"It is easy to translate a distant sound into the shout of a man

if one is intent and knows that the dark passing waters may hold

a survivor or the still lingering spirits of the recent dead."

- BB55 war diary

media:

"I'll Walk Alone"

by Martha Tilton

East Coast Shipping Lanes; January 12, 1942

Clint liked New York City much better than London, mostly because the people were probably falling over themselves to give him free stuff.

Whenever he wore his new Navy uniforms – the old ones had been ruined in the water or had gone down with the Reuben James – he never had to pay at restaurants, he could ride the subway for free, and movie tickets were thrown his way. His weekend of leave had been rudely interrupted by shore patrol ordering him back to his new ship, the North Carolina. Clint didn't know much about the ship, except that she had received some special attention for her massive firepower capabilities, attention that had earned her the nickname 'Showboat.' Showboat was one of the musicals Clint had received free tickets to during leave, so he had a good impression of the ship already before stepping on board.

His first view of the ship revealed a large difference between the North Carolina and the Reuben James: the new ship was absolutely massive. He had never seen something so huge in his entire life. A wall of steel rose from the waterline, arcing gently over his head in the sloping side of the ship. She wore a plain gray measure, but the simple paint job did little to detract from her sturdy figure and firepower bristling from her upper levels. If Clint leaned his neck back far enough, he could make out the slender forms of the 20-millimeter deck guns, where he guessed he would be stationed again.

A security guard approached Clint, a firearm slung across his back and a similarly threatening expression on his face. "Can I help you here, son?"

"Yessir, I've just been reassigned to this ship. She's a real beauty, isn't she?"

The guard's expression softened immediately, but Clint didn't blame him for his earlier hostility. The country had just been attacked. Who wouldn't be on edge? "Sure is. I've seen ships come and go, but this one is special. Where were you stationed previously? I've got a brother in the Navy."

"The Reuben James. She went down over the Atlantic," Clint nodded, and the guard's eyes dropped to his polished shoes.

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, son."

"'S okay, sir. Mind pointing me in the right direction to get on this monster?"

Compared to the relatively small size of the Reuben James, the North Carolina felt like stepping out of rural Kansas and taking a stroll into the heart of New York City. An ensign spotted Clint wandering around the ship and started berating him before he learned Clint was a veteran of the Battle of the Atlantic, choosing to repay the debt by showing Clint around the ship.

"The Showboat's divided into twenty-one divisions. Think of them like neighborhoods. You'll get to know the boys in your division, but you won't interact with the rest of the crew all that often. We'll have over two thousand boys on board, how could you?" Ensign Weyrauch began, striding in long steps across the teak-wood deck. Clint had learned minutes beforehand that the wood was there to absorb shrapnel in case of enemy attacks. "Enlisted men bunk below the water line, officers in the superstructure. Have you found out your division yet?"

"No, sir, I haven't," Clint replied, careful to be on his best behavior in the company of an officer. Despite his off-putting introduction, Weyrauch seemed like a fine fellow altogether.

"You'll be assigned it soon, I suppose," the ensign looked at Clint sideways as they neared the side of the deck looking over the harbor. "It's true what you said, isn't it? About the Reuben James?"

"Of course, sir." Confused, Clint turned to the apologetic ensign.

"If may sound brash for me to say so. It's only that I didn't see anything in the papers about it. All the news was about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor."

Anger spiked in Clint's veins, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. Weyrauch's words were true. Clint had been scouring the papers for days and had blown an ungodly amount of change on every issue, but the most he had been able to find about the Reuben James' wreck was a small mention on the fifth page of a local newspaper, and the majority of the column was commenting on a local sailor who had died. The name and face were familiar.

Ensign Weyrauch was right about something else, too: Clint wouldn't be able to get to know all of the men on the North Carolina. But he had known all of the men on the Reuben James, in one way or another. He had known all one hundred men who had been torn to shreds by Nazi artillery, drowned in the frigid Atlantic, or been picked off by sniper fire. Forty-four men emerged from the icy seas alive.

"Yeah. Typical, isn't it?"

Weyrauch's gaze leaped to his shoes at Clint's bitter statement. Why shouldn't he be embarrassed? The ensign hadn't seen combat yet – he had graduated the rigorous physical tests to earn rank, but what was that in the face of a real veteran? Clint probably didn't look much like a veteran as it was, though. He was only a Seaman, First Class, low on the Navy rankings. He was not impressively tall, nor did his presence command attention. If Weyrauch looked at him in passing, he would assume he was just another sailor.

Clint knew he shouldn't be rude to an officer, so he turned to the conversation to more pleasant things about the North Carolina and her duties in the seas. Relief poured from the ensign as he chatted amiably about the future missions of the Showboat, a topic on which he was thankfully well-informed.

"She'll be taking us out into the Pacific again, but if the word of the officers is anything to be believed, we'll be steaming for the Panama Canal before the month's out. Hope you packed your swimming trunks," Weyrauch joked.

"Thanks, but I've done enough swimming for a lifetime," Clint replied, watching as the ensign's smile crumpled. "Only joking, sir."

The ensign led Clint down belowdecks, where he was instructed to follow the swarm of new recruits to the mess hall. A low buzz of chatter filled the cramped hallways as the boys stumbled over the tall doorways. A stream of curses ensued and many of the seamen emerged with bruised shins. Clint noticed that all of the boys in the crowd were apprentice seamen – he was the only one of them that held a higher rank.

When Clint arrived and formed lines with the men next to him, roll call had already begun. Thankfully there weren't too many new men aboard, and Clint didn't have to wait for eons to get his assignment. As the names were listed from the roll, he couldn't help but listen for any of the sailors from the Reuben James crew. None came.

"Barton," a stiff-looking officer approached him in line, "Make your first choice."

"Gunner's mate, sir," Clint replied. Maybe on the North Carolina the 20s would actually get some use, unlike they had on his previous assignment. It would be nice to fire on Japanese planes and not impenetrable German steel, and probably a hell of a lot more rewarding.

"Second?"

Clint hadn't planned on this. He scrambled for an answer, recalling what the sailors before him had said. "Radioman, sir."

"And your third?"

"Photographer, sir." As soon as he said the words he prayed with all his heart he wouldn't be made a photographer. If he was stuck taking photos while enemy planes were firing on the ship, he would hurl himself over the side. God, anything but photographer!

The officer nodded with a brief snap of his neck, walking past Clint and continuing his poll of the other sailors. The men beside him got to whispering about their assignments, their boyish faces shining with excitement.

"I heard from my brother that you never get your first choice. He wound up as quartermaster when he wanted to be a gunner! He didn't even ask for that, you know."

"As long as I don't end up a radioman, I'll survive. They weed the bad ones out and transfer you to the jobs for guys who can't do anything right. Real embarrassing."

None of this was very encouraging, and Clint found himself ruing the moment when the officer strode back. He rolled out his list of assignments in a dignified air, reading down his long nose.

"Barton, you have been assigned as a gunner." The officer rattled off sleeping quarters and other formalities, but Clint was nearly too excited to hear them. He was so glad he wasn't a photographer he could hardly contain his excitement – although he supposed that photographers weren't often casualties of war, while gunners made for good targets. He could hardly be bothered with that trifle at the moment, though.

After all of the new recruits had been assigned their duties, they grouped up in clusters to head to their new sleeping chambers. Clint noticed that there were a few Marines in the mix, and since the Showboat was rapidly filling it capacity with eager sailors, he and the other gunners would bunk in the Marine barracks. His lucky stars had really come through, because he would still be manning the 20s on the ship's deck.

The usual banter ensued as the sailors started up friendly chatter, and Clint was soon on his way to the Marine barracks with his newfound acquaintances. One thing was for sure: the North Carolina was not the Reuben James. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, Clint preferred the change.

V-Mail: Jan. 20, '42

Dear Steve,

It feels very strange to be writing the man who adorns every newspaper, comic book and poster across the States – the boys on the Showboat can hardly believe me when I say that I know you. A quick response from you, besides being the proper thing every good and proper friend should do to a soldier's letter (only joking), would prove to them I'm right.

The men on the North Carolina are very kind and welcoming, even though I came in a with a group of new sailors, but we get new boys on every day. We're steaming through the Atlantic now, on our way to New York. The Navy makes quite the globetrotter out of you, yeah?

The North Carolina is quite a lot bigger than the Reuben James was, with over two thousand sailors aboard! Far too many to get to know over the trip, but I'll try my damnedest. They have me holed up with some Marines who man the 20s at the time, who are good men but cheat horribly at cards. There's a laundry room, which I've become fully acquainted with and am making a pretty penny from (your very own Seaman Barton is quite the washerwoman - a buck per uniform, I make more than the officers do), a barbershop, and even an ice-cream parlor. We eat like kings! Adding to the fact that we haven't seen a lick of combat in days, I'm in heaven.

The only thing worse about this ship than the previous one is the work. We're drilled endlessly, day and night, until I can load and aim the 20s in my sleep. I dream of those rotten guns, Steve. I suppose it's for a good cause, seeing as my mount is getting more and more accurate every day, and from what I've heard about the Japanese air force, maybe the deck guns will be of use for once. I'll be the first to jump up at the air defense signal – I look forward to it.

How are things back in the States? Have they gotten you off the campaign trail yet? Every time I see a picture of you you're shaking hands with another senator. The boys desperately miss news from home, but we're close enough to still get American radio. Heard your voice on that plenty a time, too.

If you could do me another favor I'd be forever in your debt. News is hard enough to get when you're sailing, and I haven't been able to scrounge up anything about the Reuben James in the papers. Do you think you can call up some of your connections in the Navy (which I'm sure you have now, Captain America) and ask them about the crew? Owen and Farley never seem to leave my mind. It would give your friend a bit of closure if I could find if they're dead or reassigned like I've been.

If you'd like to hear some good news from my end, Sabin sent me a telegram the other day! Well, he actually sent a telegram to the radio crew, who had to start a massive manhunt through every division on the ship to find me. He's stationed on the Wasp, one of the other ships in our escort group. Hopefully I'll meet up with him during some upcoming shore leave, but he reports that he's alive and kicking. Knowing someone else made it from those waters alive is more of a relief than I can say – well, write.

It may seem like blasphemy, Steve, but I can't help but wonder about Tony. We both saw the letters he had in his pocket that night. He obviously has connections in Germany, probably with the Kraut government. Days after he storms off in a huff when we find out he's in cahoots with the Nazis my ship sinks, most likely taking my friends down with it. Do you think he could have called in the attack? He spent time with you in the officer's meetings and got to know the engine room pretty well. I'll bet he gleaned our capacity for speed and our next locations from those meetings. All of the evidence seems to point to the slimy bastard.

But on to better topics. Life moves on, I suppose, and more daring adventures lie ahead. There are some upsides to life as a veteran of the seas. All the new recruits, and even those ranked above me, treat veterans with a hefty measure of respect. I don't like to think I've earned it. The men still lying in the seas are the real heroes.

What a way to end a letter on such a dismal note. You'll be pleased to hear that I am wiping the floor with the Marines at acey-deucy. Because you were always so terrible at it, you will be equally pleased to hear that even you could beat these soldiers. They may be in peak physical form, but they can't even master a board game. No tactical geniuses in this bunch, but I've seen them in fighting action and I don't envy the Japanese on the business ends of our guns.

Signing off from the chapel, all very cheery with the tunes of Bach and Beethoven,

Clint Barton

Measure - A ship's "paint job"

20th chapter! What are your thoughts so far? :)