For my country

by Eric Burnfeild

WW2 short fic. (Historically incorrect if that matters for you.) What is the difference between right and wrong when faced by war and humanity? Francis Bonnefoy, an army doctor finds himself alone on what remains of the battlefield. He searches for a safe place to stay for the night. Little did he know that he would not spend it alone.

1. Chapter 1

For my country

By: Eric Burnfeild

As Francis hesitantly placed his naked hand on his throat he sensed no heat from the skin. He was ice cold. His face was pale and gnawed by frostbite. Francis chest compressed and he was unable to breathe when the ravaging fire in him unleashed.

He screamed. He screamed until his lungs were cramping for air. He didn't even fight the tears bursting from his eyes. He shook his head and bit his tongue as hard as he could. He couldn't be heard. He needed to keep silent. The swelling fury recharged in him and he hit the body in front of him. It didn't even contract to his punch because of the stiff and frozen muscles that were no longer pumped with blood. Francis hit him again and cut his knuckles on his pins. He did it again and continued until the pain in his chest had subsided.

-x-

The wind whistled softly between the mountaintop and cliff sides. Pale snow glimmered and danced across the gentle layer of ice, dirt and gunpowder across the battlefield. The ground that was once white was now blackened and tainted with crimson slowly turning umber. The sky stretches from blue to orange in the distance with not a single cloud in sight. Steam rises from a single body crawled behind an outcropping in the mountain.

Entry 33

I hate this damn war.

I've killed more men then I've managed to save.

I didn't become a nurse for this.

Jacques passed away today.

I did everything I could.

Still, it wasn't enough.

I haven't seen another troop for days.

Seems like I am on my own for now.

Francis lifted the pen from the paper and sighed deeply. This could be his last entry. If he met the enemy now he wouldn't stand a chance. He was useless in battle. He placed his journal in his coat pocket with a trembling hand. The wind was biting him to the bone and he didn't know for how long he would last in this cold. He caressed his hands and blew a hot breath into them.

"Coward. You are a damn coward, Francis." He whispers to himself as he stood up in the knee deep snow.

The Frenchman knew he didn't want to die. However he didn't know how much more he could manage. Watching people kill and die, staring death in the eye day after day. It shook him more then he ever thought it could. He had seen people die before, but not like this. Not by the hands of people who could have been brothers if this war hadn't broken out. Men turned into monsters in front of his very eyes and Francis didn't know who he could trust anymore. A uniform, a flag, a gesture could mean anything. The man who saved Francis life one day could murder someone in cold blood by night.

It was hard to measure the pain of this hell. Comparing to the ache of never seeing his family again, surviving was still worth it. However, Francis knew he was at the edge of letting this war take him. Just as another casualty, just as another soldier. He wouldn't be remembered or given any medals for his service. He was fine with that fact. As long as his family knew he had passed. He didn't want them to go on hoping and praying for his survival if he was never to return. It would slowly eat them away. It probably did in this very moment. Francis hadn't sent a letter in weeks. He wondered if they mourned him already.

Francis shook his head to clear his thoughts. He needed shelter. The sun was starting to set in the distance. The night would definitely kill him with it's cold or worse. Howling had been heard the nights Francis and his troops camped in the mountain. The mere thought of being slashed open by a pair of wolf jaws made Francis shutter. He instinctively moved up along the path he and his troops had been following for days. If he would find anything of use, it would be by the path. Francis was hoping to find another troop marching the French flag or even an abandoned camp. Anything just to keep him motivated. He and his now passed companion had been alone for the last 48 hours, and now that he had turned blue and frozen into the ground, Francis was almost out of hope.

Francis had given Jacques all of his stored food in hopes it would give him the strength to keep on going. Unfortunately, that was not enough. Francis wished he would have spared his food. He hadn't eaten for days. The hunger was making his joints and muscles sore. With the all the snow covering the mountainsides he did not need to be thirsty. Francis just wished the melted snow would fill his stomach but it never did. He could tell that he was malnourished. Francis couldn't even keep the water he drank. His lips were chipped from the icy and dry wind and he could not open his mouth much before they cracked. His skin was scaling at his cheeks. His clogged nose made it hard to take deep breaths while he was dragging his legs along the deep snow. His fingertips were constantly numb and stiff. Writing had become harder and the notes in his journal were not as pretty anymore. The constant shivering in his body made it impossible to relax or even try to ignore the weather.

There was one thing however that kept Francis moving. Rage. He was furious. Not managing to save the ones he was trying so desperately to help cut into him more then any bullet could. When Jacques died Francis had released some of his anger, but it was building up in him again. The losses never settled in him. It was as if he had a wound that was cut open over and over again. He could meet a soldier Monday, connect on Wednesday, drink with them on Friday and see them split open on Sunday. He wished he could close himself up and never let anyone get to him but it was so lonely and frightening between the gunfire and bombings. He was not built for war. He was not built for destruction. Yet this is the life God handed to him.

Francis walked for what felt like an hour when he saw something in the distance. It was big and squared. He looked at it from the path for a while before he decided to investigate. Francis thought it was a car or a tank. But he could not have imagined the small cabin that he reached. It had avoided all the battles and looked intact. A small window and a chimney could be seen on the long wall next to the slim door.

Overwhelmed Francis had to hold himself back not walked faster. His heart had not skipped a beat of joy since he was given the flask of wine a few weeks ago. He stumbled carefully through the heavy snow as he searched for any sigh of troops. Keeping his head low he saw no tracks. The roof and surrounding ground of the cabin was covered in heavy snow. It must have been abandoned some time ago. Francis didn't see any signs of German soldiers or activity nearby so he assumed he was safe for now.

As reached the door. Half of it was sunken in snow. Francis grabbed the handle and started to drag it towards him. It was stuck. He fought vigorously to get it open. Francis shoulders cracked as he pulled. It was painful to be this forceful. His muscles were so stiff from the cold moving anything else then his legs was difficult. He spent all his last efforts on pushing the snow aside. The sun was just about to set as he was able to open the door. He grunted as he just managed to slip through and get a look inside. It was dim but Francis eyes adjusted to the darkness.

There was a bed, a desk, a closet and a small fireplace. He pushed through and just as he managed to get inside the wind shut the door behind him. Francis panted and landed on all four on the floor. It was chilly in there, but not as cold as the snow he had been sleeping on. He laughed softly as he realized how incredibly lucky he was. As he was about to relax he heard a noise from above. It was the shifting of the snow on the roof. He heard it slide and land behind him. Francis rose from the floor and felt the door. It was stuck. He pushed it and it did not move. He sighed deeply and decided it was a problem for tomorrow. His breath fogged up the air. It was still freezing, but he was out of sight at least for now.

Francis shook the snow off of his boots and took a few steps inside. The floor creaked as his shoes left footprints after him. He caressed his hands trying to warm them up again after shoving all the snow. He looked into the fireplace. If he only had something to burn. As soon as the thought of smoke hit him Francis regretted even thinking about it. Lighting a fire would definitively alert any soldier around, German or French. He took his backpack off sat down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleeping in a bed would be so nice. Francis eyes were bloodshot and his lids were heavy. There had been a constant ache in his face for a week and he longed to sleep it off. He took his gloves off and felt the bed sheet with his hand. It was so soft and smooth. Francis almost felt the world fade away. It had been such a long time sense he had felt something so comforting.

Warmth.

A shot of adrenaline hit Francis. The bed was warm. The room was freezing. He held his breath as he heard a small creaking of wood. His eyes darted to the side and he rose and flung out the gun from his belt. He knew he heard something. He jumped to the other side of then room and pointed the revolver underneath the bed. He slowly knelt down to see if there was something underneath. A bag. Francis twitched as he heard the creaking again. His hands trembled as he shifted the barrel towards the closet.

An unsettling silence followed. Something or someone was in the closet. But who? French? German? Civilian? Francis felt his heart in his throat. What if this was a trick? He scanned the floor but there was no blood. This couldn't be an ambush right? Francis clenched his fist as he heard the noise again. He slowly and as silently as possible made his way towards the closet. He held the gun in one hand as he put the other on the handle of the closet.

He slowly opened the door, backing away as he did. Suddenly, the door busted open and pushed Francis back. He lost his footing and slammed his back into the wall. Francis took a sharp breath as he looked up. It was a man. Pale blonde, square faced, wearing a German army uniform. Their eyes locked and before Francis had a chance to react he drew his gun. Francis ducked as the first shot ringed in his ear. He flung himself forward and managed to grab onto the mans waist. They both crashed to the floor. Francis elbows throbbed with pain as they landed. He quickly rose up just to get hit by the butt of the Germans gun. Francis rolled aside holding his head. He got to his knees before he saw another hit coming. He ducked and grabbed the mans arm twisted it. The German grunted between his clenched teeth and tried to aim for another shot. Francis thought quickly and pulled the soldier to the ground in his arm lock. Francis put his gun in his belt a he held the man down. The Frenchman stumped his boot onto the soldiers hand that was holding the gun until he finally let go and Francis dove after it only to be pushed of balance and hit the floor again.

Francis twisted his body and aimed the gun up towards the soldier. He stopped dead in his tracks. He was halfway to standing and slowly rose his hands. Francis caught his breath and crawled backwards before he rose. Francis stared the German in the eye. His eyes were icy blue and stared back just as hard. He didn't look scared but very aware of his situation.

Francis felt the trigger on the tip of his index finger. He took a deep breath and steadied the gun in his grip. The burning rage that had been in Francis started to seep out. His hands that were once cold felt like they were burning. The Frenchman could think of nothing but his fallen comrade in this moment. The soldier in front of him were responsible for so many deaths. Including Jacques. This man fought and killed for Germany. A country that invaded and took land that wasn't theirs. A country that was now built on primal and Nazi ideals. A country that now threatened Francis family, friends and himself. All of the pain and anger and fears that Francis had felt for the last months was fuming out of him. He clenched his teeth, held his breath and tensed every muscle in his body.

Authors Note

I haven't been on this platform for a while. The reason is I've lived through hell. I don't want to share any details but in short: My teacher were abusive. The situation is resolved and they are now fired. I am currently on anti depressants and recovering. I am not an active part of the Hetalia fandom anymore. However, part of my recovery involves picking up my hobbies which for me is writing. I have my own stories that are not fanfiction that I would like to share somewhere but I love seeing how my work effects and inspire other people. It brings me joy and gives me energy to keep writing so I''ll continue posting here. I don't know how often I'll update my stories seeing how my mental health is right now. If you are confused by my name it is from now on going to be Eric Burnfeild, my actual name.

For you who have read Forever Yours, thank you for still being here. Your support brought me through high school and hopefully will help me in my recovery.

Eric