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His breathing sounded heavy in his ears, sweat dripping off his forehead. He clutched his rifle in a white-knuckled grip, wide eyes scanning his surroundings.
They were out there; he could feel it.
He burrowed deeper under the foliage, willing the heat and sweat of his body to stop letting off steam in the cool air.
Then he heard them. The voices were German, and were quiet at first, but grew in volume as they approached. He held his breath, slowly covered his mouth with a hand, and let out the air slowly.
The cold started to settle in, cooling his sweat and causing chills to race up and down his spine. This is bad. This is really bad. He thought of Steve, probably back home in Brooklyn and treating himself—and hopefully a girl—to a mushroom-and-pepperoni pizza after an eight-hour work day. Bet you'd never imagine what soldier life is like, pal. I'm glad you don't have to. But who was he kidding? He'd give anything to have Steve at his side. They'd always fought their way out of scrapes together—Bucky doing more fighting and Steve taking more punches—and they'd find their way out of this one.
But this time, the command to retreat had come too late. Most of his company had been captured already, and he heard the shouts of both triumph and terror as more were found, one by one.
He should fight. He should protect his comrades; he'd had enough practice growing up with Steve. But what was one man against what seemed like the entire German army?
He stopped breathing altogether, eyes trained downward, when a pair of booted feet came into view. Don't get captured, don't get captured, don't—
Something jabbed his back—hard. "Get up."
Bucky swallowed hard. This wasn't going well. He ran a dry tongue over his lips and slowly rose to his feet. His rifle was jerked from his arms before he could react.
And then they started marching. His stomach clenched at the sight of so many men walking helplessly unarmed straight into enemy territory. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He was supposed to take the Nazis by storm and go home as a decorated war hero.
He'd pictured his reunion with Steve a million times, scripting what he'd say. He'd walk through his friend's front door like nothing had ever happened, toss his hat casually to a peg on the wall, loop an arm around his thin shoulders. "Hey, pal, like my new jewelry?" "How's home front life, buddy?" "Steve, my man, you have got to see those Italian women." His jaw clenched. He'd make it home, one day. He was committed to the end of the line.
A scuffle to his left caught his attention. The boy couldn't have been more than eighteen years old, his scrawny limbs and too-big head seeming an unproportionate fit to his bulky helmet. He'd stumbled, went down hard. Bucky couldn't blame him; the battle had them all worn down: that was evident in the dark circles beneath the eyes of every soldier, shoulders stooped in the wake of defeat.
One of the Germans paused above the kid and let out a string of words in an angry tone that Bucky didn't understand—but he could use his imagination. Anger simmered under the surface. Picking on the underdog—just the thing I'd expect.
"Please—please don't touch me," the soldier on the ground whimpered. Bucky's stomach clenched.
But when he heard the crunch of ribs giving way underneath a combat boot, the anger boiled and spilled over.
That could've been Steve.
With a scream of rage, Bucky closed the space between himself and the soldier and took the Nazi down in a tackle that would've made Steve proud. He barely got one punch in before arms hauled him back. Something slammed into his stomach, and he doubled over. Someone sent a rifle butt at his face. Stars exploded.
The last thing he heard before everything went black was a sentence that made his body run cold.
"We have special plans for you , my friend."