The Berlin Airlift

A/N: The following conversations were all based on real-life events, give or take a few dialogue points.

And, following a few well-meaning (and not-so-well-meaning) criticisms from a pair of anonymous reviewers, I've decided to expand the story. I admit that I left a lot out, and I realized that I forgot my own favorite part, so this is due for a…well, rewrite is not quite the right word, but it works.

'S what I get for practicing voice (too much). :D

"What the hell are you doing, Russia?!" America demanded.

But Russia and his delegates had already walked out of the conference, leaving America and the rest of the Allies to think. This was not the best idea Russia's boss had ever had.

It was raining in London, as usual. But this was the first good, absolutely relentless downpour they had had in some months. In his office, the anthropomorphic personification of England (and who also represented, on behalf of his brothers, the rest of the United Kingdom), was poring over damage reports submitted by surveyor teams over the last few weeks. Only a tenth of the way into the pile on his desk, he was already sure the costs would bankrupt any ten minor Nations who tried to help.

His papers said his name was Arthur Kirkland, age twenty-three, and a commanding officer of some sort (rank unspecified) in the British army. This was mostly incorrect, but at least his description was accurately recorded. He was of average height, with dusty blond hair and bottle-green eyes, impossibly thick eyebrows and he always wore his uniform, even when supposedly off-duty.

He was also addicted to tea, which made it unsurprising that there was a half-empty teacup on his desk next to his drumming fingers. Sooner or later, he would probably knock it over. As he bent to read a spectacularly bad section of handwriting on a letter from whoever managed that district over there – the signature said either Duncan or Thomas – he heard loud, booming footsteps in the hallway outside.

England jerked upright when the door to his office was open roughly, swinging so hard on its hinges that the doorknob punched a hole in the wall behind it. And he had just managed to find a way to finance repairs, too…

America came into the room with more energy than usual, practically running into the wall before stopping in front of England's desk and slamming his hands down on it. "Did you hear?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.

The personification of the United States of America, Alfred F. Jones to his people (assuming they realized who – or what – he was), supposedly age nineteen and definitely a few centimeters taller than England. Like England, he was blond, but a brighter shade that could nearly be called yellow, with clear blue eyes behind a pair of glasses. He wore a bomber jacket over his officer's uniform, which was tan-colored as opposed to England's olive-green.

"Yes. Russia's blocking off the whole city." England's teacup had been sent sailing and he decided not to mention it, even when there was a good chance someone (America, most likely), would trip in the puddle forming on the floor among the shards of porcelain. "We can't let him get away with that after everything that's already happened."

America flashed him a grin that could have blinded overhead planes and jabbed a finger at the map of Berlin on England's wall. It used to be a normal topography map, but over the course of the last few months, the Englishman had colored different parts of it according to who controlled what territory. Russia, of course, controlled the most. "Not a snowball's chance in hell. Okay, you have this part, I have this part…and what the hell is France doing there?"

England rolled his eyes. "You ask him. That guy's such a pain in the ass…" He glanced out the window, where the half-shattered buildings and streets of London greet his tired eyes. His ribs throbbed at about the same time – he still hadn't fully recovered from the Battle for Britain eight years ago. It was going to take a lifetime to put everything back together to the way it was supposed to be.

America frowned briefly, his eyebrows knitting together behind his glasses, but then went on as if nothing had been said. "Well, okay, okay. I got a call already from some of my guys over there. They wanna start up something to help Germany out. 'Cause people are starving, y'know."

"I'm already doing that. Do you even read the papers anymore?" Pushing on, though exasperated, England said, "Anyway, I'd do it all myself but I don't have enough planes and London looks like Berlin does." He pointed out the window for emphasis.

"Still? I though you'd fixed that." Still, America looked out and, though England didn't see it, the frown came back.

"Shut up." England snapped. I'd love to see you try and fix bomb craters ten feet deep. England abruptly stomped the notion flat. No, he actually wouldn't. "What else did you get out of that meeting with Russia?"

America sighed, scratching his head. "The same old stuff. Y'know, like, 'Hey, it'd be better if Germany could get back to his feet without you strangling him,' and then Russia's all, 'How about no?' Complete with scary look." England gave a mental shudder at the thought.

"Same old Russia, I suppose." England had never been sure if that was a good or bad thing. "In any case, you were saying?"

"Oh! Right, almost forgot." America said, snapping his gloved fingers. He turned back to England and said in that voice that practically dripped with earnestness, "Well, if you've already got an airlift going, I'm gonna help. You said you needed planes, right? I've got a lot of cargo ones."

England blinked twice, slowly. Then he sighed and nodded. "…oh, all right. Let's see what you can come up with."

"You can count on me!" America said with a grin, giving him a thumbs-up. Already, he was halfway out the door all over again, amazingly avoiding the broken teacup still on the floor.

England looked at America's retreating back and, as soon as he was sure the other blond was out of earshot, muttered, "…bloody idiot…"

"Huh?" Oops, he had heard.

"Nothing. Weren't you leaving?"

The Nation of Germany, a taller man than either America or England, stood near the mayor of Berlin. He was blond, like the other two, with intense blue eyes and the omnipresent half-frown firmly in place. As Lord Mayor Ernst Reuter, a thick-browed, gray-haired man with a face marked by stress, spoke to General Lucius D. Clay, a sharp-faced man with dark hair who controlled America's part of Berlin, America approached his German opposite number.

"Hey, Germany. You okay?" America asked, concern apparent in his voice.

Germany gave him an unreadable look and said slowly, "I could be better, but yes. You?"

America grinned. "Great! But, um…" Reality was like a ton of bricks to the head, only you got to get up afterwards.

"Russia is pressuring me to become communist, yes. Or he's trying to drive you away. I'm not quite sure." Germany's eyes flickered; of course he would get a headache now. He could already feel the riots in Russia's part of the city—not at all what he needed. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "It's probably both."

"Yeah, I thought he would." America said, his brow furrowing. His mouth was pressed into a thin, bitter line. Clearly, the shorter Nation had learned a number of unpleasant truths about his Soviet ally. "But anyway, you're not doing all that well with him breathing down your neck."

Germany had to give him that. "Well, no. I doubt anyone could, to be perfectly honest." That, and Russia took my brother, Germany thought angrily, though he didn't let it show on his face. He could still see Prussia sometimes, but not without the much taller Russia looming over his shoulder.

America watched him silently, then said in an unusually quiet voice, "I've got an idea, you know."

"What sort of idea?"

"Well, Russia controls most of Berlin, right?" Apparently, America had picked up Veneziano's habit of illustrating any point he tried to make with hand gestures. At the moment, he made a sweeping gesture at the Berlin skyline, toward the Western areas. "He's mostly kicked me and England and France out. But even if he controls the roads and the seaports, he can't take the sky from us."

"What are you saying?" Germany asked. This could be another one of America's (many) stupid ideas that were grounded more in imagination than reality, but at the same time…

America took a deep breath and said, "I think I can pull off an airlift to keep the West Berliners from starving." He jabbed a finger at the crisp summer sky above them. "You know, dropping food and stuff from planes. If I can get enough planes, I'm sure it would work. England already said he's in."

Germany wasn't sure what to be more surprised about; England not holding a grudge, America having a non-harebrained scheme, or the sheer logistical ridiculousness of the plan itself. After all, Germany knew first-hand that, when he had been attacking Russia, the Allies had barely managed three hundred tons of supplies per week. "Mein Gott… you're sure of this?"

America gave him that grin again and pumped a fist in the air. "Sure I'm sure! I know it'll work like everyone knows Russia's winter sucks." Then the quieter side came back again – America whispered conspiratorially to Germany, "It'll be okay, Germany. Just tell your people to hang in there until we can really get going."

The Nation of Prussia wasn't really a Nation in the same way that Germany and England were. Since the unification of the German Empire before World War One, he had acted in tandem with his younger brother Germany, never leaving him to flounder on his own.

After all, who had the best military in the world? Prussia, of course.

That was probably why the white-haired, red-eyed man was so thoroughly pissed off at the moment. Prussia fingered the Iron Cross at his neck and scowled up at the ceiling from his bed, wanting nothing more than to find Russia off his guard and kill him, preferably after reuniting with his brother and rebuilding his military force.

"Fuck it." Prussia growled, sitting up abruptly. If he wanted to see his brother, he damn well would, and anyone who got in his way was going to get ground into bratwurst by Prussia's size ten boot and fed to his birds.

Prussia grabbed his military-issued blue coat put it on. It was about time he headed out – he hadn't seen West in forever. As he slammed the door to his room and headed out of Russia's house, a bright yellow, puffy chick perched on his shoulder.

Prussia pretended not to notice.

Again the meeting between England and America took place in England's office. England sat behind his desk, signing off on shipments of supplies to be delivered to his section of Berlin, while America scribbled rapidly on a sheet of paper with a much-abused black fountain pen.

Finally, America put the pen down with a clatter, which probably meant he'd thrown it or something. "Okay, so we need…one thousand five hundred and thirty-four tons of stuff dropped every day." America gave an impressed whistle. "Man, that's a lot."

"So I've been told." England said, looking up. "Can you do it?"

America thought about it for a second or two before saying, "Once all my cargo carriers get over here, probably." He picked up the pen again and spun it in his fingers, leaning back in his chair and looking at the ceiling. "I think I need to ask a few other people – most of the planes only carry three and a half tons."

England sighed. Propping his head up on his fist, he admitted, "Seems all right for now." He indicated the line of the column titled Planes Needed on America's chart. "Let's get these deliveries started with the new ones and figure out how to get better equipment out here."

"Okay." America made a note on the chart in his messy handwriting. Didn't he even remember the calligraphy England had taught him once upon a time? "Is anyone else helping?"

"I'm not sure. My boss is still in talks with France's." The thought of the Frenchman not helping, after everything that had already happened, left an unexpected sour taste in his mouth. "On the other hand, the Commonwealth seems happy to help."

"Oh, I forgot something!" America snapped his fingers and sat up straight again.

"What?"

"I need to talk to Canada." America said, already standing up and folding his chart until it was small enough to fit into his jacket's pocket. "I know he had an air force, so he's gotta have planes."

England nodded, deciding not to mention the fact that Canada was part of the Commonwealth. "He probably does. I'll continue managing this site until you get back." Under his breath, he added sarcastically, "Not like I have anything better to do."

"Okay! Be back in a bit!" And he was gone again, leaving England to wonder why oh why did he ever allow himself to get a desk job once the next stack of papers arrived.

America met Canada on one of the latter's military bases, halfway between nowhere and somewhere, as far as he was concerned. Canada, who looked the same as America except for his eye color (lavender) and his hairstyle, was redirecting planes from the base's radio tower. He signaled to his "supervisor" that he was going on break before going to meet his twin.

"So you need what now?" Canada asked after America had given an auctioneer's rendition of the situation in Berlin: Russia's trying to starve Germany and we don't have enough planes and hey you don't need these do you?

"Planes, Canada, planes." America said as if his brother was dense and it wasn't his fault he couldn't talk slower when he was excited.

Canada sighed. This happened all the time. "Oh, that's fine then. I thought you were asking about hamburgers or something." A plane took off five hundred yards away and cut off the first half of America's explanation.

"—and how did you get that out of 'we need planes so we can piss off Russia and save Germany'?" Well, at least America sounded genuinely confused.

"To be honest, I don't know. It probably has something to do with how fast you said it." Canada said. Oh well. May as well move on to business.

"…what the hell. Okay, anyway, I'm going to need a ton of cargo planes. The stuff England's got isn't cutting it." America gestured vaguely at the planes that were taking off from Canada's airstrip and those that were taxiing into some semblance of order before heading into the hangar. "Not even close."

"I got that impression already." Canada told him, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll help, but you need to tell me how much you want them to carry."

"Um…depends." America said, glancing over at the place where, were it his airport, there would have been lines upon lines of bombers. Canada had a number of troop carriers, particularly older ones they used for training paratroopers, in their place. "How much can one of yours haul?"

"C-47s can carry three and a half tons, the C-54s ten tons." Canada said, pointing out the two most suitable-looking craft models. The C-54s were marginally larger. "I don't really have enough of either, but if you want former troop carriers and bombers, I think I can convert most of them to what you need. I just need to contact other air bases."

"Really? Great!" America beamed.

Canada smiled back and added, "I'll also be sending pilots and whatever else I can get over there, too. Is that all right?"

"Huh? Really? That's even better! Thanks, Canada." America almost hugged him, but remembered in time that he'd probably crush his twin's rib cage by accident.

Canada gave a short laugh, waving him off. "It's no problem. If you have planes, you need pilots, eh?"

"Yep! Okay, I'll see you whenever you can get everything across the pond, alright?"

"Sure. See you then."

America hadn't been into Berlin off shift before, and he was looking forward to it. He hitched a ride on one of the C-54s conveniently taking off a little after he arrived, brimming with excitement. It had been a month since he had seen Germany, and he wanted to know if the supplies being dropped were enough.

He hadn't expected that he wouldn't be the only extra guest.

"So, what's your name, kid?" asked the man sitting across from him, a camera in hand. He was tall and had a nose a bit on the large side, a military crew-cut and an easy grin. He couldn't have been older than thirty.

Instead of being insulted, since he was actually around three hundred and fifty, America grinned and stuck out a hand to his fellow passenger. "Alfred F. Jones, sir. You?"

"Gail Halvorsen. Nice to meet you," the man said with a smile. He held up his camera. "Trying to see if I can make movies on my days off."

"Really? That's interesting." America said eagerly. He didn't exactly have the best record for patience, and the flight, apparently ignored by Russia's fighters, was already boring him. Of course he loved flying, but usually he was the one piloting. England had said something about not letting his whims get the better of him and had forbidden him to fly any of the transports himself. Usually he wouldn't have listened, but if he hadn't he wouldn't have met Halvorsen, would he? "Do you have any footage yet?"

Halvorsen shook his head. "Sorry, none yet. This will be my first trip into Berlin not flying one of these rigs." He patted the metal interior of the C-54 affectionately.

"Really? It's my second." America said. "Last time, I went in to see a friend about this whole thing." He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the operation as a whole. "He didn't believe we could do it."

"Bet he's changed his mind now, huh?" Halvorsen said with a laugh. "It's turning out better than anyone thought it would."

"You know it." America said, beaming. "Hey, we're coming in!"

The landing was horribly bumpy, but not enough to jostle the crates too badly. Hopefully the milk bottles hadn't broken. As it was, America was sort of worried that he'd cracked his skull on that last jolt.

"Still in one piece, Al?" Halvorsen asked, unclipping all the straps wound around him. It took him a long moment to find them all – the U.S. Air Force was very firm about not letting their crews get smeared across the cabin because they had been shaken too hard, which meant that getting out required a bit of experience.

"Ow…yeah, I'm fine." America said, rubbing his head. He slipped out of the straps with the ease of long practice and stood up just as the rear of the plane opened.

Halvorsen immediately disappeared outside, and America followed him a second later. There was no waiting for the rest of the crew – the pilot and copilot were already leaving to catch a bathroom break while the plane couldn't move and the unloading of the C-54 was handled by the Berliners now. They could strip a plane of all its supplies in less than ten minutes, a much better efficiency record than the air crews themselves had.

Outside, Halvorsen had already been surrounded by a crowd of German children, all asking him questions about his plane and his camera and how everything worked. Still, though they were thinner than America would have liked, they were in a better mood than he had expected.

"America?" America nearly jumped at the sound of Germany's voice.

He spun around, greeting the slightly-older Nation with a bright smile. "Hi, Germany!" Then he spotted the smaller, white-haired Nation standing a little behind Germany. "And…Prussia? Holy hell, you're alive!"

"You bet your ass I am!" Prussia declared, showing off all of his sharp white teeth. "Like a little thing like Russia could stop me! How've you been, brat?"

"Better than you!" America replied, grinning. Man, it had been ages since he'd seen Prussia somewhere other than the battlefield. The last time they had been on the same side, America had just declared independence from England.

"What do you expect? Russia's more of a pain in the ass to me than he is to West here," he slapped his brother on the back for emphasis, "and I'm not getting any candy or nothing from you!"

America stuck his tongue out at him, which Prussia mirrored. Meanwhile, Germany thought, God, they are such juveniles.

"Hey, Al, got a minute?" Halvorsen's voice caught America's attention just as Prussia had started to laugh his "evil laugh." America rejoined the man, followed by Germany and Prussia, who was still cackling his head off.

"What is it?" America asked him.

"Do you have any gum on you?" Halvorsen asked. "I'm out."

"No, I left my junk food at base."

Halvorsen sighed. He turned back to the crowd of children surrounding him. He pulled two sticks of Wrigley's Doublemint and passed them around. "Well, this is all I have right now. If you don't fight over it, I'll make sure to drop off more."

One of them asked, "How will we know it's you?"

Halvorsen smiled. "I'll wiggle my wings."

America looked over at the C-54 they had come in on; it was almost ready to leave. All four of its engines were already warming up. He turned back to the German brothers and said, "Hey, I'll be back in a bit. Too bad we couldn't talk longer."

"Good riddance, you brat." Prussia said with a huff. At the same time, Germany said, "I suppose we will see you tomorrow, then?"

America laughed and nodded, already halfway back to the plane. "And by the way Prussia, you've got a Gilbird on your head!"

"Get lost already!"

The next day, America and Halvorsen went out in their own plane. With Halvorsen in control of the plane and America in the cargo section with a stack of handkerchiefs and a small box full of chocolate bars, they got to work.

As it happened, America had learned the basics of handkerchief parachutes some five years earlier after watching Canada's paratroopers. It was fun, and this time he was delivering more important payloads than rocks or eggs.

"They're all ready, Halvorsen!" America called, holding up a little candy paratrooper.

"That's great, Al. Ready? Bombs away!" Halvorsen shouted with a grin, dropping the first of the chocolate bars into the city below. At the same time, the C-54 bobbed in midair, and America laughed long and loud as the plane wiggled back and forth.

America bounced into England's office again around the twenty-seventh of July, practically exploding with energy.

"Hey England! Did you hear about it?" America almost crowed, smiling another one of those blinding grins.

England blinked and pushed aside the paperwork yet again piling up on his desk. It didn't seem he'd ever be rid of it, so it could wait a little longer. Besides, his tea was getting cold. "About what?"

"Operation Little Vittles!" There was a certain edge of disbelief in America's voice, as if was utterly inconceivable to him that England hadn't heard of his latest exploits. All England knew from context was that America called the airlift as a whole "Operation Vittles," while England knew it as "Operation Plainfare."

"Run that by me again." England ordered. After a second, he added, because he was sure America wouldn't get the point, "In Queen's English."

"No." America refused quite cheerfully. Argh. "Still, it's pretty cool. We're dropping candy for the kids in Berlin. I think they really like it."

"It's propaganda, isn't it?" England had been around the world a few times and, at nearly nine hundred years old, it didn't take much for him to sense an ulterior motive.

"No way! It's called 'being nice to kids who deserve it'!" But then, America probably didn't even know what an ulterior motive was.

England sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately while America was around. "…you know what? I'll see what I can send."

"You don't have to do anything, England." A concerned look flashed across America's face so quickly that England wasn't sure it had actually been there. "I've got a bit of a postwar boom going on – businesses are springing up like crazy. I can keep this up forever!"

"Nonetheless, there's no point in letting children go without sweets if they might have them." England pointed out.

"Okay then! We're doing nearly a ton already, but a little more won't hurt. I bet they'll love it!"

The office workers were starting to get used to the second blond man hanging around "Mr. Kirkland's" office. He was a lot louder than they were used to, but he didn't slow down the paperwork all that much, so they didn't really mind him.

And then the normally-calm Mr. Kirkland had exploded. They weren't quite sure if it was because of the blond man with glasses, or because of the report he had just received. Either way, any outsider would have noticed that that section of the building was rather deserted compared to how it was normally.

Of course, they didn't know him like America did, so they didn't know this was more normal than ever.

At the moment, England was pacing around his office, shouting and complaining at the general injustice of the universe. America sat on his desk, eating a hamburger. Dinner and a show, he thought, amused. "Bollocks! We finally got efficiency up and the planes mostly sorted out, and now this has to happen!"

"What did?" America asked, tilting his head a little.

England rounded on him, even though it wasn't his fault. Both of them knew that, but it was always more therapeutic to have a target. "A C-54 crashed, then another one blew its tires trying to avoid that wreck and then another plane decided to go in circles! Ground-looped the entire runway closed! Dammit!"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay." America waved his hands in a 'calm down' sort of motion, which at least made England stop yelling at the ceiling. "They're figuring out how to keep it from happening again already."

"It doesn't change the fact that we're falling behind." England pointed out. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

"Oh, um…" Apparently America wasn't all that sure how to proceed, and instead took another huge bite of his hamburger.

"Ugh. Don't worry about it." England said with a wave of his hand. No point in worrying about enemies who legally couldn't shoot you and you couldn't shoot back if you wanted to. "Once we get this lot completely straightened out, it'll be fine. Still, sodding idiots…"

"Well, these new planes will help." America pulled a tightly-folded piece of paper and spread out on the desk. On it were schematics concerning the design of the C-47 versus the C-54. "We're getting rid of all the C-47s and replacing them with more C-54s. Seems they take forever to load since they have slanted floors and don't carry enough to excuse keeping 'em around. It's what we get for using this sort of troop carrier. And there's new policies being announced."

"Oh really? Such as?" England picked up the chart and looked it over. Well, America was right. The C-47s needed to be loaded by hand because of their floor angle and small size, while the C-54 could be loaded and unloaded by truck.

"Uh-huh." America said with a firm nod. "I'm sure things will pick up after this. I've never been wrong before!"

England looked from America to the C-47 design and thought back. He chuckled and murmured. "…you know what? Too easy."

"Huh?"

England stepped onto the C-54 nicknamed The Gray Lady with some nervousness. He hadn't been a part of a flight crew since 1940, and back then he had run his own show. It was a much different experience being on an unarmed, fully-loaded supply transport compared to being in a fighter.

For one thing, it was less cramped in a cockpit. As much of the plane as could be spared was used for crated supplies, leaving only a small free space for the crew. Finding a decent seat seemed a little much to ask.

"Lt. Colonel Kirkland, right?" England looked back and found the copilot looking at him curiously.

"That's right." England said. He decided not to mention that he ranked higher than that. Probably. Assigning military rankings to Nations was a confusing endeavor at best.

"Get strapped in then, sir. We're having a few problems–" The situation's gone to hell in a handbasket, England translated mentally "–but we should be able to get to Berlin on time."

"That will be fine." England assured the man.

"Right. Preparing for takeoff," the copilot said, turning back to the controls.

England braced himself against one of the crates and, in minutes, they were climbing. It was about then that he heard another plane's engine. England looked out, surprised, and spotted a Soviet fighter closing in on them. The C-54 was much slower – burdened with ten tons of cargo, unarmed, and frankly not a fighter model to begin with – and completely incapable of escaping.

"Would someone explain that?" England demanded as the other aircraft drew closer, apparently at top speed. Ohshitohshitohshit—!

A second plane appeared next to the first. Great, now they were flying in formation. The first fighter, the red star on its wings clearly visible, twisted into a hard right and barely missed the end of the much larger C-54.

"It's nothing, sir. Just Red Army fighters being sodding morons," said the pilot. Why wasn't he worried at all?

"Does this happen often?" England asked as the other plane whizzed overhead in what was a strafing run in every sense of the word except without bullets or bombs. The memories of the bombers over London abruptly flashed into his head and he had to keep from flinching.

"Every day this week," replied the pilot.

His green eyes blazed in anger. "…God damn you, Russia." England snarled at the other plane that had come back. He thought he saw the scarf-wearing man inside it, smiling quite pleasantly as usual.

Prussia stood near the ruined Reichstag, watching the mix of West's people and his own gathered around Ernst Reuter. Some hundreds of thousands of people had gathered outside the building, concerned and worried over something Prussia couldn't entirely make out from the many mutterings.

"West?" Prussia's red gaze flicked to his left, where Germany stood, tall and proud, watching the mayor speak.

"Brother?" Germany looked at him. Good.

Bad. Prussia could already feel his people, those fooled by Russia and his boss, moving against Germany's. Dammit.

Then Ernst Reuter spoke, his voice carrying even to the furthest edges of the crowd thanks to the speaker system. "You peoples of the world. You people of America, of England, of France, look on this city, and recognize that this city, this people must not be abandoned — cannot be abandoned!"

Cannot be abandoned…

Can't, and damn well won't. Prussia thought.

Already the crowd began to surge, heading directly for the two of them in order to get to East Berlin.

Prussia turned to his brother and said, looking at the Red Flag some way down into the heart of East Berlin, "Stay the fuck out of my way. That flag is mine."

Germany looked at it, too. A smirk spread across his face. "Not if I get there first, brother."

Both of them took off running before Russia could even begin to think of ambushing either.

"Russia's being a bully again." This time America's voice was almost a whine. He hated being thwarted.

"I noticed. Is Germany holding up all right?" England had gotten used to the idea of never having peace in his office by this point and had begun preparing coffee at the same time as his tea. It never turned out well – America told him so, loudly – but it was better than nothing.

"Yeah, I think he's okay. It's a lot better with everything trying to keep the West Berliners alive." America almost frowned for a moment, remembering the protest the previous month and Russia's response. More to cheer himself back up than anything else, he added, "He even smiled, really!"

"Good. Now, what to do about Russia? We only have three air passages to Berlin, and France's is mostly for returning traffic." England pointed at the map still on the wall, and, where he had marked in red ink, the airways. "To make things worse, winter's setting in and the weather is getting harder to deal with." Just last week, eight in ten of the coal-bearing planes had been forced to turn around due to fog cover.

"We'll be okay. Winter or not, it's not Russia's winter. It's Germany's and he wants us to succeed." America wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or England.

"That's true," England admitted, "but even he can't change the cloud cover over Berlin. With all the additional coal that has to be delivered, we'll need another airstrip, too."

"Don't we have one? At Tempelhof?" That had been where America and Halvorsen had met all those German children and started Operation Little Vittles, after all.

"We have three." England corrected. "We also have planes landing every ninety seconds. The two at Tempelhof and one at Gatow aren't nearly enough. And besides that, all of them are pierced-steel planking, not asphalt or concrete."

"So it needs to be upgraded? Then do it! They're all six thousand feet long, sure, but we need them." America said. Did he even understand the labor that would be involved in that? Even after hiring ex-Luftwaffe ground crews to monitor the planes and the landing strips, it would take months before the upgrade was complete and they could deliver enough to see the West Berliners through winter.

But anything England said at this point would probably be ignored. He grumbled a bit, but there were more important things to worry about. He'd throttle America later. "I'll see what we can do. You'd better make sure your pilots aren't slacking off again. I think the snack bar idea was a mixed blessing." It had been several kinds of shocking to see German flight attendants on America's transports the first time around.

This winter was just full of surprises.

"France?!"

"Bonjour, mes amis. What have you been up to while I have been busy?"

The Nation of France was the same height as England. His military ID stated that he was Francis Bonnefoy, twenty-six years old, type A blood, and all the falsified crap needed to bluff one's way past border security. At over a thousand years old, France was the oldest Nation present.

By not-so-innocent coincidence, he was the person England hated most, short of maybe Russia at the moment.

England was furious. "What the bloody hell took you so long?!"

"Tsk, is that any way to address your elders?" France huffed, wagging a finger in England's face. "For your information, I have been trying to iron out the differences between myself and Vietnam." America blinked – he remembered China's ponytail-wearing sister from several years ago. She was fighting with France? "It is not going well, but then I hear of a successful operation to save Berlin! It was very intriguing, you understand."

"Okay, but what are you doing here?" America asked. "Don't you have a war to fight?" He had sort of been under the impression that, during wartime, you didn't devote resources or attention span anywhere else. But since France thought like a boss and not like America (who did?), clearly the Frenchman was good at multitasking under pressure.

"Of course!" France nodded emphatically. "But it would be rude to leave my fellow Allies hanging. So, as a present, I have constructed a new airport on Lake Tegel."

Immediately, all three of them looked in the direction of the lake, which was located within France's borders. America thought he could see some of France's workers running around a dark strip of ground. Off to one side was a series of newly-constructed buildings, including an aircraft control tower, a terminal, and dozens of small planes already waiting to use it.

How the hell hadn't they noticed that?

England blinked, then rounded on France, pointing at the not-so-inconspicuous Soviet radio tower looming over the runway. "Wait, you mean that one over there? It has one of Russia's radio towers right there!" America gave a mental groan – Russia had picked up the habit of broadcasting on the same frequency as the flight control towers in the area, just to be an asshole. He'd almost forgotten about that.

"But of course." France said, as if he was surprised by England's lack of understanding. Frankly, America didn't get it either. "You did not expect me to demolish Russia's toys without adequate warning, did you?"

"Warning?" England asked suspiciously.

France laughed and gestured for England to calm down. Until France pissed him off again, anyway. "Very simple – the tower is an obstacle that Russia refuses to remove." He shrugged and said with a melodramatic sigh, "So, as it has become more than an annoyance, it must be destroyed. My general has already made the decision." He winked. "Ce n'est pas un problème."

"When do we get to see the fireworks?" America asked eagerly.

France laughed again; as always, America's enthusiasm for explosives was rather contagious. Dangerously so, in fact, France thought to himself. "Le seizième de Décembre." Then, remembering that his compatriots were Anglophones, he added, "The sixteenth."

"…if you weren't such a skirt-chasing bastard, I could almost end up liking you." England admitted with great reluctance and a scowl.

"This will be great!" America said gleefully. "Oh, I can't wait to see the look on Russia's face when that thing goes down!"

France had never really liked Germany.

Ever since the War of Austrian Succession, and though he had liked Prussia back then, France had been dealing near-constantly with a flood of Germans for every conceivable reason, but mostly war. It was hard to believe they had been allies once upon a time.

True, France had crushed the ailing Holy Roman Empire, but how many others would have? The tiny Nation was barely hanging on even then – better to be defeated in battle than starved to death by Russia, he thought. But with the fall of the Holy Roman Empire came the second rise of Prussia, and the birth of the new, vital nation of Germany.

Sharing a border with them had never been so irritating before.

Until World War One, France had been repeatedly baited and tricked by Prussia and his chancellor, which was enough to turn any lingering fondness for the other Nation into animosity. When Germany, then, had given the order to attack, France had decided make them pay in blood for every inch of ground.

And then, twenty years later, the pair had done it again, this time under that utter psychopath of an Austrian. True, France had fallen in six weeks, but it was more out of exhaustion than anything. Most of the fighting had occurred in his territory the first time around, killing his people, and the same was true in World War Two.

And now, because he hated Russia marginally more, he was helping them.

Sometimes contradictory headaches needed to be solved with loud noises and destruction.

France pressed the switch on the detonator and laughed as Russia's dear tower imploded.

For once, England's office was not the gathering point for a congregation of Nations. They had decided to have their celebration on a grassy knoll not too far away from Tempelhof and revel in the sheer England had been starting to think they'd never go away. Christ, didn't they have other things to do? It was already April, and after months of successful missions into Berlin, England was tired, though not because of the resource drain. It was more the fact that, because America was footing the bill, France had decided to buy several cases of various types of alcohol, and England hadn't recovered from last night's hangover yet.

He also wasn't entirely sure what had happened to have him end up naked, either, but he planned on throttling France over it.

America was getting ready to head out for his (probably last) mission in Operation Vittles. All the same, he had given the two of them a chart showing the progress of the operation. On it were the marks for each month's productivity in the year of 1949: January-171 thousand, February-152 thousand, March-196,223, and April-200 thousand projected. "Oh man, this is incredible! Did you see the record for last month? This month's going to be even better!"

"It is pretty amazing, isn't it?" England didn't bother to mention the fact that he had been the one to do the calculations for each month. He could still see the lines of numbers burned into the insides of his eyelids. "From the look of it, Russia's starting to let up. I suppose this is rather embarrassing for him."

France chuckled, swirling his wineglass. "Evidemment. You did have moi, after all."

"What are you talking about, you wanker? We did all the work!" England had not lost his ability to rant, even if France had helped out for five months. He hadn't gotten the damn thing started, his pilots hadn't died.

"Hey, forget it!" America said, waving a hand nonchalantly. "Even if not all of us were in it all the way, it's still awesome."

"So true, so true, even if this thick-browed idiot refuses to acknowledge it."

"Gitface!"

"Eyebrows!"

And the wine glass went flying.

America laughed as England and France started clobbering each other again. At least things were back to normal again. He got up from the hill and began to head back down to the airport. "Okay, the Easter Parade is on! See you two tomorrow!"

A/N: America was so cheerful I think I have a headache. And Prussia -- holy crap, the rating--! :O

Historical Notes:

1. Russia basically walked out of negotiations during the first discussions of problems in Berlin. He didn't learn his lesson in Korea, either – DON'T BOYCOTT THE U.N., MMKAY?

2. America joined up with Britain to work around the Berlin Blockade in early June. Frankly, France didn't seem to give a crap.

3. Technically, Poland claimed part of East Prussia, but since Poland was a Soviet puppet state, same difference. The USSR took the rest anyway.

4. The exchange between Germany and America is based on a conversation between General Curtis LeMay and Lord Mayor Ernst Reuter, who are talking in the background.

5. Prussia/East Germany wasn't completely pacified at this point, but it was a close thing. I figured that since Prussia as a character has hated Russia since forever, he'd probably continue to hate him despite what his people think. And yes, that is a reference to the April Fool's prank.

6. All of the Commonwealth contributed to the Airlift, particularly Canada. America, eternal one-upper that he is, sent more planes and pilots. This might have had something to do with the sheer number of the things he had lying around.

7. Gail Halvorsen was the original candy bomber, Uncle Wiggly-Wings to the children of Berlin. Nicest guy on the planet, still around to chat about it. :)

8. Other tactics of the Soviets included shooting in the air next to Airlift planes, screwing with the radio transmissions, and launching massive propaganda campaigns against the Allies in Berlin. None of them really worked, though one time a Soviet fighter and a harassed Airlift craft wrecked each other.

9. One of the many things that convinced the Western world not to leave Berlin to die. The speech is quoted word-for-word.

10. It took about a month and a half to upgrade all the airstrips, and yes, the flight attendent thing was a good idea. For the most part, it kept pilots from wandering around Berlin to find snacks and stuff when the Airlift was still on.

11. France showed up around November, and the plan was entirely his general's idea. The man was awesome.

12. France was awesome. The Berliners cheered.

13. The Easter Parade, wherein some twelve thousand tons of supplies were delivered in about 1,800 trips from noon to noon the next day, finally convinced Russia that, yes, an airlift would succeed indefinitely, and there really wasn't a way to be further embarrassed. Russia entered diplomatic meetings again by the end of April. The Airlift itself didn't end until some weeks later, because the Allies had decided to continue to drop supplies until there was a good surplus for the Berliners to live off of.