Cruel Summer

Chapter 30

A/N: This chapter is what I like to call *BONDING* so enjoy and as always, let me know what you all think! Also, go check me out on tumblr @luminouslywriting if you want to talk fic or have questions! Also....maybe currently considering a Band of Brothers Fic so if you're interested in that, PLS let's talk haha!

Chapter Text

December 27th, 1944

Another Christmas in the Stalag wasn't what anyone wanted to deal with. Waiting for the Russians to get there felt like some sort of eternal punishment. So it was really no surprise to anyone when the march began. They knew at some point, if the Allies got close, then they would be moved or they would be killed.

The men far preferred the first option—but considering it was close to lights out and all of them were tired anyhow, it didn't make the situation any easier to bear. One of the men sent by the leading Colonel in the camp poked his head into their bunkroom, a heavy expression on his face.

"They've given us thirty minutes to be at the front gate. 2300 hours, then we march. They won't say how far or for how long," With those words, the soldier disappeared down the hall to quickly tell the others.

"Thirty minutes—" Buck let out a curse and jumped down from the top bunk. "Thirty minutes, let's go! Wear the warmest clothes that you've got!"

Bucky, for the first time in a long time, felt a flicker of fear in his chest. He had no way to know what was going to happen. He had no way to control the outcome of this. "Where do you think we're going?" Bucky questioned, glancing over at Buck. He couldn't help but ask his friend, hoping against hope that things would get better.

"I don't know. The Allies must be close," Buck said, a glimmer of hope in his tone.

Bucky just let out a deep sigh as he shoved his scarf over his neck. "I sure as hell hope so."

It was frigid as the group made their way outside—and outside was pure and sheer pandemonium. Everywhere he looked, Bucky saw men trying to pack and take more than they could handle. It was stupid, trying to pack food in, trying to delude themselves into thinking that the food would give them any form of energy. It would just make them sick.

Snow fell and Bucky's gaze had fallen on the Nazi's, burning down all of the cabins where they had been staying. They didn't want to leave anything for the Russians or the other Allies to find. His eyes trained on the darkness just beyond the treeline—where surely freedom or death awaited them. Where surely the Allies were fighting to get to them. But too little, too late.

A moment later, Bucky was at his side. "How are you doing?" He questioned, glancing over at Bucky.

"Would have preferred it if the Russians made it here first."

Buck readjusted his own scarf over his ears, shaking his head at Bucky. "You're not thinking of running, are you?" He questioned, gaze digging into his friend.

"You're not thinking of running, are you?" Bucky echoed hollowly. Running in this weather? Suicide. And he had every intention of making it back to his wife—of being someone worth knowing when all of this was over. Yeah, he could do this. He had to do this .

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Meg felt the tiredness seeping in her bones in the same way that she felt sickness stirring in her body. It was a drudging feeling, waking up and being back at Thorpe Abbotts. There was no relief to be had from being here. No reason for her to feel better or lighter—she just felt weighed down, as though she were in some sort of sinking ship.