Hurrah for Dixie (Part VII)

	You lay on the blanket with your arms folded over your gut, feeling it rise and fall with every breath. It was definitely late into the night, possibly even the early morning, and you hadn't slept a wink. Instead of screams echoing throughout the camp, there was only misery keeping you awake.
	A recent thought that bothered you the most was not knowing what became of her consciousness. When a man dies, he meets God. When a robot dies, does anything happen? You hoped and prayed that He had granted her a soul at one point. Otherwise, you would never see her again on this side or the other.
	The sound of footsteps closing in prepared you for a meeting with a messenger from Sam in the hospital, or newly appointed Colonel McCroskey. When they stopped, you figured it must be someone looking for their tent nearby in the darkness. You forgot anyone was there after a minute of silence.
	"Lord," you whispered, clasping your hands together, "I pray that my dear droid is with you. If not..."
	You paused to hold back your tears.
	"Well, I would give anything just to see her one more time."
Hardly a second later, the flap swung out and a silhouette entered. It leaned down, grabbed you from underneath your armpits and pulled you forward into a sitting position.
	"Hey, what the Hell are-" you angrily demanded.
Its lips met yours before you could finish. You were briefly worried it was one of the other men going on an lustful rampage, but that was before its tongue slipped into your mouth. In an instant, you recognized its unique leathery texture from atop the hill last week.
	You didn't know if you were going mad and feeling things that weren't there, but that didn't stop you from enjoying every second of it. Your tongues wrestled for what felt like an eternity until her hands moved from your arms to your cheeks. She slowly separated her mouth from yours.
	"You called, Sarge?" that familiar, beautiful voice quietly asked.
All the tears you had restrained quickly erupted from your eyes as you wrapped your arms around her, squeezing as hard as you could.

Hours prior...
	She was sitting up on the messy table, only wearing pants, suspenders, and a kepi. He had to remove her coat and undershirt to be able to reach the brass door on her back. "Here we go," he said aloud as he slowly wound her up. After a silent moment of anticipation, her eyes shot open as she jolted awake. She quickly scanned her head around the tent and grabbed his shoulders.
	"Where in the Hell am I?! Who are you?!" she shouted inches away from his face. Not having flinched, he put his hands on her outstretched arms.
	"Calm down, honey. You were hit by a piece of shrapnel on the battlefield yesterday, but I fixed you up", he said with a smile and a gentle tone of voice. She appeared to relax a little, but still needed some answers.
	"Is Anon okay?" she asked.
"Who?"
	"My owner, Sergeant Ardwick! You know him?" she blurted out, becoming tense again.
"I'm afraid I don't. When did you see him last?"
	"Yesterday, on the..." she stopped and calmed herself, "You know what? Don't worry. I'll find him and bring him back here!"
	Not taking a moment to think about covering her upper half, she hopped off the table and swiftly moved to exit the tent.
"Hey, wait a second!" he called, but she was already standing outside. Not far behind her, he opened the flap and saw her frozen with a look of pure horror on her face.
	"Dear God..." she whispered, raising her hands to the sides of her head, "I'm surrounded by YANKEES!" The privates and officers nearby looked at her in confusion. She stared at them wide-eyed before retreating back inside the Lieutenant's tent. He chuckled and pointed behind him as if to say: "Don't worry about her. She's just being funny", before returning inside.

	She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down in a frenzy.
	"WHAT AM I DOIN' HERE?! YOU YANK SONS OF BITCHES COULDN'T JUST LET ME DIE ON THE BATTLEFIELD, COULD YOU?! YOU'RE GONNA IMPRISON ME AND SHOOT MY ANON AND HIS BROTHER, AREN'T YOU?!" she screamed loud enough for the whole camp to hear. His experience of working with nandroids taught him how to calm down hysterical ones, which often came in handy when drafted nurses react to first seeing battle wounds.
	"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked without so much as raising his eyebrows.
"MY NAME'S DIXIE, AND I'LL FIND A WEAPON AND BUTCHER ALL YOU FU-"
	"Dixie, if you calm down," he softly relayed, "I will get you out of here. You'll see your Anon and his brother again very soon, I promise you, just... please quiet down and do what I tell you. I didn't have to repair you in the first place, I chose to. The least you can do for me is lower your voice."
	She slowly eased her grip on his collar and stepped back.
	"What do you want me to do?" she angrily inquired. He knelt down to get a little closer to her eye level and grinned again.
	"Firstly, I want you to see what I've done to your chest plate", he said while pointing at her torso. She looked down and observed the two new hinges on the right side, and he extended his finger to touch a small brass latch on the left side. He lifted it and gently opened up the door peering into her inner workings.
	"If there's ever an internal problem again, you now have easier access to your cogs and wires."
The weakening rage on her face turned into mild embarrassment at her overreaction. "Okay," she sheepishly mumbled, "and what else do you want me to do?"
He stood up and turned around to reach into a large chest.
	"I haven't told my superiors that I have a little Southern marksbot in my custody, and I'm afraid that if I do," he explained as he pulled out a dark blue woolen dress, "they might hold you as a prisoner of war, like any other captured Reb."
	The dress looked like it was pulled off a corpse. There was a tall dirt stain extending from the chest to the knees, and areas that were once white were now an ugly beige. Visible stitches were placed across the whole garment, presumably mending bullet holes.
	"Forgive me, it's the most intact one in here, and it was supposed to be washed three days ago."
Irritated, she stared at it, knowing where this was going. "You want me to put that dirty thing on? Why's that?"
	 "This is what our nandroid nurses most commonly wear. You need to disguise as one in order to leave without arousing suspicion", he continued, "Most of our nurses right now are at yesterday's ground helping to dig the mass graves. You know how to get back to your encampment from there?"
	After being 'dead' for a day, the memory of walking North on the trail for ten miles took a moment to flood back. Realizing that the Lieutenant was serious about returning her to Anon, she took the dress from him and smiled.
	"Yeah, I reckon I do." She took off her kepi and bent down to slide the oversized rag on.

	"Dixie," he said in a quiet and serious tone, "when you get to the field, dig until the sun starts to set. You'll need the lack of natural light to cover your escape. Once you're far enough from anyone else and you're absolutely sure nobody is looking, drop your shovel and run, okay? Look at me."
	She poked her head out the top and swiveled it towards him.
	"Do you know what to do and where to go?" he repeated, wanting to make sure she absolutely understood.
She nodded and confidently replied, "Yes I do, sir."
	With that squared away, he promptly extended his hand. "I guess this is goodbye, Dixie."
Willingly shaking the hand of a Yankee and calling him "sir" was a repulsive idea to her only two days ago. Nevertheless, she found herself doing it to the man that brought her back from the brink of death.
	Letting go after a firm, friendly shake, she had one more question that she already knew the answer to.
	"Uh, do I take my uniform and hat with me, sir?"
	"I'm afraid you'll have to leave them here, but you can try and scavenge some off the dead Confederates."
The disappointment from that statement was miniscule, as she would have done anything just to get back to Anon and the 12th. Breaking away from her new friend, she turned to the tent's flap and was only a foot away from leaving.
	Shooting him one last smile, she said three words that she once promised herself would never exit her mouth.
	"...Thanks, Billy Yank."

	Dashing into the hospital with your answered prayer at your side, you rushed over to the sleeping Colonel. Lanterns and candles were illuminating the room as if the sun were shining directly above it, barely preventing the wounded from getting rest they might soon be ripped from. Your face was still a bit red from crying, but you both were too full of energy and euphoric to care. You hadn't even wondered how Dixie came back and why she was wearing a dirty blue dress under a tattered coat.
	"Sam!" you aggressively shook him awake. His eyes only opened a sliver as he raised his arm to shield them from the light.
	"Wuhizzit?" he grumbled. If he were not somewhat drunk, like the near-empty bottle of whiskey by the bed gave away, he would have thought to question your dramatic change in mood.
	"Take a look at who just breezed into my tent!" you excitedly proclaimed. Before he had time to turn his head to view, she tightly hugged him from the other side of the bed.
	"I'm okay, Colonel!" she planted a kiss on his stubble-covered cheek, "Sorry about your leg, though!"
His eyes practically bulged out of his head after hearing that voice. He put his hand on her torso and felt all over, to confirm he wasn't hallucinating.
	"Dear God, you're alive", he mumbled. "How'd you get here?"
"Yeah, Dixie," you chimed in, curious as well, "where have you been the past couple days?"
	She stood up and her gaze shifted between you and Sam, internally debating what to say. You expected a long tale that described everything that happened between the cannonball's strike and her entering your tent. Instead, she laughed and looked at you with a mischievous smile.
	"Well, to make a long story short, fellas," she stretched to ruffle your hair for once, "somebody thought I was too cute to die!"

	She now lay directly on top of you, her head just above your left shoulder, her curly hair covering half your vision, and her arms and legs wrapped around, locking you in place. She refused your traditional suggestion to be wound down, and said she'd rather hold onto you until she unwinds on her own. If you hadn't been grieving at her false death for the past day, you might have insisted she get some rest, but you wanted nothing more than to hold her as well. Your eyelids grew heavier and heavier until you couldn't resist drifting off, and with your beloved Dixie in your arms again, you slept like a baby that night.
	"Thank you, Lord, for returning her to me", you whispered before passing out.