It was even worse than Emilie could have imagined. She had missed it when she had returned from the barn, going around the back way. But now she was confronted with flames ten feet high, the fires so eerie in a war where no one dared light so much as a match in fear of being spotted; various buildings had been reduced to rubble, and it brought back memories of her time in Bastogne with Rene. That's why all the men had been gathered on the outskirts of the village, seeking refuge where no mortars could reach them. Bullet holes were evident everywhere, but what caught her attention was that they were exactly where the German positions had been; so the Yanks had been watching and paying attention after all. Now, the Germans were firing back with all they had, trying to compensate for the soldiers they had lost by taking some American lives. It was a cruel game, war.

Emilie ducked from cover to cover, stopping every few seconds to let a German bomb fall on the other side of the river before moving again. The 205mm was being put to use, and it could destroy entire buildings with one shell.

Somewhere, a cat yowled, and, for some strange reason, Emilie remembered the tabby cat that had been in the alley in Eindhoven when she had first met Eugene. Now is not the time to get all soppy and weak-kneed over Roe. Out of the edge of her vision, she saw one of the men her CO had sent to accompany and protect her (thankfully, he had purposely chosen men that were still on her side) bend down over some rubble and scoop the ginger, ash-blanketed cat into his arms, cradling it against his neck. Even from this distance, she could hear the cat purring scratchily, and could imagine the smoke swirling around in the poor creature's lungs. The surgeon's words rang in her ears: why did defenceless animals have to get dragged into this? Selfish, arrogant humans.

Well, at least her current loathing of her race detracted somewhat from her hatred of herself.

From up ahead, Emilie could hear a ghastly wheezing, choking, gurgling sound on the bank of the river; the would-be-prisoner that had been abandoned by the Americans. Emilie fought to quell the rage and sorrow that stirred within her, but to no avail. They were now dangerously close to where the shells landed, and every time one did, earth and rocks were sent flying over Emilie's head. She barely managed to duck each time, as did everyone else, but evade they did. The bombing was persistent and unrelenting, driven by pain and the need for revenge; everyone, despite themselves, found immense pleasure in destruction, even if they tried to deny it. After all, war touched on man's most violent passions: hatred and the pushed-down urge to kill. It was more brilliant than the best fireworks display, and Emilie hated herself for admitting that.

"Does anyone know his name?" she hissed to the men that had crouched down beside her, not taking her eyes of the shape of the writhing, wounded soldier just a few metres from her, crying out for help with gasping breaths, hands clawing at the air.

Karl, to her right, shook his head sadly. "He's from another company. We don't—" He was cut off as another rock sailed over his head, narrowly missing it. He looked over his shoulder, eyes making saucers look positively tiny in comparison.

Emilie threw her battered crutches aside and fumbled blindly in her medic bag for a syrette of morphine, turning to him as she did so. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen." No one interrupted her or even seemed to register they were being given orders by a woman. No, in fact, they looked so distraught that they just wanted to be told what to do, as to not feel so helpless and lost. But her eyes didn't soften with sympathy like they usually would have. They simply hardened. "I'm going to go get him and drag him back here." Her gaze swept over the gathered soldiers, one still stroking the cat, face blank. "You three stay here and lay down some covering fire, can you do that? Look for the glint of a reflection of the flames on a gun over the river. And, whatever you do, try not to get me killed, yeah? Yeah."

Okay. Deep breaths. You've faced worse than this before. She still felt a little shaky and light-headed after her meeting with Eugene, and had to block it out of her head. His eyes, his lips, his hand in her hair… No, Jesus Christ, Demont! Fucking concentrate! You aren't in love with him. You have to get this done. This man is more important than that Yank. Steadying herself and preparing to scramble to the bank, she risked a glance to the men beside her. The man had since set down th cat, thank God. They all looked terrified but resilient, ready to defend their medic and friends. When they saw her looking at them, they turned and each offered a small, forced smile, which she returned. One mouthed the words 'good luck'. She was so proud of them, despite the fact they were mostly older than her.

Straight after a bomb had exploded and sprayed up freezing water and reeds sparkling with frost, there was a very brief lull, and Emilie took her chance, rushing forward as best she could on her still-injured foot. She threw herself down still a few metres away from the man with a grunt as a shell landed, covering her head with her hands. "I'm coming for you, soldier!" she yelled at the top of her lungs in order to be heard over the gunfire, and the German twisted and arched his back, trying to speak but failing as his torn lungs made it impossible. She could hear the soldiers behind her laying down spurts of covering fire that whizzed over her head, but that all faded into the background. She could only hear her breathing, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the gasps of the fallen man in front of her.

But, just as she began to crawl forward, she caught sight of two shadows on the opposite side of the wide river's bank, pulling pins on their grenades. Emilie had two options: throw herself onto the wounded soldier to protect him from the inevitable, potentially-deadly blast that might actually be a kindness to him, or run back to safety. Against her better half that was screaming at her to save the man, she chose the cowardly option, and barely had time to scramble behind some rubble before the grenade exploded near the soldier; the other explosive, the one near her, was a dud, thankfully. Or maybe that was a bad thing, that it hadn't killed her.

She tried once again to get to the German when she peeked her head over the rubble and saw the shadows disappear back into their outpost, but scrabbled back once again when they returned and lobbed over more grenades; each one exploded this time. But the German couldn't seem to let go of life, and the horrible, soul-shattering, desperate wheezing continued, much to the Americans' annoyance. They disappeared once more, but this time didn't return.

Emilie tried over and over and over again until she was battered and bruised from throwing herself down all over the place. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get to him. She was near tears at that point. So close, but just out of reach, as though fate were teasing her.

"Sergeant Demont," Karl called softly from behind her, "We must go back. The sun is rising and we cannot be caught outside in the daylight, not if we want to stay alive."

Suddenly, anger derived from frustration and a sense of uselessness forced itself up her throat and she spun around, eyes crazed and desperate. "I am not leaving him alone out here!" she snapped, still clutching the morphine so tight she thought it was going to burst, "Who are we to be able to head back to safety and a nice, hot cup of tea when he is fighting for his life? We can't decide who lives and who dies, just like that."

The men all exchanged a concerned glance. They all knew that, when she got like this, there was no talking her out of whatever she had her mind set on.

Just then, the bombing stopped, so suddenly, filling the air with nothing but blissful silence. No one dared move, no one dared so much as breathe. Even the world itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see if it would start up again. When it didn't, all that could be heard was that blasted coughing and pitiful moaning by the river bank. Emilie was about to charge forward, eyes set on the injured man and nothing else, (the complete opposite of the first thing she had been taught in the army: don't go anywhere without checking out your surroundings first) when Karl grabbed her arm and yanked her back, far rougher than Eugene had, almost sending her tumbling onto her back.

He dragged her behind a half-destroyed wall, ignoring her wild thrashing. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she cried, voice shrill and strangled.

Karl set her down, still holding onto her arm so she couldn't make a run for it. When she didn't settle down, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder and pointed to an American soldier approaching the other bank, eyes flicking from side to side, wary of being out in the open. Emilie watched in horror as he got close enough and threw over a grenade before jogging back into a building. In a cloud of dirt, the wheezing finally stopped.

He had to clasp a hand over Emilie's mouth in order to stop her from yelling. She punched Karl in the shin, with just enough strength that she knew it would hurt him and make him release her without leaving any damage, and dragged herself into a crouch, looking out around the wall to see the German soldier, his body mangled by the grenade. She searched for the rise and fall of his chest with huge eyes, for any twitch of his muscles to tell her he was still alive. But, alas, there was only once conclusion she could draw.

Dead.