What kind of a question is that? The Sergeant dredges up his best wolfish grin, and produces a knife from one of the many hidden pockets and sheathes stashed about his person, flipping it in his hand, catching the hilt each flip. "Can I fight hand to hand. Jesus, look at me. I'm a goddamn tank." It sounds almost sour, on top of the flippancy. His few memories of before HYDRA make him think he used to be more slender, more of a dancer's build, but it's obvious what he's made for, now. "Can you?"