Sometimes I wonder if I would have ever met him in a different scenario; one where we weren't fighting for our lives.

That would have been great.

Sometimes I wish he would have known me as a different man; someone who didn't get changed during all the blood shed.

I wonder if he would have loved the original me.

Sometimes, I just wish none of this had ever even happened; then maybe we wouldn't be crying every night we think of the front.

I wish to kiss him without the taste of alcohol and cigarettes.

Sometimes I would wonder if we would have been happy; if only the bomb that fell from the sky would have encased us in it's warmth.

Maybe it isn't too late to start over...

Put your Shirt on

When I was young, my Ma left Pa and me. I don't know why she left. We didn't have a perfect family, only because we were always scrambling for money. Was that the reason? I don't know.

But Pa took real care of me.

He fought in the Great War before I was born and came back and married Ma. A few years later Ma had me. I don't remember my birthday; we never had enough money to celebrate it anyways. But on New Years, Pa would always tell me a new story of the front because I was becoming a 'big boy' now.

Normally kids would be proud and amazed at the stories, but I wasn't. I hated them. I didn't want to know what Pa did to all those men. I didn't want to know about the people he killed.

Pa was a nice man though. He always drank, always left me to go to work, but he fed me and held my hand when I cried for Ma. He taught me right from wrong, and always smiled when I yelled at him to stop telling me his stories.

He always patted my head, smiling, and called me his good boy.

When I got older, he taught me how to drive, and taught me how to speak French. I never really knew why, but I'm glad he did.

He made sure I worked out a lot, and every morning we would run two miles before returning home. He'd pop a can of beer and drown it before leaving for work. I would then go to school. I met another person like me; his name was Ludwig.

During recess we would run laps around the school; sometimes we brawled. He was my best pal. We would study at each others house, and he'd protect me from the ghosts in the attic. My Pa loved him, even if he was German. (Pa mentioned he would teach me German, but he never got the chance...)

We grew up together for a long time, but he moved suddenly, and his parents didn't give him a chance to say goodbye.

I remember running on bare feet after his car. I still have the scars on my feet. Sometimes they burn.

I got a letter from him, a month before the government sent me mine.

I was still living with Pa, in the same old house with the ghost in the attic. Pa came home worried and he handed me the mail. I opened the bills first, before opening the large brown envelope. There were over twenty letters folded nicely together, and some were even stapled. I dumped them all over the table, but my eyes instantly went to the last lone paper that slowly fell out of the large envelope.

On that single sheet, he apologized for not saying good bye. He went on saying that his father lied to him, telling him we moved a year after he did, meaning that because of him, he never sent any of his letters. That was until his stepbrother Gilbert (A Prussian I believe) made a trip down here recently and saw Pa and me run into the house after our morning run.

I read all the letters Ludwig wished to send but didn't. I read about his life, his odd family, and the little Italian brothers who moved in next door.

I was happy for him.

I instantly sent a letter, long and cluttered, but I wanted to cry in happiness when I got an answer letter almost two weeks after. We sent four letters in total before the government sent me mine.

Pa opened that one, because he was oddly home early that day. I walked into the house and found him nursing a can of beer, and an open letter crushed in his palm.

"I knew it." He said. He kept repeating it. "I knew it."

There has been tension in the air. I knew there was a war going on in Europe, but I'd hope we wouldn't get involve. Though the extra work in the factories has been good for us, I didn't want Pa's stories to come true. But then Pearl Harbor got bombed...why were we dragged into all this?

He passed me the crumpled letter.

I was 'requested' to make an appearance at the volunteering station downtown immediately. Or something like that; I don't remember reading the paper all the way. But I knew what it meant. Pa hugged me close that night. (I stopped crying for Ma years ago...)

Only one good thing came out of it; I found out my birthday. Guess I'm nineteen years old now, and my birthday is on July 4th. I suppose America has been celebrating my birthday all this time.

I don't really remember all the physical training, testing, and moving around I did in the beginning. I was moved to a few different corps before they finally settled me into the Air Force. I flew a plane almost a month after I moved there. I almost crashed the plane I was so excited.

Pa sent me a letter or two, but they were always short. There were always tear stains, and the only writing I could read was the words I'm sorry and Put your Shirt on.

I didn't really get it at first, and even now, I still wonder. But I guess I can't ask Pa anymore.

Ludwig was also pulled into the army. He sent a letter a week after he got his, and he told me he was getting sent out. I didn't know how long it'll be until then. I still dread thinking it, but he said it's for a good cause. Getting back France and all. I wish him luck.

A few of my friends I met here were also from the previous war. Some were pretty old; others just looked ancient.

They told me this guy Hitler is a real wacko, even if a lot of American's like him. I guess it has to do with his speeches, and how he had Germany rise back from the ashes of the last war. But, look where it got all of us now.

I didn't care though. I was just happy being able to fly a plane, and knowing that whoever I shot down, I didn't have to see them die.

My buddies also made me read this book by some guy named Remarque, a German who fought in the previous Great War. They told me to note a passage about Chance, and told me this Remarque guy was someone to listen to. They would always say, "There's no God out there son, only Chance. Hope and pray he gives you luck."

I prayed for Ludwig, for my Pa, and for myself. Mostly for Ludwig. I wonder how he feels knowing he'd have to shoot down his own people.

The day he was going to be sent out was fast approaching, and I sent a letter to him about Remarque, Chance, and wished him all the best of luck.

At the end of my letter, I told him Put your Shirt on. I don't know why, but my hand scrawled out the sentence before I could stop myself. I cried when I didn't get a reply almost two weeks later.

Soon, me and a few others got our first mission. We are to be stationed in Britain, and a few days after that, we'll be sent out for bombing.

I write this entry in hopes that maybe I wont lose myself, and if I do, I can look back and pray I can return to it.

A/N: ...What did I just write? I don't know if I should be proud of it or...just totally bang my head against the counter. I've been wanting to do this story for a while now but I didn't expect it to turn out like this. Before you get confused, Alfred is writing in a journal entry throughout this chapter. The very beginning is still Alfred but older; he's looking back and regretting, that kind of thing. The following chapters will go back and forth between third POV to Journal entry every once in a while, depending on how I feel. And I wont be following actual battles and such of WWII, because this is supposed to be my own story, right? Yes, I put in Pearl Harbor and D-Day, but I probably wont follow the time line of WWII through out the whole story. We'll see. So, if you guys are interested, tell me! I'll be happy to continue updating. I'm actually pretty excited :P