The army truck bounced over the rutted road, jostling its passengers—twelve men of varying sizes and builds, all dressed in identical olive drab uniforms. Among them sat Steve Rogers, his slender frame dwarfed by the other recruits. At his side, Peter Parker adjusted his glasses for the fifth time since they'd boarded at the train station.
"You think they'll have us jumping out of planes by the end of the week?" Peter asked, his voice pitched low enough that only Steve could hear. There was nervousness in his tone, but excitement too.
"If they do, I hope they teach us how to use a parachute first," Steve replied with a half-smile.
A week had passed since their unexpected acceptance by Dr. Erskine. Seven days of frantic preparation—quick goodbyes, hasty arrangements for their civilian affairs, and a flurry of paperwork that seemed designed to make them reconsider their decision. Steve had written to Bucky, telling him the impossible had happened, but knew the letter would likely take weeks to reach his friend overseas.
The truck lurched to a stop, and the sergeant in the passenger seat turned to face them.
"End of the line, gentlemen! Welcome to Camp Lehigh. When those doors open, you are no longer civilians. You belong to the United States Army and the Strategic Scientific Reserve. Now move it!"
The back flap was thrown open, flooding the dim interior with harsh sunlight. The recruits piled out, grabbing duffel bags and forming a ragged line as instructed. Steve noted that several of the men were already giving him sidelong glances, sizing him up and finding him wanting.
A burly private with a perpetual scowl directed them to their barracks. "Drop your gear and report to the parade ground in five minutes! Move!"
The barracks was a simple wooden structure with twelve bunks, six to each side. Steve claimed one near the corner, with Peter taking the one beside him. The other recruits quickly sorted themselves out, with most of the bigger men clustering together at the opposite end.
"I guess this is home for the next few weeks," Peter said, setting down his bag and withdrawing a small framed photo of a striking redhead. He placed it carefully at the foot of his bunk.
"Jane?" Steve asked, remembering Peter's girlfriend from their brief meeting at the Expo.
"Yeah." Peter's face softened momentarily before anxiety reasserted itself. "Let's hope we don't wash out on the first day."
Five minutes later, they stood with the other recruits on the parade ground, a dusty rectangular area bordered by wooden buildings and flagpoles flying the American flag. The June heat was already becoming oppressive, and Steve could feel sweat trickling down his back beneath his new uniform.
A heavyset recruit a few spaces down the line nudged his neighbor. "Get a load of the scarecrow," he muttered, nodding toward Steve. "Guy's gonna snap like a twig in basic."
"The other one doesn't look much better," his companion replied, eyeing Peter. "Bet they're gone by Sunday."
Steve kept his gaze forward, pretending not to hear. This wasn't his first encounter with skepticism or mockery, and it certainly wouldn't be his last.
"Recruits, attention!"
The command cracked through the air like a whip, and the men scrambled to stand straight. A woman in a crisp British Army uniform strode onto the parade ground, her bearing military-perfect despite the curious glances from some of the recruits.
"Gentlemen, my name is Agent Carter. I will be supervising your induction today."
She moved down the line, passing out papers and clipboards to each man with brisk efficiency. When she reached Steve, their eyes met briefly, and he thought he detected a flicker of interest—not romantic, but professional, as though she were evaluating him for something beyond the obvious physical shortcomings.
Steve glanced down at the document he'd been handed. "LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT" was printed across the top in bold letters. Beside him, Peter swallowed audibly, but Steve remained unmoved. He'd come to terms with the possibility of death long ago, during his many childhood illnesses.
Nearby, the heavyset recruit—whose nametag read "Hodge"—was grumbling as he accepted his papers.
"What's with the accent, Queen Victoria? I thought I was signing up for the U.S. Army."
Agent Carter turned sharply, fixing Hodge with an icy stare. "What's your name, soldier?"
"Gilmore Hodge, your majesty," he replied with a smirk that suggested he thought himself clever.
"Step forward, Hodge."
He did so, cocky confidence evident in every movement. Agent Carter indicated how he should position himself, directing him to place his right foot forward and position his arms.
"We gonna wrassle?" Hodge asked suggestively, looking her up and down. "'Cause I got a few moves I know you'll like."
Steve tensed, disgust curling in his stomach. But before he could even complete the thought of intervening, Agent Carter had moved with lightning speed, delivering a perfect punch directly to Hodge's nose.
Hodge dropped like a stone, landing in the dirt with a thud. His eyes watered, and a trickle of blood ran from one nostril. The other recruits tittered nervously, while Steve couldn't suppress a pleased smile. It was always satisfying to see a bully get what was coming to him.
"Agent Carter!"
The voice rang out across the parade ground, and the recruits snapped to attention as an imposing officer approached—a colonel by his insignia, with the hard expression of a career military man who'd seen his share of combat. Behind him trailed Dr. Erskine, looking somehow both out of place and perfectly at ease in the military setting.
"Colonel Phillips," Agent Carter acknowledged, showing no remorse for her actions.
"I see you're breaking in the candidates," Phillips noted dryly. "That's good." He turned his attention to Hodge, still sprawled in the dirt. "You. Get over there in that line and stand at attention until somebody tells you what to do."
Hodge scrambled to his feet, wiping blood from his nose. "Yes, sir!" He hurried back into line, his earlier cockiness momentarily subdued.
Colonel Phillips took his place before the assembled recruits, his gaze sweeping over them with clinical assessment.
"General Patton has said that 'wars are fought with weapons and won by men,'" he began, his voice carrying easily across the parade ground. His eyes settled on Steve, and a visible scowl crossed his features as he glanced back at Erskine. "We're going to win this war because we have the best men... And because they are going to get better. Much better."
That evening, the recruits unpacked their meager belongings in the barracks. Hodge, his confidence restored after the afternoon's humiliation, was tacking up pin-up posters of women in bathing suits above his bunk.
"You boys might want to keep your eyes on these ladies," he called across the room to Steve and Peter. "Closest you'll ever get to the real thing."
Several of the other recruits laughed, though a few looked uncomfortable with Hodge's persistent bullying.
Steve ignored him, methodically arranging his stack of well-worn military books on tactics and strategy beside his bunk. Peter was carefully pinning Jane's photo to the small bulletin board above his bed when Hodge sauntered over.
"What's that around your neck, Parker?" Hodge asked, gesturing to the chain visible at Peter's collar.
Peter hesitated, then pulled out the Star of David pendant. "It was my mother's."
Hodge's face twisted with disgust. "You're a Jew? They're letting Hebrews into the program now?"
"My mother was Jewish," Peter explained, his voice level despite the tension evident in his shoulders. "My father's Protestant. I attend church, but I wear this to honor her. She gave it to me before I left."
"So you're a half-breed," Hodge sneered. "That explains a lot."
Steve set down the book he'd been holding and stepped forward. "Why don't you back off, Hodge?"
Hodge turned his attention to Steve, clearly pleased to have provoked a reaction. "What's it to you, runt? You sweet on Parker here?"
"I just don't like bullies," Steve replied evenly. "Doesn't matter where they're from."
"You calling me a bully?" Hodge stepped closer, using his size to loom over Steve.
"If the shoe fits."
Hodge grabbed the front of Steve's shirt. "I ought to—"
"Is there a problem?"
The voice came from the doorway, where a young man in an officer's uniform stood observing the scene. He was tall and lean, with sharp features and intelligent green eyes that seemed to take in everything at once.
Hodge immediately released Steve. "No, sir. Just getting acquainted with the new recruits."
"I see." The officer stepped into the barracks. "I'm Lieutenant Alan Scott. I'll be one of your instructors for engineering and tactical analysis during your time here." His gaze swept across the room, lingering briefly on Hodge before moving to Steve and Peter. "Lights out in fifteen minutes. I suggest you all get some rest. Tomorrow will be... challenging."
As Scott turned to leave, Steve noticed something odd—a flash of green light from the man's hand, quickly concealed as he adjusted his sleeve. Before Steve could process what he'd seen, Scott was gone, leaving behind an atmosphere considerably less tense than before.
"Saved by the bell, runt," Hodge muttered, but the confrontation had lost its momentum.
As the recruits prepared for bed, a slender young man about Steve's age approached their corner of the barracks. He had an open, friendly face and carried himself with an easy confidence.
"Don't mind Hodge," he said quietly. "Guy's compensating for something, if you ask me." He extended his hand. "Jay Garrick."
"Steve Rogers," Steve replied, shaking the offered hand. "This is Peter Parker."
"Nice to meet you both," Jay said with a genuine smile. "I'm with the technical division—helping set up some specialized equipment for the SSR. Thought I'd come by and see who they've recruited." He glanced around the barracks. "Let me guess—Hodge was first pick for most of the drill sergeants?"
"He certainly seems to think so," Peter remarked.
Jay shrugged. "The loud ones usually do. But between you and me, this program isn't about who can yell the loudest or punch the hardest." His eyes twinkled with intelligence and good humor. "Anyway, I should let you guys get some sleep. Trust me, you'll need it."
After Jay left, Steve and Peter exchanged thoughtful glances.
"Seems like not everyone here is cut from the same cloth as Hodge," Peter observed quietly.
"Let's hope not," Steve replied. "Otherwise, it's going to be a long few weeks."
The training began at dawn the next morning, with a five-mile run that left Steve gasping for breath but determined to finish. When his asthma threatened to overwhelm him about halfway through, Peter slowed his pace to stay with him, earning dirty looks from the drill instructor but a grateful nod from Steve.
"Don't... have to... wait for me," Steve managed between labored breaths.
"Sure I do," Peter replied, though he was also struggling. "You'd do the same for me."
By the time they finished—dead last, with Hodge and his cronies already showered and smirking from the sidelines—Steve's lungs felt like they were on fire. But he'd completed the course, which was all that mattered to him.
The day continued with calisthenics, weapons training, and basic hand-to-hand combat instruction. In each physical challenge, Steve found himself at the bottom of the rankings, his body simply unable to match what his spirit was willing to endure. Peter fared somewhat better, but his slender build and scholarly background still placed him firmly in the bottom third of the recruits.
It was during the afternoon tactical session, led by Lieutenant Scott, that both men began to shine.
"The battlefield is not simply a physical space," Scott explained, his voice carrying across the classroom. "It's a multidimensional problem requiring multidimensional thinking. Strength and speed are valuable assets, but they're useless without the intelligence to direct them properly."
He unrolled a large map across the front table. "This is a recreation of the terrain at Cantigny, where American forces engaged the Germans in May of 1918—our first major offensive in the Great War."
Scott described the scenario—the positions of American and German forces, the objectives, and the constraints. Then he divided the recruits into teams of three and assigned each group a sector of the battlefield.
"Your task is to devise an approach that would have maximized American advantages while minimizing casualties. You have thirty minutes."
Steve found himself grouped with Peter and a quiet recruit named Jones, who had thus far kept to himself. As they bent over their section of the map, Steve's mind began making connections almost immediately.
"Look at the elevation here," he pointed out. "And the tree cover. The Germans would have been expecting a frontal assault, but if we moved under cover of darkness through this ravine, we could position a small force behind their line."
"A flanking maneuver?" Jones asked, studying the area Steve indicated.
"Exactly. Not the main attack force—that would still come from the expected direction. But enough men to create confusion and divide their attention."
Peter nodded enthusiastically. "And if we timed it right, with the main force attacking just as the flanking unit began their disruption..."
The three of them quickly developed a comprehensive plan, with Steve sketching out movements and timing with sure, confident strokes. When Scott called time and began reviewing each team's approach, he paused noticeably at their table.
"Interesting," he said, studying their work. "Most groups opted for a variation on the historical approach—a direct assault with superior numbers. You've proposed something considerably more nuanced." He traced the flanking route Steve had highlighted. "This would have required excellent coordination and precise timing."
"It also would have required soldiers who could move quickly and quietly through difficult terrain at night," Steve admitted. "Not every unit would be capable of executing it."
"True," Scott agreed. "But a commander who knows both the capabilities of his men and the context of the battlefield has already won half the battle." He straightened up, addressing the entire class. "Rogers, Parker, and Jones have demonstrated exactly the kind of thinking this program values—creative problem-solving that leverages available resources for maximum effect."
Hodge snorted from his position across the room. "Fat lot of good that does if you can't carry your own weight in the field."
Scott fixed Hodge with a level stare. "Private Hodge, I've reviewed your team's proposal. A frontal assault with minimal preparation against fortified positions." He shook his head. "That approach was tried repeatedly on the Western Front. It produced staggering casualties and minimal gains. In other words," his voice took on an edge of steel, "it failed."
Hodge had the good sense to look chastened, though the resentful glare he shot toward Steve suggested this victory had only deepened his antagonism.
After class, as the recruits filed out for dinner, Scott called Steve back.
"That was impressive work today, Rogers. Where did you learn tactical analysis?"
"Books, mostly," Steve admitted. "I've always been interested in military history. When you're stuck in bed with pneumonia as often as I was growing up, you find ways to keep your mind active."
Scott nodded thoughtfully. "Well, it's paid off. Keep it up." As Steve turned to go, Scott added, "And Rogers? Don't let Hodge get under your skin. Men like that measure others by their own limited standards. True leadership requires a broader vision."
Steve nodded his thanks and hurried to catch up with Peter, who was waiting just outside.
"What was that about?" Peter asked as they walked toward the mess hall.
"Just some feedback on our tactical approach," Steve replied, though he was still thinking about Scott's advice. "Hey, did you notice anything unusual about Lieutenant Scott during class?"
Peter considered the question. "Not really. Why?"
"Nothing important," Steve said, deciding to keep his observation about the green light to himself for now. "Let's grab dinner before Hodge and his pals take all the good stuff."
The fourth day of training brought a new challenge: a punishing five-mile hike through rough terrain with full packs. The morning dawned hot and humid, promising misery for even the fittest recruits. For Steve, whose asthma was often triggered by humidity, it loomed as yet another test of will over physical limitation.
"Pick up the pace, ladies!" the drill sergeant bellowed, marching backward at the head of the formation with infuriating ease. "Let's go, let's go! Double time! Come on! Faster! Faster! Move! Move!"
The recruits trudged forward, sweat already soaking through their uniforms despite the early hour. Steve's lungs burned with each breath, but he forced himself to maintain position, refusing to fall behind again.
After nearly two hours of grueling march, the sergeant called a halt as they reached a small clearing dominated by a tall wooden pole. A flag hung limply at its top, the stars and stripes barely visible in the still air.
"Squad, halt!" The sergeant's voice cut through the heavy breathing of the exhausted recruits. "That flag means we're only at the halfway point. First man to bring it to me gets a ride back with Agent Carter. Move, move!"
The recruits glanced up at the smooth pole, then at the jeep parked nearby where Agent Carter sat watching with cool detachment. The prospect of skipping the return journey was enough motivation to send the men scrambling toward the pole.
Hodge reached it first, wrapping his arms and legs around the thick wood and attempting to shimmy upward. He made it nearly six feet before sliding back down, his hands raw from the friction. Several others tried with similar results, each managing to climb a few feet before gravity reclaimed them.
"Come on! Get up there!" the sergeant taunted. "If that's all you got, this army's in trouble! Get up there, Hodge!"
Hodge, determined to redeem himself, made another attempt. This time he progressed a few inches higher before losing his grip and landing hard on his backside. The sergeant shook his head in disgust.
"Come on! Get up there! Nobody's got that flag in seventeen years!" The sergeant's face was flushed with frustration. "Now fall back into line! Come on, fall in! Let's go! Get back into formation!"
The recruits, defeated and dejected, began to reassemble in their marching ranks. Steve, however, remained where he was, studying the pole with narrowed eyes.
"Rogers! I said fall in!" the sergeant barked.
But Steve had noticed something the others had overlooked in their eagerness. He approached the pole calmly and knelt at its base, examining the mechanism that held it upright. Without a word, he pulled out the retaining pin.
The pole crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, sending up a small cloud of dust. In the sudden silence, Steve calmly walked over to where the flag lay, unfastened it from the fallen pole, and approached the dumbfounded sergeant.
"Thank you, sir," he said simply, handing over the flag.
For a moment, the sergeant could only stare at Steve, his mouth slightly open. Then, as understanding dawned, a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"That's one way to do it, Rogers," he admitted. He jerked his head toward the waiting jeep. "Get in."
As Steve walked toward the vehicle, Peter's laughter rang out from the formation.
"I should have thought of that!" Peter exclaimed, clapping his hands together in genuine delight at his friend's ingenuity.
Several other recruits were grinning as well, impressed despite themselves by the unexpected solution. Even Hodge, still nursing his wounded pride, looked more puzzled than angry—as though reassessing his dismissal of the skinny recruit from Brooklyn.
Agent Carter, watching from the jeep, made no attempt to hide her approval. As Steve climbed into the back seat, she glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
"Impressive thinking, Private Rogers," she commented, her British accent lending the words an elegant crispness.
"Just seemed like the practical approach, ma'am," Steve replied, trying not to sound too pleased with himself.
As the jeep pulled away, leaving the rest of the recruits to continue their grueling march, Steve caught a glimpse of Dr. Erskine watching from a nearby rise. The doctor gave him a small nod of satisfaction, as though Steve had just confirmed something he already knew.
When the other recruits finally staggered back to camp nearly three hours later, dirty and exhausted, they found Steve freshly showered and rested, calmly reading one of Lieutenant Scott's tactical manuals on the steps of the barracks.
"How was the rest of the hike?" he asked innocently as Peter collapsed beside him.
"You're enjoying this way too much," Peter groaned, but there was no real resentment in his voice. "Have to hand it to you though—that was brilliant."
"Sometimes the direct approach isn't the best one," Steve said with a shrug.
Word of the flag incident spread quickly through the camp, adding a new dimension to the recruits' perception of Steve Rogers. He was still the smallest and physically weakest among them, but the demonstration of his lateral thinking had earned him a measure of respect that no amount of physical prowess could have won.
"Maybe the runt's not completely useless after all," one of the recruits commented during dinner that evening, loud enough for Steve to hear.
"He still can't run worth a damn," Hodge grumbled, "but I guess brains count for something in this outfit."
The days fell into a punishing rhythm. Mornings began with physical training—running, calisthenics, obstacle courses—where Steve consistently struggled and often finished last. Afternoons alternated between weapons training, tactical exercises, and specialized classes related to the mysterious "project" that none of the instructors would discuss openly.
Throughout it all, Hodge and his circle continued their campaign of harassment against Steve and Peter, though they were careful to avoid crossing lines that might bring official reprimand. The rest of the recruits maintained a cautious distance, reluctant to align themselves with either the popular bullies or the unit's seeming misfits.
It was during their third day of training, as they navigated the camp's notorious obstacle course, that tensions reached a breaking point. The recruits were scrambling up a cargo net when Steve's foot became tangled in the mesh. As he struggled to free himself, Hodge climbed directly over him, deliberately planting a boot on Steve's fingers and smashing his face against the netting.
"Oops," Hodge called down with false concern. "Didn't see you there, runt."
Steve grimaced but said nothing, focusing instead on untangling his foot and continuing the climb. From an observation platform nearby, he caught sight of Dr. Erskine watching, his expression unreadable behind his spectacles.
Later that day, as the recruits crawled through mud beneath a barbed-wire net, Hodge seized another opportunity for "accidental" sabotage. Using his boot, he kicked out one of the support poles, causing the barbed wire to sag dangerously low over Steve.
"Rogers!" the drill sergeant barked. "Move your ass or you'll be sleeping on your stomach for a week!"
Steve gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, feeling the barbs scrape across the back of his uniform. By the time he emerged, his shirt was torn in several places, with thin lines of blood visible beneath the rips.
Peter, who had already completed the obstacle, helped Steve to his feet. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Steve replied, though his back stung fiercely. "Nothing I haven't handled before."
"Hodge is a real piece of work," Peter muttered, glaring across the field where Hodge was laughing with his friends. "Someone ought to teach him a lesson."
"Not worth it," Steve said. "We've got more important things to focus on."
That evening, while most of the other recruits headed to the recreation hall for their brief free time, Steve and Peter remained in the barracks, studying the next day's tactical exercise. Jay Garrick joined them, having become a regular visitor despite not being part of the recruit cohort.
"You know," Jay commented, watching Steve wince as he shifted position, "there's no shame in reporting Hodge's behavior. What he did today crossed the line from hazing to deliberate endangerment."
"And be branded a snitch on top of everything else?" Steve shook his head. "No thanks. I can handle Hodge."
Jay looked skeptical but didn't press the issue. Instead, he changed the subject. "So, any idea why you two were selected for this program? The SSR doesn't exactly advertise its recruitment criteria."
Steve and Peter exchanged glances. "Dr. Erskine seemed to think we had what they were looking for," Steve said carefully. "Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine."
"Well, whatever the reason, I'm glad you're here," Jay said with genuine warmth. "Makes a nice change from some of the other muscle-heads they've rounded up."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Scott, who appeared in the doorway with a stack of books under one arm.
"Evening, gentlemen," he greeted them. "Garrick, I thought I might find you here. General Headquarters is looking for those calculations you promised."
"Right," Jay said, standing quickly. "I should get back to that. See you guys tomorrow."
After Jay had gone, Scott approached Steve and Peter's table. "I brought some additional reading that might interest you." He set down the books—advanced military histories and tactical analyses that went well beyond the standard training materials.
"These aren't part of the regular curriculum," Scott explained, "but given your performance in tactical exercises, I thought you might appreciate the challenge."
"Thank you, sir," Steve said, already reaching for the top volume.
Scott nodded and turned to leave, but paused at the door. "By the way, Rogers—that wound on your back might need attention. The infirmary is open until 2100 hours." His tone made it clear this was a suggestion, not an order.
Once Scott had departed, Peter looked at Steve with raised eyebrows. "How did he know about your back? You've been hiding it all evening."
Steve frowned slightly, thinking back to the green light he'd glimpsed on their first night. "I don't know. Lieutenant Scott seems to notice a lot of things most people miss."
By the end of the first week, the physical and mental strain of training had begun to take its toll on all the recruits. Even Hodge's swagger had diminished somewhat as the grueling regimen pushed everyone to their limits. But while most recruits improved steadily in the physical aspects of training, Steve's progress remained frustratingly minimal.
It was during the morning calisthenics, as Steve struggled through push-ups while the other recruits powered ahead, that Colonel Phillips and Dr. Erskine had their famous discussion—one that would later become part of Camp Lehigh legend.
Steve could hear fragments of their conversation as they walked nearby, Phillips's voice carrying clearly in the morning air.
"I guess I just don't understand the European sense of humor, Doctor. You're not thinking of picking Rogers, are you?"
"I am more than just thinking about it," Erskine replied calmly. "He is the clear choice."
Phillips's response was incredulous. "When you invited a ninety-pound asthmatic onto my Army base, I let it slide because I assumed he'd be useful to you. Like a gerbil. I never thought you'd pick him."
Their voices faded as they moved out of earshot, only to return several minutes later as they continued their circuit of the training area. By now, they had stopped near an open truck with a crate of grenades visible inside.
"Look at him!" Phillips exclaimed, gesturing toward where Steve still struggled with his exercises. "He's making me cry."
"I am searching for qualities beyond the physical," Erskine replied, his Austrian accent more pronounced under stress.
"Do you know how long it took to set up this project?" Phillips demanded. "The groveling I had to do in front of Senator Brandt's committee?"
Steve tuned out their argument, focusing instead on completing his set even as his arms trembled with exhaustion. Nearby, Hodge powered through his push-ups with apparent ease, shooting Steve a smug look whenever Agent Carter's attention was elsewhere.
The exchange between Phillips and Erskine concluded with what seemed like an impasse. Then, without warning, Phillips reached into the truck and grabbed something from the crate.
"You don't win wars with niceness, Doctor," he declared, pulling the pin from a grenade and hurling it into the midst of the exercising recruits. "You win them with guts."
"GRENADE!" Phillips shouted.
The effect was instantaneous. Recruits scattered in all directions, diving for cover behind equipment or simply running to escape the blast radius. Hodge yelped in panic and threw himself underneath a nearby jeep.
Agent Carter made a move toward the grenade, but Steve was faster. Without hesitation, he threw himself on top of the device, curling his body around it to contain the impending explosion.
"Get away!" Steve shouted to the few recruits still nearby. "Get back!"
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the end—but seconds ticked by, and nothing happened. Cautiously, Steve opened his eyes to find the grenade still intact beneath him. No explosion. No death.
From his position on the ground, he looked up at Colonel Phillips, who stood watching with an unreadable expression.
"Is this a test?" Steve asked, suddenly understanding.
Phillips didn't answer, but his stony facade had cracked just enough to reveal a hint of reassessment in his eyes. Beside him, Dr. Erskine wore the satisfied smile of a man whose point had just been proven conclusively.
Slowly, the other recruits emerged from their hiding places, many looking sheepish at their instinctive flight. Hodge crawled out from under the jeep, his face flushed with embarrassment when he realized what had happened.
As Steve got to his feet, brushing dirt from his uniform, Peter approached with a mixture of awe and exasperation.
"You know," Peter said quietly, "most people runawayfrom grenades, not toward them."
Steve shrugged. "It seemed like the right thing to do."
"You're either the bravest guy I've ever met or the craziest," Peter replied, shaking his head. "Maybe both."
Later, as they headed back to the barracks for a brief rest period before afternoon training, they passed a group of recruits including Hodge. Instead of the usual jeers, they were met with awkward silence and a few thoughtful glances.
"Is it just me," Peter whispered, "or did jumping on a grenade actually earn you some respect around here?"
"It's probably temporary," Steve replied, though he'd noticed the shift as well.
But Peter was right. The "grenade incident," as it came to be known, marked a turning point in how the other recruits viewed Steve. Not all of them became friendly overnight—Hodge, in particular, seemed to resent Steve even more for showing him up—but the outright mockery diminished, replaced by a grudging acknowledgment that perhaps there was more to the skinny kid from Brooklyn than met the eye.
That evening, Steve sat on his bunk, sketching idly in the notebook he kept hidden beneath his mattress. He'd just finished a rough drawing of the barracks when a shadow fell across the page.
"May I?"
It was Dr. Erskine, gesturing to the empty space at the end of the bunk.
"Of course, sir," Steve said, hastily closing his notebook.
The doctor sat, studying Steve with the same keen-eyed interest he'd shown at the recruitment center in New York. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply taking in the spartan surroundings and the few personal items Steve had brought with him.
"Tell me, Mr. Rogers," Erskine finally asked, "why did you jump on that grenade today?"
Steve considered the question. "Instinct, I guess. There wasn't time to think about it."
"That is precisely my point," Erskine nodded. "Instinct. When faced with danger, our true nature reveals itself." He gestured toward the door, beyond which the camp continued its evening routines. "Some run away. Others, like you, run toward the danger, thinking not of themselves but of those around them."
"I didn't do anything special," Steve insisted. "Anyone would have—"
"No," Erskine interrupted gently but firmly. "Not anyone. That is why you are here, Mr. Rogers. Because when the moment of crisis arrived, you acted as only Steven Rogers would act." He stood, smoothing his coat. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be another important day."
As Erskine departed, Steve noticed Peter watching from his own bunk, an unspoken question in his eyes. Steve could only shrug in response; he was as mystified by the doctor's interest as anyone.
Outside, the sun had set on another day at Camp Lehigh. In his office, Colonel Phillips grudgingly updated his assessment reports, including a note about Rogers's unexpected action during the grenade test.