And now for my favorite flashback (and coincidentally the first one I wrote).
I have no reviews to respond to! *weeps, considers petty withholding of the last chapter* D:
England's London home, The Blitz, early 1941
America chuckles mischievously to himself as he sneaks up to England's door. He and his Eagle Squadron boys finally have a night off to rest up and prepare for more action, and America's going to put the time to excellent use, yes sirree. He jumps a little when he hears the air-raid sirens go off. He's still not used to the stupid things.
America hasn't seen England since he was officially welcomed upon arrival in Great Britain a few months before. His country might still be officially neutral, but he and some of his boys just itched to get up in the air and into the fight. In the end he didn't even have to pretend to be Canadian! It was a win all around, really. At the formal meet-and-greet England had stood there unbendingly next to his officials, looking tired and thinner but very much his usual grumpy, eyebrow-ed self and was so undeniably alive that America couldn't help but stand there and grin stupidly for a moment before boisterously shaking his hand.
Then and always after England didn't ask when America's finally going to join the war. Too proud, always too proud. Unfortunately America's just as proud, can't admit how he wishes he could help, would do anything to swoop in and save the old man. But his people didn't want to get involved in yet another European war, not when the last one had such a cost. They are all far too busy at home, trying not to starve. America's doing what he can despite the neutrality, sending supplies, loaning battleships...nevertheless he understands now what England meant on that day in 1872. Sometimes you can't change what your country is doing even if you are the country.
He is shaken out of his gloomy and all-too-familiar thoughts by the blasts of distant explosions, and he hesitates for a moment before concluding they are too far off to need to start worrying.
With his night off, now is the perfect time to invite himself over to light up the older nation's evening with his awesome self. As in all things, America now just has to make the perfect, most heroic entrance possible.
He pauses outside for just the briefest moment, then throws open the door with a jarring crash. He's already talking as he bursts inside.
"England! How's it going! You know I had the weirdes—whoa" and abruptly finds himself looking at the nastier end of a pistol. Briefly shocked into silence, America stares at the hard green eyes before him. The stillness stretches endlessly between them…and snaps with a nearly audible twang as England calmly puts down the gun and takes a sip from the teacup in his other hand.
"Ah. Good evening, America," he says imperturbably.
America continues to gape, the words that were so easily rolling off his tongue suddenly nowhere to be found.
England smirks. "Goodness, America. If I knew I could shut you up just by pointing a gun at you, I'd do it more often."
"You- you-" His mind floods with images of suave, impeccably-dressed gentlemen behind gun barrels tossing off one-liners in oh god that accent and that smile and just coolly drinking that tea (except no, tea's nasty, try a martini instead) and defeating villains with awesome gadgets yesyesyes and explosions and damsels swooning and—his deliriously happy imagination is wrenched away as England begins to speak again.
"You're not about to pass out, are you? It's not as though I can carry your fat self to a bed if you do." The words don't conceal the slight hint of concern in his voice.
America collapses onto a chair. "Dammit, England! You were so cool until you started with the insults!"
England sniffs contemptuously, but he can't hide the pleased pinking of his too-pale cheeks. "Git. At any rate, why are you here?"
America bounces upright in his seat and begins gesticulating wildly. "Oh yeah! Well my boys are kicking so much German butt like you wouldn't believe! Just the other day this wing was getting all up in our business but we were like NO WAY MAN and hey are those cookies?"
"Biscuits, you twat—"
"Well anyway we mmph vroooom and then it was like pewpewpew *crunch* and this sweet flip mrmff never knew what hit him! Kapow! *munchmunch* explosion! Oh yeah and Canadia's *chomp* doing pretty good too, not as awesome as mmfth hero Americans though of course! Ahahahaha! Oh and this one time we—Hey England, your clothes are all wet. What didja do, forget your umbrella again, old man? Ahahaha!" He leans forward and pokes England in one of the damp patches.
England looks down at the front of his dull green military uniform without much surprise. "No, I must have spilled some tea when you barged in like the uncouth barbarian you are. If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll go change."
He stands, even stiffer than the usual stick-up-his-butt-England-stiff, and swiftly strides from the room.
America shrugs at the prissy Brit's fastidiousness—but dang, that must have been a lot of tea—and reaches for another cookie, only to stop and stare at his hand.
There's blood on his forefinger.
He feels no pain, has no cut; it certainly isn't his. He stares blankly at it for moment and then turns mechanically to the chair where England was sitting. The wussy floral print is darkened by splotches of ugly red-brown.
"England?" A hollowness sets into the pit of his stomach. In the silence he hears a particularly loud explosion in the distance—and a thumping crash from inside the house.
He leaps to his feet and begins running, running, running, following the drops of red sprinkled down the hallway, his heart nearly bursting in fear and he surges through another door, this time it's England's bedroom and—
—England is sprawled on the floor in a smear of blood, unmoving. America frantically begins to unbutton the nation's sodden jacket, cursing himself and his denseness and why didn't he notice something sooner why didn't the prideful old bastard say anything before? He doesn't bother to spare more than a thought for the hot tears rolling down his cheeks, much less wipe them away. His fingers tremble too much, he gives up on the buttons and tears the jacket open to find- to find-
England, clothed again in blood red.
I can't tell you how many times I've read through that, but still…
If you're concerned with his health after this scene ends, England wakes up promptly, slaps away America's hands, and starts scolding him about how he'll have to sew the buttons back on. Despite this return to normalcy America freaks out and decides he's getting into this war, no matter what. I love protective!America. The fact that he didn't put two and two before—England's being bombed so he's getting hurt, what a brilliant deduction—it's testament to his legendary denseness. He's not stupid, just doesn't always see the obvious looking into his face. UPDATE: To clarify a bit of confusion, on a dark green cloth like England's WWII uniform, blood would turn it black, and water or tea would turn it a nearly-black green. As seen in the French and Indian War scene, blood also turns red cloth black. Oh, and blood turns water yellow, not red. ...And no, you should not ask me how I know all this.
On the subject of wimpifying England: I really, really hate it when fic writers dealing with the Blitz make England way too hurt and way too wimpy during the whole ordeal. He's 1) the stinkin' British Empire, 2) old enough to have felt pain before and know how to grit his teeth and deal with it, 3) a complete badass even if he's not Red England at the moment, 4) the Blitz wasn't nearly that destructive (for reasons I talk about in the historical notes), and 5) England's made up his people and his people are famously stiff-upper-lipping it through the whole thing.
If he can at all help it, England never shows weakness, especially to America or France (for rather different reasons), and he's more the sort to nurse his wounds in private rather than show the world his weakness. In this scene, he's surprised by the biggest blast, and it is his body that fails him for a moment after months of bombing and years of rationing, not his mind. And think of this-during the entire conversation with America the air raid is going on. The entire time. And he sits there drinking tea and bickering genially—!
So I hope I haven't fallen into the wimpy England trap yet have simultaneously made him as vulnerable as he actually was during this time period—what are your thoughts?
"If I knew I could shut you up just by pointing a gun at you, I'd do it more often." : Considering the number of times throughout these flashbacks England has pointed some sort of weapon at America, this is pretty funny/ironic. And every time, America does shut up.
A certain British gentleman: This is another one of America's flashes of the future (the character wasn't created until 1953 by Ian Fleming [and based on his awesome self] and the first movie wasn't until 1962 with Dr. No). I have the feeling America is one of James Bond's biggest fanboys...for reasons I'll leave for a later fic. ;D
Also, I have no idea how to talk about planes, so it's a good thing America really likes those cookies.
Did any of you pick up all the foreshadowing I sprinkled through the scene? My favorite bit was a logical one—England says he must have spilled tea on himself when America barged in, but if you remember with his super-wartime-gun-pointing-reflexes he was iron calm, far calmer than America was. Unfortunately America's too dense to figure that out, at least not when he's got cookies to take care of.
HISTORICAL NOTES
Here's a timeline of the period to help a bit:
France surrenders and armistice is signed: June 22, 1940
[So during this period, Great Britain is essentially alone in the war, not including allies like Canada and Australia. More about them later]
Soviet Union enters WWII: June 22, 1941 when Germany breaks their non-aggression pact and Operation Barbarossa begins. Foolish, foolish Nazis, poking a snow-covered bear...
The U.S.A enters WWII: December 8, 1941 when the Japanese launched the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Foolish, foolish Japanese, poking a hunger-crazed eagle...
The Blitz was a focused attack on the cities and key industries of Great Britain. It lasted from September 7, 1940 to May 10, 1941, and the assault against London specifically lasted for fifty-seven consecutive nights. More than 40,000 civilian deaths resulted, half of which from London. The Nazi attack had two purposes—it targeted key wartime industries, ports, and airstrips, and it put a psychological pressure on the citizenry that was intended to hasten the surrender of Britain. It failed epically on both counts.
For the former goal, part of this was due to the lameness of Nazi intelligence, which often had no idea where the factories they were supposed to be bombing actually were. Nazi strategy was also flaky and easily distracted by shiny objects, leading to them often switch industries and targets without placing sufficient pressure on any one in particular.
For the latter goal, despite the bombings, fires, and deaths, the British populace, stiff lips firmly affixed to their faces, kept calm and carried on like nobody's business, helped in no small part by the leadership of PM Winston Churchill. Read some of Churchill's speeches if you want to get a feel for the time, because those things are some the most patriotic, stirring, courageous things I have ever heard. Churchill was a master of rhetoric and a meme factory to boot-he coined phrases like "Battle of Britain," "this was their finest hour," and "the Special Relationship" (oh, and he was a total USxUKxUS fangirl. Seriously, read up on it)
'pretend to be canadian': During the Battle of Britain in summer and fall of 1940, American citizens were prohibited from joining in the war under the many U.S. Neutrality Acts. If a citizen defied the strict laws, there was a risk of the loss of their citizenship, imprisonment, and fines. So for those who really, really wanted to join in despite the risks, they snuck into Canada to join their air force and/or misled the British authorities about their origins. For this reason, the true number of Americans serving in the Royal Air Force may never be known.
Can you imagine America trying to be Canada or Canadian? He'd start talking about apple pie or something and get kicked out in a minute. Thank goodness things changed so he was able to get in without trying to lie.
Eagle Squadron boys: The Eagle Squadrons were three fighter squadrons made up of volunteer pilots from the United States. After France fell, the parts of the Neutrality Acts that limited recruitment, though they were technically still in effect, the authorities had a tendency to be out getting manicures whenever they were supposed to be enforcing them. Finally America-the-person was able to help out at least a little-and to do it and fly at the same time? Awesome.
Other nationalities represented in the RAF included Poland, new Zealand, Canada, Czecholslovakia, Australia, Belgium, South Africa, France, Ireland...it was as diverse as Hetalia itself!
'...trying not to starve': a little something called the Great Depression. While all the measures taken by the federal government and FDR to lift the country out of the depression did help a little bit, the real thing that kicked the economy back into gear was the industrial adrenaline rush of WWII.
Even without the shielding crutch of the red, England's still a badass. He never needed the red for that. The red just makes him less human, less affected by emotion, more cruel and ready to take what he wants.
And now we go back to Red England, this time in a certain red jumpsuit...