And I'm back. So sorry for how long it took to update this. This chapter was kind of a bitch. So, here we are. I hope you like it. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hetalia franchise/other things/people mentioned in this work, nor do I gain any profit from this work.

Those Who Suffer are Rarely Remembered

"Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."

―Winston S. Churchill

Ludwig spent D-Day grappling in hand-to-hand combat with different Allied soldiers. He didn't know if the man was British, American, Canadian, French, and Brazilian. He would never know, as he finally got in a killing strike, thrusting his knife into the other man's vulnerable chest before quickly hopping out of the way of the now desperate swings.

Ludwig hated it. He hated killing people. But it was for the sake of the Fuehrer, so that was okay. He was doing the right thing; he was helping to cleanse the world of these misguided men. But that didn't make it too much easier. There's nothing easy about hearing the crack of bone as a knife buries itself in someone's arm or leg or torso or forehead. There is nothing easy about the smell of rotting, swelling bodies. There is nothing easy about taking weapons from the dying or the dead, or digging in the pockets of fallen comrades for unused bullets.

His battalion had finally been allowed to wear their SS-Runes on a black backdrop as opposed to their earlier red, and were therefore fully integrated into the SS. Everyone was immensely proud of themselves; being so recognized by Reichsführer-SS was an honor.

A bullet pinged against Ludwig's badge, ricocheting off of the metal to thankfully fly in a direction opposite from Lud's body. Reacting on instinct, the German soldier slid his Luger from the holster hanging at his right hip and fired expertly at the offender's heart, silencing yet another life in the span of just two minutes.

Feliciano, an Italian soldier that Ludwig had gotten to know quite well over the months, was beckoning at him from behind a tree. Ludwig's steel blue eyes narrowed at the obvious cowardice. Disgusting. But before he could go and drag the Feigling out from his hiding place, he found himself being dragged towards it by none other than the Italian himself.

Growling with rage he snapped his hand from the other man's insistent grip and glared at those innocent amber eyes. "What are you doing!" he snapped in German, understanding that Feliciano would be able to understand him. The boy was smart, even though he didn't look or act it. He was a translator for the fighting force, actually, helping by keeping tempers soothed between the Italian and German sides of the army.

"Shut up!"

Ludwig was surprised into silence at Feliciano's insolence. He was an SS soldier, not just a regular German; he deserved more respect than he was being given at the moment. Through this quietude, he was able to hear the slow churn of dirt and rocks beneath tank treads. They were brining their big guns in, to the surprise of no one, but they were waiting to find a suitable patch of Germans before they fired. Feliciano peered stealthily around the tree trunk before whipping his head back behind the obstacle.

Ludwig was uncomfortably aware of his proximity to Feli, a fact that he really didn't want to admit to. He wasn't gay, he wasn't a homosexual, and it was just awkward to be that close to another guy, right? Gays were horrible, disgusting creatures intent on poisoning and taking the world for their own nefarious purposes. He wasn't one of them.

Feliciano's whispered, Italian-accented German interrupted Ludwig's thought process. "If we're quiet, we can reach the main line before the tank gets there. We can warn everybody, and then everybody can retreat and survive!"

Ludwig scoffed and shook the Italian's grip from his bicep. "Retreat is ridiculous. Who are you fighting for, Feliciano, us or them?"

With that, he turned away from the tree and began to creep along, his eyes cutting smoothly from side to side beneath his helmet. The earth was solid beneath his boots, allowing for a good grip so that he could move without too much rustling. He stooped to collect a Stermegewehr 44 from the fingers of a fallen German before continuing on his path. Feliciano was following, a suspicion that was confirmed when Ludwig checked over his shoulder for the goofy Italian. The older man's idea was a mix of good and bad. Ludwig would of course tell the other German troops of the advent of tanks into this battle, but no one would turn tail and run. They were Sturmtrupper, and they weren't cowards.

He lazily shot an unsuspecting British soldier as he passed by him, the uniform giving the young man's nationality away. Ludwig could hear the sharp intake of breath from Feliciano, who was still pedaling behind him, but said nothing despite a small twinge of shame. It was war, what the hell else was he supposed to do?

Ludwig was the first to arrive at the line of German soldiers. It had started coalescing as more and more of them straggled backwards from Rome, giving up ground begrudgingly. The news was quickly passed up the chain of command, and measures were quickly undertaken to prevent a breakthrough.

The defense had recently been renamed the Green Line, though its original title was the Gothic Line. Steadily, machine gun nests and observation posts and bunkers and casemates were bleeding into the Italian soil, digging into the heart of Italy to leave a final German mark on her once pristine, beautiful Earth.

Ludwig took the waiting period as a chance for a breather. He had sprinted at least two miles to reach his fellow soldiers, and he was a little out of breath. Feliciano wheeled in a couple of minutes later, not even breathing heavily. The lazy Italian had probably paused to take a walk halfway through the running. It was something that Italians would do, and Feliciano was probably the epitome of Italy itself.

Ludwig watched as Feliciano peered over at where he was with his fellow Waffen-SS soldiers and quickly turned the opposite direction, making his way to a clump of chattering Italians. Sighing, Ludwig peeled himself away from his comrades and made for Feliciano. The guy had helped him, and the least Lud could do was go and thank him.

He felt distinctly out of place as he entered the group surrounding Feliciano. The little spark seemed to be more than a little popular in the Italian side of the army, judging by the three or four Italian soldiers who were vying for his attention. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Ludwig waited for Feliciano to separate himself from the others.

"Danke," said Ludwig then, one hand moving up to scrub his palm along the back of his sweaty, dirt-caked neck. Feliciano stared at him through wide, amber eyes before grinning and speaking in a spatter of Italian.

Ludwig could only assume that the other man was saying 'you're welcome' but at that point, it wasn't important, because Ludwig found his eyes wandering to his counterpart's lips, watching with an avid interest as they formed the separate Italian words that made up the Romantic language. Feli's hands fluttered animatedly around his face, illustrating whatever story it was that he was telling.

Ludwig swallowed nervously, not aware of the red tinting his cheeks until Feliciano's excited story stopped and the Italian cocked his head confusedly in Ludwig's direction, gesturing uselessly to his own cheeks in a question.

Blushing further, Ludwig moved his face to the side so that Feliciano could no longer see it straight on, muttered some form of a further thank you, and stormed away.

He shoved past the Italians with all the patience of a self-righteous German, which he supposed he was. There was another Italian that looked suspiciously like Feliciano, but had darker hair that Ludwig gave a wide berth. This was getting dangerous, and ridiculous. He didn't even really know Feliciano. This was stupid.

He couldn't help it if the Italian was attractive. He couldn't help it if he wanted to just kiss him, as awkward and awful as that sounded. He wasn't gay. No.

Before he could think much more on it, however, the sound of the tanks cracking across the ground evaded the chattering space. Everyone immediately turned to business.

They survived the tank attack, mainly thanks to some crazy Italian interference and solid German engineering, both of which gave their parts in the equal amounts of tank destruction and further infantry fighting.

By nightfall, both sides were exhausted, and both sides settled down. The Green Line had bent under the pressure, but didn't break.

Ludwig retired further back in the line, the pale moonlight glossing over the SS badge adorning his uniform, sliding along the smooth metal of his rifle, and reflecting off of his teeth, hair, and eyes.

He managed a wan smile at a fellow officer before settling down with nothing but the stars for company, a silence that lasted all of two seconds before Feliciano was there, burying his head in Ludwig's arm and generally disturbing the earlier peace.

The flustered German didn't quite know what to o, and before he could begin to bluster and wave the Italian away, he realized that Feli had fallen asleep.

Too nervous to wake the other man up, Ludwig locked his jaw and stared up at the sky, unable to be lulled into such an easy slumber. However, as the night drew on, Feli's soft snores eventually rocked Ludwig to sleep.

Neither were they to know that this was a scenario to be repeated for many days to come.

.||.

Francis woke up coughing. He'd accidentally inhaled some of Mattie's hair, and it startled him awake. Once done with his coughing fit, he glanced guiltily at the sleepy violet eyes of the Canadian curled up next to him. The sun was just breaking the horizon, peeling through the separate, dirty blond strands of Matthew's hair and painting his cheekbones and shoulders in its yellow glow. Francis ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the Canadian's forehead, understanding that the move would be unappreciated but not being particularly bothered.

Matthew didn't say a word, assumedly because he'd fallen back asleep. Francis decided to let him catch a few more minutes, they would need to be up soon anyway. It was time to continue the Battle for France.

The officers made their way from sleeping body to sleeping body, nudging and kicking depending on their affection for the person. Luckily for Francis, it was a fellow French commando who woke him up, so he got a gentle shaking, and the man who had done the waking said nothing in regards to the position of Francis and Matthew. There were some things that just weren't questioned, and that was one of them.

After signifying that he was awake, and after the officer had moved on to the next person, Francis began the grueling task of waking Matthew, a surprisingly difficult ordeal that he had to do every morning. He was getting pretty good at it. He sat up and nudged a passing soldier's ankle, holding out his tin mug for the guy to take and fill with tea over at the early morning fire. Once this was done, he turned his attention to Matthew and began to stroke his fingers along the Canadian's sleeping face, running them through his hair before tugging gently at the curlicue sprouting from the rest of Mattie's rumpled hair. This almost always got the other man up, usually with a flustered gasp and red cheeks.

Matthew glared irritably at Francis, thoroughly disgruntled at the very morning-person way of his companion. It wasn't until the mug, with lukewarm tea inside, was plopped into his hands did the huffy exterior begin to melt. His helmet was sitting by his side, a small dagger next to it. Matthew planned on shaving before they set out again, as he had managed to gain slight stubble since his last shaving session, and he was getting tired of it.

Francis noted the helmet, and the dagger, but said nothing, He, personally, took great care to maintain his beard, if one could even call it that.

The morning was gone quickly, and soon they were on the move. Francis's head was upright and alert, his blue eyes sweeping over the landscape to drink in the familiar frenchiness of it all. This land, this country, was ten times more beautiful than England, and Francis would stand by that statement to his grave.

Matthew, unlike his companion, walked with his head bowed and his eyes locked on the faded black of his combat boots. The dust of their road was caking the material, and he was fast becoming aware of the true weight of his pack, which had been stuffed with several yummy foods from the houses that had salvageable items in Caen. But Mattie didn't complain, and whenever Francis asked how he was doing, he would always respond with a soft "Fine," and a smile. The Frenchman was none the wiser.

They all flattened to the ground as gunfire echoed from a nearby hedge. A couple of men were hit, but they just gritted their teeth and crawled into the ditches along each side of the dirt road, making no move to try and pull the bullets from their arms and legs. Once in those safe havens, medics crouched forward and made their way to the wounded. Francis searched the surrounding foliage for the perpetrator, intent on finding him and annihilating him.

Francis fired automatically at the silhouette appearing in a small hole in the hedge. However, before he could revel in taking down a German soldier, a tank began to fire on their position. It was a Tiger, and it had been disguised back in one of the many thick, Normandy hedgerows snaking across the landscape. The men panicked, and cries of pain and terror permeated the air as the rounds from the tank smashed into the little runnels that the French and British and Canadian soldiers were hiding in. Francis lost sight of Mattie, but before he could go and try to find the Canadian, he was pushed through a merciful hole in one of the hedges, and tumbled back into the center of a little clearing formed by four different walls of the Bocage. Francis lay there a moment, stunned and out of breath, before slowly sitting up, his gun in the ready position as he scanned the surrounding foliage for any German guns glinting in the shadows. Single bullet marks pinged into the dirt to the left and right of the Frenchman, somehow managing to miss him. Locating the shooter was easy—there was only one—but taking him out wasn't. It took several shots before he managed to finally catch the crafty German. Even with the knowledge that he'd managed to remain uninjured, Francis was well aware that other German troops may have heard the exchange of gunfire and could very well be heading his way. He needed to move, and fast. Going back out the way he'd come in wasn't an option; there was a tank there, and besides, dead bodies were blocking the opening now. He was going to have to cut his way through one of the bocages and find his way out from there.

He pushed the issue of losing Matthew to the back of his mind. Survival was more important at the moment, for both of them, and he was just going to have to pray that Mattie was okay.

He made for the part of the hedge that the German gunman had been. Surely, if he had been able to shoot, it was relatively thin at that spot, in addition to there already being a tunnel cut through the center of the hedge, making getting out of the square that Francis was stuck in a good deal easier. It took some hacking with a knife at his belt, a good deal of it, before he was finally into the little recess that the alboche had hidden himself in. Sur enough, there were little trails peeling off to the left and right of the position, assumedly into places further along the German network, but Francis had no interest in following the pathways. Safety was the primary concern, and safety could easily be found in numbers. So he continued his hacking into the opposite wall, his speed a good deal more feverish due in large part to the fact that he was now in German territory, however small the tract of it may be, and they could come wheeling around the corner at any point.

Once the hedge was thin enough for him to just shove himself through, he crashed through into another line of hedges, though this one had a tiny slot in it that was taken up by a machine gun. Swearing, Francis immediately plastered himself to the ground and listened to the bullets mowing over his head. Before he had to raise his rifle to attempt to take out the machine gunner, however, the task was already finished for him. Peeking over his arms, Francis was greeted with the sight of Matthew. A broad grin slipped on his face and he immediately hopped to his feet before fleeing over to the Canadian and wrapping him in a suffocating hug.

"Mathieu!" he cried, nuzzling his nose into the other man's uniform-clad shoulder. Matthew was bemused by the display, and tried to pull away after awhile, but Francis was having none of it. "Where did you go off to, mon petit lapin?"

"Well," said Mattie, his voice still as soft and shy as ever, "after you disappeared, I was forced to run. There were too many bodies in the little runnels on each side of the road, so I got up and followed the hedge line until I found that machine gun nest that you were about to be killed by," he shrugged nonchalantly, as if not quite aware of the danger that he'd put himself in by standing up. Francis said as much, but received no concern from the young Canadian.

"I never said that it was easy, and it took a while for me to get down here because I had to keep ducking."

Francis eventually let Matthew go and the two turned their attention to finding the rest of the commando group. No shouts rang out in the silence; that would drag too much attention to the speaker. Obviously the hedges were replete with hostile Germans, who very clearly held the upper hand. Francis was exhausted. He wanted to cry, he wanted to give up, just throw himself down and throw a fit. God was not smiling upon him today, that was for sure.

But the war would wait for no one, and Francis was certainly no exception. Groaning, he took Mattie's hand and began to wearying task of tracking down the other men who had gotten themselves lost in the hedges, his gun held in the crook of his right elbow as his eyes slid from hedge to hedge, wary of sleek metal and moving shadows.

.||.

Arthur was dutifully cleaning his rifle when Alfred plopped down next to him. Something was clearly bothering the American, as he remained uncharacteristically silent, as if he were waiting for Arthur to ask him what was wrong.

Arthur opted to oblige him. "Alfred, what's the matter?"

Alfred kicked at a piece of stone that had fallen from the corner of the decrepit stone building they were leaning up against. "I don't know," he said moodily, glaring out at the street and the passing soldiers. They had been moved to replace No. 3 Commando in the village of Le Plein, and it was a rather boring assignment in total. Arthur was at his wit's end and they weren't even halfway through the issue, and he knew for a fact that they would probably be pulled into reserve again anyway. It was a dreary thing, really. Plus, there were no exciting things in Le Plein, just some broken-down buildings and a few stagnant, stubborn, old French people. Old men had shouted at the soldiers from upper story windows, crowing about their glory days on the Somme in World War I or some other magnificent battle in the trenches. Arthur never took any of them seriously.

"You'll be alright, then," was Arthur's offhand response to Alfred's pouting, not quite aware of the effect that his careless words were having on his companion.

Alfred reeled as if he'd been shot. "What do you know, Arthur? What do you know about what I'm going through? Damn Limeys, thinking y'all know everything," he grumbled, his mood souring even more if that was possible.

Arthur's temper rose to match Alfred's own. "Oh, and of course, you're the only one on this entire planet that has ever truly suffered, Alfred," his voice was scathing to his own ears, but he didn't care. This insolent little American was going to be taught a lesson, whether he liked it or not. Besides, there wasn't much else to do.

"What about the men here who won't be returning home to families, Alfred? What about the men who will die in the next twenty-four hours, the ones who are already dead, the ones who families are dead? Would you stop being so bloody selfish for once and look at the people around you?" Arthur got to his feet, his face slightly red with the force of his ire. He was trembling, and before Alfred could respond, he turned crisply and stalked away, shoving past an old army buddy from Italy who tried to talk to him.

The man turned, askance, to Alfred. He had an eyebrow raised and a look of suspicion in his brown eyes. Al knew what was being asked, and he sighed. "Dude, all did was complain. I didn't fucking ask for a lecture about how some people lose their families."

The man stiffened at that, his eyes narrowing accusingly. "You don't know. Of course you wouldn't." At Alfred's perplexed visage, he sighed and elaborated. "Arthur's parents were killed in the York bombing on 29 April, 1942. His three brothers are missing in action. I suggest not complaining about anything silly around that one, he has more to whinge about than you do." With that being said, he continued along his way, well aware that he oughtn't have told Alfred such personal information about Arthur, but understanding that it was too late to take back the words. Besides, Arthur was too stubborn for his own good. He would likely keep getting mad at Alfred for being ignorant about a topic of which he didn't even know existed.

Al was quiet after that, his fingers running over the scratchy material of his uniform, his blue eyes gazing unblinkingly across the street. Guilt was eating at him now, and his fingers began to rapidly work into his kneecaps his shoulders bunching and un-bunching with his nerves and self-hatred. He was so stupid sometimes, it hurt. Al got to his feet and went to find Arthur. He had some apologizing to do.

After a good thirty minutes of searching and asking and asking again, he located Artie sitting on a ruined stonewall on the village's perimeter. The man's boots were kicking out from the wall before crashing back to click on the weather stone, the action repeating itself a thousand times over in a methodical rhythm.

Alfred climbed up next to him and settled himself, saying nothing for a minute or so, just gazing out at the green farmlands, the black craters like chicken pox on clean skin. Hedges rolled along in squares and rectangles. Way out in the distance, there was the sight of smoke, no doubt from some village fire or other, or perhaps from a battle. Alfred had heard about the misery of the hedges, how Krauts were hiding in there like mice in basements, how they would swarm out at the slightest sound or sight of a British, American, Canadian, or French soldier. He had heard of the exhausting effort it took to just flush all of the Huns out of the rows of hedges, one bochage at a time.

Alfred shivered, and thanked God that he wasn't forced to be a part of that.

"I'm sorry," he said then, "I was stupid, and rude, and inconsiderate, and I'm sorry."

Arthur let the silence fall between them. The man always had liked to abuse his power, and now was no exception. "Who told you?"

"Huh?" asked Alfred, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Was it a bad thing that he knew? Should he or should he not tell Arthur? The man was volatile, and Alfred didn't want to get pushed off the wall.

"Who told you about my family?"

"Er… I, uh…" at Arthur's irritated expression, Alfred sighed and relented. "Tom," he admitted, fingers digging into the rough stone beneath him. A harsh wind nipped around them, surprisingly cold for the summer conditions that they were supposed to be in. Alfred hunched his shoulders in a sad attempt at defense, though whether or not this defense was for Arthur or the wind, he wasn't sure.

"Do you understand what I mean when I say that you are far from the worst off in this war?" asked Arthur, his own fingers working at the mash of stone beneath them. Alfred nodded his head minutely, for once opting to not say anything that would offend the other half of their duo.

The faint sound of gunfire was apparent as they remained seated there, that vexing wind pulling at their uncovered heads and inciting shivers as it brushed its cold fingers along the backs of their necks.

Arthur, in an uncharacteristic display of affection and vulnerability, leaned over to rest his head on Alfred's left shoulder, his green eyes peering morosely out at the bare land before him, once rich in cows and sheep and goats and pigs. Once vibrant with life and the natural sounds of animals. There was nothing now but the sound of gunfire, the whistling of shells, the howl of harsh wind, the sound of shutters closing.

A storm was on its way. Alfred wanted to get more information from Arthur, but he knew that pushing the Briton any farther could result in a black eye or a busted lip, and Alfred valued his looks more than he would like to admit to, so he opted to not pester the Brit for any more information. Arthur would open up in due time, and it was Alfred's job to just wait it out wit him.

After a few minutes of sitting there in their hesitant silence, Alfred yelped and jerked backwards, effectively knocking himself off of the wall. Quickly, he whipped his rifle around and aimed it at the landscape, his blue eyes narrow and harsh and practically inhuman.

Arthur gazed at the American with bemusement and hopelessness. Alfred wasn't going to be easy to fix. The boy was fast losing himself to nightmares.

"Alfred, there are no Krauts. You're okay, there's nothing out there to hurt you." He said, turning his body so he could hop off of the wall and carefully approach the American, hands raised appealingly in the air. Alfred wasn't aiming at him this time around, thank God, but he wasn't exactly at ease either. A man that tense was a danger to himself and his fellow soldiers.

It was of utmost importance that Arthur get Alfred to calm down.

"Alfred," he said again, stepping around to a lay a firm hand on the American's shoulder. "Alfred, look at me." Eventually, Al did, his blue eyes wide and terrified. He knew then that what he'd just seen was not real.

"Arthur," he said, his voice nearly cracking.

Arthur said nothing, just took the rifle from Alfred and pulled him into a hug. He felt like he was giving away more of those than was good for him lately, but that was okay. Alfred could use a good hug or two; the boy was too innocent for this life.

How ironic that one so broken was leaning on the person who had been responsible for the loss of his entire family.

His fingers fisted in the back of Alfred's uniform as he pulled the American covetously closer.

The end. For now.

Did I get some of the characterizations right? Am I making sense? How do you all think this story is coming along?

Please let me know by reviewing, they are always appreciated.

Have a lovely day!