Hello, and thank you for choosing to read this story. This piece has been inspired by Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. It's a wonderful book. I recommend it.

Arthur stepped out onto the front step, yawning. Today was a rare day off, and to his chagrin he'd spent much of the morning sleeping. As he walked toward the mailbox, he chastised himself. Sleeping when he could be reading, or doing something more productive. Really now, laziness was a predilection Arthur had never tolerated. In an adjacent tree, a robin twittered a greeting before flying off into a blue sky that was rare for this time of year. Arthur pulled open the mailbox, praying the mail carrier had come. When he opened it up and peeked inside, four envelopes stared back at him. He took them out and walked back to the house, sorting through them. Bill, a summons for a world conference soon to be held, a letter from a magazine reminding him to renew his subscription, and a fourth letter, encased in a dirty-white envelope, smelling of stale air and thick foliage, with the words 'Arthur Kirkland' scrawled on the front in the messy hand he knew so well.

Arthur felt his heart jump at the sight of the fourth letter. Now inside the house, he tossed the other three envelopes into thee living room, not caring where they landed, and went straight for the kitchen. He placed the letter on the table, careful not to place it too close to the edge. Such a precious item, he feared it would shatter if it hit the floor. After nudging the letter further up on the table, Arthur turned around and began hunting through drawers to find the letter opener. A few curses flew past his lips when his search failed to yield results right away. Hr glanced around the immaculate kitchen. What had he done with the bloody letter opener? A twinkle of light caught his attention, and he slapped a hand to his face. There, right next to the letter, sat the letter opener. Chuckling at himself for making such a blunder, Arthur grabbed the tool and sliced the top of the envelope.

The letter fell out onto the table. For a moment, all Arthur could do was stare at it. It sat there, looking back at him with such innocence. That such a simple-looking thing could hold gruesome and horrid details was almost impossible to imagine. Almost. Blond hair flapped left then right as Arthur shook his head. He pulled out a chair, sat down, took the letter, and began to read.

Dear Arthur,

First off, I want to let you know that I am a-ok. Not a thing wrong here. It's kind of weird, we've been marching for days, and we haven't lost a single member yet. It seems too good to be true. Yesterday, the men in my group and I took turns pinching each other because we were just certain that we were all dreaming. Can you imagine that? A bunch of guys, dressed in fatigues, holding M-16s, all dirty and scuffed from continuous marching, just standing around under the blazing jungle sun, pinching each other like little kids? Yeah, if I wasn't in that situation, I'd be laughing too. To the outside observer, something like that must be pretty funny. One of the guys in my squad, a grunt* who we've all taken to calling Leaf because he has this odd habit of randomly plucking the leaves off some of the trees and taking them with him, kept saying "God damn, this is freaky, man. I keep expecting to turn around and see Charlie pointing a gun right at my head. A peaceful march just ain't possible." Is it bad to say I agree with him? When you're at base, you hear stories all the time about how some poor bastard was just walking along behind his buddies, and the next thing you know, blam! One wrong step and a Bouncing Betty* sprang forth from the ground and claimed his life quicker than any of the other guys could blink. Or about how a platoon just got situated into their fox holes only to have the blast of heavy artillery bring them up and right out into battle.

Okay, I kind of lied at the beginning of this letter. I'm ok body wise, but when it comes to my mind, I'm scared. Everyone is. You can see it in their eyes when they pull the trigger, you can see it when they're on the march, and you can really see it when they bed down in their fox holes for the night. They're scared. They don't want to die. And I'm scared for them. I don't want to lose any of them. They're all wonderful guys. Well, kids really. The oldest is only 20, and he turned 20 just last week. We tried to have a celebration, but there's only so much you can do with Kool-Aid and C Rations. He was grateful though. Actually started crying and said it was the most wonderful thing he'd experienced since coming here. We keep marching like this and we'll hit Than Khe by next week. That's our destination. I'm not sure what will happen once we get there, but we have to keep going. The guys can't wait to get back to base, and I'm with them. You'd think you'd get used to sleeping in dug-out holes and wearing the same thing day after day, but you don't. Especially not here, where it's so damned hot.

I'll try to keep you as updated as possible. Higher-ups don't want too much information leaked, and I can see their point of view. I got a letter from Mattie. He's really worried. I think he needs someone to talk to. I hate to ask, but would you mind calling him? I don't think the poor guy can handle this on his own. I miss you guys, and I'll be okay. I've got all my men, and out here, that's a true blessing.

-Alfred.

P.S. Compared to the rations, those scones you sent tasted like heaven. No seriously! The guys keep pestering me about getting some more, so I guess that's one more favor I need to ask of you. I like them too, they remind me of the good old days.

Arthur laid the letter back down on the table, and took a deep breath. He remembered when Alfred had told him he was going over with the rest of the troops who had been drafted.

"Are you crazy?" Arthur had demanded, "There's absolutely no reason for you to be over there!"

Calm blue eyesbored deep into Arthur's own.

"Actually, there is a reason: my men and women are out there putting their lives on the line, and the least I can do is be out there with them."

From the level tone of his voice, and the determination in his eyes, Arthur had known he would not win. Conceding defeat, Arthur looked at the nation he still considered to be his younger brother, Revolutionary War or no.

"When will you be coming back?"

"I don't know. When everything's over I guess." Alfred replied.

Arthur didn't say anything back. Alfred sighed and put a hand on the Englishman's shoulder.

"I'm going to be fine. You don't need to worry about me. I'll try to write you as often as I can."

"You better." was the only thing Arthur could think of to say.

Afterward, Alfred had boarded the plane along with the rest of the young men who had been drafted into war. As he watched the plane depart over the sea, bound for an alien country on a faraway shore, Arthur couldn't help but let a few tears fall. He'd seen the images of Vietnam that were being depicted on television. The blood and the bombs, the dead and the dying. The images were enough to give anyone nightmares. The thought that there were people over there, experiencing it firsthand, trying to live through it, made the situation all the more worse. Although Arthur had prayed and prayed Alfred would not go, deep down, he knew that his former brother's decision was inevitable. Those were his people, and he would do anything to help them.

He glanced at his watch. 11:30. Arthur sighed. Close enough, he might as well get something for lunch. As he opened his fridge, he had to wonder…

What would Alfred be eating for lunch? Had he already eaten lunch?

Arthur let the refrigerator door swing shut. Instead, he went to the pantry and began searching for the flour. Alfred and his men wouldn't be waiting long. They would get the scones they'd requested.

His weary feet drug him up to the mailbox. The conference had been boring and far too long. Vague images of a few hours past flashed through Arthur's mind: Germany talking about European economics, Russia going on and on about Communism, China saying…something. Arthur couldn't remember. He hadn't been paying attention. Throughout the entire conference, he had been staring at the empty chair sitting kitty-corner from him. He wasn't the only one. Matthew had stared at his brother's chair since the moment he arrived in the conference room. When the conference had come to an end, Arthur had placed his hand on the quiet North American brother's shoulder and told him to stay strong. Matthew looked up at his former guardian with tears in his eyes. It had been all Arthur could do not to break and cry along with him.

This time, one envelope sat in the mailbox. The Briton snatched it up and looked it over. Same dirty-white paper, same messy scrawl. Alfred had sent another letter as he'd promised. He didn't wait until he was in the house. Tearing open the envelope, he snatched out the letter and read the text.

Dear Arthur,

We lost four men once we reached Than Khe. After we were able to secure an LZ*, wrap them up and lift them out, Leaf looked at me and said "I guess our dream's over. People finally got hurt." I wanted to hit him, and at the same time I wanted to nod my head and cry. Four men Arthur. Four men! Eighteen, nineteen, not even really men when you think about it. I hate the VC*, I won't stop until I shoot everyone of those commie bastards right through the damned skull. The only thing that makes it worse is that when Randall Kyte, the guy whose twentieth birthday we celebrated, got zapped*, he didn't go right away. He hung on. I give him credit for that, he hung out for as long as he could. He thanked us for giving him what he called a 'patrol party. I held him as his breathing kept getting worse and worse. Kyte looked at me, and told me that he was glad to have fought and died by my side, by the side of his country. I couldn't say anything back Arthur. The lump in my throat was too big to talk around. I just nodded. I'm angry Arthur, but not at Vietnam, or President Johnson, or the draft for brining these men here, I'm angry with myself. These people fight and die for me. They think it's an honor. They're wrong! It's not an honor to lose the ones I care about most! It's an honor for them to live, can none of them understand that? I want so badly for everyone here to live, but I know that's not possible.

I woke up later that night in the bunker those of us who were left had fashioned with tears on my face. And it wasn't even Kyte I dreamed about. It was when I was little. I was laying in your bed, there was a thunderstorm outside, and I was shaking. You patted me on the head and told me everything was gong to be okay. That the scary thunder would be gone in the morning. Do you know how long I laid there, wanting that dream to become reality? I want to go to sleep and wake up in your bed, with the sun beaming on my face, and your hand on my head and feel safe because the loud booming noises were thunder and not bombs; because everything did turn out to be okay, and I could put all that fear behind me. It's funny, the one thing I want the most right now isn't a shower, or a bed, or even just a simple hot meal. It's your hand on my head, and your voice telling me that it's going to be okay.

I'm lucky though. No one is wounded. We're heading back to base soon, and I made a vow that I would protect those who remain. Fear, Arthur, it's a constant companion. I'm so afraid of losing them. The only reason I'm not afraid of dying is because I don't know if I can. Not the way my men are dying at least. I should ask Yao. Even if he is a Communist, he's been around longer than any of us. He might know. I'll try to write once I get back to base. I'm sorry this letter seemed so sad. I just need someone to vent to, and although I love my men, you can't do something like that out in the field.

-Alfred

"Alfred…" Arthur whispered in a voice choked by sorrow. Never before had Arthur felt so useless. Alfred was hurting and Arthur couldn't go to him. During the Civil War, he had been able to travel to America and stay with the young country during one of the most difficult times of his life. Even when Arthur had just sat there pressing a cool rag to Alfred's forehead, he had been doing something. A sad smile inched its way up Arthur's lips. Alfred had said how the men who'd been killed were just kids. Didn't he realize that in the eyes of the other countries, he was just a kid too?

"I'll ask you again: why are you here?" Arthur growled. Francis smiled back.

"What? I'm not allowed to perform an act of kindness?"

The kitchen drawer slid shut with a muted snap. Britain's personification stood in front of the kitchen counter, envelope in one hand, a letter opener in the other.

"Whenever you perform an 'act of kindness' as you call it, you want something."

Francis smirked. "You're right. I do."

"You never change, you're still the same damn-"

The Frenchman's voice became serious, cutting Arthur's insult clean off in the middle. "I want to see you snap out of this depression and quit worrying yourself sick."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not depressed, and I'm not worrying myself sick. I'm fine." replied Arthur, opening the letter.

Francis rolled his eyes. What a liar, Arthur was not fine. Anyone could tell just be looking at him that there was something wrong. His face was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes, and he'd lost a bit of weight. Francis pulled up a chair and sat down beside Arthur.

"Who's that from?" he asked.

"Who do you think it's from you idiot?" the Englishman snapped. "It's from that stupid git, who ran off to help his countrymen in a war that can't be won; that idiotic boy who hopped on a plane without sparing a single moment to consider what those around him might think of his foolish action!" His left hand tensed around the letter opener, turning the knuckles white. Francis put a hand on his shoulder.

"What does it say?"

Arthur pulled himself back from his near emotional collapse. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, and read the newest letter.

"Dear Arthur, thanks again for sending the scones. We are back at base, and everyone is doing well. Leaf was wounded on the way back, but he stuck firm. That kid should really have a purple heart. He'd been shot through the leg, and he limped on it the rest of the way back. Everyone offered to help him, but he shook us off, grinned, and said he could make it. I hope he survives this. Leaf is definitely one in a million. During the ambush (that's when Leaf got hurt), we just started firing like crazy. You should have seen it Arthur, well actually, I'm glad you didn't. At first they (my men) were scared, but soon the fear melted to anger, which heated up to a rage. They emptied the casings, reloaded, emptied, and reloaded again. All the while, never losing that eerie gleam. I turned to Leaf to see if he had caught the madness, but he just grinned back at me and said 'Scary huh? Let's take these sons a bitches down!'." Arthur chuckled. Language of soldiers these days! Ignoring Francis, who stared at him with an intent gaze, he continued.

" I felt relieved that he stayed clean. I'm ashamed to admit I gave over to that rage, Arthur. They wouldn't stay down. They just kept coming. Out of the trees, out of the brush. Spooky. After what seemed like hours, we were able to lay our weapons down. I'll never forget that moment-the moment that came after the slaughter had come to an end. At first, everything was silent. Then, a bird started chirping, the grass rustled as something ran by, and the wind blew through the trees. I forgot about the bodies around me, I forgot about my men, I even forgot about the war. All I could think of in that moment, was the serenity of the forest. My men stared too, all enraptured by the forest. I can't help but be shocked. Not even ten minutes after a cacophony of gun-fire and bombs, of shouting men and spraying blood, and the forest goes back to normal. How can the world just march on like that? Does it not care that on its very ground, people are dying left and right? Staining it in their own blood? I'm asking rhetorical questions, but I can't help it Arthur, I'm so confused. I'm not sure which is worse, the silence or the gun fire. I think of you and Mattie an awful lot, and Francis too. I hope you guys are okay. Mattie hasn't written me back, I'm getting worried about him. Tell him that I'm fine, and that I'll be coming home once everything is over and done with."

For a while, neither of them said anything. Arthur laid the letter back down on the table and covered his face with his hand. Francis squeezed his shoulder. Breathe, Arthur told himself, just breathe. He said he's okay. They're back at base. It's okay, it's okay... From what seemed very far away, he heard Francis say something unintelligible. Arthur ignored him. He needed to calm himself down first, the frog could wait.

"Arthur!"

Said Englishman jumped. A heated glare shot itself in the direction of the Frenchman.

"What do you want, frog?" he snapped.

Francis leaned forward and wiped the tears away from Arthur's face. No sooner had the contact been made, Arthur leapt back and touched his face. Tears? He'd been crying? When? Why? Everything was okay, Alfred told him that, so why...

Unbeknownst to Arthur, the tears were flowing again.

"Arthur..." Francis murmured.

"Shut up, I'm fine." he snarled, wiping the tears away.

Francis thought better of pushing the issue, "I noticed he mentioned Matthew hasn't written him. I'm not surprised. The poor thing hasn't done much of anything these past few weeks. It was all I could do yesterday just to get him to eat a decent meal."

"Yes, he's been taking this whole thing quite hard."

Francis raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. With the state Arthur was in, commenting on how the pot was calling the kettle black might not be the best of ideas. He continued talking, figuring that if he could keep the Englishman's mind off the plight Alfred was in, he wouldn't start crying.

"When I visited him, he told me that he's been avoiding sleep. He keeps having horrible dreams about Alfred arriving home in a casket. Night after night, for two whole weeks now." Francis shook his head, "the poor thing cried himself to sleep on my shoulder. I haven't held him like that in quite a long time. Not since he was a child."

He looked back at Arthur. Although the tears had dried, the expression of anguish still sat upon the Briton's face. His evergreen eyes stared only at the letter on the table. "I want him to come home." Arthur whispered.

Francis put a hand over one of Arthur's. Surprisingly, the shorter man did not flinch back. "So do I. So does Matthew, and so does everyone else."

"Not that bastard Russia."

"Russia can rot in hell for all we care."

"Amen to that."

Laughter, talking, singing, and various other sounds of merriment could be heard throughout the lavish ballroom. Lights sparkled overhead as they played with their reflections in the crystal chandelier. On the dance floor, clusters of pairs swirled around one another, caught up in the waltz music drifting out from the strings of the orchestra. As Arthur watched from his spot by the wall, he wondered how Francis had been able to pull this off. Of course he wasn't complaining. He had rather been looking forward to a New Year's Eve party, but it would be a cold day in hell before Arthur ever admitted it. His persona was that of a gentleman, not a person who flitted from one party to another.

He sighed. The year had flown by too fast. Christmas had pounced on him, only to jump off, follow the march of time, and make way for the New Year. Arthur reached into his suit jacket and pulled out the letter he had received a few days ago from Alfred from an inside pocket. Francis had told him that by attending his party, Arthur would be able to stop worrying at least for one night, but he found himself unable to adhere to his old time rival's prediction. Alfred wasn't a worry, he was Arthur's little brother, and the Englishman would be damned if he forgot him, even for one night. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the area to make sure that Francis was nowhere nearby. Detecting hide nor hair of the frog, he read the newest letter.

Dear Arthur,

Can you believe it's Christmas? Where did the time go? It's kind of weird, having a Christmas without snow, but we learn to make do. Everyone at base took a day off today, and we all just sat around talking. It felt nice. It almost felt like we weren't even in a war. For the first time since, well since ever, we all let our guard drop. We laughed, we joked. The sense of being human started to come back. I tell ya Artie, today was the most normal I've felt in a while. Night fell pretty quick, and that's where things got amazing.

First, a flare went off. Thinking it was the VC, we all tensed up at first. Then another flare went off, then another. By that time we realized it was some guys down at the end of base setting off the flares, having them be make-shift fireworks. More flares went up, blazing trails of red and gold in the pitch-black sky. It was gorgeous. Afterward, when everything had quieted down, we could hear singing. Soon, the whole base began to sing. The song 'Silent Night' echoed throughout the entire area. Nowhere, and no time before, I am willing to bet, has such a song been song been sung with more heartache, nostalgia, and emotion than on that night. The magic and spirit of Christmas was all around us, it rose with us, growing stronger for each word sung. I think we put the best church choir to shame.

I hope you're having a wonderful Christmas, and I hope it snowed. Thanks for sending those cookies (I can hear you correcting me right now, but I'll never call them biscuits), although you still have a tendency to add too much flour, but what the hey, they're good regardless. I wish I could send you more than just a letter for Christmas, but C-Rations taste terrible, and everything I have I need. Guys might get mad if I send you some of my ammo. At any rate, have a merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

-Alfred

"I see you got a Christmas letter from him too, eh?"

Arthur jumped, almost dropping the aforementioned letter. Matthew giggled and leaned back against the wall beside Arthur. Regaining his composure (and dignity), the short blond greeted his other former charge.

"Hello Matthew. It's good to see you. I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you much lately."

The Canadian waved him off. "It'sokay. Francis has been over at my place constantly, so it's probably a good thing you were over in your corner of the world."

"Constantly?" Arthur echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry." From past experience, Arthur knew that if the French nation stayed at someone's home for over a period of two days, he became increasingly nit-picky and hyper-active. Then again, Matthew had spent much of his life with Francis, so he could handle it. Besides, Matthew's house was like the Frenchman's second home, considering how close they two had stayed over the years. Unlike Arthur and Alfred, who maintained a relationship similar to that of allies, or close friends, Matthew and Francis still kept that parent/child bond they'd first had.

Matthew smiled and glanced over at the disappearing letter as it was being stuffed back into Arthur's inside pocket. "I assume he told you about the singing as well?"

"Yes. I wish I could have been there to witness it." replied Arthur, nodding. Matthew nodded as well. The two of them let a pool of silence wash over them as their eyes roamed back into their minds, each picturing the event which Alfred had told them about. Flashes of scarlet and saffron lit up the Canadian's mind's eye as he imagined how magnificent the flares must have been. Arthur's ears rang with the imagined power from the combined voices of many homesick soldiers. After a while, Matthew turned to the man on his left, and broke the pool's surface.

"I heard that President Johnson won't be running again."

Arthur chuckled. "That's old news, lad. The Americans have a new president now."

"Old news? Really? Wow, where the heck have I been? Who's president now?"

"Some bloke named Richard Nixon. From what Alfred told me in one of his previous letters, the man ran in a previous election against the late President Kennedy and lost. From what he's heard about the elections, Alfred's become wary of the game of politics. I'm shocked he's not that way when he's out there fighting."

"Maybe he is." Matthew replied with a shrug, "Al may tell us more than he would ever say under the worst of tortures, but there's some things he'll more than likely end up taking to his grave."

It took Matthew a while to realize what he had just said.

"S-so to speak! I mean, not that he'd die, it's just a turn of phrase!" he rubbed the back of his head and looked away. "Sorry..." he mumbled, "not the best phrase to use under the circumstances, I know."

Arthur smiled. "It's alright. I know what you were trying to get at."

Before Matthew could speak, Francis came up and began talking to his former charge in rapid-fire French. Arthur watched the young man's eyes increase in size with every phrase that came pouring out of the Frenchman's mouth. When it was all said and done, the Canadian put a hand to his face and muttered something to himself in English. Try as he might, Arthur could not fully catch what Matthew had said, only two specific snatches that went, "He's your Prime Minister, why should I help?" and "but no, they all get loaded on wine." Those two sentences were enough for the Englishman to make a fairly accurate guess as to what Francis had been babbling to Mathew about. Matthew turned back to Arthur wearing an apologetic smile.

"He wants my help with something, I'm gonna have to go."

"It's fine, Matthew." Arthur replied, waving his hand. The quiet North American brother nodded and walked off in the direction that Francis had pointed earlier when his mouth had been running at twice the speed of light. The Frenchman in question stood where he was for the moment, observing the faraway look in the Briton's eyes for a moment. He could tell that his rival's thoughts were occupied with Alfred. Francis opened his mouth to tell Arthur that he should be out mingling with people instead of being a wall-flower, but a closer look at his face snapped the elder nation's mouth shut. Instead of the somber, dark shade that had become per usual since the beginning of the Vietnam War, Arthur's eyes held a easy, soft glow to them. A soft smile graced Francis' lips and he went to pursue the already-disappeared Matthew, leaving Arthur to reminisce on the contents of Alfred's letter.

Elation made Arthur's hand shake as he sliced open the envelope and remove the letter. He heard from Matthew that just yesterday, President Nixon had announced that he would start pulling troops out of Vietnam. Please, he prayed as he unfolded the letter, let this be the last letter. Let him be among those coming home.

Arthur sat down in a chair, elbow resting on the arm as he read over the letter.

Dear Arthur,

Well, I guess this is the last letter I'm going to be sending. We got the announcement just the other day while out in the field. Apparently Nixon's going to, slowly but surely, be removing everyone stationed here. When my platoon heard that, we all began cheering. Leaf clapped me on the back, laughing. "Can you believe it?" he asked me, "We're finally going home!" Even as I write this, wondering if my flight will beat the letter in the Great Transportation Race, it's still hard to believe. The word 'home' now just seems like some puffy, far away dream that mothers tell their children when they lay them down for bed. The stuff that one can only find in dreams. Kind of sad huh? Only a few years in the field, and home-the idea of it, home's object-doesn't even seem real anymore. Anyway, I'm on my way out of here. It's both good and bad. Good because I'm glad to be going home, glad to be getting back to meetings (wow, never thought I'd say THAT), and glad to be seeing you and Mattie again. A warm meal, a soft bed, and a shower. What couldn't be more enticing to a battle-weary soldier? Still, on the other hand, I'm apprehensive. What's going to happen to the South Vietnamese once we leave? To be honest, I'm not so sure they can defend themselves properly against the Vietcong. We're getting regiments in place so they can defend themselves if the worst happens (and it most certainly will), we're training them in other words.

There were a lot of natives happy to hear the news of our departure, but there were some, a surprising number, who wanted us to stay. As I was walking around Mai Khe, doing a last minute sweep-through with a member of my platoon, a small boy came up to me. He took a hold of my pant leg and asked me something in Vietnamese. I turned to the guy on my right and asked me what he had said (Tom Ruthburn, our resident translator), and he told me the boy had asked me if everything was going to be alright now that the American soldiers were leaving. I wasn't sure what to say to him. I wasn't sure myself. So I told him what I could without upsetting him: I said that there were bound to be some rough patches ahead, but in the end, things would be okay. The future looming ahead was one of a rising sun-bright and full of promise. Tom translated my English into Vietnamese for the boy. He seemed to be pleased with what I'd said. He smiled at me and then ran off to his waiting mother, who'd stood by patiently, watching her young son talk to the intimidating and armed soldiers. She smiled at the two of us, took her son by the hand, and walked away. After they had gone a considerable distance, Tom and I resumed our walk. He asked me if I believed in what I had said. I told him what else was there to have if not belief.

As I sit here, writing a letter to you on a makeshift desk, I keep seeing that boy's smiling face. It gives he hope Arthur. Hope that what I said will become reality. The future rests with the youth, and if that youth believed that we did good, then I can rest easy. Maybe he's not the only one, maybe his mother believes the same thing. At any rate, I'm heading out in a couple of days, so my letter will probably make it into your mailbox before I make it home. Thanks for keeping a constant correspondence. It helped quite a lot. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone again.

-Alfred

If elation could be used to describe the feeling Arthur felt when opening the letter, there was not a single word in the Oxford English Dictionary that could be used to accurately gauge the amount of happiness that lit the Briton's face when he had finished reading Alfred's letter. Leaving. Alfred was leaving Vietnam, he was going back home. He set the letter down on the table beside the arm of the chair. At that moment, the phone rang. Startled, Arthur picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me, Matthew. You're not doing anything Wednesday are you?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, I'm not. Why?"

"Jeez, Arthur, weren't you reading the letter Alfred sent you?" Matthew said with a good-natured laugh, " he gets to come home in a couple of days. Do that math, he'll be coming on Wednesday." Matthew paused for a moment. "So..." he ventured, "you'll be able to make it right?"

In his mind, Arthur flipped through his schedule for the week. Monday: meeting with the queen. Tuesday: meeting with Parliament to discuss financial matters. Wednesday: blank hole. Zip, nada, nothing for that day. Thursday and Friday? Hell, did those days even matter? It stood to reason, from past experience, that if he had the middle of the week free, then the rest of it would either be free as well, or light enough to wave off.

"Yep. I'll be there."

From the other end, he heard Matthew sigh in relief. "Good. I'd know he'd want you to be there."

"Me too." Arthur replied. He and Matthew went on to exchange a few bland conversational topics before they hung up to carry on with their days. As Arthur put the phone back in its cradle, he couldn't help but smile as he imagined seeing the bright, happy face of his little brother once again.

Stepping off the plane and into the terminal, Alfred felt nervous. He knew it didn't make any sense to feel nervous, but never the less, a big ball of apprehension sat in his gut, gnawing away like a gerbil on a stick of wood. If he had to guess, Alfred would have to say it was because, in the back of his mind, he was wondering if anyone from his 'family' had bothered to come. The sound of boots behind him made him turn around. Behind him stood Leaf, the young soldier he'd fought beside since the beginning of the war. Leaf smiled upon seeing his commander.

"Feels weird to be home, doesn't it?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, it does. So, you got anyone here meeting you?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual. Leaf was right; it did feel weird stepping into safe territory.

"My younger sister and my father." Leaf said. He chuckled. "Missy's grown so much since I left, I wonder if I'll recognize her."

Smiling, Alfred clapped his friend on the shoulder. "She'll recognize you man. And that's all that matters."

Leaf smiled back. "I guess you're right." He closed his eyes and spread his smile, "well, I've got to go and make sure my stuff made it through. You know how airports are."

"Oh yeah, trust me." Alfred chuckled, "with as many times as I've flown, I know how paranoid a person can get when they don't see their belongings show up on the conveyor belt right away." He dropped his hand from Leaf's shoulder and held it before him. "See ya 'round Leaf."

"See ya 'round Alfred." Leaf said, shaking Alfred's hand. The young soldier turned and made his way to where the luggage was being picked up. Alfred watched him go for a moment before turning back to observe the crowd. What he saw were many people of varying ages gathered, watching with hopeful eyes. What he didn't hear was the rush of pounding footsteps that drew closer with each passing second. He did however, hear someone shouting his name. Before he could react, he found himself enveloped in a tight hug, courtesy of his twin brother.

"M-Mattie!" Alfred stammered, caught off guard and almost off-balance by his brother's surprise hug. He glanced over his brother's shoulder to see Arthur and Francis coming up from behind, albeit at a much slower pace. Summoning his strength, Alfred managed to unlock himself from Matthew's embrace. "It's good to see you again." he said. Not the best thing to say, but it was the best greeting he could come up with at the moment.

Matthew's response was to once more hug his brother. Alfred suppressed a groan. The Canadian had always been clingy, but he supposed it was a good kind of clingy. Now only a few feet behind the brothers, Arthur and France smiled at each other.

"Matthew, you can let go now. He's not going to go anywhere." Francis told the northern nation. Matthew complied, pulling away somewhat reluctantly. Alfred suppressed a sigh of relief and smiled at the European nations who'd also arrived. He stepped up and shook Francis's hand.

"Hey, glad you could come."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, mon ami." Francis told him, smiling.

Alfred smiled back and let go of the older country's hand. He turned to face the shorter blonde standing off to the Frenchman's right. Arthur smiled at him and nodded.

"Alfred."

Of course, this wasn't good enough for everyone's favorite, overly-optimistic American. The smile turned into a grin and before Arthur knew it, he was crushed in a hug with ten times the force of Matthew's.

"You bloody git! Let me go, this is embarrassing!" For the amount of force being applied around his rib cage, Matthew and Francis were surprised that Arthur could get enough air into his lungs to yell that loud. Releasing the more-than-peeved British nation, Alfred laughed.

"Aw, it's good to see you too, Arty!"

Arthur looked down, hoping Alfred wouldn't see the smile creeping its way on his face. "Git." he repeated.

"Love you too, bro." Alfred replied, smile beaming all the brightness of the sun.

"Well, what now?" piped the quiet voice of Matthew. It was at that moment Alfred remembered his luggage, that he still had yet to pick up.

"Shit!" he yelled. Francis glanced over at him. Arthur opened his mouth to berate the American for using such language in a public facility, but Alfred's voice jumped ahead. "I still need to go grab my bags! Hang on guys, I'll be right back! Stay here!"

As he went to make his dash, Matthew reached out his hand. "We can come with you-"

"'It's fine, you guys stay. I'll know where to come find you."

And with that, he began sprinting off, praying his bags hadn't been accidentally picked up by someone else or worse. Before he got ten feet, he heard Arthur yelling his name. Confused, Alfred looked back over his shoulder. Arthur smiled at him.

"Welcome home, lad."

Alfred grinned. "Good to be home!" he called back, and continued sprinting. During his run, he thought of Matthew, Francis, and Arthur, standing there, watching him retreat-their smiling faces as they saw him, and Matthew's bone-crushing hug proclaiming his happiness more than words ever could.

It was good to be home.

*grunt: term for a private, or a new soldier

*Bouncing Betty: a type of bomb constructed by the Viet Cong, similar to a land mine, but smaller

*VC: short for the Viet Cong, the North Vietnamese Army

*LZ: landing zone

*zapped: term for killed.

Done and done. Once again, thank you for reading.