29 November, 1947

After World War II, most people think everything just... ended. Just like that. No more fighting. No more hostility. Everything just returned to normal.

I mean, that's what I thought.

The Axis had been defeated, but that wouldn't solve things overnight, like the Jewish would find out. After many were set free, they desired their own country, the country that had once been their home. This country was Palestine- controlled by the British, just like most countries were in that time (because you didn't mess with the British)- but Jewish immigrants were seldom welcome. Most who came by sea were turned away, intercepted by British war ships.

After being subject to death and horror, the Jewish were left on their own, left to fend for themselves.

So, the U.N. called a meeting in which they discussed the future of Palestine. They proposed it be divided into an Arab state and a Jewish state, altogether disposing of British rule. The Jewish would have a place to go, and everything would fall into place easily.

Right?

Hands clammy as raisins folded against the wooden table, trying and failing miserably not to fiddle with the 'United States' name tag settled neatly in front of him, Alfred Jones sat at that meeting, sweating more than a sinner in church. Heated arguments sprung back and forth throughout the room: beside him, Prime Minister Attlee of the United Kingdom and its personification, Arthur Kirkland, sat, eyes narrowed and quiet, unspeaking. Too quiet.

Personifications were quite strange things to behold. Living as long as the nation lived, barely aging physically, figureheads of the land- every war, every battle for independence, the personification was there. Arthur's icy, condescending stare was turned suddenly on Alfred: tensing, Alfred glanced away from Arthur and gripped the handles of his seat.

A voice rang out, silencing everyone. "The 56 member states of the United Nations have come to the final vote."

The voice paused, and Alfred's forehead prickled with sweat. He wiped it with his sleeve, and Truman, sitting beside him, glared at the personification's fiddling hands. Alfred knew where he stood, but would everyone else stand with him?

"Afghanistan votes against."

Alfred steadied his breathing as his heart dropped-

"Argentina abstains. Belgium in favor."

The list continued to be read, drawn-out. Everyone in that room counted votes mentally, tense and anxious.

"The United Kingdom abstains."

Stiffening in his seat once more, Alfred snuck another glance at Arthur, who kept his eyes fixed ahead. Only a brief movement from the eye showed that he was aware of Alfred's sharp gaze.

"The United States in favor."

Truman shifted in his seat. Alfred turned his gaze once more from the other personification and blinked as the speaker announced that the majority was in favor. Some people cheered or clapped. Alfred smiled, wanly. Truman clasped him on the shoulder, walked away: Alfred watched Attlee, on his other side, do the same to England.

Like a moth drawn to light, Alfred found his gaze on Arthur. Now that Attlee had gone, Arthur couldn't hide.

"So. You abstained."

Arthur crossed his legs, chin held high. His posture practically screamed I don't associate with ruffians like you. "And you state the obvious."

It seemed they'd never been on good terms, not even after Winston Churchill had spoken of their relationship as 'special', not since the Revolutionary War. Alfred bit the bottom of his lip offhandedly, eyes narrowing. "Arthur."

He gripped the edge of his seat, knuckles white, lips spread in a thin line, betraying no emotion. "They will die, Alfred. The Arabs will kill them, outnumber them, deface everything. You're a bloody fool if you can't see it."

As if on cue, the voice of the Arab states' delegation rang out clearly, and everyone turned. Standing at the foot of the stairs, prepared to exit, winged by the personification of India and Pakistan- he yelled out, "We will not be bound by this decision, and neither will our brothers. We decide our own destiny. You shall see."

They walked out, the sound of a slammed door resonating throughout. Low murmurs started and spread over the room.

Arthur turned, dark green eyes boring into Alfred's. "You see? You send the Israelites to their deaths."

—

Jews gathered in Tel Aviv to celebrate the entire night after the vote. Bonfires were lit, people danced, cafes served free champagne.

It was all short lived. After the report was released, after everyone had heard the news, the Egyptians and the Arab Nations protested, crying out in fury.

Alfred had been firm in the belief that Israel deserved their own nation. After Arthur's words, however, he began to doubt. Israel had no army, no Air Force, no means of protection-

"Alfred!"

Shaken out of his thoughts, Alfred looked up, eyes wide. "Sorry, Mr. Truman. You were saying?"

He tapped impatient fingers on his desk, sliding a newspaper to Alfred. The headlines read of more war. An Arab-Israeli war. There was joy within Jewish communities, but widespread outrage surged in the neighboring Arab nations.

Alfred exhaled, and murmured, "And the British Mandate? Will they leave Israel?"

"I don't know, Alfred. Nothing is certain, and the only thing I'm aware of is the fact that Parliament is debating rigorously. But I believe it's safe to assume that the Mandate will expire, and Britain will pull their troops out of Palestine completely."

"And if Britain relinquishes sovereignty over Palestine, or what it will soon be- what then?"

Truman pushed his glasses up, rocking back in his seat. "You have a brain, Alfred. You've seen how history works. They'll be attacked."

—

Truman had made it clear that he wasn't interested in getting involved with more carnage. Anyone who tried to help the Israelites was now essentially forfeiting their American passport, and as much as Alfred disagreed, he couldn't change his president's mind.

But Alfred had already seen that, to some people, losing their nationality didn't matter. Four men, all World War II Air Force veterans, had already left for Panama. Where it was clear as mud to some people that they were trying to smuggle aircraft into Israel, Alfred could see right through their actions. And he wanted, so badly, to fly with them.

Alfred had been born with a strong sense of justice. Perhaps that was natural, being a personification. Right now, as he sat in a small café west of New York City, he knew where this justice was pulling him. Sipping his black coffee, alone, staring out the window beside him as rain pelted down, he knew that he was going to help Israel. It wasn't something he had taken hours deciding on, or pondered for a year, nor a month. It was simply there, it was concrete. He was going, because he knew that what was right was what he gravitated toward.

"More coffee, sweetheart?"

He glanced up, giving a broad smile and winking. "Sure thing."

The waitress walked away after pouring the black liquid into his half-empty mug, easily charmed. Alfred let the empty smile slip away.

Insane to think that people don't care what happens, after everything we fought for in World War II, he pondered, fingering his bomber jacket's sleeves absentmindedly. They're all just going back to their normal lives. They liberated the Jews, but will they help defend that liberty?

As had been expected, the British had announced that they were pulling out their troops from Palestine, discarding with the ship blockade, leaving entirely. There would be no more British Mandate in Israel. They fully supported the partition plan, but would not enforce it, would not get involved in another bloody mess. The Mandate was to expire on midnight, May 14, 1948. Alfred had attended more movies than he wanted to, just to see the news reels.

Now ensued a countdown until the British left. The military coalition of Arab states- Egypt, Transjordan, Syria, Saudi Arabia, and expeditionary forces of Iraq- would most likely attack as soon as the British cleared out. You didn't mess with the British, but once they left, it was free game.

Most of these Arab nations were newly emerging from mandatory rule themselves. But even if they had gained independence from Britain and France, they would remain under that heavy influence for awhile. Perhaps that was a good thing- maybe they would be predictable. Alfred recalled from the news reels that violence was erupting in Palestine already. He remembered catching a glimpse of outbursts against the British still stationed there-

There was a jingle as the door to the café opened. Without turning around, Alfred knew who was approaching him.

"Alfred."

His mouth quirked, and he chimed, "Mr. Truman. How nice of you to join me."

He sat down opposite Alfred in the booth, stern look plastered upon his features. "I'm aware of what you're planning."

"Who, me? Why would you ever think such a thing?"

"Stop with the confounded snarkiness, America."

"Do you only say my country name when you're upset?"

Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose irritably. "Fine. I'll get to the point, Alfred. You're planning to go to Israel."

"And you're very observant."

Truman's lips curved upward, drumming his fingers against the marble counter. "As much as you deny having relation to Arthur Kirkland, you most certainly inherited his cynicism."

"I suppose that's why we despise each other."

"Alfred, as brilliant as you are when it comes to debate, you can't steer me from what I came here for."

Alfred sipped his coffee and glanced out the window, sight locking on the distance from the door to his motorcycle, facts and figures and mathematical quantities and formulas organizing inside his head when he realized Truman wouldn't let him leave this cafe. "So, what are you here for?"

"We both know what, Alfred."

You think you can stop me from leaving? "Oh, but I don't, Mr. Truman. Care to enlighten me?" And the moment his lips quirked upward on the word 'enlighten,' the lights flickered and the cafe went dark.

There was the roar of a motor, and when the lights flashed back on, Alfred Jones was gone.

—

Alfred had made dramatic escapes before, and he admitted he'd become quite good at doing so. But now he was escaping his own country. There was a certain pang of regret. Truman threatened to take away American passports if Americans themselves tried to help Israel. But could that really apply to the America? How do you take away a passport from an actual country?

He sped down the freeway, weaving around cars, aware of honking horns and angry curses directed at him. The wonderful thing about being a nation was the immortality that came along.

Don't have enough gas to fly straight to Israel, and especially in a fighter plane, Alfred reasoned. But I can aim for the United Kingdom.

But even that was a stretch. And then there was the possibility that he wouldn't be allowed to land, let alone refill the tank...

And there was Arthur.

Shut up, brain, Alfred mused as he slowed to a stop in his driveway, legs hitting the pavement as he briskly turned off the engine and sprinted across the wheat fields and into the old, rickety barn beside his small house. He lived out in the country, in the same house he'd lived in since he was born. The house Arthur had built him when they lived together. Truman couldn't find him out here, in the heart of Virginia woods. No one knew, no one but Arthur, and no one but Arthur would ever know.

Shaking his head, Alfred opened the creaking doors. Light flooded into the old, unused barn, dust specks hovering everywhere the light touched. Inside was his baby: a Bell P-39 Airacobra monoplane fighter. She hadn't been used since Germany had surrendered, and Alfred had suspected he'd never have to use her again. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

Alfred smiled fondly and ran his hand along the plane's grey flank, over the 60, painted in bold, white letters, over the white star, and took one last breath before his fingers touched the painted words "Airacobra."

A brilliant memory, flashing with color, flooded into his mind.

"What are you doing with that bloody paint?"

"It's actually white, Arthur. Are you color blind?"

Alfred narrowed his eyes bitterly. There were some things that were too wonderful to remember but painfully hard to be pushed away.

He made sure the fuel tank was full, and hopped inside the cockpit, pulling goggles over his eyes and starting the engine. The familiar pump of adrenaline, of energy, the feeling that came over you just before you recited a speech or poem, hit Alfred all at once, and there was a slight tinge of fear, of the knowledge that he may not be able to return to this place.

And with the burden of consequence hanging over his head like a damp cloud, Alfred drove out of the barn, down the makeshift runway that was an empty row for wheat, and rose slowly into the air.