"Where the hell have you been?" demanded her CO in Deutsch as soon as she skidded into camp, almost tripping and falling on her ass when she ran over some loose earth. He had been giving orders and setting up sniper positions when he had heard her approach – of course, even a half-deaf man could have heard her coming. Though she was usually as silent as a cat on her feet, having done dance as a child, when she was in a hurry she was louder than all the men in their heavy army boots, "Mein Gott, Demont! Spinnst du?"

Then he seemed to notice what she was wearing, staring at her questioningly. "Care to explain this?" He gestured to her curly hair pulled back, for once not a tangled mess; her pale grey, off the shoulder dress with white frills; and, perhaps most shocking, her small heels. She actually looked like a woman for once.

She felt a little uncomfortable, trapped in his gaze, but cleared her throat and answered confidently, also in German with her strange Australian-German accent, "I'm very sorry, sir, but I went to visit some of my family. We don't get much R&R time, you see, and since the Yanks seemed quiet, I thought I'd take a few hours."

"Without asking me?" he raised his bushy eyebrows sceptically and took a small step forward so he was towering over her. It was a feeling she was used to, what with her small stature, so she stared up at him defiantly, which appeared to throw him a little, "Just because you are Australian and a medic doesn't mean you can go behind my back. When you are here, you are under my command. Don't forget your place, Demont, or I won't be quite so forgiving next time."

She dipped her head, "Understood, sir. Thank you, sir." With a final grunt, he turned and stalked back to his soldiers, leaving Emilie feeling just a little proud of her ability to get out of a tight situation.

Humming the tune to Waltzing Matilda, she made her way downstairs, an extra bounce in her step. Half way down the wooden stairs, she ran into her friend, Kattenstroht. He had his rifle slung over one shoulder, and, upon seeing the enflamed stitches on his chin, she instantly remembered stitching him up after one of the replacements accidentally spun their weapon around and caught him in the face.

"Where have you—" he began, stopping one step above her and looking down.

"I just went through that with Bernd," she interrupted with a smile and a shake of her head, "Don't make me repeat myself, Kat," Frowning, she tilted her head slightly to the side and reached up, placing her thumb on his stitched-up chin. When he flinched away, she told him, "Once I get out of these clothes and back into my stinking, horrible, heavy uniform, come see me and I'll put some more disinfectant on that. It's not healing very well."

He chuckled and nodded.

Suddenly, rifle fire sounded in the room she had just been in, making her and the other soldier jump and whip around. "You can't get a minute's rest around here," she hissed, turning and bolting down the stairs, taking two at a time.

"What were you expecting?" Kat called after her, but she didn't answer, "By the way, you look really nice!" Now there was no time to change. She would have to help people in a dress. Slipping between soldiers and upturned furniture, she burst into the small room she had been sharing with the nurses of the Aid Station and fumbled around for her helmet. She threw aside clothes and bedding until it finally came into view. Scooping it up, she crushed it over her head, which was made all the more difficult by the flower she had in her hair, and snatched up her medical kit.

The entire building shook and she barely managed to stay on her feet, crashing into the wall and knocking a painting from it. It fell to the wooden floorboards below, the glass shattering into a million tiny pieces. Everything beautiful was eventually destroyed in war.

"Medic!" a soldier screamed from outside. Emilie stumbled out of the room and ran down the narrow hall as best she could in heels. She couldn't risk taking them off, as she could step on glass or rubble. As soon as she reached the door leading outside, she took a split second to shove all fear aside. Now the only lives that mattered were those of the soldiers she was serving. She would lay down hers to save them. Swallowing and sucking in a deep breath, she stepped out onto the street, ducking aside to avoid the flying bullets. "Medic!" the soldier repeated, this time more desperate.

Following the sound of the plea, blinded by the sun in her eyes and choking on smoke, she somehow managed to find the wounded man and knelt down to examine his injury. He was bleeding heavily from the side, and upon closer inspection she realised with a sense of dread that a chunk of brick was lodged in it. "Okay," she breathed, ripping open her satchel and pulling out cloth, morphine and a clump of bandages. Using her small knife, she cut out the brick as best she could under the circumstances and held the cloth to the wound, which was now bleeding even more heavily. What a way to die: killed by a brick. She instantly scolded herself. He wasn't going to die. She wouldn't let him.

"You're going to be just fine," she promised, voice raised over the gunfire and explosions as she continued to tend to the wound, "I'm right here." When she looked over to the man's face, she was horrified to see his eyes were slowly flickering shut. She raised her hand and slapped him gently on the face, "Hey, hey, hey, mister, don't you go to sleep. Stay awake." She glanced up at the other soldier staring at the downed man in horror, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock. "Keep him awake," she ordered. But he didn't seem to hear her, blue eyes fixated on the gushing blood. She raised her voice sharply, "Soldier, keep your comrade awake, do you hear me? Do you want to bloody lose him?"

He started at the sound of her voice, and looked up at her, clearly struggling to form words. "There's… There's just so much blood," he whispered shakily, barely audible over the chaos around them. That made Emilie realise he was a new recruit, and this was most likely his first battle. Hell of a first time to fight. Eindhoven.

"And there'll be much more if you don't keep him awake!" she snapped. A strange calm washed over her as she looked back down and continued to attempt to stop the bleeding. Her hands were now dripping with the dark crimson liquid and her dress was completely ruined and already ripped, but she didn't stop working. She used one hand to inject morphine into the man's chest and wrapped the bandages around his side as best she could. It was an awkward and incredible difficult place to bandage, but she did her best.

"Get him out of here," she told the young soldier, who nodded weakly. He bent down and placed his hands under the man's armpits. "Gently," she murmured, rubbing the wounded soldier's wrist with her finger soothingly. That was when she realised something was wrong. "No, no, no!" she yelled desperately, pressing her index finger to the side of his neck, which was covered in scrapes.

"What's wrong?" the replacement asked, face twisted in fear. She thought he was going to faint at any moment.

Emilie began pumping his chest with both her hands, pressing her ear above his heart to listen for a beat. Nothing. "He has no pulse," she replied softly, but quickly her voice was hysteric once more until she was almost screaming, "Don't go giving up on me!" She breathed air into his lungs with her mouth, but still nothing. Emilie tried a few more times, before dropping back to the ground in defeat. "He's dead."

It was every doctor's worst nightmare: losing a patient. Most had trouble accepting the fact they were dead, and were haunted by their faces for the rest of their lives, sometimes being drawn to suicide in extreme cases. And she was just 20 years old – most didn't experience death for most of their lives. She felt a warm tear run down her cheek and drop onto her exposed knees. But she quickly wiped her eyes and clambered to her feet. Now was no time to cry. She had to be brave, and give her comrades strength, and seeing their supposedly fearless medic cry was not going to give them any hope.

So she sniffed, raised her head, and nodded to the soldier still crouched beside the corpse. "Thank you for your help," she struggled to keep her voice steady, a hard expression on her face. But she knew that her eyes betrayed her true emotions, "Now go and fight and do this man proud." She felt a sob rising in her throat at the fact that she didn't know his name, but pushed it back down.

When he didn't respond, she held out a hand and grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet; for a small thing, she was quite strong. She patted his shoulder and forced a smile she hoped was at least a little encouraging. "You're a soldier," she reminded him gently, straightening his crooked helmet, "Do your duty. You'll be fine."

She didn't know that. He could die, too, if she was too incompetent to save him. But he straightened, eyes glazed, and nodded. She could feel him quivering and squeezed his hand. And then he was gone, disappeared into the smoke, gun blazing as he fought to avenge his friend.

Not allowing herself to look down at the dead body, Emilie wiped her bloody hands on her dress and looked around for any more men in need of help, straining her hears to try and hear any screeches for a medic. Once or twice she almost responded to the Americans cries for help, before reminding herself whose side she was on. It killed her to ignore a plead for help, but she knew what she had to do. Their own medic would help them. Her gaze swept over a Yank cowering against a wall, eyes staring blankly ahead, but she forced herself to ignore him.

At that moment, a familiar Cajun accent roused her from her troubled thoughts. It sounded surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. But before she had time to look around for the American medic, an explosion swept her off her feet, sending her flying into a black grand piano that had been moved onto the street. The last thing she felt before everything went black was a surge of fear: what if she didn't awake before the battle was over and was taken prisoner by the enemy? Did they take medics prisoners? Would it really be such a terrible thing if she got to be around Eugene? No, that's a stupid, traitorous idea. And then an agonising aching at the back of her eyes, blurred vision and finally the relief of darkness.