Emilie didn't want to stick around for the chaos that was sure to ensue when everyone realised Zimmermann had abandoned them – he was a good soldier, however under-valued. It did take a while for them to start asking questions, however. He was generally quiet, and went unnoticed by the other men for the most part. But when the platoon-leader read out his name on a roll call, and no one answered, suspicions started to grow.

Men would say: "I knew he would never make it to the end of the war", and Emilie would have to bite her tongue to stop herself from snapping something back at them. She would keep her promise. When an officer asked her if she had seen Zimmermann, she had shaken of her, looking up at him with a bored, nonchalant expression. "He said he was going on patrol, that Baum had told him to lead one."

And so the game began. Everyone put the blame on each other; the officer had run over to Baum, who had denied ever doing such a thing, and had suggested he go and ask another officer, that maybe Zimmermann had been mistaken and an orderly had given him the order and said the wrong officer gave him the instructions. Emilie stood back, not drawing attention to herself, smirking to mask her inner concern. Surely they wouldn't go and drag Zimmermann back. But she knew it wasn't that they needed him anymore – he was just one coward in a collapsing army. It was the idea, a matter of pride and dignity, the thought that someone would insult them in such a manner, that he had thrown all the training the Wehrmacht had given him in their faces contemptuously. That was why deserters were shot.

No one understood.

And so, thinking she had done her part and pretended to look for Zimmermann just as much as anyone else, Emilie opted to pay a visit to Dachau. She had lied and told her CO she had friends there she wanted to visit, to which he had commented with a grunt that she "certainly had a lot of friends and family", referring to her previous lie about why she had gone to Eindhoven. Emilie had simply smiled, saluted, and walked with false confidence out of the building where he had set up Company CP.

Now she was walking down the long path that led to Dachau in her civilian clothes – a cream dress and darker shawl -, and, as she grew closer, the stench she had detected a few days earlier grew ever stronger. She wrinkled her nose against the smell, but continued on her way. She no longer needed to use her crutches, but they had become a sort of security blanket for her, and she refused to part with them. Strange, when she had spent so long resenting them.

An elderly couple passed her on the path and she stepped aside to make way for them; they smiled at her in thanks, but there was a sadness in their aged features.

"Fresh bread!" a stout German man holding a loaf of bread called from where he was standing in front of his shop as Emilie entered the village. Emilie felt out of place amongst all these civilians, as though she was no longer one of them. All around her, the German people, young and old, were cleaning up the rubble-covered streets in a quiet efficiency. All along the sidewalks, bricks and furniture that could be re-used were being stacked up, while completely destroyed pieces were sorted out into separate piles. The children still laughed and ran around playing, and Emilie almost envied them, so apart from the troubles of the rest of the world.

There is a lie we are all taught as children. That, as you grow, things begin to make sense. That when you hit adulthood, everything suddenly falls in place. That is a lie. As a child, Emilie was beautifully unaware. Oblivious to the darkness in the world outside the small, safe confines of her own little world. And then she was forced to grow up. And she has had more than her fair share; while others are nurtured by their parents until they must stand by themselves, Emilie was pushed into the real world before she was ready. She was forced to be ready, both by her parents and by the Great Depression, and the echoes of the first world war. She was scarcely permitted a childhood. And she hated that.

Emilie picked her way through the rubble, stopping a few times to help frailer people struggling with their load; they smiled gratefully at her in response.

At that moment, a raised American voice broke through the rest, and Emilie whipped around to see a Yank soldier pointing a gun at the head of the German man she had seen before, the one who had been selling bread. The American had him backed up against a table, and, even though the back of the man was partially blocking her view, she could still see the terror on the face of the German.

"Tell me you didn't smell the stink," the American was snarling; most people outside had fallen quiet, not wanting to get involved in the conflict, and that made it easy to hear what they were saying.

"No, no!" the German pleaded in Deutsch, eyes wide, "I don't know what you are talking about! Please, believe me!"

Another American stopped and turned to his comrade. "Web, let him go," he told him, voice tired, "He says he doesn't know what you mean."

Emilie narrowed her eyes in confusion. Not one of her soldiers had realised that there were Americans in this town. They must have arrived under the cover of darkness, or else the sentries would have spotted them. But what was the man called 'Web' on about? Was he simply putting the blame for the entire war on any German he could find, like most people in the world were doing at the moment (after the leaders of the other countries had told their people not to talk to any German, young or old, Emilie was aware that more than one German had been spat on just for existing. Emilie was suddenly thankful she spoke English) or he was speaking of something else, something that man was personally guilty of.

That was when she saw another American walk past, and her eyes found the patch displayed proudly on his shoulder. The Screaming Eagle. The 101st Airborne. God, they were here, Eugene's regiment and her company's old nemesis. Well, damn. They just couldn't seem to shake those Yanks off their tails. She suddenly felt excitement rise in her chest, a rather inappropriate reaction considering where she was at that moment. But she couldn't help it. This was her chance to see him again. How would he react? How would she react?

Her questions were about to be answered.

"Miss Demont!"

She turned to see the man she had been hoping to see stalking towards her. Her first instinct was to grin, her second was to play it cool, but that was all before he saw the horror and pure rage on Eugene's face. Emilie frowned, studying his eyes as he came to a stop in front of her, hands bawled into fists.

"How could your country do this to those innocent people?" he demanded, his voice as close to a yell as she had ever heard it.

Emilie stared at him in confusion, her stomach dropping. "What are you talking about? What people? Eugene, what's wrong?"

He shook his head, clenching his jaw; she could see the muscles working in his temples as he swallowed hard. When he spoke once more, it was clear he was struggling to keep his voice calm, "That… That camp."

All around them, American soldiers were throwing them confused looks, obviously wondering what their medic was doing abusing a woman with such familiarity. But even their eyes looked empty and haunted. Emilie scrunched up her face, trying to understand what he was on about. "Camp?"

He opened his mouth to say something more, before closing it slowly and instead grabbing her arm, half-leading, half-dragging her towards a forest on the other side of the village.

"I still don't know where you're taking me," she muttered, pulling her arm free of his tight grip roughly though she still continued to walk alongside him briskly.

Eugene didn't reply, simply stared straight ahead with an expression that looked lost, that crease between his eyebrows once more. As they neared the forest, her dread grew and grew. If it had him bothered to this extent, she had a right to be worried.