"They fight not for the lust of conquest.

They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate."

- President Franklin D. Roosevelt

media:

"Comin' In on a Wing and a Prayer"

by the Four Vagabonds

London, England; July 22, 1941

The anti-aircraft gun was situated in the middle of a nearby park, half-obscured from the smoke of a bomb that had killed its operators. Steve had only noticed the upright barrel as he was about to descend into the air raid shelter, and he knew there were more important things to do than huddle in the dark and wait for the danger to disappear.

Darting across the street through the stragglers running for shelter, he leaped over the short fence surrounding the area and onto the plush grounds of the park. The greens were deserted, leaving behind the remnants of an afternoon of relaxation in the wake of the German bombers: picnic baskets sat upended, children's' playthings abandoned in the desperate rush for safety.

Massive shells as tall as Steve's waist stood like rows of soldiers beside the massive gun. Steve had never operated such a gun in his life, but he observed the mechanism of the structure from all angles and began to mentally dissect it.

"Okay," he muttered under his breath, fingers pressed against the hard metal structure, "This hatch is where you load the shell. This viewfinder is for the sight, and this lever adjusts the gun's angle. I can do this."

He swung open the breech-block and peered into the barrel to make sure it was already empty. Hefting one of the shells in his arms, Steve positioned it in the gun's barrel and latched it shut. A bag of gunpowder was stuffed into the containment area. Immediately a whirring buzz rumbled from the barrel and a blinking light sparked to life, flashing a staccato of yellow behind a pane of thick, clear plastic. Had he done something wrong?

Frantically Steve observed the rest of the gun again, trying to find any switch or knob that would alert him he was able to fire. The sooner the better, too – the screech of the German engines were returning in full force, and he watched as the bombers wheeled about and began their descent to deposit another payload of explosives. A sickening smell filled Steve's nose, and he saw a nearby barrage balloon on fire from the beating it had taken, wilting in the heat.

"Oh, come on!" Steve pounded a fist against the side of the gun in frustration, which served only to bruise his knuckles. He was about to abandon his plan and hurry back to the shelter when the yellow light snapped to a steady green. Whooping with surprise, Steve manipulated the levers to angle the shell towards the group of German fighters.

By searching through the enhanced view of the sights, Steve was able to determine the make of the German planes. The forms of five Messerschmitt Bf bombers peeled away from their vantage points in the sky and descended directly towards Steve's position manning the gun. He was pleased to notice they were the more lightly armored F-versions of the formidable plane series, so he wouldn't have to worry about attacks from the wing root guns, but he would still be a goner if any of those bombs landed on top of his head. No secret serum could repair him if his limbs were scattered miles around the park.

Steve yanked down on the lever and cranked back his arm, jumping away from the gun as it kicked back and catapulted the shell into the sky with a deafening crash. Clamping his hands over his ears, he was spared from the sound of the explosion firing mere feet from him, but the blast still sent a shockwave through the ground.

His careful aiming was rewarded as the first Messerschmitt erupted into a fiery inferno, its light defenses buckling under the force of the shell. The blaze ignited the engine of a second plane, which turned away and headed back toward the Channel with a stream of black trailing through the sky like blood.

The three remaining planes zoomed above Steve, the sound from their engines rattling his teeth as he stood totally exposed beside a clear target. He dove under the cover of a dense canopy of trees as the planes unloaded their loads, scattering bombs across the nearby streets and into the earth of the park where Steve hunkered without cover. Making himself as small a target possible, Steve curled into a ball and covered his ears again as the bombs rained fire and brimstone on the streets of London. Earth was flung into the air like fountains, filling the world with the stench of gunpowder and smoke.

Trees were shredded, buildings buckled under the force of the bombs, and Steve could only lie on his side and pray with all his might that he might survive this wave of attacks.

Just when it seemed the blasts would never end, a moment of silence brought Steve's head upright. His clothes were covered in upturned dirt and mud, gunpowder clogged his nostrils and he could hardly hear out of one ear, but he was otherwise unhurt from the German assault. He picked himself up from the ground, shaking the mud from his clothes as he ran back to the anti-aircraft gun and loaded another huge shell into position.

This time the light flashed immediately to green as if the machine could sense Steve's urgency. By drawing back on a two-pronged instrument, he was able to angle the gun's barrel completely in reverse of its original position, facing the planes as they turned back to make another sweep of the park. Steve was determined to make sure they didn't even come close.

Flipping the viewfinder around, Steve surveyed the German planes as they performed a textbook about-face and started bearing down toward him again. He would submit to the German pilots only this: they were certainly skilled in their flying abilities. It wasn't enough to keep him from shooting them down, however.

The dials aligned perfectly and Steve yanked back on the lever to fire, the massive gun leaping backward beneath him as it fired the shell towards the Germans. Once again, the center plane was struck dead-on, but the pilots on the left and right had the sense to pull away before the flames incapacitated their aircraft as well.

Trails of dirt kicked up in even lines leading up to the anti-aircraft gun and Steve ducked behind the structure. The Germans unloaded their fuselage guns on him, the snapping of bullets pinging off of the metal structure like popcorn as they attempted to neutralize the threat. Steve only felt more alone and exposed by the minute, but he pushed these doubts aside and leveled to gun toward his two remaining enemies with determination. Armed like they were, these two planes could wreak untold havoc on the civilians of London, and Steve couldn't bear the thought of civilians falling prey to their bombs and machine guns.

Once again the planes turned and prepared to go after Steve and his pesky anti-aircraft fire for a final time. Steve could admire their persistence as well, but he needed a way to take both planes out at the same time. He had loaded his final shell into the anti-aircraft gun, and without ammunition he would be a sitting duck for German steel and explosives.

Focusing the sight once more, Steve angled the crosshairs towards the left wing of the rightmost plane. If he timed his attack just right, he could detonate the shell in midair and take both planes out with him. He would have to attack quickly, while the Germans were still in the air – the closer they got to the surface, the more of a threat they posed to crashing into buildings and claiming more innocent lives. Nudging the angle of the gun barrel slightly upward, Steve thrust his arm back and dragged the lever down for one final firing of the gun.

The shell arced in a graceful curve towards the two planes as they glided far above the city streets before they had even begun their descent. A shot from so far away was easily visible and even more easily evaded, but the Germans must have been as surprised about Steve's early attack as Steve was himself. Neither made an effort to move out of the way as the shell tore through the left wing of the second plane. The impact drove the plane's momentum in a wide arc and directly into the first plane, metal crunching in midair as the two crafts collided and burst into a brilliant explosion of red and yellow above the city skyline. Bits of scrap metal pattered down onto the street, too small to be harmful, and flames roiled in the air as the gasoline burned off and vanished in a belching black cloud of smoke.

Steve stepped away from the gun, mopping his brow and giving his handiwork a grin of satisfaction. The silence had lasted only a minute when a thundering of applause sounded from the street. He turned to see a crowd of people assembled by the fence of the park, eyes bright and fists thrust into the air. Were they cheering for him?

The shutter of ten cameras flashed and babbling voices swelled over each other as Steve approached the fence. His eyes scanned the crowd for Tony, Clint, or any of the men from the Reuben James, but he was met with smart-looking reporters thrusting recorders into his face.

"'Scuse me, sir, wouldja mind giving me a quote for the paper? What happened up there?"

"Who on earth are you, my good man? American? British?"

"American," Steve called back absently, standing on his toes to continue his search. "Please, I'm just looking for my friends..."

"Where are you from, mister...?"

Instincts kicked in and Steve had to resist extending his hand to shake with the portly reporter. "Steve Rogers, sir. U.S. Army."

The cluster of reporters pushed closer, some hanging over the gate. Camera flashes bathed the park in a second sunrise, half-blinding Steve as he continued his search.

"Ah, a military man! What seized you to defend these civilians like you did?"

Steve turned to face the man and looked at him with a level gaze. "Nothing seized me, sir. There were civilians in danger and those Germans were threatening their lives. Anyone would have done the same thing in my position."

Pencils scribbled against paper to write his quote down, and before Steve could take another breath a barrage of questions erupted from the crowd.

"Mr. Rogers, would you mind giving a quote for Punch?"

"Look this way, Yank!"

"Excuse me, I have to find my friends," Steve broke away from the crush of reporters and ran down the length of the fence until he found a spot that wasn't packed with onlookers. Leaping over the barrier with one motion, he jogged across the street to the entrance of the safe house. Civilians poured from the doors as the All-Clear sound continued its whooping above the streets of London – Steve hadn't heard the siren begin with the onslaught of newsmen chasing after him. The tide turned to a trickle as the last of the shelter-goers exited the doors, followed by the British soldiers and Reuben James crew.

"You're alive! Where'd you run off to, then?" Farley jabbed a finger towards the sky. "Didn't you see those planes up there?"

"Yes, well... I shot them down," Steve rubbed the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed by all of the attention he was getting from his escapades with the anti-aircraft gun. Farley's jaw dropped, and the British soldiers clapped him on the back in a gesture of thanks. A few Londoners lingered by their small group, staring up at Steve with wonder and admiration. The pack of newsmen stood a careful distance away, pens poised.

"Let's find someplace to hole up for the night. Any of you know of a good hotel around here?" Tony turned to the tallest of the British men, who laughed in response.

"A hotel? You've shot down bombers from our skies, rescued British lives, and you expect to stay in some soldiers' home? You stay with us tonight. My place isn't but a twenty-minute walk from here, and we have plenty of room for all of you... So long as you don't mind sleeping on couches, that is."

"Are you kidding? I've been sleeping on a burlap sack for the past few weeks. A couch sounds like heaven!" Owen whooped, and Steve felt a similar rush of exhilaration. A home-cooked meal that hadn't come from the cans of the Reuben James storerooms seemed like heaven.

The change that fell over London was unbelievable following the bombing. Cheery conversation rang out across the street, with friends calling to each other and children darting between the legs of their parents. In a strange way, the air raid appeared to have fortified them. No one appeared to be traumatized or even injured.

"Is this normal in London?" Steve asked, and the portly English soldier followed his gaze to the crowds.

"We've been enduring bombing raids from the Germans for over a year now. Add a young American hero to the mix, and the experience comes off as almost pleasant." He noticed Steve's confused expression and chuckled. "London is used to it by now, believe me."

A sobering feeling fell over Steve as he ducked his head. Back in America he didn't have to worry about being bombed or rationing... The situation in England was direr than he had previously expected.

"Lori and mother with be glad to see you all. Real American soldiers! My sister might ask for your autograph," the tall soldier winked and Tony straightened suddenly.

"A sister, huh? Has her sweetheart gone off to war as well?"

The soldier shook his head and observed Tony's hopeful expression with a sardonic smile on his face. "Lori doesn't have a sweetheart. If any of you Yanks make a move on her I'll make sure you end your days with the barrel of a rifle up your arse."

Tony's smile sagged and he looked away, crestfallen. "Ah, of course."

The residential streets appeared wholly unscathed as the small band wandered back to the soldier's home. Red brick and white trimming starkly contrasted the blackened windows, giving a very Nazi-like color scheme to the neighborhood. Steve had never been outside of New York before, but he imagined Berlin would look very drab and dull bedecked in monochrome and scarlet. Pops of color stood out across the street: a porch overflowing with vases of green vines, or the flash of a blue dress as a woman pulled her young daughter inside the house. From beyond the street a party was in full swing. Steve could hear the strains of a saxophone over the rush of the wind and the hushed chatter of the British soldiers as they neared home.

"Albert Thomas Abel!" a stern voice called from the doorway, and the tall soldier looked up and waved at a frowning woman standing on the porch with her hands placed firmly on her hips. A blue apron hung from her waist, stained with flour dough. A young girl stood behind her mother and peered over her shoulder hesitantly, then grinned and dashed down the stairs to jump into the tall soldier's arms.

"Abe! You're back!" she cried, and the soldier tugged on one of her braids playfully.

"How goes it, Lori? Mum, come meet these chaps, they're from America!"

Abel's mother remained stiff as she descended the stairs, sizing the men up as well as any company commander. "Yanks, hmm?"

Steve took the initiative to step forward and extend his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Abel. Steve Rogers." The woman's eyes softened at the gesture and she shook his hand, introducing herself to the Reuben James boys and the other British soldiers, who she greeted with familiarity.

"Oh, you all look exhausted." All semblance of stiffness gone, the woman placed a hand against Farley's cheek with a warm smile on her face. "And do try not to track too much dirt into the house when you come in, will you?"

Steve's uniform was practically caked in mud from the park, so he took off his shoes and left them on the doorstep. As he stepped through the threshold a wave of warmth passed over him, along with the smell of cooking chicken and a thousand other delicious smells that made him go weak in the knees. The feeling appeared to be mutual as Sabin sighed loudly and Farley's stomach gave a mutinous growl. Lori laughed with the sound of a clear bell and she pulled Farley over to a chair, dragging in stools and seats from other rooms of the house to make room for all of the soldiers. Soon the kitchen was transformed into a room of warmth and activity.

"Albert, grab one of your friends and have them dice the vegetables," The woman instructed from her position near the sink, turning over strips of genuine chicken in a pan. Steve was salivating just thinking about the upcoming meal, and watching the women of the house prepare it was absolutely unbearable. Farley leaped forward and started after the vegetables with a passion. He wasn't the only one blatantly staring at Lori's fine features – Sabin and Stark appeared equally smitten.

As Steve sat back in his chair, the scent of a home-cooked meal lingering around him and the warmth of the hearth fuel him, the world of Nazis and gravesites and the Red Army seemed miles away. A lone thought trailed through his mind as he observed the scene before him: the British soldiers laughing at a joke, the flush of excitement that tinted the room in a rosy haze.

I can get used to this.

(Thank you so much for your support! I would love to hear what you think of the story so far!)