The air was crisp, but the chill could hardly be felt on the gentle breeze amidst the crowd of moving bodies. Celebratory music blasted through the air, having to play even louder in order to be heard above the excited shrieks of women and the cheers of children and men.
Emilie Demont stood back from the commotion, arms folded over her chest as she watched the scene, eyebrows raised disapprovingly at the way the women were throwing themselves at the American soldiers. The army had just liberated this particular town in Holland, and the inhabitants would be forever grateful – some more than others, evidently. She stepped aside as a teenage boy rushed past her, clearly eager to get a glimpse of the infamous soldiers for himself. There's a future soldier, she thought to herself, watching him as he disappeared into the cram of people, he won't be quite so keen when he's the one fighting. Poor bugger.
Looking around, she noticed many other young men, eyes glistening as they stared at the Yanks. Any one of them could be war heroes in the future.
Before she could dwell on it any longer, a man popped up beside her, making her jump slightly; she hadn't heard him approach, which wasn't surprising what with all the racket.
"What's a pretty lady like yourself doing away from the party?" he asked, an odd grin on his handsome, if not somewhat dirty, face. She recognised an American accent and, looking him up and down, realised he must have been one of the soldiers. He continued to introduce himself as Muck.
She chuckled, "I'm not one for big shindigs."
"But you're missing out on all the fun!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air and glancing over his shoulder to where some Dutch women were gesturing for him to come over. His grin widened and he turned back to her, dipping his helmet slightly, "Well, miss, if you get bored with the lone wolf act, come find me. I know ways to keep the ladies happy."
"I'll keep that in mind, Muck," Before he could leave, she quickly added, "Oh, and congratulations on the victory."
He winked at her, and with that turned and hurried over to the women, slinging his arms over their shoulders and laughing, looking from one to the other.
At that moment, someone crashed into her from behind and she lost her footing. Unable to regain her balance in time, she stumbled forward and tripped over a man's leg, landing on the ground with an audible thud. Cheeks warm with embarrassment and grumbling irritably to herself, she rolled onto her back, about to clamber back onto her feet. But before she could do so, she saw a hand extended in her direction; she couldn't see the person's face, as the sun was behind them, but she took it regardless and the stranger helped her up.
Brushing herself off and running a hand through her hair, she looked up to see her helper. He was a handsome man – an American soldier, once again – with thick black hair so dark it looked almost blue just visible from under his helmet. But what set him apart from Muck and the other Yanks was the white band tied around his left arm, with a deep red cross painted on it. He was a medic, like herself. Only fighting for the other side.
"Thanks," she muttered, preparing to walk away.
But before she could do so, he spoke. He had a strong Cajun accent; it was unusual and strange to her ears, but pleasant nevertheless. She found she thought it was almost comforting, soothing. "You took a bit'ova tumble there, miss," he remarked, and she expected it was his medical training kicking in, "You alright?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine," she promised, and couldn't suppress a light laugh, "It's more my pride damaged than anything else. And, besides, I'm a medic," The moment she said it, she regretted it, and slammed her mouth shut. Why had she all of a sudden been so determined to impress him? She could have just put her whole army in danger with that one comment. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He frowned. "Really? You ain't in the American army."
Emilie somehow managed to maintain her calm. That was one of the perks of being trained as a nurse – you learnt not to panic, even in the tightest situations. "Sorry, I just saw your sash, and it popped into my head. I don't know why I said it. I'm not."
The man didn't seem convinced, but said nothing more on the subject. "What's that accent?" he asked, head tilted slightly to the side quizzically.
"Australian," she answered quickly, and was almost ashamed with herself when she discovered she was laying her accent on extra thick, "I'm from Adelaide, in South Australia. It's nice. Not very exciting, but at least that means no one will bomb it, ey?"
He offered the faintest hint of a smile, "What are ya doin' here, then? It ain't the best time to be takin' a holiday."
Emilie felt her heart plummet. Usually, she was able to lie her way out of anything. She was renowned for that, even if it is not a particularly noble skill. But, for some reason, at that moment, she was tired of constantly hiding herself behind lies, detached from the world. She sucked in a deep breath, and began, "Okay, look, I am a medic. I wasn't bullshitting about that. But I'm a medic for the German army. No, I'm not German, but I was born there, and my parents still live there as official citizens because my dad married my mum, who is from there. So, when the war began, I was drafted, and, since I work as nurse back down under, I became a medic," She shook her head, pausing briefly before continuing, "But I have no love for Hitler or the Nazis. I'm simply bein' loyal to my birth country, and I came here because I'm glad you guys won this battle, because that means the war might be closer to being over. So, if you're gonna shoot me, now would be he time, and you'll have one less Kraut on your hands."
She raised her eyes from where she had been staring at the cobblestone road like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, and was surprised to see there was no look of malice on the man's face. He blinked, before asking softly, "What's your name?"
"Emilie," she answered, frowning, "Emilie Demont."
He dipped his helmet in polite greeting. "I'm Eugene Roe."
Before either of them could anything more, a cry split the air. But it wasn't a delighted one as per usual, it was one of pure fear and sorrow. Both medics whipped their heads around; it was now natural instinct to respond to a yell for help. But this wasn't the kind of injury either of them could fix. Dutch women were being shoved to the ground, in the mud, and men were standing over them, sheering their heads like sheep. Small patches of blood were evident on their now-bald heads as they were shoved away, still crying.
Not thinking, Emilie bolted forward and caught one of the women before she fell. She was young, no more than twenty years of age, and very good-looking despite her shaven head. "Are you okay?" she asked, and the women lent into her touch, burying her head in her shoulder as she wept. Emilie rubbed her back comfortingly, shushing gently.
"Nazi whore!" one of the Dutch men yelled, pointing accusingly at the woman Emilie was consoling. Emilie glanced back down at the woman, confused, but before she could demand to be told what was going on, someone grabbed her dress collar and pulled her back roughly, causing the woman to fall to the ground, still wailing.
"Don't help her," the man that had grabbed her hissed in her ear, "She slept with the Germans! She is filthy!"
Emilie yanked herself free of his grip, glaring at the man as she spun around. But, fearful she should say something stupid again, she forced herself to remain silent and simply stalked off, making her way into one of the more quiet alley ways. No one else was there, albeit a ginger and white tabby cat that was padding expertly on one of the roofs overhead. She shouldn't have come to this celebration in the first place. They were the enemy. And yet she couldn't quite believe that.
Walking over to a rickety wooden cabinet that had been thrown out onto the street, she heaved herself up, leaving her feet dangling in mid-air. She leaned back against the brick wall, closing her cerulean blue eyes. Her hair had been messed up in the fray, and now a few dark red locks fell over her face.
"You really are a medic."
She recognised the voice and half-opened her eyes to see Eugene standing at the entrance to the alley. He hesitantly walked towards her until he could rest an elbow on the cabinet, using the other hand to place a cigarette between his lips and then a silver zippo to light it. He inhaled deeply and tipped his head back, blowing out the smoke slowly. As he did so, she found her eyes were fixated on his lips. But she shoved the thought aside as soon as it slipped into her mind.
"I told you so, sir," she replied softly, letting out a soft sigh.
He nodded, taking a few more breaths of the cigarette before letting it drop to the ground where he stomped it out. "You were brave," he continued, "Everyone else stood back and just let it happen. But not you, miss Emilie."
She couldn't resist the small smile that crept onto her lips, both at his praise and at the way he pronounced certain words. "I'm a woman," she answered simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "We've gotta work extra hard to get noticed."
"It pays off," Eugene raised his eyes to meet hers, "If you don't mind my askin', what's it like workin' for the K…" He quickly corrected himself, "The Germans?"
Emilie was slightly taken aback by the question, and shrugged, plucking a loose strand of fabric from her now-dusty dress and picking at it while she spoke, "They're just people, Eugene. Like you and me. Most don't even support the Nazis, you know, they just fight for their country, as you fight for yours. I'm… Well, I'm pretty honoured to be able to work alongside those men and women."
Eugene seemed to be at a loss for words for a few seconds, but finally he nodded once and said nothing more. An awkward silence filled the air, until Emilie scooted forward and jumped from the cabinet, landing gracefully. She was once again thankful for the fact she wasn't wearing her army uniform.
"Well, I'm sorry, Eugene Roe," She smiled and pretended to tip her non-existent hat like she had seen countless soldiers do before, "But I have to be getting back to my Company," A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes, "They don't know I'm here, and I think they'd be pretty damn pissed if they found out. They'd probably have my head."
He nodded again and gave a small, almost non-existent smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. "Pleasure meeting you, miss Demont. If God is kindly, this war will be over soon and we won't hav'ta fight 'gain."
Emilie extended her hand, and after a brief moment's pause, Eugene took it, shaking. Light blue met dark as they locked eyes for a split second, before Emilie gave a mocking salute and hurried away, careful to keep her head down as she forged a way through the bustle of people. But, as she did so, she was almost once again knocked aside as the American soldiers tried to make their way past, a more stern expression now plastered on their faces.
Looking back, and having to stand on tip-toes to see over the tops of the heads around her, she saw Eugene exit the alley way. As soon as he was out in the open, a woman rushed over to him and looked prepared to plant a kiss straight on his lips. But as soon as the woman saw the sash indicating he was a medic, she turned up her nose and ran over to where a taller, red-haired man was standing next to a shorter, dark-haired, looking concerned, and kissed him squarely on the lips before darting away.
Emilie gritted her teeth in annoyance at how little respect people had for medics. They put their lives on the line daily, even more so than normal soldiers as they had to run into the most dangerous of places to help their fallen comrades when all others had fallen back. They had to operate while being careful to not be hit by the cross-fire, and also had basic fire-arm training to accompany their knowledge of medicine. They were the unsung heroes of war. The angels of the battlefield.
Then it hit her. The American soldiers were trying their best to rush away, most likely having had more reports of German attacks. "Shit," she growled under her breath, now shoving people aside in her desperation to leave and re-join the army. What if they needed her? What if someone had been hit and they died because she wasn't there? Because she had been off gallivanting around at a celebration for the enemy? What if she was listed as AWOL and shot on sight? There was no time to rest in war, "Shit."
But perhaps it had been worth it. Because she had met a certain young medic that had managed to quite turn her head.