A/N: Most of the major events I describe in this fic actually happened, such as the 90 minute barrage on the Germans. So, in this one, the thing about the American soldier spotting the tree is true; that soldier was Easy's very own Shifty Powers. (;
This is a shortie, enjoy!
xx
Finally, a handful of doctors arrived and took their sweet time erecting an aid station behind the line, at the base of a small dike. But, instead of feeling relieved, she felt an indescribable rage. As soon as the news reached her ears, she leapt out of her foxhole and stormed towards the aid station, slamming her fist down on the table when she walked in to announce her presence. All of the doctors jumped and whirled around, eyes wide. One dropped the small, glass bottle of medicine they had been holding, but, luckily, the snow stopped it from breaking and leaking all the precious fluid onto the ground.
"Nice of you to finally show up," she growled through clenched teeth, gaze sweeping over the doctors; some met her glare stubbornly, while the others awkwardly averted their eyes. "Do you know what we have gone through while all of you have been off, traipsing around the country?"
"We haven't been—"
"Don't interrupt me while I'm speaking," Emilie snapped, fuelled by her anger and pain. They fell silent, and she continued on, voice now quiet that only added to her menace, "Do you know how many men I've lost? Huh? Do you? No, you don't, because you weren't here. In the last few days alone, two men have died at my hands. Now, that might not seem like a lot, because you're the oh-so-amazing doctors, but that's two more families that won't be seeing their sons again."
The doctors exchanged a glance, clearly indignant, before one boldly stepped forward. "This is war," he spoke up, meeting her burning gaze steadily, "People will die, and there is nothing we can do about that."
"Nothing we can…" She closed the distance between herself and the doctor, stopping mere inches away, "We are meant to save them! When they die, that's our fault. Don't you get that? If you had been here, maybe we could have been able to do something. I'm just a goddamn medic. They needed a surgeon!"
He reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched away, eyes still locked with his. He let out a sigh. "If we could have been here, we would have been. I'm sorry, miss." The doctor glanced back at the men behind him, before looking back at her, narrowing his eyes in concern. "I read a report by an American combat psychiatrist. He wrote that there is a certain number of days a soldier can be in combat before he becomes too traumatised, breaks down, and is ultimately ineffective; about 180, on average." He hesitated, before asking, "How many days have you been on the frontline as a medic?"
Emilie fought to quell the rage in her heart. If he thought he could just change the subject like that, he had another thing coming, But, reluctantly, she replied, words stiff, "I was drafted in late '41, and was in my first battle on June 6th of this year."
"D-Day," the Doctor murmured.
She nodded once.
"I'll put it frankly. Statistically, you are in danger of breaking down any day now," he told her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one hand, "I strongly recommend you see a psychiatrist."
"I'm fine," she shot back, but couldn't help feeling caught off guard and a little worried by what he had said. She knew she couldn't handle much more of this, but she was damn well going to try, and she wasn't going to leave her men to go see some psychiatrist who wouldn't be able to do anything for her anyway. "You're here to look after the men, not fuss over me."
He shook his head solemnly. "You won't be able to help the men if you don't look after yourself, ma'am."
Emilie swallowed, quivering with anger. "J-just get this aid station up and running," she hissed, struggling to not panic about what she had just been told. He had a point. But she had always been stubborn. With that, she turned and stalked back out into the freezing wind.
Just a few metres away were two freshly dug graves, with sticks tied together with twine placed over them as a makeshift cross. Emilie sucked in a shaky breath through her nose.
The day before, she had left her regiment safely behind in their foxholes, after handing out the coats she had pilfered from the dead soldiers and performing her daily check-ups, and tagged along with another group. She had started to divide her time between all the different regiments, as she was still the only medic, and had already begun to learn the men's names. It was an exhausting job, but one that had to be done, and she had been flattered to learn that the men looked forward to her visits each day. Maybe she was doing something right for a chance.
The group she had attached herself to for the day had trekked over to Noville, their white parkas blending in with the freshly fallen snow and thus hiding them in plain sight from any American sentries. The group had been setting up 88s in the woods, hoping to shoot down any American aircrafts that came to assist the Allies. They had hoped to conceal the flak guns from the Yanks by placing trees strategically around them, but one of the Americans must have spotted the new trees, as a few minutes later a 105mm fired a round about 300m to the left of them. Thankfully, no one was hit, and Emilie could almost believe the Americans were stupid enough to have thought they had hit their target, and wouldn't fire anymore.
But she had been painfully wrong. Soon after, before anyone had time to do anything, the same guns had fired several rounds from each gun, hitting their target dead-on this time. The Germans had scrambled to get out of there, screaming to each other, trying to salvage what they could from the now-destroyed antiaircraft guns. They had dove for cover, and Emilie had hit the deck, crawling towards the sandbags surrounding the 88s as the American guns continued to fire relentlessly. Panting and her blue eyes huge with terror, she had looked around, shielding her face as another round hit its target. You've hit us, she had wanted to scream at them, now you're just doing it for fun!
Most of the soldiers had managed to find cover in the woods, and had Emilie thought with a flare of hope that no one had been wounded. But then her gaze had found one man curled up under the wrecked 88s, beside the raised base. Explosions still booming around her, she had crawled forward as fast as she could and thrown her body over the man to shield him from the falling debris, clamping her helmet to her head, eyes squeezed shut.
But, when there was a brief break in the assault, she had looked up and saw that the man was already dead, blood dripping from his parted lips. She had let out a single, dry sob.
"Emilie," a voice had yelled from behind her, and she had turned to see a young man that could hardly have been 19 rushing towards her.
"Get down, you idiot!" she had called to him, waving frantically with one hand. She hadn't even realised it had been dripping with blood until she had raised it.
He had skidded on his knees to a halt in front of her, looking down at the body. "Do you need help?" he had looked up at her, eyes glittering hopefully despite the trauma he had just been through, "I wanted to be a medic, but I didn't qualify for it." He had shrugged, looking so innocent with his thick, golden locks.
Before she could reply, a final shell had exploded behind them, the force sending them flying through the air. She had been briefly blinded, ears ringing, but when she had looked over, she had been faced with the boy's motionless body, one if his arms draped across her back. What was meant to be a simple task had turned into yet another day of death. The men had been much too young. Like always.
