by Jana Petken
******
Kurt contacted doctors in the vicinity known to defy the Germans and assist the Polish Underground, but after five vain attempts to gain access to the physicians on his list, he and his passengers abandoned the city and headed to the prearranged rendezvous site in the woods where they’d slept the previous night.
Five others, including Wójcik, had also made it home using one car. In their frantic bid to escape, the men had been unable to get to two of their wounded comrades lying on the ground or to reach the third car. But Wójcik had managed to carry a third wounded man and put him in the car’s trunk.
“Where is Szymon?” Kurt’s Polish passenger asked Wójcik after the latter had explained what had happened.
“I managed to get a local doctor from my list to take him. He’d lost a lot of blood. I don’t know if he’ll survive.”
“And the men we left behind?”
“Dead or captured,” Wójcik spat. “If the Gestapo or SS have them, they’ll die anyway…”
“But they might talk about us during torture,” the man pointed out.
“What if they do talk? All Poles are wanted men whether we behave like angels or kill like demons. We’ll have to change our identities and the location of our base again like we always do.”
Paul, who’d been trying to deal with Darek’s wound, lifted his head and shouted to the men, “I need light, your torches and your medical supplies. All of them.”
The bullet had entered Darek’s right upper quadrant, but there was no exit wound. Paul had stemmed the bleeding as best he could in the car, but he was more worried about what was going on inside the chest. “Hurry up!” he shouted again.
“Lekarz … Paul, don’t let me die. I like you … better than … your brother,” Darek panted.
“I’ll do my best.” Paul, who had been putting direct pressure on the wound using a ripped piece of Darek’s shirt as a pad, now removed it from the injury site and looked properly under the light from a battery torch that young Bogdan held.
Darek lay on a tarp. He was suffering from shortness of breath, his lips were blue-tinged, and he was becoming drowsy, sweating heavily through shock and confused. The chest wound was bubbling blood with each inspiration and expiration.
“Will he live?” Wójcik asked.
“I don’t know,” Paul answered truthfully. “He’s losing blood, and air is being sucked into the thoracic cavity through the chest wall instead of into the lungs through the airways, which will collapse the lung into a pneumothorax. In layman’s terms, he won’t be able to breathe. And he has a bullet in him.”
Paul went into the medical case that Romek had given him. The standard tools doctors needed to, hopefully, save lives in the field of battle were in it. One of the other men also brought his medical rucksack from the other car, along with bottles of sterile water. He also had a small sack of coals; one of the few commodities in Poland that was easy to come by.
“This is a fight against time. I only have a chance of saving him if you two work quickly and obey my instructions,” Paul told the two Scouts assisting him. “Light the fire, Bogdan, and keep it going as hot as you can … get that bicycle pump I saw in the boot of the car, pump air through that onto the fire like a bellows at the smithy.” Then he spoke to Andrzej, the other lad. “You hand me my instruments as I command and keep this light steady on Darek’s wound.”
Paul spread the contents of both bags onto the clean ground sheeting that he’d laid out next to Darek. He sighed with relief when he saw the metal case with the nine-centimetre-long, large-bore needle he’d been looking for. He had never done this chest procedure himself but had observed Hubert do it once in Hospital number 4 on a man who’d also been shot by a German patrol and had survived. Although he had to work fast, he needed to take great care that the needle was not angled toward the mediastinum to avoid injuring any of the mediastinal structures like the heart, trachea or oesophagus with their major nerves and blood vessels.
“More light here,” he demanded, as he began to insert the needle between the second and third intercostal space at the midclavicular line, just above the superior aspect of the third rib. He paused, and satisfied with the insertion, shouted, “Silence, everyone!” Then under torchlight and in the quiet, he heard the rush of air leaving the bullet hole and saw some bubbling blood seepage as the contents of the damaged thoracic cavity started to drain.
“We can’t stay here,” Kurt told Paul.
“Darek’s survived this long, and while he’s unconscious, let me try to get the bullet out of him before you write him off.”
“Yes,” Wójcik agreed. “You will have the time you need, Doctor. He’s too valuable to us to leave in the back of a car to die. Do what you must to save his life.”
At Paul’s insistence, Wójcik, Kurt, and the three other men left Paul and his two assistants to deal with Darek.
Kurt drank greedily from a flask of water, then rinsed Darek’s blood off his shaking hands. “How many Germans did we kill?” he asked the other men with him.
“We got our target, and that’s what’s important,” Wójcik said.
“One less Gestapo chief to worry about. This is a great coup for us,” Kurt agreed.
“We must have killed at least six soldiers and policemen, but we would have got even more had Bogdan not fumbled like an idiot with the case of grenades,” a man with a cut on his arm said with an angry shake of his head.
The case carrying a dozen grenades had been sitting on the Triumph’s bonnet. “Don’t blame the lad, Albin. The lock on the case was defective.” Wójcik grew serious. “They will hit us hard for this.”
“We will take the pain,” one of the other Poles said. “Killing the man known as the sadist of Łódź is a great victory for us. We are telling the Nazi scum that no German commander is safe on Polish soil. We will have their SS, military, and Gestapo leaders so afraid they will run back to Germany claiming their nerves are shattered.”
Paul had organised Bogdan and Andrzej, the latter of whom couldn’t stop shaking. Andrzej was passing Paul the medical instruments on command while Bogdan was heating the tip of a pair of Spencer Wells forceps in the fire. Paul was not optimistic. He’d given Darek a little morphine to ease the worst of the pain, but he couldn’t afford to depress his respiratory system further as his breathing was already shallow and his pulse dangerously weak.
Paul used the sterile water to wash the wound site and saw two large blood vessels, which he clamped with two pairs of forceps. Then he cauterised the smallest seeping vessels.
Distracted by groaning, he looked up to see Andrzej swaying on his knees beside him, the torch waving like a flag in his hand. Any minute now, he was going to fall flat on his face in a faint. “See to the fire, keep it as hot as you can,” he hissed at the grey-faced boy. “Bogdan, get over here.”
After the first smaller blood vessels were cauterised and seemed to seal the bleeding, Paul then used the finest catgut available to sew the biggest bleeding vessels and tie them off. As he released the forceps, he saw the absence of blood. It was working. “Good … good,” he mumbled, but then he looked at Darek’s face.
Bogdan tugged Paul’s rolled up sleeve. “Lekarz – Doctor – I think he is dead.”
Paul, so intent on doing things right, of making every step the correct one, of remembering everything from his training, had not thought to check Darek’s breathing. He had died in his deep, painless, morphine-induced sleep. Seconds … a moment … five minutes earlier? Time had been blurred by Paul’s frantic attempts to save him.
When a blood-soaked Paul joined the group, he was unable to look at the expectant faces, and instead, focused his eyes on the ground. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t save him. I tied off the arteries, but the bullet was in too deep, and he’d already lost too much blood. I managed to cauterise the small vessels with…”
“Paul – Paul – we know you tried your best,” Kurt interrupted him.
Wójcik displayed his anger
by banging his fist on the car’s roof. “Bastards … bastard cowards! I planned for medical evacuations. I bribed doctors in four different districts to treat our men in the event of injuries. I had a list of houses where Jewish doctors were hiding with false documents that we arranged for them, but our Polish practitioners are too cowardly to put their lives on the line for those of us who are trying to free them.” Anger, hurt and tension were palpable as the men approached Darek’s body.
“We will bury Darek here, and then we’ll dump the cars and go our separate ways,” Wójcik said, breaking the strained atmosphere.
Later, the men stood over Darek’s crude grave where Paul reflected on his treatment regimen, step by step, second by second. Maybe Darek had been a dead man the moment he was hit? Maybe Darek lasting several hours after being shot had been a miracle? Maybe no one could have saved him? Maybe I’m not a good enough doctor? What the hell did it matter? Paul screamed the questions in his head.
After one of the men said a prayer in Polish, Paul kicked away his self-centred thoughts to make room for his anger. “Had a hospital or doctor with a proper table and organised sterile instruments accepted Darek, he’d have had a better chance of coming out of surgery alive, instead of dying in a wood, under crude lighting, and inadequate medical instruments.”
“We have already discussed that,” Kurt said.
“Wójcik, can I have a word with you before you go?” Paul asked the leader as the men headed to their cars.
“Doctor?”
“You’ve seen what happened here. May I request that your men steal better medical equipment? If you are going to conduct operations like this using multiple men, you should have proper combat medicine in the field of battle – or at the least, a safe house in which to operate.”
“Paul, we’ve already talked about that,” Kurt repeated.
The men stared in silence at Paul as the depth of his rage surfaced. “I’d like to go on more of these missions with you. I want to be on hand with my medical kit and a gun. I might have shot the man before he shot Darek this morning. I can do much more than sitting in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere or in a forest waiting to be called out.”
“Paul? You’re not a killer. When you take a man’s life, you never get it back. It is gone … a part of you is gone, too. Don’t do this to yourself,” Kurt said, his low tone laced with regret.
“Do what? I liked seeing Manfred Krüger die in front of me, but I am fuming that we lost Darek, so don’t tell me who or what I am, Kurt. I’m done being passive. I’m as committed to this unit as any other man here.” Paul looked back at the grave. “Darek gave me a rifle, yet I wasn’t allowed to carry it this morning. I want in on these operations, and I want my fucking gun back!”
Wójcik nodded. “We’ll be glad to have you, Doctor. I will speak to Romek.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Max Vogel
Algiers, Algeria,
July 1943
Max drew his already damp white handkerchief across his perspiring brow, wet hairline, and the back of his neck. The offices of the Allied Forces Headquarters in Algiers were hotter than one of those saunas he’d tried whilst on a mission to Finland before the war began, and it was only 0900 hours.
He looked out of the window at the clear blue Mediterranean Sea. The docks were busy; ships in harbour were loading American soldiers and Axis prisoners after unloading incoming supplies and reservists. The building Max watched from was situated high on the hill above the sparkling blue sweep of the Bay of Algiers with panoramic views over whitewashed colonial palaces and palm-treed gardens. It was beautiful from this vantage.
Below him were the not-so-picturesque streets where urchins and thieves resided. Arabs and Algerian French swarmed markets under the watchful eyes of the extremely tall and thin fez-wearing Senegalese troops equipped with huge hobnailed boots. They often kicked their fellow Muslims without provocation or grounds for punishment.
Since his arrival, Max had noted that the French were happy to – no – wanted to shake the hands of British and American soldiers. The Berbers, on the other hand, were more interested in profiting from the Allies’ presence. He thought it strange that the French called this city the jewel of the Mediterranean, for most of it reminded him of Cairo at its dirtiest and smelliest. He hated Algiers and Tunis, and he was tired of the constant need to take cold baths.
“Major Vogel, the colonel will see you now.”
Max turned from the window, nodded to the white-faced corporal, and then followed him into the passageway leading to the hub of operations. One could always tell the difference between new recruits and veterans by the colour of their skin and whites of their eyes.
Office doors and windows were open all along the corridor, and ceiling fans swirling above the desks were silent in comparison to the noise of men and women in uniform typing furiously. The fighting was over in North Africa, but not the arduous task of keeping track of whether British soldiers who had fought the battles were dead or alive.
Colonel Harold Hepiner, known as Harry by his officer colleagues, greeted Max with a handwave to the visitors’ chair in front of the desk. “Major Vogel … you still here? I thought you chaps would be gone by now.”
“As long as there are German and Italian prisoners in North Africa, I’m stuck here, I’m afraid.” He’d been in Tunisia and then Algeria for almost four months. After the guns had grown silent, he’d spent his days and nights interrogating high-ranking German officers, including German Afrika Korps commander, Generalleutnant von Arnim. Now, he was going to do something for himself, off the books, and without permission. Oh, he knew his chances of finding Wilmot alive and in Algiers were miniscule, but his parents would never forgive him if he didn’t try every trick up his sleeve to get answers. He was not a man to disappoint his mother.
Harry lifted the lid off an Arabic copper box sitting on the desk and offered Max a cigarette. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” Max said, taking one while observing the colonel searching his drawer for something or other. Harry, a younger man than Max, had shot up the ranks with two battlefield promotions. He had strong Mediterranean features and skin as dark as the natives. He was an extrovert who smiled often, drank a lot of whisky, sang well, and frequently escorted not one but two European ladies to functions at the St. George Hotel. Most of the British officers Harry socialised with thought he had a beguiling air of self-confidence, but Max saw a rather arrogant fellow who could be annoyingly vocal with his personal opinions. Even so, he had paid in blood for the privilege of being an arsehole at times, and for holding the rank of colonel. He’d lost a hand at El Alamein and had shrapnel embedded in his face, dangerously close to his right eye. It was an unsightly scar, but women found the man irresistible.
After striking a match against the Swan Vestas box, Harry proffered it toward Max to light his cigarette and grumbled, “Damn shame about this heat, what?”
Max inhaled, blew out the smoke and sat back in the hardback chair with ornately carved wooden arms. Sitting right underneath the ceiling fan is a joy, and Harry has nothing to complain about, he thought. “Colonel, I won’t beat around the bush, I’m here to ask a personal favour.”
“I see; and here’s me thinking this was a social call. I do hope it won’t take up much of my time, old chap. I’m swamped with one crisis or another. Those damn Yanks are making things bloody difficult around here, that’s all I can say.”
“Yes, well, when the Americans are in town, they tend to take over through sheer numbers and raucous voices. What are they up to now?” Max asked out of politeness.
“They’re competing with us for Arab labourers on the docks. The blasted cheek! They’re offering the locals double the British daily wage, and the greedy wogs are deserting us en masse. They have a lot to learn, the Yanks. Doubling the rate won’t make the locals work harder, it’ll mean they’ll work one day and sleep in the sun the next. I’ll be glad to see the back of the bloody cluele
ss – babes in the wood, if you ask me – Americans.”
Max, nodding and agreeing with the man because he wanted something from him, neglected to say that without the Americans, they might not be in a fancy office with a fan in Algiers but would probably still be fighting in the desert where Harry would find whisky and women in short supply.
“About the favour, sir?” Max tried again.
“Yes, of course, Max. What can I do for you?” Harry asked.
The colonel was the officer in charge of prisoner movements, and all prisoner records went through his office. He also liaised daily with his American counterpart, a Lieutenant Colonel Maddox, who had, thus far, refused Max access to his prisoners. Max had been astounded at the knock-back. American and British intelligence services usually worked well together, and Maddox, knowingly or unknowingly, had been unjustified in his decision to keep his prisoner records to himself.
“As you’ve probably guessed by my surname, I have a bit of German in me…” Max began.
“Really?”
“Yes. My father was a Berliner.”
Harry laughed. “That’s more than a bit, old chap. I’d say that was half. I take it your name is Maximilian?”
Max spread his lips to hide his irritation. Harry and other officers of all nationalities who’d socialised with him probably knew about his German heritage. He wasn’t undercover or using a false name, and he was in uniform. It didn’t matter one iota to anyone that he was part German, yet not one person had ever asked him to his face about where he came from in Germany or about the origins of his Vogel surname; they preferred to whisper about it behind his back.
“That’s right. My name is Maximilian Dieter John Vogel … John being in honour of my British grandfather,” Max said, quietly mocking Harry. “The thing is, Colonel, I have a brother, Wilmot. He got left behind in Germany when the war started, and like most men his age, was conscripted into the army. I found out a couple of months ago that he was serving in the Afrika Korps –”