Another anciently old kink meme fill done ages and ages ago. There was more planned for this, but this was all I could get done. Oh well. Hope you like. C:

War was a cruel game, a game the gods played mercilessly with mortal lives as their pawns. Arthur Kirkland learned this in the Great War as he watched his closest comrades die, either from bullets, bombs, or diseases, if only for a scant gain in territory. War was even more cruel for having the percentage of surviving, unwounded soldiers be such a minute number, with Arthur being among them. Since joining the military towards the end of the first world war, the young Englishman found himself swept up in the affairs of the army, and more than twenty years after returning home with the victory party, he served as a Major General when World War II erupted. Despite his high rank, he was reliving the nightmare of his late adolescent years as he trudged through the decimated city. What started as a sweeping mission turned into a skirmish between the investigating crew and the enemy troops who were hiding within the deserted buildings.

The squealing of flying grenades and repetitive thundershock of guns were just white noise as Arthur's boots stomped down the broken road, the high-ranking officer hoping to King George and God above that his men were fairing well. His rifle was raised and his finger cocked over the trigger, the digit twitching every time he peeked into a building, his war-sharpened instincts preparing him for a sudden barrage of bullets.

Finally, when he peeked into what used to be a small bakery, he saw him. The lack of lights and the fact that his back was turned to the doorless entrance made it hard to see the soldier, but the bright blond hair easily gave him away, and the red band around his arm set off alarms in the Major General's head. Immediately, Arthur jumped in front of the entrance and aimed for the crouching soldier's back.

"Don't move!" he cried out, succeeding in taking him by surprise. The soldier turned around and Arthur's green eyes met with piercing blue ones. They didn't seem to waver as the German slowly rose to his feet, his bloodied hands raising slowly to prove he had no weapons on him. A fire erupted in his chest as he examined the Nazi, from the black insignia on his red arm band to his strong, youthful face betraying no weakness. By the looks of it, he was well trained; perhaps he had gone through a good couple years' worth of military camp before being shipped to the war grounds. For whatever reason, the Nazi had let him guard down, which broke one of the first laws of being a soldier. Arthur put on a smug smile at his small victory.

At least, he started to until he saw just why the soldier dared to lower his defenses, and his heart broke.

Lying on the dirty floor was another young man – no, a boy – curled in on himself. The thick jacket of his grey uniform was partially slipped off and his shirt underneath was unceremoniously ripped open to reveal a large bloody wound just below his shoulder. Bits and pieces of his soiled shirt were used in an effort to clean the wound, but barely did much to slow the bleeding. There were makeshift bandages haphazardly wrapped around it, but they were disturbed when Arthur burst in with his weapon raised.

How old was this boy? He had to be barely out of high school – was he even old enough to be? Those large, bloodshot brown eyes stared in utter fear at him, the small whimpers he didn't notice before escalating to panicked and shameless sobs. He blurted out a plea in a foreign language - Arthur recognized it as Italian - and cried out when he tried to move.

Arthur's steady grip grew shaky and the barrel of his rifle lowered an inch, and his split second distraction was enough for the Nazi to reach under his coat and pull out a small handgun.

"Move and I shoot!" he barked, his strong accent emphasizing the consonants. His little pistol was laughable compared to the firearm Arthur held, but the Briton took a step back and lowered his weapon. He knew that he should blast this Nazi into high Hell, but the sight of the wounded soldier behind him made the Major General hesitate. He possibly couldn't shoot the boy nor the man who was trying to save his life.

The German was growing more and more antsy, which could only be the mix of confusion for Arthur backing away and the increased crying and begging from the small Italian man. He was no longer blathering senselessly, but crying the same words over and over again; mixed within the Italian was Ludwig, Ludwig, which must be the German's name.

Arthur could no longer stand in the building anymore. It hurt to much to watch the boy suffer. He made a move to leave and gave a look that said that he was going to leave them, making the German's eyes widen in disbelief.

Just as Arthur was about to step out the door, a yell came from behind him and he froze. The German stiffened, his gun raised again, and the Italian's wails paused as a fresh wave of terror swept through his small frame.

"Major General!"

Arthur recognized that voice. He had only met that soldier once, earlier in the day before they were dispatched, but that daring stare and cocky smile was forever burned into his retinas. Oh, he always knew that American soldiers were quite a hassle, but this one, a certain Alfred F. Jones, that idiotic young man who acted first and asked questions later...

In a flash, a familiar blond-haired man was at his side, his gun aimed at the German's head. The German followed suit, and before either trigger was pulled, Arthur pushed the American soldier with a demand of, "Stop!"

There were two gunfires, then silence.

The doorframe by Alfred's head was blown and splintered. Had Arthur not jumped at him, his head would've been scrap meat.

Meanwhile, there was a hole in the counter next to the German. Had Arthur not ruined the American's aim, the hole would've been in the German's chest instead.

There was a ringing in the air after both shots were fired, the quiet broken by the loud, irregular breathing of the wounded soldier on the floor. There was shuffling of feet, then Alfred sent a bewildered yet royally pissed glare at his superior.

"Major General," he hissed, "what'd you do that for?" A glance over to the German soldier made him jump and grab Arthur, the Nazi's pistol raised to fire again. The trigger was pulled, but there was no deafening bang or bullet, just a barely audible click. A hint of horror seeped into his eyes, which caused Alfred to laugh boisterously.

"Would you look at that? Dumb son of a bitch is just asking to die–"

"Get out."

Alfred flinched and looked at his superior in bewilderment. "Wh-What?"

"I said to get out."

"What're you talking about?" the American bellowed, his eyes flicking over at the German searching through his pockets for more ammunition. "That guy's a fucking Nazi! You're gonna just let him–"

"Yes I am, Mr. Jones, and you will follow my command or I will make sure that you are discharged on account of disobeying a superior's direct orders. Am I not clear?"

Those childish blue eyes glared daggers into Arthur's soul, but he kept his posture straight and demanding. Finally, the American caved and gave a hasty salute.

"And," Arthur quickly added as he turned, "not a word of this will be told to anyone. Our encounter never happened, is that clear?"

"The enemy is falling back and we've been ordered to return to base, sir."

Arthur took that as a yes and returned his attention to the original two occupants of the building. The German finally found some spare bullets and had his gun locked and loaded while the Italian grew dangerously silent.

"I will make my leave now," Arthur said gently, stepping out into the street. "Make sure he lives."

The last thing he saw before leaving was the very shocked German watching him march away before collapsing beside his Italian comrade, his deep voice trying to rouse the boy with rough, broken Italian.