literature

There'll Always Be an England

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It was 1941 and England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland were leaving Westminster after a meeting of Churchill's security cabinet.

"Do you think it'll work?" asked Wales, pulling his coat around himself as the cold wind whipped his hair into his eyes. "The troop manoeuvres in Africa, I mean."

"It should." England was staring directly ahead and speaking to himself more than to his brothers. "It should. I don't see why it wouldn't... but Rommel's bested us before, hasn't he?"

"We'll just have to wait and see," sighed Northern Ireland.

"Oh yes, I meant to ask you." England had dragged his eyes off the pavement now and turned them to Ireland. "Have you cracked down on your security yet? If we can't bring the Republic of Ireland into the war, we can at least stop Germany's spies getting into the UK through your border."

"I've put them on high alert. Everyone's being thoroughly checked out before they're allowed through."

"Good. That's good."

A light snow had begun to drift down from the inky black sky, speckling the streets and landing softly on their coats. Wales shivered and stuck his hands further into his pockets. The sooner they got home the better. He could almost taste the hot tea – he would've preferred hot chocolate, but cocoa was rationed these days – and a steaming dinner, then a warm, comfortable bed to look forward to. In his long life on the cold, rainy British Isles, he had found that any weather was bearable if you had those three essentials.

And that was precisely when the loud, moaning wail of the air raid siren began to echo across the streets of London.

This was usually when they would sigh, gather essentials and hurry through the trap door in the garden to the shelter, ready to last the night listening to the radio and playing 'I Spy'. There isn't a lot to spy in an air raid shelter, so they mostly just sat in silence and listened resignedly to the bombs going off outside. Sometimes they took bets on whether the house would still be standing when they came out again. It had been terrifying at the beginning, but now it was just routine.

This, however, was not routine. They weren't sitting at home with a bomb shelter thirty seconds away. They were in the middle of London, they had nothing with them but the coats on their backs and they were beginning to realise why so few people dared to come outside this late.

"Where dae we go?" asked Scotland, trying his best to keep the fear out of his voice. "Dae they have communal shelters in London? They must dae. Damn it, why didnae they leave it until Germany actually gets here ter take the bloody street signs doon?"

"Don't panic," said England, which was either very brave or very stupid considering where they were. "We need to get to the tube. It's underground, and people use the stations as shelters all the time. This way."

They hurried down the street, the sirens blaring in their ears. They hardly needed England; the Londoners that were out at this hour all knew where to go. Strangely enough, they didn't look as terrified as they should considering that very soon bombs would be raining down around their ears. They were worried, vaguely upset that they'd been caught out, but there was definitely more annoyance than fear. After all, Wales realised, they were Londoners. If they got scared to death every time they heard that siren then there wouldn't be any of them left.

Very soon but not as soon as Wales would've felt entirely comfortable with, England was leading them down a wide staircase. He wasn't sure what station it was – he wasn't as familiar with London as his brother and all the signs had been taken down to inconvenience any invading Germans – but it was underground and, most importantly, it was safer than the streets. The staircase opened up onto a tunnel which led to a train station, and Wales gaped at it in disbelief.

There were hundreds of people all camped out on the platform, blankets and pillows and bags of belongings all brought with them. Some were sitting down and arranging their things – latecomers, like the four of them – but some looked completely comfortable, as though they'd taken to sleeping there on a regular basis. Perhaps they had. There were people sleeping on blankets, couples huddled together, families grouped around storybooks, children playing while their parents called to them to stay away from the rails. One person even had a tiny gas stove cooking dinner.

They crossed the station, stepping over blankets and belongings and apologising as they went, and found a free space against the wall in between a freckled man and a woman wearing pink. There they sat, huddled together to try and fight off the cold, their eyes flicking towards England. He was staring at the railway with his fists clenched, steeling himself and waiting for the inevitable.

They didn't hear the first bomb drop, but they knew exactly when it hit. England doubled over, shaking with convulsions as though he was having some sort of seizure. He'd barely had time to gasp for breath before the second one hit and he gritted his teeth to stop himself crying out in pain. Wales wrapped his arms around his brother's shoulders and pulled him sideways, cradling his head and making soothing noises. Northern Ireland was squeezing his hand tightly, although for whose comfort it was difficult to tell, and Scotland was holding him still as spasms racked his body.

Around them, people still chatted and casually went about their business. None of them had any way of knowing that the air raid had already begun. That was, until an explosion hit so near to them they felt the station shake. Everyone went very quiet and England shuddered violently, his mouth opening and closing in silent screams. His face and hair were drenched in sweat and blood was beginning to stain the front of his coat. The bandages from last night were soaked all over again as new cuts began to open, but the first aid supplies were at home. All they could do was wait this out, silent and alone, huddled on the station, until it was safe to leave.

Someone nudged Wales on the shoulder. "Hey, is he okay?"

He looked up; the freckled man who had been sitting next to them was looking at England with concern written all over his face. He wasn't the only one. The bleeding, convulsing nation wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Wales winced; the last thing they needed now was awkward questions. "He's fine," he said, just another explosion went off outside and England's violent spasm of pain left a streak of blood down the front of Wales's shirt. "Fine, really. He just... gets like this sometimes. Health issues. He'll be okay again in a little while."

"Are you sure?" asked the pink-clad woman next to Scotland. "My husband's had heart problems all his life and he's never been this bad. Have you had him checked out?"

"Aye," said Scotland. "Dinnae worry aboot it, they told us he's fine. An arrogant scunner, but a fine one."

The man, whom Wales's mind had now labelled Freckles, was looking understandably dubious. "If you say so," he said. "But please, take this." He pushed a thick woollen blanket towards them. "Go on, I've got another one. Being cold isn't going to help him a bit."

Wales hesitated, then thanked him and took the blanket. He, Scotland and Ireland managed to hold England still for long enough to wrap it around him. From then on, although his mind probably wasn't coherent enough to notice it, the convulsions were no longer laced with shivers.

Freckles seemed to have started a trend. As much as they tried to hide him and deflect questions, most of the station seemed to be taking an interest in them. A man in a black beret gave them a tin of corned beef and some bread – "For when he wakes up, the poor lad." – and a family with Essex accents leant them a tiny portable heater. A woman with braided hair claimed to be a nurse and, without even asking, began to change England's bandages. A family with a portable radio brought it over to the rapidly growing group of people around them and turned the volume up, broadcasting the news of the Blitz for them all to hear.

Everyone knew that he wasn't really fine. Wales could see it in their eyes, the disbelieving nods they gave when he insisted that it was nothing. They couldn't possibly guess the real cause of the damage, but they didn't ask. Of course they didn't. They were English, and prying would be rude. But that didn't stop them trying to help. The man with the oil cooker shared his dinner with them despite their protests. A little girl no older than five wandered away from her family, a small, patched and roughly sewn teddy bear in her arms. She knelt down by England, placed the bear in his arms and kissed him on the nose. "I get nightmares sometimes too," she said, a note of childish sympathy in her Cockney accent. "Arthur-bear makes them better. You can borrow him if you like."

England didn't open his eyes – Wales wasn't even sure if he knew where he was any more – but when the next explosion sounded outside he squeezed the bear to his chest so hard Wales was worried that the stitching might break. But Arthur was stronger than he looked, it seemed.

There were no less than fifty people gathered around now, offering gifts, words of encouragement or just the knowledge that someone cared about his wellbeing. They had no idea who he was – they couldn't possibly – but that didn't seem to matter to them. As Freckles put it later on, when the gift-giving had stopped and everyone was just sitting with them, holding England's hand and whispering comforting words as he endured yet another night of the Blitz, "We've got to look out for each other, don't we? We're all of us in this together."

The loud Trans-Atlantic voice suddenly stopped speaking to them from the radio and, before they could wonder what was happening, the opening strains of a familiar song began to echo around the crowded station.

"I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen

I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen

May this fair dear land we love so well

In dignity and freedom dwell

Though worlds may change and go awry

While there is still one voice to cry..."


The talking died down as everyone's attention turned to the radio. The noise from the bombs began to die away; perhaps to move to another part of the city, perhaps to finish for the night. Wales didn't know whether it was the familiar song or the lack of bombs that did it, but England's shuddering began to stop. His whole body went limp, his chest heaving, Arthur-bear still clutched tightly in his arms.

"There'll always be an England

Where there's a country lane

Wherever there's a cottage small

Beside a field of grain

There'll always be an England

While there's a busy street

Wherever there's a turning wheel

A million marching feet."


They stayed on that station for the rest of the night. The bombers hadn't left, as Wales had hoped they had; the brief lull was followed by more convulsions and more blood, but the entire station leapt into action with more blankets and soothing words. The man with the stove used it to make cups of tea for all three of them and the nurse even produced some painkillers for England. They seemed to work, too – although the explosions still shook the city, the shudders and spasms were considerably dulled.

"Red, white and blue, what does it mean to you?

Surely you're proud, shout it aloud,

Britons awake!

The Empire too, we can depend on you,

Freedom remains, these are the chains

Nothing can break!"


When the bombs finally did stop, England was in no fit state to leave the station. He barely had time to open his bloodshot eyes and blearily take in the platform before he was fast asleep, exhausted by yet another night of relentless explosions. Perhaps it was better that way. This raid had been worse than the others and Wales wasn't quite sure it would be good for him to see what was probably waiting for them back on street level. One by one, everyone began to pack their things away and leave, giving England a last encouragement or squeezing his hand one last time before they disappeared back to the surface to see what state their houses were in. Freckles insisted they keep his blanket and the little girl declared that he looked like he needed Arthur-bear more than she did. It was a good thing she didn't want him back – Wales didn't think it would be possible to extricate the teddy bear from England's arms. Once they were sure he was deeply asleep, Scotland wrapped the blanket around him like a cocoon and hoisted him up over his shoulder. And, with a wave goodbye to their new friends on the station, they started back up the stairs to London.

"There'll always be an England,

And England shall be free,

If England means as much to you

As England means to me."
Yes, I like Vera Lynn, I admit it. She's cool. Don't knock Vera Lynn.

If you're going to comment on any of my With Brothers Like These one-shots, please comment on this one. It's one of the few serious ones and honestly, I think it might be one of my favourites. It's more dependent on writing quality than on humour, so I'd like to know what you think of it.

I got my grandparents to tell me all about the Blitz so I could write this properly, seeing as I can't exactly learn about it at school. My grandmother lived in Coventry, which had its own personal Blitz that wiped out an entire third of the city in one night. What really got me was how casual everyone was about the whole thing. Your house is about to be blown to smithereens? Drat, I was halfway through dinner. Oh well, into the air raid shelter, everyone. What do you reckon the odds of surviving the night are this time? All that 'keep calm and carry on', 'stiff upper lip', etc? Totally true. It really makes me proud.

Hetalia, of course, belongs to Himaruya-sama. Not me. Which you probably got seeing as this is in the fanfiction category, but what the hell.
© 2011 - 2024 Fiddlesticks96
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Mayoko93's avatar
I love this story! It is so awesome how you got the blitz from your grandparents. I also loved how Arther's brothers were there for him. In most fanfictions I read they are not close.