Bit of a shorter one today, lads. But then again, after the last two, anything would seem shorter, da?
CadetJen: You can't see it, but I grinned like an idiot for a full five minutes after reading your review. Despite my complaining about it, I really have to thank you for getting me addicted—this is the longest, most serious, deepest, and probably the best thing I have ever written. As for your stunning good (or food) looks and athleticism…I call you America for more than one reason, you know. I'm really bad at gracefully accepting compliments, especially in person, so, er, yeah. Yeah. Thanks. *bad poker face rageface* And now I'll go not print out your review and not hide it somewhere special. Not at all.
vesana: Thanks! Despite his mind breaking, I like to think that the America we know and love was somewhere underneath the insanity the whole time, and it shows through his refusal to hurt any of his people or Canada no matter how crazy he was.
I giggled as I wrote it, too ;) I have to admit, 'git' is one of my favorite words. It just clicks against the palate, doesn't it? So many of our obscenities feel gross and squishy, but 'git' just delightfully snaps out.
ScatteredSands: I knew it! Anyone aside from America anyone who thinks 'gitosity' is an awesome word has to be from the 70s ;D And if you're an awful person, I'm worse since although I didn't like having to put him through that, I utterly enjoyed myself while thinking up new ways to make him crazy.
Temporary War Room, France: November 1917, World War I
America walks into the conference room appointed them with his usual long, confident strides, bright grin already affixed to his face and paragraphs ready to spill from his mouth, but he can't help but pause at the sight of the man waiting for him.
He knows England—despite his disdainful attitude—would have worn his best uniform for meeting his newest and most important ally in the Great War, but the brown dye is paled and leached away by multiple washings and, though the ironed creases are as ramrod-straight as his spine, the cloth at elbows and knees is worn visibly thin.
America double-takes. Dull brown—where has that vibrant red gone? He knows, in a distant sort of way, that the British military abandoned their bright uniforms a few years ago so they didn't stick out like sore thumbs any more than they already did with the eyebrows and the constant smell of burnt food, but he supposes it never really occurred to him that England himself would do the same. It was—is—unthinkable. A military England without his red uniform is jarring, unbalancing. To America, Red England is British war, yet here England sits in brown as muddy and despairing as his trenches, as flat and tired as the creases at the corners of his eyes.
The scarlet cloak is still present, though, thrown over the end of the table in those endless folds of bloody red, and America wonders at how relieved he finds himself at seeing the old bastard. It at least is its usual dramatic, sweeping self, lines of England's tiny repairing stitches webbed all across it.
"It's about time you got your arse here, idiot. I've been waiting for ages," England grumbles. They both know England's not just talking about America's arrival at the meeting room.
America taps Texas with a finger. "Of course, England, I can't just let Mexico take these babies back. I need them if I want to see anything on your face past those fuzzy caterpillars!" He laughs and, to his surprise, sneezes.
England's hand is at his forehead in a moment, a scowl appearing like a clenching fist. "You feel a tad warm, America. How's the old economy doing?"
"Fine. Great, actually, with the build up for the war."
"Hmmm."
"It's probably just the dust in this old room of yours, England. Doesn't France have anything classier to welcome his hero with? Where is he, anyway?
"France is…indisposed. And don't end a sentence in a preposition. Yes…the dust and rubble, that must be it." England still looks pensive, though. America searches for something to distract the old man from his endless worrying. Sometimes the mighty British Empire is such a mother hen.
"Wait, England, did I just catch you caring for a minute there?"
He snatches his hand back from where it still rests on America's forehead. England's suitably sidetracked now, but America mourns the loss of its cool presence. "What? Certainly not, you berk. I was merely concerned about the health of an ally. It makes my job a good deal more difficult if you prats get ill and I have to shoulder even more of the burden of the war than I already am. I'd do the same for any ally."
America's snicker somehow turns into a cough. "What, even France?"
He sighs, rubs his forehead. "Yes. I've had to bandage him up several times already."
"And Russia?
"Well, Russia's…Russia. He's a special case. My point is still valid."
"What's going on with him, anyway?"
"I heard there was a bit of unrest—hopefully it'll all blow over soon and he can go back to throwing his people into machine gun fire."
"Ouch, England. Harsh much?"
"Once you get into this war, America, you'll very quickly learn why I am the way I am right now." He looks into the distance to only something he can see, and regret and weariness washes across his face. He whispers, so quietly it must be meant for only his own ears, "Sometimes I wonder when war stopped being fun."
They let the silence stretch between them for a minute. It is surprisingly relaxed—this whole meeting is—as far as encounters with England go. America supposes three years of brutal trench warfare might calm down even England.
The moment ends in a blink as England turns back to America. "Now you no doubt have much to prepare for if you're to be at all useful. We'll have more to discuss in a few days about supplies and troop deliveries and such." He waves a dismissive hand.
"Yup. I'll send you the rest of the paperwork and maps and stuff in a day or two once we get everything sorted out. I've gotta go meet with my people about that now, actually. We'll be meeting to plan more in-depth soon, right?"
"Most certainly, if we're to coordinate properly to win this blasted thing."
America leaps to his feet and heads to the exit with a backwards wave. "See ya then, England!"
"America?"
He pauses at the door. "Yeah?"
There's something mumbled that might have been a 'thank you' with a hasty "Just don't be late for a war again, you understand?" on its tail.
"Haven't you heard, England? This is the war to end all wars." America laughs again, which somehow ends in another sneeze—doesn't France have maids to do the dusting or something?—and bounces out.
~o0O0o~
And so America entered the war and saved the Allies like the hero he was. It was only a few months after that day that the 1918 Influenza Pandemic began. What a fool he had been to ignore the signs—but who could have anticipated something like that on top of a war that horrific?
The Great War changed everything, broke the back of every empire whether they admitted it or not. It was a new age, a new breed of war and a new breed of peace. In the trenches there was as much place for red coats and sweeping gestures as there were for Poland's ponies. No, that war and the one after were wars of dank brown mud and dingy green and bitter biting rain. And so England packed away his reds, put Red England back in his closet, and donned the greens and browns of camouflage and grime. Even the infamous scarlet mantle ended up put away, carefully protected against the gnawing jaws of time. For though it seemed he could not use it for this particular war, afterward England would need its power again. Surely. Rule Britannia forever…?
Nevertheless, World War I was the beginning of the end of the British Empire, the slow but inevitable burial of the man England was. Yet it was not the last time America saw England in red.
America entered the war in April 6, 1917. I'm imagining for this scene America's been too busy figuring out stuff at home and England's been too busy fighting for them to really have a conversation beyond "Hey I'm joining the war!" and "Too bloody right you are. Get your arse down here already." So this is the first time they've actually been able to talk.
Mexico taking Texas: The Zimmermann Telegram was an intercepted (and decoded by British intelligence) message from German Foreign Secretary Arthur Zimmermann to his ambassador to Mexico, Heinrich von Eckardt on January 16, 1917. It was sent in anticipation of the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare in the next month, which was thought to bring still-neutral America into the war on the side of the Allies since President Wilson had made it rather clear how much he didn't like that sort of ungentlemanly warfare. The Telegram told Eckhardt that if the U.S. looked like it was going to jump into the fray, he was to approach the Mexican government with a proposal for military alliance, a big stack of cash from Germany, and the promise of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona if they invaded the U.S. This would have distracted America just a bit, would it not? But then British intelligence passed on the translated and decoded telegram (while simultaneously pretending no, they hadn't figured out the German codes, and no, they weren't snooping on America's communications). It was at that point that die Scheisse hit der Lüfter.
After it all came out, Mexico, who wasn't an idiot, politely told Germany to go to hell in response. One of the (several) reasons why attacking America was a bad idea was even if they did manage to seize those states, they would then have to pacify the large, English-speaking, and above all well-armed populace. Ah, Texas and their beloved Second Amendment!
England's abandonment of the red: The reign of red ended at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th century as advances in weapons technology and Britain's Great Game against Russia in the Middle East and Central Asia showed that it was, in fact, a very bad idea to be bright red in the middle of a desert when a few properly aimed guns could take men down until the sand matched the color of their wool coats. Khaki service dress was correspondingly adopted in 1902 and brown uniforms were worn in World War I. I think that England being who he is, though, he would have tried to hold on to the past represented in his reds for as long as possible and only put away his scarlet cloak as the war wore on and its weakness in this sort of war was revealed.
An indisposed France: How do you manage to be a pervy woobie, France? During the World Wars the French military took heavy losses, the country was torn by bombardment and the advancing line of German occupation, and materiel (not material) was exhausted beyond belief. I have the feeling France spent a lot of time bleeding out on a cot with barely the strength to feel up the nurses. Ah, France. I simultaneously have the urge to hug you and stay as far away from your wandering hands as possible.
A bit of unrest in Russia: Ever heard of something called the Bolshevik revolution? Red October? Russia found his own power in scarlet…a power called Soviet Russia. Interesting note: What was October in Russia was actually November in the Gregorian calendar we use today and most of us used then. So as England and America speak the Glorious Revolution is happening!
The Revolution was caused in part by dissatisfaction with Russia's high wartime casualty rate (see the line about 'throwing his men into machine gun fire') and general military suckishness on their side of the war. Once the Bolsheviks took control, an armistice was called and negotiations with Germany began in December. As a result, the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk was signed in March 1918, and Germany was ceded huge tracts of land in Ukraine (heheh), Poland, the Baltics, and Finland. Though at first a huge high-five moment for the Germans, they quickly found (to their surprise, for some reason) that trying to hold all that land and manage it properly took rather a lot of manpower that would have been better used to kill enemy soldiers.
Oh, and if you go to the Wikipedia page on the October Revolution, there's a painting of a man with a long white scarf…Russia sighting, anyone?
"don't be late to a war again": Oh, England, if you only knew… Americans are late to everything. It's like we have the need to be the dramatic cavalry rescue at the very end of the movie. Or we like being deux ex machina. In TvTropes parlance, we love our Big Damn Heroes moments. Have fun losing the rest of your lives: tvtropes . org / pmwiki / pmwiki . php / Main / BigDamnHeroes
"the war to end all wars": What with the sheer magnitude and destruction of the war, it certainly seemed so at the time.
'doesn't France have maids to do the dusting or something?': Maids to dust that are of French citizenship? French maids. *wiiiiink*
The Influenza Pandemic of 1918: In my head!canon, nation-people show signs of illness either as a reflection of their economical state or if enough of their people become ill from a particular disease/a disease has enough of an impact on the national culture/consciousness. So America might have developed some of the symptoms of polio in the 40s and 50s even though the numbers of affected children were relatively low.
This scene is set in very late 1917, and the first recorded case of the influenza was in January 1918 in Kansas, but I couldn't resist a bit of foreshadowing and more pretendingnottocare!England, and if I really need to I can blame it all on America's wonky future-sense-thing. And for all we know, it really was dusty in the room since all the French maids were busy being nurses desperately trying to save soldiers' lives. Er. Sorry for the mood whiplash there.
Early symptoms of the 'flu included sneezing, coughing, and fever, along with a bunch of other stuff I didn't put in because he hasn't really begun to get sick, just is getting the first niggling signs of it. It was especially brutal since it mostly hit young people (e.g. malnourished soldiers stuck in cramped, dirty trenches with injuries and little medical aid). This was unusual because usually diseases like these hit the very young and very old—it's hypothesized that the older generation was mostly spared due to immunity built up in the Russian flu pandemic of 1889. It also hit young people harder because it creates cytokine storms, which hurt those with healthy immune systems more than those with weaker. It's an over-exaggerated response to a pathogen (distantly similar to an allergic reaction) that can create a fatal feedback loop where too many immune cells are activated in the same place and begin to attack the body.
The disease killed up to 20% of those infected, as opposed to the usual flu mortality rate of 0.1%. The enormous toll was caused by an extremely high infection rate of 50% and the horrific severity of the symptoms, which varied widely and were beyond nasty. In the U.S., 28% of the population was affected, and worldwide some 500 million (27% of the world's population) were infected. It killed more people than all of the fighting did in WWI (~35 million). Between 50 and 100 million died.
It was also known as the Spanish Flu since the newspapers in neutral Spain weren't as censored as the warring nations'. In these the disease's extent and impact was downplayed to simultaneously keep morale alive and make themselves seem less affected to the enemy than they actually were.
And on that note, we travel on to the next and last flashback.