"There but for the grace of God go I."

- John Bradford, as quoted by Arthur "Dutch" Schultz

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"When That Man Is Dead and Gone"

by Mildred Bailey

Saint-Marie-Eglise; June 7, 1944

The grinding of machinery wheels and the footsteps of soldiers trampled in the distance. The movements of the impending German counterattack had already gained the attention of the 82nd Airborne's impromptu headquarters in Saint-Marie-Eglise, morning beams of sunshine glinting off of the ruins from the fire and the bullet holes glancing off of the stone structures in the town. A nervous energy hung loose in the air, drifting with the wind. Raw anticipation kept Steve's nerves on edge.

Damp dew sunk into the elbows of his uniform as he crouched low in an apple orchard a short way from the town. At the end of the row, a thick hedge rose like a monolith blocking Steve's view. He tightened the focus on his binoculars, the lenses clicking and zooming to sharpen the image before his eyes. The leaves remained stubbornly dense, like trying to peer through a brick wall.

Frustrated, Steve set his binoculars aside and picked up his notebook. The pages were smudged from his damp fingerprints, but he carefully penciled in the locations of the voices he had heard. He knew the make of the German Tiger tank from the sound of its treads, and had calculated its acceleration in the margins of his paper. Before him lay a precise map showing where the Germans were accumulated.

A spatter of fire tore his focus back to the hedgerow, and he flattened himself against the earth for fear he had been spotted. Sharp commands in stilted German reached his ears and he extended his hand for his M1, gripping the barrel and drawing the rifle close. He rested the metal against his shoulder, measuring his line of sight and aiming near the bottom of the hedgerow. Not a leaf twitched.

A second burst of gunfire sounded, followed by the rushing of the wind. Silence. Steve took this as his cue to head back to the CP, head ducked low as he sprinted across the level ground of the orchard back towards the town.

He was unchallenged in his dash through enemy territory, and when he reached the command post he realized that Lieutenant Wray had beaten him to it. The stocky soldier stood with blood streaked down the front of his coat and his neck, looking irritated and stern as he reported his own intel to Lieutenant Colonel Vandervoort. A map of the area around Saint-Marie-Eglise was marked up with pencil, and Wray was pointing out the areas where he had detected a heavy concentration of Germans.

"They've been getting kind of close to you, haven't they?" Steve noted, and Wray gave him a grim smile.

"Not as close as I've been getting to them. What did you find?"

They compared notes, and Vandervoort's aide dutifully added Steve's submissions to the map in crisp pencil marks. A mortar crew stood by at the ready, their necks straining so they could see over Wray's broad soldiers where they would be firing. Eager eyes shone behind their smeared war paint.

"They're in slit trenches here and here," Wray pointed out. "Saw 'em myself."

"What happened to staying at a safe distance, Lieutenant?" Vandervoort muttered, although his polite frown didn't quite reach his eyes. His leg, bound in a cast from when he broke it in the jump, was propped up level with the table.

"I couldn't resist, sir," Wray saluted, about-faced, and marched out of the CP with the dignity of Eisenhower himself.

"Boys, follow Rogers out and hit the coordinates he tells you hard. Dismissed," Vandervoort sent them off with a wave of his hand and a smile, and the mortarmen followed Steve out giddily as they hoisted their tools to chest height.

Steve followed the route around the town until he was square with the German flank, his eyes trained on the map and on the boys following him. Their 60-millimeter mortar was dug into place in minutes while Steve traced the lanes where he and Wray had agreed on German defenses. Wray waited behind him with elements of D Company prepared to attack.

"Take these lanes and hedgerows," Steve traced and reported the coordinates to the mortar crew, who nodded their acknowledgment and loaded their shells.

"Fire at will!" Wray called, and the soldiers covered their ears as the shells exploded from the mortar pipe. Earth bloomed into the air like fountains as American artillery tore into the German position, screams audible even from the distance. The shells landed with deadly precision, splitting the air like a thunderclap with every blast, and D Company charged into the hedgerows to mop up what was left of the German defense. The whirlwind of activity seemed to pass by in seconds, but the sun was halfway up its track to the noon sky when the small-arms fire stopped.

Pleased with themselves, the mortar boys exchanged cigarettes and handshakes. Wray clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder and nodded approvingly. "Good work, sir."

"Lieutenant," Steve saluted and Wray nodded again, jogging off to the hedgerows to assess the damage of his counterattack. A stream of soldiers trickled out of the maze of hedgerows, many leading prisoners in German uniforms before them. Steve watched them pass, the paratroopers beaming and triumphant, the Germans with bowed heads and derision in their eyes.

"Let go of me, you coward! Once I get my rifle you're a dead man, you loathsome, disgusting piece of –"

"Captain!" A red-faced paratrooper approached him, dragging another young man in an American uniform before him at rifle-point. The latter didn't seem too happy about the arrangement, his face unrecognizable behind the mud and dirt smeared across his features. "I found this man in the orchard and he didn't know the clicker identification method. I am submitting him for your review, sir!"

"You think he's a spy?" Steve raised his eyebrows, and the soldier jerked his chin up and down.

"Yes, sir. I found this device on him." The paratrooper dangled a curving device from his fingers, tangled wires and crushed plastic hanging between his fingers. It appeared oddly familiar.

"Spy, my ass! Look, Captain, you gotta..." The soldier's jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he jumped forward and grabbed onto Steve's sleeves. Swearing profusely, the paratrooper unslung his rifle from his back and aimed it at the man's head.

"Steve Rogers, is that you?"

Steve studied the man's face behind the mask of grime, and his face broke into a grin. "Clint Barton?"

"God, am I glad to see you!" Clint laughed, then turned back to the paratrooper, whose rifle was wavering from its position near his head. "At ease, hotshot."

"You're dismissed, private." Steve nodded, and the soldier lowered his firearm. Turning back to Clint, Steve took in his ragged appearance. "What happened to you? You're not hurt, are you?"

"Fit as a fiddle, no thanks to trigger-happy over there," Clint shrugged. "I nearly drowned in the Merderet – more of a lake than a river, really. Had just met up with this guy from the 101st when all hell broke loose in the field we were crossing." He said this all as if they were discussing baseball, all cool confidence.

"I'm glad to hear it. I can't believe I found you in the middle of this mess," Steve admitted. "Let's see if we can't find you any new clothes in the CP. You stink to high heaven."

"Funny, I didn't notice."

It was noon when the first rounds of artillery shredded the skies above Saint-Marie-Eglise. Steve and Clint had spent the remainder of their morning catching up about their relative adventures in Normandy and trying to reach Tony on Steve's earpiece radio to no avail, their conversation only interrupted when the shells started to fall. Steve flinched at the percussive blasts which shook stone dust trickling from the ceilings and beams.

"Where could he be?" Clint nudged the earpiece with a still-wet boot. "I'll bet he's fraternizing with his German overlords."

Steve restrained the urge to roll his eyes – were these two going to be bickering for as long as they were in Europe? It was beginning to get on his nerves. "He's a smart guy, he'll find his way around eventually."

"Wonder if he'll find us, though," Clint added. "Remember the guy I told you about who I met up with? He was from a totally different division! This landing's a mess." Another round of shells responded to his affirmation.

"He'll get here."

"Sure, maybe," Clint mused, leaning his chair back on two legs and looking at the ceiling in thought. "I heard some guy say war shows your true colors, and I'll bet you anything his are black and red."

((Sorry for a two-days late update! I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!))