"Steve, it's not that I have a problem with the Colonel, but I think he's missing the point," the man said, picking up a newspaper and showing it to Rogers.
"Look at this. The whole country has seen your potential. Since your story hit the papers, the streets are filled with people eager to join the army. We can't let someone like you be hidden away in a lab."
Rogers felt a mix of emotions knowing he had become a national celebrity, inspiring many to join the fight against the Third Reich. He was glad to see people taking a stand against evil but saddened by the thought that he couldn't be on the front lines himself.
The man patted Rogers on the shoulder. "Son, are you willing to serve your country on another important battlefield?"
When Rogers heard there was still a chance to go to the battlefield, he eagerly responded, "Sir, I would love that!"
"Good. You've been promoted."
The officer shook Rogers' hand. Caught up in the excitement of potentially going to the front, Rogers failed to notice the officer's knowing smile.
But he would soon understand—at least the Rogers backstage did.
"Can I really do this?" Rogers asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
"Relax, man. You're just going on stage to sell war bonds. Just tell the crowd that the money will go toward making bullets to fight the Nazis. Come on, you're an American hero."
Rogers, adjusting his uniform, wore a conflicted expression. "This isn't exactly what I imagined."
"I get it, but the senator is powerful. Stick with us, and you'll soon be leading your own team."
Rogers wanted to say more, but the sound of drums and gongs filled the air, signaling the start of the show.
"Alright, put on your helmet. It's showtime!"
More than twenty beautiful women in short skirts lined up in two rows, singing and dancing, while Steve began reciting his lines to sell war bonds. While Rogers might not have been entirely comfortable, the lively dance routine and the cheering children offered some consolation.
Rogers' popularity only grew as he toured cities like Buffalo, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, and Chicago, even starring in several promotional films. His image became iconic across the United States.
The cheers, the praise, the flashes of cameras—all of it began to change Rogers' outlook. What had started as reluctance gradually turned into something he found some enjoyment in, especially after the success of a massive show in New York. He even began to think that performing wasn't so bad.
That was until he arrived at the rear of the battlefield.
November 1943, Italy—11 kilometers from the front line.
Standing on a hastily constructed stage, Rogers smiled and asked into the microphone, "Are you ready to take on the enemy with me?"
The soldiers stared back at him in silence, their faces blank, as if they were watching a clown.
"Um...any volunteers?" Rogers ventured.
The soldiers remained silent, their expressions turning to exasperation. They didn't start cursing only because they were curious to see what this "clown" could do. When they realized he was serious, they burst out laughing.
"You idiot, what kind of support are you offering us here?"
The soldiers heckled and threw rotten oranges at Rogers, mocking and insulting him. For the first time, Rogers encountered this kind of response during a performance and had no choice but to retreat amidst their laughter. As he left, the girls took the stage.
Backstage, Rogers felt uneasy as he heard the loud cheers and whistles for the girls. It wasn't jealousy; it was something deeper. He started thinking seriously about his role in all of this.
Of course, no one's words of comfort made a difference to him. And with the onset of rain after the performance, everyone was busy dismantling the stage, leaving Rogers alone.
Most of the people there didn't care much about Rogers—but some did.
Like Agent Carter.
"Steve, hello," Carter greeted him with a smile, her eyes warm.
Rogers was surprised to see her. He quickly closed the notebook he was holding, but Carter's sharp eyes had already caught a glimpse of the drawing inside—a monkey in a star-spangled outfit, riding a unicycle, holding a shield in one hand and an umbrella in the other. The meaning was clear.
"Carter? What are you doing here?"
"Actually, I shouldn't be here," Carter said, folding her coat and placing it on a nearby box. She sat down and added, "By the way, your performance was good."
"Uh, yeah... I had to improvise this time since my usual audience is kids."
"Steve, I know you're America's new hope."
"New hope?" Rogers replied with a wry smile, patting the supply box next to him. "Every time I perform in a state, war bond sales go up by 10%. At least I'm helping get supplies to the soldiers."
"That must have been Senator Bullard's idea."
"Yeah, it was. But at least he's letting me do this instead of being locked up in a lab by Colonel Phillips, waiting to die."
"So, it's either lab rat or dancing monkey?" Carter said, looking at Rogers intently. "You know, you're capable of much more than that."
Rogers didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked up and sighed, his expression troubled.
"For a long time, my dream was to fight for my country on a foreign battlefield, on the front lines. Now that I'm finally here, I'm wearing tights and doing clownish performances behind the lines."
Not far away, a military vehicle arrived, carrying seriously wounded soldiers. Rogers watched with a heavy heart, feeling powerless.
"They just went through a terrible battle. Schmidt sent in a force, and we sent a reinforced company—200 men. Only 50 came back. Some of the survivors are from the 107th Infantry. The others were either killed or captured."
"The 107th Infantry Regiment?" Rogers suddenly tensed. He stood up quickly, grabbing Carter's arm. "What happened?"
Moments later, they were at the command center, which was busier than usual. When Colonel Phillips saw Rogers, his expression soured.
"Hey, isn't this the man with a star on his chest? What's your plan today?"
"I want the casualty list from the Battle of Bolzano," Rogers demanded.