Emilie traced a thumb lightly over the picture she held in front of her, frowning down at it. It was a photo an American had taken that had accidentally been dropped; she had picked it up the day before, just after they had entered the French town of Hagenau. It was of thousands upon thousands of surrendered German soldiers, marching along the road with Americans driving alongside in army jeeps; there were only one or two armed men to guard the retreating Germans. She blinked, impressed. Even in defeat, they managed to march with such pride, such dignity. True soldiers. The type that would particularly struggle to settle back into civilian life once the war was over.

There she went again, always putting a negative spin on things. Well, if it was possible to make a surrender even more negative than it already was.

Setting the photograph aside, she stood up from where she had been sitting on her bed. Bed. It almost seemed surreal to her. Not a blood-stained cot, not a foxhole. A real bed. One that smelled of damp rot, with springs missing and in desperate need of a good clean, granted, but a bed no less.

She had her own room; it wasn't that she was of a particularly high rank or anything, but, as she was a woman and medic, the men had come to a sort of unspoken agreement that she would have her own room whenever possible. Though it was a welcome change, with the snow outside instead of falling all around her, she couldn't help feeling rather lonely, scared of being left alone with her thoughts. It was like she was connected to her platoon, and to be away from them, even the men she hated, felt just plain wrong.

Emilie hopped on one foot over to the dirty window, not wanting to use her crutches for such a simple thing. Wiping away some of the dirt that had gathered on the glass, she pressed her forehead against it, hardly feeling the cold of it anymore after Bastogne, and let out a breath. It fogged up the glass a little. The sun was just setting, and, from her vantage point, she could see the Americans scurrying between buildings like frightened mice, scared they would be caught out in the open.

But neither side wanted to fight anymore. They knew they had to, so they would, but, if it was down to them, she knew the majority of both the Germans and the Americans would just walk away. They were tired of the hate, the fear, the pain, the sorrow. And now that they had roofs over their heads and a semi-warm-and-safe place to sleep at night, those feelings were heightened. But they were stubborn and deathly loyal to their countries, and no one wanted to go home and know there was more they could have done. No one wanted to lose.

"Sergeant Demont." There was a rapping on her door and she jumped, taking a moment to regain her composure before limping over to open the door. Beaming at her on the other side was Zimmermann, holding a tray of steaming hot food prepared by the Feldkockunteroffizier and Küchenbullen, alongside a cup of tea. He offered her the tray, which she took with a smile. "I know you don't like coffee, so I asked for tea instead." He shrugged.

She let out a chuckle; it felt strange to think she was actually going to be eating hot food. In a real bedroom. Jesus. "Thanks a million, Zimmermann. Have you had anything to eat? How's your cold?" She knew she sounded like a mother hen, but, hey. They were all her boys.

As if on cue, he sniffled, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his grey jacket. "I brought your food to you first," he replied sheepishly, "I'll get something in a minute. I'm feeling better, my nose is just a little blocked. I should be fine in a day or two. I'm just happy to be out of Bastogne."

Emilie nodded, rearranging her grip on the tray and holding it against her side to pat him on the arm, smiling thinly. "We all are. Come see me if you start feeling worse again, you hear me?"

He nodded. It was odd seeing him with his helmet off. Turning, Zimmermann began to walk away, but she called him back.

"Oh, and Zimmermann?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything. You're a good friend."

He smiled, blushing. "I just brought you some food," he replied, and she laughed lightly. With that, he turned and made his way back down the stairs, which creaked under his weight. And she was once again left alone with her thoughts which quickly dropped back into darkness and memories of screaming men and blood the moment she clicked her door shut.

Bang, bang.

Oh, Jesus Christ, Emilie, help me. It hurts. I don't want to die.

Don't hate me for what I'm about to do, Emilie. I'm just trying to help you, like all the times you've helped us.

I can't feel my legs. I feel so cold.

Your brother is dead. This is your fault Emilie.

You couldn't save us. You were right there, and you didn't do anything.

Boom, boom.

With a shriek, she leapt back and the tray of food clattered to the dusty wooden floorboards before. Whimpering, she staggered backwards, running a hand through her knotted ginger hair. Her back pressed against the wall and she slid down so she was lying on the floor, her face buried in her hands. Her hands. Ones that still carried that metallic stench of warm blood, that would always look red to her no matter how many times she washed them. Hands that had once been so pale and small and innocent, drawing pictures and writing letters to her brother from boarding school, not stuck half-way up someone else's ribcage.

She wasn't who she used to be, a completely different person she could hardly remember. Now she had 'sergeant' in front of her name and a red cross on her helmet. How had that gotten there? She wasn't cut out to be a medic. She wasn't cut out to stare into the abyss of Hell, day after day after day. She had once dreamed of Heaven. Now she knew there was nothing.

Nothing but death.