"Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in."
Emilie raised her head to look up at the faces that were glaring down at her, headed, of course, by Eberhardt. From the other foxholes, she could hear other men hissing at them to leave her alone and let her be, that what they were doing would get them nowhere. But Eberhardt and his merry lot would not be deterred.
"What a lovely surprise," she replied with a fake smile, voice dripping with sarcasm. She remained seated with her back resting against the icy cold wall of dirt, a blanket the doctor had brought her drawn up to her chin and her crutches at her side, ready in case she needed to leap out as best she could to help people. On her lap was a new medic bag that the doctor had also given her when they had eaten together; it was too pristine for her liking, but, just as the Belgian woman had said back in Bastogne, she couldn't afford to be picky.
"You're looking comfy," one of the other men, Bitner, sneered from beside Eberhardt from where he was crouched down. "But I bet you're used to that now, being fussed over, while the rest of us have been doing our jobs and suffering and fighting."
"Oh, yes," she mumbled into her jacket; she had also been supplied with a fresh uniform, and, though her old one had been blood-stained and disgustingly filthy, she had been a little sad to part with it. "You're regular heroes."
Another man jumped down into her foxhole, looming over her. She looked up, raising her eyebrows in a manner that said 'you think you're tough? 'Cause I'm not afraid of you'. "What was that?" he asked, taking a step forward with his fingers brushing over his gun holster. "I didn't quite hear you, Demont."
"I think she said something about us being true heroes," Eberhardt chuckled from above, voice hinting at a snarl.
The man smiled. "Well, you would be right about that. We are heroes, unlike you." He leaned towards her, his acrid breath hot on her face. Still she held her ground. Then he hissed in a low, vicious whisper, "And don't you forget it, traitor. You're only here because we let you be here."
"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," she muttered back. "Is this going to turn into some Western shooting showdown? You know, where everyone runs to the taverns and we crack our knuckles and—"
He drew back his pistol and slammed the butt of it into the side of her face at full force; the impact sent her crumpling sideways to the ground, struggling to remain conscious. Emilie could taste the metallic tang of blood and could feel it dripping from her ears as she slowly pushed herself upwards, supporting herself with her elbows as she looked up at her attacker, the rest of her body still lying on the earth. Drawing in a shuddery, stubborn breath, she spat the blood onto his clothes, glaring up at him. "Going to have to do better than that," she croaked, moving her jaw from side to side to test it. That would sure leave one hell of a bruise, and she was lucky all of her teeth remained intact. God dammit.
The man exclaimed in disgust, using his gun to wipe away the bloody spit. She wished the gun would go off and sever the artery in his leg. It was probably one of the worst mistakes in her mistake-filled life: having enemies inside her own platoon. But they should no she wasn't going to go down without a fight, and she was definitely going to bring at least one of them down with her, kicking and screaming. The other men watched from above.
Suddenly, he shot forward and snatched her up by the collar of her jacket, making her choke. "You better watch your back, woman," he spat, his face mere millimetres from hers. She said nothing as he threw her back to the ground and retreated back out of the foxhole, where he was patted on the back by the others.
The worst killer in the army, high above being shot at by the enemy, is paranoia among your own troops.
