We Were Soldiers

117. 617 Squadron

As he lay on his stomach, SSR-02 rifle nestled against his shoulder, Bucky prayed that the Squadron wouldn't arrive early. Steve planned to wait as long as possible before springing the prisoners, a scant 15 minutes before the Squadron were due. If they came early, and blew the dam, Steve would be caught in the flood, and not even he was likely to survive something that had killed over 350 people in the past.

He wished desperately that he knew what was going on down below. He'd hoped that he'd hear something. Calls of alarm as Steve breached the fence. The ratta-tatta of gunfire as the Nazis tried in vain to stop his advance. Possibly some German curses, as Steve went through their ranks like a knife through butter. But the force of the tumbling water spilling out from the dam was too great, and Bucky couldn't hear anything over it but the voices of the men crouched closest to him.

He looked at his watch. 14:03. The Squadron was late. Maybe they weren't even coming. Was it possible they'd been shot down en route? If so, the Commandos would have to go down to the factory and take care of it themselves. The traditional way, with guns and explosives. It would be more time consuming, but something had to be done about it.

Without warning, crashing thunder exploded through the sky. Bucky jumped; almost everyone did. The thunder came racing around the valley from the direction of the river, the sound multiplied as it bounced off the mountains in a deafening roar. Seconds later, four planes followed, spaced out at equal distances behind each other. These weren't the sort of agile Stuka-type planes that had dive-bombed the SSR as it passed through southern France, nor were they the nimble light transport plane Captain Stone regularly flew the Commandos to their continental missions inside. These were huge, deep-bellied, propeller-driven behemoths with enormous wings and shining nose cones, heavy engines screaming their arrival into the air in a terrifying death-song.

"The English call them Lancasters," said Stark. He was crouched beside Bucky, and had to shout to make himself heard over the roar. "But 617 Squadron are generally known by their more infamous name."

Bucky nodded. He was only slightly less interested in planes than he was ships, but it wasn't possible to live in England for months and not hear stories about the Squadron's success against Germany's industrial Ruhr Valley. "The Dambusters," he whispered to himself.

They came in fast and low, each plane skimming the water at a height of ten metres or less, so that Bucky thought he might actually be able to reach out and touch one. Until now, he'd only ever seen planes high in the sky, or stationary at the runway. How the hell did such colossal things manage to stay up in the air?

"They fly low to stay below German RADAR," Stark explained, as if reading his mind. "From the moment they left England they'll have have gone no higher than three dozen metres above ground level. I hear that on particularly fine days like this, they fly even lower, so that the crews can actually hear the tops of trees skimming across the underside of the planes."

"Those guys must have nerves of steel," said Morita.

The first plane thundered past and immediately pulled up, peeling off to the left to circle around to the back of the line. The next plane did similar, but this one went right. When the third plane pulled up, Bucky glanced across to Stark.

"Why aren't they bombing? Is something wrong?"

"No, this is how bombers operate," Howard explained. "The crew need to get a fixed sight on the target. Almost all bombing runs require multiple passes. We might need to wait until they've gone round six or seven times before—"

Stark was forced to eat his own words when the fourth plane released a large, round, spinning bomb that went skipping across the lake like the stones Bucky had skipped across the Hudson as a kid. He felt every man on the shore hold his breath, but it wasn't to be. The bomb was intercepted by one of the anti-torpedo nets, and exploded a good fifty metres or more away from the dam wall. The resulting plume of displaced water rose up into the air, and a fine mist drifted over the watching men.

"Ooh, bad luck," said Stark. "They'll do better on the next pass. It's a good job there's no AA gun here."

"Sarge, we got movement at the control room!" said Mex. His binoculars were glued to his face as he watched the opposite bank of the lake. "They've got a tank!"

"Don't worry," said Stark. "It's physically impossible for a tank to hit a plane. They lack the trajectory calculations to—"

The tank fired its main gun, and a projectile went screaming towards the first plane in the line. The Lancaster pulled sharply to the left to avoid the hit—and the missile changed course mid-flight to strike the plane on its underside. Bucky had a split second to flatten himself to the ground and pull Stark down with him before the gigantic bomber exploded in a violent fireball that sent debris raining down across the whole area.

"Will you stop saying things?!" Bucky demanded of the scientist.

"Okay, I take it back. This could be a problem. A really big problem. Hey you, Project Rebirth Guy #2, gimme those." He reached out to snatch the binos from Mex and quickly swung his gaze across the lake. "Ah. Judging by the description we received from the survivors, this is the same kinda tank that got the jump on our forces at Azzano. Yeah, I can see see it more clearly now it's coming out in the open. It really is a fantastically deadly weapon, and we're still not entirely sure about its power source—"

"Admire the tank later!" Dugan told him. "What do we do? You said you could fix shit if it went wrong."

"Way ahead of you, pal. Sergeant Barnes, would you be so kind as to point your SSR-02 rifle at that tank?"

Bucky did as requested, but if Stark thought a round from a rifle was gonna take out the thing that had decimated the better part of two fighting forces at Azzano, he would be sorely mistaken.

"Do you see that small blue pipe that runs between the tank's body and the tracks?"

He scanned the tank for a moment, then spotted the pipe in question. It was clear as day down his rifle's scope. "Yeah."

"Good. I think it's a fuel pipe. I want you to shoot it."

"Pfft!" Hodge was peering at the same pipe down the scope of the SSR-02's predecessor. "There's no way he can make that shot from here. That pipe's gotta be no wider than an inch thi—"

Bucky pulled the trigger. The pipe was no wider than an inch thick, but an inch was all he needed. The bullet found its mark and the fuel line ruptured. It wasn't a big explosion, but rather, a chain reaction of smaller explosions that resulted in the tank stalling and thick black smoke from spilling out from its tracks. The entire team cheered.

"Good shot, Sarge," Gusty called. "I think even Tex would've struggled to make that."

"Well, this is a new and improved model," he said, hefting the SSR-02. He'd been way more accurate ever since getting the new rifle. Amazing what one of Stark's upgrades could do.

"It's amazing what an upgrade can do," Stark said, channelling Bucky's exact thoughts for the second time that day. "And now the Squadron have a chance. Look, they're coming around for another pass."

The planes circled back, but the the explosion of the tank hadn't gone unnoticed. HYDRA troops poured out of the control building, guns in hand as they took up a defensive line atop the dam. They were gonna try to shoot the planes down with rifles.

"That won't actually work, will it?" he asked Stark.

Howard's hesitant expression spoke volumes. "It might. Remember, these aren't standard Nazi weapons we're dealing with. They're not firing bullets. I suggest you and Hodge do all you can to stop them from making those shots."

"That's Corporal Hodge," said Hodge as he settled himself down onto the ground to provide a stable platform for the rifle.

Bucky took a deep breath as he sought his first target. Nothin' was ever straightforward on their missions. But at least there was one good thing about all of this; with all the noise and chaos up here, it would take HYDRA's attention away from Steve.

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Sometimes Steve forgot how fast he could move these days. How far he could go without needing to stop and have a rest. He'd planned to arrive at the factory with just a few minutes to spare. Instead, he was nearly half an hour early, which meant he had to find an appropriate hiding place and try not to let himself be seen until it was time to act.

Bucky had told him over drinks in the Fiddle that most of war was about waiting and marching, and that the greatest obstacle soldiers had to overcome was their own impatience. Now, Steve understood what he meant. The minutes seemed to take forever to pass; each time he checked his watch, only two or three had gone by, as if time itself had a will of its own and a desire to make him wait.

How many troops would he be able to bring home this time? And how much trouble would he get into for doin' it?

It didn't matter. The trouble he might get into for going against Hawkswell's orders would pale in comparison to what the prisoners in this factory were going through. He'd seen for himself how HYDRA treated those it captured and turned into slaves; many had died, and his best friend had come out of that place a different man. A broken man. One who was only just figuring out how to put himself back together. It was a fate Steve would not wish on his worst enemy.

"Y'hear me, Dad?" he asked, glancing up to the clear blue sky. "I'm making a promise. I won't leave anyone to the mercy of Schmidt. Whatever it takes, I'm gonna free these men. And if they're too weak to walk the miles back to Hawkswell's camp, I'll carry them myself. As many trips as it takes. Nobody's drowning, and nobody's being left behind."

He glanced again at his watch. Another couple of minutes. It was still too early. Still too risky. The object here would be speed and stealth—one thing he was pretty good at, the other... well, it was a work in progress. But he'd have to penetrate as far into the factory as possible to try and find where the prisoners were kept, and it would be much harder to do that if he was also fighting for his life. Stark had stressed to him multiple times that no amount of enhanced physiology would save him from one of those ray-guns. In the words of the scientist himself, gone is gone, pal.

In a way, HYDRA were like a disease. Like the TB that'd claimed Mom's life. Diseases were not discerning. They cared nothing for wealth or age or religion or political status. The Nazi goal of genocide had been passed over by HYDRA, ignored in favour of their power-mad leader's lust for a new world order—one in which Schmidt was the leader of a superior race of men.

"You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind."

Steve shook his head as the memory of Schmidt's red, monstrous face popped into his mind, an unwelcome intruder into his thoughts.

No, he thought to the memory of the man. You're wrong. We haven't left humanity behind. If anything, we're even more human than everyone else. Erskine wasn't looking to create something other than humans—he wanted to create the very best that humanity had to offer. Sure, we're faster and stronger, but we still eat and drink and breathe, we still hope and dream and love. We still live, and we can still die. And that's why you'll fail. You think you're better than humans. You don't understand that you're more human than anyone. If you weren't, this struggle wouldn't matter to you. You would move beyond it, beyond the same petty things which make other bullies tick. Now get the hell out of my head; I have a job to do.

The grinning red skull disappeared, and Steve was alone with his thoughts once more.

He checked his watch. It was time. The memory of Schmidt had very nearly stalled him. That was something else Bucky had told him about; that sometimes, a man's own imagination could be his worst enemy. Hopefully the men up at the dam wouldn't be letting their imaginations run away with them like he was. But then, they were professionals. Other than the Commandos, the 107th were the closest thing that the Allies possessed to an anti-HYDRA force. Bucky never spoke about those times—or if he started, he quickly stopped himself, as if afraid of treading over the memories. But Peggy had told him that the men of the 107th had been instrumental in thwarting Schmidt in France. This mission was in good, capable hands.

After one swift glance up at the dam, he left his hiding place and jogged towards the fence. It was made of linked chain, and only six feet high. Only six feet high. A few months ago, six feet of chain fence would've been yet another barrier in Steve's path. Now it was scaled easily, in a single jump that saw him land well clear and give him sprinting room towards a small loading bay on the other side of the fenced compound. Despite his fears, nobody cried out an alarm. There was no clanging of warning bells and no barrage of gunfire. So far, so good.

The loading bay was open, so he snuck inside. The shield on his arm was a heavy weight despite the fact that it was made from one of the lightest materials on Earth. America's Shield. Kevin—or perhaps even Angelo Demarci—were keen to remind the folks back home that Captain America was still fighting for their freedoms. Steve himself might be embroiled in the fighting in Europe, but his voice-actor on the radio show back home was bringing fans in by the droves.

That's what the newspapers and other media channels had taken to calling him. America's Shield. It was better than America's Gun, or America's Land-mine, but there were still a lot of expectations riding on him. The folks back home expected their shield to keep them safe. That's why they still bought the bonds that provided the bullets for the guns of American troops. They believed in him. Captain America wasn't just a hero, he was a symbol of freedom and democracy.

The dark, smiling face of Terrence skipped quickly across the surface of his mind. Perhaps when he returned home, Steve could use his new status to remind people that freedom and democracy were a basic human right, and not something afforded only to rich men in white-collar suits.

The mission, stupid! he told himself. Shaking away the cobwebs of memory with a quick shake of his head, he continued his stealthy assault on the factory. He came across two guards a little further past the loading bay, but he'd learnt that if he threw his shield just so, he could get an angle which caused rebound, and the heads of HYDRA personnel were kinda like the bumpers in a pinball machine; hit them at the right angle, and the shield could bounce between them before returning to his hand.

This facility was not as extensive as Krausberg. HYDRA had built it fast and simple. The concrete corridors were plain and straight, and Steve understood just enough German to get what the directional signs painted on the walls meant. Main Floor, he ignored. Too busy. Too full of guards. Assembly Line. Avoided also. He'd starred in enough moving pictures to understand that anything which involved an assembly floor would also involve him probably being tied to some sort of deadly machinery by his adversaries. Unlike in the movies, he didn't have the Commandos to watch his back, this time.

Loading Area was something he could ignore as well, given that he'd just come from there, with nary a prisoner in site. Perhaps this place was different. Perhaps there were no prisoners. Maybe this wouldn't be like Krausberg, or the place the Commandos had rescued Michael from. Was it possible that there was nobody here except the HYDRA troops? A fine fool he would look if he'd disobeyed orders for nothing.

The next words painted on the wall put paid to that idea. Arbeitereinrichtungen. The facilities for the factory's workers. The place Steve needed to be.

He took a wrong turn or two. Ended up in the guard barracks and came face to face with a few off-duty soldiers, their faces the same as anybody he might pass on the streets of New York. Did they know what Schmidt was? Had they seen his true face? Did they understand his real agenda? Or were they just men following a fanatic, believing in a lie of superiority sold to them in sugar-coated wrapping? What was the tipping point between Nazi and HYDRA, and how had these men reached it?

There was no time to ask. Ping, ping, ping. The shield bounced from target to target as if it followed his will. When he caught the shield, he took a deep breath. The air smelt of disinfectant and something else. Something sharp and acrid. Machine oil, perhaps? Or the fear of men worked under threat of torture? Whichever it was, it would end today.

The guard barracks was unremarkable, save for the grim black flag hanging over one wall. It depicted the many-tentacled symbol of HYDRA. Cut off one head, and two more will take its place. That was what the man who had shot Dr Erskine said to him, right before popping a cyanide pill. That too was a lie. The Hydra which was the organisation's namesake had indeed been a ferocious beast, but one that was slain with little difficulty by the Greek hero Heracles during his twelve labours. Nothing was invincible. Not Hitler, not HYDRA, and certainly not Schmidt.

As he backtracked out of the guard barracks, he checked his watch. Five minutes. This was cutting it close. Real close. So close that a wave of goosebumps rushed right over his skin and sent a shiver up his spine, as if someone had just walked over his grave. Bucky was gonna kill him. If Steve didn't make it out of this, his best friend was never gonna let him hear the end of it. And worse, if he didn't make it out of this, Peggy would never get that dance that'd he'd sorta kinda implied he had promised her. Dance or die, Rogers. Time to get a move on.

Now he ran with little care for the enemies he came upon. His reflexes were fast; his shield could be thrown in less then a heartbeat. The men he felled were not dead—at least, probably not dead—but just rendered unconscious by the force of his blows. True, they would likely die when the floodwaters came rushing in, but he hadn't forced them to be here. They had made their own choices, and now Steve had others to save. Real victims, who'd been forced to toil long and hard in this factory. Men who deserved to go home to their loved ones.

He dashed through the final corridor, into the worker facilities. Facilities was a very generous term. This was just like Krausberg after all. Row after row of grim, iron-barred cells, each filled with six or seven men, their faces dirt-stained, weary masks of pain, defeat lurking behind their dull eyes. Steve stepped forward, his mouth open to reassure the captured prisoners that their salvation was at hand. When he saw who was inside, the words died on his lips, and an icy coldness gripped his heart. There was no mistaking those grey uniforms, nor the eagle emblem emblazoned across the right breast. The cells contained dozens upon dozens of them, close to seventy in total.

Captured soldiers of the German Wehrmacht.

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Why do my missions always go sideways? The thought raced across Bucky's mind as he peered over the rock that served as his cover long enough to take sight down his scope and pull the trigger. A miss; his target stepped back behind the tank at the last moment, and the bullet continued its deadly journey into the distance.

The tranquil, alpine peace had been shattered for almost ten minutes, by the Dambusters which made run after run, some releasing their bombs, others peeling away to try again. By the blam blam blam of the HYDRA rifles as they tried to shoot down the bombers mid-flight. By the ratta-tatta-tatta of M1s as the 107th tried to take out the HYDRA engineers attempting to fix the tank's broken fuel line.

So far, only three of the dam-busting bombs had been dropped, and only one of those had hit its mark. But the bomb must've drifted wide when sinking, because it had cracked the dam wall, but not breached it completely. The grey concrete looked kinda liked a cracked egg, ready to spill its contents at any minute. All it would take was one more bomb. Even if it didn't score a direct hit, the force of the explosion would finish what the first bomb had started.

Hurry up and get out of there fast, pal, he thought to his absent best friend. Steve understood the danger, but he was stubborn; he wouldn't want to leave a single man behind, even at the risk of his own life.

Another bomb dropped. Another miss. The drone of thunder lessened as the huge Lancaster bombers flew back the way they'd come. "Where are they going?" Bucky asked Stark.

"That's it, pal. They're out of bombs."

"But the dam's still standing!"

"Yeah, that's kinda troublesome." Stark pointed at the HYDRA engineers across the other side of the dam. "But that's what we need to be worried about right now. If they manage to patch the fuel line, or work around the damage, the show's over for all of us."

"So we advance." He looked down at the water line, the way the small waves curved around the dam wall, then called out, "Volunteers for a crazy suicide mission?"

"I'm game," said Gusty. "I'll be just like old times."

"Count me in too," said Dugan. "I'm bored of sitting up here taking pot shots at Nazis. Let's hit 'em where it hurts!"

"I'll volunteer," said Jones, ignoring the unwritten rule that you weren't supposed to volunteer for anything. "What's the plan?"

"We can't advance along the dam without leaving cover," Bucky told them. "And the moment we do, we'll be sittin' ducks. So, the four of us will leave our guns here, find a path down to the water line, then swim over to the other side by sticking to the curve of the dam wall. Because of the angle, and their position, they won't be able to see us, and when we get across we can sneak up behind them and take them out so the rest of you can cross over."

"Whoa, hold your horses, Barnes," said Stark. "Do you have any idea how cold that water will be? The lake is fed by meltwater from the glaciers, and it's March, which means they've only just started melting."

"I expect it'll be a bit chilly."

"You're talking forty-five or forty-six degrees, at best. There's a chance hypothermia will set in even before you reach the other side."

"I'm not afraid of the cold," he lied. The thought that this might trigger another Norway-type experience sent fingers of icy terror down his spine, but what other option did he have? The Commandos and the 107th were pinned down, and at this range the standard M1s the troops carried had almost zero accuracy. Only the SSR-01 and SSR-02 were capable of hitting a target, but those targets had a nasty habit of sheltering behind the tank. They would run out of bullets before their enemy ran out of men. "The rest of you continue to lay suppressing fire, so they think we're all holed up here, but don't waste too much ammo. You may need some when you get to the other side."

He handed over his rifle and his sidearm, along with his spare ammo and anything he didn't wanna risk gettin' wet. There wasn't a real path down to the water, so he led his team of madmen down on a diagonal slant, so that they were half-climbing, half-sliding down towards the water's edge. The line of trees before them kept them screened from HYDRA's eyes. They wouldn't know what hit 'em.

When he reached a tiny shore just about large enough for four men to stand on, he hesitated. To find a scalable path down, he'd had to come away from the dam wall, which meant they'd have to swim back to reach it. Another few minutes in the water. Was it fair of him to ask this of the others? Maybe he should do it alone…

"Last one in's a rotten egg," said Dugan. He'd already stripped off half his outerwear, leaving only his boots, pants and shirt. Smart idea. No point making things more difficult by gettin' weighed down by sodden clothes.

Both Gusty and Jones followed suit, and they had a sort of resigned expression on their faces that suggested they wouldn't be talked out of this. Not after so bravely volunteering in the first place. So, Bucky said nothing as he doffed his jacked and belt pouches. His knife was all he truly needed.

He insisted on going first, and almost regretted it when ice-cold water poured into his boots at his first step. Holy shit, I can't believe how cold this is! Colder than Norway. Colder even than the times he'd been gripped by those icy chills. So cold that his feet quickly passed into numb territory. And here the danger lay. The body could be forced to keep going through the cold, but once it started to seep into the mind, everything stopped working. Winter training at Camp McCoy had taught Bucky how to deal with hypothermia, and the first rule of dealing with it was avoid it at all costs.

This was a stupid plan, in hindsight as well as foresight, but now he was committed he had to act fast, before the dull torpor set in and slowed him to a stop. So he forged on through the water, walking out to where it was deeper so that he could swim along the steep bank and find the wall once more. An occasional glance over his shoulder showed the others were still following, though they'd fallen a little behind. Bucky had always been a strong swimmer, though. Back when he was a kid, he, Mary-Ann, Steve, and some of their friends from school used to spend their summers by the banks of the Hudson, skipping stones, poking around for crabs and shellfish, and occasionally swimming, when it wash hot enough. He'd been by far the best swimmer in their group, the one delegated to retrieve their balls when they inevitably started to float away.

What was that sound? Blam blam blam. Oh yeah; gunfire. It had gone quiet for a while as he'd led his team to the water, but now it had returned, each side answering with their own volley of fire. He had to get to the other side of the dam before his team ran out of ammo. From here, the distance seemed impossible. Already his legs were heavy, his boots dead weights on his feet. Were his fingers still attached? Yes, they were numb, but they were there. How the hell was he gonna grip his knife once he got to the other side? This was a phenomenally dumb idea. He'd pictured himself emerging from the water, sneaking up on the HYDRA forces, and taking them out effortlessly. Now, he wasn't even sure the other side was do-able.

Get a grip. You need to do this. Those men are counting on you.

His inner voice prompted him on, and with one swift kick, he pushed off from the bank. At first he tried for a front crawl, but lifting his sodden arms out of the water was too exhausting, so he settled into a slow breaststroke that he thought he could maintain for at least an hour. Halfway across the distance, just as his teeth started chattering, he dropped the pace to something more like a doggy paddle. Only when he felt the water suddenly tug at his legs did he realised why he was so utterly exhausted; there were several intake valves at regular intervals near the centre of the dam. It was where the water from the lake was channelled into the inside of the dam and funnelled through the turbines to produce hydroelectric power. Fine mesh grilles kept debris—and Bucky—from being swept inside and jamming up the mechanisms, but the pull of water was so strong that the moment he stopped paddling forward and lost momentum, the water pulled him against the side of the dam and threatened to suck him under. If he got pinned down there, he would be too tired to break free. He'd drown.

This was literally his worst plan ever, and he'd had a few bad ones.

"Hey." He stopped to tread water, calling out to the others. Dugan was closest, though he was still two dozen metres behind. Jones and Gusty were flagging another twenty metres behind him. "There are water intake vents here, and the current is real strong. Don't let it pull you in."

Dugan nodded, and turned to relay the message to the others. His face was white as a sheet, his lips tinged with blue below the moustache that sat like a drowned ginger mouse across his top lip. But Bucky couldn't worry about Dugan; he had to keep going, for the sake of the men who were pinned down by guns that would not run out of bullets.

When he felt his strength began to fail mere paces away from the bank, he tried to summon anger, the one thing that could keep him going when nothin' else was left. Zola. What the HYDRA scientist had done to him, and what he would do to Zola when he finally caught up to him. Antje. The idiot he'd been for forgettin' to call the Carter home and apologise for not being able to make their first and only date. Wells. The bastard had borrowed his best pair of socks, and then died.

Somehow, he reached the bank. It wasn't as steep on this side as it was the other, so he hauled himself out and lay panting and shivering on the rough stones, too exhausted to even check on how his fellow swimmers were doing. A few moments later, Dugan lay beside him, his teeth knocking together so loud that Bucky could hear them over the sound of gunfire. Gusty came next, panting and wheezing like Steve used to do after a particularly rough day with his asthma. Finally, Jones arrived, his dark skin decidedly paler after his journey across the lake.

He could've closed his eyes and gone to sleep, but if he did that, he'd never wake up. Six months ago, on a cold steel table in Krausberg, that would've been fine. Now, though… now he wanted to live. Not for himself. Not just for himself. He wanted to live for the people who still needed him. For Mom and Dad, for Janet and Mary-Ann and Charlie. For Steve, who was gettin' better at war but hadn't yet experienced the devastating losses that all men eventually did. For Gusty and Biggs, and hell, even Hodge, and the rest of the men of the 107th who needed him to fight just as hard as they were doing, even if the battles they fought were different ones now. For all the people who were counting on him back home to fight for their freedom until he drew his last breath.

He wanted to live too for the sake of those who no longer did. For Hawkins and his brother Drew, both sons lost to a war they had left home to fight. For Carrot and his girl Samantha who would always cherish the letters he'd sent her, along with the last single rose he'd given her. For Franklin and his coffee-stirring, which would be kept alive by the 107th and the other regiments who'd been briefly connected via the sugar incident at NYPOE. For Davies and the other syndicate members. For Tipper, who was too young to have been there; too young to have died. For Wells and all his bullshit, the best friend he had in the army, and the closest thing to a brother beside Charlie and Steve.

He wanted to live and remember them. Not in the same way that others remembered them as a way to mourn and move past their losses, but as a way to keep a small part of them alive. So long as he remembered them, those parts of his friends would always live on.

"C'mon." He rolled over and fought to get to his knees. From there he managed to stand, and survey the shivering forms of the others. "On your feet, soldiers. We've got a job to do. Or do I have to send a few Krauts down here to get you moving?"

They grumbled. They shivered. Dugan complained. But they fought against the numb coldness as they stood and took out their knives. It felt like a joke, sneaking up behind Nazis to attack them with knives, but it had worked in the past, and the Germans' attention was fully focused on the troops across the dam—and on getting their giant murder-tank fixed. They wouldn't be expecting an attack from behind.

He nodded at the shallow hill they'd have to climb to reach the side of the control room. "Let's go and help our boys across."