Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 174: Ch.173 Draft

Naturally, Bucky\'s father enlisted as well. Together, they joined the Army\'s 107th Infantry Division, currently stationed in Britain, where they were said to endure constant bombing from German forces.

Many of the workers at Su Ming\'s factories also left for the battlefield. The majority of those remaining were women, as it became increasingly strange for able-bodied men to remain on the home front.

War has a strange allure, drawing people from different walks of life toward the same bloody horizon. With various ideals, they cross oceans, braving storms and the constant threat of submarine attacks, all to fight on foreign soil.

About three months later, Bucky and Steve received the devastating news of their fathers\' deaths. Bucky\'s mother, overwhelmed by grief, also passed away, while Steve\'s mother succumbed to tuberculosis, a disease she contracted while working as a nurse.

Both boys were now orphans, feeling the brutal sting of war firsthand.

"U-boats have sunk the USS Virginia."

"Nazis retake Zhytomyr."

"32,000 American casualties."

The newspapers were filled with grim headlines. Steve hated reading the news, but he needed to cover his frail body with the paper.

He was now in a small town in New Jersey called Paramus. This was his fourth attempt to enlist.

Since America\'s entry into the war, recruitment centers had been set up in cities and even rural towns. World War II was a battle of manpower and industrial capacity.

By all logic, the U.S. needed soldiers.

On recruitment posters, Uncle Sam, in his red, white, and blue top hat and tailcoat, pointed at every passerby, proclaiming, "I want you!"

But Steve had failed his previous three attempts to enlist due to his poor health.

Sometimes, he felt as though he was cursed, plagued with so many ailments that doctors would grow tired of documenting them. While none were life-threatening, they made him incredibly weak.

The recruitment center was inside a hospital. Steve sat shirtless in a large waiting hall among a group of muscular men, waiting for his number to be called. Compared to the others, Steve barely reached their chests when standing.

He was just too small. His thighs were thinner than the wrists of some of these men.

As usual, he had completed all the medical exams and was now waiting for the results.

"O\'Connell."

"Henry."

"Kaminski."

One by one, the doctor called out names from the counter, stamping "approved" on the recruitment papers of those who passed. Those selected would receive a notice to report to basic training.

In times of war, training often lasted only four weeks, sometimes less. Whether they learned enough to survive on the battlefield was a different story.

"Rogers?" A bald doctor, busy sorting through paperwork, called out loudly. "Steve?"

The muscular man sitting next to Steve was good-natured but slightly mischievous. He nudged Steve with his elbow, raising his eyebrows as he pointed to an article in the newspaper.

"A lot of people are dying over there. Does that make you second-guess going to war?"

Steve took a deep breath, put the newspaper aside, and walked toward the counter. Surrounded by towering men in the dimly lit room, he felt like he could barely breathe.

"No, I won\'t waver," he said, though the worry in his voice betrayed him as he stood before the doctor, nervously watching him review his medical report.

Strictly speaking, only his first enlistment attempt had been legitimate. Since then, he had falsified his identity several times to reapply. If caught, he could go to jail.

"Rogers," the doctor said, flipping through Steve\'s report. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at the man standing barely five feet tall in front of him. His voice carried a strange tone.

This height was shorter than many women, and just by looking, the doctor could tell that Steve was too frail. Even holding a rifle would be a struggle.

The doctor leafed through the name sheet again. Perhaps this guy was a circus performer, a weakling who was actually a strongman in disguise?

But the second page mentioned that both of Steve\'s parents were deceased, leading the doctor to suspect a hereditary illness.

"How did your father die?"

Steve knew why the doctor was asking. It wasn\'t the first time a doctor had asked him this question.

"Mustard gas poisoning," Steve replied, swallowing hard as the painful memory surfaced. "He served with the 107th Infantry. I wish I\'d been drafted then."

The doctor remained silent, head down.

"And your mother?"

"She was a nurse in the tuberculosis ward. She caught the disease from a patient. No medicine could save her."

Steve answered with sorrow. He felt the weight of war\'s misfortune, which only strengthened his resolve to join the fight and put an end to it.

The doctor still didn\'t look up. Since the war began, he had heard too many tragic stories like Steve\'s.

Fathers went to war and died on the front lines. Sons enlisted for revenge and also died. Then another son would follow, or perhaps a grandson.

War consumed lives senselessly. On the battlefield, all you could do was pray for luck.

The doctor sighed inwardly and continued reviewing Steve\'s medical report. But soon, a long list of ailments caught his eye.

Asthma, scarlet fever, rheumatism, sinusitis, chronic colds, high blood pressure, heart disease, anxiety...

This wasn\'t a soldier. This was someone who belonged in a hospital. In the chaos of war, a mere infection could easily kill him.

"Sorry, kid."

The doctor finally looked up and gave his verdict. He couldn\'t, in good conscience, send someone like Steve to the front lines. It would be irresponsible.

He prepared to stamp "rejected."

"Wait, I just want a chance," Steve pleaded, growing desperate. Was he really going to fail again?

The doctor understood why Steve wanted to fight. Avenging his father\'s death was a compelling reason. But the doctor sighed and explained the harsh truth: "With asthma alone, you can\'t enlist."

Steve stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Maybe you could \'help\' me?"

All it would take was a little leniency from the doctor, and he\'d be through. America was enlisting tens of thousands of men daily. Who would notice a small guy like him?

He locked eyes with the doctor, hoping his sincerity would convey his resolve to serve.

But the doctor saw only a man blinded by hatred, ready to throw his life away. With his frail body, he wouldn\'t even survive the boat ride to England, let alone the battlefield.

"I am helping you," the doctor said, shaking his head as he stamped "4F"—unfit for service—onto Steve\'s file. "I\'m saving your life."

Steve\'s world turned dark.