0400 Hours – Departure from Queens

The depot lights buzzed weakly against the predawn darkness as Peter Parker boarded the Army transport bus, his civilian life reduced to a single duffel bag. At seventeen, he stood straighter than most recruits, his sharp eyes betraying none of the nervous energy thrumming through his veins. The bus smelled of wool coats, cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of fear-sweat—a far cry from the rosewater and pipe tobacco of the apartment he'd left behind.

He took a window seat, watching New York's familiar skyline shrink in the distance. The other recruits—some barely older than him, others hardened by factory work—alternated between nervous chatter and tense silence. Peter kept his hands folded in his lap, fingers tracing the outline of May's last letter in his breast pocket.

This is it.

The engine rumbled to life. The boy from Queens was going to war.

0700 Hours – Arrival at Camp Lehigh

Reality struck like a hammer when the bus gates groaned open.

Barracks stretched in endless rows, their fresh lumber still oozing sap under the morning sun. Drill sergeants prowled the gravel paths, their voices carving through the mist like artillery fire. Before Peter's boot even touched dirt—

"MOVE! OFF THE BUS! MOVE, MAGGOTS!"

Sergeant Daniel O'Malley—a mountain of a man with a voice like grinding gears—zeroed in on Peter instantly. He loomed so close Peter could count the burst capillaries in his nose.

"You! Baby face! Still suckin' your mama's teat?"

Peter's spine locked. "No, Sergeant!"

O'Malley's yellowed teeth gleamed. "Baby boy, still in your dippers, huh? Well now you're mine." He jabbed a finger at Peter's chest. "Welcome to hell, Private."

0730 Hours – The Shark Attack

Chaos erupted as drill instructors descended. Duffel bags were upended, recruits screamed at nose-to-nose, orders barked faster than thought. Peter's world narrowed to:

"NAME?"

"PARKER, SERGEANT!"

"WRONG! YOU'RE PRIVATE NOTHING UNTIL YOU EARN IT!"

Through the madness, Peter noticed a lanky recruit two men down—dark hair, smirk like he'd heard a private joke—getting the same treatment but grinning through it. Their eyes met briefly. The stranger winked before a sergeant spun him around.

O'Malley reappeared in his face. "Think you're special, pretty boy?"

The stranger's voice didn't waver. "No, Sergeant."

"Prove it. MOVE!"

0900 Hours – Medical Exam Haircut

The processing hall reeked of antiseptic and fresh sweat. Stripped to his skivvies, Peter endured the humiliating gauntlet. Cold stethoscopes pressed against his back, flashlights shone in his eyes, and rubber-gloved fingers probed his ears. The physician's pen scratched across his evaluation form—healthy, no defects, ideal candidate for medical training.

Then the barber's chair. No warning—just the buzz of clippers shearing away brown curls. Peter watched his reflection transform: the softness of boyhood falling away with each lock, revealing sharp cheekbones and a jaw set with quiet determination. The barber grunted, brushing stray hairs from his shoulders. "Next."

1100 Hours – Issue of Gear

The quartermaster's hut smelled of oiled leather and gunpowder. Peter's arms nearly buckled under the weight of his issued equipment—stiff new boots that would need breaking in, a helmet that slipped over his eyes, and most importantly, the medical bag with its bright red cross. The supply sergeant eyed Peter's medic tag as he handed over an M1 Garand.

"Red Cross attracts bullets, kid. Remember that. Be careful."

Peter hefted the bag higher. I'll make you proud, May.

1300 Hours – Physical Fitness Test

Noon sun baked the parade ground as recruits lined up for their first assessment. Peter pushed through forty-two push-ups before his arms trembled, managed fifty-eight sit-ups with his abs screaming, and completed the one-mile run in six minutes flat—not the fastest, but steady.

The smirking recruit from earlier—"Barnes, James!" on his tags—finished beside him, barely winded. He offered Peter a canteen. "Not bad for a kid."

Peter gulped warm water. "How old are you?"

Barnes winked. "Old enough to know you're too young."

O'Malley's whistle cut through their conversation. "LOVE BIRDS! MOVE OUT!"

1700 Hours – Barracks Chow

Barracks B-17 housed thirty recruits in Spartan conditions—narrow cots with scratchy wool blankets, footlockers still smelling of fresh paint, and the ever-present scent of sweat and boot polish. Peter claimed a bunk near the door, only for Barnes to drop his duffel on the adjacent cot.

"You're stuck with me, Baby Boy."

Dinner in the mess hall was gray meat swimming in watery gravy, lumpy mashed potatoes, and coffee strong enough to strip paint. Barnes stole an extra bread roll from a dozing recruit and slid it to Peter. "Eat up. You're skin and bones."

Peter tore into the stale bread. "Why the charity?"

Barnes shrugged. "You remind me of my kid sister. And my best pal Steve—same stubborn look." He leaned in. "Just don't tell anyone I've got a soft spot for ya'. Ruins my reputation."

2000 Hours – Lights Out

The barracks plunged into darkness punctuated by whispered conversations and the occasional sniffle from homesick recruits. Peter lay awake, blisters throbbing, muscles singing. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted—the first familiar sound since Queens.

Barnes' voice came softly through the dark. "You alive over there?"

Peter smiled. "Barely."

"Wait till tomorrow." Barnes rolled over. "Night, Baby Boy."

Peter closed his eyes. The boy was gone.

The medic was on his way.

Week 2 – "The Breaking Point"

Rain fell in icy sheets as Peter stood at attention, his new uniform soaked through. Beside him, Private Danny Greene—now universally called "Lucky" for both his ever-present Lucky Strikes and the charm Zippo lighter he got from his younger sister—blew a perfect smoke ring into the downpour.

"PARKER!" O'Malley's voice cut through the storm. "You first, Baby Boy."

As Peter approached the obstacle course, Lucky flicked his cigarette butt at Peter's boots. "Maybe if you smoked real cigarettes instead of those Winston pansy sticks, you'd have the lungs for this."

The squad erupted in laughter. Peter shot back without breaking stride: "Maybe if you didn't smoke like a steam engine, you wouldn't wheeze during night drills."

Lucky's grin widened as he pulled a fresh Lucky Strike from behind his ear. "Ain't my fault the Army issues these to real men." He lit it with a Zippo engraved To Danny - Stay Lucky - Sis.

The obstacle course was a nightmare of mud and barbed wire. Peter emerged gasping, his hands torn and bleeding, just in time to see Lucky collapse halfway through his own attempt.

"MEDIC!" O'Malley barked.

Peter knelt beside the wheezing soldier, checking his pulse. Lucky coughed in Peter's face. "Don't...get any...Winston germs...on me, Doc."

Peter bandaged Lucky's scraped palms with practiced motions. "Should've quit when I told you to."

Lucky's laugh turned into another cough. "Not...on your life...Baby Boy."

Week 3 – "The Iron Mike Treatment"

The morning air stank of wet canvas and sweat as Sergeant O'Malley paced before the platoon at 0500. Peter stood at attention beside Barnes, his still-healing blisters screaming inside stiff boots. Around them, the rest of their squad shifted uneasily - Vince Moretti with his permanent scowl, lanky Dwight Phillips from Alabama, and quiet Thomas "Paintjob" Kowalski who spent every free moment sketching in a battered notebook.

"Today separates the soldiers from the sorry sacks of—" O'Malley's tirade cut off as Phillips swayed dangerously before collapsing face-first into the mud.

Barnes snorted. "Christ, that's the third time this week."

Peter kept his voice low. "Maybe if O'Malley didn't make us stand at attention for two hours before breakfast—"

"PARKER!" O'Malley's shadow fell over them. "You got medical opinions now, Baby Boy? Fix him!"

Peter broke formation to kneel beside the unconscious recruit, checking his pulse with hands that no longer shook. "Dehydrated, Sergeant. Needs electrolytes and shade."

"What he needs," O'Malley growled, "is to stop being a goddamn pussy." He turned to the platoon. "New rule! Every time Phillips faints, you all run laps. Starting now!"

As the company groaned, Barnes hauled the dazed recruit up with one arm. "C'mon Vertigo, before you get us all killed." The nickname stuck - soon everyone was calling the hapless Alabamian "Vert."

That night in the barracks, the squad took turns dumping canteens on Verts's head while he groaned. Moretti - who everyone called "Gargoyle" for his permanent scowl - leaned in close. "Swear to God, Phillips, I'll sew your eyelids open if you faint tomorrow."

Barnes tossed Peter a candy bar stolen from the mess. "Nice work today, Doc." The nickname slipped out naturally, and from that moment on, Peter was "Doc" as often as he was "Baby Boy."

Week 4 – Night Fire Exercises

Smoke hung thick over the rifle range as Peter lined up his shot, the M1 Garand's familiar weight pressing into his shoulder. Three weeks of daily drills had turned the rifle's kick from a bruising punishment to a manageable push.

"Quit squinting, Baby Boy." Sergeant Ruiz - the range instructor missing three fingers from Guadalcanal - chuckled as he adjusted Peter's stance. The soldiers called him "Revolver" behind his back. "The bullet don't care if you blink."

Three lanes down, Barnes whooped as he nailed a perfect grouping. "Eat your heart out, Parker!"

"Medics save lives, we don't take 'em," Peter shot back, earning chuckles from the rest of their fire team. Preacher Jones - who could quote Scripture faster than rifle specs - shook his head in mock disappointment. Beside him, Lucky exhaled a perfect smoke ring from his umpteenth Lucky Strike of the day.

"That's 'cause you're too busy sucking down those baby Winstons," Lucky coughed, tossing Peter a crumpled pack. "Try a real smoke sometime."

Peter caught it, only to throw it back. "I like tasting my food, thanks."

"Pansy," Lucky wheezed, though his eyes crinkled with amusement.

At midnight, O'Malley roused them for night maneuvers. Vert promptly walked himself into a tree hard enough to stagger backwards.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," Gargoyle muttered as Peter dug through his field kit, already reaching for gauze to patch the bleeding forehead.

Barnes slung an arm around both of them, his breath visible in the cold air. "Look at our medic - gonna single-handedly keep the 107th in Band-Aids."

Peter grinned as he pressed the dressing to Vert's wound. "Somebody's gotta save you morons from yourselves."

Week 5 – Gas Chamber The Initiation

The tear gas chamber smelled like burning rubber and regret. Peter's goggles fogged as he followed Barnes through the acrid smoke, reciting the drill instructor's words in his head like a mantra: Don't panic. Breathe through the mask. Help the stragglers.

A wet, choking sound came from his left. Lucky was hyperventilating, his mask hanging loose as he clawed at his throat. Without thinking, Peter ripped off his own mask to secure Lucky's, the gas searing his lungs like liquid fire. He half-carried the wheezing soldier through the exit, where Barnes waited with canteens of blessedly clean water.

O'Malley watched Peter vomit behind a tree, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Real medics don't play the hero, Parker. They follow procedure, but that was a brave thing to do. Good job."

Barnes handed Peter a canteen oncethe coughing subsided. " You just earned your stripes."

That evening, the squad ambushed Peter in the showers just as the lukewarm water hit his back.

"Time for your baptism, Baby Boy," Gargoyle announced, hefting a bucket of ice water with a rare grin.

Barnes pinned Peter's arms as Lucky dumped the freezing contents over his head. The entire barracks erupted in rhythmic chants of "DOC! DOC! DOC!" as Peter gasped from the shock.

Shivering but grinning, Peter accepted a contraband beer from Rembrandt, the bottle warm but the gesture priceless. "Welcome to the 107th, kid."

Even O'Malley cracked a smile from the doorway. "Just don't make me regret it, Parker."

Week 6 – Triage Training

The simulated battlefield reeked of cordite and copper as Peter knelt beside his "dying" patient—a mannequin with a chest wound pumping fake blood.

"Talk to him," Lieutenant Abrams ordered. "Keep him calm."

Peter pressed gauze to the wound. "You're gonna be fine, just—"

The mannequin's breathing tube stilled. Abrams stopped his watch.

"What was his name?"

Peter blinked. "I... don't know."

Abrams nodded grimly. "You'll know the real ones. Their names. Their hometowns. The pictures they carry. And the first one, the first one you never forget" He lifted the mannequin's shirt, revealing a scrawled label: Pvt. Daniel Fisher, 24, Toledo, OH.

"Remember this feeling. It'll keep you sharp."

That night, Peter added a new name to his unsent letters.

Week 13 – Furlough at Stark Expo

The Stark Expo blazed against the New York skyline like a mechanical carnival. Neon towers pulsed with electric blue light, their glow reflecting off polished chrome exhibits. Peter adjusted his dress uniform collar as he followed Barnes through the crowd.

Lucky won a stuffed bear at a shooting gallery and immediately shoved it at Peter. "For when you miss your blankie overseas, Baby Boy."

Peter retaliated by buying a carton of Winstons from a vendor, presenting it with exaggerated ceremony. "For when you finally grow taste buds."

Lucky clutched his chest. "Doc, that's cold." But he pocketed them anyway, the bear tucked under his other arm.

A familiar voice cut through the noise: "About time you showed up, Buck!"

A scrawny man stood by a "World of Tomorrow" display, swimming in a suit that emphasized his narrow shoulders and thin frame. The contrast between him and the two soldiers was striking—where Peter's uniform masked his youth and Barnes' enhanced his natural athleticism, Steve's civilian clothes hung awkwardly on his slight form.

Barnes pulled Steve into a crushing hug. "Look at you! Playing civilian while we do the real work."

Steve shoved him off. "I'd be over there too if—" His eyes flicked to Peter. "Who's this?" "Steve Rogers, but you can just call me Steve."

"Private Baby Boy Parker," Barnes announced. "Medic, troublemaker, and my personal headache."

Peter extended a hand. "Peter's fine."

Steve's grip was surprisingly strong. "Ignore him. Bucky collects strays."

The Hudson River Dock

The Expo's noise faded as they settled on a weathered pier, legs dangling over the dark water.

Peter lit a cigarette. The tobacco burned his throat, but the warmth felt good against the autumn chill.

He offered Steve one.

He hesitated before declining.

Steve studied the glowing ember. "When you're the guy getting picked last for everything, you start noticing things. Who stands up when no one else will. Who runs toward the fight instead of away." Peter flicked ash into the water. "Problem is... noticing don't change nothing. Still can't enlist. Still watch from the sidelines."

Peter exhaled smoke toward the stars. "You tried how many recruitment stations now?"

"Seven." Steve's laugh was hollow. "Even forged papers twice. They take one look at my chest x-rays..." He mimed tearing paper. "4-F every time."

The Expo's lights shimmered on the water between them. Peter rolled the cigarette between his fingers. "You know what my aunt told me when I begged her not to ship out? Said sometimes the bravest thing isn't charging in—it's being the one who patches up the fools who did."

Steve finally looked up. "That's why you became a medic? To clean up other people's messes?"

"Partly." Peter let the cigarette drop, watching the tiny spark die in the water. "Mostly because when I lost her... I realized the world's got two kinds of people. Those who take lives, and those who save 'em." He turned to face Steve fully. "You're wrong about one thing though."

"Yeah?"

"Noticing changes everything." Peter tapped his temple. "That's where it starts. Most folks walk right past the fights they could step into. You? You see 'em coming a mile away."

For the first time all night, Steve's shoulders straightened. The wind carried away the cigarette smoke as something unspoken passed between them—the skinny kid who couldn't enlist and the baby-faced soldier who'd only option was to.

After a long moment, Steve nodded toward Peter's medic insignia. "You save one over there... you tell 'em some punk from Brooklyn said welcome to the right side."

Peter smiled. "Only if you promise to stop trying to enlist long enough to keep yourself out of trouble."

Steve's laughter startled a night heron into flight. "Now you're asking for miracles."

They talked until the Expo lights dimmed—about science journals Steve illustrated for money, about Peter's fascination with radio engineering, about the future they hoped would come after the war. When Barnes finally stumbled back at dawn with lipstick on his collar, he found them exactly where he'd left them, still talking as the sun painted the water gold.

Brooklyn Army Terminal - November 15, 1943

The USS Mount Vernon loomed before them, its gray hull swallowing dockworkers whole. Peter adjusted his medic bag, the Red Cross bright against olive drab. Around him, the 107th shuffled in formation, boots scraping concrete.

Barnes elbowed him. "Last chance to desert, Baby Boy." His smirk didn't reach his eyes. Peter opened his mouth when a familiar voice shouted: "PARKER!"

Steve pushed through the crowd, thrusting a package at Peter—a leather-bound journal. Inside cover: For the names that matter.

Barnes whistled. "Damn, Rogers. Getting soft?"

Steve ignored him, gripping Peter's shoulder. "You remember what we talked about." Peter nodded, throat tight. "Responsibility isn't about size. It's about showing up."

The ship's horn drowned Steve's reply. As the gangplank lowered, Barnes threw an arm around both. "Alright, enough mush. Bucky—don't do anything stupid."

James shouldered his rifle. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

Steve's laughter followed them up the ramp. Peter didn't look back until New York was a smudge on the horizon, the journal burning a hole in his pocket.

Somewhere below decks, a harmonica began to play.

O'Malley's voice cut through the murmurs: "Listen up, maggots! First stop—England. Then hell."

Barnes put his arms around Peter.

"Welcome to the war, Baby Boy."

Peter touched his medic insignia. Somewhere ahead, men would bleed and scream and need saving.

He was ready.