AN: So yes, we've been doing the Battle of Dunkirk in history, so this is my attempt at historically accurate Hetalia! I'll put more info at the bottom if you want to read it, but otherwise ONWARDS!

DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is not mine, le duh.

England's feet thudded against the gravel, mud splattering out behind him. The warm air of May was tainted by a streak of something chilling, and a terrible shiver ran through him. Something told him this wouldn't be as easy as it looked. Still, the plan was simple; defend France. Before, England would have laughed away the very notion of standing up for the pompous blonde, but the Great War had shaken that resolve. The man had been a shell of himself, crippled and broken by the destruction of his land. Never had England seen him so weak.

Now, as England's breath came in short bursts, his only thought was to save France. The tall building came into view as he broke through a sudden cloud of fog. It was the one place nations could be completely alone, a hidden place to fight out their battles. Now, one of the bloodiest was being fought out inside. He couldn't help a shout escape his lips as his fingers fumbled for the door.

"France!"

The door fell open, and two blonde heads both turned towards him. Germany was leering over France, who looked, quite frankly, terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes from nights spent trying to push back Germany's attack, and he showed so many signs of battle, it made England's head spin. He was bruised and beaten, his thin fingers wrapped around the hands of the German who gripped his shirt with an iron fist. The taller blonde was remarkably unscarred. His body had grown with his power, muscles flexing under his shirt as he held the Frenchman tighter.

"England," he said, as though he had been expecting him. Of course he had. France opened his mouth

"Angl-ah!" Germany shoved him roughly, a sharp jab to the chest as he pulled the Frenchman towards himself. He wound an arm around France's neck, keeping him in place with just enough force that breathing was a little bit too hard. France wriggled underneath him, eyes wide as he struggled for breath.

"Well, I am not surprised you came running for your little friend, England," Germany said, in a low voice.

"Just give up Germany. Get off him," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. His hand longed to pull he gun from the holster under his jacket, to just end it there and then; but he restrained himself. He couldn't risk damaging France in the process. They stood, for a good minute, in complete silence, as France still struggled relentlessly in Germany's hold.

Then, as if on cue, both the English and German nations went for each other. Germany threw France down, and lunged at England, wrapping strong hands around the green-eyed nations throat.

France stumbled to the floor, pleased for the sudden wave of oxygen, before his eyes settled on the fight playing out at his feet. England did not panic as Germany's fingers began leaving bruises on his neck, instead he cooly swiped his gun from his holster and brought up a knee. It collided with a triumphant thud against Germany's lower regions and gave England the advantage he needed. He threw the nation off himself, bringing the gun up to eye level. His finger stroked the trigger as German regained his footing, and he fired.

Whether intentional or not, Germany staggered to the side, the bullet grazing nothing but his hip as it flew past him. England swore and was ready to fire again when Germany lunged for him again. He duck and wove, dodging as many of the hits as he could as he backed away from the blue eyes man. Suddenly a fist flew out of nowhere, and sent his head reeling as the floor came up to meet him.

France watched wearily from the corner as Germany seemed to straddle the Brit, pinning his to the floor as he rained punches on him. He winced as Germany snapped the Englishman's nose, blood trickling down the face of the semi-conscious nation. He pulled himself to his feet, his uneasy fear turning into anger as Germany continued his beating. He couldn't stand to see England fall on his behalf.

With a grunt, he threw himself onto the German, ripping at his back.

"Angleterre! Stay with me!" he yelled, as England's eyes fluttered and he struggled to pull himself to his feet. In return, Germany stood up, throwing France to the floor again. By the time the allied nations had regained their vision, Germany had stood firmly between them. France looked up, to see England standing behind the man, one hand cupping his broken nose. The other clutched at his stomach, and with a jolt France noticed the blood pooling under than hand too. Germany looked down at him, looking so large and terrifying, the knife in his hand dripping with England's blood.

"Ang... Angleterre..." France whispered, his eyes clouding with tears. His heart twisted to see the nation so damaged.

"France... I'm so sorry..." he said, dropping his hand. His voice was raw, the taste of near defeat thick in his mouth.

"If... If my men are going to survive," he said, giving one last pleading look to the Frenchman. "Please, forgive me... I don't want to go... You'll be okay!'

Realising what England was planning, Germany spun on his feet.

"You're not going anywhere, England!"

England's legs moved faster than ever before, running the distance between him and the door. Germany swiped at his jacket but he pulled free, crying out as he shouldered the door open. The green grass that gave way to the fog again seemed to stretch for miles as his feet pounded the ground. He dared a peek over his shoulder, and his heart sank to see France clutch the door frame so weakly. In almost slow motion, he caught the blue eyes of his neighbor and here was a silent apology shared between them.

I'm sorry for running away... frog...

I'm sorry... for leaving you alone, Angleterre...

The connection was cut when a bullet flew past his face, another lodging itself in his hip. He cried out a final time, and finally broke back into the real world.

His heart hammered against his chest and pain flooded his body; his nose throbbed, his stomach was in agony and he was limping. He walked in a haze back to the house at the end of the garden he had arrived in, falling through the door with a sigh. The pain was no less, but there was some comfort in being back in his own home.

He had no idea how long they'd been in their space, the two locations seemed to flow in different time streams, but as he set his nose back into place, his ears tuned into the radio that was still playing. It was only as he was replacing his shirt with clean bandages that the words hit him.

France had surrendered.

THE HISTORY

If anyone wanted it? Basically, when Germany went and attacked France, we Brits sent over the British Expeditionary Force, who were going to help them out. Nothing really happened for a while - the Phoney War it was called, because nobody really made a move. Then when things did start happening, Germany ended up surrounding them on all 3 sides, pinning them against the English Channel. They began to evacuate British soldiers from Dunkirk back to England, and the Germans did bomb some ships.

In my opinion, it was pretty awesome how they got the soldiers back - members of the public offered up boats to get everyone back! A good ol' helping of community spirit. But yes, that's the gist of it! England tries to save France, but to save themselves form total destruction, they had to leave, and then France surrendered. Whew. That was a lot of extra writing. If you're still here, then I hope you enjoyed this, and maybe learnt something?