It had been three days since the Julian incident. The day after, Emilie had made the long walk back to the woods to see if her soldiers actually had buried his body, and she had been almost surprised to find they had; there was a freshly over-turned mound of dirt and snow under the trees, near the log where the machine-gunner had fired the fatal shot. Emilie had tensed at the memory. Thankfully, the freshly-fallen snow had covered the blood. It hurt to be back there, and Emilie expected she would never be able to see another forest without thinking of the dead American soldier, who looked like he hadn't even been old enough to buy a beer.
She hadn't left her foxhole since, and she was at the point where she couldn't feel the lower half of her body, while the upper half tingled from the cold. Her thick, scratchy blanket was pulled up to her chin. That was her way of dealing with things. It reminded her of her lone trip from Germany to Australia when she had left her family. Abandoned her brother. She didn't want to think about it. That was not what she needed right now. Or maybe it was. Maybe enough pain would just kind of make her shut down, so she wouldn't have to feel anything anymore. Her mother would have scolded her for being so morbid.
On the second day, someone must have alerted the doctor when Emilie didn't make her daily rounds to check up on the soldiers. It wasn't that she didn't want to. Oh, how she wanted to. But she psychically couldn't. The doctor that she had abused after two of her men had been killed appeared above her, looking down into the foxhole.
"Miss Demont?"
Emilie grimaced at the name Eugene called her by. "Don't call me that," she croaked. She angled her head up to look at him, squinting when she was faced with the sun. "What, have you come to gloat? I guess you were right. Maybe I have broken down after all."
He shook his head, looking genuine sympathetic. "That may not be what this is," he replied, squatting with his elbows resting on his knees, "I have seen this before. It's a common reaction to losing a patient. Your CO told me what happened. Julian, was that his name?"
She didn't reply.
"Anyway, what I'm saying is this may be a very mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder," The doctor blinked, seemingly waiting for a reaction from her. When she gave him none, he continued, "It may be best if you came off the line. Now, I know what you are going to say, and we doctors and the Hilfskrankentragers can care for any wounded soldiers. The responsibility is off your shoulders now, Emilie."
Emilie snorted. "Sir, I'm not even going to honour that heinous suggestion with a response."
The doctor looked taken aback, as though he had been expecting her to leap with joy. Clearly, he knew nothing about her. "This is my professional medical opinion, Emilie," he pressed.
"And in my professional medical opinion, doctor, I am hunky-dory," she insisted through gritted teeth. When he looked confused by her terminology she had picked up in her times in Australia, she clarified, "I am perfectly fine. Just drop this and let me do my job."
"You can't do your job if you're hauled up in your foxhole," he protested.
She shot to her feet; since she hadn't walked for over a day, all the blood rushed to her head and she almost stumbled. But she forced herself to remain standing, using the wall of the foxhole for support. She raised her chin in a challenge, daring him to say anything more. "Screw you, sir," she hissed, the blanket crumpling around her feet as she dragged herself out of her foxhole. The doctor stood back, and, when she was at full height on the ground in front of him, she may as well have still been down in the foxhole with him looming over her. Ah, the joys of being undersized.
"I'm just trying to help," he told her softly. She recognised the voice he was using, trying to lull her into submission. Well, it wasn't going to work. If there was one thing she definitely was, it was stubborn. She guessed she inherited that from her mother, who she was always locking horns with. Her heart twinged at the thought. She hadn't even realised she was missing the woman; yes, it was good to be away from her, out from under her shadow, but still. Genetics is the least of what makes a mother.
"Go help someone who needs it," Emilie replied, patting her medicine bag pointedly, "I have men to examine." Before she walked away dramatically, she paused and turned back to him, "And that sounded much less creepy in my head."
