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hetalia2014-01-13 01:48 am
nike2422.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2014-01-13 01:48 am
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] A Hero You May Have Missed
Title: A Hero You May Have Missed
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nike2422
Rating: PG for now
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, Belarus, England,
Warnings: America lets his hero complex take over. England's actually nice to someone. Some mild profanity and a scene with a dead person.
Summary: At the end of World War II, America is restless as they wait for the Red Army to finish off the Germans in Berlin. On a warm night in late April, the action finds him in the moonlight.
It was too warm for April. The close air inside the tent made America restless. He rolled over and faced the open flap, peering at the moonlight that had worked its way inside. Deciding a walk was better than tossing and turning on his cot, he grabbed his clothes and quietly slipped out of the tent, pulling on his pants one leg at a time with his boots slung over his shoulder. Once his boots were on, he headed out away from the camp, past the MP's keeping watch and headed toward the river.
The camp was in a clearing not far from the Elbe River. Even with the almost full moon spilling light and casting shadows everywhere, it was still dark beneath the trees. America found a path and followed it until he came out on the road that ran alongside the riverbank.
There were still hours before daylight, but America wasn't sleepy. He hated how they had to stay here and wait for the order to cross the river. There had been minor skirmishes and cleaning up the few pockets of resistance that still lingered, but that had taken very little time at all. Now they were hunkered down and told to wait until the Russians were finished with Berlin.
"Can't sleep?" America turned and found England walking out of the tree line. He had a freshly rolled cigarette in his fingers.
America looked back over the river. "Nah, not at all. Too warm, this moon's too damn bright. I'm sick of waitin."
England dipped his head, hand cupped around the lit match as he drew on the cigarette. "Remember Yalta, we promised Russia we would stop here until he captured Berlin."
"I'd rather forget."
"I know you would, you almost did once." England exhaled and looked at the moon. "Almost full."
"Uh huh," America's attention was on the east side of the river. "Do you see something over there, moving above the tree line?"
"What?" England looked in the same direction as America, something banked and reflected the moonlight before disappearing into the dark. "Looks like a small plane. What the hell are they doing?"
"Night recon?" America asked, smirking when England pulled a face. It was then they saw flashes of light in the distance, as if to answer America's question.
"A bombing run ... but who's there for them to bomb?"
"I don't get it, the Germans on the other side have been sitting there for days. They haven't tried to move." America focused on planes when he could see them. Someone was getting action. He was jealous.
England field stripped the butt of his cigarette. "Very strange indeed. Still, that's close enough we can see the bombs detonating, so it's possible some movement is happening out there."
America felt wide awake. Something was finally happening! Was Germany trying to flee the Red Army by coming west? "What if the German army starts coming over-" He was cut off by the sight of anti aircraft fire shooting into the air, one of the tiny planes made a sharp turn to fly away from the fire before dipping below the trees.
"Damn, looks like they got one." England said quietly.
"Maybe not, I didn't see a crash." America willed his eyes to look into the pale moonlight, cursing the fact the source was sinking too low in the western sky.
"Neither did I, maybe the pilot was able to land ... Do you hear that?" England asked, glancing at America, "Sounds like a bloody sewing machine."
America gave him a look of disgust, "How the hell would I know what one of those sounds like?" His eyes were drawn back to the river when he saw movement. "What is that?" As it drew closer his eyes grew wider.
England's mouth slightly dropped open when it was close enough to get a good look at it. "That's a-"
"-Biplane." America finished, watching the plane as it headed right for them. The plane flew so low it almost skimmed the water with it's fixed landing gear. It lifted up just enough to fly over the road, heading straight for England and America.
The plane flew over their heads, making them both hit the dirt. America lifted his face just in time to see the small plane touch down and roll to a stop. The single engine cut, and a figure scrambled from the cockpit. Then a female voice echoed into the night, "Darya ... Darya!"
America instantly sprang to his feet and ran toward the plane. England right behind him. He was still on his cot in that tent where the air was too close, and he was dreaming this. Girls flying antique planes in the middle of the night?
Except for badly aimed shots from their rifles and side arms, the Germans hadn't been able to do much against the harassment raids of the 588th in weeks. Most of them had been stopped in Halbe, but a few remnants of the German 9th had broken free and were fleeing in the direction of the 12th, cut off from Berlin and waiting for the end. The mission of the decorated bombing squad had been to provide air support for their Comrades on the ground fighting to keep the German armies from reuniting. So after a night of successive bombing missions, it was a shock to now get caught in strafing fire.
Bullet holes punctured the fuselage of the plane. Belarus had been listening to her navigator give instructions when the plane was hit, and she went silent. She used evasive maneuvers to get away as fast as she could and dipped down below the tree line when she found the river. Forest lined the waterway on both sides as far as she could see in the moonlight, there was no place to land unless she crashed into the trees or dumped the plane into the river. With the communication device in her hand, she had shouted at Darya, but the other girl never answered. It was with relief when they came around the bend and she saw the road running along the river on the west bank. Belarus landed in the road and brought the plane to a quick stop.
Once the plane was on the ground, Belarus climbed out and stood on the canvas covered plywood wing, looking at the dead woman stare blankly into the night. She hopped down and leaned against the plane just in time to hear footsteps running toward her. Bending down, she extracted the knife from her boot and faced the two men approaching, crouched and ready to attack.
America skidded to a stop and stared at the plane in front of him. It was a relic! Why was this thing even here? His eyes looked from the nose with the propeller, over the double wings, past the open cockpits to the tail, where there was a large red star with a white outline painted on it. Then his eyes went back to the tiny figure holding a knife and giving him a menacing look. Even in the moonlight and wearing bulky flight gear, there was no mistaking the form of a female.
"Bloody hell, it is a girl," England exclaimed, "Put the knife down miss, no one's going to hurt you."
America came out of his shock long enough to blurt out the first thing he could think of, "What the hell is a girl doing here?"
Belarus straightened and looked between them, "En-English?"
"What? No! I'm an American damn it!" America shouted.
"Put a lid on it, git!" England shoved him over and moved in closer. "Yes, English. You're co-pilot, is she?"
Belarus gave England a harsh look. "Dead."
The sound of a plane landing had woken up the camp. A dozen more men came out of the woods and stopped when they saw the plane and the girl standing between England and America.
"Look at that plane! Who still flies those things?"
"Whoa, where did she come from?"
All of the men stared at Belarus. She looked at them with a defensive look, waiting for the jokes to start. She had endured plenty of them from the male pilots and crews, until the women had proven they were good at what they did. Most treated them with respect now.
The group of men only stared in silence once they realized the girl was the pilot of the biplane.
Belarus didn't pay them any attention, she looked at England, "My comrade?"
America finally found his voice, "We'll take care of her."
England held up his hand, "This way, we don't need to stand her in the night." and he led Belarus back to camp. The men parted to let her pass watching her disappear into the forest before went back to staring at the old biplane in the road.
America began barking orders to take care of the body of the dead girl. The men found something to wrap her in and carried her back to camp. America listened to the men quietly talk amongst themselves, and they were all saying what he was thinking. What were girls doing flying around in an old wooden plane dropping bombs? Two small bombs attached to the lower wings were still there.
Once the girl had been taken care of, America stepped onto the wing to get a look inside. Only the most basic of instruments were inside the cockpit, the stick the pilot used to fly the plane stuck up between the pedals. He saw a rubber hose strung between the cockpits with metal cones attached to the ends. The communications device. Shaking his head, he looked at the seats before realizing something was missing. Parachutes.
America ignored everyone staring at him as he stomped into the camp. It didn't take long to figure out where England had taken Belarus - there was a crowd around the entrance to the mess hall.
"Clear out!" He shouted at the men gathered around. They scrambled to get away from him as he pushed his way inside. He searched through the line of people waiting for breakfast and stopped when he didn't hear anything. Why was it so quiet?
Everyone was busy staring at the girl wearing flight gear as if she were a pilot. England stood behind her as they went through the line getting breakfast. All eyes were on Belarus as she carried her tray to the farthest corner and sat. Why were they all staring at her? She self-consciously pulled off her leather flight helmet and goggles, revealing close-cropped blonde hair, and set them on the table before bowing her head to pray before she ate.
America grabbed a tray of food and sat down across from Belarus and England. He watched her cross herself before picking up the cup of tea and sipping it. The other men went back to eating breakfast, but the chatter in the room was more subdued than usual.
While Belarus picked up a piece of toast and stared at it, America looked at England, who appeared very casual as he sipped his tea. He glanced over his cup at America, "What? That's toasted bread, Belarus," he added, noting her confusion at the strange looking white triangle.
She sniffed it and took a bite, finding it rather plain. Sipping more tea to wash it down, she looked at the eggs and ham waiting for her.
"What? Exactly, what. That's what everyone here is thinking right now."
"Let her have some breakfast before we do anything else. We need to get in touch with the Russians."
The thought of her going back to her unit made America's jaw set. "There are no parachutes in that rattle trap."
"Really, that's odd," England said, glancing at Belarus, "Do you have parachutes with you?"
Belarus stared at him, chewing on another bite of the tasteless white bread. "Parachutes? No, no parachutes. Too heavy."
"Too heavy for what?" America asked, his cup of coffee held up near his lips. He wanted to hear this.
"The plane will be too heavy. We need to take bombs." She sniffed at a forkful of eggs before tasting them. There was a lot of food here, more than she was used to eating.
America and England stared at each other. "How long have you been doing this, Belarus?" America asked.
The girl looked at him, wondering what all of the questions were about. "Since forty two."
Three years, America thought, looking inside his cup. He put the cup down and looked at his food, for once not feeling hungry. Didn't Belarus used to have long hair? Now it was cut short to keep it under the helmet for flight.
"I don't think I would be able to get into a wooden plane without a parachute," England pushed food around with his fork.
"No one should have to." America replied, glancing over at Belarus, who was quiet. Behind him he knew the other men were looking in their direction and talking. Girls flying bombing missions against the Germans? It was then he heard someone in the room say a word that made Belarus slowly lift her head to glance up. "Nachthexen."
America turned around and looked at the man who said the word, "What did you say?"
The man looked at America warily, "I was just sayin, that's what Jerry calls those Ruskie girls flyin in planes bombin 'em at night. I heard the Krauts are terrified of them."
Belarus's head lowered back down. She stared at the half-eaten food on her plate. The night of bombing, being shot at and losing her navigator, only to find herself in a western allies camp had caught up with her.
THUD! The sudden noise made America jump and spin around. England stared at Belarus, "Bloody hell!" He reached for her head and pulled it up so her face was no longer planted in the middle of her eggs, "She passed out, poor girl."
America jumped from his seat and scooped her into his arms. He carried her out of the mess hall and went straight for his tent, with England following behind.
America placed her on his cot. He found a clean handkerchief and carefully wiped the eggs off of her face.
"I'm going to see if we can get in contact with her unit." England said as he stepped back out of the tent.
America didn't bother to look up, "You do that." He gazed at Belarus's face, the anger he felt slowly growing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's note: A plot bunny I decided to run with and see where it goes. The first official encounter the western allies made with Russians was on April 25, 1945. After that more western troops began encountering Russians as the gap was closed between the two fronts. The Americans arrived at the Elbe River in mid April, but were told to stay put until the Red Army could take control of Berlin.
The story will be continued in the next part.
Author:
nike2422Rating: PG for now
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, Belarus, England,
Warnings: America lets his hero complex take over. England's actually nice to someone. Some mild profanity and a scene with a dead person.
Summary: At the end of World War II, America is restless as they wait for the Red Army to finish off the Germans in Berlin. On a warm night in late April, the action finds him in the moonlight.
It was too warm for April. The close air inside the tent made America restless. He rolled over and faced the open flap, peering at the moonlight that had worked its way inside. Deciding a walk was better than tossing and turning on his cot, he grabbed his clothes and quietly slipped out of the tent, pulling on his pants one leg at a time with his boots slung over his shoulder. Once his boots were on, he headed out away from the camp, past the MP's keeping watch and headed toward the river.
The camp was in a clearing not far from the Elbe River. Even with the almost full moon spilling light and casting shadows everywhere, it was still dark beneath the trees. America found a path and followed it until he came out on the road that ran alongside the riverbank.
There were still hours before daylight, but America wasn't sleepy. He hated how they had to stay here and wait for the order to cross the river. There had been minor skirmishes and cleaning up the few pockets of resistance that still lingered, but that had taken very little time at all. Now they were hunkered down and told to wait until the Russians were finished with Berlin.
"Can't sleep?" America turned and found England walking out of the tree line. He had a freshly rolled cigarette in his fingers.
America looked back over the river. "Nah, not at all. Too warm, this moon's too damn bright. I'm sick of waitin."
England dipped his head, hand cupped around the lit match as he drew on the cigarette. "Remember Yalta, we promised Russia we would stop here until he captured Berlin."
"I'd rather forget."
"I know you would, you almost did once." England exhaled and looked at the moon. "Almost full."
"Uh huh," America's attention was on the east side of the river. "Do you see something over there, moving above the tree line?"
"What?" England looked in the same direction as America, something banked and reflected the moonlight before disappearing into the dark. "Looks like a small plane. What the hell are they doing?"
"Night recon?" America asked, smirking when England pulled a face. It was then they saw flashes of light in the distance, as if to answer America's question.
"A bombing run ... but who's there for them to bomb?"
"I don't get it, the Germans on the other side have been sitting there for days. They haven't tried to move." America focused on planes when he could see them. Someone was getting action. He was jealous.
England field stripped the butt of his cigarette. "Very strange indeed. Still, that's close enough we can see the bombs detonating, so it's possible some movement is happening out there."
America felt wide awake. Something was finally happening! Was Germany trying to flee the Red Army by coming west? "What if the German army starts coming over-" He was cut off by the sight of anti aircraft fire shooting into the air, one of the tiny planes made a sharp turn to fly away from the fire before dipping below the trees.
"Damn, looks like they got one." England said quietly.
"Maybe not, I didn't see a crash." America willed his eyes to look into the pale moonlight, cursing the fact the source was sinking too low in the western sky.
"Neither did I, maybe the pilot was able to land ... Do you hear that?" England asked, glancing at America, "Sounds like a bloody sewing machine."
America gave him a look of disgust, "How the hell would I know what one of those sounds like?" His eyes were drawn back to the river when he saw movement. "What is that?" As it drew closer his eyes grew wider.
England's mouth slightly dropped open when it was close enough to get a good look at it. "That's a-"
"-Biplane." America finished, watching the plane as it headed right for them. The plane flew so low it almost skimmed the water with it's fixed landing gear. It lifted up just enough to fly over the road, heading straight for England and America.
The plane flew over their heads, making them both hit the dirt. America lifted his face just in time to see the small plane touch down and roll to a stop. The single engine cut, and a figure scrambled from the cockpit. Then a female voice echoed into the night, "Darya ... Darya!"
America instantly sprang to his feet and ran toward the plane. England right behind him. He was still on his cot in that tent where the air was too close, and he was dreaming this. Girls flying antique planes in the middle of the night?
Except for badly aimed shots from their rifles and side arms, the Germans hadn't been able to do much against the harassment raids of the 588th in weeks. Most of them had been stopped in Halbe, but a few remnants of the German 9th had broken free and were fleeing in the direction of the 12th, cut off from Berlin and waiting for the end. The mission of the decorated bombing squad had been to provide air support for their Comrades on the ground fighting to keep the German armies from reuniting. So after a night of successive bombing missions, it was a shock to now get caught in strafing fire.
Bullet holes punctured the fuselage of the plane. Belarus had been listening to her navigator give instructions when the plane was hit, and she went silent. She used evasive maneuvers to get away as fast as she could and dipped down below the tree line when she found the river. Forest lined the waterway on both sides as far as she could see in the moonlight, there was no place to land unless she crashed into the trees or dumped the plane into the river. With the communication device in her hand, she had shouted at Darya, but the other girl never answered. It was with relief when they came around the bend and she saw the road running along the river on the west bank. Belarus landed in the road and brought the plane to a quick stop.
Once the plane was on the ground, Belarus climbed out and stood on the canvas covered plywood wing, looking at the dead woman stare blankly into the night. She hopped down and leaned against the plane just in time to hear footsteps running toward her. Bending down, she extracted the knife from her boot and faced the two men approaching, crouched and ready to attack.
America skidded to a stop and stared at the plane in front of him. It was a relic! Why was this thing even here? His eyes looked from the nose with the propeller, over the double wings, past the open cockpits to the tail, where there was a large red star with a white outline painted on it. Then his eyes went back to the tiny figure holding a knife and giving him a menacing look. Even in the moonlight and wearing bulky flight gear, there was no mistaking the form of a female.
"Bloody hell, it is a girl," England exclaimed, "Put the knife down miss, no one's going to hurt you."
America came out of his shock long enough to blurt out the first thing he could think of, "What the hell is a girl doing here?"
Belarus straightened and looked between them, "En-English?"
"What? No! I'm an American damn it!" America shouted.
"Put a lid on it, git!" England shoved him over and moved in closer. "Yes, English. You're co-pilot, is she?"
Belarus gave England a harsh look. "Dead."
The sound of a plane landing had woken up the camp. A dozen more men came out of the woods and stopped when they saw the plane and the girl standing between England and America.
"Look at that plane! Who still flies those things?"
"Whoa, where did she come from?"
All of the men stared at Belarus. She looked at them with a defensive look, waiting for the jokes to start. She had endured plenty of them from the male pilots and crews, until the women had proven they were good at what they did. Most treated them with respect now.
The group of men only stared in silence once they realized the girl was the pilot of the biplane.
Belarus didn't pay them any attention, she looked at England, "My comrade?"
America finally found his voice, "We'll take care of her."
England held up his hand, "This way, we don't need to stand her in the night." and he led Belarus back to camp. The men parted to let her pass watching her disappear into the forest before went back to staring at the old biplane in the road.
America began barking orders to take care of the body of the dead girl. The men found something to wrap her in and carried her back to camp. America listened to the men quietly talk amongst themselves, and they were all saying what he was thinking. What were girls doing flying around in an old wooden plane dropping bombs? Two small bombs attached to the lower wings were still there.
Once the girl had been taken care of, America stepped onto the wing to get a look inside. Only the most basic of instruments were inside the cockpit, the stick the pilot used to fly the plane stuck up between the pedals. He saw a rubber hose strung between the cockpits with metal cones attached to the ends. The communications device. Shaking his head, he looked at the seats before realizing something was missing. Parachutes.
America ignored everyone staring at him as he stomped into the camp. It didn't take long to figure out where England had taken Belarus - there was a crowd around the entrance to the mess hall.
"Clear out!" He shouted at the men gathered around. They scrambled to get away from him as he pushed his way inside. He searched through the line of people waiting for breakfast and stopped when he didn't hear anything. Why was it so quiet?
Everyone was busy staring at the girl wearing flight gear as if she were a pilot. England stood behind her as they went through the line getting breakfast. All eyes were on Belarus as she carried her tray to the farthest corner and sat. Why were they all staring at her? She self-consciously pulled off her leather flight helmet and goggles, revealing close-cropped blonde hair, and set them on the table before bowing her head to pray before she ate.
America grabbed a tray of food and sat down across from Belarus and England. He watched her cross herself before picking up the cup of tea and sipping it. The other men went back to eating breakfast, but the chatter in the room was more subdued than usual.
While Belarus picked up a piece of toast and stared at it, America looked at England, who appeared very casual as he sipped his tea. He glanced over his cup at America, "What? That's toasted bread, Belarus," he added, noting her confusion at the strange looking white triangle.
She sniffed it and took a bite, finding it rather plain. Sipping more tea to wash it down, she looked at the eggs and ham waiting for her.
"What? Exactly, what. That's what everyone here is thinking right now."
"Let her have some breakfast before we do anything else. We need to get in touch with the Russians."
The thought of her going back to her unit made America's jaw set. "There are no parachutes in that rattle trap."
"Really, that's odd," England said, glancing at Belarus, "Do you have parachutes with you?"
Belarus stared at him, chewing on another bite of the tasteless white bread. "Parachutes? No, no parachutes. Too heavy."
"Too heavy for what?" America asked, his cup of coffee held up near his lips. He wanted to hear this.
"The plane will be too heavy. We need to take bombs." She sniffed at a forkful of eggs before tasting them. There was a lot of food here, more than she was used to eating.
America and England stared at each other. "How long have you been doing this, Belarus?" America asked.
The girl looked at him, wondering what all of the questions were about. "Since forty two."
Three years, America thought, looking inside his cup. He put the cup down and looked at his food, for once not feeling hungry. Didn't Belarus used to have long hair? Now it was cut short to keep it under the helmet for flight.
"I don't think I would be able to get into a wooden plane without a parachute," England pushed food around with his fork.
"No one should have to." America replied, glancing over at Belarus, who was quiet. Behind him he knew the other men were looking in their direction and talking. Girls flying bombing missions against the Germans? It was then he heard someone in the room say a word that made Belarus slowly lift her head to glance up. "Nachthexen."
America turned around and looked at the man who said the word, "What did you say?"
The man looked at America warily, "I was just sayin, that's what Jerry calls those Ruskie girls flyin in planes bombin 'em at night. I heard the Krauts are terrified of them."
Belarus's head lowered back down. She stared at the half-eaten food on her plate. The night of bombing, being shot at and losing her navigator, only to find herself in a western allies camp had caught up with her.
THUD! The sudden noise made America jump and spin around. England stared at Belarus, "Bloody hell!" He reached for her head and pulled it up so her face was no longer planted in the middle of her eggs, "She passed out, poor girl."
America jumped from his seat and scooped her into his arms. He carried her out of the mess hall and went straight for his tent, with England following behind.
America placed her on his cot. He found a clean handkerchief and carefully wiped the eggs off of her face.
"I'm going to see if we can get in contact with her unit." England said as he stepped back out of the tent.
America didn't bother to look up, "You do that." He gazed at Belarus's face, the anger he felt slowly growing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Author's note: A plot bunny I decided to run with and see where it goes. The first official encounter the western allies made with Russians was on April 25, 1945. After that more western troops began encountering Russians as the gap was closed between the two fronts. The Americans arrived at the Elbe River in mid April, but were told to stay put until the Red Army could take control of Berlin.
The story will be continued in the next part.