It was New Year's Eve. The sun had already slid behind the horizon, and now the sky was a bleak grey. Twilight had never looked so miserable. For the past few days, everyone had had trouble sleeping. It wasn't just because of the stress and cold, however; the flares the Germans sent up into the sky didn't just keep the Yanks awake. Every time one illuminated the night sky and turned it red, Emilie was once more wide awake. The process repeated a few times a night, and by the time they stopped and she finally managed to drift into an uneasy sleep, the sun was already rising and it was time to get up. It was a horrible circle, and one no one could keep up for much longer.
To celebrate the victory of Bastogne every German could see was right around the corner, every man in their foxhole began singing loudly, their own versions of 'Silent Night'. The Americans yelled back insults at them, telling them to shut the hell up and that they won't be celebrating for much longer. No one else paid any attention to their threats, laughing instead, but Emilie felt a sense of dread. They were perfectly capable of upholding their threats.
She sat on a fallen log, blanket tucked around her, staring into the distance at the dark trees, only half-listening to the singing all around her. Even her CO joined in. It was nice to see them happy, and, for the first time since Julian's death, she actually smiled genuinely.
But she always dreaded night time in the war. Not because the enemy could sneak up on them, not because that was the time the temperature dropped, but simply because that silence, when she was all alone, gave her time to think about things. Things she didn't want to think about. Things like the people she had seen die in her arms, her little brother. It would be his birthday soon. She wondered if a birthday card would reach him if she sent one from this Hell hole. No, wait. It was too damn cold to be Hell.
She had tried to ask God for forgiveness, asked Him (or Her, for that matter) to take the pain of all the losses away. But, so far, her prayers had been utterly useless. Maybe God couldn't see Bastogne. Maybe they were on their own there. She glanced down at the small, golden cross that dangled around her neck, brushing her fingers over it. She didn't even feel that she should be wearing it anymore.
She had heard rumours that Dietrich was tired of war, and that if Hitler were to ask for peace, he would back him up whole-heartedly. He should have known better than to expect anyone to forgive Hitler. His life would not end well. But what was most disturbing was that one of the most powerful Nazis in the country was ready to give up. That was good thing, granted, but it hadn't exactly helped morale. 'What hope do we have now?' had been a question whispered throughout the camp. But no one was ready to surrender just yet.
Too caught up in her own dark thoughts (she really needed to learn how to live in the moment), Emilie didn't notice when the singing died down and the last of the sun's pale rays disappeared altogether. It must have been midnight. A whole new year. How many people would live to see next New Year's? They had been wrong about being home for Christmas.
The Germans let out a loud cheer, but it was drowned out by the Americans, whose cheering was truly something to behold. She would have thought there would have been none of them left by now, or that they would have been too battle-weary to celebrate. But that wasn't the case. Emilie's hint of a smile widened, and she was glad the darkness concealed it. Enough people had already been calling her a traitor and American sympathiser since she helped Julian, an accusation lead by that damn replacement. That was not what she needed right now, more problems. So she just ignored them and continued on her way whenever she heard the mutterings.
Suddenly, the American's triumphant (what did they have to be triumphant about, exactly?) yells reached their crescendo and a mighty roar filled the air. What sounded like every gun the Yanks had at their disposal fired at the Germans; every mortar, every high explosive. Emilie jumped backwards, taking cover behind the log and covering her ears. She had never heard anything so loud. The ground shook even more violently than it had when she had been beside the 88s on her first day in Bastogne. It suddenly seemed like daylight, with all the explosions lighting up the dark.
As she watched, heart racing, she thought that maybe God had answered her prayers after all. So far, no one had been hit. Thank the Lord for the foxholes!
Being the moron she was, she thought she could make it back to her foxhole, which would be far safer than behind a log. She ran towards it, falling only a few times and even then she was back on her feet in a split second. Maybe she didn't run fast enough; maybe she wasn't close enough to the ground; maybe it was a hopeless attempt to start with. Or maybe she was just unlucky. Because, when her foxhole was within sight (she could probably have reached it if she dove for it), what felt like a club smashing into her heel knocked her off her feet. Her right Achilles tendon exploded into agony, and she let out a cry that was almost inaudible above the bombardment.
Not thinking, she screamed out for a medic before she realised her mistake.
She couldn't think clearly, the burning agony clouding her mind. Nothing had ever hurt this much; well, physically, anyway. Leaving her brother had hurt a hell of a lot.
And then there was silence, broken only by the cheers of the Americans. The night was once again dark. Emilie gritted her teeth together, her face pressed into the ground as she writhed in pain, arching her back and letting out another silent cry.
"Is everyone alright?" she faintly heard her CO call, but he sounded so far away even though, logically, she knew he would only have been standing a few metres away.
The other soldiers called back reassurance, their voices considerably less cheerful. She recognised Zimmermann's voice as he asked, "Where's Emilie?" She assumed he was looking into her foxhole; his was beside hers.
That sent everyone into a frenzy. Even the stupid replacement knew that losing their only medic would mean disaster, and they may be forced to retreat just because of that. They began frantically searching, calling out her name. They couldn't see her in the pitch-black darkness, and she cursed inwardly. She could only let out a groan.
"I heard her!" someone exclaimed, and everyone stopped and turned in his direction, "It came from somewhere over there, near her foxhole. I… I think she's hit. I can't see."
"Well, don't just stand around," her CO ordered, and she heard his heavy footsteps walking towards her. The other men followed him. She slightly opened one eye, and what she saw frightened her the most. Well, more accurately, what she didn't see. Everything was in mottled shades of black and grey. Of course, that was what was expected at midnight, but this was different. Everything was distorted; the voices around her sounded like echoes, her head burned. She tried to raise her head, but she flopped back down to the ground, hard. Great. Another concussion.
Not much truly scared her, but this was a rare exception. Because she may not be able to help her army. What use was a blind medic? But, thankfully, when she closed her eyes and opened them again, everything was more or less back to normal, with only a slight distortion. That was more than could be said for the excruciating pain, working its way up her leg.
"Demont."
Emilie looked up to see her CO had crouched down beside her, along with Zimmermann and a few others she couldn't make out. The replacement was standing back, arms folded over his chest, but she could tell he was just as afraid as anyone else, even if he seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.
"Sir," she managed to croak out, though the word got a little lost in her throat. "I-I'm sorry. I'm hit. My a-ankle. God, I'm so stupid. It was my fault."
"You need to learn how to keep your ass out of trouble, Demont," he grumbled back, but she could detect the concern in his rough voice. Concern? Him? Wow.
The next voice she recognised was that bloody doctor, standing behind the CO. Always the bearer of bad news. Why wasn't he helping her? "Sir," he spoke up, quietly, as though trying to not let Emilie hear. Her CO turned to him as he continued. "Sir, the aid station was hit by heavy mortar fire. All our supplies are gone, and, even if they weren't, I can't operate in the dark, or at least not very well. What do you want us to do?"
Her CO was silent for a few seconds, and no one spoke, waiting for him. Only Emilie's occasional moans broke the quiet. She knew she was a goner. "Someone may as well shoot me and save me the pain," she muttered, unintentionally kicking someone hard in the shin as she struck out with her uninjured leg. They jumped back, but made no complaint. They must have known what she was going through.
"No one's shooting anyone," her CO replied sharply, "Let's leave that to the Americans."
She heard the replacement snicker. "The woman probably gave them information, and this was only karma."
Emilie let out an infuriated cry, attempting to prop herself up by her elbows, but her arms failed and she slumped back to the ground. "Come over here and say that," she growled through gritted teeth. Her tongue hurt from where she must have bit it when she fell, and as such her voice sounded a little odd, "Shot or not, I can still take you." She was serious. She would try if he was game.
"I don't strike any woman but my wife," he replied with a sniff, "Especially not wounded, pathetic ones."
That angered her more than anything else. Sexism. But, before she could say anything more, another wave of fire swept up her leg and she broke off in a fit of coughing. She could taste blood.
"Stop bickering!" Zimmermann yelped, "This won't help!"
The replacement sneered, "Look at the mutt, defending his bitch."
She could feel everyone bristling around her.
"Silence!" her CO ordered, voice booming. Everyone obeyed him; even Emilie attempted to keep her pain-induced noises to a minimum. "This is disgraceful! If we don't help her now, our only medic will die of blood loss." Emilie tensed even more, which she didn't think was possible.
No one spoke for a few moments. Then she recognised the voice of the sweet man that had talked to her back in Eindhoven when she had smashed the plates. Funny, the little things she remembered. "I think I have an idea. Could somebody please bring around a jeep?"
Almost everyone rushed to do so, not wanting to be around Emilie any longer. Honestly, she thought she was handling it pretty well, what with her precious lifeblood pooling onto the snow around her. Jeeps were quite a rare thing, as most of the Germans still used horse-drawn methods of transportation.
A/N: Stay tuned, my darlings. C:
xx
