He is always laughing, always smiling. God, do I envy him. Even though he's aged and grown he seems to never have lost his childishness. Lucky bastard. He always teases me and calls me old, but he has no idea. In his mind there was nothing before him. He doesn't understand that I hurt. He won't ever understand. Bastard.

I find myself facing him, as he sat there, giving us another lecture. France is looking desperate, Russia uncaring and I with hatred simmering behind my eyes. After he used the phrase 'as the Hero I think' for about the 11th time I snap.

"IT'S ALWAYS 'ME THIS, ME THAT' OR 'HERO THIS, HERO THAT' WITH YOU, ISN'T IT?" I scream, not caring as he flinches away like a reprimanded child.

"Angleterre, calm down." France commands.

"Don't say you're not thinking this!If he's such a hero why does he cower behind fake neutrality? Why won't he help? Why leave us? WHY?" I yell. America looks at me, his expression a mixture of hurt and anger. He looks as if he is about to answer, then seems to change his mind.

"Nothing to say then? I didn't think there would be." I turn on my heel and stride out the room. As I leave I hear America's voice.

"Hahaaa, he's drunk, right?"

"Kolkolkol, No he hasn't touched alcohol since the war started."

I had fallen so far. So hard. I used to be BRITANNIA, fearsome pirate and conqueror, my very name striking fear into every sane nation's hearts. Now I'm plain old England, fighting to survive the bloodiest war yet. My men die every day, leaving children and sweethearts behind, yet that America thinks it's ok for us to die and that it's 'just another stupid European argument.' He doesn't understand, he's too young, to him it's still just a game. Fucking propaganda, I know it's effective, but it's got him fooled.

I saw it, that poem, 'who's for the game?' Bullshit. War is no place for the children they send. The front line is a harsh and barren place, many a man dying before his time. They walk to their deaths, shooting aimlessly and wildly, hoping to take down as many men as possible before the machine guns claim them too. The death toll is so high, France and I are buckling. Russia's struggling too, although you wouldn't think it to look at him, his soldiers are running low on weapons, they take them from their dead comrades. What an ugly affair this is.

Our little conversation with America was a last ditch attempt to get him involved before 'The Big Push' which will make or break us. However, that little brat wants nothing to do with this. Sure, he'll lecture us and tell us what we're doing wrong, but there is no way in hell that he'll help. He's staying 'Neutral'. Of all the times for that git to gain a moral compass, it just had to be now, when we're in the middle of what is the biggest war so far.

"Angleterre?" France says, interrupting my inner monologue.

"He's not going to help us, is he?" I ask in a monotone

"Non, he wishes to stay out of it." He answers desperation clear in his voice. The war had shaken France to the core; he was still recovering from the skirmish with Prussia, and now this. I almost pity him.

"Never stopped him before." I mutter.

"kolkolkol, I have to leave now if I want to return to mother Russia by morning. Good luck comrades." Russia interjects.

"Oh, goodbye Russia, good luck to you too, hopefully after this the war will be over." I say, not fully believing my own words. Although, god, do I want this to end.

JULY 1st 1916

I wake to the sound of shelling, as I do every morning. I kick France and he wakes up immediately, I'll never get how he can be such a morning person.

"Bonjour Angleterre, today is the day!" he says, almost cheerfully.

"So it is. Come on, we need to be ready. We're going over soon." France and I go over the top like any other soldiers, regardless of our immortality. We often find ourselves walking straight at Germany himself, all three of us shooting to kill. We stand in the trenches with the other lads, awaiting the whistle. This should be easy, we've been shelling the Boche for days, there should be only their remains left.

PEEP! The whistle blows, we go over.

WAIT, IT'S NOT RI-,

SOMETHINGS GONE WRONG!

THEY'RE STILL ALIVE.

TH-THEY'RE SHOOTING US!

MEN ARE DROPPING LIKE FLIES!

WHAT DO WE DO?

STICK TO IT?

ARE YOU INSANE?

BANG.

SCREAMS.

OH GOD HELP US.

PLEASE!

GOD HELP US!

PLE-

bang.

"ARTHUR? ARTHUR, WAKE UP!" I hear France screeching in my ear. My eyes open and fix on Frances battered face.

"Wha-What happened?" I ask.

"It didn't work, it went wrong!" He cries.

"How many men?"

"Erm, I've lost about 200,000"

"What about me?"

"420,000." He answers. I bury my head in his chest, letting tears fall, tears for the lost, for those who were willing to die for England, for me. France begins to cry too, we sit there, united in our grief.

The battle of the Somme, one of the worst defeats in British history, France and I returned to our home for a while on injury leave. I sit in my chair, staring mindlessly at the wall.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK

I get up and answer the door, only to find America on my doorstep.

"Hey there Ig! I heard about that war thingy. You lost pretty bad, eh?"

'Go away America, I've no time for you now.' I muttered soullessly. The door was closed, leaving America outside. Usually I would do no such thing, it is unbecoming to a gentleman, but I am too tired to care. The war is still raging, my men are still dying en masse, wives are widowed, children left fatherless. This is getting harder and harder. I don't know how much longer we will last.

I have heard whispers of American involvement, that since the Lusitania sunk they have decided to step in. Be the 'heroes' of this god forsaken war. Whether or not they help or not, it is of no matter to me now. I merely yearn for the end. I hurt.

Re edited, because the old ending bugged me,

The bits in bold are general feelings during the battle, instead of the main events.

just because it's too complicated to actually write.

The battle of the Somme was one of the turning points of WW1.

erm, google it to find out more...

reviews?