10.
Tomah, Wisconsin
July 22nd, 1942
The men march through the late hour along the tree line, the darkness surrounding them. Their boots stomp the ground in uniform fashion, helmets sitting on their heads, packs donned and rifles at the ready. They're nearly at the finishing point of their march around the perimeter, and the men are starting to slow, exhausted from a long week of training.
Bucky walks at the front of the company formation, the highest-ranking soldier present. The company is silent, completing their task without speaking.
"Sergeant Barnes?" A voice calls from the back of the line, breaking the silence.
Bucky continues staring straight ahead. "What is it?"
"Permission to speak, sir?"
It takes Bucky a second to process that the men are calling him "sir" before he responds. "Go on then."
"Why are we the only company marching every Friday night, sir? In the pitch black, twelve miles?"
"Well, surely you have an idea?" Bucky prods. He licks his lips, dying for a drink.
"The boss hates us, sir."
Bucky has to agree with the talkative Private. Cramer seems awfully harsh on the company, though he knows the man is just trying to produce the toughest troops. He may be a prick and may even be a poor combat leader, but hopefully he does his job in preparing the men mentally and physically for the war. As for the weekend passes, well, Bucky doesn't think the Germans get given out weekend passes anyway. Still, no matter how much he agrees with his men, he knows better to undermine Cramer's authority.
"Captain Cramer doesn't hate anyone, Private," Bucky responds evenly. "Except maybe you."
That gets a laugh from the company. "Thank you, sir," the Private says sarcastically, smiling despite the pain in his feet and the intense thirst of a twelve mile march without hydration.
The troop of men spot the lights of the campsite in the distance and their pace seems to quicken to get there faster. The sooner they get to the camp, the sooner they can get some sleep. They march into camp, stopping in a group outside Captain Cramer's office, Bucky taking front position facing the men.
"And no one took a drink, I assume, as ordered?" Captain Cramer asks, walking up and down the line of men.
"No, sir," Bucky responds. "Watched them myself. We've not had a drink for twelve miles."
"Out in the field, you'll be marching much further under enemy fire and you won't have time to fill up your canteens at a damn tap. There won't be any damn taps. You get used to going without now, or you'll never make it ten miles through the forest." He walks up to Andrews, arguably the weakest looking of all the privates, and eyes him, hard. "You got that, Private Andrews."
"Yes, sir," Andrews replies respectfully, saluting his Captain.
"Good... Fall out," Cramer demands, and the company gratefully splitting off to their own dorms for a much-needed shower and rest.
Bucky turns to move away too, but halts when Cramer comes toward him. "Sergeant Barnes. I got a bone to pick with you. You're fifteen minutes late coming back from the march. You're making me look bad," Cramer hisses, glaring at Bucky.
Bucky takes a deep breath. He's only a Sergeant, leading these men through basic is Cramer's job, and if he's going to sit at his desk, he can't expect the men to be led to his perfectionist standards. He knows that leading the men will be his duty at some point, but they're talking about a practice march around the perimeter, not leading them through enemy territory in the dead of winter.
"Sorry, sir. There's no excuse, sir," Bucky replies, taking the blame knowing it will save him a lot of hassles in the long run.
"No, there isn't. Under my command, I want this to be the first and finest company of them all."
"Understood, sir," Bucky answers, nodding to his superior officer.
Cramer turns and watches the backs of the retreating men, who are nearing their dorms and the shower blocks. "You want to make up for your actions tonight, Sergeant? If not, I'll happily revoke your badge and your increased monthly wages."
"Yes, sir. I want to redeem myself, sir."
"Good. Your men, they need to be kept in line. That's your job. I want the names of five men and their infractions on my desk by zero one thirty. Is that clear?" Cramer orders Bucky, looking at him challengingly.
Bucky's eyes flick up to meet his Captain's, his brow furrowing. "What infractions, sir?" Bucky asks in confusion, an accusing tone to his voice.
"Anything. And if you don't find any, I will," Cramer hisses, before turning his back on Bucky and slamming the door to his office shut behind him.
Bucky reports to Cramer's office at one thirty that morning, exhausted. He's spent the last few hours requesting the men empty out their bedside drawers and show him the contents of their trunks on Captain Cramer's orders, and the men hadn't hesitated to comply, not blaming Bucky for the nuisance. He'd hoped and prayed that the results would turn up nothing, but he'd been disappointed. Instead of the six names requested, he only has two, but it was still two too many. However, what Cramer considers an infraction seems much different to what Bucky does, and Bucky wouldn't be surprised if a second search would turn up more results.
"Sergeant Barnes, right on time. What did you find?" Cramer asks, looking up from his paperwork and meeting Bucky's eyes expectantly.
"Only two, sir."
"Only two?" Cramer asks unbelievingly. "I doubt that. These men don't seem to want to follow orders..." He sighs. "Get some sleep, Sergeant. I will conduct my own thorough search of the bunks at oh-seven hundred hours. Be up and ready."
"Yes, sir," Bucky replies, saluting.
He makes his way out the door with a sigh, walking across the campgrounds to his dorm. He throws off his boots and collapses into bed, careful not to wake the sleeping men around him.
Cramer turns up right on seven hundred hours for the inspection. Bucky is sitting on his cot, fully dressed and ready for the day, and stands up rigidly when Cramer bursts in through the door. The other men from the dorm are in the mess hall eating their breakfast, leaving the dorm empty except for Bucky.
"Sergeant Barnes," Cramer greets, awfully cheerful for running on less than five hours sleep.
Bucky stands, snapping into a salute. "Captain," Bucky responds. "I had the men empty their bedside drawers and trunks just last night. The two infractions I identified were–"
"Save it, Barnes, I'll look myself," Cramer interrupts, and Bucky slams his mouth shut. He stands still as a statue in the attentive position beside his bed as Cramer rips the drawers from the men's bedside tables and spills its contents onto their cots, wafting through it quickly.
"Pornography. Contraband," he says, holding up a very-used magazine with a risqué picture of a woman on the front. "Non-regulation clothing. Contraband." Bucky raises his eyebrow. He searches and searches, every inch of the cabins. "Contraband. Contraband. Non-regulation clothing. Utter bullshit. And more contraband."
Cramer makes his way back to Bucky's area.
"I can admire you, Sergeant Barnes," he says. "You followed my orders despite the threat of it causing a rift between you and the men. You'll make a good leader. The men, they speak nothing but good about you, and I like that. A leader who is relatable for the troops. It will help with your leadership if you have their respect, which you no doubt gain without much trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Bucky says appreciatively, not expecting such complimentary words from Captain Cramer.
Cramer nods then steps in front of Bucky. His eyebrows raise on his forehead when he spots Becca's butterfly drawing taped to the wall, and Bucky's cheeks go a little red, but he says nothing. Cramer opens Bucky's bedside drawer, scouring its contents to find a watch, an essentials bag, two worn novels, and a handful of letters from home. "How is it, Sergeant, that you have spare time for so much correspondence?" He asks.
"The nights are long, Captain. And correspondence with home is good for morale. I encourage all the men to do so."
Cramer picks up one of Bucky's envelopes and pulls the letter out, Winifred's elegant handwriting flitting across the paper in black ink. Bucky cringes as the man reads the letter from his mother, though Cramer's furrowed brow does soften as his eyes scan the words. He reads it from top to bottom, then lowers the page from his eyes, a far-off stare framing his features.
"Contraband?" Bucky asks quietly. "Letters, are they contraband?" He clarifies.
"Depends on their nature," Cramer says, carefully putting the letter back into its envelope. "Yours is acceptable, Barnes. Your mother, she reminds me of my own. I haven't received a letter from my mother in over ten years. I hope you're appreciative of the love yours clearly has for you."
Bucky's mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the words, shocked by Cramer's rather sudden change in demeanour. "Yes, sir. I am. My mother and the rest of my family are the most wonderful people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing."
Cramer nods, hanging the letter back to Bucky. "Good. And you'll do good to not forget that, no matter where you find yourself." Cramer takes a deep breath, nodding to the letter in Bucky's hand. "I understand that personal letters serve as a source of morale boost for troops, both before they serve and whilst on active duty. I may be harsh, but I'm unwilling to sacrifice the success of this company in such a manner."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Bucky replies, unable to keep the smile off his face.
"Take the afternoon off with the troops. Run some sort of... morale boosting activity with them. I trust you can come up with something. Team building? Bonding?" Cramer looks at Bucky a moment, his demeanour seeming much lighter than it had before.
"Yes, sir, I can do that," Bucky says truthfully.
"Let me know how you go, Barnes," Cramer says as he walks toward the door. He smiles at Bucky in a way he hadn't previously. "I'm off to put in an order to the mess hall chef. I'm thinking spaghetti for lunch today." And then he leaves out the front door, leaving Bucky alone again.
Bucky doesn't know what he saw in the letter, but it's certainly flicked a switch in the Captain's mind.
Later that day when the lunchtime meal is served, Bucky sits in the mess hall with Dugan and Crawley. He doesn't say anything to Crawley about the Captain finding his horrific tie.
The spaghetti meal in front of them is rather poorly. It's just thin egg noodles with a mountain of ketchup sprayed onto them, topped with a small sprinkling of cheese. It takes like absolute shit, but Bucky's hungry.
"I don't even know what this is," Crawley says in disgust, cringing after taking a mouthful.
"Cramer won't be very happy. He said he likes spaghetti, but this ain't it," Bucky mumbles, slurping down his portion so that he won't starve before dinner.
"If I were Italian I'd be offended," Dugan chimes in, pushing his plate away. "I'll go hungry."
"At least we have food," Bucky mumbles, taking another bite and sucking up the stray noodle that drips onto his chin.
"Pfft. I can think of better things than having food. Right now, some lucky bastards headed for the South Pacific to fight," Dum Dum says. "On some tropical island, sitting under a tree with naked native girls drinking from coconuts. Sounds perfect to me. I'd take that over a pathetic excuse for Italian spaghetti any day."
"Petting the pelicans," Crawley adds.
"You clearly don't know anything about how a war works," Bucky laughs. "Plus, Flamingos are mean. I doubt you'd want to hand-feed one of those bastards. I pet one at the Central Park Zoo once. They bite."
"So do the naked native girls if we're lucky," Crawley says, pulling his bayonet from his pocket. "You can keep your natives, Dum Dum I'd be glad to go to Europe. Hilter gets this across the windpipe," he mimes the action of slitting a throat with the knife, "and Roosevelt changes Christmas to "Donald Crawley day" and I get to live on a hefty pension the rest of my life."
"What if they send us to North Africa?" George Lore speaks up from beside Dugan, drawn in to their conversation. "My brother's there. He says it's hot."
"Hot? In Africa? Who'd have guessed?" Bucky jokes.
"Shut it, Serge. Point is, it don't matter where we get sent. Once we get into combat, you trust only yourself and the man next to you," Lore says determinedly.
"As long as he's in the one-oh-seventh, that is. Those other men can't wield a rifle like we can," Dugan adds.
"I can tell you one thing - if I end up next to Cramer, I'm moving further down the line. I'd rather end up next to you, Serge. I like you, Barnes. You seem like a good kid," Crawley tells Bucky.
"I'm older than you," Bucky protests to deaf ears.
"And when the bullets fly, I don't want no weakling fighting beside me. We need people beside us who aren't afraid to wield a gun or a bottle of whiskey."
Lore snorts. "Brotherhood, sure—but not with every guy in this damn army. Some of 'em shouldn't be here in the first place."
"Yeah," Crawley mutters under his breath. "I ain't dying in a foxhole next to some rat-faced Yid who oughta be behind a typewriter or counting coins instead of holding a gun."
The air in the barracks goes still. Bucky straightens, his eyes locking onto Crawley with a quiet, simmering fury.
"You wanna say that again?" His voice is low, dangerously calm.
Crawley hesitates, looking around for support, but the others stay silent. Lore shifts uncomfortably, while Dugan clears his throat and glances away.
"You're awful protective, Sergeant Barnes," Lore finally says, trying to lighten the mood. "Is there something you wanna tell us?"
Bucky doesn't look away from Crawley. "Yeah. I wanna tell you that if you ever say anything like that again, you'll be picking your teeth up off the damn floor."
Crawley swallows hard, nodding stiffly.
"That's what I thought," Bucky mutters, turning away.
"You're a Jew?" Crawley asks, his mouth dropping open.
"Not really. I don't know nothing about it, but my Ma is. She moved from Russia to the States to get away from all the stuff we're going over to stop. My father's a born and bred Catholic New Yorker. I guess you could say I'm a little bit of both, or nothing of either. Depends on what day it is." Bucky looks back to his pathetic excuse for spaghetti. He pushes it away from him, feeling sick to his stomach.
"What do you think of everything going on over there? Is that why you're fighting?" Dugan asks quietly, probably the quietest he's ever been in his life.
"No, I was drafted," Bucky says. "But I have always felt like it was a little closer to home than anyone else did. Besides, I don't think being a Jew or not has anything to do with it. What's going on over there is so wrong and evil I can't even wrap my head around it. Everyone should be fighting it, and we are. That's why nearly every country in the world is an ally." He stops, shifts under the uncomfortable gazes of the men. "Anyway, until then, I'd appreciate if you'd all keep your comments to yourself. Doesn't matter what religion we are, just matters that we're fighting for the same side, for the good of the world. It really isn't something to joke about," Bucky berates the men.
They all look a little stunned. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes, I didn't know."
"Well it isn't publicised information and there's obviously a reason for that. You don't need to apologise. But I trust that this conversation stays between us four." They all look quite solemn and apologetic for their earlier talk. "I understand that bantering and insulting one another is a good way for you all deal with what's happening to you, and I don't want you to stop. I'm sure my feelings can take a slight stabbing if it means you all keep doing your best. I just don't want to hear anything about money or my nose."
The men laugh, the lightheartedness returning. "Yes, sir. Of course."
Bucky doesn't say anything, but he notices later in the day that the men look at their Sergeant with a newfound respect, a protective gleam in their eyes that hadn't always been there. He doesn't comment on it, though.
A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you all for the reads, follows, favourites and reviews. Every word and peering eye makes me more grateful than you'll ever know. I hope everyone is enjoying the story, even as we move into some of the darker territories as our favourite characters are steered toward their encounter with the war. We still have quite a few chapters to go until we reach movie territory, but it's all planned out and it's on it's way!
Just a heads up that this chapter contained some era-appropriate racist slurs. I didn't meant to offend anyone and I'm sorry if I did. I'm merely just trying to communicate what it was truly like for people of varying nationalities and cultures in times of such discrimination and close-mindedness. All of the terms I've used are easily found online and in the history books.
I am currently doing an assignment for university about the immigration of people to Brooklyn, New York, so this chapter fits in nicely with my studies. This story and the idea of Bucky's family being Jewish was what persuaded me to take on the topic for my case study as I found it really interesting!