree looked pretty much the same as the next.
Down in the kitchen, he found Rosa, Adalina and Paolo eating breakfast. Hopefully Matteo had already gone to the forge. It was hard work in the forge, and Danny did his best to avoid it whenever he could.
One of Rosa's eyebrows lifted up towards towards her hairline when she spotted the bag slung over Danny's shoulder. "Are you going to the village today, Danny?" she asked.
"Actually, I thought I'd go for a walk in the woods," he said. "Do you think you and Adalina can manage without me today?"
Adalina's face was a picture of dismay. "But we need your help with the baby goats!"
"It is not a problem," said Rosa. "Paolo has no classes today because his teacher is unwell. He can help us with the baby goats."
"Great, thanks." He picked up a couple of bread rolls and some of the creamy goats' cheese. "Do you mind if I take these to eat along the way?"
"Not at all. Do you expect to be gone all day?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just wanna walk and see how far I can get."
"Perhaps if Mama and Paolo can do the goats, I can keep you company," Adalina suggested.
Rosa immediately cut that idea short. "Absolutely not. You are needed here. Paolo and I cannot milk and clean out the goats whilst also churning milk. You will stay."
Adalina pouted while Danny shot Rosa a grateful smile. He enjoyed the young woman's company, but right now he just wanted to be alone to walk at his own pace and not have to worry about making conversation. "See you later," he said.
"Be careful, Danny," Rosa warned. "Walking in the forest is not a walk down your New York streets. The Favonio will soon be here, and it can be dangerous to walk away from the paths."
"The… Favonio?"
"Warm wind that melts the snow quickly. It can make floods happen without warning when it reaches the mountains and warms the ice. Try to be back before dark."
With her warning in mind, he left the house and set off towards the woods. Somewhere to the north was Switzerland, but before that was miles and miles of forest. The 107th had been camped in a forest on the day he'd left for his mission, and though he didn't expect they had wintered there, he might find some sign that they had passed by. Frozen tank tracks, perhaps, or some misplaced tent pole.
It would be useful to know if there were military forces in the areas. And who knew, maybe if he was real unlucky he would come across a patrol from the SSR, and he could be dragged before Phillips and Hawkswell to be court-martialled and sent back home.
He stopped for a moment on the edge of the tree-line. Maybe he could try and find the place where he and his team had been ambushed. Find what was left of their bodies and give them the burial they deserved.
Quietly, he scoffed at his own idea. Carrot really did turn you into a complete patsy, huh? It wasn't as if he even had his entrenching tool anymore. No way to dig trenches, and no way to dig graves. Even if he had a shovel, his arm wouldn't stand up to much manual labour.
No, he would just have to explore and hope for the best. And if he came across the remains of his team… well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
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Bucky tossed his comb onto his dresser and examined his reflection in the mirror. He looked fairly presentable, if he did say so himself. The greyish pallor of skin earned through months of toil topped off with medical torture had disappeared, replaced by a more healthy skin colour. His hair, recently cut by one of London's barbers, was no longer lank and straw-like to the touch. And the weight he'd lost marching through Europe and on Schmidt's torture table had been regained, thanks to Howard Stark and his amazing high-calorie protein bars.
The left hand of his reflection trembled, and he quickly shoved his own hand into his pocket. Nerves, he told himself. It's been a while since you did anything like this.
First thing he'd done after breakfast that morning was borrow the phone on the reception desk to call the Carter residence and ask Antje if she'd like to have lunch in London, followed by a tour of one of the safer areas and maybe a visit to a museum or the zoo. She hadn't been able to contain the excitement in her voice as she accepted his offer, and he'd spent the rest of the morning digging out his spare uniform and steam-pressing it himself because another two hotel staff had come down with the flu overnight.
When his reflection's right hand started to shake, he stuck that one in his pocket, too. Damn nerves would get the better of him these days. Strange, but he'd never gotten nerves like this back home.
It was time to go. He'd told Antje he'd pick her up at eleven-thirty, and there was no guarantee he could quickly flag down a cab. Setting his hat at a jaunty angle on his head, he took one last look in the mirror, then nodded to his reflection. Today, he was going to relax, have fun, and try not to think about the war.
As he reached for the doorknob, his hand shook with such force that the trembling carried on up his arm and he felt it in his shoulder. A memory flashed through his mind; Norway, and a coldness and shaking so bad that his muscles had ached for days afterwards.
No no no, he thought. This can't be happening. Not now. I'm better. Mr Stark said so.
Miraculously, his body seemed to listen to his mind. The shaking in his hand slowed, then stopped. He breathed a little easier, and the panic-induced tightness that had started to form in his chest disappeared.
He made it out of his room and halfway down the staircase before it hit him again, and this time, it didn't pull any punches. A deep, penetrating coldness flared up inside his chest, radiating out to his shoulders, arms, stomach, and finally his legs. With each step that he descended, his leg muscles simultaneously weakened and start to seize up.
Just the start of the flu, he told himself. It's going around the hotel. Of course I come down with it, just my luck.
By the time he reached the hotel reception, he knew it wasn't the flu. Not with how fast it had come on. Not with how his whole body shook. A cold fog began creeping over his mind. He had to get warm, and fast. He couldn't go through Norway again.
"Ah, Sergeant Barnes," said Mr Chipperton. Had he been at the desk all night? Didn't he ever sleep? Didn't matter. All that mattered was warming up somewhere quiet. He couldn't let Steve and the rest of the team see him like this. They'd pull him from active duty and stick him back in a hospital. He's end up poked and prodded by doctors for the rest of the war. "Are you feeling well? You look a little peaky."
"Think I'm getting flu," he managed to stammer out through chattering teeth. "Need a hot bath."
"Well, we're still short-staffed, so I'll give you the key to the linen cupboard again, to allow you to get your own towel. Please return it to me when you're done, though."
Bucky nodded and reached out, but Chippterton pulled his hand—and the key—back.
"Would you like me to send for a doctor?"
He shook his head.
"Very well. Please do let me know if you change your mind."
He snatched the key before Chipperton could take it away again, and tried to walk calm and upright until he was out of sight. It sapped his strength to feign a healthy walk, and as soon as he got to the next corridor he gave in to his aching muscles. Somehow, his body managed to lurch its way to the linen closet with little input from his brain. His fingers didn't want to play, so he fumbled with the key in the lock, then grabbed the closest towel and set off to the stairs.
The men's bathing room was thankfully empty when he finally arrived. As soon as he reached the first porcelain bath, he turned on the hot water faucet and pulled the curtain around the cubicle for privacy. It wasn't easy to get out of his clothes, with his whole body shivering and his limbs freezing up, but somehow he managed it. Uncaring of the state of his freshly pressed uniform, he left his clothes dumped in a pile on the cold tile floor, then stepped—rather, fell—over the side of the bath and into the three inches of water.
If the bath was hot, he didn't feel it. But it had to be hot, judging by how much steam was rising from the water, and how pink his skin was turning. Still shivering, he tried splashing some of the water over his chest. It left pink tracks where it ran, but it felt like nothing more than a soft touch. Was the heating broken?
As his shivering became more violent, he stopped caring. This was Norway all over again. Icicles beneath his skin, muscles spasming painfully, knives of ice peeling flesh from bone, layer by layer.
Sleep beckoned to him, caressing his mind with inviting fingers. He fought the temptation to give in; focused on the water pouring through the faucet, on the steam drifting around him, on the slowly rising water-level creeping up his body.
When the water was high enough, he stuck his foot out and turned the tap with his toe, shutting off the flow. Long moments later, he felt something change within him. The shaking and shivering became less violent. The knives of ice became pinpricks. He was still cold, still mentally and physically drained, but now the worst of it was over. Maybe it really was the flu after all.
Tiredness tugged at his mind. He dozed, drifting in and out of sleep as the heat of the water slowly penetrated his flesh down to his bones. Images raced through his mind—dreams or memories, he wasn't sure which. Moving, Technicolor pictures of marching through fields and forests and a children's playground, of dancing in a music hall and in the ruins of a blitzed town, of taking cover and shooting at American Indians and Nazi soldiers and men with octopus-heads.
Some time later, the moving pictures stopped. Though his eyelids felt like lead weights, he forced them up. The first thing he saw was something blurry and pink; his toes, peeking out of the water. His vision sharpened. He was still in the bath, and by some stroke of luck, he hadn't drowned while he'd been asleep. But he couldn't stay here forever. Sooner or later, somebody else would come in. He had to get back to his room, where he could pile coal on the small fire and sleep this flu thing off.
Enough feeling had returned to his limbs that he thought the bath water had turned tepid. When he stuck his arm over the side of the tub and groped for his towel, there didn't seem to be much difference between the temperature of the air and that of the water. That probably meant he hadn't been there for more than an hour.
His hand brushed against the towel, but it took several tries for his fingers to close around and grip it, kinda like a crane game he'd once tried to win a prize from at Coney Island. The girl he'd been trying to impress with a prize had been less than enthusiastic about his loss.
When he finally got hold of the towel, he took all the energy he possessed to push himself up and wrap it around his shoulders so he could start to rub himself dry. He pulled the plug before he could forget and stepped over the top of the bath and onto onto the cold tile floor. In hindsight, he should'a picked up a bathrobe from the linen closet too.
Despite how much better he felt, his body clearly needed more time to recover. He'd thought it would be a simple matter to re-dress in the now-creased uniform, but with his muscles still stiff and achy, it was a painfully slow process. By the time he'd finished, he felt like he'd gone ten rounds in the boxing ring.
He made the long, slow shuffle out of the bathing room and up to the reception. Mr Chipperton was busy dealing with some sort of staff crisis, so Bucky left the linen closet key on the desk and then made a start on the stairs to his floor.
It took an entire lifetime for him to reach the third floor, and by the time he did, his legs started trembling again. At the door to his room, he managed to unlock it first time, then practically fell through it and into his room. Once there, he built the best fire he could in the tiny fireplace, shut the black-out blinds over his window to banish the afternoon sun, then crawled into his bed into the waiting arms of sleep.
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Antje took another tiny chunk out of her thumbnail with her teeth as she glanced at the clock. Sergeant Barnes had said eleven o'clock… hadn't he? It was now twenty-past twelve. Had he forgotten her? Had something happened to him on his way over? If he was running late, why hadn't he called ahead?
In her heart of hearts, she'd known that his invitation was too good to be true. He was a handsome man, the type that she and her friends had giggled over, back when she had friends and a real home. In her dreams, handsome men like Sergeant Barnes courted beautiful, intelligent women, and Antje was neither of those. She was the girl who survived by pretending to be a boy. What kind of man would like a girl like that?
The door behind her opened, and she turned away from the window with her heart in her throat. But it wasn't Sergeant Barnes, who'd somehow managed to avoid being seen coming up the driveway and snuck into the house to surprise her; it was just Michael Carter, his nose so buried in a dictionary that he didn't even notice her standing beside the curtains until she cleared her throat. He jumped in surprise, and immediately started to back away.
"Antje, you startled me. I didn't mean to interrupt you; I'll leave you in peace."
"Am I such a terrible person that nobody wants to spend time with me?" she asked. Even to her own ears, it sounded overly dramatic, but she was past caring about what other people thought of her. Unless they thought bad things, in which case she cared very much even when she tried to pretend that she didn't.
"I… um… what do you mean?" Michael asked. There was a strange look in his eyes. Like he was being hunted. Peggy had told her that Michael had been held captive by the Germans for a long time. Maybe that explained it.
"You always make excuses to leave when I am around," she accused.
"Not always," he countered. "I just have a lot of things to do and don't want to become too distracted."
"What things? You hardly ever leave your room. And you only come down to the dinner table because Mrs Carter said you have to eat civilly or starve."
Michael nodded. "A cruel warden, my mother." With a sigh of defeat, he closed the dictionary and perched on the arm of a nearby chair. "The truth is, being around you does make me feel bad."
"Oh."
"Not like that!" he added hastily. "I mean… well… Peggy told you I was captured by the Nazis?" She nodded. "Ever since I got back, I felt like I've had a lot to be moody and pensive over. And I was rather enjoying my melancholy. After all, I'd been through so much, and suffered so terribly during my incarceration.
"Then you and Ruben arrived, and it really put my suffering into perspective. I mean, here I sit in my warm, comfortable family home, surrounded by loved ones, filling my belly every night with my share of our rations, sleeping beneath an eiderdown quilt. Meanwhile, here you are, your family dead, your friends killed or imprisoned, with no possessions to speak of and no chance of returning home in the near future. And despite all of that, you carry yourself with such grace and dignity that it makes me appear a petulant boy beside you. If I've been avoiding you, it's not because you are a terrible person; quite the opposite. I'm just trying desperately to cling to my own sense of loss and injustice. It doesn't seem fair that you're handling it much better than I am."
"You… are trying to be unhappy?"
"For some reason, it's easier to be alone and unhappy than to try to improve things."
It sounded like madness. Why would somebody want to feel like that? Antje had spent the past three years of her life being desperately unhappy and missing everybody from home. There were times when she would've given anything to stop feeling that way.
Well, she may not understand Michael's feelings, but at least it explained why he seemed to be avoiding her. Was it strange that she felt bad that he couldn't feel as unhappy when she was around? Mrs Carter had explained to her that men were very strange creatures, at times. Perhaps that was it.
She glanced again at the clock. Where was he?
"Am I keeping you from something?" Michael asked, following her gaze to the clock face. "Don't be afraid to admit it if I'm boring you. Maybe it's something I could sulk over."
"No, nothing like that," she explained. "It's just that Sergeant Barnes promised to take me to lunch and show me a museum. He was supposed to be here at eleven o'clock. Maybe… maybe something is keeping him?"
"Ah, so that's why you're dolled up in one of Peggy's old dresses," he said, indicating her gown.
"Dolled up?" So many British terms were strange!
"It means you look lovely."
"It took me over an hour to make the adjustments so it would fit," she said glumly. Was Michael's unhappiness rubbing off on her?
"Well, you know what Americans are like," he quipped. When she merely stared at him blankly, he continued. "That is to say, very uncultured. Always late. You wouldn't believe how long it took them to rescue me."
"Maybe…" Her voice quavered as she considered the possibilities. Before continuing, she cleared her throat and tried to sound less like an upset girl. "Maybe he changed his mind and doesn't want to spend time with me."
"I'll tell you what, why don't I call the hotel and see whether he's still there?"
"You know which hotel he is staying in?" She couldn't help the hope that surged in her chest. Even a bad answer was better than no answer at all. If he'd changed his mind, she could change her dress back to something less beautiful and more suited for staying in the house.
"Of course; Peg told me." He stood, and handed her the dictionary. "You wait here and I'll go make the call."
While he went to use the phone, she turned randomly to one of the pages of the dictionary. Most of the words on the page were nonsense, and the descriptions of what they meant made her feel like she needed a simpler dictionary just to understand them. English was such a strange language, but she'd have to get more familiar with it if she was going to be staying here. Perhaps she should set herself the goal of learning a new word every day. Today's word would be… Erudite. If she was understanding the explanation correctly, it seemed fitting.
"Well." Michael reappeared and offered a small shrug. "The receptionist said Sergeant Barnes went for a bath earlier, but he didn't see him again after that. However, a key that he lent to Sergeant Barnes was put back on the reception counter, so the receptionist assumes he went out while the reception was busy with guests. But that was well over two hours ago. It seems somewhere between the bath and here, he's disappeared."
A horrible feeling began to spread in Antje's stomach. The same feeling she'd had when she'd heard that the Nazis were marching towards her home. "What if he's been in an accident? Maybe… maybe he's been hit by a car, or fallen off a tram, or—"
"Or it's also very possible that he got called to see his commanding officer and didn't get chance to make a phone call first," Michael finished. "You mustn't imagine the worst. I'm sure Sergeant Barnes will be in touch as soon as he's able. Why don't you do something to take your mind off it? Some sewing, perhaps?"
She shook her head. Normally, sewing made her feel much better when she was sad, but she'd so been looking forward to seeing London today that she doubted she'd even see the needle if she tried to sew. Running her hands over the dress she'd painstakingly adjusted, she sighed. "Perhaps I'll just go and change into something more plain and be alone. I could give some of your unhappiness a try."
"Peggy's always telling me that modern women don't need to rely on men to make them happy," he pointed out. Peggy had said something similar to her, when she'd first arrived in England. Peggy was definitely strange. "Why not go have lunch and visit that museum anyway? If you've been looking forward to it this much, it seems a shame for you to miss out."
"Opa would never let me go to London by myself!" Heaven forbid, what if she got lost, or robbed, or hit by a car, or fell off a tram?!
"Then what if I go with you? I can show you a nice cafe and a museum. And who knows, maybe we'll even run into Sergeant Barnes."
"You?" she said, and regretted the surprise in her voice when he winced as if physically hurt. "I mean, you barely ever leave your study, never mind the house."
"Well, mother's been nagging me for ages to start getting out more. Maybe this will appease her. And besides, it seems a shame for all your hard work on that dress to go to waste."
She had to admit, she'd been looking forward to seeing London equally as much as she'd been looking forward to spending time with Sergeant Barnes. And Michael was her host; it would be rude to decline his offer.
"That sounds wonderful," she said.
"Excellent! I'll go call us a taxi."
"Err… are you sure you want to go out looking like… that?" She gestured at his faded evening robe and threadbare slippers. She wasn't even sure if he owned any other clothes.
"That's a good point. I suppose I've just been living like a slob for so long that I've forgotten what passes for 'normal' in civilised company. Give me half an hour to wash up and change into something more appropriate, and then I'll call us a taxi."
As Michael disappeared once more, she turned back to the window. The driveway was still empty; the gate at the bottom of the path still closed. Why would Sergeant Barnes invite her to London, then not show up? Had she misunderstood him? Had she misheard the day or the time? Was he expecting her to take a taxi there herself and meet him somewhere? Or had he simply changed his mind about wanting to spend time with her and been too much of a coward to call and explain?
Well, whatever the reason, she wasn't going to let it spoil the rest of her day. Today she was going to have fun—God knew it was long overdue.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Danny shivered and hunched his shoulders as he walked. He'd underestimated how cold it would be out in the forest. The sun didn't reach the ground here like it did in Castello Lavazzo and at Rosa's farm. The trees, greedy for sunlight, intercepted it, keeping the ground frozen and the air as cold as death. He wasn't sure how cold death was, but it sounded suitably poetic.
Despite the cold, there was life. Red squirrels scampered up trees carrying nuts from their hidden caches. Songbirds called to each other as they hunted for insects beneath overturned pebbles and in decaying branches that had long ago fallen and recently been uncovered from snow by the warming air. Some sort of weasel raced across his path, possibly hunting one of the squirrels.
Though cold, it felt good to be out walking again. The most exercise he got these days was the walk from the farm to the village and back again, or churning butter in the barn. It didn't really compare to the hardship of military life, and in a way, he felt like he was cheating. Out there, somewhere, the 107th marched on. Camp life would continue. A gruelling pace followed by equally gruelling food. The men he'd once been responsible for as their sergeant would have no respite from the constant toil and battle. He'd managed to escape it, but the rest of them were still entrenched in it, and probably struggling terribly without him to guide them and protect their from their own bullshit.
It wasn't the first time he'd had such conflicting feelings about his impromptu departure from the military. At times, he was glad it was happened. That he no longer had to march and fight and lose friends and eat awful food and sleep on the ground and dig fox holes and bathe in cold rivers… and the list went on. But he missed the people. His friends. They were what made it all tolerable. Hopefully they were all looking out for each other. Still watching each others' backs. Still lashing Biggs to something solid every night to stop him walking out of the tent and onto land mines.
When he reached a snow-covered clearing, he stopped to take out his hand-drawn map—which now spanned several sheets of paper—and have a bite to eat. The forest was so… peaceful. So quiet. It was easy to forget about the war, out here. Other than the occasional German pilots visiting Castello Lavazzo for wares, and the distant roar of bomber engines, there was little by the way of military intrusion into their lives. The war might as well have been happening a thousand miles away.
Of course, that would swiftly change if the Germans discovered an American soldier hiding out at the farm. They would not be sympathetic to Rosa's family, or the rest of the civilians in the village. All the more reason for Danny to scope out his surroundings; a quick exit plan would be needed if things went sideways.
Halfway through his loaf of bread, a small sound caught his attention; a quiet crack or snap. He looked around at the trees. In winter, when it was cold enough, their sap could freeze and expand, causing the branches to 'snap' as they broke from the inside out. But although it was cold, he didn't think enough it was anywhere near cold enough to do that to the trees now.
A second, louder 'snap' chilled him down to his bones, and he very carefully, very slowly, put the bread back in his satchel and took a step forward, towards the nearest trees. Too late did he realise he hadn't stopped in a clearing; it was a pond, its layer of ice hidden under a blanket of snow. And judging by the sounds it was making beneath him, it was ready to melt at any moment.
He almost made it. The trees were just a few paces away when his luck ran out. With one final loud crack, the ice gave way beneath him, plunging him into water so cold it literally took his breath away.
His body reacted for him, his legs driving him forward, through the ice, towards the safety of the bank. The pond wasn't deep—the water only came up to his waist—but even ankle-deep would've been too much.
Teeth chattering, he dragged himself out of the water and onto dry, snow-covered land. His boots were caked in the thick, brown mud that had lain at the bottom of the pond for possibly years. His pants were soaked to above his belt, and the satchel… the satchel was soggy. With shaking fingers, he managed to open it and pull out the papers containing his home-made map. Sodden. Completely ruined. He would have to start all over again.
He pushed himself to his feet and turned back towards the south. Starting all over again would have to wait for another day. Soon, the sun would be setting, and if he didn't start moving quick he risked getting frostbite. If he'd been the religious type, he might've thought this was some sort of omen. A sign from above that he shouldn't think about leaving Castello Lavazzo. An indication that he should stay.
But he wasn't the religious type. This was simply a piece of bad luck that could've been averted if he'd paid more attention to his surroundings and been a little more wary of the uniform surface of the 'clearing'. He would do better, next time. But for now, he needed to get back to Rosa's. Back to shelter and warmth and good food and a comfortable bed.
Maybe getting the lie of the land could wait until summer arrived.