6.

Tomah, Wisconsin

June 24th, 1942

Bucky's been at Camp McCoy for only a few days and he's already decided it's hell on earth. He doesn't know why he got sent all the way to Wisconsin, thinking maybe he got on the wrong bus or something, but his name was on the check in list, so he must be in the right place. The camp is packed with sweaty, loud mouth soldiers-to-be. The barracks are dirty and well-used, in need of a desperate clean and upgrade. Still, they can't complain. They have a bed and blankets and food.

Bucky's always thought he was rather fit. Working at the docks keeps him lean and strong, the physical labour monotonous but testing, but the regular personal training sessions are really doing a number on him. Muscles ache that he'd never known he had, and in the middle of the twenty-mile jog, every breath feels like razor blades in his lungs. He thinks he might now know a little bit of what life with asthma is like.

While he likes the routine, since it reminds him somewhat of his menial life in Brooklyn, he hates the discipline, and the pain, and the thought that lingers on his shoulders that it will be much, much worse once he gets to the front. The only thing that keeps him going is the promise than in just under nine weeks, he can go home again, back to his slightly more comfortable bed and back to food that will far surpass the Army slops in the mess hall.

Until then, Bucky does what's asked of him. He runs as far and as long as they ask, and does steady push ups as the drill sergeant directs. He keeps his weapons clean and also his person, keeps his dress uniform pressed and his active duty clothes spare of dirt. He buys no contraband from anyone, no matter what they offer him, and he tries to stick to himself, only making friends with the men in the bunks around him. He addresses his commanding officers kindly and respectfully, despite the underlying hate he feels for them for dragging him into this chaos. He obeys their every command, no matter how taxing, all in the name of getting home.

After days of running, doing jumping jacks, climbing over the wall and crawling under barbwire, they finally move on to basic weapons training. The drill sergeant sections off areas and send troops there and everywhere, giving them weapons to try and sending others to lectures about the working mechanisms of each firearm.

Bucky gets a rifle put in his hands, though he has no idea which type, and is given a basic rundown of his functioning. With that part addressed, he takes his position, a few soldiers at either side of him. In front of them, multiple rows of haybales with targets painted on them ascend up the grassy hillside, higher up the further away they are. Bucky takes a second to remind himself of the gun before lying down on the grass, which is dewy and cold beneath his uniform clad body. He adjusts his grip, getting used to the feel of the rifle in his hands. The drill sergeant blows his whistle and the men beside him start shooting, their aims atrocious and sending bullets into the mountain side.

Bucky takes his time, making slow movements to practise the behaviour of a sniper. Loud movements like those of the men next to him would cause him to be spotted. He positions the sniper rifle up to his eye, the other squinted shut, his helmet perched atop his recently cut hair. He takes a deep breath, moves the rifle slightly to the right, and pulls the trigger, the force of the shot jamming the butt of the gun into his shoulder painfully.

He looks up just in time to see the target rattle as the bullet plants itself firmly into the bullseye of the haystack. He lets himself smile, admiring his work, before lining up again, hitting a bullseye on the next target slightly further away. He continues in that manner, hitting each target, his breathing calm and controlled.

"He's like a statue," he hears a young-sounding troop say, and he blocks the voices out again, forcing himself to focus.

It's an odd feeling, to have a weapon in his hands. The rifle is intricate and intimate and intimidating all at once. The metal is cool and slick against his palms, the gun heavy to hold but light at the same time. The blunt force of it is frightening, but also empowering – he supposes because he isn't the unlucky bugger at the receiving end. The weapon feels familiar in his hands, as though he'd been carved to do this very thing. It makes him want to throw the gun down and walk away.

"You're a good shot, Private Barnes," the drill sergeant tells Bucky when he stands from his position, wiping the bits of grass from his front. "Real good, you hit ten for ten your first time wielding a firearm, and six of them were bullseyes." The drill sergeant pauses, takes a critical glance at Bucky. "With a little more training, you could be the best sniper in the US Army. I'm sure of it. You've got a natural talent."

"Thank you, sir," Bucky says a little breathlessly, expecting weeks of torture rather than compliments.

"You ever considered MOS, kid?"

"I'm afraid I haven't heard of it," Bucky says cautiously.

"Military Occupational Specialty. You haven't heard of it because you have to be offered it. I'm offering it to you. Snipering. Sure, basic training gets extended from ten weeks to fourteen, but in the scheme of things it's a small price to pay." Bucky looks doubtful at the idea of extending his time at basic. "Speaking of pay, you'll be a Sergeant, so the pay goes up fifty dollars a month."

"Fifty dollars a month?" Bucky repeats, astounded.

"Yeah. It's a lot for the average fella, right? What do you say?"

Bucky hesitates. The idea of becoming a Sergeant, of being in charge of the lives of other men and having to make difficult calls in the field seems harrowing. He never wanted to be here, let alone lead a company of men. Just the idea of the responsibility weighs on his shoulder heavily, and with the addition of a backpack, he doesn't know if he'd be able to carry the weight. But still, he assumes he's never going home again. He'll return to Brooklyn once more before he's shipped out to the conflicts, and he assumes that will be the last time. If he isn't going home, he may as well make the most of his time. He could claw up the ladder, up the ranks before he ships out, consciously work to become an officer so the pray increases and he'll have more to send home to the family, and he can set Isabel up with a nice pay check when he dies out there.

The drill sergeant looks at him. "I don't expect you to make a decision now–" he begins, but Bucky nods his head.

"I'll do it," Bucky says, though his voice wavers. "I'd be very grateful for the opportunity, sir."

"Great. Report to my office at fourteen-hundred hours. I'll give you the information pack."

The drill sergeant turns away to instruct another group, leaving Bucky standing with his rifle in hand. And that's how Bucky manages to ship out as a Sergeant even though it's only his first tour.

That night, Bucky writes a letter to Steve. It's his first letter home, he realises, and Steve's eventual reply may possibly be his first from home. He sits on his bed by the light of the bedside lamp, Dugan on his right already snoring and Crawley reading one of Bucky's novels he brought.

Steve –

Just wanted to write you to let you know that everything is well. Basic is a drag. I feel like I haven't slept since the day I was born and like I've never sat down my entire life, my feet hurt so bad. They started bleeding in my shoes the fourth day but it's cleared up now. They're just all calloused, and I wore an extra pair of socks.

The days are long and hard and painful, just the sick sort of shit your stupid ass would probably love. I'm glad you aren't here though. You'd have passed out from an asthma attack the first time they made you do the perimeter walk. Twelve miles all the way around with twenty pounds of pack on your back, plus your uniform. It ain't for the faint hearted.

I actually got given an opportunity today. We were shooting targets and I made ten for ten first shot, just like that day at Coney Island. The sergeant saw my work and he asked if I'd join the MOS. He convinced me, and I said yes, and now here I am.

"You'll be a Sergeant. You could lead a platoon. Fight the enemy," he told me. At first I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but the guy said, "You get paid fifty bucks more a month," and that made it one hundred bucks, and I couldn't turn down that kind of money, not when I knew how helpful it'd be at home. I'm doing these things but not for medals or accolades. I guess I'm doing them because they have to be done. I'd appreciate it if you could tell my family for me. Sounds a little impersonal for it to come from a letter. You have no idea how hard it is to write to you when all I can think about is tactics and the inner-workings of a Thompson.

How's everything going at home? Still making good on my promise?

I'll see you in a couple of weeks. Do try not to get punched.

Bucky.

Tomah, Wisconsin

July 1st, 1942

"On your feet, gentlemen!"

The command slices through the morning air, and every soldier in the line stiffens, rifles locked at their sides. Boots scuff against the dirt as they adjust their posture, eyes forward, knowing exactly what's coming.

Captain Cramer steps into view, his sharp gaze sweeping over the row of recruits. He moves with the air of a man who has already decided half of them are unfit for the uniform they wear. This inspection isn't about passing—it's about proving you belong.

Bucky straightens as the Captain approaches, tightening his grip on his rifle. He's heard the stories. Cramer runs his company harder than any other officer on base, breaking men before they ever see the battlefield.

The Captain stops in front of a shorter private, who hurriedly loads his rifle for inspection. Cramer doesn't even glance at the weapon. Instead, his eyes drop to the man's boots and the slight folds at the bottom of his pants.

"You planning to jump out of a plane, Private?"

"No, sir."

"Then explain why your trousers look like a paratrooper's."

The private doesn't dare look down. "No excuse, sir."

Cramer stares him down before turning to address the rest of the line. "Some of you volunteered. Some of you were drafted. Either way, you're standing here. That means you need to prove you're worth the uniform, and right now, most of you aren't." He flicks his gaze back to the private. "Weekend pass revoked."

He moves on, slow and deliberate, letting the tension settle. He stops at the next soldier.

"Name."

"Private Lore, sir," the man answers, quickly handing over his rifle.

Cramer inspects it with practiced ease, flipping it over in his grip. A second later, he clicks his tongue. "Rear sight's filthy. If you can't keep your rifle clean in camp, what the hell are you gonna do in a foxhole?" He shoves the rifle back. "Pass revoked."

Bucky stays still as the Captain moves down the line. He knows better than to flinch under that kind of scrutiny.

Cramer stops in front of him, giving him a once-over. Bucky immediately holds out his rifle and bayonet, letting the officer examine them.

Cramer twists the rifle in his grip, checks the bayonet, then grunts. "Not bad. Name?"

"Private Barnes, sir."

The Captain tilts his head. "Barnes… that name sounds familiar." He pauses, then his expression shifts slightly. "You're the one up for promotion to Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

Cramer nods, handing the rifle back. "When the paperwork's final, you come see me. I could use another man who knows how to set a damn example. Keep it that way."

Bucky exhales, relieved that he had the sense to check his gear before formation.

Cramer moves on, stopping in front of the next sergeant in line. He pinches at the man's sleeve. "When'd you sew this chevron on, Sergeant Fairview?"

"Yesterday, sir."

"Then you had plenty of time to notice this." Cramer plucks at a loose thread, yanking it free. "Pass revoked."

He doesn't break stride as he approaches the next private, who's already scrambling to hold out his rifle.

"Private Bilge," Cramer says, unimpressed. "That's an unfortunate name."

The private shifts awkwardly. "Yes, sir."

Cramer snatches the rifle and barely glances at it before shoving it back. "Rust on the butt plate hinge spring. Bayonet looks like it's been buried in the damn ground. Congratulations, Private Bilge, your new name is Private Screw-Up. Pass revoked."

He steps back, addressing the entire line. "You boys want to kill Germans?"

A few quiet nods. No one breathes.

Cramer lifts the rusty bayonet. "Not with this, you won't. I wouldn't take this piece of junk into battle, and I sure as hell won't take you if you stay this sloppy. Because of these men and their infractions, every single one of you with a weekend pass just lost it."

No one protests. They know better.

"Now, change into your PT gear." Cramer turns on his heel, voice sharp as a blade. "We're running the perimeter until I get tired. And I don't get tired."

"On your feet! Move it, move it!" Cramer's bark cuts through the crisp morning air, and within seconds, the line of soldiers is in motion.

Their boots slam against the hard-packed dirt, a steady drumbeat on the winding trail that snakes through the dense Wisconsin forest. The terrain is brutal—uneven, hilly, littered with loose rock that makes every step a test of balance and endurance.

Bucky adjusts the straps of his pack, the weight biting into his shoulders, but he keeps his pace steady. He tunes into the rhythm—the crunch of gravel, the ragged breaths of the men around him, the metallic clink of dog tags bouncing against sweat-soaked shirts.

Cramer, effortlessly keeping stride, weaves between the ranks, his voice sharp with mockery. "Hope you boys don't mind, but I'll be taking your gals out tonight. Maybe buy 'em a nice dinner. Maybe they won't even remember your names by morning."

A few of the men grunt in irritation.

"Hell, Captain, maybe they'll finally have a good time for once," a soldier pants from somewhere behind Bucky.

A few of them snicker, but they don't dare slow down.

By the time they reach the far side of the perimeter, the towering concrete wall of the South Post looms beside them. They'd been told on their first day that crossing that boundary meant immediate disciplinary action—no exceptions. No one had dared to ask what lay beyond it, but everyone had wondered.

Until now.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Private Andrews huffs, barely keeping pace.

Cramer doesn't break stride but spares him a sidelong glance. "You look half-dead, Andrews. This about you quitting? 'Cause the medics are already on standby for you."

"No, sir," Andrews manages, breathless. "Just—what's behind the wall?"

Cramer's jaw tightens, but he keeps his tone measured. "That's above your pay grade, Private."

"Heard it's some kind of prison," Andrews presses. "Detention center or something."

For a split second, Bucky expects Cramer to snap—to tear into Andrews for overstepping. But instead, the Captain exhales, his expression unreadable.

"You want to know so bad?" Cramer finally says, voice clipped. "Fine. Listen close, because I don't repeat myself."

The air around them shifts. Even the rhythmic pounding of boots seems to dull as the men instinctively lean in.

"It's a detention facility," Cramer states flatly. "Holds Japanese-Americans, German-Americans, and Italian-Americans suspected of being enemy sympathizers. Some of them were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Others? Who knows." He pauses. "There's also a section for actual POWs—Japanese and German soldiers taken in combat. But if you're wondering whether they're being mistreated, the answer's no. They've got beds, meals, and medical care. Not much different from you lot."

A heavy silence follows. Bucky doesn't turn his head, but he can feel the unease spreading through the ranks.

"That's all I'll say," Cramer continues, his voice hardening. "And that's more than you were entitled to know. If I hear so much as a whisper about this outside of this run, you'll wish you never asked. And if anyone's dumb enough to try and scale that wall? You won't be seeing anything ever again. Are we clear?"

A stiff chorus of "Yes, sir," follows.

They keep running, but the weight in the air is heavier than their packs. No one glances at the wall, but they don't have to. The reality of what lies behind it clings to them now, closer than any battlefield they've imagined.

Cramer lets the silence stretch before snapping them back to the present.

"Where do we run?" he shouts.

"Camp McCoy!"

Tomah, Wisconsin

July 18th, 1942

When Bucky finally gets back to his dorm after a long day of running and exercising and participating in drills, he's utterly exhausted. He practically falls into bed, not even bothering to remove all of his uniform. He lays there for a moment, eyes closed, before he remembers the letter he got this morning in mail call that he'd shoved into his pocket to read later. He leans down the bed to his trunk and slips the letter out of his pants pocket, sitting back against the headboard to open it.

It's from Isabel, the first letter from home he's gotten since he arrived at Camp McCoy nearly four weeks ago. He sent the letter to Steve almost three weeks ago informing him he'd be gone for longer. The rush of love he feels in his chest is almost embarrassing and he has to almost choke down tears at how much he misses home. Sure, basic isn't terrible, but nothing beats the comfort of your own bed, and a safe apartment surrounded by friends and family. He misses the monotonous familiarity of his normal life. Hopefully, Isabel's insight can give him some insight into life back in Brooklyn. He hopes he'll be able to imagine it in his mind.

Bucky,

Steve told us the news that you'll be gone for up to sixteen weeks for basic training. Even though it means you'll be gone longer, it seems like a great opportunity, and at least the pay will be nice. Is there a reason why you were promoted? I don't mean to seem clingy, but that feels like an awful long time. I hate to think what it'll be like if you go away for real. It's only been four weeks but it feels like eternity. Work is slow and the days feel long.

It sounds so clique, but time really does drag. Ma is barely coping without you. Dad just rolls his eyes and tells her to stop worrying, that you'll be fine. When she doubts him, he casually reminds her he did serve in the Great War. You know how these things go.

Anyway, everyone says hello and hopes you are well. We all can't wait until you're home again. The apartment feels awfully bare without you, despite the fact that it's still full. Steve's come over to spend some time with us a few times so far. He'll never admit it, but I think he's lonely without you here. Sarah's at work a lot of the time, so he's home alone often. I'm going over to his apartment tomorrow while he paints. It won't be overly exciting, but I know he'll appreciate the company, and maybe some help with the colors. It's for a commissioned piece that came through over the weekend of someone's dog or something. I'm not entirely sure.

Bucky feels relief course through him that Steve is finally getting some commission work, even if it is only one piece. The money he makes from painting means he doesn't have to do the paper run in the mornings, which is dangerous enough without adding his chronic asthma into the equation. Plus, Steve loves painting, and if he's doing the things he loves, he'll be happier and preoccupied while Bucky's gone.

I'm not sure if I should really tell you, but I have some news of my own. No one knows yet but I need to get it off my chest and you're usually the person I confide in with my problems. Not that this is a problem, as such, but…well, I'm not entirely sure.

Bucky frowns worryingly at her bumbling statements. It's not like Isabel to be so unsure of things; generally, she knows what she wants and she goes for it.

Do you remember at that Christmas dinner when mom mentioned her friend's son, Danny, how he was interested in meeting me? Well I did meet him, a few months ago now. I didn't tell you then because I wasn't sure what would come of it, but he seems really lovely. I know you'll worry about how he'll treat me, but we got along rather well, he treated me very good. He was to your standards, don't worry. When he asked me if we could do it again sometime, I didn't really know what to say, so I said yes. We've been out again eight times since then, and I'm rather fond of him, even though I've only known him a few months. I think he may ask me to go steady with him the next time we meet, he was dropping an awful number of hints. I don't know. Just thought I'd get it off my chest, though it didn't really clear any of my thoughts. Ha ha.

Bucky has to stop reading for a moment, holding the bridge of his nose in frustration. All these months of him trying to get his sister and friend to see that they have feelings for each other, and his mother manages to ruin it in one conversation with her friend at the grocery store. He wishes he could get them together and force it all out of them, but he's still got a doubt playing on his mind that he's imagining it all. He thinks, maybe, that he only wants the best for his sister, and that Steve is probably the only person in the world good enough to warrant being with Isabel. He may be biased, but perhaps that's why he sees what he does. Perhaps he picks up on insignificant looks and conversations and makes them into something more than they truly are because that's what he wants to see, not what Steve and Isabel want. Like his sister, he really doesn't know. What he does know, is that sometimes he wishes he could turn his brain off.

Anyway, enough about us, I want to hear about you. What's basic like so far? Have you made any friends? I know you can't say too much because of censorship, but I'd like to hear as much as you can tell. Stay safe, and try to have a good time, or at least as best as you can.

Lots of love, Isabel

P.S.: After I wrote this, Becca saw me sealing the envelope and insisted on sending something to you from her. We took this picture today when she got home from school. She wanted you to see the drawing she did in art class. It's of a butterfly if you can't tell.

Then, below Isabel's elegant handwriting is the scrawled text of a ten-year-old. He can just imagine Becca writing it with the ink pen, pushing a little too hard on the paper and leaving ink blotches in random places along the words. He squints to make out the words, a smile lighting up his face.

Bucky, it reads, I drew this butterfly for you in art class I thought you could put it on the wall above your bed or maybe carry it in your pocket just a thought. I hope you are safe and having fun shooting guns Please come home soon! I love you. xxx

Bucky smiles, chuckling at her horrible punctuation and the mental image of Isabel cringing at it before putting it in the envelope. He holds the letter to his chest soppily. He can only imagine what he looks like to the other troops, their new Sergeant smiling dopily at a letter from home. But when he looks around, most of them are reading their own letters from home, or smiling down at an image of a girlfriend or a wife or a family, and suddenly he doesn't feel so bad. These kind of feelings, of loneliness and homesickness, actually unite the troops together, tied to each other by a string of common emotions. The brotherhood they'll form over the coming weeks, and later on when they make it into the fight, will be a crucial ingredient to their survival. Without that mate-ship, they'd probably go mad.

Bucky searches around in the drawers of one of the dorm's desks, finding a roll of tape in the third drawer. He carefully tapes the butterfly to the wall behind his bed, not once feeling any embarrassment for having the crayon picture on his person. Dugan, on Bucky's right, looks up at Bucky's movements, watching him tape it to the wallpaper. He looks at the picture, then smiles at Bucky kindly.

"Cute," is all he says, before he goes back to reading his own book.

Bucky lays back down in bed, crossing his arms behind his head and looking up at the now upside-down picture. He wonders why Becca chose to draw a butterfly. Perhaps she's symbolising the changes he'll go through in the next few weeks, his emergence as a drilled and sturdy Sergeant, a noticeable contrast from the man he was when he left Brooklyn. Maybe he's emerging from his cocoon, finding out who he's meant to be. Or maybe, Becca just likes butterflies. After all, she's only ten. How incisive could she possibly be?

Bucky sighs. He really does think too much.

On the wall across from Bucky, the clock strikes over to ten at night. "Alright, lights out fellas," Bucky says, as he's now the highest-ranking officer in the dorm. There's a few mumbles of acceptance, and the rattle of beds as the men clamber in and settle down for the night. Once everyone is tucked up in bed, Bucky turns off his own bedside lamp, throwing the dorm into darkness.

A/N: So here we have the longest chapter so far, though I have many other chapters written out that are much longer! I have most of this story already written out, therefore the updates will be very regular.

It was so exciting to introduce Bucky's first experience with combat training, his advancement to Sergeant, and life within the Camp McCoy barracks. Just a bit of history: Camp McCoy, now called Fort McCoy, was an actual army training center in Wiconsin with a very long history since its opening in 1909. The camp had a capacity of housing 35,000 soldiers during World War II. It was used as a training facility for units across the entire country preparing them for entering combat. As mentioned in this chapter, it was also used as a detention centre for approximately 170 Japanese and 120 German and Italian-American civilians who were arrested as "enemy allies" in March 1942. It was also used as a prisoner-of-war (POW) camp during conflict, holding 4,000 Japanese and German prisoners-of-war. The POWs are featured in the 2011 film Fort McCoy. I'd recommend checking it out if you want to know more :)