"Do you have to go?"
Italy's soft voice seemed so distant now as Germany ducked down in a fox hole; shots rang out all around him and he heard the screams of the wounded and dyeing. A mortar blast went of close by, to close for comfort.
"We have to get moving men!"
He shouted to his comrades, but no one moved. As he looked into the dirty, blood stained faces he knew that they were scared, too scared to move, to run;
"What are you waiting for? To get your head blown off!"
He shouted again, but still no response. His head spun, if they didn't move fast they would die, to linger was to perish.
"Can't we all just be friends and eat pasta together?"
Germany knew what he had to do; jumping to his feet he shouted at the top of his lungs for the men to follow him, and then climbed out of the fox hole. As he ran along the uneven, body strewn ground he could hear the bullets whistle by his head, and another mortar blast landed less than twenty feet away. He surveyed the area for something, anything that he and his men could use as a shelter; his sharp eyes locked in on a clump of trees about thirty yards away. It was a long shot but they had no other choice, the rest of the battle field was bare except for the fox holes that dotted the landscape, but who was to say which ones of those where friend or foe. Germany couldn't risk jumping into the wrong one and getting all his men killed.
Running for his life he zigzagged his way across the battlefield, keeping his eyes trained on the clump of trees.
"When will you be back?"
As another volley of bullets whistled past him he felt one of them hit his chest, pain shot through him in every direction but he continued to press forward.
"I can't let my men down; I must get to those trees."
With each succeeding step the pain worsened and Germany could feel his body start to give out
"No!"
He cried as he finally collapsed on the ground. Pushing himself up he stumbled forward and collapsed again. His breathing was jagged and he pushed himself over onto his back, only then did he realize that his uniform was soaked with blood. He closed his eyes as a cry of pain and anguish escaped his lips, he cracked his eyes open and looked up into the cloudy sky, made hazy by all the smoke from the guns and explosions. Looking back he saw his men begin to slow down as they reached him.
"KEEP MOVEING! DON'T STOP!"
"but sir."
"SCHNELL!"
"Don't worry Germany, I will wait for you, I will be here when you come back."
His men kept running and as the last one passed him Germany laid his head back against the muddy red clay. Gently he placed his hand over the bullet wound; there was still massive amounts of blood gushing from the hole that now adorned his chest.
"I'm… dying."
The thoughts hit him like a brick as a picture of Italy flashed into his mind.
"Oh Italy, my dear sweet Italy," he whispered as breathing began to get harder and harder to do.
"Who is going to take care of you, who is going to keep you safe, who is going to protect you now?"
"I love you"
"Italia…"
The words faded from Germany's lips as his breathing slowed, all around him bullets flew, men screamed, but none of it mattered anymore, slowly he shut his eyes as his heartbeat slowed and finally stopped.
"I always will"