June 6, 1944
The day began with a steady rain, desolate faces and low morale. The soldiers themselves were tired due to lack of food and lack of rest. The constant rocking of the boat had made everyone uneasy. America himself couldn't even force one of his normal sappy grins had his life had depended on it.
"Brother, something is bothering you." A small voice stated quietly behind him.
America turned to spot an average sized man. He was young, barely old enough to enlist, and it showed. His sodden uniform fell off his emancipated shoulders and his face was covered in a thick layer of grime. His skin shone in a glassy pallor, showing the hidden pain in his shadowed eyes. Sickness seemed to follow his every move and his breath was labored. America's twin, Canada.
"Brother you don't look too well, I know you haven't quite recovered from your trench fever." America tried to smile, but it appeared as a shallow grimace.
"The state of my health is irreverent, you had much the same symptoms as me, and you still haven't answered my question!" Canada snapped, quickly becoming irritated. America had much the same appearance as him, if not worse.
America let a small smile escape unto his face. "The war has changed you brother, before you would have never snapped." America's eyes seemed to become distant, lost in a memory.
A loud blaring noise snapped America out of his musings. The general was about to speak.
"You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have
striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The
hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.
In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on
other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war
machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of
Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well
equipped and battle hardened. He will fight savagely.
But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of
1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats,
in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their
strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home
Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions
of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men.
The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to
Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage and devotion to duty and skill in
battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good luck! And let us beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great
and noble undertaking."
The speech was meant to inspire and rally the troops for battle, but America couldn't help but feel a large stone settle in the pit of his gut. He turned his head to the quickly advancing coast line as a small spray of rain settled unto his features, like tears waiting to fall.
"I have a bad feeling about this brother."
Shouts rang around America's ears as the first hints of gunfire resonated through the murky air. The soldiers around him tensed, as America's ship pushed itself into the sandy beach.
"Good luck, brother." Canada offered from his position at America's side.
"I won't need it because I'm the hero!" The familiar saying sounded false even in his own ears.
At once the doors to the ship opened.
At once machine guns fired.
At once America's comrades started to die.
As bodies fell, the ocean called. Cowering under one of the bodies, America pulled himself and his brother into the sea.
The water was frigid, sucking the air out of America's lungs as he and Canada struggled to reach the surface. Others seemed to have had the same idea as America and were jumping into the water. For some though it was too much. Near America, one man stopped struggling, and started to sink. America himself was close to copying his actions. His struggles became more intense until he finally reached the surface, inhaling both the life-supplementing oxygen, and Death tinted water.
Noise surrounded him as if a bubble had popped from around him, filling the atmosphere with the screams of the dying as the enemy started to fire into the ocean.
The tide started to tint red.
A new desperation to reach land filled him, and America struggled to swim through the rough waves. His feet suddenly found purchase, and America pushed his way unto crimson tinted sand. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he sprinted towards the battlements, toward salvation.
He ran passed fighting men, he passed wounded men and he passed dead men. A bullet grazed his chest and arm, as he continued is mad dash toward relative safety. He didn't stop until he ran into his comrades huddled together, grimy faces toward the sky.
An image over lapped with their faces: a visage much like his own.
"Canada." His voice cracked in worried distress.
"Jones?" A bloody man that America recognized as his superior acknowledged. "What are you going on about?"
"Have you seen a man that looks like me? Canadian?" America asked desperately.
"You see him here?" The superior asked. He was met with a slow shake of the head. "Then he is dead."
No. Not Canada. Not his brother.
Huge globs of tears started to roll down his face as a loud shouts sounded from behind him.
America swirled around to see his brother sprinting towards him. A large, slowly growing splotch covered the front of his uniform as rain glanced of his shoulders. A relieved smile broke unto his face as he saw America.
It was the most beautiful sight America had ever seen. Against his will, hope started to form in America's chest.
The view was shattered as bullets pounded into Canada's chest. Blood exploded from the wound, like a small firework display.
His body seemed to take an eternity to fall. Canada's crimson tainted hair flowed around his face like the halo of a falling angel. Rain fell unto his face like the tears. The small smile still graced his features as his eyes stared unseeingly into the distance. The impact of his collapse was punctuated only by the screams that took America a moment to realize were his own.
Arms held him as he strained to go to his brother, to join him in his final slumber.
"Jones, don't do this!" his superior begged, unwilling to lose another one of his men, "He's gone! Gone!"
Gone. The word rang through his head like a mantra as he finally broke free from his superior's grasp.
Gone. He repeated as he reached the body of his sibling, his brother, his friend, and collapsed in broken, heart wrenching sobs.
Gone. He thought as bullets bit into the tender flesh of his back.
"Gone." he said as he lay next to his brother, hand in hand, as the light dimmed from his eyes.
Gone.