Hey everyone. This is my first Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction, and I have to say, I'm actually pretty glad I wrote it. I've been wanting to write one for a very long time, but I couldn't get any ideas. Then I saw this picture on Deviant Art and I was inspired. Check it out:
http:// . com/art/APH-Soldier-Side-FA-146508516 (remove the spaces)
It was sometime in the year 1943. Germany had stopped registering the dates since World War II had begun. There was no joy or point in keeping track of how many days he was forced to fight, kill, and hurt his comrade countries. But there was nothing he could do about it. As a personified country, he had no power over what his country did. His boss, Adolf Hitler did. He had command of the army, of his part in the war, of everything that Germany now hated. Oh sure, he could feel when people died, when the political parties fought, when anything happened in Germany, to Germany, as his body was in a way Germany. It was absolutely horrendous being a country; every day was a pain, and he couldn't do anything to help anyone. Not his country, not his comrades, not even himself. Truthfully, Germany did not want a war. He didn't want to gain more land to feel more pain when someone attacked. It was painful, and it scared him when he thought about the Roman Empire and how it grew in power before collapsing. Germany may have been born a soldier, but he didn't want to die! Compared to some of the other countries, he was still very young, too young, to vanish just yet.
Germany sighed as he rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. He could tell that the Axis countries were going to loose this war; they were loosing more fights, money was being wasted on military strength, and his whole body was in pain from the constant fighting Germany was doing. As Germany looked at the amount of work he had to finish sitting on his desk, before he headed out in the battlefield, he wondered where Italy was.
Italy is and probably would only be, his only friend. Japan respected him, sure, but Japan respected everyone and was so distant. It was hard to tell what that country was thinking or even planning.
Germany sighed as he looked at his telephone sitting innocently on his desk while ringing. Italy had probably gotten captured again, and was asking for help.
"Hello?" He asked wearily.
"Germany! Help! America and England are both here in Rome and they're attacking! Hel-!" Italy's voice was cut off in midsentence, either by hanging up, or by something worse.
Germany was beginning to become afraid for Italy. He hadn't cried in his little 'baby' voice, as Germany like to place it; Italy was in full panic. That could only mean that the American and British troops weren't fighting to capture, they were going for the kill.
"Damn it!" Grabbing his pistol and his jacket, Germany flew out of his house and tried think of a way to get to Rome the quickest way possible.
Italy was scared; no he was beyond scared, he was terrified. His elder brother, Romano was at Spain's house, so he didn't have to see this unimaginable horror. The American and British forces were slaughtering his troops and there wasn't anything Italy could do about it. Being low in supplies and in budget from the beginning of the war made them extremely weak compared to the other countries and there wasn't anything that Italy's boss, Benito Mussolini could do but enter the war. And now Italy was paying from it. Rome was the center of Italy, near his heart, and this air raid that was happening right in front of him was tearing him apart from the inside. Walking as fast as he could towards where a telephone was, Italy went to contact his best friend, Germany. His men had already surrendered, having witnessed the fall of the beautiful city of Rome, but since the alliance forces were attacking from the sky, they didn't notice or they didn't care. Italy could spot America and England each in their own planes, directing attacks at his city.
Please answer, Germany. Please answer Germany. Italy mentally prayed, his chest burning in pain as Rome was continually fired at.
"Hello?" Italy almost cried in relief, Germany had answered!
"Germany! Help! America and England are both here in Rome and they're attacking! Hel-!" A blast threw Italy away from the telephone and made the wall opposite of him crumble down.
"No, no, no, nononononononono!" Italy cried. How was he supposed to help his people? Himself? Why didn't the enemy stop? Couldn't they see his country surrendering? Quickly making his favorite weapon, a stick with a white tablecloth he found attached, Italy summoned his almost nonexistent courage and ran out to where the fighting was taking place.
"STOP! PLEASE STOP! WE SURRENDER! WE SURRENDER!" Italy shouted, hoping that America or England would hear him. His chest was flaring and Italy could feel blood seeping from a wound on his chest from the destruction of Rome. Italy waved his white flag even higher and faster, and screamed even louder.
"STOP! I BEG YOU, PLEASE STOP!" tears were now falling freely from his face, as his soldiers were all laying in puddles of blood, their own blood, defending their country. From where he was, Italy couldn't see if there were any survivors. All he knew was that they were beaten, completely and utterly defeated.
"STOP! PLEASE, I'M BEGGING Y-!" A shot stopped Italy in his scream, as he felt a new kind of pain in his right shoulder. It was not the normal pain that a country feels, when cities were destroyed, or there was an excess of quarrelling, this was something different.
Italy looked at his shoulder in shock. There was blood gushing out from a gaping hole in his arm. A bullet. For the first time in his life, an actual human weapon had shot Italy. Almost as if in slow motion, Italy looked up, towards the plane that had a soldier pointing a rifle at him. Looking back at his arm, all sounds of the battle seemed to dim as Italy could only focus on the amount of blood coming out of his arm.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Italy never felt himself fall to the ground, on top of his treasured white flag, his last lingering gaze reaching America's before his world went black.
IN THE SKIES OF ROME---
America felt sick to his stomach as he surveyed the damage this air raid had caused. Although the Italians had surrendered early in the fight, he and England were both given instructions by their bosses to eliminate anyone that stood below them. Noticing that there was only one last figure standing, he blew a silent sigh of relief as the thought of this massacre was almost over.
One more shot fired from one of his one troops who used a rifle at the open door of a plane to shoot at the remaining soldier and America felt his heart stop at the gaze reaching his.
"No." America gasped. "No, why was he here? No, ITALY!"
Grabbing his radio, he paged in to England's plane.
"England, did you see?" he cried into the headset, almost crying.
"What happened, America?" England's voice came over the radio, oddly sounding concerned.
"It was Italy. He was there. We shot Italy, England. He's been shot! Why was he on the battlefield, England? Why did we have to keep shooting, even after they surrendered? WHY?" America finally broke down and cried, extremely glad that he had his own plane to pilot.
"I, I have never heard of a country becoming injured by a human weapon." England whispered. "Just by the damage that the country gets by wars."
"We have to go down there, England! We can't leave him there!" America insisted.
"We have to, America. Our bosses want us back right away, remember?" England's voice sounded broken.
"But he's injured from a regular weapon and his capital is destroyed! He's dying, England! He's dying! Don't you care?"
"Of course I care, you insensitive jerk! But we have to follow orders! Even if we don't want to!" England shouted, before a sob forced it's way out of his throat.
"I hate this." America whispered, but he reluctantly turned his plane around and followed the rest of his troops back home.
"I know, little brother. I know."
Germany felt his whole body freeze as he came upon the horror that befell Rome. Thousands of bodies lay on the ground; some were German, but most were Italian. And they all seemed to be dead.
"No." Germany couldn't believe his eyes. America and England had both participated in this massacre? Had caused it?
First thing was first. He had to find Italy, and make sure he was all right. His small army that he brought with him could help with searching for survivors.
"Everyone! Search and see if there are any survivors!"
Germany began to search himself, hoping to find his friend in one piece and uninjured.
"ITALY! ITALY, WHERE ARE YOU?" Germany called, running between the prone bodies.
After about ten minutes of running, Germany came upon a figure with a bloodstained white tablecloth sprawled across his lap, blood pouring from wounds on his body, and brown hair with an unique curl on the left side of his head.
Oh no. Oh, God no. Please God no!
"Italy! Italy! No, please God, don't let this be happening!" Germany could feel his strength diminishing as he saw his friend laying that still, and being pale with blood all over him. Collapsing to his knees, Germany felt tears leak out of his eyes as he saw the damage Italy had suffered from. A hole in his shoulder, what was this from? And another wound in the form of a gaping gash in his chest from the loss of his city. Gently, touching the shoulder, Germany noticed that the hole resembled a hole that he saw frequently in his target practice. No. Has this ever happened to another country?
"Italy." Germany murmured, gently lifting the deathly pale country to his chest.
"Please don't die, Italy. I'll get you to a hospital, just please don't die on me!"
"Sir! We have confirmed that there are exactly forty-seven survivors. Thirteen are German and thirty-four are Italian. But they all need medical care." A soldier reported.
Germany stood up, with Italy supported as tenderly as possible in his arms.
"It will not be possible to move everyone to the closest hospital, so get a couple medical teams here as soon as possible!"
"Yes, sir!" The soldier ran off to follow the orders given. Germany couldn't leave Italy here on the battlefield; he was a country, he needed special care, especially after the destruction of his capital. Germany walked as fast as he could without jostling the limp country in his arms, desperate to ensure Italy's survival.
How could this happen? Why would America and England take it this far? The Italians obviously surrendered.
Germany stopped walking, remembering that since Italy had monetary problems, the medical staff would not be equipped to helping Italy recover fully. The best thing he could hope for, was finding a town that could stabilize him until Germany called in a transport to his country or a nearby country. Austria could help, since his country was closer to Italy than his was. Climbing into his SUV that he used to drive here, Germany went as fast as his car would allow him to.
About an hour into the drive, Germany was shaken from his thoughts of revenge against America and England by a groan from Italy.
"Germany?" Italy's weak voice, so different from his usual loud, cheerful nature almost made Germany want to sob.
"Italy. You need to save your strength. Please rest." Germany wouldn't allow his voice to crack, wouldn't allow himself to show his worry to Italy, and could not show Italy how worried he is.
"Thank you for, for coming, Germany." Italy's broken voice whispered before everything became silent again in the car.
"Anytime." Germany said to the unconscious country.
It was ten minutes later that Germany found a hospital where Italy could be stabilized, his wounds cleaned up, and his shoulder checked if the bullet had remained. A quick phone call to Austria and a plane arrived and hour later to pick the two of them up and to Austria's hospital, where Japan was waiting along with Spain, Romano, China, Hungry, and France. It didn't matter if they were on separate sides; one of their friends was deathly injured, and none of them had wanted this war in the first place.
Nine different countries and half of another country were all waiting for the awakening of Italy. His wounds had healed somewhat, leaving scars on his upper right shoulder and the middle of his chest. But he still had not woken up, a fact that made the other countries worry. America and England had come straight to the hospital after meeting with their bosses, (and having an argument while there) where America had burst into tears at the sight of Italy. England appeared to be unaffected, but everyone could tell his anger at his boss and disappointment in himself by the furious clenching of his fists. When they had first arrived, Romano spat curses and death threats at them for a full three hours, until Spain had dragged him away. Japan was in shock at the utter stillness of his ally, never had he every seen Italy so small and fragile.
"He will be fine, won't he, nii-san?" Japan asked China, who was cooking to relieve his stress. China smiled lightly, stirring his pot of wonton soup.
"The doctors say he should be fine-aru. Just give him time." Why was it that when tragedy strikes, everyone becomes closer?
After another hour of silence, the figure on the bed moaned and stirred. Immediately, everyone was alert and hopeful and standing around Italy's bedside.
When Italy first opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed were the wires sticking into his skin. The next thing he noticed were several different countries all around him, laughing and smiling in joy. Italy smiled as well, happy to see that countries still could have peace between them; no matter had happened in the past. It was no secret that Italy hated fighting with every fiber in his body. Those stupid bosses all wanted to control more than they should and look at all the problems it caused!
ONE WEEK LATER----
Italy laughed as France tripped on something (England's foot) as the countries went together for lunch. He was discharged from the hospital today, and his country was slowly getting back on its feet, having declared a neutral stance in the World War once again. He had assured both America and England that he had forgiven them both for what happened and that they didn't need to be sorry. They were in a war after all. America and England had both smiled and thanked him, but Italy was sure America was going to be fighting with his boss a lot more often.
"So, what are we going to eat?" Austria asked.
Austria and Hungry looked at each other in exasperation.
"Let's just go to a buffet." Hungry suggested.
A cheer went around as the group went to find the nearest buffet. The war wasn't over, but this small pause for peace was something everyone needed, no matter what side they were on.
Whew. I was possessed, that's the only way to explain why I wrote this. Check out the picture on Deviant Art that inspired me to write this.
http:// .com /art/APH-Soldier-Side-FA-146508516