Foy.

Once a quaint little village, now partially destroyed and over-run with soldiers. Throughout the battle in the Ardennes, German soldiers had taken time away from the line to visit Foy, to sleep with a roof over their head and live in relative comfort, even if it was only for a few hours, before traipsing back to the front. Emilie had never been so lucky, though she probably wouldn't have appreciated the silence, anyway.

Now she stood, supported by her crutches, looking down at it from a rise. On either side of her were the other members of her company, along with a few other platoons from the SS Panzer Divisions and what have you, looking uneasy at being out in the open. Her CO was at the front, talking urgently with the General and another man she didn't know, while the rest of the troops stood back, waiting for the order for them to descend into Foy and take up defensive positions.

Everyone knew they were losing. No matter what the ranking officers said, no matter how much they tried to assure them they had the Americans running scared even when they didn't seem to fully believe it, everyone knew the truth. What had meant to be a simple mission had turned into a royal disaster.

The rage of losing her brother still bubbled under her skin like a volcano ready to erupt at any second, and the soldiers seemed to sense that, appearing extra cautious of her. As she had anticipated, Eberhardt had discovered the letter informing her of Tobias' death, and had proceeded to read it aloud to the entire platoon while she had been gone. Some people, she had been told, had defended her, sympathised with her as a few of them had also lost siblings either during or before the war. But the others had been heartless.

Even still, when she had returned and been confronted by Eberhardt's obnoxious, triumphant grin, she had just looked him up and down, shrugged, told him to keep the letter, and settled into her foxhole for the night. Her dreams had been haunted by that old nightmare of the people she had gotten killed blaming her, but there had been a new addition to their ranks: her brother. She had started awake, and had stayed awake for the remainder of the night, refusing to allow herself to fall asleep again. Now she was sure there were dark rings under her eyes, but she didn't care.

The day after that, a few shots had been fired from the Americans, and a German private had been caught out in the open. Screams for a medic had come down the line, but she had just sat in her foxhole. Eventually, Zimmermann had dropped down, almost falling directly on top of her, and tried desperately to get her up. She had scarcely heard him, staring straight ahead, curled up, not wanting to leave and face the outside world. But, finally, he had managed to get through to her, and she had knocked some sense into her barely-functioning brain, and had run out of the foxhole, feet barely skimming the ground as though she had wings. Emilie had been able to save the private, but that hadn't cheered her up. She was just fixing him up, then he would go to the aid station, stay there for a little while, and then re-join his comrades to be killed in another battle. It was a vicious, unending cycle that always ended in a horrible death.

"Move out!" The soldiers around her started moving as they heard the order from their commanding officer, and Emilie was unwillingly swept up with them; even if she had wanted to stop, she couldn't have. She was knocked to and fro, struggling to regain upright as she walked as fast as her crutches would allow. "Damn things," she hissed under her breath, not even knowing if she was speaking in German or English anymore. She had no idea which one classified as her native tongue.

As the men descended the rise, one or two slipped on the fresh snow and went ass up. Everyone who had witnessed the inelegant incident laughed. While she would usually be amongst them, joking, now she remained silent, continuing on down.

Once they were in the village, the men were quickly assigned positions: the machine guns were to go on the top floor of the building with the caved-in roof; the others would set up a perimeter and man mortars. This could more than likely be their final stand, and no one was going to let their time for preparations go to waste.

Emilie re-filled her bag with medicine supplies from the surgeon, who was looking appropriately nervous.

"Looking forward to this?" she asked sarcastically, stuffing another bandage into the bag that hung from her shoulder. "It's sure to be a barrel of laughs."

"I don't think so," he responded seriously, frowning down at her.

Emilie looked up and smiled, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. "Hey, I was just joking. No need to get your pants in a twist."

He looked down, and she saw his cheeks redden slightly in embarrassment. "Right, yes, sorry. I just… Have trouble joking at times like these."

She nodded, closing her bag. "I understand, doc." She replied, "Different people deal with things different ways." She must have seemed so calm on the exterior, not at all afraid of the impending battle. If only they could see what she was experiencing on the inside, how many emotions were swirling around inside her body.