Canada had known about the rising tensions in Europe for years. Although he was technically independent, it was only a half-hearted freedom, and so he was often dragged to European meetings with England and his step-siblings from across the globe. And then something just snapped, and then all the nations were at war with each other. England called the day after he declared war on Germany (along with France, amusingly) to tell the young semi-independent man he was now in the war, too.
"A war?" Canada asked, shocked. He was technically still British, to a certain extent, but surely he had the power to avoid joining a foreign war. He didn't, and his politicians were almost excited for the chance to fight alongside the British and the French. America, as free as ever, scoffed.
"Matt," he said the day after the fateful phone call, "you really need to cut yourself off from Arthur." He leaned back in the chair and set his feet on the coffee table.
"I," Canada replied dryly, "can't really worry about that now, can I?" For once his head wasn't hurting, Canadians all seemed to agree that joining France and England in war was a good idea.
"Hey, I'm just sayin'," the cocky American replied, putting his hands behind his head and laughing. He had the leisure of staying out of the war if he wanted, and he had chosen to do so. "Anyways, Matt, good luck. You're going to need it."
"It's not like I haven't fought before," the younger nation said sharply. He still had a long, pale scar from Red River and Louis Riel and there were the faint remains of burns from even longer ago, when America burnt down his parliament building.
But his twin scoffed. "Not the way the Europeans do." He also had scars from his fights, including some from his still-recent (relatively speaking) civil war. "They're vicious." Perhaps if things between them weren't so tense, what with the annexationists from the south declaring Canada would be theirs and the north replying by taking away trade, America would have the decency to be concerned for his much gentler brother. But instead he chuckled and took his feet off the table.
"See ya later," he said, throwing Canada a loose salute.
---
Canada was suddenly caught in a whirlwind of blaming and fear and tension, as the politicians moved at lightning speed and failed to consult him and he prepared for war and… He needed to stop, maybe have a beer, and get prepared for shipping off. But then came the news that his government had turned against his people. Only specific ones, too. Those who were German, who were Austrian, who were Turkish. They were subjected to the results of War Measures Act, an act that essentially took away rights they'd hoped to receive by becoming Canadian in the first place. However, to a certain extent Canada could tolerate that. His people were in a state of panic and he needed to allow them to be sedated. What he couldn't tolerate was that Ukrainians from Austria-Hungary were treated the same way.
"This is… just wrong," he decided, unsure exactly how to describe exactly how criminal the treatment of the Ukrainians was. They'd originally been brought into his land as refugees, after all, fleeing Russian persecution before either of them had the inkling they'd be independent nations. Technically, neither of them were, yet, either.
Maybe persecuting the other people was alright to Canada, a way to make sure there were no riots in his fragile, always tense unity. But he'd always had a soft spot ("A cruuuuuush," America had sing-songed) for Ukraine.
"Matthew…" Canada whipped his head around, and there was a tired and troubled young woman with blonde hair and teary eyes looking up at him. She'd only just grown used to using his first name, his "human" name, and it was a usually a delight for the young man to hear it.
"Ah, Katyusha, I know why you're here," Canada replied, trying to keep a gentle, diplomatic tone in his voice and not completely panic.
"I-I know I'm not really a nation," the young woman said, saying her piece even as Canada tried to settle her. "But I thought maybe you could leave my people alone."
"I-I wish I could, I really do," Canada replied, trying to look her straight in the eyes and failing. "But my other people have more say than I do, and my bosses…" He sounded pathetic, trying to excuse himself to the poor European. Finally he sighed, reached out shyly, and took her shoulder.
"They're my people, too, Katyusha. And I'm sorry."
---
Trench warfare had to be the worst thing Canada had ever experienced in his life. He longed to go home, even the perpetual migraines of the French and the English and the natives all fighting at once could not be worse than Hell. To make things worse, it was a horrible stalemate. Neither side moved much at all, and much of the time spent down there was spent hiding and maybe once in a while trying to shoot at the Germans across the way.
"Williams!" someone shouted, and Canada looked up over the trench. The soldiers across the field were throwing something at the French. The wind picked up a horrid looking greenish-yellow gas and when it reached the French colonial army they began coughing and hacking, clutching at their throats and retreating as best as they could. It was April 22nd, 1915, and chemical warfare had been born. As the French ran, though, the Canadians rushed in to replace them, checking the German advance. Matthew Williams himself took down an opposing soldier, and while he was normally a gentler soul, tamed by years of turmoil in his own lands, he relished the kill with savage joy.
Two days later, the Germans did it again, throwing the canisters of gas at their opposition. This time, however, they tossed it towards the Canadians. The full effects of the gas took the army, but a strategy was already in use. Canada shoved his handkerchief into muddy standing water a metre or so away, held the soaked thing to his face, and went to once again handle the advancing Germans with the other men of his division. There was something wonderful about seeing a man fall face down into the mud and for a moment Canada's headaches were something far away.
---
Happy birthday, Canada thought sardonically. It was July 1st, 1916. The Battle of the Somme was about to begin. Three years ago Canada's birthday had been spent with all his step-siblings from the commonwealth, America, England, France, and anyone who cared to drop in and bid him another good year. Two years ago the war broke out and things were in chaos. The only reminder of his birthday was a card from America, two days late, and on July 7th France finally congratulated his son on making it through another year. Last year he'd spent his birthday on a battlefield, moving from Ypres to another battle that needed him. He remembered it was his birthday when England gave him a brief nod on the 3rd and said, "Hope you have another good one."
God, this was Hell.
He began the criminally incompetent plan for the Battle of the Somme with his division from Newfoundland. They were normally a warm lot, although not his own people, but they knew as well as everyone else this plan was suicide. They charged.
It took six bullets to take Matthew Williams down, one going straight through his left leg and four lodging themselves in his abdomen. It was the bullet that punctured his lung, though, that made him fall flat into the mud and wonder if nations could die.
And it was France who pulled away the young man who should've, for all purposes, died long long ago. He got the boy to an infirmary, where he was treated for the worst of his wounds, at which point the was sent to the marginally safer England.
"Matthew," England sighed, brushing the boy's hair from his face. Slowly, his eyes the colour of maritime mist opened and he tried to clear the haze from his mind. A steady stream of painkillers, mostly morphine, and pure exhaustion had kept him out for a long time.
"Arthur?" he croaked pathetically. He had never been so small, so weak, before.
"Shhh," the older man soothed. He stroked Canada's hair and told him everything was going to be all right. "We're sending you home as soon as you're well enough," he assured. And he knew he was going to have to tell Canada everything soon, how so many of his people had died and that Somme had been the worst lost they'd suffered yet. And England knew that he'd soon have to ask Canada for more men, and no matter how much it hurt, or how close it would take him to being completely torn apart, he would obey.
"Thank you," the green-eyed man said miserably, kissing his son's forehead as the he fell back into a drug-induced slumber.
---
Nearly a year had past since Canada had been shot down at the Battle of the Somme. His wounds had healed quite well, although he still clearly favoured his left leg when standing still. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt so he could put on his pyjamas instead.
A tall full-length mirror stood in the corner of the room, not for the benefit of his ego or vanity, but so that Canada knew whether or not he was in a fit state to go to parliament for the day or not. Some days were awful, with a screaming migraine keeping him restricted to whatever house he was staying in for the time being. Others he felt well enough to not only go to parliament, but to actually listen and advise his bosses later on, tell them what his people and provinces were thinking.
That day had been a bad one. Canada had ignored phone calls and instead spent the morning reading his papers, all three of the ones he got in his home in Ontario, the afternoon sitting with Kumajirou and listening to the radio. The bear was content to be with his old friend, and the nation had felt likewise. The evening rolled around, though, and he decided to turn in early.
So it was seven in the evening, Canada standing with his shirt half off, examining the pink scars on his body, when America burst into the room.
The younger, semi-independent nation nearly jumped out of his skin and turned to face his twin. America, though, seemed surprised, although the inkling of an overjoyed grin still clung to the corners of his lips.
What America saw that had shocked him so much were the scars. He knew his brother had been beaten quite badly. The only reason he'd return home is if he literally couldn't fight any longer. But somehow he hadn't grasped quite what had happened. Four ugly pink marks marred the smooth skin of his stomach, a fifth on the right side of his chest. Had it been in the exact place on the other side of his chest, he would've had a bullet aimed straight at his heart. And Canada was skinny. Sure, he'd always been a bit slender, not broadly built as America (although maybe a little taller, maybe), but now he was thinner than should've been considered healthy, and there was no rationing going on in his land. He had no reason to be as thin and stretched as he was.
"Matt…" Anything else he tried to say died in his throat.
"What is it?" Canada asked sharply, sounding so much like England it made the bespectacled nation do a double take. He was pulling his shirt back on and buttoning it up again, trying to hide his obvious scars.
"I…" Why had he come again? Oh, that's right. "I've joined the war." Canada's surprised but not angry expression spurred America onwards. "The hero's on his way."
"Finally," Canada sighed, exasperated. He did up the last button and let his hands fall awkwardly to his sides.
It was April 6th, 1917, and America found one more reason to utterly destroy the German army.
---
After America joined things moved quickly again. Canada rejoined his men in Europe, just in time to capture, hopefully, a strategic high ground in France known as Vimy Ridge. England and France had tried, oh they had tried, to retake that piece of land. But neither of them could. And just before the raid a worried France came to bid his son good luck, because he would sorely need it.
"Don't worry, papa," Canada assure gently, smiling just a little. "Currie knows what he's doing. He's trained these men so hard… I don't see how we can lose this battle." But he still hugged France tight, just in case, and inhaled the sharp scent that had always been so distinctly France.
And the next day, April 9th, 1917, the charge began. Everything Currie had trained the men to do proved useful. Canada would steal German artillery from dead bodies and fire those instead of his notoriously unreliable Ross rifle, good for hunting at home but not the battlefield. He stayed back just a little and the English dropped bombs before the charging soldiers, creating a horrid crushing wave. Any man who survived the bombs faced the Canadians, who were more ferocious and dangerous than many other armies the Germans had faced.
Germany himself fought Canada, but only for a moment. Then he was called to retreat, and although he wanted to stay and fight (and Canada wanted him to stay and fight, so he could extract proper revenge for the Somme) he followed orders and fell back. Vimy Ridge had been taken back from Germany. The Canadians flew their flag, the bold and distinct Red Ensign, and when they came down the ridge it didn't matter to Canada that he was exhausted and likely bruised from the battle and he really needed a good dose of morphine for his back. Because that perpetual migraine of his struggling unity, the constant fight between all the different ethnicities of his home, it was gone. The men had gone up the ridge as Albertans or Nova Scotians or Québécois. They were coming down together as Canadians.
---
After the success at Vimy Ridge, the rest of the Allies considered the Canadians their shock troops. People began to talk about how when the Canadians came marching the Germans shook in their boots. It made the young, semi-independent nation that represented them swell with pride within He was as quiet and meek as ever, but now England and France looked upon the boy with respect.
It made sense that difficult tasks would be assigned to the Canadians, then. However, it seemed that the British were getting too used to just dismissing a cause as too difficult for them and handing it off to the much younger, smaller army.
That was why Canada was standing in awful waist-deep mud in Passchendaele. What had once been a swamp was now a horrid mire that jammed up the Ross rifles the men carried and drowned any poor man who was wounded and fell into the murk. England and his lot had already tried for a month to take the whole swamp and had lost nearly seventy thousand soldiers trying.
Arthur Currie, the leader of the Canadian soldiers, had been called to a meeting by the British High Command. As England was to be there, too, Canada went to see where he was to be sent to next. Currie had been appalled by the plan. Even with the best preparations, he said, capturing the swamp would cost sixteen thousand men. Canada remained silent, but sent a begging glance to England. He had a bit of sway when it came to planning for battles and surely would keep his son's people from going to such a terrible battle.
England hadn't even acknowledged Canada's presence in that meeting.
The whole war had been horrific, but Passchendaele had to be worst. For eleven days Canada fought and waded and struggled, saving his men from drowning in the mud and moving gun platforms. He knew that they were succeeding, slowly but surely, but he also knew that his men were suffering. They were receiving heavy casualties, and every death Canada could feel as a sharp moment of needle-prick pain.
Eleven days and fifteen thousand six hundred fifty-four casualties later, and a five square kilometre patch of mud was theirs.
Currie sent a report of the attack to Canada's boss, a man named Robert Borden, and while it would be a little while before the Prime Minister of Canada could confront the British Prime Minister, Canada was able to confront England within two days of the battle.
He walked down the familiar hallways of England's house and opened the door to the study without knocking. As expected, there was his father, the man who possessed him.
"Alfred," England began, "I don't have time for your antics, so would you please…" And then he saw that it wasn't heroic, brash America but exhausted, furious Canada. The man flushed a little, embarrassed with his mix-up.
"He said it would cost sixteen thousand men," Canada began. "Currie said the battle was a bad idea." He licked his lips. "We won. Thank God we won. But the casualties…" He sighed.
"Matthew," England said darkly, "you do what you are told."
"No!" he suddenly shouted back. "I will never put my people into that situation again! I will never allow you to abuse me and my citizens! I may belong to you, and I'll obey what you say. But if I ever have to go with my people to a repeat of Passchendaele, not one Canadian will ever leave my soil again for your wars." He nearly stomped his foot or hurled angry words in French, but both those habits were from his childhood. He could not risk his position by acting the child. He had to show that he was dead serious.
England nodded slowly, still surprised shreds of Canada's former rebelliousness remained. "I'll keep that in mind," he assured, but with none of the curtness that normally surrounded such statements.
Canada didn't reply, holding in his bitterness and the desire to scream in French. Instead he tried to remember the route to the nearest pub.
---
While Canada continued to fight off and on, he knew that his shouting at England had done something. Canadians were not being sent to as many high-cost missions, they seemed to be getting the respect of the British planners now.
It was December and the Allies were coming together to plan. While their bosses did much of the planning, the nations had some influence among their governments. If they decided a battle was needed, their bosses listened. And while it was rather superfluous, Canada and some of his step-siblings were there, helping with the planning. Canada had always gone at the insistence of his boss, but for the first time England had made Canada was coming. He'd asked three or four times through telegrams and letters to make sure, and the boy knew it was another concession on England's part.
The morning was spent wrangling with the energetic America and especially flirtatious France (good Lord, as much as Canada loved his papa he could be a pain) while Canada's poor step-siblings watched on.
"I don' envy you one tick," Australia said to Canada, laughing as America and England got into a debate over the foods of their choice.
"It's rough," Canada agreed, sinking into his crossed arms and watching his twin and father have it out.
After lunch break they gathered around the table again, a little more sedated. This time things actually got done, plans were made. The semi-independent nations like New Zealand and South Africa inputted little, but for the first time England turned to them and asked their opinion. Resolution IX really had meant something to him, then.
And then, at precisely 2:04 PM, Canada felt the worst pain he'd ever experienced in his life, blossoming from the small of his back. The sound of a massive explosion rang in his ears and suddenly he felt as though he was on fire. Automatically, he arched his back to escape the pain and let out a long howl of agony. England was at his feet in an instant.
"Matthew?" America and France were right behind him while Australia on his left and India on his right sat there, shocked. Never before had Canada done something like that.
In Halifax, Nova Scotia the Mont Blanc exploded. It was the largest man-made explosion in history, and Matthew Williams felt the glass falling and the paradox of freezing to death in the heat of an explosion.
When England and France checked the burn later, they saw most of the flesh in his lower back was dead, the farthest edges a raw pink and festering. Following the explosion had been the worst blizzard Nova Scotia had seen in years, and while usually such things didn't effect the boy, combined with the sheer destructive force of the Mont Blanc it was killing him.
But of course he couldn't die and Canada was conscious soon enough, wincing as America replaced bandages and smiling weakly as England helped him to his feet.
"N-Nova Scotia's tough," he said weakly. "Everyone will be back on their feet soon enough." He dreamed of the mushroom cloud and ashes coating every part of his body.
---
The other nations had been hurt during the war, of course, but it seemed to Canada that the worst of the fights were his. Not to mention internal strife ripping him to pieces. It was a normal thing, really, Anglophones versus Francophones. Quebec versus Ontario. The problem was he was fighting again, it was the Easter weekend. So much for quiet respect. The Québécois were fighting against the decision to have conscription. It made Canada's normal flickering headache that much worse and for a moment his head pounded. But he was on the field and he needed to focus.
"What I wouldn't give for a beer," he sighed. A soldier sitting next to him named Czerny nodded in agreement.
---
It was August 8th, 1918, and unbearably hot. Canada sighed and rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead languidly. France was basking in the heat, though, and Australia looked completely comfortable.
"Oh, Mathieu, I thought I raised you better than this," France sighed, smiling halfway at his son.
"Papa," Canada sighed, "I lived in the tundra for most of my life." This was true. "I'm just not used to this heat."
"Well, I am," Australia chuckled. He sat up. "We're 'bout to start movin', I think."
"Thank goodness," Canada mumbled, standing with his papa and step-brother. He was to lead the assault against Amiens, hopefully break through German lines and finally end the stalemate of trench warfare.
Australia flicked away the remains of his cigarette (how he got one this far was anyone's guess) and got into position. The Canadians lead the charge, supported by the French and Australians.
Germany was there at Amiens, and Canada finally got his vengeance. A few shots from his notoriously unreliable Ross rifle and Germany was on the ground. A savage whoop of joy exploded from Canada and he charged forward. They advanced thirteen kilometres in that run and took so many Germans prisoner it made Canada's head spin. Such was the beginning of Canada's 100 Days.
---
While he had support, most certainly, Canada had hit his stride. He tore through areas occupied by Germany. He helped liberate cities, capture enemies, and destroy the opposition. Eventually historians would recall that Canada was ending the war by completely eliminating the German army. The four Canadian Corps defeated forty-seven German divisions. The war was all but over.
And, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Germany surrendered. The great war, the war to end all wars, was over.
Canada stood in the city and mumbled the lines of a poem he didn't know he knew.
"In Flanders fields the poppies blow…" He could see the graves and the beautiful red blossoms springing up between them in his mind's eye.
"Between the crosses, row on row…"
On June 28th, 1919, the war was finally formally over. As each participant in the war took a moment to sign, Canada stood after England had and made for the treaty. He was going to sign as well. He'd been as much in the war in England had, and he wanted to end his part by himself. It felt wonderful to sign it and declare that he was at peace.
---
The League of Nations was a very good idea, Canada agreed. A forum where the countries could discuss the affairs of the world and find solutions. Knowing how even meetings with the Allies had gone, it was not likely to be the case, but Canada was still a little naïve, and very optimistic. He was proud to be a founding member of the League.
America, thought wasn't pleased.
"What's this, England?" he asked, surprised to see Canada at his own spot, with a little name card and everything. "Tryin' to get yourself more votes?"
"Alfred!" England snapped back. "Matthew deserves this place, his own voice."
"Yeah, 'cept that Matt's still yours. You own him, you speak for him, no matter what sort of show he put on in Versailles, so why should he be here?" Canada flushed a dark, angry red and fussed with his fingers.
"Matthew's given up more than you ever had for the sake of peace, for justice! You call yourself a hero, but it was Matthew who won Vimy and Passchendaele, not you!" England also had an angry flush against his cheeks. "He's sacrificed much more and had much less to give!
"Well, tell ya what, if Matt leaves I'll stay in the League," America said. "Oh, and Australia, too." Australia made a rude gesture at America but didn't stand.
"I'll just go," Canada said sharply, gathering his papers and looking heatedly at his shoes. He was about to march away, but England grabbed his arm.
"You're staying," he said. "If Alfr… America wants to leave, so be it." His grip tightened and Canada pulled back a little. Slowly he turned up to look straight into America's eyes. They were the same height, now, equals really.
"You've seen my wounds, and you know I have different opinions from England." There was a challenge in his bright purple eyes.
America turned on his heel and left.
---
Author Notes: This piece can be found at both the Hetalia and Hetanada LJ communities. Sorry if I'm spamming you with it.
World War I is commonly considered Canada's war of independence. Robert Borden, the Prime Minister of Canada at the time, continually pushed for international recognition as a nation seperate and apart, but still a member of, the British Empire. Resolution IX is the ultimate result of that. Drawn up by Borden and seconded by Jan Smuts, the Minister of Defence for South Africa. It more or less established the members of the Empire as self-governing and gave them an adequate voice in international affairs when they didn't before. Made the British Empire into a commonwealth of nations, if you will.
Because, in my personal headcanon, Canada didn't fly in either of the wars, I couldn't mention the awesome that was the Canadians aces. All those awesome British fliers? 40% were Canadian. Ten of the top 27 aces of Britain were Candians. Billy Bishop? Born in Owen Sound, Ontario. Raymond Collishaw? Nanaimo, B.C. Oh, and a Canadian shot down the Red Baron. Roy Brown. If you can, look 'em up sometime. Particularly Bishop. He was more or less made of awesome in the air.
/patriotism