"Life is a matter of luck, and the odds in favor of success

are in no way enhanced by extreme caution."

- Erich Topp, U-552 commander

media:

"Casablanca Suite"

by Max Steiner

blend by me

Atlantic Shipping Lanes; August 7, 1941

Steve got his first taste of command when Agent Carter elected to put him at the head of the Reuben James crew's physical training.

There had been no announcement of her impromptu addition to the crew. He only noticed when there was a new member of the day's officer meetings. Peggy Carter was a ranking British officer whose looks the sailors swooned over, but her boxy Army uniform and continually downturned lips dissuaded them from making any advances. Besides the fact that she would probably break their necks if they tried - Carter was en route to Tunisia to train the troops there, and her tactical military knowledge was all but absolute.

Over the course of their calisthenics sessions Steve had gotten to know the men personally, and the results were instantaneous. Pride hung in the balance of their exercise – now that Steve knew a man's hometown and favorite baseball team, he could throw out an offhand comment to pull the sailors back into action. He refrained from these personal jabs as often as he could, and the other sailors often did his work for him when a man fell behind.

There was a certain isolation to being the science experiment of Steve Rogers, but he felt that loneliness start to dissipate as he reached out to the sailors. He knew which ones smoked, which ones drank, and which did both. He learned the names of sweethearts, real and imagined, and family members stationed elsewhere or who were about to be called up to serve. He discovered their hopes and their fears, and he was always ready to talk to anyone about anything from politics to disputes over a man stealing his friend's Lucky Strikes.

A remarkable transformation had occurred over the two weeks of Steve's leadership on the Reuben James, both public and personal. The sailors were stronger mentally and physically, from both their PT and Agent Carter's nightly tactical sessions. Any question of her merit for officer ranking vanished during her first session. Carter commanded the floor in a room packed full of tired sailors, leading them in a crash course of attacking enemy encampments with only a knife and a compass. Her tactical skills were brilliant, and she was able to draw in every eye when she described missions and strategies, long-fought battles and future plans.

Everyone learned something in those night sessions. Steve realized that it took more than textbooks to master something, when his knowledge of training manuals paled in comparison to Agent Carter's combat experience. Even Steve found that in a mere two weeks he was able to pick up any of the Navy boys' jobs easily, from radioman to gunner. Every sailor became an expert in his particular station, fine-tuned by Agent Carter's tactical approach and the officers' mastery of their instruments.

Even Carter herself could pick up a thing or two from the soldiers, which evidenced itself during one late-night meeting when she displayed ideal Army gear as an example for the sailors should they find themselves thrust into a land-based combat situation. She picked up a dark green helmet, webbed on the top with black mesh and woven with brown and green fabric straps to simulate foliage, and clipped it under her chin.

"Agent Carter, you shouldn't be clipping your helmet!" a voice called from the center of the room, and Steve didn't have to look to see that it was Clint. He was surrounded by his posse of friends and looked ever so slightly smug as he crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"And why is that, Seaman?"

"Well, ma'am, if you're getting shelled the wave from the blasts'll lift your helmet from your head and snap your neck."

After that memorable lesson, dangling helmet straps were a necessity for sailors. Steve thought he saw an officer punishing a seaman for buckling his straps one day, so it appeared Clint's statement had had a strong effect on even the Navy higher-ups on board.

Steve's close relations with the sailors contrasted the parallel life he knew he was leading with Lieutenant Edwards and the Reuben James officers. He wasn't quite sure, but something about Tony Stark and Steve's transformation had merited close connections with the crew. Confidential information, recent news about the war waging in North Africa and the tangled politics of Europe, and future shipments were all addressed during mandatory meetings in the middle of the day when the sailors were manning their stations or performing chores. Steve's job was very minor, simply updating the officers on the physical and mental status of the men. He didn't like to pretend he was any more important than such a task, despite how much the sailors attempted to play up his "secret meetings" during conversation.

Steve's day was a whirlwind of activity, from waking up at the crack of dawn for calisthenics to officer meetings and Carter's night sessions, and he was profoundly exhausted when he collapsed into his bunk at ungodly hours in the night. But he wouldn't trade it for the world.

In one of his spare moments of free time, when Agent Carter had dismissed the sailors after a brief lesson on managing gunshot wounds, Steve reclined on his bunk with a newspaper propped against his knees. The articles were grim as always, depicting ruinous conditions in France and the plight of the mass exodus of the Jewish people as the Germans swept over all of Europe.

A shadow fell over his bunk and Steve looked up to see the bulky form of Joe Biehl standing over him, clasping his large hands in front of him and looking distinctly embarrassed. Immediately a list of attributes flashed before Steve's mind: Seaman, volunteer, has a kid in Milwaukee.

"What can I do for you, Joe?" he asked, and Biehl licked his lips before responding. His eyes flashed to the left and right and he rocked forward on his heels, making sure no one was watching their exchange.

"I gotta tell ya somethin', sir. It's just that... Jesus, I'm a damned fool. Sir, I've been hearing rumblings about the U-boats 'n all, and I just wanted to say... I'm scared, sir!"

Steve's gaze flickered to both sides out of force of habit, but he met Biehl's damp stare with a pleasant expression. "I'd be scared if you weren't, Joe. What worries you the most?"

Looking relieved Steve wasn't ridiculing him, Biehl sat on the bunk opposite Steve and tapped his thick fingers against his knees. "I got a little girl back home, sir, an' I wanna see her grow up with me around. I wanna see her ride a bike and scare the firs' boy she brings home, an' I can't do that if a Kraut's shootin' me down!"

"Biehl, do you trust the sailors on this ship with your life?"

Biehl's head jolted up and down in a frantic nod. "Yessir, more than ever. We all know each other better than every, thanks to you, sir. I hope you don't my comin' and askin' you these things, sir."

"Anytime. How old is your daughter?"

Face flushing with pride, Biehl dug around in his pockets and drew out a battered leather wallet. A small photograph slid from its first pocket, an image of a tiny infant cradled in the arms of a lovely young woman. "Four months, sir. Jamie reckons she looks like me, but I say the opposite."

"She's beautiful, Biehl," Steve smiled and the sailor flushed with pride.

"So you can see why I'd wanna get back home, sir?"

"Seaman, I will promise you this here and now. It is my goal to equip you and the sailors on board with the skills that will protect you on the battlefield, and you are no exception. You will get home, Biehl, I swear it myself."

A relieved grin spread across Biehl's broad features and he shook Steve's hand with a vigorous pump of his arm. "You're a good man, sir, a real good man. Thanks again."

Steve had only just propped his newspaper on his knees again when Tony strode over to his bunk and dragged the paper from his grasp. "Oh, look at all this doom and gloom. No wonder you're working the guys so hard every morning."

"Yeah, you should stop by sometime!" A sailor, most likely Owen, called back after him.

"Anyways, we've been called up again. Edwards has some news for us," Tony shrugged, looking unconcerned at the late-night summons. "He asked for us personally, so it must be a big deal."

Dragging on his boots, Steve kept his voice lowered as he attempted to make himself look somewhat presentable. "Do you have any idea what we're facing? Is the ship in danger?"

Tony gave him a wry sideways look. "We're always in danger, right?"

"You know what I mean."

Despite Steve's wishes, their conversation was already drawing attention from the clusters of sailors settling down for the night. Steve stood and made his way to the door of the crew's quarters, through the nearly-deserted mess hall and up onto the deck.

Stars twinkled from their positions in the cold heavens, glimmering like tiny diamonds in a nest of velvet blue. Dark Navy uniforms blended into the the bleak sky, along with the bottom-heavy forms of the hulking British carriers a safe distance away. The night, cheery and calm minutes ago, now hung with foreboding as Steve and Tony made their way to the bridge.

Heavy boots clattered against the steps as they entered the warmth of the bridge center, with Edwards standing at the helm and the Reuben James officers scattered throughout the room on a ramshackle combination of chairs and stools that had been scrounged from around the ship. Agent Carter leaned against the wall and offered Steve a small smile, which he returned with a wan sort of grimace.

"What's this about, then?" one of the officers piped up at last, whose name Steve hadn't learned yet. The only officers he knew by name were the ones the sailors liked the least and thus complained about the most often.

"We've been wired some interesting intelligence reports from stateside," Lieutenant Dewey Johnston, the Reuben James' XO and Edwards' second-in-command, gestured for a table to be dragged over in the open space of the bridge. Johnston hefted an armload of cardboard cylinders and carefully unscrewed the top of one, unrolling a massive map of the Atlantic Ocean and laying it across the oaken tabletop.

"Our route to Casablanca takes us through an area known to be frequented by U-boat wolfpacks. Circumventing the region would be too large of a drain on our fuel – we're pushing making it to Morocco as it is – but we will enter a zone where the sailors will have to be on high alert."

"You don't think they'll be so bold to fire on us, will you?" Junior Lieutenant Daub eyed the map with an incredulous expression scrawled across his features. Red lines penciled in known U-boat traffic areas, and blue lines showed the planned route of the Reuben James and Allied craft that had gone before. What drew Steve's eyes most were the blue 'x' symbols traced against the light blue of the ocean, mostly congregated around Iceland.

Their meaning was clear: the location of sunken ships. Edwards' intentions were just as transparent. He did not want the Reuben James to become another 'x' on a Navy map.

"Officers, equip your men with this information and continue drilling on mastery of the sailors' individual jobs, gunnery in particular. I want depth charges prepped and ready to fire every hour of the day and the crew on high alert. We are taking no chances with this mission, and I plan not to lose a ship."

Edwards turned to Agent Carter next, looking particularly solemn as he did so. "Carter, continue to train the men in nightly sessions with a focus on ammunition and artillery. And on submarines, of course. I want every man to know how to shoot every blasted gun on this ship accurately and quickly. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," Carter saluted smartly, and Steve could almost see the gears turning in behind her dark eyes.

"Let me make myself clear to everyone in this room as well. The Germans have sunk the Robin Moor, the Longtaker, the Steel Seafarer, the Montana, the Pink Star, I.C. White, the W.C. Teagle, the Bold Venture... Need I go on? The Reuben James will not be the next casualty on that list."

Every name fell like a physical blow on Steve's chest. He had felt secure hundreds of feet above the surface of the sea, and even after his deadly encounter with the German submarines, they still seemed to be shrouded in fantasy. Edwards' speech was eye-opening and raw with emotion. When Steve studied the LC's face, he noticed the flash of moisture in the man's eyes before he turned away.

"That is all. Dismissed."

Disquieted murmurs filled the room as Edwards stalked back to his post. Tony sidled up next to Steve and raised his eyebrows, similarly impressed by the message of the commander. A few of the lower-ranking officers clustered to the side, and Steve followed after them as they hurried up the stairs to deliver the news to the sailors.

"Never seen the LC get so emotional before. What gives?"

"Give him a rest, will ya? I heard he had a kid brother on one of the ships, one of the first ones the Krauts torpedoed. He's got every reason to emotional."

Tony grabbed Steve's sleeve and pulled him to the side, half-illuminated by the nighttime lighting that brightened the deck in choppy segments. "Who's going to break the news to the guys?"

Unlike the officers, Tony didn't seem quite as concerned about the threat of German submarines prowling hundreds of feet beneath his heels. Steve supposed that if you were a millionaire globetrotter you didn't scare easily, but Tony's unconcerned expression was slightly unnerving. "I don't know. One of the officers, I suppose."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. We're like the spectators in radio shows whenever Bridges calls those meetings – just fill the seats and clap every so often." Tony's tone was caustic, possessing a bitterness Steve hadn't heard from him. He supposed if you were a millionaire globetrotter you didn't spend much time out of the spotlight, either. This must have been a strange phenomenon for Stark.

The distant stars seemed colder than ever now, and a brisk breeze tore across the deck. The storm had followed them out of London and had been doggedly tailing the Reuben James ever since, like a primordial omen. Steve shivered and crossed his arms in an effort to dispel the cold, although he had no inclination to go back down to the barracks. He didn't want to be the first one to break the news to the sailors.

"I guess I should head back to the engine room. They might need some help up there for something... I'll make something up." Tony gave him a quick grin and started for the rigging.

Knowing he didn't have an excuse to linger any longer, Steve descended the flight of stairs and glanced around the mess hall, now completely empty, and made his way into the barracks. The usually jovial atmosphere of the crew's quarters was crushed by a chilling silence, broken by the occasional whisper as the sailors clustered around the doorway. An officer stood at the door, announcing the warning Edwards had given to the ranking crew members to the sailors, who absorbed the information in near-perfect quiet.

"These shipping lanes are very dangerous, particularly for the merchant ships we're escorting. Every sailor will be on high alert until we reach Casablanca. You will man your post for the duration of the day, excluding meals and Agent Carter's nightly sessions, which will specialize in artillery and combat scenarios we may face in these upcoming days. The LC remarks that you are shaping up to be fine sailors, and he has full confidence in your abilities. That is all."

Over one hundred hands saluted as the officer turned and marched back to the bridge, leaving Steve in the doorway with all eyes trained on him.

"Give it to us straight, Rogers, will ya? Trim off the official garbage," a voice called from the back of the pack, and Steve shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh.

"It looks bad, gentlemen. We'll be entering an area where U-boats are known to patrol. On the upside, there hasn't been a ship sunk in this area yet. The deadly attacks were congregated around Iceland."

A few relieved sighs sounded from the crowd, but many still remained attentive with their eyes trained on Steve. "What's this about gunning practice, sir? I'm a radioman!"

Similar complaints rose to a deafening racket, but Steve quieted the sailors with a wave of his hand. "We're all being given extra training on how to operate the offensive capabilities of the Reuben James. I can't offer you much more than that."

Their interrogation through, the sailors stood and wandered off to their bunks to catch a few hours of sleep before rapidly-approaching morning. Steve found his paper as he left it, slightly crumpled as it hung off the side of his bunk. The lights of the crew's quarters snapped off with a click, signaling a much-delayed lights-off, and he pushed the newspaper under his bunk to read another day.

It had only taken a day, and suddenly the Reuben James didn't seem like the safe haven he had expected it to be. How quickly things could change in an afternoon!

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