1

Steve Rogers stood nervously in line at the army recruitment center in Bayonne, New Jersey. Ahead of him, men stepped up one by one. And one by one, they got approved to join the army. Steve sighed and waited for his turn, which seemed as if it would never come. Looking around, he noticed several newspaper headlines about a brutal attack on a small Norwegian town that had left civilians hurt and homeless.

America was at war. Across the ocean, Europe was full of gunfire and explosions. Men, women, and children were losing their lives and their homes as enemy forces invaded country after country. It had been going on for two years before America got involved, but then Pearl Harbor had happened. Now soldiers from the United States were flooding Europe, hoping to help the good guys win. But it wasn’t going to be an easy—or a short—fight.

Steve felt the now-familiar rush of anger—and frustration. He wanted to be over there fighting more than anything in the world. But try as he might, he couldn’t get past anyone in the recruitment centers, no matter how many attempts he made.

Steve had never been a big guy. Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn, New York, he and his best friend, James “Bucky” Barnes, had gotten into their fair share of fights. But it was usually Bucky who managed to keep them safe. Steve was scrappy, but physically he wasn’t anything to write home about. He was skinny and frail, and because of his asthma, he couldn’t even do enough exercise to add some muscles. He also had other health problems. The list was so long doctors usually thought he was making some of them up. But that was the last thing in the world Steve Rogers was going to do. He would have done anything to be fit for the army.

Not every soldier had to be a muscleman, like Johnny Weissmuller or Charles Atlas. You could win wars with brains and heart. Steve had enough brains, he figured, and he had a big heart. Some army recruitment center would eventually give him what he wanted most—a 1A stamp. Then he could be a US soldier, like his father had been. Which is why he now stood in line in the fifth recruitment center in the fifth city, hoping this would be the day. He knew it was not exactly legal to try to enlist in multiple locations, but so far, no one seemed to have caught on.

“Rogers, Steven?” a voice called out, startling Steve.

He stepped forward, wiping his hands nervously on his pants.

The doctor opened his file and began to scan it. “Father died of...?”

“Mustard gas,” Steve said. He wasn’t sad about it anymore. He was proud of his father’s service, and he kept his head high as he said it. “He was with the One Hundred and Seventh Infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned—”

“Mother?”

This one hurt a little more. “She was a nurse in a TB ward,” Steve said. “Got hit. Couldn’t shake it.”

Not that anyone ever shook tuberculosis, not really. Steve had been an orphan for a while now. But he was doing all right on his own.

The doctor kept going through the file, his eyes growing wide as he took in all the ailments that had been checked off. The paper looked like it had been attacked by a red pen.

“Just give me a chance,” Steve said.

“Sorry, son,” the doctor said, looking up at him. “You’d be ineligible on your asthma alone.”

He didn’t say it, but Steve knew what he was thinking. You’re a fool, kid. The war is for strong men. Not for guys like you. Not for guys who can’t even breathe right.

“You can’t do anything?” Steve asked anyway, hope in his voice.

“I’m doing it,” the doctor answered. “I’m saving your life.”

Then, as Steve watched, the doctor pulled out the dreaded stamp. With a resounding thunk, he pressed it down on the file, marking it with a big black 4F.

Steve had failed—again.

A short while later, Steve was back in Brooklyn, inside a darkened movie theater. Up on the screen, images from the front lines flashed by in a newsreel. There was a picture of a bombed-out town, followed by images of soldiers pulling wounded men out of the line of fire. Another image showed the enemy marching into an undefended town, knocking down people and buildings as they went.

Nearby, Steve heard the unmistakable sound of someone crying. So many people had already lost loved ones or were about to send them off to the front lines. Steve didn’t have anybody who would miss him if he went. His parents were gone, and his closest friend, Bucky, had already enlisted and was being shipped off the next day. Bucky would be over in Europe in no time, doing his part for the war effort, while Steve stayed behind. Useless.

The sound of an angry voice broke through Steve’s thoughts. “Who cares, play the movie already!” someone shouted from behind him.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. What kind of guy would say something like that at a time like this? He turned in his seat and tried to see who had spoken, but the screen had gone dark for a moment and it was difficult to make out anyone in the shadows. “Can you keep it down, please?” he asked quietly, hoping that the person with the bad attitude would hear him.

But apparently he didn’t because a moment later the guy called out, “Let ’em clean up their own mess!”

Steve shot out of his seat. He had had enough. “You want to shut up, pal?” he asked, turning around. Then Steve’s eyes grew wide. In the light of the screen, he could now see who was talking. The guy was huge, and he looked way too eager to fight.

Steve gulped. What had he gotten himself into?

In the alley behind the theater, Steve stood with his fists in front of him. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he bobbed and weaved from side to side, trying to look tough. But the other guy was easily double his size, with fists the size of Steve’s head.

The big guy advanced toward Steve, who leaped forward, hitting him with an uppercut and then getting a good punch into his kidney. The hit made the man flinch—but only for a moment. He came back at Steve, swinging his meaty fists. Steve ducked one punch and then another. He stepped lightly back and out of the way as the guy swung again. Smiling, Steve tried to get another hit in.

But then his luck ran out. He tried to punch the guy but got too close, and in one quick move, the big man knocked Steve flat with a roundhouse right. Steve got up and came after him again, and the big guy knocked him down again. This time Steve had a split lip. He spat blood on the alley bricks and got his guard up again.

“You just don’t know when to give up, do you?” the big guy said.

“I can do this all day,” Steve panted.

Struggling to get back the wind that had been knocked out of him, Steve unsteadily got to his feet. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. The guy let out a mean laugh. He made a fist, pulled back his arm—and just as he went to swing, someone grabbed his bicep, stopping him and momentarily saving Steve.

“Hey, pick on someone your own size.” Steve opened his eyes, which he had shut in anticipation of the punch, and smiled. He knew that voice. Bucky had arrived. It wasn’t the first time Bucky had bailed out his best friend. He smiled as he spoke to the meathead, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. When he let the guy’s arm go, the guy took a swing at him. Bucky slipped the punch and decked him, careful not to muss up his spotless dress uniform. The smile never left his face. The guy headed for the mouth of the alley. Bucky gave him a swift kick in the behind to make sure he went a little faster. The grin on his face got more friendly as he took in Steve.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched,” he said.

Making his way over to Steve, Bucky helped him to his feet. Then he reached down to pick up a slip of paper that had fallen out of Steve’s jacket. Seeing what it was, he stifled a groan. It was another recruitment slip. He knew how much his friend wanted to be a soldier, but he also knew that it was probably not going to happen. And while Bucky would never say anything out loud, it made him sort of mad. True, he wanted to help his country win the war. But he was going to be shipped out tomorrow, and he was nervous. He didn’t know what to expect across the ocean, and a part of him wished he had the same excuse Steve did.

Sighing, he handed the slip of paper back to Steve. “Now you’re from Paramus?” he asked. “You know it’s illegal to lie on an enlistment form, don’t you?”

Steve shrugged. “You get your orders?” he asked. Bucky couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be him. Even now, standing in the dirty alley, Bucky looked like a hero—something Steve could never be.

“Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.” He saw that cut into Steve a little, and he felt bad about it.

Seeing the sadness in Steve’s eyes, Bucky decided to drop the subject. Time was precious now, and it seemed silly to waste it being in a bad mood. He had another idea.

“Come on, man. My last night. Gotta get you cleaned off.”

“Why?” Steve asked. “Where are we going?”

“The future,” Bucky said. Holding up a newspaper, he smiled. On the front page was a picture of the fairgrounds with a title that read: 1942 WORLD EXHIBITION OF TOMORROW.

Steve raised a curious eyebrow. Bucky wanted to go to a fair? Now? Shrugging, he followed his friend out of the alley. Maybe going to see an exhibition about “tomorrow” would help him forget all about today.