"Sergeant! There's hot showers! Hot showers!"

Emilie raised her head, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Someone was yelling excitedly through her bedroom door, pounding their fists against it. She was just about to reply, when the frantic banging on the door ceased and she heard footsteps scurrying back down the stairs. Usually, she wouldn't have heard him; before the war, she was an incredibly deep sleeper. The end of the world couldn't have woken her. But now, she practically slept with one eye open. Because any day could very well be the end of the world.

She rolled her eyes, smiling thinly despite herself, and dragged herself out of the warm comfort of her bed. Glancing back, she saw that her sheets were strewn around the bed, the pillow halfway across the room, and the memories of the nightmare she had endured the night before came rushing back. That same fucking dream, with all the people she couldn't save. No matter how many times she had it, it never stopped terrifying her. How much guilt could one person hold? It was ridiculous and repetitive, but, damn, it hurt.

Last night had been the first time she had changed out of her uniform and into a short, black nightgown in… Well, she couldn't even remember how long. It was strange to have her legs and arms exposed, her collarbones actually visible. But the freedom didn't last long, and she was soon slipping out of it, putting her dirty bra back on, and then tugging on her cold, grey uniform. She shivered.

Tying up the last laces on her boots, she grabbed her crutches and wrapped her hand around the round, metal doorknob. But she misjudged the weight of the door, tensing her muscles when there was no need as it was so light, and, when she threw it open, she almost staggered backwards. Smoothing her uniform, she chuckled under her breath, thankful there had not been anyone around to witness her embarrassing moment.

Once she was down stairs, most of the men had already gone over to the showers. There were only a few troops left behind to watch the Americans and alert the Germans if there was any suspicious advancements; they were grumbling about how they wouldn't get to bathe until after everyone else came back. As she passed, one of the men grunted at her, muttering something along the lines of "oh, so she gets to go, but we're stuck here? That seems fair."

Emilie ignored them, and continued on her way.

Once she arrived, her CO intercepted her, blushing a little. She could see the steam from the showers rising into the air like a fine mist. It reminded her of the thick fogs of Bastogne, which had made it near impossible to see more than five metres in front of your own nose… No, she couldn't think about that place.

"Demont," he greeted her sternly, but, after a moment, his face softened slightly. "Well, you are a woman…"

Emilie snorted. "Fantastic observation skills, Sherlock Holmes."

"And the rest of the soldiers are men," he continued, setting her with a steely glare intended to put her in her place. But she just smirked back at him. She could see where this was going, but let him say it anyway, just to see if he could get any more uncomfortable. It was stupid, what he was saying. He continued, "I strongly suggest you wait until everyone else is done before bathing, to avoid… Making things… How do I put this? Awkward."

Like she had said: stupid. She and the men had been through a hell of a lot worse, but still the differences in male and female anatomy kept them apart. Well, boys would be boys, and boys could be extremely immature. Rolling her eyes, she nodded. "Fine. I'll wait my turn, sir."

He dipped his head, before turning on his heel and walking briskly away.

Emilie took a seat on a rickety wooden chair that had been thrown out of someone's house and left on the sidewalk, on the other side of the tents where the men were showering so she could see no more than silhouettes inside. She could hear them singing a German song, and smiled slightly. Some had good voices, while others were terribly off-key, but, still. There was something so joyous about hearing them so care-free, after all they had faced.

A soldier walked past, looking clean and cheerful after his shower, walking proudly and showing off his fresh uniform. She recognised him. He was a Polish man who had been kidnapped by the Allies in Normandy. After he had been released, everyone had gathered around to hear his stories, which he had been more than happy to share with them. One had been about a time he had been interrogated; an American had asked how the German front-line troops had been able to stand up to the air and naval poundings. The Pole had told him, "Your bombs were very persuasive, but the sergeant behind me with a pistol in his hand was more so."

That had been everyone's favourite story, and, though Emilie had laughed along with everyone else (the thought of how close she had once been with her men made her heart ache painfully), it had also reminded her just how strict the German army was, to what lengths they would go to reinforce orders. And still she purposely tried to break as many rules as possible. She was lucky she hadn't had a bullet put through her brain yet.

It seemed to Emilie that she had waited at least two hours by the time her CO approached her and told her she could go in, also handing her a fresh uniform that she took gratefully, perhaps a bit too eagerly. But no one in their right mind, or even someone out of their mind, would turn down clean clothes after over 70 days of being in the same, stinking ones.

Once the water was running, she discovered the promise of scolding hot water had been a lie. It was luke-warm at best, she didn't even want to know how clean the water was, and the hard ground stunk of the filth hundreds of soldiers had washed off, but she honestly couldn't find it in herself to care. The shower was amazing.

Emilie let down her hair, after a little struggle of not being able to undo the knots, and let the water run through it. Her bright, auburn locks darkened and straightened as the water washed out the dirt and sweat, and it clung to her chest. She leaned down to scoop up a half-dissolved bar of slippery soap and rubbed it into a lather before working it into her hair. She let out a contented sigh. The water seemed to sooth her aching muscles, and it was as though all the tension and memories of the past dreadful months was washed off along with the dust.

Only when she turned off the water, droplets clinging to her skin and dripping from her eyelashes, did she remember one critical part of showers: a towel. At first she cursed under her breath, but she was quickly laughing softly, shaking her head at how stupid she was for forgetting a goddamn towel. Brushing her hair over her shoulders after ringing as much of the water out of it as she could, and wiping the water from her eyes with her hands, she picked up her new uniform and started to put it on, struggling a little as the fabric stuck to her damp skin. But, finally, she was standing, bare-foot, in her uniform, her boots and old clothes tucked under her arm.

She could hear the steady tapping as the remaining water dripped slithered down her hair and landed on the ground. Limping out of the tent, she was confronted by the sight of what must have been half of her platoon, sitting around, watching her and snickering. Even Eberhardt was amongst them, leering with his arms folded across his chest, and the thought of him seeing anything made her sick. Oh, so he couldn't stand her the rest of the time, but at the first sign she was naked, he was there. Men.

"See anything you like, boys?" she teased, hoping they wouldn't be able to see her cheeks and neck reddening. That was the problem with being ginger: it was hard to hide when you were embarrassed or upset, what with the fair skin and freckles.

They just grinned back, and she rolled her eyes, heading back towards her quarters as quickly as possible; she could feel their eyes tracing her every step as she walked. Maybe she should have gone bathing in the sewers instead. At least they were private.