We Were Soldiers

115. There And Back Again

A veil of tiredness had lowered itself over Bucky's eyes, but he didn't dare risk raising his hands to rub some life back into them, nor did he try to work the knots out of his aching shoulders. Veteran of countless battles though he was, this might just be his toughest fight yet. His opponent fought dirty, and it had been a very trying three week campaign.

"Give them to me," he said quietly. "Just drop them right there, and you can walk away from this. We'll pretend like nothing happened."

Sitting across the carpet from him at the other side of the hotel room, a brand new pair of olive-drab US army socks dangling from his mouth, Blue cocked his head as he listened to the sound of his master's voice. In one swift movement he lowered himself to the ground and began chomping on his ill-gotten prize. Already tense, Bucky leapt forward, using his fingers to gently prise the socks away from teeth so needle-sharp they wouldn't have been out of place in a HYDRA torture chamber.

"Got them, you little jerk!" He held them up in victory, socks in one hand, Blue tucked beneath his other arm as the puppy wriggled to try and get to them again. When Bucky put him on the floor, he rolled over onto his back and waved his paws in the air. Monty was right; collies were fast learners, and Blue had learnt so quickly that any transgression was swiftly forgiven when he did his 'cute little rolling trick', as Lizzie called it. "All right, I'll let you off this time." He gave the pup a stern glare before tickling his pale pink tummy. "Just don't do it again, okay? You know how hard new socks are to get hold of. C'mon, let's get you your breakfast kibble. Then we can meet Uncle Steve at the park."

In the three weeks since he'd gotten Blue, Bucky had learnt three very important things. First, puppies were a dame magnet. Whenever he took Blue for a stroll around London, the tiny pup trotting proudly at the end of the extortionately priced leather leash Bucky had bought to keep him from running off and getting hit by a car, he inevitably drew a crowd of women. In an unrelated turn of events, all of the Commandos who weren't Steve now took it in turns to take Blue for his walkies. In fact, they argued sometimes over whose turn it was to walk the pup. Even Dernier, who claimed he didn't like dogs at all, wasn't opposed to taking pensive strolls through the markets with Blue in tow, and Dugan made a point of carrying the pup into the Fiddle like he'd rescued Blue himself, all to earn himself some extra smiles from Lizzie. Blue had single-handedly gotten Monty three dates and Morita one. Jones was considering getting a puppy of his very own.

The second thing he learnt was that Mr Chipperton, the stone-faced, no nonsense, stuffy hotel concierge loved puppies even more than dames did. Bucky would never have thought it, judging from the guy's aloof exterior, but dogs were his one weakness. He'd discovered Blue's existence as Bucky came down from his room one day. Blue was tucked away in his duffel bag, but the pup was so desperate for his toilet break that he cried all the way down the stairs. By the time he got past reception, Bucky was busted. But Mr Chipperton was only too happy to let Blue stay, so long as Bucky cleaned up all his messes, bathed him whenever he got smelly, and didn't let him cry and keep the other patrons awake at night. He even got the kitchen staff to make extra sausages and mushrooms, so that Blue could eat breakfast in the dining room too.

Last of all, Bucky learned that Colonel Hawkswell had been one hundred percent correct last year to have Bucky and Wells take the baby they found—Matilda—to be looked after by someone in her home country. He'd forgotten how much hard work baby things were. Puppies were bad enough, but babies were even harder to take care of. Every day with Blue brought new challenges. Most recently, it was chewing. Pretty soon, his baby teeth would start falling out as his adult teeth came through, and Blue was getting an early start on teething. He'd gotten hold of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and managed to nibble the corner before Bucky could take it away from him and put it somewhere high up. Three pairs of socks had been shredded to tatters already. He'd once left Blue alone in his room for five minutes, only to come back and find his writing pen destroyed and his stock of writing paper decorating the bed like a thousand huge, flat snowflakes. Blue had taken a particular liking to his leather boots, so Bucky had taken to tying them together by their laces over the shower rail in his tiny bathroom, to keep them well out of reach. But Blue was growing quickly, and it wouldn't be long until he was tall enough to jump up and pull them down.

He didn't remember Bingo or Bonnie being this active or chewy as puppies. Bingo had been a gentle giant even when he was young, and Bonnie had been a tiny ball of fluffy fur with a tongue that had a life of its own, especially around faces. Blue was a bundle of black and white fluff with the personality of a hyperactive toddler. He was the canine equivalent of Howard Stark. "But I wouldn't change you for the world," he told the pup as he finished the last of his kibble.

Steve's knock on the bedroom door was an unexpected surprise, but Blue barely flicked at ear in the door's direction. Bucky opened it, letting his friend sidle into the room. Steve did a lot of sidling into rooms, these days. It was like he thought he had to compensate for his bigger size or somethin'. Make himself look less intrusive, maybe.

"What's up?" Bucky asked him. "I thought we were meeting at the park?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, but I figured I'd better come here right away and tell you there's been a change of plans."

"Things are afoot?"

"Afoot, a-leg and a-toe," Steve agreed. He took a deep breath, like he was steeling himself to deliver a heavy blow. "We got a lead on a major HYDRA facility. You'll need to find someone to take care of Blue for a little while. I don't know how to tell you this, but… well… you're kinda going home."

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One step forward, two steps back. That was how Steve felt sometimes. For every inch of ground gained in war, two were taken back. For every good thing he did with Peggy, he made two mistakes. And for every step in the direction of gettin' better Bucky took, something came along that set him back by two. He'd been a different man since hearing about the mission. Quieter. More serious. Like he'd withdrawn into himself.

When Captain Stone's new plane hit turbulence high above Switzerland, causing Dernier to vomit into his bucket and Dugan to issue a swift prayer to a merciful lord he rarely called upon, Bucky stared at the bulkhead. When the plane landed and the team transferred to a troop transport wagon, Bucky stared at the canvas cover. When the wagon stopped and the team filed out into the makeshift Allied camp that had sprung up in the shadow of Monte Ferrante, Bucky stared at the tents. Steve had thought his best friend would be excited to see his former team from the 107th again, but getting two words out of him during the journey had been like trying to draw blood from a stone. He really could've used some of Peggy's wisdom right about now, but she'd stayed behind to coordinate the mission from HQ. The same could not be said for a certain scientist.

"Ahh, smell that fresh mountain air!" said Stark. He beamed happily as he took in the scenery. "I love Italy. After the war's over, maybe I'll buy it."

A lieutenant came out to meet them. He goggled momentarily at Steve's star-spangled uniform and the shield clipped across his back, then offered a more professional salute. Much as Steve hated the uniform, he had to admit, it was pretty functional. Stark had done a great job, and if it had been traditional olive-drab coloured instead of red, white and blue, it might have garnered less attention. But the brass wanted a symbol more than they wanted a soldier. Being both was a compromise he was willing to accept.

"Captain Rogers, sir, if you'll follow me, I'll take you to see the Colonel. He's waiting to brief you and your team."

Steve nodded for the lieutenant to lead the way, then dropped back to walk beside his best friend. "Help me out here, pal. I remember seeing Colonel Hawkswell after we got back from Austria, but I didn't meet him. What's he like?"

Bucky didn't even blink. "He's fine."

"He had joint command of the 107th with Phillips, right? How did your time under him go?"

"It was fine."

"And you're..?"

"I'm fine."

"Okay. Guess everything's fine then."

Bucky nodded and walked a little faster. Steve could've kept pace with him easily. Instead, he dropped back to where Dugan was puffing thoughtfully on the pipe Bucky had bought him for Christmas.

"So, Dugan. Hawkswell. What am I in for?"

"The man's a decent enough leader, though he doesn't like sharing command. He and Phillips butted heads more than once, back when his force was temporarily attached to the SSR. He's a by-the-book kinda guy. So long as he thinks you can get the job done, he shouldn't give you too many problems."

"Glad to hear it." Dugan had been with the SSR back when they'd crossed France on the hunt for Schmidt, but he didn't seem to consider this mission any different to the others. Neither did Jones; he was joking with Dernier, the two of them chuckling over something said in French. "What was left of the 69th got reassigned to Hawkswell when the SSR returned to England, didn't they?"

"Sure did." He clenched his pipe's mouthpiece between his teeth and grinned. "Glad we got a chance to come back here. A few corporals owe me some winnings from the last poker match I played before Azzano; it'll give me a chance to recover what I'm owed."

Steve nodded, then lowered his voice, gesturing ahead to his silent friend. "Not everyone seems glad to be back."

Dugan's reply came as if by rote. "Don't worry. He'll be fine."

He gave up. Bucky was clearly not fine, but apparently Steve was the only person remotely bothered by that. When they got back from this mission, he was gonna have a long talk with his friend. For now, whatever Bucky was going through, he had to hope that it wouldn't affect his performance.

The command tent was right in the middle of the camp. Some of the people who recognised Steve from his last visit, when he'd rescued the troops from Krausberg, cheered as he passed. He offered a tight smile and a friendly wave. It was a better reception than the one he'd first got after his arrival in Italy. Some of those tomatoes thrown at the stage had been very well aimed.

Colonel Hawkswell was as tall as Steve and slightly built. He didn't look like the kinda guy who was capable of long marches and extended field campaigns, but the fact that he'd been out here for over 9 months and still had a considerable force at his disposal was testament to his ability as a commander. Steve stopped in front of him and issued a swift regulation salute. His bright uniform garnered a brief glance of disapproval, but the salute was returned.

"Welcome, Captain Rogers. I'm glad you made it in time. I was beginning to worry you might miss the deadline."

"We shipped out as soon as we got your info," Steve told him. Phillips had summoned him at 07:20, and the Commandos had climbed aboard Stone's plane less than three hours later. There hadn't even been enough time for a proper debriefing. "Colonel Hawkswell has a lead on one of the HYDRA facilities that wasn't on your map. Get out to Italy, Rogers; Captain Stone already has the co-ordinates and is prepping his plane as we speak. Agent Carter will remain here to co-ordinate the mission. Hawkswell will brief you when you arrive. Take Stark with you, and make sure you bring him back in one piece. The kid with the camera, too."

"Good thing you did, Captain. Six days ago we intercepted what we thought was standard Nazi radio chatter. After we ran it past our translators, it become obvious this wasn't just your regular run of the mill communication. It mentioned Herr Schmidt, along with something called 'Project Valkyrie'."

"Project Valkyrie?" Stark strode forward, no trace of his former irreverence on his face. Anything that got Stark's attention like this had to be important. "Did they say anything about it?"

"Just that the next batch of whatever they're building is complete and will be shipped out two days from now." Hawkswell took several photos from a dossier, spreading them out to cover the map on the rickety field table. They were pictures of a huge, old-fashioned dam consisting of dozens of tall arches. The centre arches were missing, but a smaller dam had been built to bridge the gap. "The Italians constructed Gleno Dam in the early twenties," Hawkswell told them. "Less than three months after it was completed, one of the buttresses cracked and the water held back came flooding out. Over three-hundred and fifty people died, and the dam was decommissioned immediately after."

"That's Italian engineering for you," said Stark. "Shoddy as hell."

Hawkswell ignored the comment. "As you can see from this more recent aerial photo, the dam has been partially reconstructed, and the site is once again producing hydro-electric power."

"Powering what?" Steve asked.

The Colonel took another photo from his dossier and dropped it onto the table. It was a factory, another Krausberg-lookin' place, all concrete and floodlights. The heavy wires running out from its main building connected it to something inside the dam.

"Hmm." Stark picked up the photo and examined it closely. "The fact that Schmidt is doing this in such a dubious location suggests he really wants to keep knowledge of Project Valkyrie as far away from Hitler as possible. This is potentially big."

"So, what's the plan?" asked Steve. "We go in, find intel and blow up the factory before the parts can be shipped?"

"The plan is a little grander than that, Captain," said Hawkswell. He looked inordinately pleased with himself, his chest all puffed out with pride. "Allied Command wants to be sure this place will never be used to make arms and armaments again. At 14:00 tomorrow, RAF 617 Squadron will arrive to blow that dam to hell and high water. The resulting flood will make sure the factory stays out of operation and those parts can never be shipped. Your part in this is to cross over to the control room on the other side once the RAF have done their bit, extract whatever intelligence you can, and blow the three main turbines. We plan to put this site out of operation for good."

"Sir." It was the first time Bucky had voluntarily spoken since getting on the plane, and there was a cold, uncompromising look in his eyes as he stepped forward. "We've seen more than once that HYDRA prefer to use captive soldiers as their workforce. There could be a lot of our guys working in that factory. If the dam is destroyed, they'll die too."

"Regrettable losses," said Hawkswell. "If it were up to me, I wouldn't take this particular course of action, but the order to destroy the dam comes straight from the top. The bomber crews have already been called up and will be scrambling in less than twenty-four hours."

"Then there's still time to rescue them."

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes, but I can't authorise a rescue mission." Steve's heart sank at Hawkswell's words, and the scowl on Bucky's face deepened. "Any action from us prior to the arrival of the Squadron will tip off HYDRA that something's going down. So far, our presence here has gone unnoticed, but if we try to rescue those men, the cat will be out of the bag. Captain Rogers, you and your team were brought in because of the potential for gathering intel. HYDRA is your remit, but the rest of the mission has already been put into motion, and not even I can rescind those orders. I'll assign additional men to help you infiltrate the dam control centre, because even with the dam out of operation you'll still have a building full of Nazis to contend with, but that is the extent of your presence here. Understood?"

Steve saluted. "Understood, sir." There would be a way to work around those orders. To rescue the men being held as a workforce. He just needed time to think it through.

"I'm glad to hear it. Tomorrow at 09:00, you'll head out to the facility and await the arrival of 617 Squadron. For now, you and your men can take your ease. Lieutenant Muller will show you to your temporary quarters; we've put you in the 107th. Try to relax; you have a big day ahead of you, Captain."

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Bucky dragged his feet as the lieutenant led them through the camp. You're kinda going home, Steve had said. Which was technically true. This was where it had all started; back with the 107th. The only problem was, it wasn't his 107th. His 107th was dead, because most of those closest to him were dead. Tipper and Carrot. Franklin and Davies. Wells and Hawkins. Tex. And who knew how many others had died since he'd last seen them four months ago? What if he got to their barracks tent and found Gusty and Biggs gone, too? What if Mex and Hodge were just condolence letters on the Colonel's desk, waiting to be sent? He didn't think he could take it. It was better not knowing. In England, he could pretend all his friends were still alive. Now that he was here, if they weren't alive, he would know. And as bad as not knowing was, the knowing was awful.

Once, they'd been his men. He didn't have an officer's stripes, but they'd treated him like he had. They'd followed him and obeyed him and come to him with their problems. They trusted him. And what had he done? Got them slowly killed, one by one. And then he'd left them for the comfort of London. While he'd been sleeping in a real bed and eating fish and chips and playing with Blue, his friends had been fighting and dying. They deserved better.

Stepping into the tent was like stepping backwards through time. He looked over the beds for the sight of a coin flashing between a young private's fingers. For a ginger-haired corporal hunched writing a letter home to his girl. For a sergeant lounging at his ease, an army-editions book cradled in his hand. But he saw none of them. They were truly gone forever.

"Sarge!"

The voice tugged at something in Bucky's chest, and the coldness he'd forced into himself hours earlier evaporated like morning fog. Gusty appeared, with Biggs behind him. They were alive! Thank God.

"Gusty, Biggs, it's great to see you!" He greeted them both with regulation three-second hugs, scanning their faces for changes, for some indication of the horrors they'd endured. For the scars that could be seen, and those which could not. Thankfully, there were none. "How's things?"

"Not too bad," said Gusty. He grinned, his eyes shining behind his spectacles. "We heard Captain America was coming, weren't sure if you'd be joining him though. Figured you'd been shipped home after Azzano, for R&R."

"I almost was," he admitted. "Clerical error. Just needed a bit of bed rest to get me fighting fit."

"Damn administrators," Gusty commiserated.

Biggs looked him up and down. "Did you get taller, Sarge?"

"What? Of course not. I'm exactly the same height now as when I signed up, and I have the medicals to prove it."

It wasn't that he'd gotten taller. But war had a way of grinding a man down. Bending his back beneath the toil and loss. Several months out of it, and Bucky had found a way to walk a little straighter. To shoulder that burden a little better. The world had started to weigh a little less, away from the front lines. Away from the constant company of death.

"Well, you're lookin' good, regardless."

Bucky nodded, then did a quick tally of how many beds were in the tent. Not enough. The 107th had taken losses. Casually as he could, he asked, "So, who's still around?"

"Hodge and Mex," said Gusty. "They're out keeping watch over that dam for any sign of movement. Hodge made Corporal now. You're gonna hear about that a lot, so consider yourself warned. We've lost a few since you last saw us, but overall we're holding up pretty well. Hate to say it, but the Russians are really doing us a favour, pushing the Eastern Front. Some of Hitler's forces have been reassigned. They're still clinging onto Italy like it's a prize actually worth a damn, but things aren't as hot as they were in the weeks before Azzano."

"Glad to hear you're doing alright." He glanced around again, this time looking for his team-mates. They were currently making up beds, though Steve was attempting to watch him surreptitiously whilst wrestling with an itchy woollen blanket. He wasn't doing a good job at either. Steve was a little too big for stealth. A little too spangly. "Biggs," he said, turning away and speaking more quietly. "I need a favour. Could you go help Steve with his bed? Then keep him talking for a bit?"

Biggs scratched his head. "Talking? About what?"

"Oh, I dunno. Baking cakes."

"You're never gonna let me forget about that, are you, Sarge?"

Bucky smiled and patted the Corporal on his broad shoulder. "Never. Just do your best to keep him occupied. I wanna talk to Gusty in private, and Steve's a worrier."

"No problem, Sarge. I got you covered."

As Biggs strode off to save Captain America from a blanket, Bucky led the way outside the tent and walked a good distance away from it before turning to Gusty so they could converse quietly. "Do they still keep the gas on the opposite side of the camp from the jeeps? And do they still keep a guard on it?"

"Yeah. But not to worry, Sarge; after Azzano, I kinda of… well… I took over the Syndicate. Sorta." He ruffled up his short brown hair and had the decency to look a little sheepish. "I'm not as good as Davies was, of course, but it keeps me busy between missions. So, I can get you as much gas as you need. I've also got access to plenty of ammo. I figure we'll wait until dark and meet up by the pits. I'll have one of the jeeps brought over, and Biggs and I will bring our rifles, and a spare for you."

Bucky held up his hand to stall the suspiciously astute assessment of his own plan. "Wait wait, Gusty, what are you talking about?"

"Well, you want a jeep, which means you wanna go somewhere that's not within easy walking distance. And you want to do it covertly, which means it's not approved by the brass. And you've come to me about it, instead of Captain America, which means you're sure as hell gonna need back-up. So, who are we rescuing this time?"

He stared long and hard at Gusty. "When did I become so predictable?"

"You always were, Sarge. Don't you remember? You were always there for us. Always. Wells would come up with the crazy bullshit plans, but you'd find a way to make them work. We knew that whatever you asked us to do, it was always for a good reason. You always came through for us. So, whatever you're doing now, I want in. Biggs, too. Hell, the whole unit would want in, but you know most of them can't keep secrets for shit. So, you got us. I hope that's enough."

Bucky blinked back the tears pooling in his eyes as he reached out to lay a hand on Gusty's shoulder. "I couldn't ask for two better team-mates. You're more than enough."

Gusty nodded. "Okay. Well. If Wells were here, he'd call us a couple of patsies for all this touchy feely stuff. We should probably feign an air of normalcy until the time to act. Y'wanna visit Audrey? I know she'd be glad to see you, and she'll give us cookies."

"Damn right I wanna go see my favourite nurse in the whole world," he grinned. "How are things between you?"

"Fantastic. Really want the war to be over so we can go home and get married and start doing the whole normal life thing, y'know?"

"Yeah. I get it. And don't worry, you'll get there. And I'll be right there with you, with my awkward speech and everything. Presuming you still want me as your best man, of course."

"Course I do. Hodge offered to take the spot if you weren't able to make it"—Gusty very specifically didn't say in case you don't come back from the war—"but I told him no way. You're the only best man I want."

"Thanks, Gusty. That means more to me than you could know."

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Army banter. It was one of thing things Steve still didn't 'get'. Maybe because he'd been on the end of far too much ribbing as a kid. The insults casually tossed at him—sometimes accompanied by the occasional not-so-casually-tossed punch—cut him more than he liked to admit, and the thought that his words might cut someone else like that had kept him from participating when he'd been at Camp Lehigh. The line between banter and insult was a fine one; too fine for Steve to comfortably walk. Instead, he listened to the banter of the 107th as he lay propped up on the camp bed Corporal Biggs had helped him to make up. The book Sergeant Ferguson had loaned him—Prince of Foxes—sat nestled in his hand, but it was hard to read and listen at the same time, and listening was currently more entertaining than reading.

A couple of beds away, Bucky tossed his own book aside, sat up and yawned, stretching out his arms above his head. "Man, I'm beat. I think I'll take a quick visit to the pit before turning in for the night."

Dugan offered a loud snort. "You've been back in the field for less than a day and you're already slacking, Princess?" He himself was arm-wrestling a private from the 107th; his opponent was stronger than he looked, and a bead of sweat trickled down Dugan's temple.

"For your information, Blue kept me awake half of the night," said Bucky. "He's teething. So yeah, I'm gonna get a good night's sleep before we go blow up more of Schmidt's toys. Try to keep your Neanderthal grunting quiet, if you can."

"Need some company?" Steve asked his friend.

Bucky gave him one of those looks. "Steve, we're not in the Navy. You don't say that sorta thing to a guy when he's headed to the pit."

Steve held up his hands. "All right, sorry."

He watched his friend leave. Bucky had been surprisingly quick to drop his concerns about HYDRA's prisoners. A little too quick. He hadn't even mentioned them, since Hawkswell had shot down the idea of a rescue. And now, from the guy who'd said don't do anything stupid, Steve was expecting something stupid.

When Bucky left, Steve gave a count of ten, then followed him out into the darkness of the camp. Spotting his friend was easy, thanks to his enhanced vision, but Bucky's hearing was surprisingly sharp, so Steve hung back, skirting around the edges of the tents as he followed Bucky in the direction of the latrine pit. There was a hairy moment when he tripped over one of the guylines of the medical tent and almost went toppling into a stack of supply crates, but he managed to recover himself at the last second. Thank God the majority of his missions didn't call for stealth!

A twinge of guilt tugged at his heart when Bucky made a genuine stop at the pit. He trusted his friend implicitly. He trusted that Bucky would always be there for him. But he also trusted that Bucky would always do what he thought was right. Even if that meant standing up to bullies twice his size. Even if that meant being late for class and getting punished with gum-scrapin' duty. Even if it meant going against orders to rescue men who were in the same position he'd been in several months ago. Even if it meant gettin' court-martialled.

His concerns were justified when Bucky finished his pit-stop and, instead of heading back to the barracks, went instead towards the edge of the camp. Again, Steve followed, and less than a minute later he spotted where Bucky was going. There was a jeep waiting at the edge of the trees, its engine not yet started. Behind the wheel was Corporal Biggs, and in the seat next to him, Sergeant Ferguson. They'd left a couple of hours ago for a routine recon. Clearly, that had been a ruse.

"I didn't realise the pit was so far away you needed a jeep just to get there," he called.

Bucky froze. Very, very slowly, he turned. Steve could see the indecision behind the guarded expression in his friend's eyes. He was thinkin' about running. Trying to work out whether he could make it to the jeep before Steve reached him. Trying to decide whether he would have to fight, and if he stood any chance of winning said fight. Finally, common-sense prevailed. Sorta.

"Don't try to stop me, Steve. I can't leave those men down there to die. I can't."

"Bucky—"

"No! Just… listen." In the jeep behind him, neither of the other men moved a muscle. Clearly they were waiting for Bucky's lead. "That was me, a few months ago. That was Dugan and Monty and the others. That was all those men that you brought out of Krausberg. You gave countless families their husbands, fathers, brothers and sons back. Because of you, my folks don't have a future of visiting an empty grave. I'm not gonna condemn those men down there to a watery death, even if the brass have already written them off as casualties. If I can save even a single man, return a single one of them to the family they love, then I have to do it." His right hand clenched into a fist, and through gritted teeth he said, "We don't leave men behind, Steve."

"Guys, could you give us a moment alone?" he asked of the others. Loyal to a fault, they ignored his order completely and looked instead to Bucky.

Bucky merely sighed, and said, "Yeah, okay. Maybe go check the perimeter."

When Biggs and Ferguson had gone, Steve stepped forward. There was no chance of Bucky rabbiting now that the jeep lacked a driver. He could afford to close the distance a little.

"I understand where you're coming from, Buck. But I want you to look at this from my point of view for a moment. If you do this, Hawkswell will hear about it, and he'll send a report back to Phillips, and you'll almost certainly be court-martialled."

"It'll be worth it."

"For you, maybe. But what about the others? If word gets back that one of my team can't follow my orders, they'll probably disband us right there and then. You know how much the brass hate having Jones and Morita and Dernier on the team. They're just waiting for an excuse."

"I guess you're right." Bucky tapped his chin as he looked at Steve through calculating eyes. It reminded him very much of how Peggy sometimes weighed him up. "You could always order me to go rescue those men. It's not insubordination if I'm following orders, and they're sure as hell not gonna court-martial you. You're their hero. Their symbol. They need you."

"I'm not gonna order you to rescue those men, Buck." Bucky opened his mouth to object, but Steve hurried on. "It's too dangerous. That's why I'm gonna do it myself."

"You… what?"

"That's been my plan all along," he admitted. "Hawkswell is right about one thing; if we go in now with guns blazing, we'll give away our presence and tip our hand. HYDRA's defenses will be on full alert, and that Squadron might not make it through the flak. That's why tomorrow, I'm gonna leave the main group after we set off from camp and make my way straight to the factory. I'll hit it fifteen minutes before the Squadron is due to arrive. I'll take out the communications dish, overpower the guards, and free whatever prisoners they have. There won't be time for them to get a warning out, and even if I'm seen, it'll draw their attention down to the factory, away from the skies. Away from the rest of you."

"I'll go with you."

Steve shook his head. He'd already anticipated the offer, because this was Bucky after all, and had his reasons figured out already. He couldn't tell Bucky that there was no way in hell Steve was ever gonna let him anywhere near somethin' like Krausberg ever again. Who knew how much that might bring back? How badly it might affect him? But there were other reasons to keep Bucky away. Sound, strategic reasons, that his friend would accept.

"You can't come with me. You'll slow me down. It's much further to the factory than the dam, and I'll have to move fast if I want to get there. None of the Commandos, not even you, can keep up with me. By the time you caught up, it would already be over. Besides, this time, I need you to be me. I'm gonna split the team up. Jacques and the rest of the Commandos will fight their way down to the turbines and set the charges. I need you to lead our back-up forces from the 107th, take Stark and Freddie to the control room, protect them while they get their intel, and then bring them both back in one piece. I know you're our sharpshooter, and you're normally watching over us from afar, but I'm gonna need all hands on deck this time. I can't afford to have you away from the action. You're also the one I trust most to keep our civilians safe."

A thousand objections were written all over Bucky's face as he worked through Steve's plan in his head. Finally, he had nothing. Pursing his lips, he nodded. "All right. I guess that could work. And I'm sorry. For running off. For trying to do this without you. I should'a had more faith in you. Should'a known you wouldn't just leave those men to die."

"I know your head's been in a different place since we were given this mission. But despite what you've been through up until now, you don't have to keep doing things alone."

"Yeah, you're right. But when you didn't object to Hawkswell's plan, I figured there was a chance you might say no. And you know what they say; it's better to ask forgiveness than permission."

"Who says that?"

"Well, Stark, mostly."

"I rest my case. C'mon, let's get back to the tent. The guys'll be wondering where we've got to."

Bucky offered no further objections. "How come you didn't tell me about your plan earlier?" he asked, as they made their way back to the barracks.

"Because I wasn't sure who might be listening. I didn't want to risk someone snitching to Hawkswell. I'd planned to tell you all en route tomorrow."

"Well, don't worry, my lips are sealed."

Steve offered his friend a small smile. Whatever happened next, at least he could spare his friend from seeing Krausberg all over again.

Author's Note: Happy 4th July to all of my friends in the US! I hope you're having a wonderful time celebrating Steve's birthday ;)