We Were Soldiers

140. Redacted

London was much more impressive than Plymouth. The thought crossed Danny's mind as his car made its way down the twisty, winding streets, and the idea that he had once mistaken the port town for the city was almost enough to make him blush. Almost.

Of course, it hadn't escaped the war unscathed. Here and there, buildings were missing. It was like looking at the gap-toothed smile of a six year old child, only in place of teeth, it was houses and shops that had been removed from the picture. Yet despite the gaps, the city seemed… clean. Well maintained. As if the English thought that a bit of rubble and a layer of soot wasn't an issue to long as it was orderly rubble and soot. And maybe that was so. A clean stoop costs nothing, his mom had once told him. And it made a better impression than one that was caked in mud and dust. They were big on impressions, his folks.

He shook his head to clear it of thoughts about home. This wasn't the time for that. He had a new mission. Find Barnes. Make it right. Somehow. Maybe it wasn't possible to salvage a friendship from the mess he'd made, but he had to at least try.

The car came to a stop outside a large, fancy-looking building. He didn't need to be told what it was; only one building in the whole of London would fly the Stars and Stripes on British soil. This would be his new place of work. Technically he'd be in America, which was… well, it was neither here nor there. It had to be better than Italy, though. And definitely better than France.

"This is your stop, sir," the driver said.

"Thanks, Private. Oh, and don't call me sir; I work for a living."

He hopped out of the car, dragging his bag behind him. It was a small bag, because he didn't really have much stuff to cart around with him. He travelled light not out of necessity, but due to the fact that he'd lost everything he had when he'd been separated from the 107th. Didn't even have his favourite book anymore. Hopefully Barnes would still have it, so he could claim it back.

The car pulled away and Danny turned towards his destiny. Currently, destiny was guarded by two armed MPs who stood at either side of the doorway. Knowing how snarky MPs could be, he performed a proper, respectful salute, and said, "Sergeant Daniel Wells, reporting for duty at the command of Colonel Miller."

"Go on in, Sergeant," one of the men said. "Colonel's expecting you. Second door to the right."

"And straight on until morning?" he offered. The MP gave him a blank stare. "Not a fan of books, I take it."

"Just go inside already."

London was gonna be boring and stuffy. He could already tell. But it was a sacrifice he made willingly. A cross he had to bear himself. On the bright side, nobody here would be trying to kill him… unless Barnes really didn't like gettin' that letter, in which case he might yet wind up in a shallow grave. But that was a cross that bridge when you come to it kinda situation.

The second door to the right had a little brass plaque next to it that read Colonel O. T. Miller. God, his CO had a name worthy of a thousand jokes, and he'd probably get court-martialled just for cracking one. Trying to put jokes out of his mind, he knocked on the door and waited. After a couple of seconds, a voice called, Come in!

Danny hesitated. That voice… it didn't sound right. It sounded young. Too young. Like the voice of a child. Maybe the Colonel had something wrong with him. Maybe he'd fallen out of a tree as a kid and hit his vocal cords on the way down or something. How was Danny gonna keep a straight face if his CO sounded perpetually six years old? He was gonna say somethin' stupid for sure. He'd be court-martialled by the end of the day. In chains by the end of the week. Shipped home by the end of the month.

He took a deep breath. Think serious thoughts, think serious thoughts, he told himself. Don't smile. Think of waking up and seeing Hawkins and Jones and Martland all dead. Think of gettin' their tags and not being able to put them in the ground.

With his mood a little more sombre, he opened the door and stepped inside, issuing an immediate salute to the man behind the desk. No… not a man. A kid. Wearing a full dress uniform. A colonel's pips. But… he couldn't've been more than eight or nine years old. What the hell?

"I'm here to report to Colonel Miller," he said, because the kid's brown-eyed stare was intensely disturbing. Or maybe it was just the way his head barely peeped above the tall desk.

"I'm Colonel Miller," the boy said, his squeaky voice all serious.

Are you shittin' me? Danny asked inside his head, because Colonel or no Colonel, he couldn't use that kinda language in front of a kid. This was… this was obviously some sort of joke. Or maybe the kid was just messin' around in his dad's office, and the real colonel was in the john or something. If that was the case, then he'd just have to use child-logic to beat the kid at his own game.

"Oh? If you're the Colonel, then I guess you know the secret handshake?" he countered.

"Of course I know the secret handshake," the kid said. "But how do you know it? You're just a Sergeant. You can't know the secret handshake."

"I actually invented the secret handshake. It's a way of preventing any Nazi ba—err, bad men from infiltrating the chain of command. If you really were the Colonel, and you knew about the handshake, you'd know I was the one who invented it."

The kid's face scrunched up in thought. "Alright, you better show me the handshake, so that I can make sure you're the one who invented it, and you're not a Nazi bad man come to infiltrate us."

"Okay, so you do it this way," he said, tucking his thumb against his palm as he held his hand out over the desk. "It's a sort of thumb-less shake that Nazis are scared of."

The kid examined his own hand and tried to replicate the movement. When he couldn't, he called out, "Daaaad, this isn't fun anymore!"

The door to a large wooden cabinet opened, and out stepped a man wearing a Colonel's uniform. A real one, this time. He was dark-haired and had the same brown eyes as the boy. He was younger than Danny had been expecting, probably no older than his early thirties. And probably a brown-noser to reach Colonel so young.

"Well, you can't beat them all, George," he said, ruffling the boy's hair. Then he turned to Danny, and said, "Sorry about that, Sergeant. Just a little joke we play on new recruits. Colonel O. T. Miller. Stands for Oliver Thomas, no jokes please." Danny quickly offered him a real salute, which was returned only briefly. "This young scallywag is my son, George. Destined for command, I'd say, wouldn't you."

"No doubt, sir," he agreed. What was a scallywag? "He's got the stare down pat."

"Off you go, George," said Colonel Miller. "Go and help your mom with your brother. Oliver Junior," he added to Danny. "Still in diapers, but growing fast as a bean-sprout. I'll introduce you to Eve once you're settled in." He sank down into his chair and gave Danny a frank appraisal. "So. You're the man Joe sent me. How's he doing?"

"Really well. He's definitely found his calling."

"Glad to hear it. He was worried the men would give him a hard time, once he was assigned to The Rock." The Colonel picked up a dossier and quickly scanned it. Danny didn't need to glance at it more than once to realise it was his file. "He spoke very highly of you. Told me about this new form you've come up with to improve efficiency. The ES-1, was it?"

"Yessir." Please don't ask, please don't ask—

"What does 'ES' stand for?"

Danny winced. "Expedite Stuff."

"I see." His eyes danced down the page. "Looks like you've seen a lot of action. Judging by what I'm seeing here, you've kept at least one administrator in their job and likely cost the army a considerable amount in black markers." He held up the file for him to see; it was mostly entirely redacted. "It says here that your successful career in black marker pen accrual was cut short by a combat injury."

"That's right, sir." This felt like safer ground. Every CO was different; some were uptight, like Joe Grant, and they were the easy ones. Some were just plain mean, like Lieutenant Danzig, and they were ones to avoid. Others were snarky, like Colonel Phillips, and they were the ones that would have you tied up in knots if you weren't careful. Colonel Miller, despite his youth, felt very much like one of those types of COs. Another potential Phillips in the making. Not a man you could run rings around. "Took a bullet to the shoulder. I can still be useful, but the doctors say I won't be carrying a rifle any time soon.

"Well, I trust that you won't find life here in London too boring, after the excitement of the front lines."

"I guarantee that I won't, sir. And I'm looking forward to learning all about international procurement and logistics."

"Good." Miller closed the file and dropped it into his desk drawer. "The job isn't hard, but it's finicky. Everything has to comply with Lend-Lease legislation—try saying that ten times fast—and in their infinite wisdom, the brass keep tweaking the terms. It's a lot of back-and-forth. Regular meetings with HQ—"

"Sorry sir, do you mean HQ back in the States?"

"Indeed. Washington."

"And, err, how does that work?"

Miller gave him a look that suggested he was a bit slow, before gesturing to the phone on his desk. "We have these things called telephones. You pick one up, have a meeting on it, then hang up when you're finished. Sometimes you might have several meetings in one day. Or night. You'll be working alternate day/night shifts. Two days on, two nights on, then four days off. Sergeant Schuster, who you'll meet later, will work the opposite shifts to you, so that we'll always have somebody on duty for emergency meetings, whilst Sergeants Maxwell and Bright will work on your off days. We have about a dozen staff working here, mostly administrators who oversee the day to day minutiae. The man you're replacing was suffering from dementia for several months before we realised what was going on, so there's a bit of a mess to un-pickle, but Schuster will go through everything with you over the next week. I'll also need to introduce you to Captain Coleman, who's our British liaison on the Lend-Lease program, but that can wait for a couple of days until you've found your feet."

"Yes sir."

"Here." He handed over an envelope. "Details for your lodgings. Unfortunately we've had to use the embassy for our offices, so other than myself and my family, everyone else is housed off-site. It' s only a few minutes' walk to your hotel, but you'll be subject to English law everywhere except within the confines of these walls. Please conduct yourself accordingly. The English are proud and are sticklers for etiquette. If you are indiscreet with a woman, you will do the right thing by her. If you get into a fight and injure a local, you will be punished according to their laws."

"I'll be a perfect gentleman, sir. I've been to England before."

The colonel's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. "Have you? I didn't see any mention of that in your file."

"It was probably in one of the redacted bits."

"Of course it was." The man sighed. "Well, it's good to know you're on familiar territory. I'll leave you to get settled in today, but I expect you to report in for duty tomorrow along with Sergeant Schuster, so that he can start to show you the ropes. If you need directions, ask the MPs. Stick to travelling on foot or by tram—that's what the English call their streetcars; avoid the Underground until you're more familiar with the city, it's a nightmare to navigate for the uninitiated."

Danny offered a farewell salute and left the Colonel to his work. Outside the embassy, he asked the book-hating MP for directions, then set off towards his new abode. Today he would take time to adjust to his new normal, and tomorrow his new duties would begin. After that, he would find chance to do what any new mission required; reconnaissance.

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

Bucky yawned his way through breakfast, and tried to listen to what Morita was saying over the hubbub in the Strand's dining room. Something about having no regrets about something? God, his concentration was shot. The Commandos had only got back from Czechoslovakia in the early hours of the morning, and Bucky had slept for almost twenty-four hours solid. He woke up to find Steve had been called away on a private matter, and the Strand's corridors full of green servicemen newly shipped in from back home. They would be heading out to France in batches, to replace the numbers the Allies lost there, but for now they were being noisy, taking up room, and more importantly, eating all the sausages.

"Can you at least cover your mouth when you do that?" Dugan asked, giving him an undeserved poke in the ribs. "The last thing I wanna be seeing as I'm eating my toast is your tonsils."

"Sorry mom." He yawned again, this time covering his mouth with his hand. "I can't help it. I feel like I've slept a hundred years and could sleep a hundred more."

Jones nodded. "Things were pretty intense back there. I mean, I thought we had it bad back when the SSR was dragging us through France to root out Hydra, but what we lived through, trying to get up that beach…" He shuddered. "I'd wipe it from my brain, if I could."

"From the sounds of it, the brass had you and Little Jim here working overtime for I Corps," said Dugan, nodding at Bucky and Morita in turn. "No wonder you've been doing your best Sleeping Beauty impression. Not that it's actually done you any favours, you're still butt-ugly."

"You gonna take that from a man who wears a big orange slug on his lip as a fashion accessory, Barnes?" Morita asked, a malicious grin on his face.

"Too tired to insult properly," he replied. Besides, all was right with the world if Dugan was back to calling him by fairytale princess names. "Where are Monty and Jacques?"

"Monty left early this morning to go visit his family," said Morita. "Jacques said it was 'too noisy and American' in here for him, so he went to find his own breakfast somewhere quieter. Can't say I blame him. After all the chaos of Normandy, I wouldn't mind a little peace and quiet. I'm sure Phillips has other plans for us, though."

"New mission already?"

"No, but it's only a matter of time before he gets a lead on this Forge thing Carter mentioned, right?"

"Until then," said Jones, "I intend to stuff my face with as much food as humanly possible."

"What about you, Barnes?" Dugan asked. "While you were yawning your way through your third helping of beans, we were talking about whether we'd have any regrets if we kicked the bucket tomorrow. Got any from your own life?"

He pushed the last couple of beans around his plate. He couldn't eat them now, they were cold. Cold beans was just wrong. "Other than signing up, you mean?"

"You don't really mean that, do you?"

Bucky glanced up at Dugan's face. He seemed unusually serious. Normally he only got serious about arm wrestling, or poker matches, or Lizzie. "No, of course not. It just seemed like the sort of flippant thing every soldier is supposed to say at least once."

"Maybe, but you've never been a flippant kinda guy. You always took your oaths pretty damn seriously."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm different now. People do change, you know."

"I know. But I never thought I'd hear you making light of signing up." The big man sighed and sat back in his seat. "Look, I get it. You lost men. Friends. You saw good soldiers die and got dealt a shit hand in Krausberg. But you never really understood that those men you lost, they fought with you, not for you. They didn't sign up for your sake; hell, most of them probably didn't even sign up for America's sake. They signed up for the sake of their friends and their families. To fight for them and, if necessary, to die for them. To keep them safe and free. All that shit you went through is not on you. You signed up same as them, and maybe you think you have it worse because you survived, and that's a heavy burden to bear. But if you've forgotten why you signed up, if you've become so jaded to this war that you're now the kinda guy who makes flippant comments like that, well, maybe you better go make a phone call and talk to your family. Hear their voices and remind yourself of what you're really fighting for. Tell them you regret signing up, and see how well they take it."

Jones and Morita suddenly became hyper-focused on their plates. The rest of the soldierly hubbub continued around their table; nobody else had been close enough to listen to Dugan's lecture. Bucky tried to summon anger, to be pissed off at Dugan for his condescending tone, to tell him to shut up and mind his own business, that he had no idea what Bucky had been through.

But he couldn't. Much as he hated it, Dugan was right. And he was so damn tired of being angry and broken, of living with the guilt of the men he hadn't been able to save, and of what he would've been willing to do to escape that table in Krausberg. Maybe France had broken him in a whole new way. The anger that had once been such a familiar friend and ally was now entirely gone, and he didn't know how to get it back. He needed it, because one day he'd have to use it to face Zola and Schmidt, to do what needed to be done because Steve was too much of a good man to do it… but for now, it eluded him.

"S'cuse me," he said, pushing himself out of his seat.

Morita frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Steve wanted me to get a doctor's seal of approval before the next mission, so I might as well get it out of the way now. Enjoy your breakfasts."

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

He'd never realised before that chalk had a smell. Or rather, he'd realised, but never truly noticed it. Only now, as he strode down the corridors of the small schoolhouse, did he finally comprehend the smell of chalk. It was a dry, dusty smell, one that brought back a thousand memories of sitting in a classroom reciting poems or working on math equations or being stuffed inside the blackboard dusting room, of sitting on the sidelines keeping score while the other kids participated in gym class, of a hundred lunch breaks spent indoors because the pollen triggered his asthma.

It was the smell of potential, and waste. Of learning, and lessons forgotten. Of the future, and the past. And now a whole new generation of kids was living that smell, and hopefully doing better at it than he had.

He walked on past two rooms, until he reached a door that said class 3 on a small plaque beside it. This was the only school left in London, although technically it was just outside of London, far enough away from the city that the Brits were confident it wouldn't get blitzed if the Nazis resumed their bombing campaign. It had taken him over an our to get out here on the packed train, and he was looking forward to this reunion.

Outside the door, he stopped and listened to the voice floating out from within.

"Then, the Yeomanry arrived at St. Peter's field with strict orders to arrest Henry Hunt. Hunt was a popular orator with a political flair, and he had been invited to speak on the matter of Parliamentary reform. Who can tell me what 'orator' means? Yes, Robert?"

"Someone who talks a lot of tosh, sir," said a squeaky voice.

He didn't get chance to hear the response; somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to face a stern, matronly woman holding a large brass bell in her hands. Hopefully she wasn't planning to hit him with it,

"Would you like to explain why you're sneaking around our classrooms, before I have you arrested for being some kind of deviant, sir?"

"Mr Worsthorne invited me to speak to his class," he said quickly, holding up his hands in protest of his innocence. "Honest, just ask him!"

"Hmph." She lifted the ball and rang it loudly, shouting "Time for break. Everyone to the dinner hall."

A flood of children spilled out into the corridor, their grey and threadbare clothing a stark reminder of the hard times they lived in, and would likely live in for years to come. Some of them glanced at him curiously as they passed, but most hurried on to the dinner hall. Likely this was the largest meal some of them would get today. British rationing was generous to those who were used to less, but frugal to those who were used to more. Fair, though.

"Mr Worsthorne," the woman said, stepping into the classroom, "do you know this gentleman? I just found him snooping outside your door."

The man smiled and ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair. "Indeed I do, Mrs Gutteridge. Thank you for escorting him in." The woman gave one last sniff, then disappeared after the children. "Welcome, Steve." The man rolled out from behind the desk, taking care not to bang the table with the wheels of the chair he sat in. He offered his hand. "Or should I call you 'Captain America'?"

"Please don't," Steve said quickly, shaking his friend's hand. It was a firm grip. The last time he'd seen Worsthorne, the guy had seemed so frail and broken, lying in a hospital bed with little hope of living a normal life. "It's good to see you again, Tiberius. How have you been?"

"Could be better, could be worse." Tiberius gestured down at the chair and patted the tops of his legs. "Came through the surgery just fine. My father had some of his finest colleagues perform it. I've got feeling in both legs, and two weeks ago I started being able to move my right leg again. My father thinks that, in time, I'll be able to recycle this thing for scrap metal."

"I'm so glad to hear it." He glanced up at the window, and the beautiful blue sky. "Wanna take a walk outside? Or a roll outside?"

"Haha. Touché. And sure, let's walk. Or roll. Fresh air is actually on my doctor's prescription."

It really was one of those perfect days, the kind where everything seemed to be just right. The weather was warm but not hot. The birds were cheerful but not loud. The smell of honeysuckle on the breeze was sweet, but not overpowering. It was a if this little piece of England had forgotten, just for one day, about the atrocities of war. Or maybe that was just Steve's imagination. After the hell of a month in France, anything would seem like heaven.

"I'm sorry it took so long to come visit," Steve offered, as they settled on—or next to—a bench on the edge of the schoolyard. A hopscotch had been drawn in chalk on the ground, but no girls played on it right now. "Everything's been a little chaotic, and your invitation came just after I set off to Normandy."

"No need to apologise; I know you've been busy, I've been following your exploits in the news. I hope I haven't pulled you away from anything important."

"Just the opposite, in fact," he assured his friend. "You've saved me from a couple of weeks of boredom. Or at least, delayed it a little." When he'd got back to his room, he'd found two letters waiting for him. One, an invitation from Tiberius, asking him to visit and, if he had time, talk to his class about America's entry into the war. The other was an instruction from Kevin to clear his schedule for the next two weeks, because he had a lot of hands to shake.

Unfortunately, because Kevin had pulled strings to keep Bucky from being sent home after Krausberg, Steve owed him favours. Big favours. And Kevin had enough influence to make anything except critical missions go away. Steve foresaw Freddie's camera working overtime for the next couple of weeks. Somebody—probably Freddie himself—had spread rumours that Steve had single-handedly liberated Cherbourg. It was bad enough that the Germans believed that; now his own allies believed it as well.

"Then I'm glad I could be of assistance," Tiberius said.

"How'd you end up here?" Steve asked him. He hadn't come to talk about himself and his own problems. Or non-problems, as they technically were. Shaking hands with politicians and having his picture taken over and over again was not something he felt he had a right to complain about. Not to this man, anyway. "Doing this, I mean."

Tiberius smiled, but it lacked real warmth. "Well, you know what they say; those who can, do. Those who can't, teach."

"That's a bit harsh. Teachers have a responsibility for the education and development of children. I wouldn't be who I am today without some really incredible teachers encouraging me to do my best, pushing me to expand my mind."

"It's not where I imagined myself a year ago," Tiberius said quietly. "But you're right. Besides, I always had a knack for facts and figures, and with most of England's male teachers off fighting the Krauts, there was a bit of a gap to fill. I'm thinking about staying on even after…" he gestured to his legs.

"I'm glad you've found something you enjoy doing," he said. It was good to see him looking to the future. Thinking about long-term goals, concentrating on what he could do instead of worrying about what he couldn't do. "Have you heard from anyone else who went through training with us?"

"As a matter of fact, I see Willy quite regularly. We meet up once a week for a game of backgammon and a drink. He didn't make it through basic, you know. Too fat. He's working in a factory now as a foreman. Lost some weight, too. Not enough to be taken back by the army, but he's doing well."

"Tickle? Worthington-Price?"

Tiberius shook his head. "Barty went off to officer training right after basic, and I haven't heard anything about him since. Guessing he got a junior officer command and is busy exercising his ancestral right to boss people around. Anthony used to send me letters every few weeks, he went straight to Infantry as a private after basic. But it's been months since I had anything from him. I hope he's forgotten about me. Or just too busy to write. Those are the best cases, at least."

"I'm glad to hear everyone's doing well."

"Not everyone. You remember Briscoe?"

"Of course." The unit's very own Danny Kavanagh. It was because of Briscoe that Tiberius was in the chair. "He got six months, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Went back home to Liverpool when he got out, but I heard on the grapevine he couldn't get a job. A history like that, it marks a man, especially in these times." Tiberius chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "He went missing a few weeks after getting out. Took three days for them to find him; they pulled his body out of the Mersey. The police recorded it as an accident. Said he'd been out walking on a bridge during that bad storm we had, a few weeks ago, and slipped over the edge. No foul play found."

Steve shifted uncomfortably on his chair. "You don't believe that?"

"I don't know. His family said he'd taken to drinking a lot. Maybe he did go out in that storm. Maybe he'd had a few too many and really did slip and lose his footing. Bad as it sounds, I hope that's the case. I hope it was just a tragic accident. He didn't deserve to die."

"He made a mistake," Steve agreed. "Maybe he felt he couldn't live with it."

"Maybe." The warm summer air suddenly felt a lot colder. "Anyway, I just wanted you to hear about it from me."

"Thanks, I appreciate you telling me." Sad as it was to hear about Briscoe's fate, at least now he would never have to think back and wonder what had happened to the guy. He'd died, either by his own hand, or another's, or by the cruelty of fate or chance. The authorities didn't suspect foul play, so that was what Steve chose to believe as well. "Now, as for why you invited me here… what exactly do you want me to talk to the kids about?"