Marguerite never really sleeps. Sleeping only brings nightmares of the boys who die in her arms, the boys who's names she can never remember, the boys who's faces are forever in her memory. Instead she tries to focus on anything but the cold that happens to encompass a quarter of her daily thoughts. She also prays. Every night she prays for the war to end, and every morning she realizes her prayer has yet to be answered. Yet she still prays, holding her rosary close to her lips and muttering softly into it. Eventually sleep overtakes her, and she always awakes to the sounds of Renee and Anna scurrying about the church, trying to perform miracles.
For the first time in days, maybe even weeks, she looks in the mirror. Her dress is coated in dry blood. Her face is pale, with dark circles lying underneath her large brown eyes. Her face is gaunt and her hair lays in a drab, flat bun at the base of her neck. She looks older than twenty-two, though she supposes that if she had the means to dress up and wear make up perhaps she wouldn't look so old. But she has the eyes of someone twice her age, the eyes of someone who's seen too much in a short period of time. She remembers a few years ago, just before the start of the war when she scoffed at the idea of war, when she was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in town. The sound of a man screaming stops her from reveling in the past, and she rushes away towards the man.
Medics and wounded constantly appear through the threshold. Some of the soldiers have no physical wounds themselves, but instead lie about with mental damage that Marguerite can't even begin to imagine. Others have simple minor wounds, but due to the apparent lack of aid stations on the battlefield they come back to Bastogne, to receive their treatment. Most are wounded beyond repair, emotionally physically it makes no difference, some don't make it back home, others get sent off back to somewhere safer like France or England, and others go home but are never truly alright. She doubts anyone who's actually witnessed the effects of this war will ever be fully right again.
She sees the same medic from a few days ago again. He doesn't have a wounded man with him, yet his face has a determined and worried look to it. She goes to greet him and to ask him what he needs, but Renee pushes past her telling her that she'll deal with him. She's never seen Renee this way and watches the exchange between her and the medic for a minute or two. The medic smiles at Renee when she hands him something, and Marguerite knows for a fact that Renee is smiling too. She's happy for them, somehow they managed to find peace in normalcy in all of this hell.
Later that night she sits outside and smokes a cigarette. It's a rule of thumb amongst the nurses not to leave the church after dark. One reason being of how bitterly cold Bastogne seems to get. Another reason is the amount of drunken soldiers that seemed to suddenly appear after dark. The numbers of them weren't overwhelming, its truly only a few. But either way they are been warned by officers that men who are in the town had a tendency to drink and it's best for nurses to stay in the church as much as possible. But when in desperate need of a cigarette, Marguerite isn't one to heed warnings.
She can only see by the dim candlelight in the church, the embers of the cigarette in her hand, and the snow that's reflecting the moonlight. She's not frightened though, nearly frozen but nowhere near frightened. Instead she muses on when she'll get transferred, she knows its coming soon enough, she's been here at Bastogne longer than anyone, and she's due to be transferred somewhere less dangerous, perhaps Paris. That's where most of the nurses are sent once they've completed some front line duties. She wants to go back to Paris, she's a liar if she says otherwise. She wants to see her grandmother again, it's been years since she's seen any member of her family. They're the only thing other that she desires now of days, well that and the sense of normalcy that Renee seems to have found.
The sounds of boots crunching over the freshly fallen snow stops her from musing over her desires. She turns slowly only to see a dark figure approaching her. She squints at the figure, as if it will suddenly improve her sight. She knows that its probably a medic looking for help, and seeing as Marguerite is currently the only nurse awake she's his go-to girl.
"Good evening, Miss Blythe" A deep voice greets her, and she knows automatically that it's the American medic with the strange accent, even f or an American.
"Good evening, Eugene. Do you have any wounded with you?" She mumbles to him, with her cigarette precariously sitting between her lips.
"No ma'am I don't."
"Oh," she says softly to herself more than to him, "Well is it supplies that you need?"
He sits next to her and rubs his hands together. Looking down at them Marguerite can see the callouses in the pale glow of the moonlight. She can see where blood has stained the arms of his uniform.
"Well yes, I do need supplies but that isn't why I've come."
She nods slowly, though she's still not sure why he's come. The only other reason as to why he's come is because of Renee.
"Oh, well Renee is asleep right now. I can tell her that you came to visit her though."
Eugene laughs, though it doesn't sound joyful as laughter should instead it has a very bitter sound to it, "I didn't come for Renee either."
"Then why did you– " she begins but she can see the look on Eugene's face and stops herself from finishing the question. She understands now why he's here, because its the exact same reason why she's there. There's no point in discussing feelings right now, it's not helping anyone, if anything it would only hurt.
They sit in silence for some minutes. She sits there listening to Eugene breathing and watches the snow fall in the light of the moon. If this was another time this would be a beautiful moment, the kind found in the silly romance novels that her friends would read. But instead this moment is in real life, where beautiful moments aren't acknowledged.
"Would you like a cigarette Eugene?" she has a hoarse raspy voice that she isn't proud of. It isn't melodic like the girls back home, or even the other girls sleeping in the building behind her. And now its laced with her thick French accent, she's surprised that any of these soldiers can understand her at times.
"That sounds lovely ma'am" he replies, slowly taking the cigarette that she holds out.
His fingers brush hers slightly as he grabs it. She's surprised to feel how soft they are despite everything he's been through since he's been here.
"You don't have to call me ma'am or Miss Blythe you know, Marguerite will work just fine."
He gives her a small broken smile, "I'm sorry Miss Blythe, it's just that my mother raised me to be a gentleman, and well that's just the gentlemanly thing to do I guess."
She returns his smile, and goes on to smoke another cigarette.
"It's quite tonight, isn't it?" She observes out loud, "It's nearly Christmas too, maybe this is the German version of a Christmas present."
Eugene gives her another small smile, "maybe it is."