Steve
Italy, November 1943.
The rain hammered against the canvas tent. The world seemed to exist in shades of gray, the ceaseless rain blurring the edges of the camp and muting all color. Even the world seems to mirror my heart , Gretchen thought, her worry for Bucky and the others a heavy weight in her chest.
Each day, she went through the motions of patching up soldiers, offering words of comfort she barely felt herself. But her thoughts always drifted back to Bucky, the one person in this godforsaken war who could always make her smile.
Gretchen had patched Bucky up countless times – a shrapnel wound on the leg during the battle of Palermo, a nasty gash from the surprise assault in Licata. Each time, she saw the spark of resilience in his eyes. Now, she feared that spark might be extinguished in the depths of a Hydra facility.
She stepped out of the tent, immediately greeted by the pitter-patter of rain against the ground. She dashed through the downpour. Rain dripped from her hair, trickled down her face, but she barely noticed. She couldn't shake the feeling of dread that clung to her like the rain-soaked fatigues on her back. "Please," she whispered, "just let him be alright."
Gretchen took a deep breath and stepped inside Colonel Chester Phillips' tent.
The colonel looked up from his desk, his expression stern as he held a stack of letters. Condolence letters , Gretchen noted the distinctive typesetting, her heart sinking.
She swallowed nervously, her voice trembling slightly as she started to speak. "Colonel, have you heard anything? Any news at all about the rest of the 107th?"
Phillips looked up and leaned back in his folding chair, the metal groaning under his weight. "I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before we receive confirmation of their demise, Doctor. I've accepted the fact that those men are likely dead. You should, too." His tone was flat, devoid of emotion.
"With all due respect, Colonel, we have to consider the possibility that they may still be alive," Gretchen argued, her voice normally calm and measured, now rising with each word. "What about the intel from yesterday? Recon confirmed they're being held in a weapons facility."
The colonel pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. "I won't have you questioning my orders, Doctor."
She could feel her anger, a sensation so foreign to her, boiling in her chest. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. "Sir, I'm not questioning your orders. I'm simply saying that we have a responsibility to those men. We can't just abandon them. We need to mount a rescue mission."
Colonel Phillips snapped his eyes open, his expression sharp and uncompromising. "A weapons facility deep in enemy territory. A suicide mission. Even if they are still alive – and that's a big if – getting them out is next to impossible. We can't risk losing more men for a lost cause. Focus on your duties, Dr. Schulze. Don't let your... personal feelings cloud your judgment."
The colonel's words stung, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air. Gretchen's cheeks flushed, but she stood her ground. "I'm doing my job, Colonel. I'm trying to save lives. They are still our men."
"We have our orders, Doctor," Phillips said. "We push forward, not backward. Those men are a lost cause. We need to focus on the living, not the dead."
Gretchen stood there for a moment. She knew she couldn't give up. Those men were not a lost cause. Not while she still drew breath. With a strained nod towards the colonel, she turned and left, her mind desperately searching for a solution, a plan, anything.
Head down against the wind and rain, she jogged back to her patients, lost in her thoughts. She didn't see the two figures heading towards Colonel Phillips' tent.
Steve Rogers, who was curious about the woman who had just left the tent, asked Agent Peggy Carter. "Who was that?" Steve asked.
"That's Dr. Gretchen Schulze," Peggy replied, falling into step beside him, "the battalion surgeon."
Steve had heard of course that there was a female doctor in the 2nd battalion, but he had never actually seen her until now.
"A female surgeon, huh? I'm impressed," he said, his eyes fixed on the surgeon's retreating figure. "Glad she's on our side."
Peggy smiled. "Yes, she's quite the trailblazer. And from what I've seen, an excellent doctor."
The canvas flap of the command tent billowed open, letting in a gust of wind that carried the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. Steve stood a little straighter, Peggy at his side.
Colonel Phillips sat on the edge of his desk, casually flipping through a sheaf of reports. He glanced up as Steve and Peggy entered. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the reports onto the desk.
"Well, if it isn't the star-spangled man with a plan," Phillips drawled. "What is your plan today?"
"Colonel," Steve began again, his voice firm and clear, "I need the casualty list from Azzano."
The last rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across the bustling field hospital. It was another grueling day of back-to-back surgeries, and the promise of a cup of lukewarm coffee and a few minutes of stolen rest felt like an impossible luxury. Seated on a crate a few feet from the tent entrance, Gretchen finally had a moment to herself. Beside her, on the splintered wood, sat a chipped mug containing the last of her ersatz coffee. She carefully tinkered with the camera in her hands, turning the lens and adjusting the settings with a quiet focus. This Leica, a gift from a grateful Italian soldier whose wounds she'd tended just a few days prior, was quickly becoming a treasured possession. She raised it to her eye and captured images of weary soldiers sharing a cigarette.
It was then that Steve and Peggy emerged from the tent flap. "Dr. Schulze, a moment?" Peggy said, her voice carrying over the low hum of activity in the camp.
Gretchen looked up, her gaze shifting from the soldiers to Peggy, then to the man beside her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with an almost unreal quality to him, like a hero stepped out of a wartime propaganda poster.
"Agent Carter," she acknowledged, a questioning look in her eyes. "And…?" Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way? Then, recognition dawned.
"Dr. Schulze, this is Captain Steve Rogers," Peggy said, her tone brooking no time for pleasantries. "Steve, this is Dr. Gretchen Schulze, the best damn surgeon this side of the Atlantic."
"Captain Rogers," Gretchen said, her voice sincere as she extended her hand towards him."It's good to finally meet the man himself."
"An honor to meet you, Dr. Schulze," Steve took her hand and shook it firmly, his blue eyes holding a mixture of respect and something akin to awe. "Peggy has told me a great deal about you. You're a pioneer, you know, being a surgeon in these parts. Not many women…" He trailed off, seeming to realize he'd stumbled into awkward territory.
Gretchen chuckled, a dry, self-deprecating sound. "Let's just say I'm well acquainted with being 'not many' this or 'the only' that. But enough about me, Captain. What brings you both to my humble tent?"
Peggy stepped forward, her expression turning serious. "It's about the 107th."
Gretchen's heart lurched. "You know something?" She spoke evenly, but a slight tremble in her voice gave her away.
Peggy nodded grimly. "I'm sure this is already within your knowledge, Doctor. They're being held in a Hydra facility, heavily fortified, about thirty miles east of here."
Gretchen's fingers tightened around the edge of the medical tray she was holding as if she could crush it. "So what's the plan?"
"I'm going in to get them out," Steve announced. "And we need your help, Doctor."
She didn't hesitate. "Anything. What do you need?"
"We could use some medical supplies," Steve explained, looking around the tent. "We'll have casualties and…"
Gretchen strode over to the supply closet. "We don't have much time," she stated, her hands moving quickly as she packed the medical kit. "Antibiotics, morphine, sutures."
Steve watched the wounded men in the tent. They're just boys, he realized with a pang of guilt, boys who've sacrificed everything. He glanced at a young man missing a leg, his face etched with pain. They fought for the ideals we all hold dear. And I'll be damned if I let their sacrifices be for nothing.
Gretchen's fingers started tapping a staccato rhythm on the counter, a war-born habit that had become an unconscious reflex in times of stress. She turned back to face Steve and Peggy. "Hydra is in possession of a powerful material. The wounded who came back this morning... some of them were rambling about strange blue energy beams fired out from Hydra tanks."
Steve listened intently, his expression hardening. "Blue energy beams?" he repeated, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.
"Anyone caught in its path…" she murmured, her brow furrowing, "well, it's not pretty. This weapon, it's unlike anything I've ever heard of. Whatever it is, it's not meant to wound. It's meant to…obliterate."
Steve's expression tightened. "We'll be careful."
Gretchen pressed the kit into Steve's hands. "Go get them, Captain. And come back in one piece. All of you.
Steve flashed a lazy smile. "Thank you, Doctor," Steve said sincerely. "For everything." His gaze met hers, warm and appreciative.
With a bright smile, she waved them off. "Good luck, and Godspeed."
"Jiminy Christmas, Steve," Bucky still catching his breath, said, "I gotta hand it to ya. Who'd have thought you'd be the one rescuin' me?"
Steve laughed, a hearty chuckle that echoed through the trees. "I'll tell ya, Buck, it's about time I returned the favor. You've bailed me out of more jams than I can count back in Brooklyn."
Bucky chuckled, clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder., "Well, color me impressed, Captain America. Guess you don't need old Bucky Barnes to bail you out of trouble anymore."
Steve laughed, "Hey, don't sell yourself short. I still need you to keep me in line."
Bucky's tone became more serious, "Thanks, Steve. I owe you one."
Steve's voice held the same quiet resolve. "You don't owe me anything, Buck. We're a team, always have been."
The jeep rumbled to a stop, kicking up dust that swirled around Bucky Barnes' worn combat boots. Now, staring at the sprawling canvas tents of the 107th's temporary base in Italy, Bucky felt a different kind of anxiety grip his chest.
"Buck, you alright?" Steve's voice broke through Bucky's thoughts.
He offered a tired smile. "Just taking it all in, Steve. It's good to be back."
Steve nodded, clapping him on the back. "Let's get settled, then. We've got a lot to catch up on."
Bucky's nose twitched. "Whoa, is that fresh bread I smell? Race you to the mess hall!"
And with that, the two friends took off, Steve already plotting how to get the biggest piece of bread.
To be continued...