Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

A/N: This is actually a serious reflection on my part. I just came back from touring Europe for a month. One of the places I visited was Normandy. As I was sitting on the beach I tried to re-imagine D-Day. This is just me inserting Hetalia into that reflection. So yes, a serious oneshot.

-Omaha Beach-

America stood on the beach with his hands deep in his pockets. If his memories of this place weren't so vivid he would have thought Omaha a nice beach to have a picnic during the Fourth of July. The rough winds picked up fine grains of sand. His leather jacket whipped against him as he looked up and down the beach. Technically, this beach did belong to him. After the war France had given him land in honor of what America had sacrificed for France's freedom. America would come back to remember, even if he didn't like to.

Children played on the beach, many of them oblivious to the history this place held. For a few minutes he watched them kick up clogs of sand, dip their bare feet in the water and laugh as they raced and played tag with one another. America took his hands out of his pocket, bent down and grabbed a handful of sand.

The memories thundered back to him with full force.

The cold water soaked his uniform and threatened to drag him down. He clutched the cold gun close to him, his glasses clouding up as he looked out to the beach. Any thought of turning back now was moot. England and Canada were also here with him, although they were attacking different beaches. Rapid gunfire began to rip the beach apart as Germany fired on him.

America lurched through the water as best as he could, panic rising in his chest as bullets hit the water around him. Even though he had a gun he knew that Germany could easily gun him down. His blue eyes scanned the hills above the beach. The Germans hid in the thick foliage and fired down on them. Although America always professed his audacity and sometimes seemed obnoxious to other countries, he too could feel fear.

He swore as one of Germany's bullets hit him in the chest. America keeled over and feel to the sand, his body half in the water and half out. His bare skin prickled with goosebumps as the wind picked up. The ocean waves continually washed over him, pushing salt water and wet sand into his open wound. He opened his eyes and found his world blurry. All he saw were the running feet of his comrades as they went on without him. America's hand reached out and began to grope for his fallen glasses, and he hoped that the ocean hadn't washed them away.

He found them and jammed them back onto his face. If he was going to die today then he wasn't going to be blind. Even so, his vision was still blurred by blood smeared on his glasses. The sand beneath his cheek felt cold and rough. His wound throbbed with pain, and although he had known intense pain before that didn't mean that he had grown insensitive to pain.

When he had nearly been sliced in two during the American Civil War, that had hurt, but in a different kind of way. The schism left a long, ugly scar on his back. That had almost killed him. The First World War hurt him, and it left him feeling empty inside when he wandered back home from the trenches. He remembered how incredibly empty he felt…how shocked he was at the brutality of trench warfare. But America marched on.

Some of the others think I'm self-righteous, America thought, his breathing becoming shallow as the pain intensified. But I keep my promises to my friends.

Even though Brother France had gotten himself in dumb situations, America still helped him. Today, on June 6, 1944 he fought alongside England (once France's enemy) and Canada to free France. America was perfectly aware that the Normandy invasion was the largest of its kind. Nothing had been done like this before. Even if he didn't make it today this invasion would still go down in history. Well, at least he hoped so.

Blood from his fallen comrades congealed the sand. His wet uniform gathered sand and weighed him down. He put a hand to his wound and cried out in pain. His cry was lost among the many thousands of screams coming from both sides of the conflict. The medics, the ones who haven't yet been shot, scrambled to help the wounded. A shadow fell over him as a medic, his hands stained with the blood of other men, bent down to help him.

"Chest wound," the medic muttered, "we need to get the bullet out or you'll bleed to death."

Despite the pain, America forced himself to smile. "I've had worse."

"Delirious," the medic said to himself. "What's your name?"

America just looked at him. He tried to sit up, but the medic put a hand on his shoulder. The medic pulled out America's dog tags. America didn't stop him. He was bleeding rather profusely. His head spun from blood loss. The medic let America's dog tags fall back onto his chest. Even though the medic didn't say a word America knew what troubled the medic: His dog tag didn't have a name on it.

The medic looked at him curiously. "What's your name, soldier?"

America's commanding officers called him Alfred Jones. Although America did go by that name he knew that he was here to represent all Americans. Here was he the unknown soldier. He had fought in every major battle and suffered a wound in every single on, just as all of the other countries had. Even if their bosses had changed over the years they still lived on as unknown, nameless soldiers.

"Does my name matter?" America asked, his throat dry and raspy as he spoke. "Don't stop to help me. Go help the others."

"You'll bleed to death."

"So will thousands of others today." America shut his eyes tightly. "Such is the price of freedom."

Yes, it was an impossible situation. But America had done the impossible before. He had defeated his older brother England, then the greatest and largest empire in the world. He had sewn back a divided nation in times of great civil unrest at the cost of his own life.

Although his wound hurt him, America wouldn't die. So long as his people continued to fight with his courageous spirit then he would always been able to stand up to fight another day.

His blue eyes snapped open. He lifted his head to look at the hillside. The other soldiers had managed to penetrate Germany's forces. Hope surged within him. To the medic's great surprise, America picked up his fallen gun and pushed himself to his feet. Blood soaked the front of his uniform and continued to drip down from his wound. But he didn't care. If he didn't make himself move and if he didn't make himself fight, then he would never get back up.

America lifted his gun over his head and yelled. He sprinted off in the direction of the other men, oblivious to the gunfire around him. As he ran towards the German forces he felt the pain of every single American around him, but he was there to inspire them. The medic stared after all, probably thinking that he was a real medical wonder. But America was always one to surprise the world with new ideas, even if they were sometimes ridiculous, and always one to surprise with his foolish audacity.

After all, he was the hero.

A/N: I've always liked the idea that each country is an unknown soldier at every battle. I dunno, this is my first Hetalia oneshot! What do you think?