We Were Soldiers

by The Urban Spaceman

They say that boys go to war, and men come back from it. When Sergeant James Barnes is deployed to the front lines in 1943, he learns that living through war means living in the shadow of death every minute of every day — and that even in the thrall of that dark shadow, hope and love can blossom in the unlikeliest of places.

131. One Month

We Were Soldiers

131. One Month

8th June, 1944. D+2

"We're here," said Logan. He stopped on the edge of the field they'd crossed, revealing a sprawling makeshift camp that flew the British and Canadian flags. "Medical tent's over that way." He gestured towards a series of long tents that had been erected on the far edge of the camp. "Command tent over there." It was clear which was the command tent; it was the one flying the flags. "Good luck, and try to keep your heads down out there."

"You're not coming with us?" Bucky asked. He'd assumed Logan was due to rendezvous here as well.

He merely patted his rifle. "Lots of work left to do out there. Somebody needs to keep the Krauts on their toes while the brass come up with fancy new names for their next bunch of operations."

"Can you believe that guy?" Morita mumbled, as Logan turned and walked away. "Acting like he's the one who got us here. I was the one leading the way, y'know." But he grumbled it quietly, because it turned out Logan's hearing was really, really sharp.

"Private," said Captain Stone, "I don't care if it was a dancing hippopotamus in a tutu who led us here. There is a cup of tea down there with my name on it. And of course we need to make sure Major Falsworth receives urgent medical care. Let's get down there right now."

Stone was right. Their first priority was Monty. They'd given him enough morphine tartrate to help him sleep without feeling pain, but eventually he was gonna wake up. Everything else could wait.

Nobody tried to stop them as they approached the camp. There were no MPs; either they hadn't been assigned, or they hadn't arrived across the Channel yet. The closer they got to the hospital tents, the more walking wounded they saw. Men with bandages wrapped around their heads. Men with arms in slings. Men moving around on crutches. Were these men casualties from the beach or, like Bucky and his team, were they paratroopers blown in from all directions?

The first medical tent he stuck his head into was overflowing with injured personnel, both bed-ridden and waiting to be seen. A nurse was conducting triage, and anyone conscious and able to walk under their own steam was sent to the back of the line. It did not bode well.

The second tent was no different, and the third was even worse. The fourth, however, was a little quieter. Everyone in a bed was unconscious, though there were several beds still empty. Surprisingly, there was nobody waiting for triage. Bucky gestured for the others to bring Monty in, and they set him down on the ground.

"You there!" said a very British doctor. "You shouldn't be in here. This ward is only for soldiers with serious head trauma."

Bucky's heart sank. "Oh. Sorry, we only just got here. My friend here took a branch to the leg when we were dropped. It's still embedded, and it's become infected. I tried antibiotics, but I don't think they're working."

"He may also have serious head trauma," Captain Stone said quickly. "He hit his head when he landed in the tree. I saw it myself."

"Oh, very well then," said the doctor. "Bring him over here and transfer him to this bed. Quickly, now. Nurse Braddock, let's prep this man for immediate surgery."

A pretty, blonde-haired nurse wheeled over a metal trolley full of surgical implements and syringes, and made a shoo'ing motion at the Commandos. "You're going to have to wait outside," she said. "We need to work, and you're in the way. Go to the NAAFI and get yourselves a hot drink. I'll come and find you once we're finished working on your friend."

"NAAFI?" Morita asked.

"Come on," said Captain Stone. "It's like your mess. I'll take you there. She's right; we're only in the way here. What Major Falsworth needs is for us to let the doctors do their work."

What else could he do? Much as he wanted to make sure Monty was gonna be okay, he really would just be in the way. With no better idea, and realising it had been days since his last cup of coffee, he followed Captain Stone back out into the camp.

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Steve and those following him strode into a camp that was abuzz with activity. By chance, they'd heard that VII Corps was en route to take the town of Carentan, a short distance south-west of the Utah beach landing point, and by the time they'd found the camp, it was clear the attack was well underway. He instructed the men he'd collected from Omaha to go and find a mess tent and grab whatever they could to eat, then continued on with Dugan, Jones, Freddie and Private Nelson.

The command tent was small, but at the centre of the camp, easy to locate. It was also a hive of activity, with scouts running in and out in an almost constant stream, messengers being dispatched to waiting troops, and radio operators transmitting orders to officers in the field. Steve hung well back, keeping his team out of the way. Captain America might be something of a big deal in the SSR's headquarters, but here he was just another small cog in a big machine, and right now that machine was rolling inexorably towards Carentan.

Eventually, there was a lull in activity. A corporal dashed forward to hand the General a cup of hot coffee that he'd had to remake four times because it had gone cold, and Steve took the opportunity to step into the tent.

"General Collins, sir, I'm sorry to disturb you but I wanted to report the arrival of the first troops from Omaha beach." He offered a salute, that the General returned. "Captain Steve Rogers. And this is Private Nelson; he's been sent from Field Marshal Montgomery to update you on the situation at Gold, Juno and Sword beaches."

"Alright, Private. Let's hear it."

Steve waited patiently as the private relayed exactly the same message he'd given earlier. General Collins nodded along, then turned to one of the radio operators.

"Encode this. Start message. Field Marshal Montgomery should send no more than light reinforcements to Omaha beach. I've already dispatched troops to help secure a continuous beachhead there. End message. Have it relayed urgently. Private Nelson, go find somewhere to rest. Later this afternoon I'm sending another group to help secure Omaha, and you can make your way back to your regiment with them." The private saluted and left, and Collins turned to Steve. "Captain Rogers, glad you could join us. I've had reports from the sky about the situation at Omaha. How bad is it, in your assessment?"

"We suffered heavy losses during the initial landing, General," he said. "Most of the beach fortifications were still in place, and the combat engineers came under heavy fire as they tried to clear it. My team managed to clear a path up to the bluff and captured one of the pillboxes, and other groups were doing the same as we left. The situation is improving, but a lot of the commanding officers were lost early, men have become separated from their units, and there's nobody to give orders."

The General turned and studied the map on his tabletop for a few minutes. The radio operators kept working, and a line of messengers began to form up outside. Finally, he said, "Much as I'd like to send you back, I could use you more here. I've been briefed that your team has experience of special operations, namely covert insertion, extraction, sabotage, and the like?"

"That's right, sir. Though, my demolitions man is with the British forces at Gold beach, along with my sharpshooter."

"Then you'll have to do." He drew Steve's attention to the map, tapping one of the small markers with his finger. "Once the 101st Airborne Division has finished regrouping, I'm going to task them with the capture of Carentan. I'd like you to join up with the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment and support their effort. They're massing here," he said, indicating an area outside of the town's defenses. "Tomorrow morning, I'd like you and your team to head out and join them. Lieutenant Colonel Cole will be leading the forces there."

"Understood, sir." He issued a swift salute.

"One more thing, Captain. If you've lost your gun, you can requisition another from my quartermaster before you head out."

Steve reached for his shield and gave it a friendly tap. "Thank you, sir. But this is the only weapon I need."

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10th June, 1944. D+4

Bucky yawned wide enough to crack his jaw as he made his way through the throng of soldiers to the command tent of I Corps. The Commandos' usual missions tended to be small, in terms of men involved, fast, in terms of how long it took them to achieve their goals, and silent, in terms of noise. It'd been so long since he'd fought for any length of time with a larger force that he'd forgotten how big, slow and loud armies actually were, and I Corps was no exception. The accents were mostly British, with some Canadian thrown in, but overall it wasn't too different to the SSR. Big, noisy and chaotic. Yet somehow, it worked.

At the tent, he stopped to be officially admitted, then saluted General Crocker before launching into an immediate sitrep. "No change, sir. All the Panzer divisions in the area were recalled yesterday, and the Krauts have locked down the town. Nobody in, nobody out. They've started to move some of their artillery, to cover the gaps in their perimeter. It'll mean the town is better defended as a whole, but that defence is now thinner than the skin on an apple. Also, a supply plane flew over this morning, but our fighters shot it down before it could drop its cargo. One of the PIRs went to recover any supplies and survivors, assuming there's anything left."

General Crocker nodded to himself. "Better safe than sorry." He wasn't a particularly talkative man, but he had a sharp mind and a good understanding of tactics. "Good work, Sergeant. Go and get yourself a hot meal and a good day's rest. I'll need your eyes back out there tomorrow night."

Bucky saluted and left. The Brits had their own sharpshooters, but none whose eyes were as keen as Bucky's. And none with cutting-edge SSR-03 rifles. Crocker was using him as a lookout for now, but he promised there would be plenty of opportunity to try out the new rifle once the fighting started. Just when that would be, was anyone's guess.

Before eating, he stopped by the hospital tents, creeping into the one with all the head-trauma victims. As usual, Monty was the only one awake. Other than the bandage wrapped around his leg, and the one around his head, he looked fit and healthy, and very out of place in the ward full of coma patients. He and his nurse were so engaged in their poker game that neither looked up when Bucky walked in, nor when he plonked himself down on the edge of Monty's bed.

"I raise by ten," Monty said at last, throwing an imaginary chip into the pot. He was wearing his best poker face, and had a full house in his hand.

A small smile tugged at the corners of the nurse's mouth. "I fold."

"Not again!" Monty groaned. "How do you always know when I have genuine winning hands?"

"Like I said before; you're easy to read."

Monty finally acknowledged Bucky's presence. "Nurse Braddock is twelve for twelve," he said to him. "I'm determined to bluff her at least once before I'm discharged."

"Personally, I hope the war is over long before then," she chuckled.

"Can we deal you in, Barnes?"

Bucky shook his head. Nurse Braddock was nice enough to look at, but something about her unnerved him. Maybe it was the way she reminded him of Nurse Green, who'd tried to murder him. She had the same look in her eyes. The look that said she knew more than everyone else. "I just came to check in on you before grabbing a bite. Was hoping to catch Jacques or Morita for a few hours."

"You're out of luck, I'm afraid." Monty picked up the deck of cards and started shuffling them. "Morita's gone to Sword, to escort a tank division that's due to land there. Crocker's engineers have only managed to clear a narrow path to this point, and it's too risky for tanks to go off on their own until all the mines have been removed. And Mr Dernier is off meeting several of his Resistance contacts. Seems the lock-down of Caen has scuppered their initial plans for coordinated sabotage once the attack begins. They're having to come up with new ways of communicating targets, and it's not proving easy."

"Alright, guess I'll go eat and grab some shut-eye. Crocker wants me back out there tomorrow night."

"I do wish I was going with you," Monty said, with a wistful sigh. He really did mean it, too. "It doesn't feel right, sitting around doing nothing while you're all out there taking risks."

"Don't worry, they'll have you on your feet in no time. For now, focus on getting better. The Commandos need you."

"Yes sir." Monty offered a salute. But at least he was able to make jokes. That meant he was on the mend. Hopefully he'd be back on his feet before the real fighting began. It would be nice to have another person he could trust to watch his back.

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Closing his eyes a little tighter against the wind, Steve hunkered down and tried to snatch a few minutes of sleep. But every time he shut his eyes and tried to switch off his mind, the events of the past day kept replaying through his brain, a moving picture that just wouldn't stop.

He and his team had met up with the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment, but it wasn't at full strength. Too many paratroopers had been blown off course by the wind, or dropped in the wrong zones by pilots trying to dodge AA guns. Part of their regiment was missing. Parts of other regiments kept randomly appearing on the battlefield, miles from where they were supposed to be. It was chaos.

Capture Carentan. It had seemed a simple enough instruction. After all, Steve and the Commandos had stormed Nazi facilities before. But they'd almost always used stealth or subterfuge to give them an edge. There could be no stealth, where the capture of a town was concerned. The settlement was too well defended, and the bridges over the river heading into it were either too well guarded or completely destroyed. All it came down to now, was who had the strongest force. Who had the most ammunition. Who could hold out the longest.

The 502nd were doing their best. Engineers had partially repaired one of the bridges, allowing the regiment to cross onto the causeway and advance towards the town, but the Krauts weren't about to let them approach unhindered. Artillery fire had stymied their progress, and now darkness made it too risky to keep moving. As soon as the artillery fell silent, Colonel Cole had given the order for the men to stop where they were on the causeway and rest until dawn. It meant the men were exposed to enemy fire, but nobody wanted to forfeit even an inch of ground that they'd claimed.

His thoughts wandered back to London, and he reached into his breast pocket to pull out the compass Bucky had given him for Christmas. When he flipped open the lid, he could just about make out the outline of the photograph he'd placed there, but it was too dark to see Peggy's features properly.

"Every soldier needs a dependable compass to help him get back home after every mission," Bucky had said, when he'd gifted it. And he was right. But home wasn't what it had once been. Not for Steve. Not right now. Maybe even never again. He had nothing waiting for him, back in New York, except a dead-end job. Family, gone. Friends, enlisted. He couldn't go back there, not now that the entire world had opened up to him. Not now that he'd found her.

And now, he had a whole other reason to see the war ended quickly. He'd told Bucky that he didn't want to rush things with Peggy. That he wanted to wait until this chaos was past, and give her the chance to prove her worth in the eyes of her peers. He would wait for as long as it took for that to happen, because a woman like Peggy was worth the wait. Worth any wait. But once this was all done, once the Germans and their allies had been defeated, he wasn't gonna wait any longer. He was gonna ask Peggy to marry him. And if she couldn't reconcile being Agent Carter with being Captain America's wife… he would give it up. All of it. He'd pick up another job doing anything that would let him stay with her, and he'd be the one to support her career.

Of course, she might also say no to his proposition. He'd made a few missteps. Trodden on her toes once or twice, even though they hadn't even been dancing yet. But she'd forgiven him, and he'd learnt from his mistakes. At the very least, he could say he'd never made the same one twice.

A distant buzz caught his ears, pulling his mind away from the image of Peggy smiling at him. He tucked the compass back into his pocket. Next to the locket he wore, bearing his parents' pictures, it was his most valuable possession. Even more valuable than the shield.

What was that noise? Mosquitoes? No, it wasn't high-pitched enough. Maybe some sort of cicada? Did they even get those, here? Whatever it was, it was getting louder. Closer. And it was coming from the sky. Too quiet to be one of the Dambusters. A smaller plane. Maybe… a Spitfire? No, he'd gotten used to hearing them fly over England, their engines had a deeper sound.

The answer hit him as the planes flew overhead and the pitch of their engines changed. Not engines. Sirens. "Stukas!" he yelled, reaching out to shake the men nearest to him awake. "Stukas incoming! Everyone get off the causeway!"

The soldiers were awake in a heartbeat, passing down the warning, reaching for their guns. Steve didn't hesitate. He grabbed Private Parker, on his left, and Private Jones, on his right, and pushed himself off the causeway, into the water, kicking out and dragging them as far from the damaged bridge as he could. A dozen other men had done the same, Dugan included. They scattered into the water like ducks startled on a pond, but several others remained on the causeway, firing their rifles into the sky at an enemy they couldn't see.

The first set of explosions hit the water and sent up plumes of spray; the second hit the causeway, and a fireball erupted into the night sky. Men screamed. Pieces of broken wood and rubble came raining down into the water, some of it still on fire. Steve spat out a mouthful of river and let go of both Parker and Jones so that he could tread water. The Stukas were already pulling up out of their bombing runs… if they came around for another pass, it would be the end of the 502nd.

A new sound invaded the air. New engines, a noise that he recognised. Spitfires. As soon as they were in range they opened fire, and the lightly armoured Stukas with no defensive air-to-air weapons of their own exploded in balls of fire. But there were no cheers from the men who watched from the river. It didn't count as a win when help came too late to save your friends.

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12th June, 1944. D+6

"Och, easy now," said Major Duncan, as he lay on his belly peering through his binos from the cover of a small bush. Bucky, lying beside him with the benefit of the SSR-03's improved scope, tracked the same action. Several members of the 51st Highland Division had managed to creep close enough to Caen under the cover of darkness that they were in position to storm one of the artillery positions.

Of course, artillery wasn't their biggest problem right now.

"Aye, that's the way. Nice an' slow," the Scotsman continued to mumble, as if his troops could hear his instructions from so far away. "Hold ye positions until everyone's in place." He glanced aside at Bucky. "Ye sure tha' wee little thing can make the shots at this distance? Nae offence, but I think I would'a preferred it if ye'd brought along a howitzer."

"Believe it or not, this 'wee' thing can make shots at two or three times this distance." He hoped. The SSR-02 could. The SSR-03 was as yet untested in battle. It may yet make a liar out of him, though to be fair to Howard, he seemed to do better with weapons than he did flying cars.

"Oh aye?" Duncan chuckled quietly. "If it really does as well as ye say, then I'm buyin' ye the finest bottle of Islay when I get back home!"

"I do like Scotch," Bucky mused. "I heard the Krauts bombed some of your distilleries."

"Aye." He spat to the side. "Sausage-breathed bastards tried to kill our morale by blitzin' us right at our heart; our whisky stills. So what did we do? Rebuilt them better. Bigger. Stronger. More underground. I heard there's a new brand comin' out, called Bugger the Blitz. Can't wait to give it a try! Ye should come to Scotland after the war, and join in the celebrations. Bound to last an entire year."

"Is it true that men in Scotland wear skirts?" he asked. Monty had told him that, though he'd been high on morphine tartrate at the time, so he probably wasn't the most reliable source of information. "That it's actually part of your dress uniform?"

"Aye. Though, they're not like a woman's skirts. Kilts are the most manly of attire; only a real pansy refuses to wear one."

"Doesn't it get… y'know… cold? In winter?"

Major Duncan grinned. "Heh. Why do ye think only pansies refuse to wear them? Sure it gets cold. But a bit of cold never killed anyone!"

"No, but a lot of cold did."

"True enough. But—oh, hello there."

Bucky quickly transferred his focus back to the battlefield. Down the sight of the scope, there was movement on one of the widest streets out of Caen. The men of the 51st had been spotted.

"Alright lads, now would be a good time to start," said Duncan.

And as if they really did hear him, the men who'd crept close opened fire on the artillery position. Two enemy soldiers were dropped instantly; the rest started moving the gun to shell their attackers, but Bucky was ready. He picked a target, aimed for the head, and gently pulled the trigger.

Howard had outdone himself. There was almost no recoil. The used ammo case slipped from the barrel smoothly, and the next bullet was ready to fire even before he'd selected his next target. The second man fell as cleanly as the first, and there was almost no audible report to give away his location. The SSR-03 truly was a thing of beauty. And death, of course. But beauty first and foremost.

With the third bullet in the chamber, he selected another target and pulled the trigger. A shoulder shot. It put the enemy soldier out of action, but didn't kill him. Instead, he fell to one of the bullets fired from the infantry selected to attack the artillery position. Not a bad haul.

Now came the inconvenient part. Reloading. Quick as he was, this was what let the weapon down. The human component. The time it took for him to remove the rounds from their waterproof casing and load them into the chamber. By the time he was ready to fire again, the Krauts had already taken the bait. A group of them hauled aside one of the anti-vehicle spikes, and a Panzer rolled out, its turret turning to target the men on the edge of the town.

"Don't hang about, lads," said Duncan quietly.

And they didn't. The men attacking the defensive position scattered, and at the same time, another soldier, who'd been camouflaged on the ground beside the spike, pulled out a grenade and rolled it under the Panzer. Then he swiftly legged it as fast as he could.

Bucky quickly closed his eyes to protect his vision as the grenade exploded and the tank turned into a fireball. He tried not to think about the men being cooked alive inside. They were the enemy. It was what they deserved.

"Haha!" said Major Duncan, pounding the ground with his fist. "And that's how we deal with Krauts in the Highlands!" After punching the ground, he punched Bucky's shoulder. It was apparently a sign of affection in Scotland, this whole punching thing. "C'mon, laddie, let's head back to camp. They're not likely to fall for that one again, but at least we got rid of a tank."

"Yeah. One down, twenty to go," he quipped.

"Aye. I had some thoughts about those twenty, too."

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14th June, 1944. D+8

The line snaking its way outside the mess tent moved at a slow shuffle, but despite the grumbling in his stomach, Steve never once considered jumping the queue. Stark's high-protein, high-calorie, feet-tasting ration bars were enough to meet his base metabolic needs—at least, in science-speak—but he'd been putting in a lot of extra hours over the past few days, and it was starting to take its toll. Plus, whatever they were serving in the mess couldn't possibly taste any worse than what Stark gave him.

"I'd kill for some shut-eye right about now," Dugan said, from the spot in front of Steve. "Never thought I'd actually miss London."

"Are you sure it's London you miss, and not a certain red-headed barmaid?" asked Jones.

"All of it! My bed, cobbled streets, fish and chips, Lizzie, even the damn weather. It's too hot here."

"I can't wait to see London," said Private Parker. Over the past few days, he'd become Steve's shadow, never more than a few paces behind him at any given time. "Freddie, will you take a picture of me standing in front of Big Ben? My mom'd love to see that. Ben Parker in front of Big Ben."

Freddie stifled a yawn behind his hand and nodded. In less than six days he'd burned through half his blank moving pictures film, and was now conserving what was left for 'special moments'. Whatever that meant. But somehow he'd gotten his hands on a regular camera, and was back to shootin' snaps when he thought nobody was looking. "Sure. Yeah. After sleep. And food. And Lizzie."

"Hey," Dugan warned.

"I meant booze. In the pub. Where Lizzie works." He yawned again. "Think we'll get a full sleep tonight?"

Jones shook his head. "Heard on the grapevine that Collins is gonna push on to Cherbourg as soon as it's light enough to march. My advice is to find somewhere to bunk down as soon as you've eaten, 'cos we've got a long forced march ahead of us."

"Ugh. I never should've become a war correspondent. Angelo told me it would be fun. Fun! Jerk's probably lying on a beach in LA right now."

Steve let their chatter pass through the filter in his mind as he watched the line creep forward again. Bucky's dad had once said that most of war was about waiting and walking, and now he understood what that meant. Waiting for orders. Waiting for food. Waiting to go somewhere or do something. And then walking to get there. An army moved much more slowly than a small covert team, but once it started moving, it was a difficult thing to stop. Over the past few months he'd read about hundreds of armies. About the Romans and Mongols, the Ottomans and the Spanish, the English and the French. He'd studied theory and tactics and even read Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

But right now, none of that mattered. He wasn't giving the orders. He wasn't the man with the plan; he was the man with the shield. All he could do was make sure it was put to good use.

"That was the most impressive thing I've ever seen in my life," said Private Parker, and Steve's mind zoned back in on the conversation. "The way Captain Rogers just threw his shield without even looking, and had it bounce off that Panzer tank to take out the sniper in the bell tower. Please tell me you got that on film, Freddie!"

Ah yes. The sniper in the tower. He was an easy mark. Hadn't considered the position of the sun as he aimed his rifle, and fell afoul of the glinting reflection. That had been two days ago, when the fighting for Carentan had been toughest. The Germans had the high ground, but the Americans had a larger force. It had taken two days, and some very difficult battles, but they'd finally won the day, along with what was left of Carentan. The Krauts had retreated to lick their wounds and preserve what was left of their artillery. Now, Carentan's citizens were trying to reclaim what they could from the rubble of their homes, and the American army had halted in the town for the day to set up field hospitals and ensure the troops were fed.

"I won't truly know what I've captured on film until I get back home and develop it all," Freddie said airily. "It's a long process that can't be rushed."

"Well, I'll never forget it for the rest of my life," Parker said. "Hey, Captain Rogers, maybe you really should do what General Lawton-Collins said. You took out so many Krauts just by throwing your shield… imagine what you could do if you had a gun as well!"

Steve nodded. "I'm sure I'd be able to kill a lot of people," he agreed. "I'm faster. Stronger. My reflexes are better."

"Exactly!"

"But that doesn't give me any more right to take lives."

Parker frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If I use my gifts to kill people, then what makes me different from Schmidt? Or Hitler?"

"Well… you're one of the good guys, obviously! You're fighting on our side, to protect people!"

"And what if I decide that me being stronger and faster than everyone else means that I should have preferential treatment? I mean, I could make my way to the front of this line right now. There's no written rule about waiting your turn for meals. I could go right to the front. And if somebody tried to stop me? I could break their arm, right?"

"You'd never do that!" Parker eyes widened at the very idea. "You're much too fair."

"But what if I wasn't fair? Maybe today I start by thinking that my gifts give me the right to kill anyone who stands in my way. Tomorrow, what if you're the one standing in my way? What if you're between me and something I want?" He sighed. "All I'm saying is, with power comes responsibility. And the more power you have, the more responsibility you have to use it wisely. The way I see it, when you're talking about people with power, they fall into two groups; those you support, and those you stop. Now, Hitler, he's got power, but he's not using it wisely. He's one of the guys we have to stop. Same with Schmidt. And if I was to misuse my power… well, maybe my name would be on that list too. I was given the opportunity to be a good man, and I'm going to take it. I can stop Germans without killing them, and that's good enough for me. I'll leave their lives in the hands of the big guy."

"Roosevelt?"

"God."

"Got it. Yeah. Right. So… uh… should I still shoot Krauts?"

Dugan stepped over and draped a wide arm around Parker's shoulder. "Cap's philosophisin' don't apply to regular guys like you and me, Bennie, just to those who've got actual power. So you just keep on shootin' them Krauts, because if you don't, they'll shoot you. Or you'll be court-martialed. The English have got themselves a saying: in for a penny, in for a pound. You were in for a penny the moment you signed up, so you sure as hell better be aiming for that pound."

Steve kept quiet as the line shuffled forward again. Dugan was right. Most soldiers didn't have the luxury of choice. They walked a harsh line of kill or be killed. But Dr Erskine had given him an even greater gift than that of strength or speed; he'd given him the gift of choice. Maybe sickly Steve Rogers, if he'd managed to get through the medical screening and pass basic training, maybe he would've been another Private Parker. Another man consigned to kill or be killed. The debt he owed to Abraham Erskine was one he could never repay.

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21st June, 1944. D+15

Leaning all his weight forward, Bucky pressed on through the camp as driving rain tried to force him back. The ground underfoot was a mud slide, and he almost lost his footing twice as he tried to pick the safest paths. The British army-issue trench coat that he'd been loaned had done an admirable job of keeping the rain out so far, but it had finally admitted defeat allowing water to pour down his back and soak his uniform down to his skin.

The outline of the hospital tent was a welcome sight that hurried his pace. When he reached the tent flap, he had to open all the toggles and then practically fell through the opening. He quickly retied the toggles before the wind could rip the fabric from his hands.

"It's not great out there," he said as he removed his trench coat and shook the water from it.

"I wonder how far this storm extends," Monty mused. After almost two weeks of recovery, he'd finally been allowed out of bed, and now hobbled around with a crutch in one hand and a medical chart in another. Nurse Braddock had co-opted him as her assistant, and he followed her around taking notes about the comatose soldiers. "I can't imagine Captain Stone is too happy right now."

"He's spittin' feathers," Bucky agreed. For two weeks, Captain Stone had been trying to get his hands on another plane, but until the army took control of Caen and established an airfield, no planes were landing. Stone was stuck ground-side, and not too pleased about it. For two days, the storm had done what nobody else had been able to do; stopped the war. Or at the very least, slowed it considerably. "Even the biggest war ships have had to head back across the Channel. It's just to shallow for them here."

"No change to Private West," said Nurse Braddock, tapping the chart in Monty's hands meaningfully. Sure, there might be a storm raging outside, but in here, the patients took precedence. She sighed as she straightened a few stray hairs on the soldier's head. "Such a shame. So young. Too young. This one won't wake up."

"You can't possibly know that," Bucky said. The soldier had the same colour hair as Charlie. He was around the same age, too. Hell, this could have been Charlie, if Bucky hadn't managed to get his application forms rejected.

"Some injuries are just too severe," she countered, her blue eyes boring into his. "And some minds are just too far gone. If he ever does open his eyes, what looks out from behind them will not be Private West."

Bucky shivered. Probably because he was soaking. Yeah, that was it.

At that moment, the tent flap opened again, admitting an equally soaked pair of Howling Commandos. Morita's black hair was plastered to his head, while Dernier's hat looked like a drowned man's toupee. Neither of them had been lucky enough to get their hands on a trench coat yet.

"I hate France," Morita said, fastened up the tent flaps. "In fact, I hate Europe as a whole."

"And a good afternoon to you too," said Monty.

"There's nothing good about it. Not unless you like wind. And rain. Or are fortunate enough to be warm and dry and sittin' on your ass all day."

"Well I'm sorry if the branch that impaled my leg has inconvenienced you, Private," Monty shot back. "Believe it or not, I'd much rather be out there with the rest of you."

"You sure know how to make a lady feel special, Major Falsworth," said Nurse Braddock. She took the clipboard from his hands. "Why don't I let you catch up with your friends while I complete my rounds?"

She shoo'd them away, so they reconvened at Monty's bed. In a couple more days he'd be discharged from the hospital, but he wouldn't be able to go on missions for at least another week. Of course, if the storm didn't let up soon, none of them would be going on missions.

"How are things looking out there?" Bucky asked. He was on his second day of inaction, but had filled his time by running errands for the brass. At first the British officers had seemed sceptical, but he'd learnt a lot about command just by hanging around and carrying messages. It felt good to be doing something, since his rifle was essentially useless in such high winds.

"Not good," said Morita. He lowered his voice, though Nurse Braddock seemed to be paying them no attention. "I was out with one of the radio operators this morning, siting more relays. We picked up a message from Omaha that their Mulberry harbour has started breaking up. Luckily no troops or supplies were lost, but they're gonna have to wait out the storm to see how much of it is salvageable."

Be careful out there, Steve, Bucky thought to his absent best friend. True, he'd probably moved on from Omaha beach a week or more ago, but if the storm was that bad there, it was probably hitting the whole of the north coast.

"My contacts, they say this is the worst storm they can remember," said Jacques. "Several of the resistance weapons caches have been flooded."

Great. Could this day possibly get any worse?

"Corporal Cooper has passed away."

All head swivelled to Nurse Braddock, standing beside the bed of the white-faced corporal who, just three days ago, she had predicted would never wake up. Now, she pulled his blanket up over his face, rested her hand on his chest for a moment, then moved on to the next bed.

"I hate Europe," said Morita.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

23rd June, 1944. D+17

The heels of Peggy's shoes tapped out a click clack click clack rhythm that echoed down the corridor as she kept pace beside Agent Pollard. Ahead, Howard strode on, both eager and animated. He talked to himself as he walked, quiet phrases of "Really didn't think he'd be able to do it this time…" and "Hope he hasn't used up all my best rats."

"Colonel Phillips is already in the lab," Francis said quietly to her. "He only asked me to send for Stark, but I thought you ought to be kept in the loop."

She offered him a grateful smile. He knew what Project Rebirth meant to her, and what Project Lazarus continued to mean. He was under no obligation to inform her about this meeting, but he was too good a friend to leave her in the dark.

"Thank you. I hope you don't get into too much trouble for bringing me here."

He merely shrugged. "Maybe I will, but it's not like the SIS wouldn't welcome me back with open arms. But enough about me; how's life been treating you back at Bletchley?"

"Pretty good, for the most part," she said. "I can speak Russian now, and decipher their codes." He looked suitably impressed by that. "To be honest, though, it feels like going back to a home that's no longer mine. I was a decent enough code-breaker, but what Alan and the others are doing, it's nothing short of revolutionary."

"I think you're being a little modest. You're a bloody excellent code-breaker, and they're lucky to have you back."

She merely nodded. Lucky was not how she felt. More than anything, she wanted to be out there, in the field, making a difference. From the ciphers the Russians had shared with them, she'd learnt that they were accepting women into their army and their air force. Russian women were out there serving on the front lines, manning tanks, flying planes, doing the work that England deemed too tough for women, and by all accounts, excelling at it. Meanwhile, she was still reliant on the men in her life to throw her a bone. It just wasn't fair.

Phillips saved her from further melancholy. He stood outside the door to the lab like a man waiting news of his firstborn child. Or in this case, perhaps his second-born. He gave her only a cursory glance as she marched up behind Stark. "Now that we're all here," he said, "let's see what Kaufmann's dragged us out here for. If it's anything other than complete success, I am not going to be happy."

"Kaufmann assures me you'll be impressed, Colonel," said Francis smoothly. "I wouldn't have sent for you if I thought this was a fool's errand."

"Fine. Let's get on with it then."

Inside the shared lab, the scientists were hard at work. Or at least, they appeared to be hard at work. They had test tubes and beakers and centrifuges and burners and all sorts of equipment in use. What exactly they were using it for was another matter. Hopefully Francis was keeping a close eye on them; they might be all that remained of Sturmabteilung, but they were still Germans. Which was an awful thing to think, because Abraham Erskine had been German, but he at least had proven himself time and time again.

Kaufmann himself strode over to greet them, a smug smile plastered on his face. There was no question; he'd done it. Or rather, his men had done it. He wouldn't be grinning, otherwise.

Before Phillips could even ask the question, Howard stepped forward. "Show me the rats," he ordered.

"As you wish, Herr Stark," Kaufmann replied with feigned graciousness. He took them to a side room that was full of cages. The largest held five rats, all of which were running in wheels. Peggy had to admit, they were the fittest, largest looking rats she'd ever seen. They were the epitome of rattiness, in fact. The evolutionary pinnacle of what rats might be.

Howard sniffed. "Okay. Now show me the math."

Kaufmann led the way, edging his impressive bulk around the lab desks as he took them to a blackboard set up in one corner of the room. Written across in white chalk were more symbols than numbers, and Peggy didn't have a clue what even half of them meant. Perhaps it would be wise to hire a few scientists as code-speakers…

"Mm-hmm," Stark mumbled. He stroked his moustache as he examined the board. "I see. Hmm. That part looks okay. Not sure about lambda but I guess it could work for now. Mm-hmm."

"Are you telling me that what we're looking at is a viable super soldier serum?" Phillips demanded.

"There is one problem," said Kaufmann.

"Ah-ha! Just as I predicted," said Howard. "Yes, quite clear. You better explain it to the Colonel in terms he can understand."

Kaufmann rolled his eyes and turned to Phillips, gesturing at the board. "Dr Erskine used Vita-Rays to trigger cellular mutation. And a compound within the serum allowed the cells to accept the serum into their own structure without being fatally irradiated. We've only been able to approximate the serum, not recreate it fully."

"But we had the Vita-Ray generator shipped over with the rest of Erskine's equipment," said Phillips. "What's the problem?"

"The problem is not the generator. That works fine. But the level of radiation required to trigger cellular mutation is… well, let's say, quite fatal. We had to burn the corpses of the rats we used trying to solve the problem; they were giving the men nightmares. We have perfected all aspects of the serum except that which allowed the cells to survive intense Vita-Ray exposure by incorporating the serum into their structure. I can give you super-soldiers, but the effect is not permanent."

"What are we talking, here? Months? Weeks?"

"Days, at best."

"Bah! A super soldier for a few days is no good to me, Kaufmann. We're looking at months to win this war."

"Of that I am already aware, Colonel. The good news is, although the effect is not permanent, repeated doses can make it appear so. For as long as a body receives a regular dose of the serum, it will continue to function at a super-human rate. When the dosage wears off, the body will revert to its natural state." Kaufmann gave him a sly side-glance. "Perhaps this is not a bad thing, Colonel. A permanent super soldier is an asset in war-time, but what about times of peace? Once Hitler is defeated, how will an army of super soldiers adapt back to civilian life? Or worse, what if they were conscripted by enemy states to undermine your great nation? Using my serum, you can make as many super soldiers as you like. Once you no longer have need of them, you need only cease administering the serum, and they will return to the way they were. There are benefits, yes?"

"You make it sound like our soldiers are nothing more than weapons of convenience," Peggy spoke up.

"All soldiers are weapons of convenience, Agent Carter," he replied. "You have a reserve army, yes? This would be no different."

"Stark?" asked Phillips.

Howard shrugged. "You don't need me to tell you how lethal high doses of Vita-Radiation are. The amount we used on Rogers had a pretty good chance of killing him, if his cells didn't absorb the serum fast enough. Whatever Erskine used to make it possible was revolutionary, and it may take us a long time to figure out how to reproduce it. This method is less intensive on the body, but it would give you your soldiers as a stop-gap."

"I am ready to commence trials on human soldiers immediately," said Kaufmann.

"Hold your horses," said Phillips. "I want you to go over this formula ten times with a fine-toothed comb, Stark. And get that Swedish scientist you consult with to look over it, too. We can't be too careful with this. If a man dies as a result of this, they'll shut the SSR down faster than you can say 'lawsuit'."

"Sure thing. I'll just finish up with—"

"Prioritise this, Stark," Phillips said firmly. "If this work is viable, I want to start human trials within a month."

Peggy let out the breath she'd been holding. One month. In just one month, the world may have a second super soldier. Though, technically a third, if you counted Schmidt. Whether he wanted it or not, Captain America was about to become much less of a novelty.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

25th June, 1944. D+19

Another explosion rocked the building he was sheltered in, and Steve winced as the sound assaulted his ears. He was starting to get used to the sound of gunfire, and the special way it gave him a throbbing headache after hearing it non-stop for twelve hours, but the louder bangs accompanying artillery fire was were a work in progress. For three hours, Allied ships off the coast of Cherbourg had been firing at the German defences, while British planes dropped bombs from above. Collins had ordered surgical strikes, but some of those bombs had come very close to where Steve and his company were taking shelter.

"At this stage," Dugan yelled above the din, "I gotta wonder if there'll be anything left of Cherbourg to capture."

Jones nodded. Carentan had been reduced to rubble, and it felt like Cherbourg might be going the same way. The Nazis were clinging to every foot of land they occupied like limpets clinging onto a rock, forcing the American troops to take every inch by force.

"Wonder how Monty and the others are getting on," said Jones. "Did we remember to bet that we could take Cherbourg before they took Caen?"

Soldiers, Steve had learnt over the past few months, would bet on anything. Right now, he just hoped the other half of his team were still alive and well. He'd settle for that over any bet.

"I hope Parker's doing okay," he said after a moment. Private Parker had been temporarily co-opted into another regiment for this offensive, and they'd been assigned to attack Cherbourg from the north, while the forces with Steve came at it from the south. With a little luck, the kid would remember everything he'd told him, and keep his head down. He seemed the type to try playing the hero, and while Steve could sympathise with that, he had a feeling that Parker trying to play the hero would just end badly. Was this how Bucky had felt, when he'd left him in New York with an order to don't do anything stupid?

There was a lull in the bombing, and Steve heard everybody heave a deep sigh of relief. Or maybe it was his own sigh of relief, echoing around the bunker. Those explosions had been obnoxiously loud…

"Think we'll get chance to make another push before it starts again?" Dugan asked.

BOOM!

As if on cue, the shelling resumed, a steady pounding of metal on rock.

"Nope," said Jones. "I think we're gonna be here a while."

Steve swallowed his sigh as he leant back against the stone wall and closed his eyes. When he got back to England, he was definitely gonna ask Stark to design him some ear plugs.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

26th June, 1944. D+20

Bucky slid into cover as a rain of bullets hit the ground behind him. 'Cover' was probably a generous term. What was left of the well was little more than a two-foot high wall and a steep drop on the other side. Fuckin' Krauts, he thought, as he checked his bandolier. He was down to his last clip. By some miracle, the Canadian forces of I Corps had brought a supply of M1s along with them, but getting hold of ammo for the guns was much more difficult. His SSR-03 was useless for close combat missions.

A cry from his left was one of the soldiers of his squad taking a bullet to the neck; he was dead before he hit the ground, but several more bullets were shot into him for good measure. Fuckin' Krauts. Bucky hadn't even known the guy's name. General Montgomery had arrived from England with VIII Corps, and ordered I Corps to renew their attack on Caen while he led a force around the city to attack from another angle. With Morita still busy fetchin' tanks, Dernier off coordinating sabotage attacks with the local Resistance, and Monty spending his last two days of convalescence in the hospital tent, Bucky had been assigned to a twenty-strong squad of Brits and Canucks, and been told to press on and take a German munitions store, inside a small church within Caen's walls.

That had been six hours ago. Allied Bomber Command had opened up a few holes in the walls for the attacking troops, and dealt with some of the tanks so that they weren't entirely massacred on the approach. They'd fought tooth and nail for every inch of street, though. The twenty-strong squad had been reduced to six by the time Bucky slid into cover behind the damaged well. Five, now, including him.

"Has anyone got a sight on where they're shooting from?" he yelled over the distant sound of gunfire and artillery shelling.

"Yeah, I can see them," said one of the Canadians, who'd taken shelter some way off to Bucky's right. His hiding place was a bullet-ridden French car. "They're up on that mound, to your eleven o'clock."

Cautiously, Bucky peeped over the side of the well. The mound was a small grassy rise some seventy or so strides ahead. Ironically, it was topped with a monument inscribed with names of fallen heroes from the Great War, men who'd died in defence of Caen the first time around. Fuckin' Krauts.

"Sure wish I had my sniper rifle right now," he shouted to the Canadian.

"I think I can sneak around and surprise them from behind," the man yelled back. "Cover me!"

"No, don't, it's too—"

Too late. As soon as the soldier left cover, a spray of bullets peppered his body. Bucky watched helplessly as the man's body jerked and spasmed, then dropped like a stone. Shit. What could he do? The Krauts had the high ground. To take it, he needed superior numbers or superior firepower, both of which were in short supply. Hell, pinned down, he couldn't even retreat. The moment he moved out of cover, he'd be gunned down, just like the poor idiot whose blood was now pooling beneath him.

"Is anyone still with me?" he yelled.

Four. His squad should be four-strong, now, including him. Where were the other three? Surely he couldn't be the only man left, could he? Not again. Why did those around him always die? One by one, his friends from the 107th had been killed, and now the men he'd been assigned to fight with had fared no better. Was it him? Was he cursed? Had Biggs been right all along? Was it possible for man to be responsible for those around him dying?

I'm sorry it had to end like this, Steve. He closed his eyes and sent the thought to his absent friend. Any minute now, those Krauts are gonna come down here and put bullets in me. I think… I really am the last one left.

"Try those bullets against me, you ugly sons of bitches," someone yelled. A split second later, all hell broke loose. Multiple guns firing. Someone yelling. Germans shouting what sounded like curses. Bucky quickly peeped over the wall again. There was a figure at the top of the mound, a broad-shouldered figure wielding a gun in each hand which he fired indiscriminately at those around him. Logan!

The Krauts dropped like flies, their blood spattering against the black-stained letters of the memorial. Six, five, four, three, two men fell to the Canadian's onslaught, until there was only one left. Bucky tried to shout a warning, to tell Logan to move, but his mouth couldn't form the words. The last German lifted his rifle as Logan turned towards him. Both men opened fire, bullets flying too fast for his eyes to see. Then both men fell backwards, hitting the ground as dead weights.

"Logan!"

He leapt over the side of the wall, pushing off from the ground with extra strength to avoid landing in the gaping hole of the well. He hit the ground running, certain that at any moment he was gonna be gunned down by a sniper, but too concerned with the man who had stupidly saved his life by sacrificing his own.

The grassy mound was slick with blood, and his boots slipped several times as he made his way to the fallen soldier. Just as he feared; Logan's chest was riddled with bullets, blood seeping out of each hole. He'd saved Bucky's life, but paid the ultimate cost. You idiot, he thought to himself. You shouldn't've done that. I'm not worth it. At the very least, he could make sure the brass knew about his sacrifice. He reached out, and took hold of the man's tags.

Logan's hand moved fast as lightening, gripping Bucky's wrist before the could pull the tags away. His grey eyes flickered open, roving the sky momentarily before finding Bucky's face. "Don't," he warned. "I need those."

"Holy shit!" Bucky swore. "How are you still alive? Don't move, you got hit. I'll fetch a medic."

"Don't bother." And before Bucky could object any further, the guy released his wrist and sat up, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck. One by one, the bullets in his chest began to fall out as if pushed by some invisible force. They dropped one by one onto the ground and rolled down the bloody hill.

"Argh!" Bucky tried to stand up, but his legs failed him. He fell backwards, onto his ass, his eyes wide enough to pop out of his head as he watched the bullets roll away. "How— What— How—?" The blood had already stopped flowing from Logan's chest.

"Long story," said Logan. "Let's just say, some people are different."

Different? Not even Steve could survive seven bullets to the chest at near point-blank range!

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my particular talents to anyone else," the guy continued. "People tend to get kinna antsy when faced with something they don't understand. Sometimes they even do stupid things."

"I won't breathe a word of it to anyone," he said with conviction. Besides, who'd even believe him if he did? Most people didn't even believe that Steve had super-strength, until they saw it for themselves. This was a whole other level of weird.

"Glad to hear it. What's your mission objective?"

"A Kraut munitions store in that church," he said, gesturing to a spire a couple of streets away. "But I think I'm the last of my squad left alive. I'm almost out of ammo and don't have my sniper rifle with me."

Logan sighed. "Some things never change. Here, take this." He pulled a couple of spare M1 clips from his bandolier and handed them over.

"What about you?" If he took the clips, it'd leave the guy short.

"Don't worry about me. It's never hard for me to come by weapons." As if to prove that point, he dropped his own guns in favour of two from the Krauts he'd shot. "See? Plenty of ammo for these."

Bucky nodded and his heartbeat steadied. Whoever or whatever Logan was, he was an ally, and right now, he needed all the allies he could get. He still had a mission to complete. Everything else was a matter for later. "Want me to take point?" he offered.

"Nah. I'll do it. I'm faster. The sooner we get the mission done, the sooner we get back to camp. I'd like to sleep in an actual bed, tonight."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

30th June, 1944. D+24

Bucky lay sprawled on his camp bed, several blank sheets of paper on his pillow in front of him. General Montgomery had ordered a halt of the advance, so I Corps had dug in and begun to fortify their foothold into Caen. It had been a costly effort; estimates put the number of dead at three- or four-thousand Allied soldiers, most of them British Infantry. Only a persistent bomber campaign had prevented that number from becoming even higher.

"How's the letter home going?" Monty asked him. He'd finally been released from the hospital tent, and was raring to go. Unfortunately for him, the brass were now taking their time coming up with a new plan, which meant most of the troops were left twiddling their thumbs.

"Badly," he said. His brain was just too tired to make words happen. What could he even say? He'd thought his first mission to France had been bloody, but his time with the SSR had paled in comparison to this. So many men went out on missions and never came back that the camp chaplains didn't even perform funeral services anymore. Men took it as a given that when they left, they probably wouldn't see each other again. "My family don't need to hear about any of this."

Monty nodded. "I know the feeling. What about you, Jacques? Have you heard anything from Gaspard since we arrived in France?"

Jacques, who had the bed to Bucky's left, sat up and offered a small smile. "Oui. He is well. The Germans, they have implemented a stricter curfew since we arrived, so he keeps his head down and prays for our success."

"Maybe success would come swifter for us if he actually picked up a weapon and gave us a hand," said Logan from his bed on the opposite side of the tent. He'd barely moved in two days, except to eat and visit the pits, and spent most of his time sleeping. It seemed being different did take its toll, and Bucky could sympathise. He'd done a whole lot of sleeping, after gettin' outta Krausberg.

"Not everyone's capable of fighting," Morita shot back. He, like Bucky, was trying to write a letter home. And judging by the clean state of his paper, having no better luck.

Logan opened one eye to glance at Morita, then snorted quietly. "Everybody is capable of fighting. Women, kids, old men. Anyone who can pick up a weapon or curl their fists or land a kick or a bite or a headbutt. What stops them is fear. Of pain, and of death. If you don't believe me, then back a civilian into a real tight corner. Give them a weapon, and make them afraid for their lives. You'll see just how well they can fight. It's not even a choice; survival is hard-wired."

"Logan!"

The man winced as a woman called his name from outside the tent, and quietly grumbled, "Aw, hell." Then, a little louder, "Oh hey, Bets. We're all decent, why don't you come on in?"

Nurse Braddock strode in like a woman on a mission. She'd probably gone to the same prep school as Carter. Right now she looked about ready to kill someone.

"You two know each other?" Monty asked casually.

"Oh yeah, Betsy and I go way back," Logan said, though he didn't sound too happy about it. "What can I do for you, Bets?"

"Have you seen Brian?" she demanded.

Monty cleared his throat. "Who's Brian?" The Major was clearly sweet on her, but Bucky didn't fancy his chances. Nurse Braddock didn't seem the type who would be easily swept off her feet.

She folded her arms across her chest and said, "My brother. My twin brother. I know you've seen him, Logan. He mentioned you last time we spoke."

Logan grunted as if punched in the gut. "Yeah, I saw him last week. Still fightin' the good fight. He was fine. Don't worry."

"Don't worry? He's supposed to check in with me every three days, and he's now twenty-four hours overdue!"

"He always was shit at keeping track of time," Logan said. Nurse Braddock merely stared at him. "Whaddya want me to do, go out there and find him? He's a grown man, Betsy. Ow." He rubbed the back of his head as if it pained him. "Fine. Tell you what, why don't I go out there and find him?" He lowered his voice to a disgruntled grumble that she was clearly supposed to hear. "Not like I've got anything better to do. Just protect the free world from the maniacal plotting of a fascist dictator. Nothing important."

"Do you need any help?" Bucky offered. There was a chance he might be able to get permission to tag along. Maybe. Depending on how good a mood General Crocker was in. Logan didn't seem to be subject to the chain of command, or anyone's orders; he could come and go at will. But it would be just Bucky's luck that the moment he left to help the guy out, he was needed for some vital mission and would probably face a court-martial for going AWOL.

"Naw. I can deal with it. It's just easier if I handle these sorts of things myself." He pushed himself up out of bed and started strapping his gear onto his body. "Where was he last time you spoke to him, Bets?"

"South. Somewhere."

Logan sighed. "'Course he was." And, in a grumbling tone, "Right where most of the Nazis are. Damn idiot." It was hard to tell whether he was talking about Brian, or himself. "Right, you boys try not to get your asses handed to you while I'm gone. And if you manage to take Caen before I get back, punch the highest ranking Kraut bastard right in the kisser for me."

"Can you believe that guy?" Morita asked, once Logan and Nurse Braddock had disappeared. It seemed a familiar question, where Logan was concerned. "Like we're gonna screw up without him. We were doing just fine before we met him."

Bucky shrugged. In the end, did it matter? If they got the job done, was it important who helped them out? Besides, he wouldn't mind punching some Kraut officer in the kisser. It was the least they deserved, after all the men this mission had cost them.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

"We've done it," said Jones, as word was passed around the troops. "The last pocket of German resistance has surrendered."

Freddie sank to the ground, his legs as weary as his spent camera. Dugan clapped the dark-skinned man on the shoulder, but managed only a tired grin. It had been a trying few days, with ground won and lost, then re-won in the battle for Cherbourg. The Krauts, upon realising defeat was imminent, had done their best to sabotage the deep-water port that was supposed to bring relief to the Allies. Countless lives had been thrown at the problem, and finally, they'd overcome it. Superior tactics. Superior fire-power. Superior numbers. All of this had contributed towards an American win.

Steve felt his spirits soar, but he kept them in check. Sure, he could celebrate. But Cherbourg was merely a step on their journey to the liberation of France. There was still so much more to be done. Meet up with the forces from Gold, Juno and Sword. Assist with the taking of Caen, if it hadn't already been captured. March on to Paris and Marseilles. Keep an ear open for any mention of Schmidt. There was no doubt that he was using the chaos sown here for his own purposes. Whatever loyalty Schmidt had felt to Hitler would probably not outlast the fall of France.

"I'm gonna go check in with the brass," Steve said. "See how our other forces have fared." See if he could find Private Parker. The kid reminded him of himself, when he'd been young and naive and built like a house of cards. Even though he wasn't responsible for the kid, he felt some sort of… duty… towards him. To make sure the guy got back to Queens safe and sound.

It didn't take long to find the new command centre. General Collins was busy issuing orders, taking charge of the several hundred German soldiers who had so recently surrendered. It seemed a logistical nightmare.

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you tell me whether the 79th Division has returned from their capture of Fort du Roule yet?" he asked.

The General merely gestured absently to a nearby lieutenant. "Schulz, give Captain Rogers the information he needs," he said. Then, seeming to actually see Steve in all his star-spangled glory, he stopped for a moment and eyed him up. "How are you and your team holding up, Captain?"

"My team are tired but in good spirits," he said quickly. "Myself, I could do this all day."

"Hmph. Glad to hear it. We've lost radio contact with our forces five klicks south of the city; they were reporting technical issues with their equipment before they went silent, so it's more likely a communications issue than an attack, but I need someone to run recon and make sure they received their last order to dig in and prepare to defend the bridge from Nazi reinforcements. Think you're up to the task?"

He issued a swift salute. "Anything you need, sir."

"Good. I can give you an hour to catch a breather and finish up your business with the 79th, but then I need you to make tracks and get back before nightfall. We've got a lot of work to do here, and very little time to get it done."

"Understood, sir." An hour would almost certainly not be enough time for him to find Private Parker, but he could probably get Dugan and Jones to look for the kid while he was out being a glorified messenger service. Hopefully the port would be back in use soon, so they could bring in a few more jeeps. It would make relaying messages faster, during communications blackouts. The Romans had used messengers on horses when speed was required… maybe he ought to suggest the same to Collins?

"Dismissed, Captain."

Steve saluted again. Perhaps he'd wait until tomorrow before suggesting horses. After all, he'd never been on a horse before, and that one time he'd ridden a camel for a movie probably didn't count for anything in a situation like this.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

4th July, 1944. D+28

"Hey pal, how's it going on your half of the coast?" Bucky asked into the radio transmitter.

"—better days, but we're—established a defensive outpost here—all signs indicate the Germans are retreating to lick their wounds and regroup," came Steve's report, crackly because of the distance. Even so, it was good to hear his friend's voice. Reports down from the west said that Cherbourg was safely in Allied hands, which hopefully meant their half of the team was through the worst of the fighting by now.

"Glad to hear you're doing alright over there," he said, when it was clear Steve had finished crackling. "But listen, I don't know how long this signal's gonna hold out, so before I lose you, I just wanted to say, happy birthday pal."

One year ago today, at almost this exact moment, Bucky had been halfway across the Atlantic, wandering the decks of the Monticello, drinking warm beer with Carrot and Tipper, listening to the ship's band perform with Gusty and Hawkins, trying to pull Wells out of his moping about it being his birthday. Last year, he'd promised Wells they'd do something fun for his birthday; drinking, dancing and dames in London. Wells was gone, but he at least had one friend left that he could wish a happy birthday to. He couldn't suggest drinking, dancing and dames to Steve, because drink didn't affect him, he didn't know how to dance, and he was so smitten with Carter that all the other dames in the world had ceased to exist for him. But it was the thought that counted, right?

"—really?" Steve's tone was genuine surprise."Didn't even realise it was that—guess I won't be getting cake this year, huh?"

"I'll make sure you get cake once we get back to London," he promised. Cake was something he could do. Or rather, something he could get Lizzie to do. Or at the very least, something he could ask Lizzie to recommend about. If the guys of the 107th could bake a cake for Gusty in the middle of France, there oughta be somebody who could bake a cake for Captain America in London.

"Can't wait—looking forward to—all of you—about Monty's leg."

"Yeah, Monty's leg is healing up nicely. He's back on duty now. In fact, we're heading out tomorrow. Can't tell you where because the line's not secure, but I'm sure we'll be seeing plenty of action." It might even have taken Monty's mind off of mooning over Nurse Braddock, if she hadn't been assigned with a bunch of medics to go with them. Jacques was looking forward to working directly with some of his contacts in the Resistance, and Morita was glad to be doing anything except tank escort duty.

"—marching soon," Steve crackled. "Might even see you in a few days."

"Looking forward to it, pal. Tell those other two clowns with you—and Freddie—to keep their heads down. And as for you… well, don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Define—"

The line cut out, and Steve was gone. Bucky didn't need his friend's words to finish that sentence. Pretty much anything that involved Steve Rogers was stupid—but stupid in a good way. Stupid like reaching for the stars when all you had was a foot-stool. Stupid like bouncing to your feet every time somebody punched you down. Stupid like giving your body to science all to join a war. There was no doubt about it; Steve was the best kinda stupid a guy could be, and Bucky secretly wished him another hundred stupid birthdays to come.

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

It had been over a month since Peggy had last been to the SSR's headquarters under Whitehall, and now it felt like coming home. A very cold, poorly-lit home with unfurnished stone walls and a strange musty smell that nobody spoke about, but home nonetheless.

The guard on the door held it open at her approach. "Afternoon, Agent Carter. Good to see you back."

"Thank you, Tommy," she replied. "It's just a short visit today."

"Yes ma'am. Mind the lift door; it's been a little stickier than usual, of late."

"Duly noted." Of course, likely nobody thought to oil the damn thing. "Is Colonel Phillips here already?"

"Downstairs in the Big Room, waiting your arrival." Big Room was the nickname for the SSR's command centre.

"And what sort of mood did he seem to be in?" she asked casually. Sometimes forewarned was forearmed.

"Hard to say, ma'am. The Colonel doesn't give much away."

That he didn't. It didn't help that she hadn't seen him since Kaufmann had updated them on his progress, and what a mixed bag of responses that had been! "Well, I best not keep him waiting," she said.

"Good luck, Agent Carter."

She merely nodded. Luck was the province of the lazy and gamblers, who relied hoped and prayed on fate rather than skill and action.. Still, perhaps a little luck wouldn't go amiss, right now…

As predicted, the lift door stuck, and she had to employ a little elbow grease to open it wide enough to squeeze through. Mentally, she made a note to report it to the building maintenance team before heading back to Bletchley. Hopefully her secondment there would last too much longer, or God only knew what kind of chaos she might come back to.

The Big Room was its usual hive of activity, full of administrators and junior officers, the former doing the much-needed paperwork required by war, the latter looking to curry favour with their superiors. As always, Private Lorraine was seated behind her desk, looking a little more harassed than usual. With Operation Overlord in full swing, some of the SSR staff had been loaned to the SOE, to help with some of the more discreet activities, which probably meant Private Lorraine had to do a little more filing than she was used to.

"Agent Carter," Phillips called, a crowd of junior officers parting around him. Peggy strode forward and pointedly ignored the blonde Private. Much as she was all for supporting fellow women who wanted to work, Private Lorraine was just… a floozy in a uniform. Yes, that was apt. "What news have you brought for me?" Phillips asked.

"I thought you'd want to see this right away, sir," she said, handing over the slim file she'd brought with her from Bletchley. "The code-breaker who picked it up yesterday tried several decryption methods, and only thought to ask me about it when none of the usual ones worked. Of course, I recognised it right away as a Hydra code—"

"Yes," Phillips interrupted, his eyes scanning the information Peggy had already committed to memory. A location code, and two sentences.

The American forces have advanced too close to your location. Burn it all to the ground, and return to Castle Kaufmann immediately.

"This could be Zola," said the colonel. "Do we know where he was last reported as seen?"

"No, sir. Captain Rogers reported that he and Schmidt fled separately from Krausberg when he liberated the facility last year, but we just assumed he'd rendezvoused with Schmidt at their base in Kaufmann's former home. If he didn't, and he went to France instead…"

Phillips nodded, immediately grasping the implication. If Zola had gone to France, there might be another Hydra lab there. It could be a chance to get their hands on whatever progress Hydra had made on the super-soldier serum… not to mention a chance to bring Zola in.

"Get a message to General Collins immediately. Tell him we're going to need our team back. Forward the location coordinates and have Rogers head there right away. Hopefully we can catch them with their pants down."

Her heart leapt. Over a month of Hydra radio silence, and now this. Within days, they might have one of the greatest scientific brains the Nazis possessed. "Yes sir. I'll make sure that order is acknowledged as well, before I return to Bletchley."

"Don't bother," Phillips said, his tone curt. "Have them send your stuff back here. Or go fetch it yourself, if you have to. We've found another lead, so I'll need the team to return to England for their briefing as soon as they're done with their mission. And you'll be going with this this time."

"Understood, sir." A smile quietly slipped across her lips, one that had been absent for the past few weeks. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell Stark to pack a bag. You'll need him along on this mission too."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

5th July, 1944. D+29

The sound was a deafening cacophony of engines roaring and men singing as they marched. The footsteps alone spoke of a company five-thousand strong, and a steady stream of smoke told the story of a whole convoy of tanks and artillery vehicles. So when Bucky stepped over the top of the gentle hill to the sight of two-dozen soldiers playing with smoke grenades and riding four halftracks laden with large speakers, he shouldered his rifle and looked on with mild confusion. Further to the north a series of flags fluttered in the breeze, their insignia belonging to different companies of engineers, signals and mobile infantry. But of the actual army, there was no sign.

"What the hell," said Morita.

"How amusing," said Nurse Braddock, a small smile tugging at her lips. The half-dozen nurses and doctors with her seemed considerably less amused. "It appears we've found the Ghost Army."

"Que?" asked Dernier.

"Perhaps we should go around them," said Monty. "They seem to be quite… engrossed… in whatever they're doing."

Too late. One of the figures tinkering with a smoke grenade spotted them, and came tottering over. Bucky expected they'd have to explain themselves to some brown-nosing Danzig-style junior officer, so he almost dropped his rifle in surprise when he spotted the guy's shoulder stripes; they were those of a colonel. Belatedly, he remembered to salute.

"Who are you?" the colonel demanded. "Who gave you permission to be here?"

Monty cleared his throat. "Ah, we're not technically here—"

"Good. Neither are we," came the response.

"No, what I mean is, we're just passing through the area. We've been sent on a mission to the west, you see."

The man rubbed his chin. "I see. But you don't see. Us, I mean. That is to say, you never saw us."

They all looked around the almost-empty landscape. "We literally don't see you," Morita chipped in.

"Yes, that's the spirit." The colonel clapped Morita on the shoulder. "Good man."

"Who even are you?" Bucky asked him.

"That's classified."

"Colonel Railey, sir!" someone shouted down from below. The colonel winced. "We've got our marching orders!"

"Ready the troops!" the man called Railey shouted back. "And remember," he said, turning back to wag a finger at Bucky's group, "we were never here."

They watched as Railey returned to the small team, who promptly hopped aboard the halftracks and began moving to the north, taking the smoke and the sound of an entire regiment marching with them.

"How very odd," Monty remarked at last.

Bucky merely shrugged. "Believe it or not, I've seen stranger." Like the entire first six months of his service with the 107th. From white swamp horses to words out of a book attacking him to chasing a white rabbit in a storm. That time had just been one strange thing after another. The Commandos were almost normal, in comparison. "What's a Ghost Army, anyway?" he asked Nurse Braddock.

"A lot of subterfuge," she said. "My brother, Brian, told me about them."

"Well, I for one will very happily forget about this entire encounter," said Monty.

"You'll have to," Nurse Braddock said, her tone suddenly solemn. "Their success relies upon nobody knowing they exist."

…From the top of a low hill that Bucky didn't entirely remember climbing, he stared out at the departing plume of smoke growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Judging by the noise, there was an entire regiment out there, making their way slowly north. Was it VIII Corps, perhaps, on some mission for Montgomery? The distant voices he could hear on the march were at least singing in English, which meant they hadn't happened across Germans by accident.

"I wonder which army group that is," Monty mused as he shielded his eyes from the overhead sun to watch their departure. "I didn't know we had any forces this far south-west."

Jacques offered a shrug. "The Generals tell us only what we need to know, oui?"

"Funny," said Morita. He was scanning the ground, of all things. "I'd expect an army of that size to leave more tracks behind."

"Are we going to stand around here speculating for the rest of the day?" Nurse Braddock asked, in a very Agent Carter tone of voice. "Or are we actually planning to meet these Resistance members in the near future?"

"She's right," said Bucky. "Whoever they are, they're going in the opposite direction, and we have a schedule to keep."

"Right you are," said Monty. "Time is ticking. Lead on, Private Morita."

: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :

Steve saluted General Collins, and tucked the slip of paper into one of the pockets on his belt. A chance to grab Dr Zola was much too great an opportunity to pass up. At the very least, Steve wanted to ask the guy some very pointed questions about what he'd done to his best friend. Bucky had spent months as a shadow of his former self. Zola had a lot to answer for. The whole of Hydra did, but Zola was a good start.

"Thank you, sir. With your permission, my team will resupply from your quartermaster and head out within the hour."

Collins returned the salute. "Permission granted. Take a couple of jeeps—I'm guessing whatever mission you've got now is too important for wasting time marching. Good luck, Captain Rogers. And… thank you. For your service. I've heard stories, of everything you've done out there, and I know you've saved the lives of countless of my men."

"Even one life saved is a victory, General," Steve assured him. Over the past few weeks, he'd come to respect General Collins. The man was stern but fair, with a good head for tactics. After the first few days, he'd even stopped caring that Steve carried a shield instead of a gun.

As soon as he stepped outside the tent, he made his way to the nearest mess. When he'd been summoned to the General he'd expected a new mission, and wanted to make sure his team were well-fed first. The portion sizes weren't as large as they were all used to back in London, and Dugan had been grumbling for days that he never had enough to eat before a mission. He'd be glad to hear the news from HQ. As glad as Steve was to receive Peggy's missive. Oh, the order was signed off from Colonel Phillips, but he could tell by the way it was phrased that Peggy had sent it.

Jones waved to him from the table they'd managed to sit at, and when he joined them he discovered Freddie had returned as well. That was good. It would save the time of looking for him.

"What's up, Cap?" Dugan asked. He'd just finished wiping out his bowl of soup with a thick crust of bread. Thanks to the locals, there was plenty of that about.

"News from London," he said without preamble. "We're being recalled. But first, we have to rendezvous with Falsworth and the others and go check out a potential Hydra base about fifty klicks from here. Phillips thinks Dr Zola may be stationed there."

Jones let out a low whistle. Freddie asked, "Who's Dr Zola."

"Schmidt's top quack," said Dugan, his gaze turned inward. "He was there at Krausberg, running the medical experiments Hydra was doing on sick prisoners. Zola would be quite a feather in our cap, Cap."

"Yeah. We're going to restock and head out within the hour. Collins has given us a couple of jeeps, which means we can be at I Corps before dark. I think Bucky mentioned they were being sent on a mission somewhere, so hopefully we can catch up with the rest of the team from there." Before they could start getting excited about the prospect of being recalled to London, Steve turned to Freddie. "Did you find him?"

The young photographer shook his head. "Sorry, Steve. That was the last of the hospital wards. Do you… want me to stay behind? Keep looking?"

Steve's heart sank into his stomach. He'd had the guys looking for Private Parker for the past week. He hadn't been with the regiment he'd been temporarily assigned to, nor in any of the hospital tents. It was starting to become increasingly likely that Parker was either captured or dead, and as much as Steve knew he shouldn't blame himself, he did. He'd saved countless lives on this mission. Told himself he could at least keep one young man from his home city safe. But when push came to shove, he'd let the kid down.

"No," he said, trying to keep the defeat from his voice, lest it infect his teammates. "You're coming with us, Freddie. Your camera might be out of film, but we'll be heading back to London as soon as this mission's over. They're sending a plane for us, so we won't have time to come back here and get you."

"He might still be alive," Dugan offered. The guy had the uncanny ability to read Steve's mind, at times. "He's probably gotten lost on the chaos and found himself dragged into another regiment. It wouldn't be the first time, after all."

"Yeah. Maybe." He stood and patted his belt pocket. "Anyway. I'm going to stock up on as many rations as I can fit in here. Once you're done eating, head to the quartermaster, get as much ammo as you can, then gather your personal belongings and meet me at the motor pool. We've got a lot of ground to cover, and I want to get back to our original mission as soon as possible."

They moved without complaint, and Steve felt a moment of pride blossom within his chest. His team, the one that the brass had tried to shoot down when he suggested, had shown their worth a dozen times over, during this operation. Even if he hadn't been able to save one young man from Queens, he could at least take comfort from the fact that nobody would ever suggestion the Howling Commandos did not deserve to be here today.

---

Author's note: Loooong chapter is long! This chapter has been super difficult (in a technical back-and-forth-coordination way!) to write. I wanted to give a nice overview of the action in France without having our heroes mired down in it. So I hope you enjoyed this vignette-style excursion into Operation Overlord!

As always, I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible. MOST things are real. Generals Crocker and Lawton-Collins are/were real men in charge of I Corps and VII Corps respectively. The battles for Caen, Carentan and Cherbourg were real. The storm that destroyed a Mulberry Harbour was real. Colonel Railey and the Ghost Army were real (though their presence at the exact location Bucky encountered them probably wasn't). Everybody and everything else was my own elaboration or invention.

There are some mysteries. What happened to Private Parker? Who was the mysterious guy watching Bucky & Co? Did 'Bugger The Blitz' every truly become a brand of Scotch? Answers to these questions and more in future chapters/stories. For now, let's go back to Italy.

Also, you may remember Kaufmann from chapter 72.