She washes her hands constantly, as if washing her hands would wash away some of the disappointment that she experiences in waves, as if washing her hands would remove the depression that ebbs at her constantly, as if washing her hands would fix anything. The only thing that it manages to do is keep her hands from being stained red. Red from the blood of the soldiers who are hanging onto life by a string, red from those who are already dead, or coated in the blood of a man she tries so desperately to save. She washes her hands to rid herself of the images of those boys lying on cots, tables, any readily available surface, She doesn't want to remember the looks of agony that lines their faces, she doesn't want to hear there screams as they plead for anyone and anything to end their pain, to save their lives. When she washes her hands she's imagine all of the the pain, all of the hurt being wiped away by the water, that she'd be pure again, that the war would be gone along with the blood on her hands.
She rubs her hands until they're raw, and still that doesn't get all of the blood, which has dries to her hands, fuses to her skin becoming part of her. And then finally she stops, once her hands start to hurt, and they're mostly red from being raw, not from being drenched in a man's blood. Then she trudges away, because she only really does this when she has breaks which are a rare find, and finds somewhere secluded to sit. She sits where the screams sound more like whispers if anything, where she can pretend that nothing's wrong, where she can pretend she's back home simply enjoying the weather.
She never comes up with a daydream to take her away though, she always feels the bitter cold that seems to be a constant fixture, she can still hear the sound of mortars and gunfire despite how distance it truly is, and the screams don't really sound like whispers she can almost hear the pleas of the men clearly, and she honestly wishes she can't.
She smokes a cigarette while she listens to the noises that have become the soundtrack to her day. She closes her eyes and vainly tries to picture herself somewhere else. But all she can hear is boots crunching over snow and ice, and the mutterings of conversations, the roaring of truck engines, noises that she hates. But still she tries to hear other things, things that would remind her of home.
"Ma'am, you're fixin' to freeze out here" a soldier says to her.
She keeps her eyes shut, and mutters a cynical comment, that she's fairly certain the soldier can't hear. And as much as she would like him to leave she knows he's still there, she can feel his eyes on her, she can hear his deep breaths that seem to grow louder and louder, until she finally consents to opening one eye.
"What do you want?" she mumbles due to the cigarette dangling from her mouth.
"I saw that you were a nurse, an well ma'am I'm in dire need of some medical supplies."
She could laugh at him, if she was a little bit crueler she might have, but then again if she were that way she wouldn't even be talking to him in the first place.
"Mon cher, we all need more supplies, back at the hospital we've been boiling and recycling bandages," she watches the medic's face for a barely visible sign of disappointment "but I guess I can try and get you something."
He doesn't smile at her, he simply shifts his weight and stares. She's not bothered by it though, no one smiles anymore. She's certain that if she even tried her lips would begin to crack and bleed.
The soldier follows her closely. So closely that she can hear his quiet breaths as he ambles behind her.
"What's your name?" she says quietly. She can't remember how to be truly social with strangers, nearly all of the strangers she meets now of days don't care for polite conversation, they care for medical treatment.
"Eugene," he has a deep soothing voice, in an accent that she's only heard in the American films that her brother would take her to see, "Eugene Roe."
She nods but says nothing otherwise, unsure of how to continue the conversation. She doesn't talk much to strangers who haven't been mangled beyond repair very often, so instead of saying the wrong thing she doesn't say anything at all.
They fall into an uncomfortable silence, and she curses herself from walking so far away from the church-turned-hospital. She can hear Eugene behind her still, managing to keep up with her quick pace. He says something to her that gets lost in the sound of an engine revving.
"I'm sorry, what?" She says. She doesn't turn to look at him, or slow down so that she might hear him better.
"I asked what your name was, ma'am" He says quietly. From the healthy American soldiers that she had met, Eugene Roe was decidedly different. He is a quiet, soft spoken man with a strange accent, and he was unconditionally polite as far as she could tell.
"Marguerite Blythe."
There was no need for her to try and continue amiable conversation, for her quick walking pace gets them to the church more quickly than she thought it would. She prays to God that no one sees her, otherwise her much desired is over. Of course, one of the American medics, a man by the name of Daniel, rushes over to her.
"Miss Blythe, we need your help, we got a guy who's innards are falling out of him"
She closes her eyes, and turns to Eugene, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to find another nurse to help you. They're around here somewhere" she says waving her hands about the room, before leaving him to follow Daniel into the makeshift room that had been created.
Sure enough there was a man with his insides practically falling out of his body. Daniel speaks quickly, saying that a grenade had gone of not a foot away from the sleeping soldier. The soldier is screaming, screaming for his mother, for God, for anything that would dull his pain. Marguerite finds herself, desperately trying to push the soldier's intestines back into his body. She can'tconcentrate due to his cries, but she tries anyway. And just as soon as it looks that she can stitch his torso up, the soldier's body grows terribly still.
Marguerite and Daniel both slowly remove their hands from the dead man, however they both look directly at each other instead of the body below. The room is now filled with a heavy silence, with the knowledge of death lingering in the air.
"Perhaps he had other injuries we hadn't seen?" she asks softly.
The American before her simply nods and grasps her bloody hand with his own.
"Miss Blythe, would you like to get something warm to eat with me?"
She wants to say yes, and let the GI drag her away from Bastogne. He's a rather handsome man, maybe in another world they would go on a date instead of holding hands over a dead body whilst freezing in a church. But Anna, one of the two other nurses, had walks in and reminds her that it's her turn to check the cots of the soldiers.
She smiles, or the closest thing she can mange, at the man before her, "perhaps at a different time?"
He gives her hand a small squeeze, before leaving her alone in the room with the newly deceased man.