Fear and Love

"It is far safer to be feared than loved"

- Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

1 FEBRUARY 1942

"You're not accepting me? Oh, come on, I've got enough stamina to pilot a plane and you and everyone on this base knows it."

The desk clerk—in training uniform, oddly, rather than civilian attire—wasn't moved, lounging in the chair behind the desk with all the air of a pompous ass who's already gotten what he wished for and couldn't care less about anyone else's dreams. "I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"Don't be sorry, just give me a spot. I have a commercial pilot's license, and I came out here from Washington just to do this. I can't go back. The Pr—they're counting on me." Alfred sighed, frustrated with the clerk, the standard-issue telegram on the desk between them and himself for almost slipping and revealing his status. A part of him would have loved to see the clerk's face when he realized who he was begrudgingly dealing with, but being that big and careless of an idiot would earn him condemnation the world over; everyone from Roosevelt to Japan would be lining up to smack him. Humorous though the thought was, the idea of crawling back to Washington to dissolve inside the relative obscurity of bureaucrats and aides made him antsy.

It had been a long two weeks of travel and rigorous testing in Nashville. He was tired, had suffered intense caffeine withdrawal, and finding out that he hadn't failed the tests but had failed the physical made him want to bang his head on the desk counter. It wouldn't be productive, and it would send him packing all the more quickly to Roosevelt-approved command in the Army, but that wasn't what he wanted.

He wanted to fly, and dammit, he was going to, no matter what these Midwestern pansies said.

Wasn't that the heart of the American Dream?

The pansy in question had pressed his lips together with remarkable patience while Alfred made his request (in a kindly manner, he thought), waiting for him to finish before answering flatly, "Your eyesight won't allow the United States Armed Air Forces to admit you. It's protocol that pilots must have twenty-twenty vision."

"And mine's not," Alfred grumbled. He remembered the look the nurse gave him when he couldn't identify where the scale was at first, because he'd tried to go through the physical without his glasses; it was positively resigned. No hope at all. "I know. Look, can I meet with a recruiting officer or—better yet, the base's commanding officer? I can explain the situation to him, because I don't want to hold up the line." He glanced over his shoulder at the line of hopeful cadets and draftees. It had grown since he first stepped up to the desk, going out the enlistment office door, and the boys were anxious and undeniably curious, peering over heads and around bodies to see who was the unfortunate bastard wasting valuable time.

Time. Tick, tick—

"Any complaints you have may be written in a letter to the Department of Defense," said the clerk, without moving to retrieve the address that Alfred knew by heart. Smart.

"I never said compl—"

"Cadet!"

The desk clerk shot to attention faster than Alfred would have given him credit for after seeing his sluggishness, fingertips against his temple in the rigid, un-trembling balance akin to the Statue of Liberty. "Sir!"

Alfred turned slowly to see none other than the United States Armed Air Forces General Henry H. Arnold storming up the line of civilians. He knew the voice, but he hadn't been willing to believe it until he saw for himself the omni-present grin and shock of white hair under his flight cap. Hap was supposed to be in Washington, directing air strategies for servicemen stationed or stranded on the other side. What was he doing in the middle of the country?

When that shark-like gaze above that eerie grin razed over Alfred and narrowed, he straightened into a salute. Others in the line behind him followed suit, and soon the whole group was saluting—most of them, Alfred would wager, to a man they had no clue worked with the President and was, in a way, should they not wash out, responsible for their lives—the eagle to their chickadees in a larger game.

"At ease, Jones," he said, with as much amiability as he could muster in his public position. He didn't know that Alfred ranked above him in the Army, but he knew he held power in Roosevelt, and that seemed to be all he needed to know.

"You as well, sir." Feeling the puzzled, confused eyes of every person in line behind him, Alfred gave a tense smile. He didn't know the man well. He'd only arrived as a full-time advisor to Roosevelt in mid-December, with sporadic meetings before that, and so he knew that Hap wouldn't be here unless someone above him ordered it. Someone like the Commander-in-Chief, the last person he wanted interfering and yet was his best hope at this point. "Do I want to know why you're here, Hap?"

The lieutenant general offered him a half-smile and rounded on the desk clerk. "Are you giving him a hard time, cadet? What're you doin' behind the desk anyway? You should be out there flying!"

Admirably, the flight cadet didn't even flinch. "No, sir. I was asked to fill in for the secretary while she took a lunch break, sir."

Hap's eyes narrowed. "By who?"

Here, the cadet hesitated. Swallowed. "Miss Pittman, sir. The secretary."

Snickering erupted behind Alfred. He shot the crowd a steel-eyed look, and it fell obediently silent. These guys may not know what was coming, but Alfred knew, and he wasn't going to let the poor kid be humiliated more than he had to be.

"Oh, well isn't that cute. You're playing the gentleman while everyone else is out on the Pacific fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. This isn't a time for politeness, cadet, now get your lazy ass back out on that field and following orders unless you want me to tell your commanding officer about this disregard of duty!"

"Yes, sir!" The cadet scurried from behind the desk and into the depths of the base's enlistment office, presumably to find a place where he could lay low until Hap was gone.

Alfred shook his head—not for the kid, although Hap was right. He should be following the orders his superiors gave him instead of playing secretary out of what he was sure was a lustful attraction, but… "You're going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days if you keep it up, Hap."

The general gave him a hard look. "Are you standing for idleness? He wasn't doing shit for the cause by sitting here. If he wants a break, he shouldn't have joined in the middle of a damned war. The Army would've been glad to take him, but I won't tolerate lazy incompetence in my Air Forces."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow. "Fair, but 'lazy ass'? I find that not degrading my troops earns better results, Lieutenant General." He couldn't help it. At his elbow, the men who could hear him were sharing disbelieving glances. Alfred could practically hear the thoughts crossing their minds: Did he really give cheek to a three-star general? He, with the smooth skin, the youth and energetic demeanor of a nineteen-year-old, smack-talking an aged, experienced veteran?

Yes, he was. And he would do it again, for, as he told Churchill: he had four hundred years on everyone on this base.

Hap, unfortunately, didn't know that, and he looked ready to burst, but he knew better than to express it in a public setting. Alfred saw the irritating truth in his scowl, the presumption that Roosevelt would hear if Hap treated him poorly. Alfred didn't do anything to correct him. Even if Hap didn't know the true nature of Alfred's being, there was little question that something about his inexplicable authority would slip through—information as crucial and confidential as the question of opening a second front, regardless of how confusing or unbelievable his existence might be to mortals.

The fact was, if mortals knew he couldn't die, there would be a stampede for his blood. For all of their blood, and that fated Elixir of Life which had so haunted European tales and lured men to such horrible deaths would be hunted once more.

"Come with me, smart ass," said Hap sharply, brushing past Alfred in the direction the cadet had fled. "I've got a letter from the Chief for the base commander."

Alfred's jaw dropped—exactly what he feared, and simultaneously what he'd hoped for the second he received the rejection. "But—"

"Don't argue, Jones, and come on."

"What about the desk?"

"What about it? That girl'll be back."

And that was it. Hap started off without waiting for Alfred to follow, leaving no more room to argue.

Alfred had no choice, so he snatched the duffel at his feet and followed, remembering only at the last second to grab the gram off the desk.

Every man—especially those who were immediately in line behind him—stared as he went, but he kept his eyes on the letter, on the words that would have washed him into the Army under any other circumstance. I regret to inform you that Alfred F. Jones will not be admitted into the United States Armed Air Forces…

Democracy sounded simple. It wasn't. On its founding, America wasn't, instead a complex hierarchy of representatives representing representatives who, in turn, represented ordinary people. The idea of treating each man equally had always been there, but that wasn't what happened. Alfred would have been blind not to see that he was exhibiting a truth of the nation as he followed the leader of the USAAF into the base commander's office: he wasn't just another face. He was a face that was almost always found beside the President, a face that bore four stars on military records, the highest achievement possible. That gave him an invaluable advantage.

In a different, horribly selfish time, Alfred would've been immeasurably grateful for the wars that had boosted him to the highest grade in the military, but all he felt as he sat in the chair, staring at that telegram as Hap talked, was that pulling rank felt a lot like pulling strings, giving himself a position he didn't earn and didn't deserve.

But he wasn't going to say no. Roosevelt was pulling from the reserves of his power over the military to do this. To reject it would be disrespecting him again, and if he'd forgiven him his senseless fusillade enough to help him, how could he say no and expect their relationship to survive? Not to mention…if he was honest…he really wanted to be up in the air again.

That, Alfred realized, was what had become of the American Dream. He should've known.

He'd read the book a hundred times, after all. It was back at home, lying creased and the pages worn on his bookshelf.


"For eight years General Washington and his Continental Army were faced continually with formidable odds and recurring defeats. Supplies and equipment were lacking. In a sense, every winter was a Valley Forge. Throughout the Thirteen States there existed fifth columnists, and selfish men, jealous men, fearful men, who proclaimed that Washington's cause was hopeless, that he should ask for a negotiated peace. Washington's conduct in those times has provided the model for all Americans ever since. A moral—a model of moral stamina…"

Someone brought a radio with him when he enlisted, and it was through its static speakers that Alfred heard the Fireside Chat. In the barracks of the AAF base in Nashville, surrounded by the other rapt cadets as he huddled over a map on his bunk, re-familiarizing himself with a world America had spent the past two decades avoiding.

Roosevelt had asked him to pull it out, leading Alfred to wonder if he was trying to leave some sort of hint for him to determine where the war had gone in the past five weeks.

"Look at your map," he instructed now, filling the narrow room full of bunk beds. Everyone in the bunk did, heads bonking. The pungent scent of pomade slid up their nostrils, but they were used to it. By this time, it would ordinarily be lights out, but not even the base commander would deprive them of the President's reassurances and truths.

As if to add credibility to his hope and anxiety, his knees wouldn't stop bouncing, and his toes curled uselessly against the concrete. He wasn't the only one.

"Look at the vast area of China, with its millions of fighting men." China. He'd looked awful on New Year's. Were there new developments there? New invasions? Roosevelt was still giving aide to those millions, right? For a moment—one of the many these past few weeks—Alfred hated that he couldn't ask, that he wasn't right there in the Oval Study as he had always been before, but then he felt the cold ground under his bare feet, smelled the hair gel and body odor and remembered that he had made this choice. Roosevelt had done what he could to get him inside; now he had to prove that his effort wasn't wasted.

"Look at Russia, with its powerful armies and proven military might." Alfred knew Russia had been fighting heavily and relentlessly, but had it begun again? He thought the Nazis had drawn back for the winter. Or did his hint have to do with their might? Without Hitler to keep them occupied and ingrained experience with brutal winters, Russia had plenty of time to rebuild, renovate, and re-plan. Done correctly, and with the right tools, they could be unstoppable the next time the Nazis went in. Alfred was almost excited by the thought, until he remembered the fear in Ludwig's face. He wants Russia, badly. Not only that, he wants to embarrass Russia—which meant that, the second the ice and snow melted, the moment nascent warmth awoke, Hitler would not hesitate to move, and the front would descend into another slaughterhouse.

Staring at the bold red outline of the Soviet Union, Alfred felt an odd mixture of dread and hope. Stalin may have been as much of a tyrant as Hitler, but if there was one use for a tyrant in the Allies' defense system, it was his mind. He could think like Hitler, and that was what the Allies needed him to do if they had any chance of preserving lives. In turn, he would need to believe the intel Alfred gave Ivan. However, given how his repeated demands for a Western Front had so far been ignored (as far as Alfred knew, anyway), neither of them were inclined to trust one another—respect, perhaps, but never trust.

"Look at the British Isles, Australia, New Zealand, the Dutch Indies, India—" Alfred shoved the map into the nearest cadet's hands and fell back on his bunk, raking his hands over his face. Roosevelt went on with the names—"the Near East and the Continent of Africa"—but his eyes couldn't keep up. Instead, he sank into the darkness his hands provided and let the words wash over him. He couldn't think about it anymore. All the notes, the information, the time with Roosevelt he was missing simply because he'd made his choice to be one in the chaos.

George had never let him do that in the Revolution. He'd been young—younger than his prized secretary, Alex—and like Alex, he'd had to stay at his side virtually every waking moment.

It was fitting, then, that Roosevelt had chosen this year to celebrate George's birthday, five weeks after Alfred had screamed at them that America's god had wanted to be British all along.

It was almost like he'd set a precedent.

The only precedent I can ask for in these decisions is yours.

Yeah, right. Not anymore. He understood then that Roosevelt wasn't dropping hints. He was accepting Alfred's freedom to make his own choices—was even willing to help him—so long as he did his job in protecting what America stood for, always. "Held to his course," as he put it earlier that evening, even though "he knew that no man's life or fortune was secure, without freedom and free institutions."

Well-spoken, but Alfred fought a groan as the internal ticking of lives lost revived its relentless pace inside his head. I'm sorry, Franklin. He winced. I'm sorry. But he didn't regret his words, and he wouldn't regret leaving. He'd made the choice because he wasn't ready to hold the world on his shoulders, perhaps the key difference he shared with so many of his people in their delusions. They were notorious for thinking that. Ever since the delicate beginning…

"…continue the policy of carrying war to the enemy in distant lands and distant waters—as far away as possible from our own home grounds."

Roosevelt's broadcast was heard across those waters, too, the static of wires and distance pushed away by the reassuring cadence of the President's voice warming the chambers of the Prime Minister's rooms, late into the night.

"Ever since this nation became the arsenal of democracy, ever since enactment of Lend-Lease, there has been one persistent theme through all Axis propaganda. This theme has been that Americans are admittedly rich, that Americans have considerable industrial power, but that Americans are soft and decadent, that they cannot and will not unite and work and fight."

And Churchill—seated in the chair beside the radio, dressed for the day and smelling of the wafts of smoke that wound around him, wide awake in the sea of troubles swirling about in his head—smiled wearily.

" 'Trust the people'," he murmured, quoting the father who barely loved him as Roosevelt described how Axis propagandists call them "weaklings" and "playboys". Unlike the President's, Churchill's words escaped into empty air, offered for no audience when Clementine was asleep and his closest aides were away, but they would be heard. Heeded. The one person who now more than ever needed to learn how would hear him all the way in the distant, hot wiles of a bleeding Africa. He was sure of it. "Trust him, and trust that they will know what to do, old chap. We cannot win this without them."


MAY 1942

"Nihon—"

"Keep walking, and be quiet." Honda Kiku tugged the boy along the marshy ground, scanning instinctively for threats through the dense fog. He saw several misshapen forms, but none that resembled a human—crouched or otherwise.

Nonetheless, trusting the promises made in the letter seemed as unwise as going in blind and unarmed, so while one hand grasped the boy's arm to keep him from running, Kiku's other rested on the hilt of his katana, ever-ready to draw. He would not be caught off-guard if his enemy decided to try anything.

The boy didn't—wisely. He'd been trying to escape since Kiku took custody of him last December, but now he knew better than to deceive him. After all these months, the only Japanese he knew was Kiku's formal name, but that was all he truly needed to know. Whatever gibberish Kiku said to him these days, his tone made it clear what he wanted, and what would happen if he didn't cooperate. The result was that he trekked behind him now in sullen, frightened silence.

It bothered him. Kiku disliked seeing the terror on his face and knowing he was the cause, but he knew being in his custody was better than being absorbed into his military, as the rest of his people were.

The past twenty years had been hell in his head. Invading Manchukuo, he'd been told, had been a matter of necessity and opportunity—a need for oil, rubber and respect. He'd never really expected the military's power lust to fade, but when his prediction came true, overwhelming both the split-partied Chinese and his own government with little-disguised assassinations—including an attempt on himself, and he still had the mark to show for it—Kiku couldn't find it in him to encourage or deny the new regime. In fact, he couldn't find it in him to say anything at all.

To encourage them would damage his own carefully cultivated soul, the piece of himself he had cherished above all else since the dawn of his existence.

To deny them and their punishing state of mind would send him spiraling into disgrace. Dishonor. Death would be mercy by comparison when the very word made him shudder, although Kiku's mask never faltered.

Despite that, however, Kiku couldn't come up with a clear answer for why he was standing by. He wanted respect from other countries, that much he knew, but what of the crippling onslaughts, the beatings, the disrespect and the prejudices?

It's for the people's betterment.

And the only response he had was, was it? The Co-Prosperity Sphere was a sham. The people he'd conquered were starving—

The people he'd conquered. Conquered. The word tasted like bliss on his tongue—the soul of respect and grace he sought. Every day the Allies were getting weaker, being pushed through Burma and straight into India by his effervescent troops. Word had it that their men were deserting, too. Oh, he could feel his men's jubilation, the pride of their success everywhere from Burma in the north to the Dutch East Indies in the south, Malaya in the west to the Gilbert Islands in the east. His hopes for rule and empire were coming true—people would no longer be under the asphyxiating hands of Western lands, people could be at peace under him—and he wanted to join his men in their celebration, shed the rank of his white suit for black, for Corregidor, the Pacific's last Allied stronghold, had fallen. Even the United States was falling under the sheer force of his reign—

Kiku gasped to a stop, drawn out of the nationalist state of mind that had so plagued and taunted him these ten years. He barely felt the boy bump into his legs as something he couldn't quite place pulled at his conscience.

The United States. Against all odds, Kiku was fighting the strongest personification in the world beside Russia—and not even he could match the output and wealth of America. Just last month, he'd discovered some of the true might of their forces when several bombers had attacked Tokyo. No material damage had been done, but the psychological aftershocks had disarmed him one night. As his troops cut through Free China to find the downed Americans, Kiku hadn't been able to stop the tide of rage and fear that enveloped his people. They knew now that their land was vulnerable, their defendants too overstretched to safeguard that which mattered most.

By the time Kiku had pushed out the screams and the crackling fires his troops set, had lulled the quiet conversations shared between families across the main land, his skin was slick with sweat. He shivered uncontrollably. He hadn't felt such strong emotion in years, and it made him question his actions. His conscience awoke for a brief albeit achingly long period that night, made him feel like an idiot for attacking Pearl Harbor.

Those days when he teetered back and forth between war and negotiated peace seemed ages ago now, and vague. When he hadn't been absorbed in the twists and turns of his mind, the few clear memories he had involved the Emperor shaking his head. No, he did not want war with America. But the military oscillated—plans or diplomacy? Even now, torn between ideologies as he was, Kiku spun back and forth. Plans, or peace?

The day he met Alfred F. Jones had been a startling one. When those black ships came charging into the harbor at Edo Bay, Kiku had done the best he could to protect his people, his interests, and his faith, but the Americans unnerved him. He'd expected a selfish, self-serving and greedy man for his equal at the negotiating table, but their personification was unlike any other he had met—fixated on his goal, but open-minded. Classist yet personable. Outspoken, idealistic, and hopelessly young. He had never known a personification to be solely in the service of his people, but that was what Alfred F. Jones had been—if not a little too engaged with them. Whether he had maintained that buoyancy over the years, Kiku couldn't say, but he'd known—from the day that Prime Minister Tojo ordered the attack on Pearl Harbor—he would regret making an adversary of him. Everyone knew that war with America—already trigger-happy, regardless of her isolationistic views—was a calculated risk, that in spite of the chauvinism his country would not survive this unscathed, but none of them were old enough to remember Commodore Perry or Consul General Harris. None of them could hope to understand the scope of American enmity, the martialing effect it would have on their personification. Even Kiku couldn't imagine it, but when he thought about the response to Pearl Harbor, the fury his navy and planes ignited in one fell swoop more successful than the operation itself, it called to mind a single memory:

In 1853, every time Kiku tried to say "no" to American demands, every time a calculating light flashed in Alfred F. Jones's eyes, belying an age and intelligence far beyond the youthful naïveté, Kiku had wanted to be him a little bit more. He'd wanted that power, the respect earned from fighting for his own freedom, instead of bowing to every stringer who came knocking.

He wanted that charismatic ability to make anyone in his way yield without their even knowing it. He wanted them to bow a path to the oil and resources he desperately needed, to the food his military was even now wresting from the conquered islanders, but—most importantly—he wanted those Western bastards to part for his beleaguered people, stomped on and exploited for so long, no longer.

Both Kiku and the boy started at the rumble of an engine overhead. Kiku tensed, ready to plow them both into the marsh, but the plane's shadow flew past and away, fading into the humid night.

He remained still. Waiting. They were as near to the fault line as he was willing to go.

The boy trembled in his grip, confusing the nerves that tingled along his spine. Where is he?

His question was answered soon enough. A shadow appeared in front of him, parting the fog to reveal the bleak color of a Chinese Nationalist uniform. Kiku's katana was out before he fully realized that the man wore no bomber vest, or indeed understood that even if he had, it wouldn't kill either of them, not even the boy.

Still, Kiku refused to lower his weapon. He didn't trust that his opponent had nothing up his sleeve—a knife, or even a chopstick in his hand could become a deadly weapon—and he saw little logic in putting his away when he already knew it was there.

He would be disgraced if anyone found out what he was doing. He would be stripped of his uniform, his medals, relegated to guarding the POW camps—or worse, Ofuna. Being immortal made it worse. His quest for honor could never be resolved by death. The only way—no, the only thing he could do was arm himself against this sea of troubles and hope that, by opposing, he would end them. Or they would end themselves.

But Wang Yao ignored Kiku altogether, spreading his arms wide as the boy jerked from Kiku's grip and ran to him.

"Jia Long."

Kiku felt his blood run cold as the man he'd once called a guardian wrapped warm, scrawny arms around Hong Kong, frozen with a longing he hadn't felt in centuries.

And the wet ground began to bleed under his feet.


When he heard the shouts, Ivan looked calmly up from the map plans spread on the table, glimpsed a hulking shadow move past his tent and followed it, boots sloshing in the mud of the open area one hundred kilometers outside of Kharkov.

Five days ago, the Southwestern Front under Marshal Timoshenko had attempted to retake the city, only to be driven back by German restraint. The botched attack had left them surrounded in the west, tensions high, and Stalin unsettled enough to send Timoshenko—one of the Red Army's best commanders and a good friend of the Comrade—help with his leadership in the form of Ivan.

After the signing in January, armed with the intelligence Alfred gave him, Ivan had preoccupied himself with preventing attacks on Stalingrad and the Caucasus, pressuring his secret agents and diplomats in Britain for further intel that England may have received, and making counterplans for every possible direction the Nazis could come as winter rattled the panes of the old palace, workers and slaves froze to death in the gulags and kolkhozes, and the special units moved tanks and armaments and industries across the Ural Mountains, into the depths of the country where his enemies couldn't take them. Meanwhile, the Nazis died in their sleep and lost fingers and toes around their struggling campfires—a guess, but a logical one. If Napoleon had underestimated the ferocity of his winters, he had no doubt Hitler had, and while, privately, Ivan was relieved, he knew it would take more than bitingly cold temperatures to kill off the force of their attacks. 1,100 years had taught that he couldn't rely on General Winter to work for him all the time. He wasn't that dumb. Or hopeful.

Stalin hadn't believed his intelligence. Ivan had. He may not trust Alfred, but he knew what fear looked like, and that was what he'd seen underneath his blustering confidence at the signing. However, he wasn't the one calling the shots, and when the same information came to Stalin from their networks, he dismissed it again, labeling it a distraction from Moscow. Thus, in the face of Stalin's stubborn cautiousness, Ivan was left to the plans and strategy alone. Few were brave enough to subvert Stalin's command, so—lest it mold into a tight-lipped rumor that he was going to attempt a coup—he didn't ask for help. He was used to working alone, found comfort in it, and he wasn't afraid of Stalin's wrath—the few times it had turned on him. Even if he wanted to, the Comrade knew he could not deport Ivan without consequence. He was, after all, the only Russian indispensable yet expendable enough to fight on the frontlines, and likewise one of the few to appropriately embody Soviet looks and ideals, so exiling his poster boy wasn't an option, no matter how much Ivan on occasion going against his orders irritated him.

Disregarding all of that, his security and likability did not prevent him from being sent on a boy's errand. It wasn't that Ivan wasn't concerned about the Southwestern Front—he wasn't: Timoshenko knew what he was doing—it was that, well, he was tired of the surprises, tired of the noise and clutter, and he was especially tired of finding Prussia on his doorstep. Ordinarily, it would be a question of whether or not the target was important enough to warrant Prussia's attention, but Ivan was certain, if Stalingrad was truly the aim, he would want to be right there at the helm, just so he could rub Ivan's face in the shit and ashes when his Germans won.

At the thought of his cackling laugh and smug smirks, a rare spot of rage reared its head, but Ivan pushed it down. Rotten pile of smegma though he was, he wasn't worth the anger.

To Prussia, Ivan had never been anything but a filthy pagan Slav, but now he was taking that hatred out on his people—in Ukraine, Byelorussia, Lithuania. Countless villages massacred, and there were streams of numbers in the dead. Moscow would have been purged, too—again, Ivan thought with some dulled measure of long-suppressed anguish—if they had won last November. It began to seem as if Hitler's only need for invasion had been to eradicate them all, and that puzzled Ivan for a moment. If a cleansing was all they wanted, why not be stealthy about it and keep to their Non-Aggression Pact, surprise him when it was too late and frustrate Britain and America? It was what Ivan would have done. Then again, neither Hitler nor Prussia had ever been ones for closed lips, unlike him—although, if they had, the French Front he andStalin craved to drought the rivers of red on his land might be priority to the Allies, instead of absent.

Left with no choice, however, Ivan had gone to the front, and here he was, stomping through mud and slush and dead grass to the pile of heavy, moving coats clustered at the infirmary entrance. Winds coming off the Black Sea still bit the cheeks in spite of the late-coming spring, but Ivan pulled his scarf over his nose to avoid the stench of his men's breath, rank with tobacco and anti-freeze as he pushed through the crowd.

What he found was rather underwhelming. Two of the three scouts he'd sent out in camouflage knelt on either side of a pallet holding the third, whose chest and flank had become the mauled pelt of a wolf's. He wasn't moving, but the scouts and the few nurses the front had acted as if he was alive, scrabbling for supplies to dress him.

The scout nearest Ivan looked up as he approached and relief flooded his deep set eyes. "Marshal Braginsky—they saw us as we were heading back from their line."

Ivan motioned him to move, and he took his place at the scout's side, gently pulling the coat away from his chest. It looked as if a bear had taken a massive bite out of his flank. Everything from his armpit to the southern edges of his left rib cage was gone. Ivan could see his heart beating sluggishly under his sternum, and blood had pooled rapidly in the crevices and jagged bone left behind, spilling and staining his clothes. This man was lucky to be alive.

He wouldn't stay so for long. They didn't have the proper equipment to help him. All they could do was sedate him and let him go peacefully; a glance in the scouts' stern faces confirmed this. They simply brought him back to preserve his dignity, to let him die around friends instead of at the hands of the Nazis.

Dropping the coat, Ivan spoke to the first scout, now at the third's head. "What did you find?"

"They were preparing to leave when we got there, Marshal. Liev saw them warming up the engines on their Panzer units. That is how Nikolai was wounded, sir." As he finished, the scout peeled his friend's sweat-matted hair from his face, a strangely affectionate gesture that told Ivan he would be mourning privately for months—maybe years. For a beat, Ivan wondered how they knew each other, who they were outside of warfare and how far back their relationship went, whether it wove through their birthplace or a mutual bond beyond it.

He shut the curiosity down, and quickly. The last time he let himself grow close to any one of his people, they got hurt. He got hurt, and he still hadn't forgiven himself the fault of connection.

His purpose was to protect his people, certainly, but no matter how he tried, he could never seem to get the trust part right. He was always too late, or his fragile love was never enough to save them. Not here, when his world always, always cracked and fractured and fell apart around paranoia and oppressèd natures. Anyone he ever dared to care about, dared to let live as something more in his memory, was gone by the time he mustered the courage to try and make a difference. All that was left by then was acceptance, and a new scar on his heart.

"What did you hear about where they planned to go?" Ivan demanded, unapologetically harsh. Invasion was anticipated after their pathetic attempt; they had plans, but how soon would they need them?

Without a flinch, the scout started to speak, but it was Timoshenko's voice that came out.

"Positions! Get the artillery going! The enemy has been spotted heading east into our salient. Go, positions, now!"

A general echo of Timoshenko's words followed, and in the scramble for preparation that ensued, the third scout left for lonely death in the infirmary tent, Ivan made his way to the edges of their camp, scanning the horizon for the incoming threat.

He found it, a line of metal and black against the bruised morning sky. There was a personification among them. He sensed it, and he let it guide his gaze to the center of the line until he felt it hit home with a familiar tang of bittersweet rancor. He had fought this one before, many times.

Prussia. At the forefront, standing in a Panzer as it trundled across the sodden soil. He and his disposable guns were approaching fast enough that Ivan could almost see the giddy leer on his lips beneath the binoculars. Shaking his head, Ivan ducked into his tent and fetched his rifle along with extra ammunition before returning to his spot and taking aim.

He never changed. He should know that, but still Ivan wondered how many shots it would take before he hit him in the heart.

Because, if he was truthful, he would very much enjoy paying him back for using a tank against three defenseless, scantily-armed scouts.


"Why do we have to meet at night?"

"And in the desert? It's blazin' hot here."

"It's daytime in our lands, too, Kiwi. We've got a lot of work to do—"

"Chin up, Aussie. You're not the one whose been shat on relentlessly—"

"Not true! Darwin's been bombed!"

"But you haven't been invaded, have ya, lad? We spent an entire year under threat of invasion, and we would've been too if Jerry hadn't gone widdershins on those barmy Bolsheviks. I'd love to see you hiding in a mangy bomb shelter with the rest o' your sodding criminals in that bloody gaol you call a home. Not a heartsome image, is it?"

"As riveting as it would be to watch Australia kick your arse, we don't have time for infighting. Save your shite for later." Files slapped sharply onto the makeshift conference table—truthfully, a conglomeration of smaller, rickety wooden tables—and the idle conversation—volatile or otherwise—which had punctuated the humid air fell dead when Arthur entered the tent, but while most eyes were either on or avoiding him, his glowered at the other end. He hoped he looked intimidating, because the tarp under his feet was difficult to walk on without making a fool of himself, sliding with the inconstant sands. "Savvy?"

Identical smaragdine eyes stared back—a little hot from the altercation, and promising more later, but otherwise carefully unbothered. Arthur had a long history with them.

He hated them—almost as much as he loathed his own.

Somehow managing to look relaxed in a splintering stool without a back, Scotland grinned, hiding the faintly stained teeth underneath. "O' course, baby brother." A small smirk lifted the lips of their sibling seated beside Scotland—without malice, thankfully, and quickly stifled. Wales was historically the most bearable of the three, from Arthur's perspective, but he still felt the old anger burn in the pit of his stomach, rising up to his heart like the old curse of the mother.

He relished it for a moment before pushing it back into its cage. He'd been irritated too often these days for his own good, and the last thing he wanted was to inspire mutiny among his other colonies as a result of his behavior.

Feeling India's stare in his periphery, Arthur put on a tight grin and replied, "Brilliant. Then, as my subordinate, I will trust that you can hold your tongue until this meeting is over. Speaking of which"—addressing the entire gathering now—"the purpose of this is for updates of current, ongoing operations in or around your fields. We don't have time to plan anything new, and I'd rather have this finished before dawn, so no one knows you were here—"

"Why not?" said New Zealand—Oliver, as it were. He'd changed his own name from Maori in the hopes that Arthur would make an effort to relate to him. Thus far, nothing had changed. "I've heard the Prime Minister's going to the States. You'll be making plans with him, right? Why shouldn't we?"

There was some manner of muted protest at these words, but no colony was altogether surprised by Arthur's refusal to let them contribute to the plans. Nor, it seemed, by Churchill's upcoming travels; the news had already made its rounds.

Damn. How had they discovered that? None of his men knew, and he'd only found out a few days ago via intelligence that he was to return to Parliament at the end of the month in preparation for the trip. If that knowledge had been intercepted, the Germans could well already know and be planning to ambush Churchill's ship on its path across the pond.

Brilliant. Leave it to Arthur to be responsible for assassinating the Prime Minister simply because he'd been away from the home front too long.

As if he'd channeled the wretched image to his left, Matthieu worried his lip and glanced over, assessing. Arthur ignored it, and without looking up from the files said flippantly, "How would you like to be invaded? That can surely be arranged if you stick round long enough for Jerry to see you."

Australia's brow shot up, and others started to protest—Arthur heard New Zealand say, "How will that make a difference? I'm fighting for you anyway, and they know it! I'm your colony, Britain!"—but Matthieu stepped in before any of them could overpower the already tense mood. "Al—er, America's representation won't be in Washington, D.C. when Lord Britain—"

"England. We're Britain, lad—"

"Arrives with the Prime—er, bulldog. He's on a business trip," Matthieu finished, with all the unsure and guilty air of having lied to a group of elders. Arthur wasn't certain he'd even heard Alistair's insertion, but then, he wasn't trying to pay attention either; he had a feeling Matthieu would be giving him updates on his brother's position when they had privacy.

He didn't want to hear them. What he'd said to New Zealand was harsh, sure, but he didn't want to know what hare-brained idiot scheme Matthieu's brother had gotten himself into next. But most importantly, he didn't want to hear about the success. The freedom. The joy…

Any images that tried to resurface fell back when Matthieu, in masking the rubbish he fed the others, shot Arthur a flinty-eyed look that said, "Do you want to be run out of here?"

He had a point. Due to the rising tensions between the native Egyptians to his presence, their representative had made a point to seat himself as far away as possible from any Briton. Now, he was folded silently in his chair, observing while one of the many translators reiterated the English in Arabic to his ear. Arthur could only imagine what was going through his head right then, witnessing all of his English-speaking colonies picking bitter fights over trivial chinwags, but they both knew one thing: Arthur needed the Suez Canal. The Allies needed it. Preserving the transportation route and the oil reserves to the east was the sole reason they were stuck in the bloody desert, practically cowering behind their Gazala Line after the Germans' relentless, unending drive—again.

Yet, there were many in his kingdom who longed for an Axis victory.

And it likely didn't help that, back in February, his Minister Resident in Cairo had surrounded King Farouk's palace with tanks and forced him to appoint a pro-British regime. Yes, Arthur had been right pleased when he arrived late in the month to hear that.

After the disastrous night of King Lear, he'd told Churchill that he'd rather be on the front, so the Prime Minister had sent him back into the Desert War—Desert Stalemate, more like. The Germans and Italians under Erwin Rommel had been transformed from a weak Italian nuisance to a great and formidable foe skilled in the art of blitzing and terrorizing. Arthur had come into Gazala just as they were finishing reclaiming the lands lost to his forces several months before. In the course of a month, the allegiances of these cities had changed hands a second time. It was worse than it had been this time last year, when Rommel pushed them back to Egypt after two months.

His men—British, Australian, New Zealanders, Indian, South African and Polish alike—were low on esteem, Generals Ritchie and Auchinleck distraught, offering Arthur only feeble hopes for success. Fortune truly was fickle in this region, but Arthur hadn't been demoralized—only blindly devoted to finding a solution, weakness be damned.

They would rebuild, and they would win.

Clearing his throat, Arthur raised his voice to speak over the competing nations—most notable of which was India's primary representative, always looking for an excuse to fight with him. One would think he'd have learned how to wrangle him by now. "Can we get on with it, please?!"

Reluctantly, and with more than a little grumbling, the Empire quieted.

Huffing, Arthur dropped onto his seat and opened the first file. "Canada."

Matthieu sat straighter.

"Have you anything to report other than volunteer and industrial statistics?"

"Uh, well—" He looked quickly down at the notes in his lap. A sheen of sweat shone on his forehead, unaccustomed as he was to Mediterranean heat—even in shirtsleeves and trousers. "U-Boats have torpedoed and sunk two cargo ships in the St. Lawrence."

Arthur jotted a note on the file's inner cover, reminding himself to send this information to Churchill when he had the chance. "Brilliant. Where at? Québec? Montreal?"

"No, not that far in—the gulf, near Anticosti Island. The Navy hasn't been able to catch them, but radar's suggested that they may be doing more than preventing shipments." Matthieu pressed his lips together, recalcitrant as always around other company.

Arthur sighed. "I don't have time for suspenseful games, Canada."

"They might be dropping off spies—whether State- or Ottawa-bound, I don't know, but, well…"

"It's likely, is what you're saying."

"Oui."

It was incredible how quickly anything remotely French angered him. Arthur shot Matthieu a steely look harsher than the one the latter gave earlier, to which he only shrugged and grinned half-heartedly. "Making sure you're not totally down-trodden," he muttered.

"But in front of my brothers, honestly?" remarked Arthur through tight lips. Matthieu chuckled, earning skyward-lifted eyes from the two men in question. Ireland—still technically his charge but presently, ardently neutral, and a face he avoided more acutely than Scotland and Wales—would have been replaced by Arthur's nephew, Northern Ireland, if he'd been old enough. As it was, Arthur had left him in Belfast with a nanny. He'd had more than enough of playing the part of guardian.

Those around the table who could vouch for that declaration simply stared. No one had the heart to say it, but they all believed Matthieu to be his little whipping boy, his secretary. Unfortunately, they weren't entirely wrong.

What they were wise enough not to say was why.

"Moving on. Cape, you're still in charge of Operation Bonus, correct? How is that getting on—?"

"Ironclad."

"Oh, brilliant." Arthur jotted a note on the wrong file without noticing. "Don't have to worry about that, then—"

"You misunderstand me, Britain."

"For fuck's sake, it's England, man! Where's Èirinn when we need him to vouch for this, eh?"

No one acknowledged Scotland's remarks as Arthur lifted his head. Cape Colony—wait a tic, that wasn't right. Cape Province; Arthur should have known that. It had been thirty-two years since the Union, after all, and if he remembered correctly, his human name was Sizwe. He was a quiet man whose wishes and governing of the territory had frequently tested Arthur's limits since he'd had him pulled from the Xhosa to lead. A long way from the deep hue of those early years, his pigmentation changed every time he saw him, struggling to decide between light or dark. For now, it had settled on something in between that gave him the appearance of one who loved the sun. Yet, in spite of the changes Dutch and English inhabitants brought, his eyes never faltered from their deep color and, as of that moment, gazed at him warily underneath his veneer of calm.

Others—picking up on his pensiveness—were starting to as well, but Arthur wasn't certain what he'd done that was so strange. He thought of Matthieu's attempt at humor: Making sure you weren't totally down-trodden. Was that how he looked? Sure, he'd run out of his cigarettes last week, and his headaches were positively nightmarish, and his eyes were probably as dead as they had been last December, but surely wars didn't change his demeanor, not anymore. That much.

Yet again, he might be wrong. Everyone said this wasn't any old war like every other. This was different—in Churchill's words, mobile and scientific to an extent never used before. That meant death came more easily. More quickly, without a chance to say good night. Not that Arthur had ever been good at goodbyes. He clung, refused to let go until the dead had to kill him themselves.

Promise me, Alfred.

Arthur blinked rapidly and swallowed. He refused to show weakness again in full view of his brothers. "How do you mean?"

"The name of the operation became 'Ironclad', no longer 'Bonus'," he explained, patiently. "And it is stalling. Our forces have taken the northern ports—"

"Can you specify them, please?" Arthur yanked the proper file from the bottom of the stack and flipped it open, biting back a sigh. It hadn't been updated since the amphibious assault on the fifth of that month. Lovely.

Sizwe pressed his lips together, and Arthur realized that he probably shouldn't have asked that. Hardly anyone here was privy to the Madagascar invasion, let alone the reason why it was happening in the midst of a string of retreats and defeats here and in the Soviet Union. "Diégo Suarez and Antisirabe," he said, finally.

"Right. Go on."

By this point, several of the English-speaking colonies were sharing puzzled glances. The Cape Province was not among them; he had never been the type to scare easily. Few people at the table were. "The French governor will not surrender. He retreats to the south and blows up roads and bridges as he goes. He lays mines and traps for us and our tanks—"

"It's the bloody French. Vichy or not, what did you expect?" said Arthur exasperatedly, leaning his head against his fingertips. Some of the personifications and even a few of the translators placed about relaxed at that, although Matthieu pursed his lips and Scotland snorted. Talking rubbish about the foppish French meant their colonizer was in a good mood—or, at least, a bearable one.

Nonetheless, Cape Province's smile was bitter. "Nothing less, I assume."

"Precisely. Well, we'll see how it goes in the coming weeks before I send in reinforcements, all right?"

He nodded curtly.

"Anything else?" Australia asked, surprisingly amiable for his sour mood earlier.

Arthur felt a pang as he looked around the group of colonies and mandates, his dominions and his protectorates. Their wariness hadn't been out of concern. It had been fear. New Zealand alone seemed to be desperate for a post in the spotlight. The rest…

They all knew what happened if they crossed Arthur. Most, if not all of them, had felt his wrath at some point or another.

This was what he'd become. Someone—no, something to be feared. Hated, too, as some of their gazes suggested.

Was it better that way? His history had taught him to think so, but he felt strangely small when surrounded by so many representations of the human beings he'd marginalized and outright discriminated, the men and women and children whose customs and cultures his people had ignored in favor of their own mucked-up "utopia".

But fear was not a better method—especially not now—and as he looked down at his thin wrists and long fingers, the sinewy arms that stretched away from them and the scrawny legs underneath them—things that used to be strong and muscled—he hoped, when his Empire finally fell apart, that his successor wouldn't dig the same grave.

Promise me—

"Arthur?" Matthieu murmured. "You all right?"

"There are other issues to be discussed, but I trust your commanding officers will communicate your needs and updates well enough. Meeting adjourned." He didn't mean to sound so harsh; he couldn't help it, but Matthieu's hand left his shoulder lightning-quick, and chairs scraped against the tarp with the eagerness of wanting to leave.

Arthur had taught himself and been taught that fear was infinitely more effective than love. Only once, before he'd sworn off love, had he given himself to the beauty and magic of it. Only once, after he'd sworn off love, had he been weak enough to let his guard down. One died by the poisoned lance of revenge.

The other betrayed his trust.

Alarums pierced the still, humid air. Arthur startled—as did the personifications who hadn't yet left the tent.

And the announcement rang through the loudhailer cries of guns and positions: "Into positions! Italian army spotted due west! The Third Indian Motor Brigade reports Panzer divisions to the south, running the line at Bir Hakiem!"

By the tent flap, Matthieu sighed and said to Australia, "So much for not being invaded, eh?"


Footnotes:

New addition to abbreviated titles:
Unbroken = Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, by Laura Hillenbrand

America
1. When Alfred says he has a commercial pilot's license, those were possible to obtain in the thirties. Because he went up in the twenties, I think he would have been inspired to acquire a pilot's license as a way to get him out of the thirties' depression.

2. Air Force: In 1942, there were four Classification and Pre-Flight training centers across the US. The air base in Nashville, Tennessee, where this section is set, is one of them. Before being confirmed or rejected by the USAAF, hopeful cadets underwent intensive testing and Classification. Testing included a physical, multiple-choice general education tests, and physio-motor coordination tests. From what I understand, all of these were difficult and adhered to strict standards. Classification, on the other hand, was a confirmation from the USAAF, in which they sorted you as either a pilot, a navigator, or a bombardier.

On a different but related note, the "flight cap" Hap is described wearing is actually a service cap, but in the USAAF that's what they were known as.

3. Henry Harley "Hap" Arnold directed air strategies on all fronts of the war, but since Americans didn't land in Africa until November of 1942 (thanks in part to a lovely blockade of U-Boats in the Atlantic) it would be more plausible at this time that the Pacific War was his main focus. He received the nickname "Hap" from always having a pleasant expression despite being ill-tempered, intolerant of incompetence, and impatient. Regardless, this man was responsible for the entire Air Force branch and can claim contribution to the developments that forged the modern US Air Force before he died in 1950. He survived four heart attacks before his heart finally gave out—hence Alfred's comment.

Alfred outranking him in the army just means that while Arnold was a three-star general at the time this takes place, Alfred was a four-star, or "full" general. The five star generals you hear about (and which Arnold eventually was) weren't created until 1944, and even then they were only awarded during World War II and posthumously.

4. The name of the secretary is a brief tribute to Jacqueline Cochran, who was born Bessie Lee Pittman, head of the WASP program 1942 – 1944.

5. Fireside Chat: This was given at 10 p.m. EST on 23 February 1942. It seemed pertinent to include because it captures the feeling that America is at this point still kind of unprepared but ready and willing to throw themselves into the effort. I wish I could have fit more, but much of it didn't really apply to Alfred's situation. Instead, it served—as I'm sure you've guessed—as a sort of passage into the following scenes, so if you have time, go to the FDR Presidential Library website and look up the recording (source listed below). It's quite moving.

There is one part—and I didn't put in in here because it wouldn't fit—where he talks about not giving special advantages to any one group or race. I thought it kind of ironic, almost like he was acknowledging the elitist mistake he made in giving Alfred that special advantage.

Oh, and yes, according to Franklin and Winston, Churchill did hear this Fireside Chat in London. He called it "heartening." He was able to listen because radios in the thirties and forties were built with shortwave bands that allowed for international broadcasting.

Section Sources:
"Aviation Cadet Training Program (USAAF)" – Wikipedia
"FDR Audio Recordings: Recordings and Utterances of Franklin D. Roosevelt: 1920 - 1945" – Franklin Delano Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum website
"Four-star Generals" – Wikipedia
Franklin and Winston
"Franklin D. Roosevelt, Master Speech File, 1898 – 1945: Box 66" – FDR Presidential Library and Museum website
"General Henry H. Arnold" – US Air Force website
"General Henry H. 'Hap' Arnold: Architect of America's Air Force" – C.V. Glines, History. Net
USAAF Handbook: 1939 – 1945, by Martin W. Bowman
When Books Went to War, by Molly Guptill Manning

Japan
1. Nihon is Japanese for "Japan". Nippon is another name (I'm not certain of the difference other than one is more formal than the other), but the Hetalia Archives state that Himaruya chose Japan's surname "Honda" in relation to "Nihon", so that's what I'm using.

2. Manchukuo: technically Manchuria, but I think Japan would be just brainwashed and confused enough to use the name of the puppet state instead. The invasion took place in September 1931.

3. State of Mind: To give you an overview of what Japan was like at this time, the imperial regime was basically overthrown by the military, where nationalism ran strongest in the twenties. After the Kanto Earthquake in 1923 cost them two years' worth of oil supplies, many officers deluded themselves into thinking that the only way to win global respect and to secure the supplies and resources they needed but their island lacked was through territorial expansion. Thus, over the next decade or so, the military subverted the civil government and staged assassinations of Diet members, eventually murdering the Prime Minister (Inukai Tsuyoshi) in 1932. From then on, they built up their navy and armies under a punishing regime.

Because of the huge emphasis on honor and bushido (samurai system of morals and ethics that governed behavior) in this regime, I think Japan would have trouble deciding what exactly to do. He couldn't staunchly support the Allies because it would disgrace him. But I don't believe he could look at what his army was doing and think it was acceptable. Thus, he's left in this limbo that drags him from one extreme to the other and tears his head apart.

4. Co-Prosperity Sphere: This was kind of Japan's version of Lebensraum. The Japanese proposed a Greater East Asia in which all native Asians would benefit, but the truth was, they favored some people more than others, depending on degrees of loyalty and respect given. As WWII puts it, "Japan promised much but delivered absolutely nothing. The Co-Prosperity Sphere was merely a convenient mask for Japanese imperial ambition" (160). Any benefit went more to individual people than to whole nations.

5. Allies: At this point, their butts had pretty much been unceremoniously kicked out of the western Pacific. I considered listing all the places that Japan had conquered by early May 1942, but realized that would be a looong list. About the only places that weren't captured in the west Pacific at this time were Papua (to Australia) and Australia itself (New Zealand's more South Pacific, don't you think?).

Corregidor, the last US stronghold in the Pacific, fell on 6 May. The Battle of the Coral Sea took place the day after. Result? The Japanese call off their attack on Port Moresby in Papua, which control of would have isolated Australia from the Allies.

As for the desertion bit, the Burmese were, but I'm not sure about anyone else. To be fair, the leader of occupied Burma at this time, Ba Maw, was a big proponent of the Co-Prosperity Sphere and used slave labor - everyone from his own citizens to POWs - to build the Burma Railway; I can understand if they just wanted out of the land altogether.

6. Doolittle Raid: On 18 April 1942, 16 B-25 bombers launched off an aircraft carrier to bomb-raid five Japanese cities, Tokyo being the main target. The raid was a super successful precursor to Midway, both claiming vengeance for Pearl Harbor, and it proved to the Japanese that their land was vulnerable. Japanese officials were furious—especially when they found out that many of the eighty American servicemen had landed safely and were being helped by the free Chinese (to the point where Sino-American relations today make it almost depressing to look back at the kindness they offered so many decades before). The raid opened Japanese eyes to a blind spot in their defenses, so troops went on another pillaging spree to find them and to punish the Chinese who helped them. The worst part was that both American and Chinese officials predicted that retaliation would happen. The resulting spree, according to the Smithsonian website, was as bad as Nanking, claiming 250,000 lives.

7. Pearl Harbor (continuing the footnote "Japan" from chapter 3): Although the Japanese had created plans prior, the decision to attack Pearl Harbor was not made until 1 December 1941, having been discussed two days before. The commander-in-chief of the Japanese Combined Fleet, Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, made an uncanny prediction of his navy's strength—6 months Japan would last in war against the US, after which it would be crushed. As another upcoming battle soon proved, he was correct. He, like Hirohito, did not want war with the US.

8. 1853: Remember the episode where Alfred mistook the President's request to make friends with Japan and became friends with a whale? Yeah, that's what this is—except, it's the part where he went to Japan, not the whale (sorry, whale dude!). Anyway, Commodore Perry and, five years later, Consul General Townsend Harris through the "Japan-US Treaty of Amity and Friendship" and the "Harris Treaty" kind of forced Japan to open trade to the West, whom the latter had shut out for over 200 years due to fears of cultural and religious influence (particularly the Christian missionaries) and foreign rule (look west to India and China). If you'll recall the episodes, the narrator starts listing some of the conditions in the two treaties, some of which were real, some of which were not. "Most Favored Nation" treatment? That's true, and it means that any privileges Japan gives to other nations later, the US receives as well. No offense, Alfred, but that sounds exactly like the kind of thing he'd do.

"Edo" was the former name for Tokyo before the fall of the Shogunate in 1868, when the Meiji Restoration period began.

9. Bomber Vests: Chinese Nationalists sometimes used suicide squads or "Dare to Die Corps" against the Japanese and Communists during World War II. They strapped grenade packs or dynamite to their chests, threw themselves at the Japanese or under their tanks and blew themselves up. Not pleasant, but it was known to be effective in a couple battles.

10. According to Unbroken, those that were guards in Japan's POW camps and interrogation centers were "the dregs of the Japanese military"—those that didn't make the cut anywhere else (194). Having Japan play guard for that would be incredibly dishonoring.

11. Hong Kong: Hetalia Archives lists his name being either "Wang Jia Long" or "Li Xiao Chun". I thought keeping China's surname sounded reasonable, and that China would use the original Mandarin Chinese instead of Cantonese, in which case Hong Kong's human name would be "Wong Kha Loung".

Section Sources:
"General Henry Harley 'Hap' Arnold: Architect of America's Air Force" – C.V. Glines, History. Net
"The Hidden History Within Hetalia" – Hetalia: World Series, season 4, disc 2
"Human Names" – Hetalia Archives
"National Revolutionary Army" – Wikipedia
"Tokyo's History, Geography, and Population" – Tokyo Metropolitan Government website
Unbroken
"The Untold Story of the Vengeful Japanese Attack After the Doolittle Raid" – James M. Scott, Smithsonian website
WWII

Russia
1. "Secret agents in England" refers mainly to the Cambridge Five, five men who worked within Britain's foreign intelligence agencies, MI5 and MI6, to give intel to the NKVD, who were Stalin's secret police and the primary executors of the Great Purges in the 1930s.

2. The Great Purge—or, the Great Terror, as it's also known—in itself is exactly what it sounds like: a massive purge of the Communist Party and Soviet territories of anyone considered anti-Soviet. As I understand it, it was enacted in part by man-made famine in Russia and the Ukraine, by Trotskyism (followers of Russian Revolutionary Leon Trotsky and a synonym for anarchism/radical socialism), and by Stalin's own paranoid nature. The first two years, 1933 and 1934, targeted corruption and inefficiency. After that, the purges became political and paranoid—obsessions over opposition to Stalin's leadership—and in 1939, after conquering the Baltics and Finland, these peoples were heavily targeted and murdered, imprisoned, and sent to slavery in Siberia. Hetalia discusses this in a few episodes—it pretty much encompasses the Baltic characters' personalities—but not extensively.

In terms of word usage, gulags were the labor camps that prisoners and expelled Party members were sent to. Kolkhozes were collective farms in the country, set up after driving kulaks (peasants of any financial standing suspected of opposing the farm collectivization) out of their lands.

3. The special units mentioned refer to those that, shortly after the invasion of 1941, relocated the war industries from western and central Russia across the Ural Mountains as a means of protection from the Nazis.

4. As for why Stalin is sometimes referred to as "Comrade", it's not meant to be stereotyping. The KGB source (listed below) quotes Vladimir Georgievich Dekanozov, the head of the USSR's foreign security department, referring to him as such, so it seemed appropriate (252).

5. Southwestern Front: In chapter four, one of the footnotes mentioned Soviet-German fighting halted in January. That's incorrect, I've discovered. On 20 January 1942, the Soviets launched a counter-offensive, creating a bulge in the Axis front, but it doesn't seem as though it was productive otherwise. At the earliest, then, fighting halted by February rather than January.
Side note: a tentative plan for a Western European front in 1943 was laid out by Roosevelt to Churchill in April 1942.

6. Ivan: Being alive "1,100 years" assumes that Ivan was born c.860 AD, around when the people of Novgorad (a princedom that eventually consolidates into nascent Russia proper in the 1300s) elected a man named Rurik as their ruler. This puts him at around the same age as his sisters, Katyusha (Ukraine) and Natalia (Belarus).

Although "Braginski" is the popular fandom surname for Russia, the "-ski" suffix is Polish. Properly Russian, his name would be "Braginsky".

7. Byelorussia, 1942 = Belarus, present-day

8. Prussia: Going all the way back to his birth in the 1180s, he was from the start designed to be devoutly Christian. The crusading religious order he represented (Order of the Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem—talk about a mouthful, right?) was created to give pilgrims heading into the Holy Land military defense and medical support, until they were recruited by Poland to defend them against the pagan tribes of Prussia (yep, it existed simultaneously), both of which had made repeated attempts to convert their opposing peoples. The Order itself became a State in 1224, and by the end of the thirteenth century, Prussia had been conquered. The Order turned on their allies by attacking the pagan peoples of Lithuania and eventually Poland itself, igniting over two centuries of conflict. Internal issues, however, were the ultimate bane of the Teutonic Knights, and the State fell apart in 1525, becoming the Duchy of Prussia under King Sigismund I of Poland. The Order itself still exists today.

It is canon that Prussia loathes Russia, but it doesn't seem to specify why, excepting Russia's (technically Novgorad's) snap in the Battle on the Ice episode, set in 1242. Given his history with militant Christianity, it seems like Ivan's pagan origins might be part of the source for Gilbert's enmity.

9. Alcohol was a huge factor in why and how men fought. Soviet men would often get drunk before going into a fight. When none was available, however, many sides of the war would attempt to make it themselves, or at least something with a similar effect. US Infantry in Germany mixed grape juice and anti-freeze. In the USSR, they filtered anti-freeze through gas masks and drank it straight. Many went blind as a result.

10. The name Liev means "lion-like, brave"; Nikolai means "victory of the people".

A special thanks to Slovenskych for her help with this section.

Section Sources:
AAHII
Between Shades of Grey, by Ruta Sepetys (fiction, but it draws from real, individual stories of Lithuanian experiences in the gulags.)
"The Hidden History Within Hetalia" – Hetalia: World Series, season four, disc 2
The History Buff's Guide to World War II, by Thomas R. Flagel
"Human names" – Hetalia Archives
KGB: The Inside Story, by Christopher Andrew and Oleg Gordievsky
Primary Source
WWII

British Empire
1. Names: I really debated in this section whether to use human names or nation names outside of dialogue. To me, the use of a human name denotes a relationship, where a formal nation name is polite and, even if the two are friends, is used in a formal setting, such as Arthur does with Matthieu in the meeting. I try to avoid using nation names outside of dialogue if I can help it. It makes them seem less human; on the other hand, using the nation name belies some of Arthur's apathy towards his colonies and brothers (in respect to his history with them individually, not collectively), so I decided to go with it this chapter. (The same was done with Gilbert and Ivan above.)

2. Darwin: The Japanese didn't intend to invade Australia, but they did consider it a threat and wanted to cut it off from the other Allies (hence, Port Moresby), so they began an extended series of bombing raids on Darwin, which was the only port able to reinforce the Allies. Five days after this conversation, however, three Japanese submarines would attack Sydney Harbour, sinking three merchant ships and killing nineteen sailors.

3. New Zealand: According to the Hetalia Archives, New Zealand has no official human name, so I picked one! Oliver doesn't actually mean "olive tree". It comes from the Norse Áleifr, meaning "ancestor's descendant". Given that, according to the archives, New Zealand is described as getting along with England and not wanting Australia's wild personality to ruin things for him, it seemed fitting that he would pick something that draws on England's influence in the hopes that Arthur might like him more.

4. Desert War: Firstly, their location: the Gazala Line was the Allies' defensive line by the time this takes place in late May, stretching 35 miles (55 km) from the Libyan coast to Bir Hakiem, which was a little Free French fort, and not very far from the Egyptian border. Cities and offensives changed hands a lot in the war, but the front frequently went months without fighting, because the times that they did wiped out their supplies. Basically, when Erwin Rommel relieved the Italians in February 1941 and attacked in March, he pushed the British all the way back into Egypt, from whom the Italians had been driven out the previous December of 1940. That November, however, the British tried again, and pushed the Germans and Italians back to their starting point in El Agheila, in western Libya. The following January, Rommel strikes again, and here we are, at the Gazala Line. What is beginning as the scene closes is not El Alamein; that comes in November.

British troops in the desert were diverse in terms of ethnicity, coming from all over their colonies, but the diversity included Polish troops. Poles formed an extensive arm in the British armed forces after much of their forces escaped with their governments to London. In the desert, the Polish Carpathian Divisions formed part of the Eighth Army.

5. Egypt: Remember the episode in season 6, set around this time in the desert, where America goes to introduce himself to the Egyptian natives and gets utterly rejected? The line of "I hate the British" is actually kind of true. Egyptians tolerated British presence in their country, having been a colony since 1882, but the king was ardently neutral. He refused to make any commitment to the Allied cause. This frustrated the British, and as defeats kept coming in and the behavior of the British troops got worse, tensions arose. It is true that members of the political elite and the military wanted an Axis victory, probably due to this. Likewise, the bit about forcing King Farouk to elect a pro-British government is also true.

6. India: Around this time, India—"a huge masala of ethnic, linguistic and religious groups"—consisted of at least 565 "princely states" and groups directly administered by the British (Rodenbeck). Thus, the likelihood of India having more than one representative for each of the various groups is high—similar to the Native Americans, discussed in chapter three. If one had to be chosen to represent India at the table, the British Viceroy would most likely have had to choose.

7. Canada: No, I'm not sure if that statistic is true, but yes, U-Boats were in the St. Lawrence. Specifically, the lower river, the gulf, the Belle Isle Strait, Anticosti Island, the Cabot Strait, and Halifax Harbor. It was an extension of the Battle of the Atlantic, primarily aimed at shipments to Britain, but it is possible they were dropping off spies or trying to pick up POWs.

8. Irish Issues: Formerly a British possession, Ireland became the "Irish Free State" in 1922, and Northern Ireland was created the year before, after a ceasefire was declared on the island. Britain would not let Ireland become a Republic, but they offered Dominion status, putting the nation on equal standing with Canada, Australia, and South Africa.

Most people think that Northern Ireland is England's brother, but that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me—especially if I'm going with the theory that nations are born from the womb. He would have come in so late—much later than the others—and given the closeness in time of their countries' development, Ireland being Arthur's brother seems more logical. Granted, I don't know much about early British history—the Gaels, the Picts, the Celts, etc.—but if you'd like to know more, head on over to Kimanda's story, Behind the Mask. She does a good job of explaining bits and pieces of Irish history.

Speaking of Ireland, Èirinn is the Scottish Gaelic for Ireland. (If someone would like to provide the proper pronunciation for this, I would be grateful.)

I apologize, too, to any Irish or Northern Irish people reading this. I know the relationship between your lands is a sensitive topic, and that the idea of Ireland being the father of Northern Ireland may be disquieting.

9. South Africa: Cape of Good Hope Province, 1942 = South Africa, present-day (relatively).

In 1910, the Cape Colony, Natal, Transvaal, and Orange Free State were integrated into the Union of South Africa. The latter three were Boer Republics annexed by Britain, while the Cape Colony made up a good portion of South Africa proper. The reason thus for the fluctuation in South Africa's pigmentation in this section is because of the changes in area occupancy. It began in 1652 with a settlement by the Dutch East India Company, who engaged in slave trade with their other colonies in order to supplement labor for food and livestock. These are the people—both the Dutch and the transferred slaves—who became Afrikaners, or Boers. The native Khoekhoe (or Khoikhoi) seemed to get along relatively well with the Dutch settlers; it may have been a combination of interracial marriage and language nuances that developed the language Afrikaans, at least until disease killed thousands of Khoekhoe, and the remainder fled the area.

Great Britain did not come into the picture until 1795, when they seized the colony to keep it out of French hands—Holland's ally at the time—and permanently assumed rule in 1814. After that, there were a lot of boundary changes, republics established and demolished, frontier wars with the natives, etc. By the time this takes place, segregation was heavy in the area (including the denial of voting rights to Africans) and the Cape Province was economically outsized by the Transvaal. Domestic happiness wasn't very high.

"Sizwe" is an isiXhosa name meaning "nation". According to the Nelson Mandela Foundation, children of each individual clan receive a new name when they undergo "initiation" (a rite of passage to manhood) at the age of sixteen. By the time he would have physically reached that age, it might have been evident to South Africa's originating clan that he was important to something more. I'm not familiar with indigenous South African customs, so this tentative and absolutely open to change should anyone with knowledge like to inform me, but I chose the Xhosa (AmaXhosa) due to their inhabitation strictly in present-day South Africa.

10. Madagascar: Operation Ironclad (formerly called Bonus) was a precautionary takeover of the Vichy-French governed island following reasonable suspicion and paranoia that the Japanese intended to invade (to be fair, they did have submarines active in the Mozambique Channel on the west side, two of which damage the HMS Ramillies two days after the Empire meeting). Thus, a plan was made and carried out on 5 May 1942. The Vichy French made a stand in the northern port cities for two days, until they saw destroyers come in under fire. Then they surrendered. But the governor (and, consequently, the rest of the island) refused, and contrary to what Arthur promises, British troops actually leave in June, leaving the job to South African, East African, and Northern Rhodesian (present-day Zambian) troops. Although there was aid sent in September, the operation went on for exactly six months in poor conditions before the governor finally surrendered on 5 November.

Section Sources:
AAHII
ALHC
"All About History Book of the Victorians" – Imagine Publishing Ltd.
"Cape Province" – Encyclopedia Britannica
A Concise History of Australia, by Stuart Macintyre
"Èire" – Wikipedia
Franklin and Winston
"Hissing cousins: Why India and Pakistan hate each other" – Max Rodenbeck, The Economist
"History of South Africa" – Wikipedia
"Human names" – Hetalia Archives
"Irish Free State" - Wikipedia
"Names" – Nelson Mandela Foundation
"New Zealand" – Hetalia Archives
"Sizwe" – Behind the Name website
"Xhosa people" – Wikipedia
WWII

Quote Source: Goodreads—truly, the words were inspired by the Red Queen from Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, but I don't think that's in public domain, so I can't quote it here.

So...that's a lot. I've edited and revised, but if you see any big mistakes, please don't hesitate to contact me.
The next chapter will be a bit more along the lines of an M for two reasons: blood, and a little gore.
Please be advised.