"Studies by Medical Corps psychiatrists of combat fatigue cases...

found that the fear of killing, rather than the fear of being killed,

was the most common cause of battle failure, and that

fear of failure ran a strong second."

- S. L. A. Marshall

media:

"Bei Mir Bist Du Schon"

by the Andrews Sisters

Buck,

How is the Army life treating you? I got your last letter that you're out of the hospital, which is great news. I would celebrate with you, but I'm busy increasing troop morale in Anzio. It's tough work, and I've seen more blood and bandages in the last few days than I ever want to see again.

When I'm not on stage I volunteer with the nurses in the aid stations. They can bind a bone or tie off a vein without smearing their makeup, real wartime dames. There's a girl named Dolores I think you'd like, a real spunky girl with your kind of attitude. I've met GI's from Louisiana to Idaho and everywhere in between, and they each have a story to tell.

I've also gotten to pick the brains of the nurses, and they tell me some of your symptoms aren't from being pushed around by Japanese soldiers. I know you don't want to talk to me about what happened in Burma, and I respect that, but I worry about you. Imagine that – tiny Steve Rogers worrying about his sergeant friend! Times have changed.

I hope you had a very merry Christmas back in the States, it was all very cheery over here in Italy with lots of wine and chocolate. Did you get the box of chocolates I mailed over? By the time they arrive in the States they'll all be melted, I suppose. The sailor friend I wrote you about, Clint Barton, sent me a postcard from the North Carolina, so maybe we're turning over a new leaf.

I have to get this off my chest, Buck, so I might as well tell you. Nothing has been the same since Kasserine Pass. I still remember those staring faces and that awful stench. Those kinds of things stick with you, I guess. Captain America does more fighting in the comic books than he does in real life! I suppose that's the nature of show business, but look at you, a POW rescued from the brutality of Japanese prison camps already back on his feet and ready to fight again! Surely I can fight as well, can't I?

I was engineered to be a soldier, Buck, and I'm slapping on bandages in aid stations. I watched American soldiers pinned by eight German divisions and I couldn't do a thing to help them.

If this goes on much longer I'll have to take things into my own hands. I won't stand by when there's a need for help, my help. Colonel Philips won't take my calls anymore – I don't know who to trust. I'd better sign off now before my head explodes – maybe literally, because the Germans just began shelling again.

Your friend,

Steve Rogers

Berlin, Germany; February 21, 1944

"Your machines are not working!" Schwarz seethed, slamming his palm onto the surface of the table. A pair of handcuffs lay beside his flattened fist, the chains clinking together in a crude reminder of the power staring him down at Tony from the other end of the table.

The Germans' ignorance bored him, but their heavy-handed threats of violence were almost exciting. "My machines are working just fine. It's your idiot generals who aren't using them right!"

Schwarz scoffed, but Roth cast him a sharp glance and propped his elbows on the table. The classic tale of good cop and bad cop, only German. "We are experiencing some frustration that your designs are not providing the desired results."

"How so?" Tony crossed his arms, restraining the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. These military men were all the same – they thought if they could hurl a hunk of steel against an oncoming army their problems would disappear. No semblance of strategy whatsoever.

"The Russians are rolling back our advances despite your massive cannon's fighting capabilities. The largest weapon of its type in the world, you said!"

"It is! It can devastate small towns with a single shell. Unless you used it to take potshots at bunkers, it's a formidable weapon." He raised an eyebrow at the two Kripo officers, who now refused to meet his eyes. "You used it to take potshots at bunkers, didn't you?"

"That is beside the point," Schwarz interjected, waving a technical report before him like a flag of surrender. "And your jet bombers, another letdown! You said one could regain air superiority due to their superior speed!"

Tony reached across the table and swiped the report from the officer, perusing the document for a moment before handing it back. "You only built twelve of them. No one in their right mind can win a war with twelve planes, no matter how good they may be!" Both of the officers sat stony-faced, deaf to his complaints.

"Your – what was your name for it again? Your vulture was defeated in Italy by a comic book hero," Schwarz sneered, passing a folder stuffed full of pictures across the table. Tony opened it and leafed through the glossy prints, each capturing a split-second of action on a darkened rooftop. Sparks flew as a man in civilian clothes swung for the German agent in Tony's flying contraption. The metal twisted in unnatural ways, and the last series of photographs depicted a blooming explosion. He noticed the painted swastikas on the wings. That was the Germans, after all, always propagandizing.

"You used this against Steve?" he whispered, then straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. Can't show any emotion in front of these clowns. "It was expressly drafted as a prototype! I didn't work out all of the kinks yet – your man could have died!"

"Our man did die, no thanks to you. His name was Hermann. Has a daughter about this high..." Schwarz began, and Tony turned his head away.

"You're expecting too much of me."

Roth shook his head, his neutral expression replaced with a hardened, chilling anger. "No. We expected of you what your talent dictated, and you have failed us. We expected more of you, Tony Stark."

"You think this is my fault?" Tony cried, dragging a hand through his hair, "You're the ones who think twelve planes will win you air superiority! You're the ones putting soldiers in prototype suits and hoping for the best! Remind me again how this is my fault? Jesus, I did better business with the Russians, and they tried to kill me!"

Schwarz's eyes narrowed, and he leaned over the table with his hands planted in front of Tony's shoulders. "Yes, we know about your shady history with our enemies. The very Russians who are gutting our armies and leaving them to freeze without a proper burial, who grind their bodies into the ground with their tanks. How do we know you're not still colluding with them, huh?"

"What? That's absurd!" Tony gasped. "Take a joke, man. I just said they tried to kill me, remember?"

Roth stood beside Schwarz and hung his jacket over his arm, a sign that the meeting was over. "We will take your advice into account, Stark, but be warned. If we fail to see significant progress from your designs, we will terminate our arrangement."

"Am I supposed to be frightened by that?" Tony sneered, and Roth gave him a level look before lowering his voice.

"Watch your back, Stark. That is all."

The telephone booth in the Hotel Adlon was unoccupied, which Tony was grateful for. He preferred it to the Hotel Kaiserhof across from the Chancellery because the latter was a known hangout for Nazi bigwigs and government officials. The Adlon also boasted a "luxury bomb shelter," if such a thing really existed, and Tony didn't fancy the idea of having his headstone say he was killed by friendly fire. That would be downright embarrassing.

His mother picked up on the first ring. It was a stupid thing to get sentimental about, but since he had become a vigilante globetrotter it seemed like he hadn't heard her voice in ages. Maria Stark brought memories of running on the grass and graceful smiles and tender embraces. Nothing like the cold, cruel bureaucratic machinery of the German government that was about to tear him to pieces.

"Tony! It's about time you called home!" she berated him, her voice betraying an uncharacteristic tremble of worry.

"Sorry, mother. I was busy," Tony attempted to explain, feeling just as sheepish as if he were seeing her face-to-face.

"Just like your father, always out and about. Where are you now? Howard sent a telegram that you were racking up quite a bill in Austria, something about hotel housekeeping?"

"Um, that was nothing. Nothing to be concerned about. I'm fine, you don't have to worry. Where is dad, by the way?"

The briefest pause on the end of the line – his mother's tell that she was concealing something. "New Mexico, dear. He and the luminaries are going down for some experiments or something along those lines. You remember Edward Teller from the Expo, don't you?"

"Was he old, balding and socially inept? All of the scientists seem the same to me."

"Oh, Tony, don't be rude. Listen, I know you might be seeing the world to get away from your father. I understand you're angry when he grounded your after Casablanca –"

"Of course I was angry! He had no right to keep me locked up, I almost died of boredom!" Tony supposed his house arrest had some positive outcomes. He had designed his suit, which had saved his life in the scuffle with Vasiliev. He was far too old to be grounded, anyways.

"But the ship was sunk by a U-boat just after you left!"

The buzz of the telephone line sang in Tony's ear as the words settled. The Reuben James, gone? "W-what? Why didn't I hear about this?"

A tone of careful concern followed. "It was just after Pearl Harbor, so not the biggest news out there." She paused, and he could envision her sympathetic expression perfectly. "Are you all right, Tony?"

He shook his head vigorously, clearing away the thoughts and emotions crowding his brain. No time to worry about that now. He had bigger problems, like avoiding getting a Luger stuck up his ass when he stepped out of the phone booth. "Always. What's so important that it's pulling dad away from his wartime work?"

"Oh, I think it is for the war. He said a full-fledged general was overseeing the project, if you can imagine. I'm sure Howard is just basking in the attention," she admitted, her voice light and airy even though they both knew she wasn't joking.

"Right. I've got to go, mother. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"You had better, Tony," she teased, and her side of the line clicked off.

Releasing a slow breath, Tony closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the side of the booth. If some government project was enough to pull Howard and his genius group from their work down to Nowhere, USA, it must be important. Maybe important enough, if Tony found out about it, to keep the Germans off of his tail. Howard might be his ticket out of the Gestapo's clutches.

A pang of irony struck him – as always, he was relying on Howard to get him out of a sticky situation. But no longer, Tony decided. After this final favor he would be free of Howard's grip for good, free from his dealings with the Gestapo.

Freedom should have been simple. Why did war have to go and make things so complicated?