Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Chapter Seven Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

Time Frame: World War I

-Never Your Hero-

Chapter VII

"Blood and Water."

His uniform was stifling. The moldy caramel-colored wool seemed to be leeching moisture from his body while trying to assimilate itself like a second skin. His collar felt too high and stiff, his trousers chafed and were heavy with mud, and his leather boots felt as though they had lead weights attached. His hands were sweating and clinging to his M1917 Enfield rifle- made in America, but by original British design and commission- and the weight of the fully loaded weapon felt like a ton after having carried it for so long.

Between making mad sprints through the trench and having to dive for the deck when an explosion rocked the world around him, he was tired and was beginning to remember why he hated the smell of mud and gunpowder. It didn't help that each time he nearly face-planted in the earth took him longer to recover from; the utility belt and the pouches attached were becoming as heavy as his rifle and boots.

He had a Russell magazine pouch that knocked against his left thigh, a larger med-pack hitched against the back of his belt, and a Colt .45-caliber M1911 holstered against his right leg. There was a nearly seven-inch Mark I trench knife sheathed and clasped, handle down, on the side of his backpack that rode high between his shoulder blades. A spade sat atop the pack, buckled into a specially designed sleeve and held tight with more straps that snapped into place along his bracers. If that wasn't enough, the metal canteen settled at his waist along with the gas mask that hung beside it made him feel fifty pounds heavier. He felt like someone had decked him out for an invasion of Berlin and accidently dropped him off in the middle of fucking France.

To make matters even worse, if he had to adjust this damn British helmet one more time he was going to throw it right in the face of the man who had forced it upon him.

A shadow fell over him and the American and he immediately whirled around, one knee in the mud, rifle up and pointed at-

...Nothing.

The blond swallowed, eyes nervously flickering left to right along the dirt walls of the trench, searching for whoever had been behind him a second ago, but couldn't even find a pebble out of place. The bayonet looked like a silly unicorn horn mounted on the end of his rifle, and he felt sillier and sillier waving the weapon back and forth as if it would make his target materialize.

Jesus, he was becoming as jumpy as-

The world jolted and the horrific sound of an explosion behind him launched him forward, sending him flying before he landed face first in the dirt. His ears were ringing and he couldn't move for a few seconds, still trying to deal with the highly uncomfortable pressures fighting to rupture organs in his body. He groaned as he slid his hands beneath him and pushed himself back to his knees, vigorously shaking his head and rising up to his feet.

Having to push his helmet out of his eyes once more, he quickly heaved his rifle back into position and spun with the weapon leveled again.

The next thing he knew, a fast hand had grabbed the barrel of the rifle, yanked him forward, and the most excruciating impact of something steely slammed into his abdomen. Every ounce of air in his body exploded out of his lungs, his stomach felt like it had just collided with his spine, and before he had even regained feeling in his legs they were swept out from under him. Gravity unkindly welcomed him back to the trench floor as his back hit hard, the equipment forcing his body to contort awkwardly, and suddenly breathing wasn't as important as the feeling of a sharp edge at his neck.

A man dressed in a deep olive uniform, holding a rifle and bayonet to his throat, stood over him nearly silhouetted by the small flames feeding off the wooden fortifications that caught after the last explosion. The American was still trying to relearn how to breath as the man above him drew the tip of the bayonet horizontally along his skin, jugular to jugular.

"You're dead," the man said calmly, then slid the sword-like attachment on his rifle down to the fallen man's heart. "You're dead again."

The American turned his head to the side and coughed, trying not to heave as his stomach settled back into place above his intestines. He had to work at forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale normally, but by the time he did he was exhausted and merely thumped his head back on the ground...That blasted helmet was once again making his life miserable.

"Does...this mean...I can go home now?" Alfred asked, still trying to keep to a semi-conscious standard of respiration.

"Last I checked, dead men usually go home in a body bag. Shall I fetch one for you?"

Alfred closed his eyes, and slowly drew his right hand up to give Arthur the one-fingered salute, "Fuck. You."

Arthur tutted and settled the tip of his bayonet over Alfred's abdomen, making the American exceedingly more uncomfortable. "Now you're dead again, but this time let's pretend I stabbed you then ripped a ragged gash along your belly, making all your guts spill out. That way, you'll just die slower and, I dare say, make a much more spectacular mess of yourself."

Alfred was ready to scream and wring the Brit's neck, but first he'd have to find a way to make use of his legs again and get the hell up off the ground. "Fine, you English prick! Arthur 3 - Alfred 0, is that what you wanna hear?"

The Englishman seemed to contemplate this a moment before drawing the bayonet down lower to the critical vein running from Alfred's groin to his thigh, "Actually, this make Arthur 7 - Alfred 0...Oh, and by the way, I just severed your femoral artery, you should be bleeding out nicely in a few minutes. Arthur 8 - Alfred still 0."

"YOU GODDAMN, SON OF A-"

"Watch that tongue, boy, or we'll make it 9 and 0."

"Oh, screw you and just let me die in peace! We've been at this drill for two Goddamn months and you haven't let me rest more than an hour at a time in between petrified British rations and jumping me from behind dirt clods!" Alfred shouted, frustrated beyond reason that he was back at Arthur's feet for the umpteenth time since being drug out to this makeshift training field, and more than a little ticked that Arthur seemed to be enjoying this way too much.

What an ass!

Arthur simply lifted a large eyebrow and looked down at Alfred with another famously patronizing face. "And in two Goddamn months you've only managed to prolong your death by about half a minute each run. Given, it's progress, but not progress to be terribly proud of. In just today alone I've managed to end your life eight times and in the whole of these eight weeks you've never managed to come close to taking mine."

"Hey, that's bullshit!" Alfred retorted, glaring up at Arthur and pointing an accusatory index finger at him. "I nearly had you four days ago when I almost stabbed you with my knife."

Arthur frowned and suddenly planted his boot heel in Alfred's stomach, making the man grunt and look like his eyes were about to water. "First of all, I lost my footing and slipped into the trench, nearly on top of you. Second, you were only close to stabbing my right lung, something perfectly survivable by my count- not like that knife point I had to the base of your skull. Not even we can fight without a head, old chap."

Alfred was having problems breathing again. He grabbed Arthur's boot but couldn't dislodge it for how much pain he was in. "Wh-what...what the h-hell," He managed before having to stop and struggle to breathe again. "What the hell...did you hit me with? Ngh-! I-I think you...broke something..."

The British man didn't look too concerned, but did slowly ease his boot off Alfred's nearly crushed stomach. "Ah," he said and pulled a gleaming set of brass loops from the side of his belt, fitting them onto his fingers with one hand before making a fist, "that would be these. We call them knuckle dusters, but I believe you call them brass knuckles or somesuch in America. They're excellent for close-quarters combat and designed to rupture tissue and break bones..." He said and cocked his head a little. "Considering how hard I hit you, I likely did break something. Don't worry, though, you're not human so you'll live. My count this evening remains at eight."

Alfred swallowed hard and closed his eyes again. He felt like someone had replaced his insides with mashed potatoes and thought it would be fun to add a few razor blades to the spud pudding. He could taste blood and bile at the back of his throat, but he managed to keep it down as he forced himself to focus on breathing. God this hurt.

After the meeting in Paris, particularly after having spoken-...well, more like listened to Arthur speak, he formally agreed to his commander to undertake the mission and was hailed with a seemingly never-ending schedule of meetings and intelligence briefings. That had gone on for about a week before General Pershing informed him that Field Marshall Haig and Arthur had arranged a training field outside of Paris to get him ready for the real deal in the coming months. He hadn't been able to protest against it since he knew as much as they did that he needed to be exposed to this new modern warfare before he took on the trek towards Germany. He hadn't liked it, but he reasoned it was better than being stuck in a conference room all day, so he left with Arthur without a fuss...

Now, he regretted not having gone kicking and screaming.

The first humiliation thrust upon him had been that helmet. The moment Arthur had left Paris he had strapped one onto his head and practically ordered Alfred to do the same. Since Alfred thought the helmet was the equivalent to a popped-out metal discus, he promptly told Arthur where he could shove his helmet and to leave him alone.

He hadn't made it two steps off the truck before said "metal discus" launched itself like a missile from beneath the canvas and nailed him in the head. He'd been stuck with the damn thing ever since.

A firm hand on his tunic brought him back to the present and suddenly a mixture of a yelp and scream tore his throat as Arthur hauled him up. His middle was not ready for movement, and the sudden change from lying down to being yanked to his feet was too much for his gut.

He promptly threw up the moment Arthur had him standing.

Alfred sagged and would have collapsed if not for Arthur balancing him against his now stained chest, and though he was ready to pass out, Alfred could feel the Brit stiffen and develop a momentary shiver.

Served him right. Damn bastard.

Arthur had let Alfred sleep and recover the rest of the evening even though he was still uppity about the blood and American stomach contents all over his uniform. Alfred didn't care much since he had been out like a light the moment he was placed on the cot. His body repaired itself in his sleep, making him grateful since he hated the feeling of broken bones resetting and regrowing themselves.

It really was an extremely uncomfortable event to be conscious for.

By daybreak, Arthur had roused Alfred from his favorite part of "European Hell" and marched the still-weary American out to the desolate field.

The training area was about twenty or so miles outside of Paris and well to the south-west of the real trenches where the war was still ongoing. The British forces had used this area before to train the new recruits and what soldiers from the dominions they could as they arrived in France. Given there hadn't really been any fresh blood influx in some time, the place was all but abandoned. Pershing had considered using the area for training the America troops brought over, but instead another location had been chosen closer to the American base camp with small units being detailed to British, French, and New Zealand regiments in scattered areas closer to the front lines...mostly for scouting and observational purposes.

This place was designated for just the two of them, communicable with Paris through radio or the supply unit that came around once every other week. Since the mission to assassinate Germany had been deemed top secret, no one beyond the Allied commanders and their three national avatars had been told about the assignment. It was pretty annoying with only Arthur for company, after having been free of dealing with him for more than a few hours at best since the Revolution, but Alfred got used to it.

Besides, Arthur had given him full permission to try and kick his ass during combat drills, so it was something to look forward to when trying to vent his frustrations...He was still hopeful he might wipe that smirk off his tormentor's face yet.

"Since the trench scurry and self defense lesson was nothing short of disastrous," Arthur began, "we'll revisit that later and work on something that takes less steps...and undoubtedly less brain power."

That earned him a frown, but the Brit moved on.

"Let's go over some siege weapons...first, the grenade. Grenades go 'boom' and cause lots of damage, so please use them with caution."

"I know about explosives. You've been pelting me with them for the past two months-"

"And thus far you've only been extremely successful in barely keeping yourself from getting blown up. Now, the grenade is a weapon used to throw into the enemy's trench and eliminate as many occupants as possible."

"..." Alfred just gave Arthur a disgruntled look. "Are you sure you don't just eat them? I'm pretty sure some countries serve them for breakfast."

The Englishman gave Alfred a drawn expression. "Do try to take this seriously, Alfred. The last thing I need is to have to explain to the Allied commanders why you blew yourself up trying to fry a grenade."

Alfred rolled his eyes and scoffed. "You're right. They taste better poached."

Arthur sighed and decided to return to the lesson. He turned to a large steel case and opened it, pulling out a large mallet (or male genitalia) looking device, fitted with a large steel cap on top, and another device that reminded Alfred...of a pineapple.

Neither device looked like something Alfred had ever seen or used in wars he'd been involved in; in fact they kind of looked like harmless domestic items one might find in an everyday household (or attached to a certain area of the male figure). The first one kind of reminded him of a meat tenderizer while the second looked like a fruit reject. Arthur was handling them with extreme care and it took nearly all of Alfred's willpower not to laugh as the great Arthur Kirkland cradled a phallic-shaped meat tenderizer like it was a fragile scepter.

He tried thinking of crying babies and dead puppies to keep from smiling.

"This is a stick grenade," Arthur began, holding up the larger device by its long, thick wooden handle. "This is the most commonly used German grenade you will encounter in the field. The mechanics are fairly simple, just unscrew the metal cap at the bottom, pull the cord that falls out, and throw the damn thing as far as possible."

Alfred lifted an eyebrow and looked at the meat whacker with a little more interest than before. "Why are you showing me a German weapon? ...Why do you even have a German weapon?"

It took Arthur a moment to answer since he was busy suppressing another sigh. "I'm showing you because knowing your enemy's strengths and weaknesses is as important as knowing your own. We've been capturing enemy weapons and technology since the start of the war and they've been doing the same to us," he said, then added, "also, if you ever get one of these tossed at you, you'll know to duck and cover and not marvel at the flying stick some Kraut just threw."

Alfred's look soured. "You know, I'm getting really annoyed with all the crack shots you've been taking at me since I got here. I thought you were supposed to be teaching me, not insulting me."

At that, Arthur smirked and tried to look as apologetic as he could fake. "Yes, forgive me Alfred. I'll try to lay off the comments..." 'If you start using your head for more than just a helmet rack'. "Now, pay attention. The cord inside has a small ceramic ball attached, once pulled you have approximately five seconds before it explodes. Luckily for the poor sot it's being thrown at, this is just an explosive device and not something chock full of shrapnel...like this one," he continued, holding up the sorry-looking headless pineapple. "This is a British grenade, the Mills Bomb, or the number 5 if you prefer. With this device you simply pull this pin to release the safety, grip the silver lever tightly, and throw in the direction of your enemies. If the blast does not kill them, then count on the thousands of pieces of blazing-hot, sharp metal to do the trick. Do not, under any circumstances, pull and throw the pin then drop the grenade."

Alfred's right eye twitched. "Are you serious? For the last time I'm not stupid!"

"And thankfully not Italian. Now let's move on."

Arthur led Alfred away from their makeshift camp, a place Arthur only allowed Alfred to visit if he was severely injured or needed to make or take a radio communication with his General in Paris. Nights were spent sleeping in the trench, something Arthur said Alfred needed to get used to, and days were spent either learning trench construction, defending and assailing techniques, weapons training, or running simulations Arthur put together that always ended with the Brit adding a new element to the routine that resulted in Alfred "getting killed".

Arthur never killed Alfred per say, not like the Englishman had been killed at Somme or hundreds of times previous. Alfred was either disarmed, manhandled, or stunned and left open for a theoretical death blow that afterwards Arthur would then spend ten minutes explaining the anatomy of.

'Hope you weren't counting on having that head of yours too much longer, because technically speaking it'd be detached from your shoulders right now.'

'Sorry about that spleen, old chap, you shouldn't go walking into bayonets like that.'

'Hearts are funny things, aren't they, Alfred? Can't live with 'em, and can't live without 'em...which means you're dead, again.'

Tch. Alfred was getting the idea that the maniac had a sadistic streak and decided he would be an excellent target for some pent-up aggression. He could never say Arthur had taken it too far; the Englishman was careful to stop once the American's defeat was obvious and his point had been driven home. That still didn't mean it didn't hurt like hell. He was lucky he could take a beating and heal at incredible speeds, or else Arthur would have crippled him by now.

The saddest part was Arthur was still sporting his wounds from Somme, meaning this wasn't even Arthur at full strength. Oh yes, his side was starting to heal slowly, but well. Alfred had accidently walked in on Arthur changing his bandages a few weeks ago and saw that Arthur had removed the stitching now that the skin was holding together on its own. He guessed that time away from the real trenches and enemies was giving him time he otherwise hadn't had to properly recover. While Arthur was aggressive when training Alfred, he wasn't straining himself to the degree he must have been in the field.

In a way...Alfred was glad for that. It wasn't much of a break, but even he could see it was a much-needed respite for Arthur.

"Now then," Arthur said and pulled to a stop behind a crudely constructed cement barrier. The half moon-shaped wall was no more than four and a half feet high, covered with mud and pathetic excuses for Mother Nature's greens. Before the wall was the same bleak landscape they had isolated themselves in for the past two months; well behind it was the tent that signified base camp. "I have been very kind in only throwing German stick grenades, disk grenades, and modified gas grenades at you- none of which have shrapnel, and all of which you will be encountering at some point."

Oh, swell, nice to know Arthur had been taking it easy on him.

"I'll demonstrate the proper procedure, then I want you to follow. I know you had some rather primitive explosives during some of your wars, but none of these new grenades require manual flint or fire to ignite the fuses," the Englishman continued and unscrewed the silver cap at the bottom of the German grenade. As mentioned earlier, a ball attached to a cord fell out into Arthur's palm and he carefully took hold of it. "There have been times when our grenades were in short supply and it was necessary to take these off the German bodies we found lying around. It's survival of the most resourceful out there, so pay attention and understand that knowing an enemy's weapon inside and out is as important as knowing your own."

While Alfred hadn't liked the mental image Arthur had painted for him, he sighed and nodded, content to let the old man continue his demonstration even though Alfred was pretty sure it didn't take a genius to figure one of these things out. Seriously "yank my chain and let'er rip", it didn't sound terribly complicated.

With vivid green eyes focused on some indeterminate point in the field, Alfred watched Arthur exhale, pause...then yank the cord and pitch his arm back, launching the now hissing grenade with an arm any baseball pitcher would envy. Alfred's eyes were glued to the quickly disappearing mallet before a sudden explosion lit up the ground yards away. There was a backwash of heat from the blast that made Alfred guard his face with his hand, squinting his eyes a bit as the bright light dimmed and vanished into the smoke column.

Arthur looked over to Alfred and lifted his eyebrows. "Think you can do it without blowing us up?"

Recovering his composure, a little embarrassed since Arthur hadn't reacted to the blast at all, Alfred cracked him a smile and held out his hand. "Lay one on me, and we'll find out."

Narrowing his eyes a bit, Arthur bent down to the case he had brought, withdrew another stick grenade, and rose before placing it in Alfred's hand. As the American gripped it, he frowned and found Arthur not letting go. Their eyes met and Arthur looked deadly serious.

"What?" Alfred asked indigently.

"I mean it, Alfred. Be careful with this or I swear to Christ, the minute I'm revived I'm kicking your arse."

Alfred gave a noncommittal sigh and tugged at the grenade again. "Yeah, yeah. Careful as a virgin on her wedding night."

Arthur released the device and snorted, "I dare say, I pity whatever poor soul ends up married to you."

Blue eyes widened then narrowed as he muttered a few choice words under his breath, then turned toward the testing range and picked out a good spot to blast to smithereens. With one hand he unscrewed the cap, let the ceramic ball fall into his palm, and tested the weight a bit. It really wasn't heavy at all, but given how tense the cord was it was safe to say it wouldn't take a very hard tug to start the fireworks.

"Are you going to throw, or continue fondling it?"

Alfred gave Arthur a sideways glare and tightened his fist around the cord. "No thanks, I'm perfectly content caressing my own balls, thank you."

The annoyed look on Arthur's face at the vulgar comment was so worth it. Alfred knew one of the easiest of Arthur's buttons to push was to be "sinful" or vulgar with his language. Oh, it was perfectly acceptable for Arthur to do it, but heaven forbid anyone else take the Lord or the human anatomy in vein using God's given gift to the world.

Leaving Arthur still gnawing over his comment, Alfred turned back to the makeshift range and lined up his shot.

With a flick of his wrist, Alfred yanked the cord, heard the hiss, and swung his arm back before twisting his body into the release for more power. The grenade tore through the air like a missile, spinning head over tea-kettle in rotations so fast it practically looked like a ball whizzing through the atmosphere. Arthur's eyes were wide and he looked a bit stunned as they both watched the explosive vanish into the ether.

Alfred looked incredibly pleased with the throw, but after losing sight of the bomb and still no explosion he started to get a little worried. Had the bomb been a dud? He didn't know much about German engineering so he couldn't really say if it was reliable or not, but maybe Arthur had given him a bad-

Way off in the distance...and what looked like a mile off the ground, an explosion happened in mid air far enough away that it was nothing more than a resounding bang-pop where the two allies stood. Neither one of them said a word for a few moments; Alfred looking somewhere between astonished and sheepish, while Arthur looked like he wanted to shoot himself.

"...If you were aiming for phantasmal low flying aircraft...good job, otherwise I thought realistic aiming was self-explanatory."

The American's shoulders slumped and he sighed. It had been a problem since he was a kid; he really needed to work on controlling his own strength.

Since Arthur refused to continue with 'grenade throwing lessons' in light of the German schlong-launching episode, the Englishman forced Alfred to don all of his gear and go trench slumming again. Considering it was mid-August now and blazing hot, Alfred would have much rather spent the day lobbing explosives. Still, he guessed being out here was better than being in Paris...or enduring what the troops were.

During their time training, the situation was still flip-flopping for the Allies in the war. Things were getting critical, yielding more casualties and setbacks than victories.

Word that the Russian Tsar, the man who had supported the war and signed the documents sealing the Triple Entente, had been usurped had finally reached the Allies. While the new temporary government voted to continue the war as per their commitment, the final offensive they launched had ended in absolute and utter disaster. As feared, the unstable Russian government and ill-treated army had lost complete touch with each other and talks of a new government that did not support the war taking over had begun to take hold of the headlines. It was something the Allies had expected, but it was still a worst-case scenario they had hoped would never come to pass.

Upon receiving the news a few weeks ago, Arthur had voiced his premonition to Alfred and his commander that he wouldn't be surprised if the Russians pulled out before the year was over...which stressed their theoretical timetable badly.

On top of all this, thousands of French soldiers, tired of being treated like cannon fodder, threw down their arms and began to strike against the government and their leaders. The soldiers protested the way the war was being run, that they were tired, ill-supplied and fed, being killed by the thousand every day, and wanted their commanders to remember they were citizens just as much as the Parisians who walked the golden streets of splendor. The strike was devastating to the Allies but higher-ups struggled to keep the matter as quiet as possible, lest morale be weakened even more and affect troops all along the front. The results had amounted in mass arrests, speedy trials, and what executions weren't done in the field were carried out after guilty sentences were passed. It was a terrible time they were all dealing with, and both national avatars had wondered how Francis was holding up.

While Arthur could imagine the possibilities on a much broader scale than Alfred, the closest the American could draw from were his memories of the Civil War...While this mutiny was nowhere close to the scale of those wretched four years, Alfred had shivered at the thought and silently wished Francis well.

As far as the Americans went, the majority of the American Expeditionary Force had begun to arrive, and word from back home had stated that the Selective Service Act would promise even more troops as the year went on. In all, Pershing had said that they would have upwards of a million troops by the following year, possibly even twice that. While this helped ease the fear surrounding Russia's inevitable withdraw, there was still the matter of how untrained for modern warfare the American troops were.

Pershing was an old soldier, one who had been trained in the same tactics and mobile warfare America had always used in its ground campaigns. This meant troops were constantly moving, independent of each other as they took aim, fired, and pressed on. Units stormed the field and attacked in swift agile groups that took down opponents hard and fast; such a strategy had proven numerous victories since the dawn of America's first militia and most Americans saw no reason to change it.

However...this was modern warfare, now. This was a different kind of animal than native tribes and empires playing at a gentleman's war. These weren't the lands of the south-west, fighting Mexico or charging the Spanish on a small island in the Atlantic. While British and French forces struggled to get that across, tried to train as many American troops as they could, the majority simply grouped together and alienated themselves from their allies. The philosophy was that European methods were obviously not working since this was the third year of the war, and Americans were determined to end it the American way before it saw its fourth.

From what Alfred could garner from Arthur's reactions to the telegrams he received from his command, and what he could hear from the brief and cryptic radio conversations, things weren't exactly going swimmingly for the British either.

Apparently, the Passchendaele Campaign was in full swing and not doing very well. It seemed that not only had fate turned against them, but the weather as well. The entirety of the fields of the north, closest to Belgium, had flooded and the heavy rains had refused to let up all month. Men had been trudging through incredibly high waters, sinking in mud, and drowning when exhaustion overcame them and they collapsed, crushed by the weight of their gear. The casualties were mounting to incredible figures while less-than-expected yards of ground were barely being captured and held on to. The Germans, who were suppose to have been crushed by artillery bombardments before the advance, had been spared the brunt of the shelling attacks because aerial observation units couldn't fly and relay proper coordinates. Instead, bombs were exploding over canals, river banks, and upturning the earth...causing the buried to resurface and haunt their surviving comrades struggling to get by.

Alfred remembered something similar during his Civil War. The name of the battle was nothing but a foggy whisper in his mind; he'd been so deep in insanity and pain that he had barely been coherent...let alone able to take note of the all the massacres ripping him apart.

There had been mass flooding in the low valleys to the south, soaking the ground until it was virtually tar beneath the feet of Union and Confederate soldiers alike. Cannons had failed, rifles had failed, the water ruining all long-range support and tainting necessary black powder needed for firing. Men had charged each other, bayonets, swords, daggers at the ready, and a mass slaughter of raw primitive power leveled Americans on both sides.

The flood waters ran red, gore and entrails floating on streams of stained currents, and those who had been wounded and unable to stand had been forced to fall beneath the waters and watch their last breaths bubble to the rippling surface. Mounted units had fallen, tumbling in the waves and crushing those beneath them; those who had been fortunate enough to find high ground had had to fight their fellow human beings for the right to live. Water polluted by spilt bodily fluids invaded the survivors, killing them slowly like the disease of pride that had brought about this bloody conflict, turning fathers against sons and brothers against brothers.

When the waters had receded...the blood and bodies were gone...but the memory remained there forever.

Alfred had never talked about the melancholy that followed reminders of his Civil War, and Arthur wisely never asked. Both men kept the worst of their thoughts to themselves except for the rare occasions, like when Arthur decided to be merciful and suspend training for an evening. One such night, Alfred had been in the process of falling unconscious from exhaustion when Arthur decided to be a little nostalgic...Alfred tried his best to hang on and listen to the man's words, but he was pretty sure he translated bits and pieces of it into a foreign language in his own head.

It was pretty cool that night, but the weather over France had been going on unseasonably weird for close to three years, as though God was angry with man's stupidity and wanted to let him know it. It had rained, but even so Arthur had forced them to sit in the trenches and gain what he called 'preemptive experience'. Alfred was pretty sure that was an awful oxymoron, but didn't complain too much since he was sure his exhausted body wouldn't be able to haul him out of the trench. He could barely remain sitting up as it was. Alfred knew that if Arthur wasn't sitting opposite him with one boot pressed firmly against his own outstretched one, he'd have slid down the muddy wall and likely drowned on his back during the night.

"...You know, my first night in a trench was probably one of the oddest experiences of my life."

Alfred responded with a nonsensical noise, having trouble keeping his eyes open. "You don't say? ...Most people aren't this far down in the dirt 'till they're dead."

Arthur quirked a smile at that, still very much awake and looked up at the blackened sky as rain continued to fall on them. "Ironically...those had been my thoughts exactly. I've been in a lot of wars in my time, but none like this...it's almost like someone threw me into the future and I just now realized it."

Alfred was pretty sure Arthur was trying to be deep and meaningful at the moment, but his calm and accented voice was lulling him faster towards sleep. Arthur's voice always had that effect on him, it was why he always begged him to read him stories as a kid. Alfred imagined that Arthur's voice was a lot like the sea he had never sailed- calm, quiet, as vast as it was never-ending, and could always slowly rock him to sleep with its ancient magic. His conscious opinions of Arthur were almost always negative; he was fighting with the man more often than not, and since declaring his independence there had never been a moment of tenderness between them, unlike the past. But subconsciously?

There was always that little kid, reaching out with small hands seeking bigger ones.

"Before this war...I never thought I had reached my full potential as a nation...I never thought I was through growing or being the greatest world power..." Arthur's voice drifted to him, slowly making him realize how sad and lonely the sea could be. "...Now, I'm afraid I've discovered that there is a tourniquet...I thought I was so far ahead, but now I realize just how far behind I am. I'm constantly struggling to catch up, but every time I'm even with my enemies, I realize I'm running alongside a shadow. I'm beginning to wonder...if that means I don't have it in me to improve anymore...that I'm meant to be left behind because I can't adapt fast enough to the times that are running away from me."

"Cut it off..." Alfred slurred out in his sleepy state, sagging a little more into the ever softening wall behind him. "Tourniquets...are made of cloth...so cut it off."

Alfred's vision was blurred, his eyes inching ever closer to closing, but he could have sworn the look on Arthur's face was surprised...and almost thoughtful.

"I gotta knife...if you need help," he offered, though he really wasn't sure where he put the damn thing at the moment. But if Arthur was in danger of dying from lack of blood circulation, he could find it and rip apart whatever was choking off his supply.

He couldn't see it very well, but he thought he saw Arthur give him a smile. Not a smirk, quirk, or that damn near infuriating grin of his...but a real smile, the kind he used to have when he'd been his colony and did something Arthur found endearing...Kind of like the time Alfred botched bandaging him up after he came home from overseas so long ago...God, he'd been such a mess...

Slowly, Alfred felt the pressure of Arthur's boot against his pull away. He would have protested and argued that it was the only thing keeping him up, but something warm slid down the wall next to him and settled at his side. He was so tired and his damn helmet was really hindering his peripheral vision, but eventually his exhaustion won out and he slumped against whatever was next to him.

His head rolling to the side, resting against the warmth next to him, he gave into his sleep deprivation and didn't feel the rain anymore.

He thought someone had said something to him, but all he could hear was the gentleness of the sea, slowly rocking him into oblivion with its ancient magic.

Alfred yelped as a shower of dirt exploded overhead, making him hit the deck and cover the back of his neck as dirt and rock pellets rained down on him. Blazing blue eyes flashed as he lifted his head and glared up from the empty trench he'd been crawling through on his belly.

"JESUS H. CHRIST, ARTHUR! You almost hit me that time!" He ranted, screaming from his sprawled-out position on the baking earth.

The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a new bullet entering a rifle chamber, then being slammed home made the American growl even louder. "I told you to keep your head down. You're like target practice at a carnival. Now stop whining and get moving," Came the response as Arthur moved to another position to snipe him. "Oh, and by the way, you're now four minutes and thirty-three seconds past time. I dare say, you haven't done this badly in weeks."

It was official. The second he got out of this trench, he was taking his Mark I and shoving it right up Arthur's pompous English ass!

Muttering another curse, Alfred gripped his rifle tighter and continued to crawl on his belly, using his elbows and knees to propel him along while his mind wandered through all the ways he could maim Arthur.

For the love of God- this damn helmet! The thing wouldn't stop sliding down and blinding him like some spiteful adolescent tenaciously playing peek-a-boo. Yet another thing to shove up Arthur's ass when he got topside; the Brit would wish he'd died and stayed dead.

Alfred tried to keep alert for any sounds of footsteps or rifle-handling above him, but Arthur was notorious for going ridiculous periods of time without firing just so Alfred's stressed nerves would get to him and he'd pop his head up...only to get grazed with a bullet or scared shitless when one nearly collided with his head. Arthur said the point was to condition him to be goal-oriented, focus on the mission, remain hypersensitive to his surroundings, and learn some "bloody self control" while he was crawling through hell. While that was all well and good, Alfred thought, this was more an exercise in sadism with Alfred roleplaying a fuckin' Jerry.

Not that he didn't have some German blood in him, given that there was a pretty decent population of Germans in his country, but really this was just ridiculous.

He was sweating like a man roasting over a spit, and his glasses continuously slipped down his nose. If he wasn't pushing the helmet back up with an agitated head jerk, he was swiping the side of his face on one of his shoulders to fix his specs. His equipment was getting unbearably heavy again and the dust on his rifle was turning to mud in his hands. He was uncomfortable, sore, and mad as hell. But anger right now was a good thing, it was keeping him going.

He couldn't stop cursing Britain and this stupid war, he couldn't help but get pissed at France for needing so much help in the first place. He was really cursing the Germans, throwing every obscenity in his surprisingly long vocabulary of vulgarity at the Krauts for making his life so damn miserable. Hey, while he was at it, he threw cursing the Austro-Hungarians, the Ottoman, Bulgaria, and all of freaking Europe into his mix of hate. He had been perfectly content to remain neutral in his isolation (that was a lie), and then every empire on the friggin' map had to go and decide to make a contest of 'who's the bigger dick'. So why the hell should he care? He was confident in his own prowess, his economy, his own little place in the world; he was the Goddamn 'New World' for Christ's sake, so why the hell was he being dragged across the fucking ocean to this hellhole of the 'Old World'?

When this was over, heaven help whoever decided to start another one of these; America was making a promise here and now to personally kick their asses.

Suddenly, Alfred was snapped out of his inner ranting as the endpoint came into sight. The end of the trench leveled off at an incline and crude wooden ladder embedded into the wall. All Alfred had to do was get there, grab the red flag posted in the ground and toss it up from the trench. That would signal the end of the exercise and Arthur to drop the rifle and come over to tell him how horribly he did.

Arthur called it lifesaving constructive criticism, Alfred called it getting ripped a new one.

Not today. Alfred was determined to give Arthur a what-for and turn the Brit into carved meat. He clenched his jaw as he snatched up the flag and weight attached, then pitched it up and over the dirt wall. He waited a few seconds incase Arthur decided to try and shoot him for no reason, then he shouted that he was coming out and those weren't blanks in his own rifle. Grabbing onto the first plank of wood, Alfred hauled himself up, straining a bit as his sore muscles protested, and climbed out of the trench.

When he got to the top, he nearly collapsed on the solid earth and felt like he could breathe easier. One has no idea how stifling and crypt-like the air is down in a trench until one has been there, then tasted the sweet breeze topside. Oh God, it felt good.

Oh, right, anger. Remember anger.

Alfred had to adjust his helmet and glasses again before narrowing his eyes and pushing himself to his feet. He quickly scanned the area for any glint of dark blond beneath a metal helmet, green uniform, and rifle more than likely slung over his shoulder. He was starting to get a bit nervous as he continued to look around, finding nothing, then turned in the direction of camp on the other end of what must have been a good mile and a half of trench and saw a canvassed army truck that hadn't been there before.

...Ten bucks said he was not going to enjoy the hike back.

By the time he got back to base camp, he was sweating even more than usual, panting, ready to fall over from what had to be one hundred pounds of gear on his person, and had to bend over with his hands on his knees just to catch his breath. He would have given anything for a bucket of icy cold water, permission to get out of his uniform, and a fresh cot to collapse on.

Oh, he was sure heaven was a spartan barrack in the celestial militaristic sky.

The sound of footsteps broke him from his thoughts as a shadow fell over him. He would have thanked whoever it was for giving him some shade, but since he knew it was Arthur he decided he could go without the gushy 'thank you'.

"You can strip out of your gear and put it on the truck. We're going back to Paris."

Alfred was pretty sure he heard that wrong and tilted his head up, giving Arthur a puzzled look, "...Huh?" was all he could manage; his mouth and throat were so dry and he was still breathing too hard.

The Englishman's expression looked deadly serious, Alfred would even say it looked taunt with stress as green eyes nervously looked away from him. There was a British soldier standing outside the driver's side door of the truck in the distance, and another was carrying the trunks of weapons and war paraphernalia to the vehicle.

Blue eyes looked questioningly back to Arthur and then to the telegram clenched in Arthur's left hand. It wasn't as if Alfred would be complaining going back to Paris at this point, but by his account they were scheduled to be out here at least another month...if not two.

"What-"

Arthur suddenly pushed the telegram into Alfred's chest, making the unstable American grunt indignantly and work to keep his balance. "Read it on the way, we're moving out now."

To Be Continued...

Notes from the Author:

AND THUS CONCLUDES "ARTHUR BOOT-CAMP"!

Hello all and welcome back! I hadn't anticipated getting another chapter out until next week, but I got home from work Thursday morning and couldn't sleep a wink. I just grabbed my notebook, textbooks, logged onto the school archives and went to town. XD Gotta say, I had a lot more fun with this chapter than the previous one, which made production a whole lot faster. I hope you all enjoyed my mini-Hetalia episode with all the cannon references I threw in there- call it a commercial break from the down-right angsty seriousness of it all. BUT! I still kept all the angsty glory, a little bit of squishy goodness, and-of course- written on no sleep with lots of love. XD So there's something here for everyone. :) As always, PROPS TO MY BETA-EDITOR WHO NEVER COMPLAINS ABOUT MY WEIRD PRODUCTION SCHEDULE! Oneechan, you rock my world!

ON TO THE NOTES!

1.) The uniform Alfred is currently wearing is a standard issue 'Doughboy' uniform, something assigned to American G.I.s and not to be confused with the more complex officer's uniform. Arthur is wearing a BEF Infantry uniform. The reason I chose these outfits instead of their officer counterparts was simply that (as nations) they could get away with choosing practical attire over ranked since they're kind of suppose to blend in with their troops. Also, the standard issue gear equipped with the infantry level would be more on level with their current task (you know, that whole assassination thing). Traditionally, the full weight of the equipment usually carried by a soldier on either side was between approximately 85-100lbs...=T_T= Sorry, I'm American and have no idea how to translate that into kgs. DX FORGIVE ME! Also, on a side note, the famous "Tin Hats"/ "Brodie Helmet"/ "Tommy Helm" Arthur "gives" to Alfred was something I thought kind of funny given the historical significance. :) The Americans had regular ol' hats and leather caps when they came over during WWI, their British counter-parts said "Uh, no- leather skull condom = get shot and die" and gave them their iconic steel helmets to protect them from shrapnel, bullets, and debris. :) Most 'Doughboys' (as American G.I.s were called) disliked the helmets greatly, mirrored by Alfred's own dislike for them. XD So...guess you could call that a fun fact.

2.) I introduced a LOT of weapons in this chapter, and just so everyone is aware, all items mentioned are standard issue for their respective side. The "stick grenade" was an all German grenade and the most popular grenade they used throughout the war. They also cleverly used these grenades in booby traps, unscrewing the bottom caps to let the cords hang, then attached the bombs to fences, barbed wire, ECT...so if enemies disturbed the area even just a little bit and moved the ceramic ball...well, 'booms' happen. Likewise, the Mills Bomb was THE British bomb of choice. Alfred's word of choice for the bomb, "pineapple", was the official nickname for the Mills Bomb...which...really does look like a blackened pineapple. XD I gotta admit that I had always thought the "pineapple grenade" was an American bomb...I had no idea it was a British design and model first. So, PROPS TO BRITAIN FOR A SMASHING GOOD BOMB!

3.) The bit about the Americans being difficult with British and French commanders? Yeah, its very true. Just because people were allies in this war didn't mean they got along. XP Most American troops were not happy about being involved in a European conflict, they pretty much stuck together and for the most part alienated themselves from their more seasoned counter-parts unless absolutely necessary. The first American troops detailed to go out were with French and New Zealand troops, and later with the main British units towards the end of 1917/beginning of 1918. You have to remember that America's "special relationship" and better terms with Britain don't happen until WWII...which is still more than 20-30 years off at this point. Until then, its kind of like (to throw in an American saying) "we're workin' together, but we're not on each other's Christmas card lists". XD

4.) Yes, the Russian Tsar was ousted before the Americans even entered the war, but the temporary government that took power after him still supported the war for fear of critical supplies from the other Allies being cut off. Eventually, however, too many unsuccessful campaigns, incredibly low moral, and political tensions uprooted any government leaders left who still believed in supporting the Allies. Lenin came to power and an Armstice was signed between Russia and Germany in December of 1917...though the official treaty pulling the Russian troops completely out did not happen until March the following year. The French mutiny mentioned was also a real event. French soldiers reportedly weren't trying to protest the war itself, just the way it was being run and most of them simply refused to go back to the trenches until matters changed. The French commanders had apparently tried to keep the mass mutiny quiet, and to help the time table for the Battle of Passchendaele (also known as the Third Battle of Ypres) was moved up by British command to keep focus away from the dwindled French lines. However, this campaign did not go as planned, yielding less than desirable ground recovery into Belgium and amounted to mass casualties. It was reported that for 2 of the 4 months the campaign lasted, heavy rains continuously fell and flooding was a major issue because artillery shells had destroyed canals and river blockades. Thus...it was a very horrific scene and made fighting neigh impossible. With the correlation to the Civil War flashback Alfred has, that WAS an actual battle fought somewhere in Virginia, I believe...but while I remembered the details of the battle, I couldn't for the life of me remember the name to look the specific date and location up! =T_T= I felt it was important enough to add even though I'd forgotten the name since my last American History class...which was about 5 years ago. XP Couple that with the fact I totally had no sleep writing this, and you've got mega brain lapse. *sigh*

5.) Finally...*scratches head* Uhh...sorry if this chapter was difficult to read with all of Alfred's potty mouth and Arthur not making it much better. I grew up around the military and let me tell you, "cursin' like a sailor" is NOT just limited to Navy personal. Given the high stress count of the situation, I figured men at war during this time period wouldn't act much differently than the men in the fields today. Tons of vulgar jokes, obscenities, and pure cynicism helps to keep you from going totally mad.

HOT DAMN, hope the wait was worth it, and please note that I probably won't be cranking out another chapter for a while...or at the EARLIEST not until sometime later next week. Its school and work for pretty much the entirety of the semester for me, so enjoy this and I hope it holds ya.

To all my reviewers: YOU ARE ALL AMAZING! XD As always, I am eternally grateful to each and every one of you as well as those who fav, alert, or subscribe to me. =^_^= You guys MAKE my week! TILL NEXT TIME!

Sincerely,

General Kitty Girl

P.S.If you haven't already read the little note at the bottom of my profile page, then here it is: A lot of people have asked me if my first Hetalia fanfiction "You Were So Small" is a prequel to my WWI Hetalia fic "Never Your Hero". The answer to this would be...YES. I use several points of reference from the Revolutionary War depicted in "You Were So Small" in "Never Your Hero", ESPECIALLY in interactions between Arthur and Alfred. :) If you didn't know this before, I apologize as it is my error for not making a big announcement in the Author Chapter Notes (which I'm making amends with now). XD As always, please enjoy both fanfics and if you have any questions please feel free to message me. :) Thank you!