Meals, if they could even be called that, weren't too exciting at the hospital: near-stale bread, water or occasionally tea, whatever k-rations the Brits or Yanks could spare and anything donated by the townspeople. Rene would sometimes come round to the conscious patients and hand them a square of chocolate she had broken off from a few bars she carried in her pocket. At least she didn't have to worry about it melting in that weather.

Still, even with the crappy food, no one complained when they ate it. They couldn't afford to be picky, even if some of the men were probably used to gourmet meals prepared by chefs their parents employed.

To Emilie, it felt strange to not be wearing her armband, or have her medic bag banging against her hips. She had hardly taken it off for more than ten minutes since she had first been in combat. She hadn't even realised how attached to them she had become.

She was glad Rene hadn't questioned her about how she knew Eugene; even with her lying skills, Emilie wasn't sure she would have been able to come up with a convincing reason. 'He's my cousin' didn't really work.

By that time, Emilie was dying for a shower. It hadn't really bothered her before, when she had been too busy running around to think about it much, but now that she was bed-ridden, her stinking clothes and itchy skin and hair were hard to ignore. It felt as though they were glued to her by sweat and filth, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"Did you hear me, Emilie?"

She looked up from where she had been lying on her back, absently scratching at her arm, barely able to reach the skin through her thick clothing. Rene was standing over her, a pair of old, worn crutches at her side. Emilie frowned, pushing herself up into a sitting position awkwardly with both her hands. "No," she replied, "Sorry, what were you saying? Are those for me?" She felt a flash of disappointment. She had almost been stupid enough to believe she would be able to walk away without crutches. She should have known better than that.

"Yes," Rene's eyes flicked to the objects beside her before holding them out to Emilie. "You should try them out, get your blood circulating. It's not good to stay lying down for so many days straight; I would have given you exercises, but I've been so busy." Rene paused to wipe a hand over her sweat-beaded brow, smearing a little blood over her skin as she let out a near-defeated sigh. "Anyway, it was quite hard to find these, and they may be a little big for you, but just try them out for size and tell me how they feel." Her lips curled upwards in a forced smile.

Emilie looked from her to the crutches and back again uncertainly. She had never used them before; surely it couldn't be too hard.

"Do you need some help getting up?" Rene suggested.

Stubbornly, Emilie shook her head, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and testing her injured leg by pressing down lightly on it. She winced as the action sent a sharp pain racing up her leg. Rene looked ready to help, but Emilie, still too proud to give up and say she couldn't do it, sucked in a breath and determinately, slowly rose to her feet. She wobbled a little, feeling like an awkward flamingo as she stood there, swaying as she stood on one foot. "Give 'em to me," she hissed. Where the hell had her balance she had acquired in ballet gone?

Rene handed her the crutches, and Emilie slid them under her armpits as she had seen other people do before. Her hands gripped the part half way down. Rene had been right: they were a little too tall, but they would have to do. She stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do but still not wanting to ask for help. But, finally, tentatively, she picked them up and moved them forward, hobbling along with them, putting her weight into her hands and mainly using her uninjured foot to walk on. It felt a little like hopping. Every time her hurt foot brushed the ground, she grimaced and bit her tongue to stifle a whimper, but she fought through the searing pain. Hey, at least it wasn't infected, which was quite a surprise in this disease-ridden place.

Rene walked alongside her, slowly at first, but quickening her pace as Emilie grew in confidence. The crutches creaked as she walked. "So, they're okay?" Rene inquired, and Emilie smiled back.

"They'll do," she answered, turning with her feet in mid-air, and beginning to limp back to her bed. As soon as she reached it, she flopped back down, puffing despite the fact she had barely walked twenty feet, down the aisle with wounded men on either side of her. "That's enough for one day," she shook her head with a chuckle, "Wow, I really need to get my fitness level back up, huh?"

"It isn't a race," Rene replied, smiling, seemingly pleased, "Just take your time until you build up your strength again." Just then, a man at the end of the room, half-concealed by shadows, let out a soul-shattering wail and both of the women's heads snapped towards the sound. She sighed. "I have to go," she apologised before rushing away.

Emilie sank back down onto her pillow, trying to hide from the mangled bodies around her and block out their cries for help. Her arms lay limply by her sides, and her fingers ran over a slight bulge in her pocket. She looked down, fingers digging through her pocket until they found a piece of folded paper. She pulled it out and held it up the light. Her heart squeezed. It was the letter Julian had given her. But she wouldn't read it; it wasn't her place to. Slipping it back into her pocket where it would be more-or-less safe and shielded from the weather, she made a silent oath to herself: if she made it out of the war, the first thing she would do was visit the United States of America and give the letter to whoever it was for in person. Julian deserved at least that.

Funny. She had known the guy for less than ten minutes, and she still felt like she owed him. Well, she did. She had let him die. Because of her, that boy was dead. And this was the only way she could think of to somehow make it up to him.