"What America needs today is a good five cent war song.
The nation is literally crying for a good, peppy marching song,
something with plenty of zip, ginger, and fire."
- Congressman J. Parnell Thomas
media:
"Drifting Along With the Tide"
by George Gershwin
cover by LotteHolder
New York City; July 11, 1941
Steve and the doctor found themselves holed up in a small, cramped cafe on 28th Street, owned by an immigrant family he had gotten to know well over the years. The Wanatabes had always provided Steve shelter from the bullies of his youth, and they had been close ever since. The shop was a hodgepodge of all sorts of furniture, cramped together so tightly there was hardly space between the tables and poufs. Steve claimed a spot by the window, a cracked leather booth that provided some shelter from the bustle of the cafe's customers and from any eavesdroppers.
Erskine maneuvered his way around the variety of sofas and footstools that decorated the floor of the cafe, giving Steve a vexed sort of glare. "It's a unique place, isn't it?" he commented, eyes following the string of lanterns and decorations strewn across the walls of the cafe. The menu was just as diverse as the décor – Erskine ordered a cup of black Viennese coffee from the Wanatabes' youngest daughter, and Steve followed suit.
"Tell me, Steven," Erskine leaned in closer to be heard over the yammering clamor of the cafe's customers, "Why do you patronize this cafe especially?"
"Oh, that's easy." Steve leaned back against the leather of the booth, nodding his head towards the window. "I've known the Wanatabes for a while, but I really come here for the music. Can you hear it?"
The pounding of pianos thundered from every inch of 28th Street, filling it with raucous energy as swing tunes mingled and collided with each other. Musicians studied sheet music and drew their fingers across the keys, crashing rhythms blending with each other in one grand American songbook. With all of the songs playing at once, the cacophony sometimes turned into a miserable mess, but Steve could still appreciate the tunes free of charge – or rather, for however much Viennese coffee cost.
"It's hard not to," the doctor grumbled, but not unkindly. "You are a fan of swing music, then?"
Nodding quickly, Steve's eyes focused on some distant scene beyond a mobile of origami cranes. "Sure do. Bucky – a friend of mine – he's always taking the girls dancing, but he'll be off on the Repulse soon. I guess it'll be my turn to pick up a real New York dame. Only problem is, I'm afraid she'd step on me!"
"It is a nice tune." Erskine's lips twitched up into a smile. "Learning the songs, hmm?"
"Just waiting for the right one to come along. A song or a dame, I suppose."
Their coffee arrived and Erskine took a small sip, raising his cup in a toast. "To new friendships?"
Steve tipped his glass against Erskine's and watched as the doctor sipped his coffee, emotions drifting across his stormy eyes as he turned to the street. His head angled to the side as a somber melody rose above the bouncing, jaunty tunes. "You know that song, Steven?"
"I don't think so. I've never heard it played before." Now that he focused on it, the piano seemed to strain in a bitter, sardonic way, clear notes warped by a sharply minor tune.
"It's from the Merry Widow, Herr Hitler's favorite. How I loathe that tune..." Erskine's voice dropped to a low growl, and Steve leaned in closer.
"If you don't mind my asking, sir, why exactly have you come to America?" He lowered his tone to a whisper, hardly audible over the chatter and the thumping of piano keys around the street.
"I have come here, Steven, because I have the key to win the war." the doctor replied, his expression drawn and utterly serious. "I sacrificed everything to escape from Germany, and even in here America nowhere is safe. I do not tell you this to frighten you, but there are many in Germany who want me dead."
Steve's blood ran cold – was this unassuming doctor a fugitive of Nazi law? This encounter was only getting stranger and stranger. "What do you mean, sir? What's the key to winning the war?"
Erskine reached down to his side, lifting a small briefcase from the floor and placing it on the table. The leather was worn and cracked, the corners split from wear. Raising an eyebrow at Steve, Erskine twiddled with a set of dials and cranks on the handle of the case, some sort of complex locking mechanism. The doctor's fingers danced across the dials, and soon he spun his wrist and opened the briefcase to show Steve.
Six slender vials sat in a bed of black velvet, each depressed into a snug niche. The liquid in the vials was a dull, dark blue, rippling slightly from the jostling of the case. Steve reached forward and brushed his hand against one of the vials, feeling the cool glass beneath his touch, but Erskine's cargo didn't seem particularly dangerous.
"What is it? Some sort of explosive?" Steve gazed at the vials with increased scrutiny as Erskine folded the briefcase shut and placed it beside his feet with expert care.
"Not an explosive, Steven. All will be revealed in time. Now, I ask that you come with me one place more – nevermind about the bill, I'll pay for it. Don't protest!" The ghost of a smile flickered across the doctor's lips. His mood had grown far more serious since he had revealed the mysterious vials, and Steve was itching to know what was inside of them. This little adventure beat frequenting every enlistment booth he happened upon, if only slightly.
They hurried out onto the streets, the pounding of the pianos washing over them as Steve and the doctor scanned the streets for a taxicab. Steve could afford taxis only rarely, but Erskine appeared to be more well-off than he looked. After tipping the cabbie a handsome sum, the car sped off through the streets like a demon was snapping at its bumper, tearing between lanes and driving with a ferocity Steve hadn't seen in most soldiers. The screech of tires and fluent swearing of the cabbie drowned out the pianos as they tore away from 28th Street, thrown into the fervor and energy of Koreatown. Steve's nose pressed against the cold glass of the cab as the brilliantly colored buildings flashed by, soon replaced by monoliths of steel. If he craned his neck back far enough he could make out the spire of the Empire State Building – no zeppelins had docked yet, but a flurry of smaller aircraft buzzed around the spire.
The cab screeched to a halt as a cluster of sharply dressed businessmen cut across the street, yammering to each other and brushing off their crisp black suits. The cabbie threw his body onto the horn and a piercing wail blared after the men long after they entered their building. Huffing with indignation, the cabbie thrust his foot down onto the pedal and tore off with a screech of rubber, plunging down the street once again.
Erskine turned to Steve, holding his hat onto his head with one hand and looking slightly ill. "Tell me, Steven. You want to serve in the military, do you not?"
"Yes, more than anything!" Steve called back over another horn blast.
"Didja 'ear that? He wantsta serve!" The cabbie roared with laughter, drawing a deep breath from his cigar. A cloud of foul smoke trailed into the backseat, and Steve waved a hand in front of his face to dispel the stink. "Yer lucky, sonny! Not getting ya brains shot out by the Japs, yer lucky!"
"I noticed you haven't enlisted, either," Steve replied curtly, and the cabbie's already red face turned eggplant purple. He huffed and slid the partition shut between the front and back seats, allowing Steve and Erskine to carry on their conversation without interruption.
"You're willing to die for your country, Steven? Even after it's scorned you?"
Steve ran his tongue across his teeth, trying to come up with an appropriate answer. "I guess you're right. I've had a lot taken from me – my parents, my home, and now my best friend. I've been kicked around, but I've learned from those kicks." He gestured down to his worn slacks, the peeling leather of his shoes. "I can do this all day."
"And do you want to go to war to kill Nazis? For the thrill?" Erskine's eyes drilled into Steve's solemnly.
"I don't want to kill anyone, sir. I don't like bullies, and I don't care where they're from."
"Yes, I saw." Erskine replied, clenching his door handle as the cabbie wheeled around the corner of West 47th Street. "You are a good man, Steven. Better than many I have met in this country and beyond."
Steve shook his head, the compliment falling flat as enlistment posters and soldiers in uniform began to clutter the street. "There's lots of good men out there, sir. But they're off at war and I'm stuck here."
"Believe me, if all goes to plan, you won't be stuck here much longer."
The taxi dumped Steve and Erskine onto the pavement with a jolt. The doctor paid far too much for the fare – Steve wondered if he was familiar with American money, and he had heard that it took thousands of Reichsmarks to pay for a single American dollar back in Germany. The cabbie tipped his hat at Erskine in appreciation and tore down the pavement out of sight.
Erskine gestured Steve forward, and he looked upward to a view that felt like a punch in the gut. A recruiting center stood to the side of Times Square, larger than any he had frequented before, the side decorated with a massive American flag. Soldiers and civilians alike mingled around its doors, the latter of which looking distinctly noble as they dawdled before entering. A cluster of giggling girls stood to the side, casting admiring glances as the men and ducking away when any of their looks were returned. Erskine pushed his way through the throng and the rows of chairs for the physical test, bypassing any of the necessary stages of paperwork and fitness. Steve trailed after him, tugging at the doctor's sleeve in confusion.
"Um, sir, don't we have to check in and take a physical? And I haven't got my paperwork with me." What he really meant was he hadn't been able to forge another set since his last stint at the Trenton station, which had ultimately ended in another denial.
"There is no need, Steven. Come!" At the back of the recruitment station, past a pair of bored-looking MP's, stood a large wooden door with a golden placard as its only decoration. The name Colonel Chester Philips was engraved in the card, and Steve found himself straightening to attention just like the MP's. Erskine barged past the soldiers like he owned the place, not even bothering to knock as he opened the door to the Colonel's office. Steve noticed a different sort of expression on his face, eyes glittering with excitement as he hurried into the office.
A gruff-looking, square-jawed man in a crisp military uniform looked up from his desk, eyes dark and almost sorrowful as they stared into Steve's. If Steve's own eyes weren't fooling him, he almost recognized a flash of recognition cross the man's features before vanishing as quickly as it had come. His gaze wandered to Erskine and he stood slowly, confusion etched across the lines of his face.
"Doctor, I'm glad to see you arrived safely. Those U-boats are giving our transportation to Europe a world of trouble." The colonel gripped Erskine's hand and pumped it vigorously, then turned to Steve. Every motion bled red, white and blue, a sharp pivot that could be measured in exact degrees. "Have we made any progress with Project Rebirth?"
Steve glanced at Erskine, although the colonel's eyes still drilled into his. The doctor stepped forward and rescued Steve from the blistering gaze of the military man. "Project Rebirth is the reason I have come here today. Tell me, aren't you tired of this dull recruiting station?"
The colonel's face cracked an emotion as a smile split his face. "You know it. I've spent all day having to turn down guys like him." He pointed at Steve, who sagged beneath the colonel's stabbing finger. "The worst part of it is, they're the ones who really want to get out there and fight. Isn't that so, son?" Philips rocked back on his heels and observed Steve's physique again. His eyes barely seemed to flicker from Steve's worn shoes to his head, and Steve's cheeks flushed with anger and shame.
"You speak too hastily, colonel. Steven Rogers here is going to win us the war. He is Project Rebirth."
The room fell silent – completely, utterly silent. To the colonel's credit, he didn't backtrack on his previous comments. Instead he raised his chin and stuck out his hand for Steve to shake. Steve's hand was gloved in Philips', and he couldn't keep his grin from his face. He was shaking hands with a bona fide Army colonel! The reason why eluded him. What had made the colonel change his mind so quickly?
"Steven Rogers, well met. Has Erskine briefed you on the details of your mission?"
"Pardon me, sir, but my mission? I'm not a member of the Army."
"Are you?" Philips turned to his desk, a sharp half-pivot, and he pulled a thick folder from the top of a neat stack of papers. Steve's heart sank when he saw the multitude of papers sandwiched between the manila folder – stacks and stacks of enlistment forms, from every time Steve had attempted to join the ranks of the Army. His name was plastered across many of the papers, along with many others he didn't recognize. Names upon names, all men who hadn't fit the bill for soldiering. "I've been waiting for you to show up in the Times Square station for a while now, Rogers. You and the rest of my friends in this folder. How many times is it now, seven? Eight? And that's just in New York. It's a crime to falsify your enlistment form."
Steve mimicked Philips' gesture, raising his chin to meet the eyes of the colonel. He would let his actions speak for themselves.
"Ordinarily, I would send you off like all of the rest of the boys. But eight enlistment forms in eight different cities? That takes gumption. I don't know what Erskine sees in you from the week that he's been in the States, but I take it that you're something special, son."
"Thank you, sir."
"Good." Philips reached upward and pulled gently on a light fixture attached to the ceiling, then gestured behind his desk. "Let's take this conversation somewhere more private, shall we?"
Steve gave Erskine a confused glance, craning his neck to see the colonel step downwards behind his desk and out of sight. When he walked behind the desk he noticed that a panel of the floor had fallen away, revealing a descending staircase illuminated by harsh white lightbulbs. He was still mulling over the fact that there was a secret passage in the colonel's recruitment office as he took a careful step down, almost expecting something to jump out at him. Erskine's footsteps echoed behind Steve as he descended. Philips had to duck under the lintel of the underground room, but Steve's forehead wasn't in the near vicinity of the wood frame.
"Welcome to our base of operations. Well, one of them. The rest are classified." Erskine and Philips shared a chuckle, and Steve's jaw dropped as he looked around the massive underground room. As opposed to the stark lighting of the staircase, the room was rather homey-looking, with brick walls and concrete floors like a sort of gymnasium. Rows and rows of files stood around a central table, covered with maps and pins and all sorts of symbols that Steve couldn't hope to decipher.
What awed him most, though, were the machines. A massive printing press sat huddled in a corner, spitting out leaflets faster than two girls in Army blouses could collect them. Figures of warplanes dangled from the ceiling while officers mulled over armor-piercing rounds, and scuttling machines scampered up and down the filing cabinets, drawing creamy manila folders from the stacks of paper within. Steve wondered if his folder had been filed in this very bunker.
"This is where Project Rebirth was founded." The colonel tipped his hat to a few passersby as he led an awe-stricken Steve across the floor. "Erskine and I will introduce you to one of our chief sources of funds for the project."
"It's as Howard always said – experiments failed for being incorrectly calculated, but never because they were too ambitious." Erskine laughed again, looking like a new man. All of the stress of the streets of the city had melted away, and he held his precious suitcase loosely at his side. After escaping the Third Reich, who wouldn't feel at ease here?
Steve found himself grinning as he observed the energy of the bunker, the determination etched on every face as he passed. "Forgive me, sir, but I don't believe you've told me what Project Rebirth is."
Philips waved his hand. "In time, in time. Ah, Howard! I'd like you to meet our young patriot!"
From behind a precariously leaning stack of boxes Steve saw a head jerk upward. A rather rumpled-looking man stepped outward from behind his desk, which was leaning inward from the weight of its load. His face was young, but a severe frown offset his boyish features. Philips shook the man's hand firmly, and Steve followed suit.
"What's wrong, Stark? Cat got your tongue?" Philips released a rumbling laugh, and the man's frown deepened even more.
"I wish it were so. Just got off of a plane ride from Italy – Tony was trying to sell his designs to the Fascists."
"Well, that's disquieting." The colonel crossed his arms, but Howard waved off his concern.
"He's just an insolent child crying for attention when he least deserves it. I set him straight."
"Right, then. Steve Rogers, meet Howard Stark. The best mechanical mind this world has ever seen, and he's volunteered to help give Project Rebirth its final push forward."
"And some generous funding," Stark responded, but his off-putting manner had relaxed significantly. He shook Steve's hand a second time, this time with a slight smile on his face, and Steve was so shocked he could hardly pull his arm up to meet his handshake.
"If you don't mind my asking, sir, are you the Howard Stark?" Steve couldn't believe his eyes. What had Erskine gotten him into? First a U.S. Army bunker, then the most talented machinist to ever walk the earth! He had idolized the designs of Stark for years, and his feeble attempts at replicating any blueprints never could quite surpass the prowess of the man's mechanical genius. What is going on?
"So you know of me?" Stark looked rather impressed with himself. "Usually my work flies too far under the radar for my liking."
Erskine snorted with quiet disbelief. "Any other man would be satisfied but you, Stark."
"Ah, Erskine!" Howard reached forward to shake the doctor's hand as well. "Never could quite get you to come over to the mechanical arts, could I?"
"Perhaps it was for the best. I have some very vital information on my person at the moment, as luck would have it. Is there a more secure place where we could proceed with this conversation?" Erskine nodded his head in the direction of the Army men and women who had paused their tasks to watch the conversation unfold. Immediately a sea of heads ducked down as they continued on their way, acting as if they hadn't been eavesdropping.
"What is it your signs say? Loose lips sink ships? Rather catchy." The doctor smirked, and Philips directed the group to an adjacent room. A film projector rattled in the corner, loose negatives slapping against the metal, but other than the machine the men were alone.
Philips pulled out a chair and the rest followed, Steve feeling quite small in the presence of such powerful companions. What would bring an Army colonel, a German biologist, and an American mechanic together?
Nothing good, a voice whispered in his head. He pushed the thought away.
"Steve Rogers, you are here as the turning point of the war. Isolationism grips our country. People are too afraid to go off and enlist, even when Hitler swallows up all of the countries he can reach. American soldiers need someone to rally behind. A fighter, a moral beacon of hope and everything America embodies. They need a face to tie with the flag of freedom." Philips' tone was gruff and grim as he seated himself on of the spindly-legged chairs scattered across the room.
"To put it simply, we want you to be that face." Stark added, sitting stiffly in his chair with a certain air of urgency about him.
Steve looked down at his hands, which were clenched in his lap so tightly his knuckles had whitened. "I don't think I understand, sir. I've been rejected for service every time I – well, I mean, when I tried to enlist." Stark raised an eyebrow and exchanged a knowing look with Philips.
Erskine leaned forward, looking Steve square in the eye. "Tell me, Steven. What do you think makes a good soldier? A true hero, someone to look up to? Bravery? Valor?"
"Oh, certainly, sir." Steve nodded. In truth, he'd thought about this question many times. "I like to think it's not so much of the brawn of a man that makes him, but his character. When the enemy's running at you with a bayonet, your brawn doesn't matter so much as your determination to stick him before he can stick you. Fighting for someone other than yourself. Maybe not fighting at all, if it comes to that."
Philips' brows furrowed. "You don't believe we should win this war with fighting?"
"As much as I wish we didn't have to, I know we do. That's why I want to do my part and get out there myself, to be of some use." Steve's mind was running at a thousand miles per hour as he talked: was Erskine trying to get him into the Army? If this was some sort of plot by the doctor, what was with the talk of Project Rebirth? And how was Howard Stark, millionaire mechanics genius, involved? "Any use at all, sir." He finished rather lamely.
The colonel pursed his lips, as if processing what Steve had to say, then turned to the other men seated beside him. "All in favor?"
Three hands raised into the air, and Erskine gave Steve a not-so-inconspicuous wink.
"There you have it, then. Mr. Rogers, welcome to the U.S. Army."