Hetalia x Male Reader - One Shot Book

I Wouldn't Mind - England

A/n: I forgot about this so here's a second part :)

&Let's Start&

£Narrators Pov£

     The drone of gunshots and the shock of shells bashing into the condemned earth below ripped through the young males brain like a knife. The black night set around the fields of pain. Stars were few and far between, shooting in and out of the distance, looking like planes being shot down in the sky, falling and falling until nothing is left.
      The soldiers mind was frazzled, like wires had been injected into his brain and charged with an electric current. Distress plagued him. A badly-put-together gun was clutched in his hands, pulled tight to his heaving chest. He was meant to be out there, he was meant to be the one fighting, he was meant to be the one dying, he was ment to be a soldier. Not a coward. Shouts from the men out on the battlefield unsettled the poor males composure again, fear filtered out every other aspect of living to him, eyes daring him to sleep another night. Pushing his small body further back into the hole of mud dug into the wall of the trench, he curled up against his soggy clothes that hung on his body in shame.
      Morning came, and for the first time in a long while the guns fell silent, only if for a second, but again, the sharp pang and whistle of a dogfight overhead rang out. And in the sudden instant everything rushed back into black and white with the single fire of a bullet, crashing back into chaos the entire world ceased spinning again.
     A mailman ran along the trench, lugging a small bag of letters and small packages behind him, stopping every so often by a man or two and handing them their allocated letter. His dirty blond hair with that obnoxious curl and dandy pearl-like baby blue eyes shone in the early morning, a forgiving smirk etched against his face that seemed to always have been there. Handing the British soldier the letter he uttered a few words of a greeting and whatnot before moving on to the next person.
     Yellow-brown stained, thick paper stood in his hands, it ripped apart easily enough, and a white, typewriter written letter echoed out in front of him. He was being sent on leave, a business from the mainland, some government figue wanting him back for work on a new contract. He was to be picked up in two days.

=September 1st 1945=

      A ship docked in the harbour, this was the last one to go of the day, a small fisherman's boat, taking a squad of twelve soldiers back to England, this was to be the last boat of its time to bring back soldiers, it was getting too dangerous.
     The horizon was almost getting closer, as if just daring you to touch it, then in the blink of an eye it was all gone again, flashes of guns and tanks barrelling towards him, then an incessant ringing blared in his ears, and suddenly it was over, and England was back in sight, and the small boat was driving into the docks, and it was time to go see who needed him back so desperately.
     A short journey in a black car to a secret location led m/n to belive that this was where he was to meet his new boss, a male who would most likely use his intelligence against him in a bid to win this war. The car door swung open, causing the small distraught male to fish away for a second, before following them out to his new head of command. They walked through long hallways, furnished with long rugs and paintings of the same few people with different names and death dates below them. A main one looked uncannily like the mailman from the trenches.
     Grand doors swung open to reveal men in fancy attire talking around a business table in the middle of the not-so-large room, a common face between the crowd stood out, clad in a grey suit and tie, with the same worry lines dripping from his face. And surprisingly the same male from the paintings and the trenches stood there as well.

+To Be Continued...+