Operation Red Herring (Countryhumans Alternate History)

Chapter 20

Woohoo, you guys get this chapter earlier than I thought I'd finish it, because it turns out not being able to sleep due to being stalked is a great excuse to stay up all night writing. Enjoys! :')

It was the 14th of March.

Twenty-Four hours before America was going to lead a land-raid on London, capturing the capital. She had gotten back from Russia a day before, and was currently running on very little sleep (she hated jet-lag with a burning passion). Still, she was physically ready: trucks and tanks were filled with fuel, soldiers were ready to make the journey, and she had even managed to eat a meal (which wasn't something she usually had trouble doing, but her nerves felt like tapeworms wriggling in her intestines). It hadn't been much: A bowl of oatmeal and a half of an apple, but when Japan had tried to get her to eat more, she declined, as she really felt like she was going to throw up. Which annoyed her, as she really shouldn't have been this affected by the situation.

She and Britain were enemies. Enemies invaded each other.

It was simple.

It was war.

But as she laced up her boots, redoing the knots several times because her hands would not stop shaking, she couldn't help but feel anxious. Perhaps it was the fact that this was her first land-invasion since the Great War. She had flown in air-raids recently, but going on land was more personal. You were actually down on the ground, surrounded by dust and debris and destruction. The smoke filled your lungs and clung to your clothes, and your ears ring from the repeated bangs of explosives and screams of crying children. It was real.

And America had gotten extremely good and dealing with the flashes of memory that always haunted loud booms and occasionally her dreams. Even when reality shifted, and she was back to watching men be blown limb from limb, she usually managed to make less of a scene: to leave the room when she noticed the signs that it would happen, to stay curled up in the corner of her room at night, a blanket wrapped around her and a pistol clutched in her hand. However, she was scared that being back in the heat of battle would trigger those flashbacks. What would she do if she had a meltdown in the middle of the invasion? She would get killed.

Or perhaps it was the same dilemma she had been having since the moment she found out the truth: Could this really be the end? She had put so much into rebuilding her relationship with her father, always trying to be accommodating and forgiving. Even though they didn't get along super well, they still loved each other, or at least, America had loved him...

He had loved her, right?

But they were enemies. They had been for an extremely long time, and it seemed as though they were always meant to oppose eachother.

She sighed, picking up her coat and slipping it on. She glanced at her Bible, a small brown book tucked into the corner of her desk.

It said to love your enemies.

But this was war.

And in war, you could not love your enemy.

So she could not love him. It was not possible.

Yet she did. Deep inside her soul, she still felt that desperate little girl, who just wanted her father to stop hurting her. The little girl who used to read the Enlightenment authors at night, taking notes and dreaming of a different world. The little girl who hated storms. The little girl who used to spend days locked in her room, only speaking to her brother as he slipped food under the door. The little girl who had learned to dodge glass and run fast and hide in kitchen cabinets when she felt like she couldn't fight back anymore.

Why did she still love him?

... She honestly didn't know anymore.

America put her hair in a high ponytail, slipping it through her hat, which she placed snugly on her head. She didn't wear it much, but it certainly made her look more militaristic- a simple soldier's cap, olive green with a square-ish shape. Additionally, it matched her coat, something that she knew was not important, but it did make her feel nice. France had always said that matching was important, and had at one point given America a whole lecture on which colors went with what.