We Were Soldiers
125. The Civilised
Maria ignored Danny's complaints about her driving, but when the car itself started to complain, she finally slowed down and started taking the bends with a little more care. After almost an hour of being thrown around the passenger seat, he was finally able to relax his white-knuckle death-grip on the seat cushion.
"Jeez, woman, and I thought Italians were bad drivers!"
"Are you sure you are not really French?" she asked, giving him the side-eye. "You sure complain like a Frenchman."
"I think you'll find I complain like someone who values his life."
"Pah!"
"How much further to the camp?"
"We'll be on the road for at least another hour before I can drop you off."
His nerves might be fully shot to pieces by then. Luckily, he had some liquid courage. He pulled the bottle of red out of his bag, along with his pocket knife, which he used to chip away at the cork. When he got back to civilisation, he would definitely be recommending that corkscrews become standard issue for all troops in the future.
"That is one of Antonio's bottles," Maria accused.
"That I bravely rescued from being kidnapped by Germans." The cork finally relented and collapsed inward. He took a long swig, then rolled down the window to spit out several bits of cork.
"You drink like a Frenchman, too. I hope you can hold your alcohol."
"Maybe if you didn't drive like a lunatic it would be easier," he offered in his politest tone. Then he took another swig before she could object. "Besides, this is my last day of freedom. I'd like to enjoy myself a little."
"You talk as if you're being marched to the gallows." She suddenly swerved, beeping her horn loudly at a shepherd escorting a small flock of sheep across the road. "Move it, you fool!"
Danny held onto the bottle for dear life. She really was a maniac. As soon as they were past the sheep, she took up a normal position on the road as if nothing had ever happened.
"I might as well be," he said. "It's possible I'll be considered a deserter."
"But you are going back."
"Even if I'm not considered a deserter, I left behind something that… well, might be considered incriminating, depending on who found it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Was it a bastard?"
"What? No, of course it wasn't a bastard! The US Army is not a brothel!" The US Navy, on the other hand… Tim had several bastards, and those were just the ones he was aware of. "The dames in our camp were classy. Mostly." There was that whole German spy affair that'd nearly killed Barnes. Poor guy had been totally suckered in by 'Nurse Green'. Danny had known something was off with her from the start. "Anyway, my point is, this is my last day as a free man, and I'm gonna use my time wisely. Drinking this very nice wine. Do you want some?"
"No thanks. That bottle is the one Antonio poisoned."
Danny froze with the bottle half-way to his mouth, and Maria laughed. "You should have seen your face! Just like a terrified Frenchman!"
Ugh. Dames. What had he ever seen in them? Beyond soft hands, beautiful curves and kissable lips, of course.
"Y'know," he said, taking another swig of the wine and spitting out another mouthful of cork, "God is a real bastard. I'm much too old to be starring in my own coming-of-age story. I should be working some cushy office job, rolling in freedom and cash, one of which usually buys the other. Instead I'm travelling across Italy in a rusty tin can driven by a dame with a death wish, wondering who's gonna play the part of me on the big screen in the story of my life."
Maria's lips narrowed into a grim frown. "I have no idea about anything you just said, but when I look around at all the death this war has brought, at how many mothers will never see sons and daughters again, at how many homes have been lost and how many people tortured and killed… I have to agree. God is a real bastard."
It was nice to have someone agree with him on that matter for once, even if it was for different reasons, but Maria's words really drove home exactly how much of a bastard God was. Normally, alcohol made him philosophical, but this time he kept his thoughts to himself. The people of Europe knew better than anyone about the total lack of compassion shown to them by the Almighty Father. Yet another Father who couldn't keep his children safe. What was it they said? As below, so above? Or vice versa. Wasn't important.
He was down to the last third of a bottle by the time Maria pulled over at the side of the road and stopped the car. But she kept the engine running, like a guy trying to quickly ditch a dame after a particularly uncomfortable date. Was that what he was now? The European equivalent of somebody's bad date?
"There," she said, pointing to a non-existent path into the forest. "There is an Allied base a couple of hours' walk in that direction."
"Thanks, Maria. You're a great dame, y'know? Antonio is a lucky guy; your omelettes are amazing. I'm not kidding. They've redefined how I'm gonna view cooked egg products in the future." He handed her the bottle. "Here, you better take this. I don't think I can finish it before I reach camp, and I should probably sober up a little before I come face to face with my fate."
Maria rolled her eyes but accepted the bottle. "So much melodrama! You were shot and survived. You escaped the Germans three times. And you are about to return to your friends. Be thankful for these things. Good luck, Pierre. I hope they find a nice looking man to play the part of you in your movie."
He offered a goodbye wave then set off into the woods. The sound of the clinky old engine finally faded into the distance, leaving him entirely alone once more.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
The two hour walk gave him ample time to start sobering up, as well as opportunity to put the finishing touches on his story. In situations like these, simple was best. The more convoluted the lie, the more opportunity for slipping up. Tangled webs and all that. No, the simplest deceptions were the best. Even better if the lie… or half-truth… could be wedged between two actual truths. So that was what he would do. He would tell the actual truth.
Creatively.
Just as he was startin' to wonder whether he'd got turned around, he saw a flash of metal up ahead. There ought to be nothing metal out here in this forest, so he made a beeline for it. Before he had chance of reaching it, a pair of MPs stepped right into his path, both of them carrying rifles, both of the rifles aimed right at Danny's chest. He opened his mouth to dress them down, then remembered he wasn't actually wearing a uniform. To them, he looked like some random civilian who'd wandered close to camp. Or worse, he looked like a spy.
"Easy, fellas," he said, reaching up with one hand to free his tags from beneath his shirt. "Sergeant Daniel Wells, with the 107th Infantry."
They watched him with the sort of cool composure that said they were more than happy to shoot him if he so much as even twitched a muscle.
"The 107th? Dunno where they are, but they're not here," one of them said. He had a corporal's stripes on his sleeve. "You don't look much like one of our boys."
Oh yeah, the beard. And the hair. Probably should'a taken a moment to neaten up before marching in here. He'd just taken it for granted that he'd be picked up by someone he knew. But then, God was a bastard, after all. Why make things easy and convenient for Danny now?
"I was separated from the 107th on a mission six months ago," he said. "Shot by Germans. Took a bullet to the shoulder and left for dead. Luckily, the locals found me and patched me up as best they could. I made my way back here as soon as I heard there was an Allied base nearby."
They didn't look convinced.
"Honestly. Check my tags. I've got more tags in my bag, too, from some of the guys who were on the mission with me. They didn't make it." Still nothing. "Look, maybe you could get one of my COs on the ringer. Colonel Phillips, or Colonel Hawkswell. Hell, anyone from the Strategic Scientific Reserve will confirm my identity for you."
"Phillips?" asked the corporal. "Never heard of him."
Of course, it was also possible that everyone from the SSR was dead. But that was very unlikely. Howard Stark had been with them. And since there had been no global day of mourning declared, that meant that he, at least, was still alive.
"Howard Stark? Agent Carter?" he asked. Blank stares. "Sergeant Barnes? Hell, even Sergeant Dugan!"
For some reason, the last two names got a response. The two MPs looked at each other. They did that silent thing that some people could do, sharing entire conversations with just one look. But… what did it mean? If these guys hadn't heard of Phillips, and not even the name of Stark got any interest, why should Barnes and Dugan ring a bell with them? It did not bode well. Or perhaps it boded really well. All depended on what happened next.
"We'll take you to the brass," said the corporal. He lowered his gun, and Danny let out a mental sigh of relief. At least he wasn't gonna be shot on sight.
Together the MPs escorted him through the camp, and it dawned on him that this truly wasn't the SSR. He saw no sign of the 107th's flag. Nothing of the 69th, or the 370th, or the 9th. None of the Engineering or Medical Corps insignias looked familiar. He'd ended up in the camp of a completely different division. But at least they were friendly. And hopefully not filled with Southerners.
Outside the biggest tent in the camp, the corporal instructed Danny to wait, then ducked inside. Muffled voices floated from within as a conversation was had. The voice of the corporal sounded like it was explaining the situation. The voice that replied sounded terse. Danny strained as hard as he could, and finally heard the departing words from the camp's CO.
"We don't have time for this right now. Cuff him and detain him. Have someone question him. We'll verify his identity later."
Uh-oh. Questioning? This would go a lot smoother if they verified his identity first. That way they wouldn't be looking to trip him up or expose half-imagined lies. Unfortunately, from the activity in the camp, he'd already guessed that some big mission was going down. A lot of personnel were on the move, and the nurses stationed outside the tent looked ready for triage. A few of them were rolling up bandages and preparing stretchers.
The corporal stepped outside the tent, rejoining his fellow MP. He said, "Come with me." And that rankled.
"You know what we used to do to men who didn't address their superiors in the proper way, back in my camp, Corporal?"
"You know what we do to men who might be German spies in our camp?" the corporal shot back, patting his rifle meaningfully.
He had a point. And also a gun. Two things Danny did not have right now. So he merely held up his hands and let the guy lead the way to a small tent devoid of any personal belongings. Some sort of holding cell, probably. The fact that it was empty spoke highly of the camp's discipline, and poorly of his chances of making a covert run for it while nobody was looking.
They took his bag, searched it—removing the tags of Hawkins, Jones and Martland—and then cuffed his hands behind his back. Unfortunate, that. Davies had once shown him a way to spring himself from cuffs, back during winter training an entire lifetime ago, but it relied on the cuffs bring in front of the body. Not much he could do from this position.
There was no further conversation from the MPs, but he did hear them take up position outside the tent. So. Cuffed and guarded. Not a good sign. Still, he made a quick round of the tent, familiarising himself with his temporary home. Tents were… they weren't as bad as small spaces, because they were made from canvas. They let light in. They weren't solid. And they could be escaped from pretty easily, if the need arose. In fact, the need had arisen once or twice in the past, due to… antics. None of which was his fault. It was all Barnes' doing. That guy was a very bad influence, gettin' Danny to do all sorts of stupid shit to help people out.
The sounds of camp life reached his ears, like some bittersweet symphony. Strange to think how young and naïve he'd been just ten short months ago. This had all felt like some grand adventure, and he'd considered himself invincible. Even after the dying started, he never imagined it would happen to him. Getting shot, taking that bullet… in a lot of ways, it really had ended his life. It was an older Danny who'd come out of all that. A wiser Danny.
A Danny who really needed to pee.
"S'cuse me guys," he said, poking his head out of the tent. "But I really gotta make a pit stop. Would you mind?"
It turned out they did mind. He had to wait over an hour for someone to take pity on him. But after his pit stop, they brought him a sandwich, which was nice. Followed shortly after by a re-cuffing, which was not so nice. Not long after that, the camp got louder with both engines and people. Whatever big mission they'd been on had ended.
A little before dark, a sergeant entered the tent and introduced himself as Kaminski. With him was a chaplain, who didn't introduce himself at all.
"So," said Sergeant Kaminski, settling down on a chair the corporal had brought in for him and pulling a notepad and pencil from his pocket. "You claim to be a sergeant in the US Army? Before you answer that, I would like to inform you that given the current state of affairs, civilians falsely claiming to be military personnel are looking at up to ten years' imprisonment. Enemy spies attempting to infiltrate our ranks are simply shot."
"Like I told the corporal earlier, I'm Sergeant Daniel Wells of the 107th Infantry. I have my tags, you can check they're legit."
"We already checked our records," said Kaminski. "They show a Sergeant Daniel Wells of the 107th Infantry being listed as KIA."
"And I'm here to correct that terrible clerical error."
"Tags mean nothing," Kaminski said. "Sergeant Wells was KIA, which means you could be a German spy using his tags and posing as him. You have anything more?"
"Sure. I could tell you the names of my parents. My brothers. The schools I went to. My GPA. The accounting firm I worked for back in New York." He leaned forward, grateful he hadn't been given a chair. Standing seemed more powerful when the other guy was seated. "But on the flip side, if I really was working for German intelligence, the first thing I would'a done on finding these tags would be to send someone to check into the life of Sergeant Danny Wells. Learn the name of his parents. His brothers. The schools he went to. The many and varied dames he dated. And so forth.
"So, let's see if I can come up with something the Nazis wouldn't know. Lessee now… Agent Carter used to have a little dog called Picasso, when she was a kid. Howard Stark invented a really handy gadget that we ended up calling the 'Universal Key'. Two guesses as to what it does. Biggs sleep-walks if you don't tie him down. Franklin liked to stir his coffee in a figure-eight motion. Phillips harbours a personal grudge against me and sends me on all the toughest missions. And the day I headed out on my very last mission, I put Barnes in the hospital with a solid left-cross." Or was it a right hook? Oh well, not like the exact type of punch was on record anywhere. "You find the SSR. Find the 107th. Ask them about that stuff. They'll tell you it's all real."
Kaminski merely stared at him. Then he said, "You mentioned the name Barnes earlier. And another name. Dugan. How do you know those names?"
"Are you even listening to a word I say? I am speaking English right now, aren't I? I mean, I haven't accidentally lapsed back into Italian, have I?" Another stare. Danny sighed. "Barnes is in the 107th, just like me. And Dugan, that crazy, bowler-hatted orang-utan, is with the 69th; they were assigned to the SSR right along with us. And along with the 9th, which is how I ended up with Martland's tags. We were on the same last mission together."
"So you know Sergeant Barnes? And Sergeant Dugan? Personally?"
"Yeah, and now I'm getting a real strong feeling that you know them personally, too. Because I just mentioned a whole bunch of names right there, and those are the only two you care about. Why?" If this guy knew them, that meant they were alive. Didn't it?
"I'll ask the questions here," Kaminski said. Bastard hadn't written down a single thing Danny had said. Playtime was over.
"Well, I'm done giving answers," he shot back. "You've got my tags. Have your doctors check me over and you'll find where I was shot. You have a whole bunch of names of people who can vouch for my identity, and you have two names that are making you look, as the Italians would say, super fucking shifty. Now, I know my rights. I know I'm entitled to food and water and basic human amenities, such as a bed. I know you're not allowed to torture me, which is why you have Jesus Junior here," he nodded to the chaplain, "to watch over and make sure you don't do anything real sinful. I also know that you hold the same rank as me. You're not even a commissioned officer. Which means you're just some lowly gopher doing a job the real officers can't be bothered doing because in the grand scheme of things, I'm about as much of a security threat right now as a nun in a wet paper bag." Was that even a thing? "So you basically have no authority. You'll go back, make your report, and in a couple of days an actual officer will come along and do a little more probing until somebody decides that I am who I say I am, and then we'll all have a good chuckle about it later. Does that sound about right?"
Kaminski was looking a little red around the ears. Probably shoudn't've called him a lowly gopher, but damn if it didn't feel good to give someone a piece of his mind after a whole six months of being unfailingly polite and terrified of death-by-blacksmith.
"Before we leave you for the night," the chaplain spoke up, "would you like the opportunity to pray?"
"No thanks, Padre. I prayed before I got here." And quite desperately, during the God-awful car ride.
Kaminski left without a word, which wasn't a good sign, but the MPs standing outside the tent were chuckling quite loudly for a while after that, which was a good sign. The chaplain bade him good night, then asked the MPs to bring him some blankets and a pillow for a bed. How they expected him to sleep with his hands cuffed behind his back was a mystery. For now, he would just have to manage. And in a couple of days, when a real officer came to ask him questions, maybe he could finally get somewhere.
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
Day two of his incarceration proved extremely boring. The tedium was broken with two meals and three pit-stops, but otherwise, he wasn't allowed to engage with camp personnel. He spent an hour or so exploring the periphery of his tent. Sometimes, if a tent wasn't pegged properly, it was possible to wriggle underneath. True, he had nowhere to go, and wouldn't get very far cuffed as he was, but it might be fun to get someone in trouble for allowing him to escape.
A little after lunch time, two stag beetles crawled across the tarp covering the ground, and met in the middle of the tent for a heroic fight to the death. They entertained him for a good ten minutes, but the fight eventually ended inconclusively, with both beetles going their separate ways. Hell, maybe it hadn't even been a fight. Maybe that was just some weird stag-beetle mating ritual that had ended badly.
"I know how you feel, beetles," he sighed. "I can't remember the last time I met a dame who was just normal. I guess war brings out the crazy in people. Except Adalina. She was pretty normal. Maybe war brings out the crazy in me."
One of the MPs popped his head into the tent and looked around for voices. Danny stopped talking to the insects after that.
On day three, something changed. Before breakfast, Sergeant Kaminski stepped into the tent, holding the flap open, and said, "This way, sir."
Danny, lounging on his blankets because he'd been expecting some brown-nosing Danzig-style Lieutenant, instead leapt to his feet.
"Colonel Hawkswell, sir! Apologies for not being able to salute, sir. I've been unjustly cuffed, sir. It's a real travesty, sir." The man was a sight for sore eyes. Tall and gangly like a stork, he looked like the sorta guy who should be back home stacking library shelves, not running an Army Division. But in lieu of anybody better, Danny would take him.
Hawkswell merely snorted. "It's him." Then he stepped out of the tent, leaving Kaminski to salute empty air.
"MPs, uncuff him and take him to the medical tent for fitness evaluation," the sergeant said, before dashing after Hawkswell.
It felt good to get the cuffs finally off. True, they'd been removed for his food and bathroom breaks, but this time, they were off for good. Colonel Hawkswell had vouched for him. There would be no more talk of shooting him. The MPs were a little more respectful, now they knew he wasn't some Nazi spy. "This way, Sergeant," one of them said, holding open the tent flap for him.
Outside, nothing had changed. This was definitely not an army on the move. They were encamped, and judging by the state of the dirt roads winding their way around the tents, had been for weeks. That was… unexpected. An army encamped was a sitting duck for enemy bombers. Had something changed? Had the Germans lost their air power, or had they merely committed it to somewhere else? Were the Italians fighting back? Well, clearly they weren't fighting with planes, or tanks, or guns. Maybe they were throwing pasta at the Germans. But that didn't explain why such a large force had gathered here.
He didn't have time to ponder. The MP led him through the crowd, to one of the medical tents nearby. This was a much larger force than the one the SSR had committed to eliminating HYDRA; clearly it needed more medical staff, and more hospitals to treat the wounded.
A smiling nurse took over from the MP, ushering Danny to a bed and instructing him to strip down to his small clothes. By now, this was a familiar routine. He was poked and prodded. He had a thermometer stuck in his mouth and a needle stuck in his arm, and thank God she stopped there at sticking things in him, because some of the implements on her bench did not look like they belonged in the ear. After taking his temperature and a blood sample, she called a doctor over.
The doctor made him sign a medical form, then poked and prodded at the scar tissue on his arm, noting down whenever Danny winced in pain. Then he had him do some strength and mobility tests, recording his grip strength, range of motion, and reflex delay. After a full half hour of testing, the doctor nodded, and stamped the medical form.
"I hereby declare you unfit for combat duty."
"What?! That's a lie—take it back!" He could not, NOT be discharged and shipped back home. He wouldn't allow it. Not until he'd found what was left of the 107th. Not until he'd found Barnes and fixed the terrible mess he'd made there.
"It's a medical exam. It doesn't lie," the doctor said. "Your grip strength in your right hand is only a quarter of that of your left hand. You may recover some of it with strengthening exercises, but your range of motion is significantly limited. Even if you could hold and carry a rifle for any length of time, I don't think you possess the ability to aim and fire it with any sort of accuracy."
"Have you ever fired a rifle, Doc? You just sorta shoot and hope for the best. Trust me, lack of aim is not a big thing! Besides, I'm left-handed."
"Really? Then why did you sign your medical form with your right hand?" Sneaky bastard! He tore off the top layer of the form and handed it to Danny. "Take this to Major General Grant. You're not fit for combat duty, but I'm sure we can find some use for you. I hear the motor pool are always looking for extra hands."
It was like being punched in the gut. Motor pool. Become a grease-monkey? The guy who went around putting on spare tyres because he didn't have a clue how engines worked? No sir, not Danny Wells!
Outside the hospital tent, he got another punch to the gut, and this one was even more painful.
"Hullo, Wells," said Hodge, a huge grin plastered to his face. He was lounging at ease against a water butt, completely oblivious to the glares of camp personnel who had to detour around him. "Almost didn't recognise you for a minute there. You know you look like one of those homeless guys who bum for smokes on Time Square, right?"
"Hodge." He narrowed his eyes at the world's most annoying enlisted man. "Did you hit your head and forget how to address a senio—" Hodge tapped his upper sleeve meaningfully. A sergeant's stripes sat there. "God damnit, who promoted you?"
"Got promoted to Corporal six months ago, and made Sergeant just last week." His chest puffed up. "Colonel Hawkswell says I got real potential. That's why I'm the one that drove him out here to come check up on you. He could'a picked anyone, but he picked me."
More fool him. Still, maybe it was a good thing Hodge was here. Shouldn't be too hard to get info out of him.
"Anyone else get promoted while I was gone?" he probed.
"Yeah, Gusty made Sergeant, and Biggs is a Corporal now. And Gusty runs the Syndicate. Gotta say, he's much better at it than Davies was. Much fairer." He was probably only saying that 'cos Davies didn't take his shit. Gusty was a bit of a pushover, at times.
"And… uh… everyone else?" he prompted. Hodge returned the question with a blank look. "Jeez, Hodge, literally everyone who isn't the two people you mentioned! You know, Tex and Mex, Agent Carter, Mr Stark, Sergeant Barnes…"
"Oh, right. Tex bought it at Azzano. That big HYDRA tank really did a number on our forces." He managed to actually look sad about that. Perhaps he was finally developing some human empathy. But if Hodge didn't hurry up and tell him what he really wanted to hear, he was gonna knife the guy in the gut, rip out his intestines, and beat him to death with them. "Mex is around, still a private though. Agent Carter and Mr Stark were reassigned to the SSR Headquarters in London. Pity that. Agent Carter was sweet on me, if you know what I mean. And I saw Barnes like three weeks ago. He's in London too, playing at being one of Captain America's Howling Commandos. Overrated, if you ask me. Not real soldiering, like what we do here on the front lines."
"Technically we're behind the front lines," he pointed out absently. More importantly, what the hell was a Captain America, or a Howling Commando, and how could he find the fastest way to get to London? "How was he?" he asked. "When you last saw him?"
"Who, Barnes? Well, he was kinda wet, and really cold. He'd just swum across a lake, y'see."
Danny desperately wished he had something to throw at Hodge's head. Not that it would do any permanent damage. All he had was his medical form, and it wasn't worth going through the hassle of getting another written out.
"I mean, what was his emotional state like?"
"Emotional state? Killing Nazis, mostly. Being grouchy and sarcastic a bit. Oh, and bossy. He sure does like bossing people around, these days. Guess his head's gotten a lot bigger, with all the fame." Fame? "It's not fair," Hodge continued, in a wheedling tone. "It was supposed to be me, gettin' picked for Project Rebirth."
"Wait, walk me through this," he said, holding up a hand to stall the inevitable complaining. "What does you been ditched from that sketchy science project have to do with Barnes and fame?"
"Well, the guy they picked for the Project, turns out he was Barnes' old childhood pal. And when Barnes and Dugan and the others were captured by HYDRA—"
"Wait, what?! Why did you miss that out? That's important information!" God dammit, Hodge was so dense! Why couldn't it have been Gusty or Biggs who'd driven Hawkswell here today?
"You didn't ask!" Hodge pointed out. As if he ought to know to ask about that sort of thing! "Anyway, when he heard so many guys from the 107th had gone missing, Steve Rogers went off with Stark and Carter and rescued them. Though, I guess he was mostly going to rescue Barnes, and the others were just a bonus. Since they were old childhood friends an' all. He snuck into the HYDRA work camp, freed the prisoners, organised a revolt, overthrew the Germans, kicked Schmidt's ass, and brought them all back home safe." Momentary admiration warred with envy on Hodge's face, then bravely lost that battle. "And it should'a been me!"
Hodge's words were like a slap in the face. This friend… probably the same 'Steve' that Barnes had told him about, back when Nurse Green had drugged him… had infiltrated an enemy installation and done all that, just for a chance at rescuing his pal? That sorta friendship was on a whole other level. How could he compare to something like that? He'd never done anything like that. Granted, he'd never had the chance to. But still… he'd thought he'd known what friendship was. That it meant taking hits for the people he cared about. Yet the person he cared about had taken a hit, and he hadn't been there to stop it. In fact, he'd taken a hit of his own, and nobody had come for him. That… stung. Maybe he'd been wrong. Everything he said in that letter, about friendship and family and… feelings… it hadn't been real. It had all been in his head. Barnes' friend had gone back for him, but nobody had gone back for Danny. They'd just declared him KIA, and moved on.
"Oh man, I just realised something! It's gonna kill him to know you're still alive."
"What… what do you mean?"
"After the team you went out with came back without you or Hawkins, Barnes tried to convince the brass to organise a rescue mission, but they wouldn't authorise it. So Barnes and Gusty tried to commandeer a jeep to go rescue you all themselves, but Sergeant Jerkface from the 9th stopped them."
"Sergeant Jerkface..?"
Hodge shrugged. "I don't remember his name. He's gone now, anyway. Reassigned. Jerkface threatened to have them arrested, and Barnes was not happy about that. Sulked for ages, after."
Was it bad, that it made him feel a little better to know that Barnes had sulked over not being allowed to rescue him? Probably. But there was still one thing he needed to know.
"Since I'm not dead anymore," he said, "I'd kinda like to recover my personal stuff. If any of it is still around. Know anything about that?"
Hodge shook his head. "After you were gone, Barnes went through your locker. Hawkins' too. Quartermaster took everything that could be reused, and Barnes handled all the personal stuff. Though, I did hear Gusty trying to barter for that book you liked so much, so I know Barnes still has it. That might be the only thing he has, though. After Barnes went missing at Azzano, Gusty went through his locker and gave the Quartermaster everything that could be reused, and eventually handed whatever was left of Barnes' personal stuff back to him after he was rescued. Man, all this 'gone today, here tomorrow' stuff is confusing. I hope when I'm gone, I'm gone for good. That way I don't have to worry about getting all my stuff back!"
"I see." Well, so much for getting his letter back. Of course, there was always the tiniest of chances that it hadn't been opened, but he wasn't holding out hope. Dismissing Hodge from his thoughts, he turned to the MP who'd been waiting patiently during the exchange. Big part of being an MP, that waiting patiently stuff. Danny couldn't've done it. "I'm to report to Major General Grant, to give him this medical form."
"I'll take you to the command tent," the MP said. "Follow me."
Hodge clearly took that as an invitation too, because he kept pace with Danny as they were led through the bustle of the camp. Luckily it hadn't rained in a while, so the dirt paths were dry, but he bet they got pretty lethal after a downpour. If they stayed here much longer, they'd have to start laying logs for the roads.
"Ooh, tough luck, pal," said Hodge, peering at Danny's form. "Guess there'll be no more tough missions for you. All the more chance for the rest of us to earn promotions, right?"
"Have at it, Hodge," Danny offered. The guy was nuts anyway. "And don't call me 'pal'."
"This guy's such a clown," Hodge said to the MP. "We go way back, to the start of the war." He seemed to genuinely believe that the war only started when he got there.
The MP merely nodded. He'd clearly had to put up with a lot of Hodge-level bullshit in his time.
At the command tent, their small group was stopped and forced to wait. Important meeting, one of the General's personal staff told him. Hodge used the opportunity to tell Danny more about life with the 107th after the SSR had departed for England, but Danny let his words pass through the filter of his mind with nothing more than an occasional nod or 'hmm' as acknowledgement he was speaking. The MP spent his time studying the sky.
When at last officers started filing out of the tent, Danny was admitted inside. Hodge wasn't, which clearly irritated him no end.
It was a larger tent than the one Phillips and Hawkswell had shared, big enough for several tables, including a large central table with a topographical map of northern Italy laid over the top. A number of markers represented ally and enemy troop placements. Danny studiously ignored the map. His identity had now been confirmed, but the brass never liked it when enlisted men showed too much interest in the things they ought not to be interested in, such as when they could expect to be shot at again, or how long it was gonna take to end the war.
He saluted both senior officers and stood at attention before them. Major General Grant was a slight man with a narrow face, and the top of his head barely measured up to Hawkswell's shoulder. But he stood with a sort of cool confidence that somehow made it look like Hawkswell was the one reaching for extra height.
"Sergeant Wells," said Hawkswell, "would you mind explaining how it is you came to be here after all this time?"
"Yes sir." So he told his story from start to finish—more or less. How he'd got shot on the mission. Drifted in and out of consciousness. Been found by a local man. Taken to Rosa's house. Operated on by a doctor. Couldn't even remember his own name. Tried real hard to shake loose the cobwebs of his mind every day. Eventually started to get his memories back as spring approached, and made his way to an allied camp at the first available opportunity.
He mentioned nothing about Adalina, or the Germans coming to Rosa's house. Leaving only when forced to do so through risk of discovery reeked of guilt. Besides, that was stuff the brass did not need to know about, though he did mention that the Luftwaffe had a base near the town. British Intelligence being what it was, Major General Grant already knew about it, but thanked him for the info anyway.
He ended by handing over his medical form which listed the doctor's recommendations. Grant turned to Hawkswell and asked, "You want your sergeant back?"
Hawkswell shook his head. "My division's too active and mobile. I need every hand capable of carrying a weapon and hauling weight on a march. Injured personnel are too much of a burden. I'll sign the transfer papers before I leave. I'm sure you can make use of him."
And just like that, he was moved to a new division, kinda like an unwanted puppy being passed to a new home.
"Very well. I know you're busy, Colonel. I'll let you get back to your operation."
The men saluted each other, and Wells saluted again for good measure. Before he left, Hawkswell eyed him up, and said, "I'm glad you made it back alive, Sergeant. And I'm sorry about Hawkins and Jones. Martland too. They were good men."
"Yes they were, sir," he agreed. He hadn't known Martland all that well, but the guy had taken a bullet and not gotten up. You didn't say anything bad about a guy after that, even if it were true. "I'm sure their families can rest easy finally knowing what happened to them. And speaking of families…"
Hawkswell nodded. "I'll have a letter sent to yours, explaining the… administrative error. We'll let them know you're alive. I'm sure they'd appreciate a letter from you, too."
"I'm sure they would," he lied.
And with that, Hawkswell left, and with him went Danny's last ever chance of getting back to the 107th.
Major General Grant passed his medical form to one of his staff for filing, then turned to examine his new toy soldier. "You can report to the motor pool," he said. "We're short on engineers."
"Sir," he said quickly, before Grant could make it final, "I'm sure that I could learn how to do engineering type stuff, in time. But back in civvy life, I was an auditing accountant. I'm pretty good with numbers. Better than I am at using my hands, anyway. Isn't there some way you could make use of the skills I already have?" Besides, crappy as it was to be stuck behind a desk, there were advantages. Paper came across desks, and with it, information. Information was the most valuable currency of all, even more valuable than packets of sugar or freshly laid eggs.
Grant didn't respond at first, merely studied Danny as if looking at some new and potentially interesting puzzle. It was difficult not to squirm, under that gaze. Finally, he said, "Give us the room." The rest of the staff filed out patiently, clearly used to the General's need for privacy.
"Keeping track of supplies in an army this size is not easy," Grant said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. "And it seems my quartermasters are not up to the task. Now, I started out as an enlisted man myself. I know how the army works. I know that somebody finds a way to skim a little off each requisition order. For barter, and favours, and to keep the wheels oiled. To a certain extent, I don't mind that, because everything runs more smoothly when the men have what they need, and sometimes what they need takes too long to get when going through official channels. That's just logistics.
"However, the volume of goods being re-appropriated is far too high. We're coming under scrutiny of the top brass back home. Maybe one of the quartermasters is in on it. Maybe they all are. Or maybe none of them are. All I know is, somewhere in our supply chain is a leak, and we are haemorrhaging goods and equipment. I need to find this leak and plug it, before they send someone out to do it for me. Do you think you could help me find where the leaks are?"
He hesitated. Working for the man, ratting fellow soldiers out… it wasn't right. But at the same time, whoever was running what passed for a Syndicate here had clearly gotten greedy or sloppy; skimming off of orders should be done in small quantities, so as not to be noticeable. Or at least, so as not to be an inconvenience to the brass. If it couldn't be hidden, it was either too much, or the guy doing it wasn't very good at hiding it. He hated the kind of guy Grant was asking him to be, and just the thought of working to undermine his fellow enlisted men left a sour taste in his mouth, but if the only other alternative was to become a grease-monkey…
"Yes sir," he said. "I can definitely help with that. But ah… the best way to do it will be from inside the system. Following the paper trail will help me find the right direction, but to be sure I get the right names, I'll need a certain amount of… well, let's call it leeway. To establish trust. I'd like to think that any minor rule breaking I might do to earn that trust would not reflect badly on my service record."
"Don't commit any serious offences," Grant warned. He really had been an enlisted man, in a former life. "If you have to be a little light-fingered to make things happen, I'll lose any such reports that cross my desk. But if you punch an officer, for example, there is nothing I can or will do about that."
"Don't worry, sir. I know how to be discreet."
Grant pulled a face that wrinkled his nose. "I wish this sort of investigation wasn't required at all, but I just can't look the other way any longer. I'll assign you as a clerk under one of our quartermasters, Lieutenant Grant, and you'll take up your new role immediately."
"Err, Lieutenant Grant, sir?"
"Yes, Lieutenant Grant is my son. And no, I don't expect any sort of favouritism. If his name should come up as being involved in the supply chain leaks, then I want you to report that to me. Understood, Sergeant?"
He saluted. "Yes sir."
"Good. I'll square off the paperwork and tell Lieutenant Grant to get you set up with some desk space and everything you need. In the meantime, Sergeant, please make yourself presentable for duty. I appreciate the need for you to avoid attention while convalescing, but you're back in civilisation now; we still have a dress code to maintain. You'll visit the barber's tent, then requisition a new uniform. Official duties start tomorrow."
Author's Note: Aww, Hodge :'-)