She has the same ability as his grandmother; the ability to lay her hands on people and cure them. Eugene is sure of it. Despite the fact that he was lying on a board in the dusty basement of a church with his leg shredded by a mortar, Skinny Sisk looked utterly at peace as she smoothes his hair off his forehead and gives him a drink. It was almost like Skinny had forgotten that just twenty minutes ago he had been gritting his teeth in agony while Eugene picked the splintered fragments of bone from his leg.

She's young. Younger than him, but not by much. Eighteen, maybe, twenty at the oldest. Light brown hair is held back with a blue headscarf. He likes that it is blue. The color blue is soothing on his eyes after so much white and red. It is white he sees the most of, here in Bastogne, but red is always following him as well, in the blood of wounds, in the stains on his hands, on the cross he wears on his arm. Blue is a welcome relief. Her eyes are light blue as well, bright and limpid, despite the bloody horrors surrounding her. Her voice is smooth and gentle, and Eugene can see Skinny relax visibly as she talks to him.

When she turns to move away Eugene speaks up. "Nurse?" He steps forward to remind her of his earlier request for supplies.

"This way."

In a side chapel under the gaze of golden saints and angels she gives him a box and packs what they can spare; not much. How scare must supplies be if she is giving him strips of sheets for bandages? And not even enough of those.

She finishes packing the box. There's not much, but it's something.

"Merci."

Eugene follows her out of the chapel. "Comment vous applez-vous?" She turns her head back to look at him, as if surprised to hear French from an American medic.

"My name is Renée, she says with a hint of a smile.

"I'm Gene, Eugene Roe," he introduces himself.

"Where are you from?" She is curious, no doubt, to learn how he knows French.

"Louisiana, half Cajun," he explains. He is not even sure if she knows where Louisiana is, but she asks no further questions. "Et toi, d'ou viens tu?"

"Bastogne," she says with a small shrug and tilt of the head. Eugene nods in farewell and hurries up the stairs.

He hails the first jeep he sees to get him back to the line and is in a hurry to go, stopping only to pick up a pair of boots when he hears his name being called, in a voice with an elegant accented lilt.

"Eugene!"

He turns to see Renée coming out of the church. She tosses him something. He looks down at the flat rectangle in his hand, almost unable to recognize it.

"Chocolat." She smiles sweetly. "Pour vous."

Chocolate. It feels almost strange to be holding it. Every man got a bar in his ration kit before they jumped on D-Day, but those were long gone. With everything being rationed, treats like chocolate are a rarity unheard of to the soldiers. Eugene figures even civilians are having a hard time getting hold of luxuries like this. But Renée gives it freely, with a smile on her face. It brings a smile to his own face as he nods his thanks and climbs into the jeep.

It's a tough job, being a medic. Nobody denies that. But Eugene wonders if anybody, even the other Easy Company men, really understand what he goes through every day.

Even when the air is thick with the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of mortars Eugene leaps into action at the first call of "Medic!", braving gunfire and artillery without a weapon to reach a wounded man. Waiting in his foxhole he's as scared as any of them, but for some reason when he hears the call all he can feel is adrenaline giving speed to his legs and a desperation to reach the man before it's too late. Even when there's a lull in battle he's busy. Making the rounds from foxhole to foxhole, checking up on each of the guys. Worrying about the supplies that are dwindling slowly but surely. Eugene looks through his bag in frustration each night. For every man that gets sent off the line that's another bandage used up, another pack of sulfa powder opened, another syrette gone. How is he supposed to treat injuries when there's nothing to use but bedsheets and snow?

Eugene does his best though, making do with what he has. As he moves from group to group he gives them what he can, whether it be a spare blanket or a bit of advice on what to do when they've lost feeling in their feet. Sometimes he sees the men give him strange looks when he talks to them. He knows why. It's because he won't use their nicknames. And it's not because he doesn't know them. In fact, he knows them all. Babe, Shifty, Popeye, Smokey, Bull, Buck...he knows. But he refuses to use them because that's taking one step closer to them, and Eugene doesn't want that. For the men, for the combatants, friendship is crucial. You need to know the guy in the foxhole with you, because one day, knowing him could save your life or his. But for a medic, friendship is only a hindrance. It's the sad truth, but it's just easier to have a stranger, rather than a friend, die in your arms.

And despite that, Eugene can't stop himself. He tries in every way he can; he's quiet around the others when he doesn't have to talk, sits alone during meals, listens in on conversations from the outside rather than joining in, uses the most impersonal forms of address: surname or rank. But he can't stop himself. He cares for them.

Goddammit.

Martin won't let Eugene go with the reconnaissance patrol, instead ordering him to stay back and keep out of trouble. Eugene obeys, crouched against a tree, cigarette in his mouth, eyebrows slanted as he watches the fog where the patrol disappeared. He's never in his life seen fog so thick. Between the snow on the ground, the gray skies and the fog it's a wonder more men aren't being injured just by walking into trees they can't see.

He can't see anything but he can hear it. The unmistakable sound of distant gunfire. This is what he hates the most: the waiting. There's nothing he can do about it though. This is his job. Technically, medics are non-combatants, so they aren't issued weapons. Even if he was with them he'd be no help. No, all he can do is hang back and wait, and wonder how many of them are going to come back this time.

This time it's Julian who doesn't return. Apparently he was shot in the throat and enemy fire prevented the others from being able to get him. The men are silent and the mood is somber as they huddle in a circle together.

Eugene is sitting outside the circle as usual, but he keeps giving the circle sideways looks, furtively making sure they're alright. All of the men are dismal but Heffron's the worst. Ashen-faced, his eyes are dull as he stares ahead of him, turning his head so he doesn't have to make eye contact with anybody. Julian and Heffron were more than foxhole mates; they were best friends as well.

Without thinking, Eugene reaches into his bag and pulls out the first thing he touches: the chocolate Renée gave him. He hasn't thought much about her since they met, but now as he looks at the candy he remembers her calming touch and simple kindness in her eyes as she gave it to him. Eugene has been in a tizzy lately, worrying about his low supplies, but for once he doesn't need scissors or morphine. Maybe the chocolate is all he needs.

Heffron's not in his foxhole when Eugene is making the rounds that night. Eugene figures that to Heffron the hole will seem too empty, with Julian gone. After a bit of searching, Eugene finds him with Spina.

The foxhole is a bit crowded already but Eugene slides in anyways. "Got you," he says with a smile. Heffron doesn't reply. Spina's arm is around him, and a blanket covers them both. Guess Spina noticed Heffron's despondency as well. Eugene is glad of that.

Eugene pulls out the chocolate bar and offers it to him. "Heffron?" No response. Eugene opens the bar anyways, breaking off a piece and showing it to him. He tries again. "Edward?" He puts it in Heffron's hand and pushes his hand towards his mouth. "Eat it." Heffron doesn't look like he really wants to, but the habit of obeying the medic takes over and he brings the chocolate to his mouth slowly, breaking off a bite with an audible snapping noise. Eugene breathes a sigh of relief. "Good." Heffron chews. "Perfect." It is only a small comfort he can offer to a man who has lost his best friend, but Eugene offers it gladly.

There's a few moments' silence before Heffron speaks up, the first Eugene's heard him talk since the patrol came back. "I promised him if he got hit, I'd get his stuff and bring it to his mom, you know?" He pauses before bursting out, "Now the fucking Krauts'll strip him." His voice is slightly hoarse and quivers.

"It's ok," says Eugene, realizing how callous he sounds, but not knowing what else to say. The chocolate did a better job comforting Heffron than he's doing.

"It's not!" says Heffron. "It's not ok. I should have got to him."

Neither Eugene nor Spina knows what to say to that. Perhaps it is best that nothing is said. Instead Spina pulls Heffron closer and Eugene tucks the blanket more snugly around him. It's something they don't teach you in medic training, that sometimes all a man needs is somebody to share a foxhole with.

He wakes up later to the sound of muffled machine gun fire. Spina and Heffron are still asleep. Spina's question from earlier that night is still echoing in his head.

I've had enough playing doctor. What about you?

It's true, he's no doctor. But the men entrust their lives to him as if were one, and not a Louisiana shrimp fisherman who happened to be given some training about wounds and battlefield first aid instead of weapons. A lot of what he does is so simple any man could do it; wipe away the blood, sprinkle on some sulfa powder, and tie the bandage. Of course there's more to a medic than that. There's the need to be quick on your feet, to get to the wounded before they bleed to death. The requirement for the iron stomach to see blood and torn flesh every day. The nerves of steel, essential for watching man after man die. And the compassion and caring for every man in the company. It's stressful and demanding and the rewards are often outweighed by the losses.

He can't say if he's had enough though. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is for him to tell himself definitively, "Yes, I'm through. No more." Maybe six months ago the decision would have been easy, but now...

He thinks of his grandmother, and what she might say if she could see him now. Then he thinks of Renée, the girl with the calming touch. He wonders if maybe she could have been a traiteuse. How far is the leap from a calming touch to a healing touch, he wonders. As exhaustion begins to drag him back into sleep he finds himself envying both these women and what their hands can do, when all he has to help somebody is a bar of chocolate.