This was a first attempt at filling something for the livejournal meme. Figured I'd post it on here too. I don't know how to use lj well enough to post it on there outside of the forum. Plus I know how to edit on here, meaning this is a cleaner copy than the one over there :D This is a completed fic. YAY!
The sounds came first. Gunfire. It sounded like a shirt's buttons being torn off. Pop. Pop. Pop. Poland had heard the sound of gunfire before. All nations knew the sound of war, but this time... it was different. Germany had been pounding on his door for the last few months. Now he couldn't get away. He felt the German troops enter his borders. England and France had convinced him not to mobilize his army. How he wished he could take back that decision. It was September 2, 1939.
Poland had wandered away from Warsaw to his western border. The right side of his torso was all itchy and inflamed. It had only just begun and he wanted it to stop already. He had followed England he'd have to just keep believing him. He didn't have the manpower to fight off the Germans. He sat down on the roots of a oak. He could see the Germans running through the hills, his hills… their hills? He wasn't sure… he thought they were still his. They felt like his.
He hoped Germany wouldn't find him. The air was sweet, heavy with the smell of crocuses. The sound of popping was slowly getting closer. He had stopped before several of his western most villages. He loved this time of year. It was like his land was dressing up for him. He didn't know why he'd been driven here. And he didn't know why he couldn't keep going. Poland ran his hand through his hair and leaned back against the rough bark of the tree.
Darkness slipped in between the branches of the trees and the moon bleached out the colors of the flowers. Slowly the smell of crocuses were overpowered with a metallic scent. It was so heavy he could taste it. It was like someone had shoved a fistful of pennies in his mouth. Poland sat, listening. England had told him to wait to mobilize his military. He couldn't do anything. Couldn't do anything to protect his people, his land. Poland hoped England would get here soon. He was regretting not marshalling any of his forces. He was practically letting Germany in.
The night passed quickly. Poland never slept. He could hear his people crying out. The Germans were advancing at a dizzying rate. His right side had erupted into a long, painful cut. Poland moved back as they moved foreword. The sun went down again. It was the end of September 3, 1939. That night Poland went back to Warsaw, his western boarder no longer held him captive.
As he walked into the capitol building, he heard a radio broadcast. A solemn Neville Chamberlain was announcing that Great Britain was now at war with Germany. The people in the building were quiet and still. Poland sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. Feliks opened his eyes to see green eyes partially hidden beneath furrowed, thick eyebrows.
Poland went to Great Britain with England. ]He was staying with England in a rickety old house. The high ceilings and dark woods were something that were not common for the homes in Poland.
London was grey and the city was still. The children had been evacuated. No one lingered in the streets. Sirens were the only sound that broke the silence on London's streets. When England was at the Parliament building, Poland swore he could hear the house breathing.
He could feel his people here on British soil. More were coming each day. By boat and by plane. They were picking their way across Europe. And they wanted to fight. They ached for it. He knew Great Britain had Polish squadrons in the Royale Air Force. Poland would join them. He would do everything in his power to fight the Germans. He would make them pay for his burned villages, for his dead children. Poland would fight. He opened the door to a silent street. Rarely did England go anywhere but the office.
Poland walked into the building. The murmur of voices and footsteps echoed in his ears. It was good to hear voices even if he only understood some of their language. Poland made his way up to England's office. Their was a small kitchenette before his office with tea and mugs and hot water. Poland snagged a mug and opened a box of Earl Grey tea. He set about making a cup. It was a little thing that he could do to make England feel better.
Steam curled up around his fingers. England looked up when Poland walked in. The Empire gave a tiny smile. Poland handed over the cup of tea.
"I want to fight," Poland stared at England. England who had declared war on Germany when Poland was invaded. The blonde Empire pursed his lips.
"We need all the help we can get," England said.
He was fighting now. His people were fighting back. Their were 16 Polish squadrons in the Royale Air Force. He settled himself into the cockpit. His body burned and ached. He could still feel every movement of the filthy Germans on his soil. He couldn't wait to blow up some Nazi planes.
"Let's get in the air!" Poland called out over his comm. His boys whooped back at him. His engine rumbled under him. He tucked a little picture of England into the dashboard. He smiled at the photo. He was the reason Poland was able to launch this counter attack against those invasive German bastards. Poland smiled as a dozen Polish planes took to the skies above Great Britain.
The dog fights were always heart pounding. The blue sky was crowded with swastika painted planes. Poland zipped through the air only letting up on his fire if a Polish plane came across his path. He turned his eyes towards the next target. Bullet after bullet. Nazi planes dropped out of the sky. Seeing each one fall made him feel a little better. His boys were cheering. He was fuckin' proud to be part of the 303 Polish Fighter Squadron.
A explosion flared up in front of him. Poland yelled, "Fuck! Bercik!" but didn't have time to stop and grieve for his downed man. Germans were raining down on his left flank. He hadn't seen them. He barrel rolled, dodging bullets. Poland zipped through the air, firing at planes.
Seven more German planes were shot down. Poland brought down another two. He flew in a V formation with his four of his boys. Dobry's plane was clipped. He kept flying even as his wing started to smoke.
"I'm hit, repeat, I'm hit," the gravely voice of his Polish brother came across the radio.
"Eject pilot," Feliks ordered into the radio.
"No go, sir, I've lost my 'chute," Dobry replied.
"Damn it!" Poland swore before pressing the radio button, but before he could get out a word Dobry's plane went shooting foreword drawing the German's fire. Poland saw the maneuver for what it was, an opportunity for the Squad to finish off the damn Nazis. Poland had to watch as the air craft took a barrage of bullets before erupting into flames. Poland shuddered, his heart aching.
They took out the remaining Nazi planes. Feliks thumbed the control and watched the plane in front of him ignite. It burned it's way towards the ground. The hatch opened and a flaming seat was ejected from the cockpit. Poland watched the burning flyer fall for a moment and sighed. When the sky was clear of Nazi planes, he turned his plane west and headed back towards London.
His squadron was relieved to be back, somber they'd lost good men and happy they'd managed to eliminate their targets. Someone called out that they should get a round of drinks. As he got down from the cockpit, he was glad that he was a nation. He didn't have to stay on the base with the other recruits all the time. He loved being with his people, more than breathing sometimes, but occasionally he needed the understanding that only another nation could provide. He used his leeway as a nation to visit England. England wasn't actively fighting, not right now so he'd be in that rickety, old house still.
Mikolaj called his name. Poland turned to the sound to see a round faced blonde striding over to him.
"Are you coming out with us, Feliks?" Mikolaj asked him, slapping the nations back.
Poland smiled, "not this time. Drink something for me though."
He waved at them heading into the base. England had been teaching him to play cribbage the last few weeks. He mentioned starting another game the next time Feliks stopped by for the night. Poland had been looking foreword to playing him for the last few days. His boys would be alright on their own for the night. Tonight was just for him and England.
England held him as he cried. Poland didn't have to listen to the broadcasts. He could feel what was happening. The Polish Home Army had risen up against the Nazis in Warsaw. They had been fighting now for 45 days. Feliks could see them full of pride and hope, faces set in determination, dirt painted on their cheeks. At first he'd been so happy, his people were making a stand. They were re-taking the capital. But the fighting just kept going. The Nazis weren't giving up Warsaw and neither were his people. Supplies were running low. First food started to get scarce, then bandages, then ammo.
The Red Army had halted on the banks of the Vistula. Feliks could feel the press of their tanks on his spine. They had the supplies that his soldiers so badly needed. The Red Army, their ally, was letting his people be slaughtered needlessly.
"Your people are strong. They will keep fighting," England whispered the words like they were a secret. But Poland knew. He knew they'd keep fighting, now that the spark had been struck they'd keep fighting until no one was left.
"Why won't they come?" Poland wanted to yell. He wanted to rage. Instead tears fell and that only made him angrier. "Russia is our ally! If he came we could get those damn Nazis," Poland sobbed instead.
England shushed him. Poland fell asleep in his arms, sobbing and angry.
Poland was on the base the next day. His squadron would be going out for a raid later that evening. They were being debriefed in twenty minutes. Two men passed as Poland puttered about his plane.
He caught their conversation, "-got the go ahead to send in low-level supply drops to Warsaw."
Poland stopped moving, his breath caught in his throat. Supply drops to… Warsaw? He dropped his hands on the smooth metal of his plane. His heart was pounding in his chest.
"Did Churchill get the Soviet's clearance for us to go into their air space?"
The blonde nation dry swallowed, fucking politics, always a nightmare. His ears perked as a deep laugh rang out, "No, but we're going in anyway."
The two men wandered away laughing and talking about the raids that were scheduled. Poland smirked. He totally loved England.
Poland grit his teeth. England, America and Russia were talking about his future and he wasn't allowed to be there for it. Poland paced outside the door of the conference room. He'd tried listening in, but he couldn't hear any thing. He traced one of the rugs with his boot. He knew they were talking about the end of the war. He wanted to be there when the Allies told the Nazis to surrender. After all he'd played a role in the military forces of the Allied Powers.
Restlessly he fidgeted when all of a sudden he felt a shift. It was like a transparency being moved across a projector. One moment Wilno was the tip of his left ear, the next it had disappeared. One moment the Baltic only tickled the tops of his shoulders, the next it stretched across his upper back and shoulders. He wriggled his feet in his boots. Stanislawow used to be his left ankle, now his left ankle was Krakow. He ground his teeth. He pulled his hair. England wouldn't really do that to him… would he? His heart ached not after everything he had done for them. England wouldn't. They were friends. And friends didn't just give up pieces of their buddies to other people. Not after he'd fought for England, helped the Allies. God damn it, England wouldn't do that.
His stomach rolled and he thought he was going to be sick. England wouldn't betray Poland like that. He closed his eyes and tried to take a few deep breaths. The Baltic Sea rolled and churned. He wasn't use to feeling so much water. It was making him nauseous.
The door opened. England and America came out from the room looking worn. Russia looked pleased. Russia stopped and smirked in front of Poland. His purple eyes glinted. Poland turned to England, England who would tell him that he was just tired, that the war had confused him. This new land wasn't really his. Russia hadn't really taken part of his body. England looked at Poland, but didn't stop walking. He followed America's heels.
"Hello, my little Poleski, we are going to get to know each other very well, da?"
Poland shook. No, no, no.