"Soldiers, sailors and airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!

You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade,

toward which we have striven these many months...

I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in battle.

We will accept nothing less than full victory!

Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of the Almighty God

upon this great and noble undertaking."

- Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of SHAEF

media:

"Over There"

by George Cohan

Spanhoe Airfield, Northamptonshire; June 6, 1944

Spanhoe airfield sat shrouded in a film of inky twilight, the massive forms of C-47s looming above Steve and Bucky's heads. The two crouched beneath the wings, waiting for the MPs on patrol to walk by their plane before they continued on their route to the far edge of the field. The sheer numbers of paratroopers and Army brass and RAF flyers disguised them just as well, but Steve couldn't accept even the slightest risk of being spotted. His face was smeared with black tar he had picked up from one of the airborne troopers made Captain America just another soldier.

His uniform felt baggy and strange, with thick fabric that didn't let in a breath of air. Bucky explained that this was to protect him from gas attacks from the enemy, which was a strange way to reassure someone about to jump into occupied territory. Weapons and other tools had been scrounged up from the troops – an entrenching tool, a pack of cigarettes Steve had pawned off for a pocket knife and a rosary from a Navy man ("Take it, go on, you'll need all the help you can get out there"), and a strange contraption called a leg bag stuffed with all manner of wartime material. He probably weighed twice what he would have in normal clothes.

Tony and Clint were similarly outfitted, their helmet straps dangling from their fingers as they chatted with a cluster of soldiers nearby. Bucky's scavenging had worked out flawlessly – they both looked like bona fide paratroopers, blending in seamlessly with the crowd. Every so often their eyes would flicker to the crouched form of a C-47 pulled to the side of their airfield, and Steve had to force himself to not stare at the plane as well.

"Her inner mechanisms are horribly scrambled, all the engineers can't make any sense of them," Bucky explained beneath his breath as the circle of a flashlight meandered by them. "Worst damn mechanical error to ever come out of American factories, or so I say. If your man can fix her up fast, you'll be able to get out." His eyes dropped to his shoes, scanning the scuff marks with a dark sort of intensity. "Are you sure about this, Steve?"

"I'm sure, Buck. It's my turn to give back now. I need to do this." Steve sat back on his heels, watching as Clint and Tony disengaged from the group of troopers and started meandering over to the broken plane.

"It's just – be safe out there, won't you? I would hate to see you be another casualty of this war. The Japs, the Krauts, they've taken enough from us already. I don't want to lose you."

Steve clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and grinned. "Who would have thought? Two kids from Brooklyn halfway around the world."

"Breaking the law together, just like old times." Bucky smiled roguishly, and Steve rolled his eyes.

"We hopped the turnstile once!"

"I'll never let you hear the end of it."

Steve's gaze trailed back to the plane, and he saw Clint standing in the open doorway with his shoulder pressed against the edge of the door. Tony was nowhere to be seen, most likely in the bowels of the plane working his magic, but the metal structure was still lifeless.

From the opposite end of the field, the first C-47 sputtered to life. The grounds were stuffed full of troops and supplies, lorries darting on the edges and Jeeps dodging between the planes, one rising buzz of activity that was climbing toward a roar. Bucky shook his hand and vanished in a flash, back to his official duties. Steve hadn't even gotten to thank him.

He leaped to his feet and pressed his way into the swarms of soldiers, dodging machine gun parts and reckless drivers and troopers on their way to the bathroom for the hundredth time. The waiting was interminable, the anticipation palpable as he pushed through the throng. Years of training building up to one night. Questions flew through Steve's mind as he felt the weight of the three rifles shift against his shoulder blades. Can I really kill someone? Can I do this? What was I thinking?

In the distance, the right propeller of the broken C-47 twitched.

Muttering his apologies, Steve used his elbows to work his way through the crowd. Streams of cigarette smoke rose in white tendrils to the sky. Mountains of supplies stood piled left and right. The sputter of an engine sounded, and Steve knew that somehow Tony had gotten the plane to work. A thrill of adrenaline rushed through him – their plan had worked, they hadn't been spotted, they were on their way to fight, to freedom – and he didn't notice the woman standing in front of him until he nearly ran into her.

"Captain America. Fancy meeting you here." Agent Carter's red lips twisted up into a wry smile, her hands folded across her chest. Steve froze, his heart thumping in his chest as he looked down at the British officer. Behind Carter, the C-47's engine coughed. So close.

"Might I ask what you're doing here? According to your schedule, you should be in Florida right now."

Steve cleared his throat. "I-I'm going to fight, Agent Carter. I'm going to serve."

Her expression softened, her gaze more tender than he had ever seen before. Confusion flickered across her face, disguised by a quick smile. "What do you mean? And why on earth are you dressed that way?"

"I'm going in, ma'am. I'm jumping with the troops tonight."

"Nonsense," Carter shook her head, short curls bobbing up and down in her refusal. "You don't even know how to use a parachute! You're a showboy!"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I've wanted to be an airman since the war began. I know how to work a parachute. Please, I'm begging you. Just let me do my part in this war!"

"But you have done your part." She placed a hand on his arm, fingers tightening on the loose fabric. Her nails were painted a bright red, somehow unchipped and glossy. "Some of us have different parts to play in this war, Steve. Some of us fight, and some of us sell war bonds. That's just how it is!"

"Not for me." Steve straightened his shoulders, glancing up to see Clint waving at him in the doorway. Time was running out. "Doctor Erskine made me as a weapon, Agent Carter. I'm not going to let him down by not fighting. This is my purpose."

Carter dropped her head, the first time she had avoided meeting his eyes. A bitter laugh followed as she turned the toe of her shoe into the loose gravel. "You're right, of course. You're always right. Must you always be so perfect, Steve Rogers?"

Reaching up on tiptoe, she planted a light kiss on his cheek. Steve's face warmed and he fought a grin from his face as Carter straightened the front of his uniform. A flush of pink rushed across her cheeks and she stepped away, observing him with pride in her eyes.

"Ready to go?"

"You're not going to stop me?" Steve was shocked. If Colonel Philips had caught him sneaking onto the front lines he would be stuck in an office doing clerical work for the duration of the war. Wasn't Carter going to try to keep him back?

"You're a good man, Steve. You're a good soldier. Give them hell for me, will you? And it's Peggy to you now." She saluted him crisply, chin lifted and eyes bright, and he thought he saw the glimpse of a tear in her eye. Agent Carter - Peggy - standing proud before him. His heart twisted with a foreign emotion, something that clutched his throat and heart and filled his head with a bubbly exuberance. The scream of the engines rose to an even greater height, buffeting Steve with gusts of wind as the planes began to load up. The jumpmasters hollered to their troops, organizing the men in rows beneath the wings.

When Steve looked back to find Peggy again she was gone in the crowd. The phantom of her lips burned on his cheek like a signal flare.

Turning back to his own plane, Steve saw Tony and Clint waiting for him in the doorway. Tony nodded his head in satisfaction and Clint was grinning like a madman. A bolt of horror shot through Steve – had they seen his encounter with Agent Carter? No, Peggy.

No time to worry about that now. The first plane taxied away from the field, the first point in the V-of-Vs, and Steve ran the length to the plane and clambered in. Clint slugged him on the arm and raised his eyebrows toward the crowd, mouthing something unintelligible over the roar of the engines. Tony clambered into the cockpit, starting up the astrodome that showed pinpricks of light for each plane on the airfield. As Steve strapped himself into his seat beside Clint, his stomach a mass of nerves and excitement and a thousand other emotions, he realized that this was his purpose. He had never been more ready for anything in his entire life.

Then why am I afraid?

The lull of the engine nearly drowned out the grinding of the door as Tony emerged from the cockpit. His hand latched onto the parachute line extending to the back of the plane, where they would hook up to jump from the plane. Sitting beside Steve with arms crossed, Clint dozed in the gentle lull of the plane buffeted by the winds.

Steve jolted upright, eyes flashing back to the cockpit. "Did Jarvis take control?" The thought of a machine flying the plane instead of a person still unnerved Steve slightly, but Tony shrugged and gave him an easy smile.

"Figured I'd give him a whirl at this old bird. Barton's sacked out?"

"He's been asleep for an hour. Did you get a look at the view?" Steve hollered above the roar of the wind and pointed to the door. Tony edged forward, careful to keep a firm grip on the rail as he leaned forward to glance outside the open door. Steve couldn't resist taking another look as he flattened himself on the floor, elbows dangling over empty space as he stared down at the English Channel below.

There were so many ships in the water the sea seemed to be made solely of white, churning wakes: lines of LSTs and Higgins boats and every craft imaginable, bristling with guns and tossing the sea into waves of crashing foam. The boats seemed to stretch on for an eternity, made distant by the haze of clouds and the drone of the airplane engines silencing the sounds of the shifting sea.

"Amazing, huh?" Steve asked, looking back at Tony's shocked expression.

"Incredible," his lips formed the word, too quiet to be heard over the engines.

A bank of clouds swept over the plane, and Tony hurried back to the cockpit. Steve was reluctant to remove himself from his position at the door, but the red warning light clicked on above his head. Ready to jump.

Leaping to his feet, Steve walked to the seats and shook Barton awake. The sailor looked up at him blearily, then noticed the glare of the red light and jumped upright. They examined each other's equipment for a minute, tugging on the parachute to make sure it was secure, fingers brushing over the seams of the reserve chute. A thrill of dread ran down Steve's spine when he remembered real paratroopers had practice jumps before this day. He hardly knew how to land properly!

"Okay?" Clint shouted in his ear, and Steve nodded. Flashing a thumbs-up, Clint hooked up to the rail behind Steve. Steve's carabiner clicked in and he leaned forward on his toes to look outside the door. The clouds were so thick he could hardly see.

The engines stalled for the slightest moment, long enough for Steve to hear Tony's "Holy shit!" from the cockpit, and the plane entered the full assault of Hitler's Atlantic Wall.

Flak tore through the skies, thick enough to walk on. Tracer fire danced in every color imaginable, painting the sky in a rainbow of brilliantly colored beams. Massive light fixtures danced as they probed the sky, glancing off of the wings of Allied planes. Looking to his right, Steve saw a massive 88 shell tear through the engine of a plane, which burst into a wash of flames that engulfed the interior compartments. Tongues of flame danced from the shattered windows as a fireball shredded the plane, sending its shattered shell in a screaming course for the Norman countryside.

"Oh, God!" Clint hollered, and Steve fished the Navy man's rosary from his pocket. His fingers danced across the beads, murmuring every prayer he could scrounge from his memory as the wave of artillery drew ever nearer. His blood turned cold as he watched parachutes bloom from planes above him, below him, their pilots tearing through the sky at unearthly speeds. Any precision begun on the mainland was obliterated. As Steve watched, a paratrooper was snagged on the wing of a C-47 and hung there, limbs flapping helplessly.

A tapping on his shoulder pulled Steve back to the plane, and he turned to see Clint pointing toward his hand. The rosary was clutched in his fist, knuckles white and purpling from his vice grip on the beads. "Lend a buddy your rosary, will you? I'm gonna set the fuckin' speed record on that thing."

Steve handed over the rosary without another word, fingernails digging into his palms. The tension was unbearable, waiting to jump into this hell full of German flak and fire and the stench of death. A series of tracers sped directly in front of Steve, and a spatter of bullet holes exploded next to his left foot. The plane bobbed to the right, its nose dipping dangerously low as the engine spluttered and heaved. When Steve looked out the left window, he saw a plume of fire rocket across the wing.

Tony stumbled from the cockpit, his helmet gone and his left eye curtained with blood. "We're hit!" he shouted, eyes wild as he observed the massive fireworks display outside. The carriage of the plane rattled and Steve flinched at what sounded like rocks scattering across the aluminum beneath him. Wasting no time, Tony ran behind Clint and hooked up as the C-47 wobbled in its death throes.

The jump light was shattered and the ground rapidly approaching – Steve knew he had to jump. The toes of his boots dangled over the open space, wind ripping at his clothes and his helmet. His palms were pressed flat against the outside of the plane, body leaning forward toward a wall of exploding ammunition and enemy territory...

And he jumped.

(We made it to D-Day! I'm so excited for these upcoming chapters and would love to hear your thoughts so far!)