Home was about more far away now than it had ever been. 

It was the height of summer and Italy was yet another locale where it was far too hot for Nick’s liking. Africa had been dry, baking, desert heat but here it was hot, humid, sweaty heat. The kind of heat that makes you wish it was socially acceptable to go nude – all the time. Nick could even deal with just some night time nudity. His bed was right next to a window, and at night he couldn’t sleep in the intense humidity, but still kept his hospital issued pyjamas in place as to not anger the witch nurse who prowled the floor at night hunting for delinquent soldiers. 

Nick had started a ritual of asking the Doctor on a daily basis when he was going to be released to go home, and every day he received the same reply. 

“You can go home when I think you’re ready, and not a day before.”

Dr. Burton wanted Nick in tiptop shape before putting him on a boat for home. He had Nick doing physical therapy four times a week to learn how to care for and manage his amputation. People take for granted the use of both hands so they never realize just how hard it was to learn to do everything one handed. Opening jars, driving a car, keeping the paper in place as you wrote a letter, lifting a casserole from the oven, and buttoning your clothing. All things he had to learn to do over again. Nick also had some less serious injuries to get over; bruised ribs, cuts, scrapes, and a diminished spirit. Dr. Burton wasn’t going to sign a single release paper until he felt Nick was both physically and emotionally ready. Every day he watched Nick stare at the now heavily battered photo of Mary (recovered still on him after the blast) but he never wrote to her. They offered him stationary, and a nurse even offered to let him dictate to her but he always declined, saying that he wouldn’t know what to tell her. 

“They’re going to worry about you if you don’t write,” Dr. Burton said, playing psychiatrist for the day. 

“They’ll worry more if I write them and say I’m in the hospital,” Nick shrugged, “besides, by the time they get the letter I’ll be home.”

Dr. Burton got up smiling and patted Nick on the shoulder. Nick had definitely become like a son to him, and he was going to do all he could to make sure that the young man got back on his feet. 

It wasn’t long before he found himself writing a telegram to Nick’s father, telling him to expect his son to arrive on the 1530 train from New York in a week’s time. Dr. Burton had told Nick the second the Army had approved his release. The young man was ecstatic on the outside but the doctor knew that not so deep down Nick was scared. Home was going to be a definite adjustment. He gave Nick a list of doctor’s in his area that he wanted him to go see (luckily a friend in the states had been quick about finding names for him.) One of those doctors was a man making groundbreaking discoveries in the world of prosthetics. As much as Nick said he wasn’t interested he soon relented when he found out the military would pay for it. It was the least they could do for those who nearly gave up their lives. 

It wasn’t until he was on the train that Nick really realized he was almost home. There were a few other military personnel on the train and each of them had given him a sympathetic look when they noticed the sleeve of his uniform pinned up so it wouldn’t hang empty. He didn’t want pity from anyone; he’d gotten enough of that already. So he was definitely going to make sure that the next time he went out in public, he was wearing his overcoat with both sleeves down. It hadn’t been the first time he’d shied away from pity. Back in the hospital several people from his unit had come to visit before they moved on without him. They reminded him of how useful he’d been as company “seamstress” which only led his mind to one thing – the explosion. While he and Tim had stood in that tailor shop he’d thought that maybe it was still the life for him. He’d imagined opening a joint store with his father’s which he would tailor men’s fashions. The faraway look in his eyes led his visitors to only one conclusion, and they apologized for bringing up sewing, “considering his condition.”

Nick knew his dream had been crushed (literally), but he didn’t need them to point it out and certainly did not need them to be sorry for him. 

The train slowing down broke Nick from his reverie, and he realized he was already home. Finally home, no leaving now, no way they could take him again, home. He could hear his heart pounding as he stepped off the train and he had to resist turning around and getting back on because now after all his wishing he wanted back. Back on the train, back on the boat, back to Europe, and far away from here. He wanted to know why he had to sacrifice just to come home and for a split second he was jealous again; jealous of damn Private Littrell, who he left in Africa without as much as a shirt on his back. Littrell got to go home with his family thinking he was a hero and Nick was returning ashamed, less of a person he was when he left. Self-pity was not subject to the same rules as the other kinds, in fact, it was welcomed. 

Nick was unaware that Dr. Burton had told Robert about his arm in the telegram, so he was sceptical when he spotted them and they didn’t appear shocked by his new appearance. 

In reality though, Robert was too excited to see his son alive, and Mary couldn’t wait to hug him and tell him all her news. 

“Well?” Nick asked, only moments after their reunion, his voice anger tinged, “Aren’t you going to ask me about it?” 

“About what?” Robert asked innocently. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my arm?”

“What about it?” 

Nick glared at his father, not in the mood to be playing games or skirting around the facts like he was trying to pretend nothing was different, “I left it in Italy.” 

“Oh,” Robert shrugged, “I didn’t notice.” 

Nick huffed and picked up his bag, barely acknowledging Mary’s presence, “You’re a terrible liar.”

Robert had expected Nick to be in a foul mood. When he had returned from the Great War in 1917 when Nick was only four, it had taken him time to adjust to being home. It was also not unusual for Nick to be silent, but by dinner that time he had practically turned into a mime; his words when he arrived having been the only ones for the day. Mary had tried to snap him out of his funk by telling him the news of her divorce and the house but he didn’t bat an eyelash, just pushed his food around on his plate. Robert decided then that Mary needed to leave. 

He walked her home after dinner, explaining that Nick might feel self conscious with her there, so he wanted a moment alone to talk to his son. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Robert inquired as he returned to their living area, hanging his coat up on a hook. Silence. “You’re selfish if you think you’re the only one adjusting here. I know what you’re going through, what you’re feeling, and you’re not alone.” At his words he watched Nick dissolve into tears then choke out an apology. 

“What are you sorry for?” Robert’s voice was soft and kind as he sat down next to Nick on the couch. 

“For failing you... again,” Nick sighed. 

“What do you mean ‘again’? You’ve never failed me.”

“I turned your store into gossip central, which probably lost you business all because of my thing with Mary and now…you told me to come back a hero and I couldn’t even do that,” Nick wiped at his eyes and sniffled, feeling more of the self-pity on the way. 

“What makes you think you’re not a hero?” 

Nick took a deep, steady breath and looked down at the floor, “I didn’t lose my arm in a battle, or getting Nazis. I was goofing around, taking someone else’s things without permission when it happened. I let my guard down, I let Tim down, I should have paid more attention but, but, I couldn’t HEAR anything! There won’t be any medals coming my way.” 

Robert had no idea who Tim was but didn’t press the matter as he thought about Nick’s confession, “Medals don’t make you a hero. Did you help at least one person, never run away from your fears, and do everything asked of you?”

Nick nodded his head, looking up to the man he admired more than any of those Generals out on the battlefield. 

“Then you’re a hero in my book.”