"Sergeant." The doctor looked up as she entered, from where he had been crouched down, rifling through a large metal trunk filled with medicine, bandages and the sort. "Don't hate me for saying this, but I wasn't expecting to see you again. What happened?" He rose to his feet, clicking the trunk shut as he did so.

Emilie rolled her eyes, shaking snow from her crutches. "I'm not a deserter or an American sympathiser, if that's what you were thinking," she told him, not wanting to go through it all again. "I was taken to the American hospital, it was bombed, so now I'm here."

He smiled. "It's none of my business, anyway. But it will be better now that you're here. The Hilfskrankentrager have been working over-time." His eyes looked sad for a moment, before flicking to her crutches. "You're lucky to have those. Okay, let's have a look at you. Take a seat."

She frowned, limping over to a chair and sitting down, extending her wounded leg. "Kuhn told me no one has been killed by a bullet since I've been gone."

The doctor didn't look up as he pulled up a second chair and carefully picked up her foot, placing it on his knee. "The soldiers don't know everything that goes on," he murmured distractedly, beginning to examine her ankle. "The officers have decided it would be better if the men only knew what they chose to tell them. When men are killed they just… Disappear, and everyone treats it as though they have been taken prisoner. The officers think it will help with morale, and also give them even more reason to fight against the Americans. It can't last for much longer, though. Soon, they'll begin to grow suspicious."

Emilie stared at him in despair. "So… How many have actually been killed?"

"If I tell you, you must promise to keep it to yourself."

"…I promise."

She winced as the surgeon began poking around her leg, applying pressure to see where exactly it stopped hurting. Muttering something about her needing a new dressing, he leaned over and plucked out a roll of white bandages, beginning to unwrap her dirty, stained one that was swimming with possible infection. They were both confronted with the sight of mangled flesh, barely managing to heal. "I don't know how it's not infected yet," he murmured, half to himself, rubbing some disinfectant onto the wound, which made Emilie growl in pain, before he began to apply fresh bandages.

"So," she spoke up as he continued to wrap it around and around her foot, "Are you going to tell me or not?"

The doctor didn't look up, too consumed by what he was doing. At first she thought he hadn't heard her, but, as he broke off the bandage and tucked it in tight enough so it would hold, patting it gently, his eyes flicked up. "9 soldiers in our company alone," he told her, beginning to pack up the equipment so he didn't have to look her in the eye, "I don't know how many in the others. A lot." As he put each glass of medicine away, he listed each man. He reached the last one. "I'm not as good with names as you. One runner was shot while in enemy territory on horseback. His Luger was stolen. I saw his horse in the distance, with one of its legs blown off, just standing there helplessly, lost. I witnessed an American pull out his gun and shoot the poor creature straight in the head. It was probably the kindest thing to do." His voice grew bitter. "Why did innocent, defenceless animals have to be dragged into this?"

Emilie looked down, wringing her wrists. No doubt she would have known the men. She felt another crack appear on her already shattered heart. She should have been there.

They both remained silent for a few minutes, the surgeon with his back to her, hands resting on the cabinet in front of him, head hung. Though he made no sound, she could tell he was crying from the way his shoulders shook every so often and the tiny patches of melted snow beneath him where his tears had fallen. Maybe he was losing his effectiveness. The thought sent anxiety shooting through her. As irritated as he made her, the last thing she wanted was for him to leave her alone out there. But maybe it was the best thing for him. She wasn't the only one that was suffering.

Finally, he turned back to her, and there was no evidence he had been crying apart from the slight redness and puffiness under his eyes. "Go get something to eat, sergeant." He ordered her gently.

Nodding, she carefully lowered herself back onto the snow, making her shiver, and placed the crutches back under her arms. As she began to walk out of the tent, she paused, looked back, and told him, "You make sure to do the same. And call me Emilie."

He smiled sadly and nodded. "Whatever you say."

"Hey, I'm not kidding. When was the last time you ate?"

"I… Don't remember."

"See?"

"I'm the doctor here, Emilie."

"Then you should know better than to starve yourself. I'll come back and eat my meal in here with you, how's that? Clearly, you can't be trusted."

He chuckled. "Thanks for the advice. That wouldn't be… Terrible, I suppose."

Emilie smiled, hoping he wouldn't notice it was forced. "It's a date, bucko."