Disclaimer: I don't own any of this and mean no disrespect to the veterans the miniseries was based on. I was merely inspired by the era and the story as told by HBO.

Author's Note: So this is a little different from anything I have yet to try as two of the main characters are OCs. However, this idea got stuck in my head tonight so I decided to play a little with it and see where it went. So far, I am optimistic. There will be multiple chapters but it will be a shorter one from the looks of it. Its also in first person present tense which is different from my other BoB fics, so we'll see where it goes.

Just an extra disclaimer here, this is looking to be a tad darker than my more romantic stories like 'An Expensive Solitude'. The relationships are more complicated as well. I am shooting for the reality of the human heart during a chaotic time in history as I can only guess it's like. Nothing is very simple in this one.

Zell am See, Austria
Summer 1945

The German soldier's eyes are dead. His body is very much alive. It is slightly broken but not beyond recovery. However, the hollowness in his impenetrable blue stare leaves me cold. He is watching me as I unwrap the wound on his calf.

"What is your name?"

His English is perfect, steeped in an accent that has become familiar though still abrasive to my ears. It jars me to hear him address me with those glazed doll eyes. He can't be much older than me but he looks like he has lived ten lifetimes worth of misery.

"Ruth."

My eyes skip over his long face, sunlight filling the hollows in his cheeks. A heavy eyebrow lifts.

"Ruth Toye."

"For the book of Ruth?" He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, his sharp gaze drifting towards the sunset, "In the Bible."

"For my grandmother."

A ghost of a smile drifts across his mouth as though he used to be young some time ago. The sour smell of the infection in his wound is appalling. I try my best to keep a straight face.

"When did you have this looked at last?"

"I can't remember."

A pair of tattered, tall, leather boots lay beside the cot. I can only imagine it has gone days untended as he was marched for miles towards surrender. Perhaps longer. He doesn't flinch as I press a cloth soaked in iodine to the torn, sea green flesh.

"You're going to need a surgeon to evaluate you." I breathe, "There's gangrene."

The soldier doesn't reply. He taps the ash from his cigarette to the brown grass. I pat the wound, the stinging chemicals and rank aroma of the dead flesh making me dizzy. I sense his eyes graze over me and dare another look at him. His hand drops from his mouth, a cloud of smoke filling the space between us.

I think of my older brother already back home with one less leg. He's alive but it'll never be the same for him. Perhaps this is the self-same enemy soldier who was responsible for the artillery shell that nearly killed Joe. There is always the chance.

My hands tremble at the possibility. As I reach for the bottle of iodine, it slips from my grasp. It tumbles onto the side of the cot and nearly to the ground. The German's hand snatches the bottle from the air. He holds it out to me.

"Thank you." I mumble, taking it from him.

Our fingers brush. The brief touch leaves me nauseous. Accepting even this little help from him feels almost like I'm betraying Joe.

"You're welcome, Ruth." He calmly replies, "Leon."

"Excuse me?"

"Leon Wagner." His mouth caresses the sound of his name as though he is conversing in his mother tongue, "So you will know what to call me next time."

I am rendered speechless. I am only nursing here in the POW hospital for a few days, filling a vacancy. Soon I will be back in the familiar ward in town where my patients talk about state fairs in the fall and baseball scores. The other Germans I have tended today were silent and nameless. I liked them that way. But this man, Leon; I feel haunted by him and I haven't even left yet.

"Ruthie?"

I bolt up from the cot as though I have been found guilty of fraternizing with the enemy. Glancing over at the open tent flap, I see the lanky figure of Floyd Talbert from Indiana. He approaches, his eyes briefly trailing over Leon with disinterest.

"Ruthie, I wanted to see if you'd like a ride back to town?" He asks, running a hand through his hair.

"My shift isn't over for another ten minutes."

"I can wait." He grins.

"Okay." I nod, managing a weak smile, "I'll be out soon."

"Sure thing." He strides away.

I sit down hard on the cot. My eyes sear into his wound as I bind it in clean linen.

"He knows you well." He states, tossing the smoldering stump of his cigarette to the ground, "He called you Ruthie."

I fight to maintain a strained silence but cannot for long.

"He was my brother's friend." I explain, "It's a family nickname."

"Was your brother's friend?"

Leon knits his fingers together and rests them on his middle.

"Is my brother's friend." I shrug, "He is back in the States now."

"Why?"

I bristle and shift my weight on the creaking cot frame.

"He was wounded this winter."

"Bad?"

I give the bandage a swift jerk, looking up in time to see him wince. I am losing my patience.

"He lost a leg." I breathe, my glare boring into him as though he was guilty of the deed.

For all I know; he is.

Leon presses his lips together, "There are no unwounded soldiers, I fear. On any side."

The hate that I have been quietly banking beneath my ribs is threatening to burn out of control. Bitterness is unbecoming of a woman but I cherish mine like the memory of first love. I see nothing in Leon Wagner but an automaton; a machine of the Third Reich. I am surprised he even bleeds.

"I will tell the doctor to see to you." I snap.

Gathering the remaining bandages and capping the bottle of iodine, I move to leave.

"Ruth." He says softly, running a hand over his chin, "Ruth in the Old Testament, she was a stranger in a strange land as well, correct?"

She also married a Jew, I want to answer. I want to ask if he has killed any of those lately, remembering the stories Tab has told me about Landsberg. But I don't. Better to stay silent and walk away with my composure intact.

I do walk away, but I am rattled to the bone.

"You alright, Ruthie?" Tab asks as I hoist myself into the passenger seat of the jeep.

He reaches across the distance between us, giving my shoulder a squeeze. The tips of his fingers linger for a moment at the space on my neck bordering my jawline. I pretend not to notice and give him a strained smile.

"Just tired." I reply curtly, "Ready to go home."

"Aren't we all?" He sighs, pulling the jeep around.