The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-1-

"Welcome back to AM radio, bringing you all the latest updates from the war across the Atlantic.  Nothing major has happened since the Germans invaded Russia in June, but hey, we're not complaining.  As December rolls in and the holidays start to come around, could we be seeing an end to the conflicts before the new year?  We can all hope, folks.  It'd be nice to leave this all behind in 1941 and start fresh with 1942.

"In other news, the United States Armed Forces is looking to strengthen their drafting system as the war progresses.  If the Nazis keep invading as they are, the military will need all the bodies they can gather.  Stay tuned for more updates on drafts and the war itself as it continues to poison Europe with its--"

The kitchen falls silent.  My father shakes his head with a sigh as he shuts the radio off and turns to my mother, who's making breakfast for the lot of us.  He tries to look frustrated, but it's not difficult to see past his outer shell.  I've known him long enough.  He's scared, just like the rest of us.

"I'm tired of hearin' about all that damn war stuff,"  he grumbles.  "Germans this, Russians that.  I hear the word Nazi at least twenty times a day.  When's it gonna stop?"

My mother only shrugs, too preoccupied with preparing breakfast to pay him much attention.  "When the Allies stop them.  There's nothin' we can do about it."

"Still.  It's gettin' on my nerves."

It's been almost three years since the war began in Europe, and at this rate, there's little hope that it's going to end any time soon.  The United States hasn't dared enter the war, either, not after the devastation World War I caused back in the 1910s.  I wasn't alive then, but believe me when I say I've heard all the horror stories from my parents, my friends' parents, anyone who lived to remember it.  Just listening to these people tell their tales chills me to the bone; thinking about the second world war only makes matters worse.

The kitchen smells of freshly-cooked eggs and waffles.  The rising sun barely peeks over the distant horizon and shines through our kitchen window, casting the morning glow across the floor.  It's a gorgeous morning, one that's almost picture-perfect, but with all the talk and news of war, suddenly everything that was once beautiful now seems a lot dimmer in my eyes.  My mind is too jumbled and frantic with worries to even think about it.

My father joins me at the table, wrinkled newspaper in hand.  "Well,"  he sighs, ripping me out of my own clustered thoughts, "what do you think about all this war crap, Gerard?"

What's there to say?  Every passing day we live in fear of hearing another horrible story from Europe.  An Allied division was killed.  The Axis Powers advanced into a new city.  Hell, we even dread the idea that some day in the uncertain future, we could get attacked, too.  War is unpredictable.  We might think we're safe over here, completely cut off from all the deadly conflicts, but we're not.  Anything can happen at any given moment, and that's the part that scares me the most.

So instead of giving my father a proper response, I shrug my shoulders.  "Freaks me out, I guess."

It isn't a lie.

"Don't let it bother you, Gerard,"  my mother reassures me.  She gathers plates and silverware from the drawers, but now that I think about it, I've lost my appetite.  "The Allies won the first world war.  I have no doubt they can do it again."

My father scoffs.  "Sure, but last time, we were a big part of their success.  They were gettin' smoked over there before our military joined the fight."

"Very reassuring words, Pa,"  I say.  Neither he nor my mother are helping my concerns about our fate.  What happens if the Allies lose?  Hitler and his army won't stop invading Europe, so who's to say they won't try to take over America, too?  We'll have no choice but to join the fight then, and the thought of that alone makes me sick to my stomach.