A few days had passed since the incident in Emilie's foxhole, and she had been right: she now wore a large piece of cloth on her left cheekbone, covering the six stitches that were sure to leave a gruesome scar in the future. But that didn't stop her from giving her men daily check-ups. It wasn't the same as before, however. When they had once greeted her happily and like she was family, now they forced smiles and seemed unsure of how to act around her. There was no playful banter. She just did her job and moved on. It hurt.

She was forced to work with her haters, too, who spent the entire time she was near them making snide, offensive comments and threats. For the most part, she remained silent, counting the seconds before she could leave them, but sometimes, they would say something that really hit a nerve and she would snap something back at them, which only made them laugh.

The man that had struck her had been given a real reprimand by the CO – that's a nice way of putting it; everyone had been able to hear the CO yelling at him from his tent. When the soldier had returned, he had been like a beaten dog, subdued, and had slid into his foxhole and stayed there the entire night without comment. But the peace hadn't lasted long, and the next day he had been back on his destructive rampage. If only she had an excuse to give him one too many doses of morphine… She had actually considered that more than once, but she always came back to the conclusion that she would be the prime suspect and would most likely be shot. Pity.

But, soon, it had become apparent that they were the least of her worries and they had faded into the background. Emilie was brought back into reality, that they were in a war. It had started in the early hours one day, when she had been awoken by the grinding and spluttering and squeaking of tanks moving close by. She had bolted to her feet, equipped herself with her crutches, and climbed hastily out of her foxhole. The sight that had greeted her had been German tanks pouring through the trees, knocking them over and firing all they had at the Americans. The Yanks had evidently been caught off guard, as it had taken a minute before they had begun laying on the rapid machine gun fire and launching bazookas and mortars at the tanks.

For a little while at least, the odds had been weighed heavily in the Germans' favour. Then it all fell apart when the Americans began to fight back, and a large portion of the German forces had been destroyed. Emilie had narrowly missed being crushed by a falling tree, and had hit the deck, seeking shelter further into the woods where most of the other soldiers had also gathered, their eyes as round as the moon. She had then immediately set to work, giving orders to men who were still capable of doing something to bring the wounded to the rear and check the tank wreckages for any signs of life. She had hated being so useless; usually, she would have done all that herself.

She and the surgeons had worked well into the night, but still the death toll had steadily risen. Emilie had refused to give up on a man that had obviously not stood a chance, and the doctor had been forced to literally drag her away. But, having her luck, not one of her haters had died; indeed, most of the dead had been her supporters.

The Germans had once been so sure of their victory; failure had not even been considered. But now, they were truly nervous.

That had not been a fun day.