"Off to visit friends again?" her CO guessed with a raised eyebrow, looking up at her from where he sat at his desk.

Emilie didn't so much as blink, meeting his gaze calmly. "Yes, sir," she replied, standing at ease despite the fact he hadn't told her she could, "Can I go?"

He was silent for a few moments, and half of her wished he would say no. But, finally, he nodded and gestured for her to leave. She snapped off a salute, thanked him, and began to head towards the door when he called her back. "Oh, and sergeant? The sentry from last night reported that you slipped back here after sunset. Try to get back before then, yes? We wouldn't want to fuel Eberhardt's blasted suspicions."

She dipped her head before running lightly down the stairs. This time, before leaving for Dachau, she quickly returned to her quarters, snatched up her medic bag, and hurried away before anyone saw her and asked why she was taking her bag to visit friends. She had changed into another one of her dresses, of which she had a limited supply, as she hardly ever wore dresses and hadn't been able to exactly carry them easily through the combat zones; this time she wore the blue version of the one she had worn in Eindhoven. It wasn't a particularly sensible thing to wear where she was going, but anything more would raise suspicion, both of her army and the Americans.

When Emilie arrived in Dachau, she was greeted by the sight of countless people, their ages ranging from about fourteen to at least eighty, carrying brooms and shovels towards the direction of the camp. She frowned, allowing herself to be swept up into the throng of people. She fell in beside a woman that looked after fifty years old (though, quite honestly, who knew how old she was. War aged people, both physically and mentally). "Where are we going?" she asked in German, playing the role of the ignorant bystander she had perfected.

The woman looked at her, seeming a little confused by Emilie and her strange accent. "Damned if I know. An American colonel has declared martial law, ordering all able-bodied people to head into the woods to some camp to help clean up. They told us what to expect, but I, personally, don't believe that nonsense. Dramatisation."

"Just you wait," Emilie murmured, half to herself.

"Excuse me?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Don't mind me, miss."

Once they walked closer to the camp and that awful smell, however, the civilians' doubts began to crumble. Some tried desperately to turn back, but American soldiers blocked their path and forced them onwards; the troops did it without any remorse, practically curling their lips up into snarls at the Germans they now saw as personally responsible.

Emilie thought that, if she blended in with the crowd and slipped into the camp, she would be able to slip away and check up on the prisoners without being questioned; after all, Eugene wasn't there this time to assure the guards she was permitted inside. A few metres away, surveying the approaching Germans while chewing on a fat cigar, was Bull, and Emilie pushed her way further into the crowd to avoid being recognised by him. She hadn't even realised she had been fretting about him ever since Nuenen, but now, seeing that he had survived and that her rough job of stitching up his shoulder had paid off, she felt a little relieved.

The group of townspeople reached the camp, and the first thing Emilie saw (she had been trying to keep her eyes off of the prisoners until she absolutely had to) were what must have been thirty bodies, lying on the ground. Now, that wasn't an unusual sight in the concentration camp. But what set them apart from the other charred corpses was the fact that they had red sashes boasting Swastikas on their left arms; Emilie felt ashamed that they wore them on the same arm the medics wore their own sashes, and was suddenly glad she hadn't been wearing hers, lest she be mistaken for a Nazi.

Usually, she cringed at the sight of dead bodies. But now, she rejoiced. There wasn't much to be curious about; either the prisoners had started a riot and killed them, though that seemed doubtful in their state, or the Americans had turned on them. That was the option she was willing to bet money on.

The Nazis deserved everything they got. How could humans inflict that upon their own kind, or on anyone, for that matter? They had no souls. She had once heard a quote, and now could only relate it to Hitler: he who sacrifices his conscience to ambition burns a picture of what could have been to obtain the ashes.

In this case, those ashes belonged to millions of innocent people.