Title: My Friend Death
Summary: 1973. A town was occupied. The government reacted. America once again faced a crisis. Historical Hetalia fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. The history here is interpreted by me. I have tried my best to fairly represent all sides of the engagement and how they were feeling at the time. If you happened to be one of the individuals standing in for a point of view (mainly Mr. Trimbach, Mr. Crow Dog, Mr. Means, Mr. Lyman or Mr. Wilson), I humbly hope that my fictional account of your story does not bring you distress. If the aforementioned individuals or their estates have a problem, feel free to contact me.
Warning: War, terrorism, violence, history, racism, human rights issues, drug references, slander, abuse of authority, religious problems, communism, stereotypes, and PTSD. Both human and country names used. Un-beta-ed.
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Chapter 1 – Good Morning Vietnam
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To the Commanding Officer:
It is hereby decreed that one, Private A. F. Jones, be relieved of duty and be placed on the next transport back to America A.S.A.P.
End Communiqué
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The post sorter couldn't believe it.
Never. Never in his entire time in this god-forsaken hellhole of an engagement had he ever witnessed such a thing.
Pvt. Jones had a letter.
Not a letter from home with some private address. Not a letter from one of the few home front support systems. Nope. Jones had a letter straight from the top. Now that was something.
Now there was only one problem…Pvt. Jones didn't have a mail slot…which meant he'd have to redirect the letter to the head office. He'd better not get reprimanded for that.
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"A letter? For Jones? Are you sure?"
The letter was proof unmistakable. Wasn't there a code for this sort of thing? Not that the deliveryman was supposed to be concerned – it was just his job to pass it along down the line and to not ask questions. Questions could get you in trouble – but still! It'd be hard not to bring this one up at the mess hall.
A letter for Jones! Jones never got letters. Ever. Even the guy who he relieved this position from told of the mysterious Jones. Goodness knows they weren't supposed to talk but Jones was something weird at the camp. Weird enough to not even have a mail slot.
He'd better spruce up a bit before bringing this phenomenon to the head honcho.
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True to form, by that time the next day just about everyone knew Jones had a letter. As people talked – and on the sly mind you … because no one was really supposed to talk about these sorts of things – more and more odd stories were swapped. After all, the unit Jones was in was all but formally banned from having any reading material aside from letters and comic books.
Others even said that all mail into Jones's unit was censored like back in some antiquated war. Jones – the man everyone loved, the happy-go-lucky character who was everyone's pal – had more rumors and intrigue surrounding him then any other person anyone could think of.
Naturally conspiracy theories were prolific as to why Jones never got any news from the outside or why it seemed he had been here for so long. No one could even remember a time of him not being here. Sure he got moved about but Jones and his lack of mail had always been a constant. Talk to him, the C.O. said, but tell him nothing of the home front past your early teen years.
The whole business was highly unusual and naturally lent itself to being talked about at any sort of gathering. It was truly amazing what one letter could do. Jones, the guy who was so isolated from everything but what they were doing here, had, at long last, a letter. A letter that would not be delivered to him but to the commander instead – as per orders.
Poor thing probably wouldn't get the letter after all the rigmarole, most thought. Yet all were keen to be proven wrong. All eyes on Jones, not that he knew (but he probably did anyway).
Everyone watched and waited and hoped. (And placed their bets.)
With the whole camp on a secretive high alert it really felt like the whole world was watching Jones.
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"Looks like you're going home kid. Pack your bag."
Shocked confusion.
Everything was perfectly still and suddenly there was chaos. Clothes to wash – bags to pack. His stuff was everywhere and has been everywhere for so long. He was just as entrenched here as ever but now – now it was time to pack up and leave.
To go home – a sweet relief. He could finally get out and figure out what's going on. To stop focusing on one thing and get back in touch with his roots, his home, his very existence and all that it meant to be him.
The bewilderment was palpable – even thought he was in a daze, he'd never moved so fast.
Jones had a one-track mind. Home, home, home. Home was the only thing now.
A mess of returning stuff. He had nothing but he still had too much – advice to impart, goodbyes, so much to do.
But there was no time. Never any time. Gotta move, gotta move. If it's not here, it's not his – not anymore.
The chopper was here – it's finally time.
The ground fell away.
Back home. Back to America. Back to himself.
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Author's Note: This fic has been lurking on my computer since I wrote my senior thesis in college. It's rather embarrassing that it took so long but I think I've finally ready to bite the bullet and send it off in to the world. If this chapter is odd – well, our favorite Alfred F. Jones is in a bit of weird headspace at the moment. America entered the Vietnam War officially started around the end of 1956. In this universe, Alfred was probably front and center from the get go. This story starts at the end of February 1973. That's a long time for a nation to be away from their home. I'm most certain that it is not a new ploy for governments or people in power to try and manipulate a situation any way they can to try and get the national representative to deal with things in the way that they want them to be dealt with. If an information black out will get America focused on the task at hand – winning the war…or at least not losing the war – then that's what it will take. A forewarning now, we all know war is ugly in many senses of the word but the repercussions of war can often times be just as nasty. This isn't a nice fic. This isn't a fluffy fic. While this fic is not overly angst driven, it's gritty and stark and uncomfortable. The conflict that this fic explores still has festering wounds in America's society today that many chose to ignore or forget. Proceed at your own risk. Or stay and learn a bit, make your own judgments, and strive to understand a part of the past.
All chapters are pretty short for the aforementioned reasons.