Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
England's POV
Whatever England was experiencing it could hardly be counted as sleep; it was more of a period of time for his mind to bring up images from the war that he'd done his best to forget while awake.
The blond nation was somewhat aware of his name being called, but he just stirred slightly. If he had moved too much it would disturb his injuries, the few he had gotten from helping France fight Germany and Italy.
Just the thought of his fellow allied nation brought into England's mind the memory of the battle for Paris. He squeezed his eyes shut, still hearing France's agonized cries.
"Angleterre! Aidez-moi!"
England's general looked over at him and his troops, some French, some British. "France is lost," he said. "As well as Belgium and Holland. The shores are defended by the Germans, but the Royal Navy is stationed at a port not far from here. We can make it- let's go!"
England hesitated.
"Anglelterre!"
And then followed, walking as if through a strong wind, which was really resistance against leaving France. England walked away with the thought, slowly turning to memory, of leaving his friend behind.
Well, England certainly wasn't sleeping now, but it didn't stop the memories from flooding back in.
Czech's face was still showing hurt, but England, with France next to him, could see it starting to harden into bitterness, the same expression Slovakia, her brother, was wearing. His eyes were angry and betrayed.
"We were abandoned." Czech said, and that was enough.
It summed up how, in the face of another war, England and France had turned away from Czech and Slovakia, letting Germany and his crazy boss take over their land. England's pride wouldn't allow him to say anything, or try to explain it to the two, and he stopped France before he said anything either…
"England? Mr. Kirkland?" Now that he was awake, England climbed out of bed to answer the door. He slept in his clothes in these troubled times, in case he was called like this.
"Yes?" England asked, having run a hand through his blond hair to look at least slightly presentable.
"Mr. Churchill has requested your presence." The messenger told him. England nodded.
"Yes, thank you. Tell him I'll be there shortly." The messenger gave a short nod and left.
England spent a moment leaning on the doorframe. If his boss wanted him, then something must've happened. Even if they were in trouble, the blond-haired nation trusted his boss. He was a good man, a smart man, and he had realized just how perilous the policy of appeasement could turn out to be. Neville Chamberlain, England's past prime minister, just hadn't realized quick enough.
If England, the country and the personification, had lasted so long thus far, then their prime minister must be doing something right.
Not like France, appeared in England's mind, and that thought and the sting of his injuries as he exited his home were enough to make the blond-haired nation wince.
England's POV
England sat across from his boss, drinking tea and trying to act like the news he was receiving was something they could deal with, nothing that the might British Empire would fear.
But it was still painful to hear about the harsh rule that the Germans had imposed on the French people, subjecting them to the same treatment that the Germans themselves had suffered under the Treaty of Versailles. It seemed like cruel irony, but England knew it was symbolism that the requirements the French were under were just like that of the Treaty.
"I knew that treaty would only lead to trouble," England hissed under his breath.
"What was that?" his boss asked.
"Nothing," England replied, sipping his tea like it was ginger ale, to calm his stomach, although it was more the blond nation's nerves that needed calming. "About our current situation…"
"Yes, I was going to get to that," his boss said. "Germany is now in possession of the French Navy," The fourth largest in the world, England thought.
"Obviously, we have the Royal Navy, but against Italy and Germany's navies, and now France's…" Churchill shook his head. "England, at the moment we're fighting against the Axis alone. No one in Europe can help us, and America still insists on being isolationist."
An image appeared in England's head of a battered, sickly looking America, still recovering from his Great Depression, proclaiming that he was staying isolationist. And then, a much stronger looking America telling England again, personally, that he was not getting tangled up in Europe's affairs.
England had wanted to smack some sense into the idiotic American git, that it would become America's problem too, but he at the time he couldn't pretend not to understand America's reasons, despite how rubbish they were.
Looking at his boss, England wondered just how much wisdom and courage it would take to get them out of this mess. We're bloody doomed. But he put on a brave front, as the last European nation to stand against the Axis.
"We'll have to stand strong. We've got the Royal Navy and the RAF*, we can surely hold out?"
"Hm…" England and his boss both knew it was a question of just what they were holding out for, and not how long. "Still, we've devised a strategy. This is a last shot, because we've got no other choice at the moment. We'll just have to destroy France's navy."
"We really have no choice, then." England said. That was indeed a last-shot option. After everything France had suffered and was probably suffering at the moment, England didn't want to add more pain to it by annihilating his navy, probably one of the blond nation's prides and joys, aside from his long (ridiculous) French hair of course.
Even though the plan was sensible, even though France wouldn't know who had done it, or if he did he would understand, England still hoped for forgiveness.
"Yes….could I go with the fleet?" England asked.
His boss nodded. "We're heading for the French navy at Mers-el-Kebir, in Algeria."
Let's see what the kraut can do now. England thought somewhat smugly. That was best he could do in the face of this plan.
France's POV
Bound and gagged, France slumped on the ground of the Axis's camp. No longer did his French beauty shine through. He was bloodied and bruised, his hair clumped with dirt and blood, and his clothes little more than rags. The Axis had really pushed him to his lowest, especially Germany, no doubt wanting him to feel the way he had under the Treaty of Versailles.
For a reason unknown to the French nation, he had also sustained a burn, around his midsection. He had just woken up with a searing sensation, but had no way of finding out what it was.
Suddenly he heard an explosion of German cursing from his tent. It was followed by a, "Ve, Germany, what's wrong?"
France strained his ears. Anything that was wrong for the Axis was bound to be good, for him, and Allies, or so he hoped.
"The British burned the French navy at Algeria," Germany replied, cursing a bit more, but keeping the anger in his voice controlled, just like he always did with the Italian. "Not only that, but it appears that they're attacking other French fleets….stopping us from using it, apparently."
France could hardly believe it, while believing it fully at the same time. Obviously England knew that was the only way to give them at least a little edge against Germany. He knew England was fighting alone against Germany, and he wanted him to succeed, so the French nation and his people could be freed. But while France was understanding that, he still felt the small bit of anger that England would do that to him, in his suffering.
Germany strode out of his tent, with Italy following behind. The German nation cast a look over at his prisoner, France, and remarked, "I guess there's not much use for it anymore, then…A smart ally, for him. A ruthless ally, as well, and a formidable enemy."
"Ve, not much of an ally anymore!" The words seemed surprisingly dark coming from the Italian's mouth, his face, as usual, incessantly cheerful. France wondered how they had ever come to the point where Italy would look at him, his niichan, his frère aîné, as if he was inferior.
It was war, he supposed.
At least now France knew who his burn was from.
England's POV
England watched the burning French fleet. He wondered how French soldiers were on board, how many were dying at that moment.
The thought made him sad, a sick sort of sad.
Total war.
A/N: Hopefully England isn't too OOC.
Okay, so I was reading World War II For Dummies (which I don't own), and one part mentioned how after the fall of France, Britain decided to burn the French fleet, so the German's couldn't use it. About 1, 300 French soldiers died in the destruction of the fleet at Algeria. Many sections of the Navy were attacked, disabled, etc. This didn't really help French-British relations, obviously, but it was something the British had to do.
Also, in the section mentioning Czechoslovakia, to avoid another war, Britain and France did virtually nothing to help the Czechs as their land was overtaken by Germany. The line, "We were abandoned," was actually said by a Czech person, I believe.
Please read and review! :D