Pasts

Thirty-One

America didn't know what to do anymore. He was losing the war, his men were deserting constantly, his people sick of the fighting as well as himself, and he barely had any hope in things going well. Soon after the war was started, it dawned on him the very slim possibilities of him winning, more so surviving. He tried to keep his moral high though, for the sake of the small chance, but everyone knew, it was a very, very small possibility.

The American insisted on going to one battle, at least, and fight, feeling worthless to just watch his men be gunned down. His mental state had taken a turn for the worst during the war, having the mentality of if he was going to loose, he'd rather be on the front lines and die with his men and with the idea of freedom and liberty, instead of watching like a coward.

The officials at first disagreed, but the Americans plan to fight never changed. He was determined to fight, and was extremely hard headed, not going to stop until he got his way. Washington figured it was the best, and only thing, to do, even though he majorly disagreed. When the American was informed that he could join in the next battle, the battle of Saratoga, America couldn't contain his joy.

Once the battle begun, America was nervous but extremely excited. He knew everything on how to fight from his extensive training by both Prussia and Washington, and he knew he had to do this, being very determined to not give up until he was killed or wounded beyond recognition.

When the battle begun, there was shouting, booming, dirt flying, bodies falling. It was a horrific cycle, which Alfred tried to not look at, but on the British lines, that was happening in larger quantities. He wasn't expecting this.... He thought it be somewhat heroic to fight alongside his men but... The blood, the suffering, the death, was too much to handle. He wanted to run, to cry, but he kept his position, some small tears falling. The thoughts that this was once his brother, his caretaker, the one he could trust were circling around in his head, made him cry more out of guilt. He tried to push down his thoughts, shooting blindly into the noise, feeling himself start to tremble but continued to shoot, not knowing where he was shooting, but knew he was pulling the trigger.

He felt horrible, knowing people were being killed by him, but forced himself to push through. After hours of fightinf, when the American had no more tears left to cry, the battle finally ended, and when the young nation could see clearly, he froze instantly. What lay in front of him was hundred of redcoats dead, and he was thankful England wasn't there... He felt a hand on his shoulder, flinching violently as he looked up, to see a soldier of his giving him a pitied look. "We should leave, go back to camp, you look like you could use some rest." He said, before walking away with the rest of the infantry, as Alfred looked back at the many corpses sprawled around him, wiping his face and running off to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.