33 - Steel Sky
Title: Steel Sky
Characters: Russia, America, England, Germany.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1948-1949 - Russia blockades West Berlin in an attempt to seize control of the entire city. America takes to the sky to achieve the impossible.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Berlin. June 24, 1948.
The loudspeakers had been his idea.
Radios and newspapers across Berlin already broadcast anti-Western propaganda (Russia wasn't naive enough to call it anything but) with pleasant stridency, but nobody listened. So Russia had suggested the loudspeakers. Now the Berliners couldn't escape his message; no matter where they went, or what they did, they heard exactly what they were supposed to hear.
Stalin had been rather proud. That had been reward enough.
The fact that Russia could sit out on the stoop of any storefront in the city, cigarette in hand, and listen to anti-American slurs? Just a bonus.
The trains were cut off a few days afterwards. As of the twenty-fifth, food wouldn't be provided in the non-Soviet sectors of Berlin. Germany wasn't happy about that, of course, but Russia reminded him that at this point, he should take what he could get. Watching the other nation try to fight that furious flush never failed to make Russia smile.
West Berlin was running on next to nothing. The last Russia heard, it had something like a month's worth of coal and food. He could outlast them. He could outlast anything. In thirty days' time, they'd be starving, scraping at the coattails of the Soviet Union for a little kindness. And Russia would give it to them.
He was nothing if not merciful.
---
London. June 25, 1948.
America and England slouched over what was usually their poker table, and now was stacked with maps, figure sheets, and waterstained accounting books.
"This sucks," America ventured. He stared at nothing a foot in front of him.
England thumbed through a wilted sheaf of supply numbers. "Indeed."
America scratched at the side of his jaw. Somewhere, a pipe dripped.
"So he's got...what."
"Railways," England sighed, "Highways, canals, and tunnels. All blockaded."
America picked up one of the maps of Berlin and stared at it. "And this is--legal?"
"It would appear that this is legal." England leaned back in his chair and popped his back.
Somehow, it was legal. Barely, but, well. 'Barely' was good enough for Stalin. In dividing up Berlin after the war, when it was agreed that England and America would occupy the western half of the city, they'd never thought to guarantee their right to get to the western half of the city.
"And we have...how many troops?" America knew all of this. He walked around and around the facts like a big game hunter circling a dangerous animal.
England rose from the table and retreated to the liquor cabinet. His voice was muffled through the creaking of the door. "Well, if the figures you've provided me for your armed forces are accurate--"
"Don't be a smartass," America grumbled.
"--Then you have less than nine thousand. I have just over seventy-five hundred. Russia," he went on before America could ask again, "Has somewhere in the vicinity of one and a half million."
"Fuck." America tugged off his glasses, rubbed his eyes with the bridge of his hand, and dropped the map.
"A direct armed confrontation would not be to our advantage," England reflected. He poured himself something that stank of too much gin.
"That's one of those 'British understatement' things, isn't it." America blew out a breath. "Gimme one of those. Whatever you're having. A bigger one."
England poured America a drink slightly smaller than his own, and returned to the table. They sat in silence for a while.
"There's always air transport," America suggested at last.
"It would never work," England replied instantly, in the tone of someone who had already considered and rejected the idea. "Berlin needs four thousand tons of cargo a day just to keep everyone alive. The German army couldn't manage a tenth of that at Stalingrad."
America wrote four thousand tons a day in slow, thoughtful script in the bottom corner of the map. He looked at it for a few seconds. "But...we do have a guaranteed right to air access. And what's Russia gonna do? Shoot down unarmed civilian cargo planes, that are just using their own airway? He's not stupid."
"America," England repeated, "It would never work."
America sat up, flicked on his glasses, and pulled a few lists of figures in towards himself. "How many planes have we got that we can use for hauling?"
"Not enough, all right, I worked out all the figures--we couldn't manage eight hundred tons a day, much less--"
"Yeah, whatever, look--" America circled the two airports in Berlin on the map and scanned down the list of necessary supplies. "Two airports already, and France can open up a third one over here...I can commandeer all my Navy planes, that's not a problem...and I've got a guy who knows this kinda thing, airlifts, I mean, he organized the supply thing, what was it, in China, between India and China, I bet he'd be able to whip these guys into--"
"America," England cut him off again. His fingers tightened around his glass. "Are you listening to me? It won't work."
America looked up at him, and smiled. "I bet it will."
"America!"
"Relax, England. I know planes."
---
Berlin. June 30, 1948.
"I want them out of the sky! Do you understand me? Ground them! Use whatever means possible! My God, what use are you if you can't manage something as simple as that? Don't you ever forget who you answer to, Braginsky--"
Russia slammed the door on his boss's furious voice, and leaned against it, hands over his face. He took a long, shuddering breath. They could hear the planes all the time, now, from anywhere in the city.
It started sometime last night, just a low thrumming, like a droning insect. Russia had spent the morning standing at his open window in the grey light, arms crossed over his chest, watching cigarette smoke waft out into the sky to join America's bright idea.
He should have anticipated something like this. It was so simple, when he thought about it: when in doubt, take to the skies. That was how America's mind worked.
"Sir?"
Russia's head jerked up. The man in front of him was young. Light glinted off his round glasses. "Who are you?" He snapped. He wove his fingers together, cracked his knuckles.
"Vasiliev, sir. Mikhail Vasiliev." When that failed to get a response, he added a small addendum. "I'm a clerk."
Russia snorted. "Well done." He tipped his head back against the door and studied the ceiling. The planes hummed outside. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, he looked back down. "You're still here."
The clerk looked sheepish. "I know." He fiddled with the earpiece of his glasses, forced it back tighter over his ear. "I've got a question for you, sir. Well, not you, really, but you've obviously just come from a meeting with him that didn't go as well as you'd hoped and that's not exactly an act I'm eager to follow so you're as good a person to ask as any, I suppose, not that you're not every bit as important but--"
"Stop babbling," Russia said sharply. He couldn't tell which was making his head ache worse: Vasiliev's voice or those damn planes. "Ask, or leave me the hell alone."
Vasiliev cleared his throat. "All right. Ah, are we, or are we not, planning on taking any defensive measures against the air strike?"
"It's not a strike." Oh, he wished it was a strike. "It's civilian planes flying through their own airspace."
The clerk peered at him with a look Russia was sure he imagined to be rather canny. "You believe that?"
Russia glared at him. "What I believe doesn't matter. The answer is no." He canted his hips, and pushed off the door, closing a few feet of the space between them. "And now you can go back to whatever corner office you work in and tell all your colleagues what I'm telling you now. This isn't going to work. The Americans are too stupid to know when they've been beaten, and so they're giving us a little show of force. But the entire operation is doomed to failure, understand?" He was only half aware that his voice had risen. "It couldn't be done at Stalingrad, and it's not going to be done here. The efforts are going to persist for a while, flounder, and then peter out, while the Western powers do their best to pretend that they'd never really wanted to supply Berlin in the first place."
There was a silence. Vasiliev blinked at him owlishly. "So," he squeaked finally. "I'll just...summarize that. In my report. I mean. That. Ah." He backed away. "Thank you, sir. For your, uh, your time." And with that, the little man fled down the hallway.
Russia watched him go. It dawned on him that he had been shouting. He rubbed his temples and grit his teeth against the droning of the planes.
---
Berlin. August 3, 1948.
America had some free time, so he decided to go on a candy run.
Just 'having free time' was nice; they were up to 4,500 tons a day, now, in deliveries, and okay, maybe the system wasn't perfect, yet, but it was working, that was what mattered; the Soviets had offered to feed any West Berliners who registered for a rations card, and the West Berliners had overwhelmingly refused. It did his heart good. And on top of that, America was getting a chance to find out that, actually, no, he never did get sick of flying.
But the candy runs were nicer.
He looked down through the window as he zipped over the Berlin apartment blocks. Children filled the streets, pointing, cheering, running after any plane that dipped low. America rocked the plane, waggled the wings, and all those eyes were suddenly on him. He grinned, checked the cargo loader, and swung around for a second pass.
When the cargo doors opened, hundreds of little parcels of candy, suspended from miniature parachutes, dropped out of the plane and floated like snowflakes down to the German children.
Then, in the mirror, he picked out Germany--he was sure it was Germany, standing in the middle of those cheering children. Germany caught a chocolate bar out of the air, handed it to a boy running past him, and looked back towards America's plane with a confounded expression.
America waggled the wings again. Germany brought up a hand, glanced around, then gave a small wave back.
America soared.
-------
Berlin. September 5, 1948.
Russia spent almost every night on the rooftops, listening to the planes roar low overhead. They swept across the city like huge, dark birds.
Russia hated them.
He pulled a knee up to his chest and examined the end of his cigarette in the blazing light. There were searchlights now, trained on the planes. The wings glittered, and Russia could make out every rivet in the metal as they swept by. His fighters buzzed them, flying just close enough to disorient the American pilots. They fired into the air near the cargo carriers, they sent up flak and balloons--they had even set up a radio beacon on the same frequency as the Tempelhof airport. All just to try and force the Allies off course. To give the Soviets an opportunity to fire.
None of it was working. The butt of the cigarette burned his fingers. He didn't drop it.
He told himself he wasn't watching the cockpits. Told himself that he didn't come up here hoping to see him get shot out of the sky.
It hadn't happened yet. But Russia was content to wait.
Even if the Americans couldn't be provoked off-course, he told himself…winter was coming. And winter was always on Russia's side. He knew the figures. The daily tonnage on all transports would have to more than double, to keep Berlin in coal and fuel through the cold months. America would give up, or Berlin would freeze to death.
Russia didn't care which.
---
Berlin - Tempelhof Airport. April 16, 1949.
America had never been so tired in his life. He shucked his flight jacket, threw it over his shoulder, and staggered away from the airstrip, towards the line of snack booths, and the pretty frauleins who attended them--they knew the Americans were too busy to try to date them, so were always extra friendly.
He bumped into Germany heading in the same direction. He almost didn't recognize him. He was black with engine oil. The Americans--and the British--flew the planes; the Germans manned the airfield. Most of the ground crews were ex-Luftwaffe, which was kind of funny when America thought about it, although he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.
"Oh, hey!" America clapped him on the back. His hand came away black. "Can you fuckin' believe it? Right?"
Germany shook his head. He looked as exhausted as America felt. "No. I can't believe it."
They both turned around to survey the airfield. No chaos. No wasted space. Just the coal deliveries from 1,383 flights, all in the past 24 hours. April 15th had shattered all their previous records. It was an Easter parade.
"And they said we couldn't do it," America smirked and folded his arms.
Germany glanced at him. "I know this wasn't necessary."
America sighed loudly and rucked a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a big fuckin' publicity stunt. So sue me. I just love big gestures. Everybody's gonna feel great about this when they read about it in the papers, that's the thing. And hey, at least we're ahead on your coal quota now, right?"
Germany looked away and squinted. "That isn't…I meant the…" He paused, went on in a different direction. "The--operations will improve from now on. The pilots and ground crews worked out--"
"Oh, you meant--the whole airlift!" America laughed. "Hey, no problem, you know? It's all been kinda fun. I mean. Not for you, obviously, I know it's kinda sucked here, but doing this whole--this whole thing...look." He shook out his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. "It's not like I was gonna just abandon you."
"You didn't." Germany didn't look at him, and he said it in that matter-of-fact way that he said everything, but--America was getting used to his reserve. He interpreted you didn't to mean thank you.
They scanned the lines and lines of cargo containers for a few more seconds. "Thirteen thousand tons of coal in one day," America sighed happily, "And not a single accident."
They looked at each other. America held out a hand. "Good work, Germany."
Germany allowed himself a small, cautious smile, and they shook firmly. "Good work."
---
Berlin. May 12, 1949.
The first supply convoy drove into Berlin one minute after midnight. The first train was due to arrive at five in the morning. America and Russia stood next to each other while the last of the Soviet tanks drove away and the barricades were dragged aside, and America was pretty sure he was the smuggest motherfucker on the planet, right now.
"It worked," he gloated.
Russia growled and fumbled in his pocket. His lighter, a cheap, Soviet-made thing, flickered dully as he lit up, and took a short drag. "It shouldn't have."
"But it did." America took out his own pack of cigarettes, his own lighter, and it flickered through his mind to wonder what Russia had done with his Zippo. He repressed the flash of hurt. "Victory cigarette," he explained, as he mimicked Russia.
He blew smoke into the air in front of them and didn't bother to say since I totally just fucking humiliated you in front of the whole world--how does it taste? since it looked like that was understood. "Maybe next time you won't bet against me, yeah?"
"Maybe next time you won't get lucky. Because that's what you did, America." Russia didn't bother to tap out his ash. "You got lucky." His shoulders hunched up around his neck. The treads of the tanks rumbled in the distance.
"Oh, yeah." America waved his cigarette. "Because you can run a fleet of hundreds of planes making thousands of flights on luck." Truck after truck after truck filed past them. The Soviets had capitulated the day after the Easter Parade; it had just taken this long to work out the specifics of ending the blockade.
"You know, I was talking to some clever type in General Clay's office," he said brightly, "And did you know that if you add it all up, my planes flew more than ninety million miles? That's almost the same distance as the Earth to the sun, he said!"
Russia's lip curled. He turned to America, opened up his stance just a little. "That's just marvelous," he hissed. Smoke spiraled out between his lips. Every inch of his body was tense. "I don't know how you could possibly top yourself after this. It seems like no matter what you do, you can't help succeeding."
America turned in slightly to face him, too. "Maybe I really am just that good. Maybe that's something you ought to consider." He took a deep drag and smiled at Russia around his cigarette. "Might save you from more of these embarrassing situations."
"That ego," Russia sighed around another drag. "One blockade doesn't merit quite this level of self-satisfaction." His gaze lingered momentarily on America's lips before snapping back up to his eyes.
"The distance to the sun," America repeated.
Russia looked up into the night sky. The stars gleamed above them. "We have a story about a man like you. Years ago, when I was young, there was a serf named Nikitka who wanted to fly. He stood in front of the Tsar and hundreds of people and announced that he was going to do just that, with wings he had built himself. And do you know what the Tsar said to him?" The tip of his cigarette glowed.
"I feel like you're gonna tell me."
"He said that a man is not a bird, and that to attach himself to wings and to attempt to fly was in opposition to the will of nature." Russia's eyes traced a falling ember from America's cigarette. "It wasn't a godly deed, but something that emanated from dark powers..." He grinned at America. "The serf tried anyway. And he fell--of course. And the Tsar decreed that the man's head was to be cut off for associating himself with evil. The wings were destroyed, too. Burned. After they were prayed over, naturally."
America smoked in silence for a little while. Then he observed, "Greece kinda has a story like that, about some dude named Icarus. But he just drowned in the end. You have some fucked up folk stories."
Russia threw his cigarette to the ground, stamped it out. "Frankly, I wouldn't care which one happened to you. Drowning, dismemberment, it's all the same to me." He ran a hand through his hair; it fell in shining strands through his fingers.
America tore his eyes away from it. "Yeah, well. Let me tell you a little story."
"Go on."
America ground out his cigarette on the edge of a tipped-over concrete roadblock. "Once upon a time there was a totally awesome hero, who everybody liked, and he smelled great, but he was always trying to keep this one douchebag happy--let's call him an evil wizard, yeah? That's traditional. There was probably some stuff about an evil enchantment, I don't know, it's not really my area of expertise. But then the spell broke, all right? And all of a sudden, the hero could go around and fix all the shit he'd done wrong while putting up with the evil wizard's bullshit. So that's what he decided to do."
Russia barked out a laugh. He uncrossed his arms, and leaned in towards America. "I've never heard that one before. But my people do know one or two things when it comes to magic. And they say that you can't be enchanted unless you want to be."
"Oh, no question. I mean, you are so cute." America flicked his cigarette butt out into the darkness. "As a button, sweetheart. So I let you have Lithuania. And Poland, and Hungary, and everybody else. But you are not--" he looked up into Russia's eyes, then, and grinned like a shark. "Gonna get your hands on West Berlin."
"You can't win forever, darling," Russia snarled. "You'll get sick of this little hero act of yours here soon enough. And when everybody stops paying attention to you, and you move on to some other spotlight-grabbing performance, I'll take what's mine."
"You don't get it, you never fucking get it--it's not an act!" America glared up at him, his fingertips twitching at his sides. "But yeah, of course, you're not gonna believe me. You never believed me when I was trying to help you, so why would you believe me when I'm trying to help Germany? ...Christ. Just get out of my face. Don't you have some miserable fucking hole in the wall where you could be drinking yourself unconscious in your side of the city?"
"But you just help everyone, don't you? And that makes the times you helped me amount to exactly nothing at all." Russia gave him a sweet smile, then brushed the backs of his fingers across America's cheek.
America felt a hot, sick, red pulse sweep through him, and when the roar had rushed out of his ears, he had slapped Russia across the face.
America trembled, drained and astonished by the rush of emotion. His teeth chattered, and he couldn't think of anything to say, but he managed, "Don't touch me."
The mark from America's hand made a dark, painful red over Russia's pale skin. His smile didn't waver. "I'm sorry...Did I hurt your feelings?"
"Get out of here," America snapped. "I don't want to see your fucking face in this side of the city again."
Russia lifted his eyebrows, once. He tugged his scarf tight around his neck, and walked away.
+++
--The Berlin Blockade lasted from June 24th, 1948, to May 11th, 1949. During the multinational occupation of post-World War II Germany, the Soviet Union blocked the Western Allies' railway and road access to the sectors of Berlin under their control. Their aim was to force the western powers to allow the Soviet zone to start supplying Berlin with food and fuel, thereby giving the Soviets practical control over the entire city. In response, the Western Allies organized the Berlin Airlift to carry supplies to the people of Berlin. The success of the Airlift was an international humiliation for the Soviet Union, where many officials had insisted throughout the operation that it could never work.
--Operation Little Vittles dropped over three tons of candy over Berlin. It was a major propaganda success for the US, and had a significant impact in how America was viewed by post-war Germany. Check out a picture of a plane dropping the candy on adorable little parachutes here.
--The Berlin Airlift would never have been successful without the cooperation and determination of the West Berliners themselves. Germans acted as the ground crews, handled distribution of supplies, and built the third airport, as well as maintained their morale in the face of incessant Soviet propaganda telling them that the Americans would surely abandon them soon. The Airlift greatly reduced residual animosity between occupied Germany and the West, and Americans felt great solidarity for the West Berliners, who were effectively under siege from Soviet forces. The American-German friendship which emerged following the Airlift, and the German economic resurgence which resulted from the American introduction of the Deutsche Mark and the extension of Marshall Plan aid to West Germany, became a major point of contention between the United States and the Soviet Union.
+++
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia, America, England, Germany.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1948-1949 - Russia blockades West Berlin in an attempt to seize control of the entire city. America takes to the sky to achieve the impossible.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Berlin. June 24, 1948.
The loudspeakers had been his idea.
Radios and newspapers across Berlin already broadcast anti-Western propaganda (Russia wasn't naive enough to call it anything but) with pleasant stridency, but nobody listened. So Russia had suggested the loudspeakers. Now the Berliners couldn't escape his message; no matter where they went, or what they did, they heard exactly what they were supposed to hear.
Stalin had been rather proud. That had been reward enough.
The fact that Russia could sit out on the stoop of any storefront in the city, cigarette in hand, and listen to anti-American slurs? Just a bonus.
The trains were cut off a few days afterwards. As of the twenty-fifth, food wouldn't be provided in the non-Soviet sectors of Berlin. Germany wasn't happy about that, of course, but Russia reminded him that at this point, he should take what he could get. Watching the other nation try to fight that furious flush never failed to make Russia smile.
West Berlin was running on next to nothing. The last Russia heard, it had something like a month's worth of coal and food. He could outlast them. He could outlast anything. In thirty days' time, they'd be starving, scraping at the coattails of the Soviet Union for a little kindness. And Russia would give it to them.
He was nothing if not merciful.
---
London. June 25, 1948.
America and England slouched over what was usually their poker table, and now was stacked with maps, figure sheets, and waterstained accounting books.
"This sucks," America ventured. He stared at nothing a foot in front of him.
England thumbed through a wilted sheaf of supply numbers. "Indeed."
America scratched at the side of his jaw. Somewhere, a pipe dripped.
"So he's got...what."
"Railways," England sighed, "Highways, canals, and tunnels. All blockaded."
America picked up one of the maps of Berlin and stared at it. "And this is--legal?"
"It would appear that this is legal." England leaned back in his chair and popped his back.
Somehow, it was legal. Barely, but, well. 'Barely' was good enough for Stalin. In dividing up Berlin after the war, when it was agreed that England and America would occupy the western half of the city, they'd never thought to guarantee their right to get to the western half of the city.
"And we have...how many troops?" America knew all of this. He walked around and around the facts like a big game hunter circling a dangerous animal.
England rose from the table and retreated to the liquor cabinet. His voice was muffled through the creaking of the door. "Well, if the figures you've provided me for your armed forces are accurate--"
"Don't be a smartass," America grumbled.
"--Then you have less than nine thousand. I have just over seventy-five hundred. Russia," he went on before America could ask again, "Has somewhere in the vicinity of one and a half million."
"Fuck." America tugged off his glasses, rubbed his eyes with the bridge of his hand, and dropped the map.
"A direct armed confrontation would not be to our advantage," England reflected. He poured himself something that stank of too much gin.
"That's one of those 'British understatement' things, isn't it." America blew out a breath. "Gimme one of those. Whatever you're having. A bigger one."
England poured America a drink slightly smaller than his own, and returned to the table. They sat in silence for a while.
"There's always air transport," America suggested at last.
"It would never work," England replied instantly, in the tone of someone who had already considered and rejected the idea. "Berlin needs four thousand tons of cargo a day just to keep everyone alive. The German army couldn't manage a tenth of that at Stalingrad."
America wrote four thousand tons a day in slow, thoughtful script in the bottom corner of the map. He looked at it for a few seconds. "But...we do have a guaranteed right to air access. And what's Russia gonna do? Shoot down unarmed civilian cargo planes, that are just using their own airway? He's not stupid."
"America," England repeated, "It would never work."
America sat up, flicked on his glasses, and pulled a few lists of figures in towards himself. "How many planes have we got that we can use for hauling?"
"Not enough, all right, I worked out all the figures--we couldn't manage eight hundred tons a day, much less--"
"Yeah, whatever, look--" America circled the two airports in Berlin on the map and scanned down the list of necessary supplies. "Two airports already, and France can open up a third one over here...I can commandeer all my Navy planes, that's not a problem...and I've got a guy who knows this kinda thing, airlifts, I mean, he organized the supply thing, what was it, in China, between India and China, I bet he'd be able to whip these guys into--"
"America," England cut him off again. His fingers tightened around his glass. "Are you listening to me? It won't work."
America looked up at him, and smiled. "I bet it will."
"America!"
"Relax, England. I know planes."
---
Berlin. June 30, 1948.
"I want them out of the sky! Do you understand me? Ground them! Use whatever means possible! My God, what use are you if you can't manage something as simple as that? Don't you ever forget who you answer to, Braginsky--"
Russia slammed the door on his boss's furious voice, and leaned against it, hands over his face. He took a long, shuddering breath. They could hear the planes all the time, now, from anywhere in the city.
It started sometime last night, just a low thrumming, like a droning insect. Russia had spent the morning standing at his open window in the grey light, arms crossed over his chest, watching cigarette smoke waft out into the sky to join America's bright idea.
He should have anticipated something like this. It was so simple, when he thought about it: when in doubt, take to the skies. That was how America's mind worked.
"Sir?"
Russia's head jerked up. The man in front of him was young. Light glinted off his round glasses. "Who are you?" He snapped. He wove his fingers together, cracked his knuckles.
"Vasiliev, sir. Mikhail Vasiliev." When that failed to get a response, he added a small addendum. "I'm a clerk."
Russia snorted. "Well done." He tipped his head back against the door and studied the ceiling. The planes hummed outside. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, he looked back down. "You're still here."
The clerk looked sheepish. "I know." He fiddled with the earpiece of his glasses, forced it back tighter over his ear. "I've got a question for you, sir. Well, not you, really, but you've obviously just come from a meeting with him that didn't go as well as you'd hoped and that's not exactly an act I'm eager to follow so you're as good a person to ask as any, I suppose, not that you're not every bit as important but--"
"Stop babbling," Russia said sharply. He couldn't tell which was making his head ache worse: Vasiliev's voice or those damn planes. "Ask, or leave me the hell alone."
Vasiliev cleared his throat. "All right. Ah, are we, or are we not, planning on taking any defensive measures against the air strike?"
"It's not a strike." Oh, he wished it was a strike. "It's civilian planes flying through their own airspace."
The clerk peered at him with a look Russia was sure he imagined to be rather canny. "You believe that?"
Russia glared at him. "What I believe doesn't matter. The answer is no." He canted his hips, and pushed off the door, closing a few feet of the space between them. "And now you can go back to whatever corner office you work in and tell all your colleagues what I'm telling you now. This isn't going to work. The Americans are too stupid to know when they've been beaten, and so they're giving us a little show of force. But the entire operation is doomed to failure, understand?" He was only half aware that his voice had risen. "It couldn't be done at Stalingrad, and it's not going to be done here. The efforts are going to persist for a while, flounder, and then peter out, while the Western powers do their best to pretend that they'd never really wanted to supply Berlin in the first place."
There was a silence. Vasiliev blinked at him owlishly. "So," he squeaked finally. "I'll just...summarize that. In my report. I mean. That. Ah." He backed away. "Thank you, sir. For your, uh, your time." And with that, the little man fled down the hallway.
Russia watched him go. It dawned on him that he had been shouting. He rubbed his temples and grit his teeth against the droning of the planes.
---
Berlin. August 3, 1948.
America had some free time, so he decided to go on a candy run.
Just 'having free time' was nice; they were up to 4,500 tons a day, now, in deliveries, and okay, maybe the system wasn't perfect, yet, but it was working, that was what mattered; the Soviets had offered to feed any West Berliners who registered for a rations card, and the West Berliners had overwhelmingly refused. It did his heart good. And on top of that, America was getting a chance to find out that, actually, no, he never did get sick of flying.
But the candy runs were nicer.
He looked down through the window as he zipped over the Berlin apartment blocks. Children filled the streets, pointing, cheering, running after any plane that dipped low. America rocked the plane, waggled the wings, and all those eyes were suddenly on him. He grinned, checked the cargo loader, and swung around for a second pass.
When the cargo doors opened, hundreds of little parcels of candy, suspended from miniature parachutes, dropped out of the plane and floated like snowflakes down to the German children.
Then, in the mirror, he picked out Germany--he was sure it was Germany, standing in the middle of those cheering children. Germany caught a chocolate bar out of the air, handed it to a boy running past him, and looked back towards America's plane with a confounded expression.
America waggled the wings again. Germany brought up a hand, glanced around, then gave a small wave back.
America soared.
-------
Berlin. September 5, 1948.
Russia spent almost every night on the rooftops, listening to the planes roar low overhead. They swept across the city like huge, dark birds.
Russia hated them.
He pulled a knee up to his chest and examined the end of his cigarette in the blazing light. There were searchlights now, trained on the planes. The wings glittered, and Russia could make out every rivet in the metal as they swept by. His fighters buzzed them, flying just close enough to disorient the American pilots. They fired into the air near the cargo carriers, they sent up flak and balloons--they had even set up a radio beacon on the same frequency as the Tempelhof airport. All just to try and force the Allies off course. To give the Soviets an opportunity to fire.
None of it was working. The butt of the cigarette burned his fingers. He didn't drop it.
He told himself he wasn't watching the cockpits. Told himself that he didn't come up here hoping to see him get shot out of the sky.
It hadn't happened yet. But Russia was content to wait.
Even if the Americans couldn't be provoked off-course, he told himself…winter was coming. And winter was always on Russia's side. He knew the figures. The daily tonnage on all transports would have to more than double, to keep Berlin in coal and fuel through the cold months. America would give up, or Berlin would freeze to death.
Russia didn't care which.
---
Berlin - Tempelhof Airport. April 16, 1949.
America had never been so tired in his life. He shucked his flight jacket, threw it over his shoulder, and staggered away from the airstrip, towards the line of snack booths, and the pretty frauleins who attended them--they knew the Americans were too busy to try to date them, so were always extra friendly.
He bumped into Germany heading in the same direction. He almost didn't recognize him. He was black with engine oil. The Americans--and the British--flew the planes; the Germans manned the airfield. Most of the ground crews were ex-Luftwaffe, which was kind of funny when America thought about it, although he couldn't exactly put his finger on why.
"Oh, hey!" America clapped him on the back. His hand came away black. "Can you fuckin' believe it? Right?"
Germany shook his head. He looked as exhausted as America felt. "No. I can't believe it."
They both turned around to survey the airfield. No chaos. No wasted space. Just the coal deliveries from 1,383 flights, all in the past 24 hours. April 15th had shattered all their previous records. It was an Easter parade.
"And they said we couldn't do it," America smirked and folded his arms.
Germany glanced at him. "I know this wasn't necessary."
America sighed loudly and rucked a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a big fuckin' publicity stunt. So sue me. I just love big gestures. Everybody's gonna feel great about this when they read about it in the papers, that's the thing. And hey, at least we're ahead on your coal quota now, right?"
Germany looked away and squinted. "That isn't…I meant the…" He paused, went on in a different direction. "The--operations will improve from now on. The pilots and ground crews worked out--"
"Oh, you meant--the whole airlift!" America laughed. "Hey, no problem, you know? It's all been kinda fun. I mean. Not for you, obviously, I know it's kinda sucked here, but doing this whole--this whole thing...look." He shook out his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. "It's not like I was gonna just abandon you."
"You didn't." Germany didn't look at him, and he said it in that matter-of-fact way that he said everything, but--America was getting used to his reserve. He interpreted you didn't to mean thank you.
They scanned the lines and lines of cargo containers for a few more seconds. "Thirteen thousand tons of coal in one day," America sighed happily, "And not a single accident."
They looked at each other. America held out a hand. "Good work, Germany."
Germany allowed himself a small, cautious smile, and they shook firmly. "Good work."
---
Berlin. May 12, 1949.
The first supply convoy drove into Berlin one minute after midnight. The first train was due to arrive at five in the morning. America and Russia stood next to each other while the last of the Soviet tanks drove away and the barricades were dragged aside, and America was pretty sure he was the smuggest motherfucker on the planet, right now.
"It worked," he gloated.
Russia growled and fumbled in his pocket. His lighter, a cheap, Soviet-made thing, flickered dully as he lit up, and took a short drag. "It shouldn't have."
"But it did." America took out his own pack of cigarettes, his own lighter, and it flickered through his mind to wonder what Russia had done with his Zippo. He repressed the flash of hurt. "Victory cigarette," he explained, as he mimicked Russia.
He blew smoke into the air in front of them and didn't bother to say since I totally just fucking humiliated you in front of the whole world--how does it taste? since it looked like that was understood. "Maybe next time you won't bet against me, yeah?"
"Maybe next time you won't get lucky. Because that's what you did, America." Russia didn't bother to tap out his ash. "You got lucky." His shoulders hunched up around his neck. The treads of the tanks rumbled in the distance.
"Oh, yeah." America waved his cigarette. "Because you can run a fleet of hundreds of planes making thousands of flights on luck." Truck after truck after truck filed past them. The Soviets had capitulated the day after the Easter Parade; it had just taken this long to work out the specifics of ending the blockade.
"You know, I was talking to some clever type in General Clay's office," he said brightly, "And did you know that if you add it all up, my planes flew more than ninety million miles? That's almost the same distance as the Earth to the sun, he said!"
Russia's lip curled. He turned to America, opened up his stance just a little. "That's just marvelous," he hissed. Smoke spiraled out between his lips. Every inch of his body was tense. "I don't know how you could possibly top yourself after this. It seems like no matter what you do, you can't help succeeding."
America turned in slightly to face him, too. "Maybe I really am just that good. Maybe that's something you ought to consider." He took a deep drag and smiled at Russia around his cigarette. "Might save you from more of these embarrassing situations."
"That ego," Russia sighed around another drag. "One blockade doesn't merit quite this level of self-satisfaction." His gaze lingered momentarily on America's lips before snapping back up to his eyes.
"The distance to the sun," America repeated.
Russia looked up into the night sky. The stars gleamed above them. "We have a story about a man like you. Years ago, when I was young, there was a serf named Nikitka who wanted to fly. He stood in front of the Tsar and hundreds of people and announced that he was going to do just that, with wings he had built himself. And do you know what the Tsar said to him?" The tip of his cigarette glowed.
"I feel like you're gonna tell me."
"He said that a man is not a bird, and that to attach himself to wings and to attempt to fly was in opposition to the will of nature." Russia's eyes traced a falling ember from America's cigarette. "It wasn't a godly deed, but something that emanated from dark powers..." He grinned at America. "The serf tried anyway. And he fell--of course. And the Tsar decreed that the man's head was to be cut off for associating himself with evil. The wings were destroyed, too. Burned. After they were prayed over, naturally."
America smoked in silence for a little while. Then he observed, "Greece kinda has a story like that, about some dude named Icarus. But he just drowned in the end. You have some fucked up folk stories."
Russia threw his cigarette to the ground, stamped it out. "Frankly, I wouldn't care which one happened to you. Drowning, dismemberment, it's all the same to me." He ran a hand through his hair; it fell in shining strands through his fingers.
America tore his eyes away from it. "Yeah, well. Let me tell you a little story."
"Go on."
America ground out his cigarette on the edge of a tipped-over concrete roadblock. "Once upon a time there was a totally awesome hero, who everybody liked, and he smelled great, but he was always trying to keep this one douchebag happy--let's call him an evil wizard, yeah? That's traditional. There was probably some stuff about an evil enchantment, I don't know, it's not really my area of expertise. But then the spell broke, all right? And all of a sudden, the hero could go around and fix all the shit he'd done wrong while putting up with the evil wizard's bullshit. So that's what he decided to do."
Russia barked out a laugh. He uncrossed his arms, and leaned in towards America. "I've never heard that one before. But my people do know one or two things when it comes to magic. And they say that you can't be enchanted unless you want to be."
"Oh, no question. I mean, you are so cute." America flicked his cigarette butt out into the darkness. "As a button, sweetheart. So I let you have Lithuania. And Poland, and Hungary, and everybody else. But you are not--" he looked up into Russia's eyes, then, and grinned like a shark. "Gonna get your hands on West Berlin."
"You can't win forever, darling," Russia snarled. "You'll get sick of this little hero act of yours here soon enough. And when everybody stops paying attention to you, and you move on to some other spotlight-grabbing performance, I'll take what's mine."
"You don't get it, you never fucking get it--it's not an act!" America glared up at him, his fingertips twitching at his sides. "But yeah, of course, you're not gonna believe me. You never believed me when I was trying to help you, so why would you believe me when I'm trying to help Germany? ...Christ. Just get out of my face. Don't you have some miserable fucking hole in the wall where you could be drinking yourself unconscious in your side of the city?"
"But you just help everyone, don't you? And that makes the times you helped me amount to exactly nothing at all." Russia gave him a sweet smile, then brushed the backs of his fingers across America's cheek.
America felt a hot, sick, red pulse sweep through him, and when the roar had rushed out of his ears, he had slapped Russia across the face.
America trembled, drained and astonished by the rush of emotion. His teeth chattered, and he couldn't think of anything to say, but he managed, "Don't touch me."
The mark from America's hand made a dark, painful red over Russia's pale skin. His smile didn't waver. "I'm sorry...Did I hurt your feelings?"
"Get out of here," America snapped. "I don't want to see your fucking face in this side of the city again."
Russia lifted his eyebrows, once. He tugged his scarf tight around his neck, and walked away.
+++
--The Berlin Blockade lasted from June 24th, 1948, to May 11th, 1949. During the multinational occupation of post-World War II Germany, the Soviet Union blocked the Western Allies' railway and road access to the sectors of Berlin under their control. Their aim was to force the western powers to allow the Soviet zone to start supplying Berlin with food and fuel, thereby giving the Soviets practical control over the entire city. In response, the Western Allies organized the Berlin Airlift to carry supplies to the people of Berlin. The success of the Airlift was an international humiliation for the Soviet Union, where many officials had insisted throughout the operation that it could never work.
--Operation Little Vittles dropped over three tons of candy over Berlin. It was a major propaganda success for the US, and had a significant impact in how America was viewed by post-war Germany. Check out a picture of a plane dropping the candy on adorable little parachutes here.
--The Berlin Airlift would never have been successful without the cooperation and determination of the West Berliners themselves. Germans acted as the ground crews, handled distribution of supplies, and built the third airport, as well as maintained their morale in the face of incessant Soviet propaganda telling them that the Americans would surely abandon them soon. The Airlift greatly reduced residual animosity between occupied Germany and the West, and Americans felt great solidarity for the West Berliners, who were effectively under siege from Soviet forces. The American-German friendship which emerged following the Airlift, and the German economic resurgence which resulted from the American introduction of the Deutsche Mark and the extension of Marshall Plan aid to West Germany, became a major point of contention between the United States and the Soviet Union.
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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.