CHAPTER EIGHT
It had been three days since Larry returned from Zurich where he had seen a Swiss doctor with connections to the OSS. St. Gallen was closer, but even though there was a medical facility there, it was not considered safe, and Larry had to make the trip to Zurich. Dressed in civilian clothes, with his Swiss "escort" accompanying him, it almost seemed like a pleasant ride in the country, the war and all his personal problems hidden somewhere out of sight, left behind at the OSS camp.
Skirting the town of St. Gallen, they drove along river valleys, sometimes deep ravines with churning white water at their bottoms, sometimes broad valleys with rolling hills, frequently wooded. Heading westward, the car hurried along, its occupants staring out the window in silence. As they approached the environs of Zurich, the driver turned south, passing Kyburg castle. When it came into view, his escort pointed it out to Larry, the first words spoken since they left St. Gallen. He turned his head to look, was about to say something, then reconsidered and let silence engulf them once more. Thirty minutes later they reached their destination.
The doctor examined him, fairly thoroughly Larry thought, and took several x-rays of his chest in a variety of positions. He was a rather large man, and if he had smiled he would have had a jovial look about him, especially with the sparkle in his eyes that Larry noticed. Odd, he thought, to have such eyes when his face wore the dour look of an elderly dyspeptic. It was as if he were at war with himself; a conflict of emotions ending in some bizarre stalemate that left its aftermath imprinted on his visage. And he had been even more reticent than the doctor at the camp, talking only when he had to have Larry move this way or that to position him for the x-rays. Even after the examination was complete he said only that he would send the results to the camp doctor. But as Larry walked out of the room, he could feel his eyes on him, a situation that was confirmed when Larry glanced in the mirror that hung next to the exit and saw the doctor, his hands folded over the medical file, staring after him, his eyes dull, having at last capitulated to the bleak expression on his face.
The drive back to the camp had none of the charm of the trip to Zurich. On the way there Larry could envision many possibilities, a variety of scenarios to explain his symptoms, the doctor laughing at how Larry had been worried for nothing. It's nothing, really, hardly anything at all. Just a cold that has lasted longer than usual, a bit more severe than most. Perhaps it's the altitude; maybe something in the air. A comforting hand on the shoulder, a smile from a kindly white haired doctor in his crisply starched white lab coat as he walked him out to the waiting car, the stethoscope still around his neck. A friendly wave as the car pulled away.
But that's not the way it had been. No kindly doctor, no reassuring words, no comforting arm around the shoulder. Not even a smile or handshake upon leaving. Most of the prospects he had considered seemed much less likely on the journey home. So now he sat in his room staring out the window at the well-trod dirt of the camp and the woods beyond, or he laid in his cot, eyes closed, listening to his wheezing. And while he rested, he thought —— a dangerous state of affairs in the best of situations and things certainly were not at their best. A mind deprived of input cannot survive. Where information is not supplied by the real world we manufacture it from the endless stream of sounds, images and fragmentary thoughts that populate our minds, the flotsam and jetsam of years of experience. This debris, often lurking below the surface, is recycled and introduced into our consciousness where it becomes for us the dossier of reality and the building blocks of our imagination. The fact that what we conjure up may be far removed from what any sane, rational person might envision neither deters us nor lessens the credulity with which we view it. Even a dismal future is better than no future at all. As he lay there he could not help turning possibilities over in his head, imagining all sorts of scenarios, most of which were rather desultory, usually involving him dying or being hopelessly disabled. The vision of an old wizened man in a wheelchair, a dark plaid blanket covering his legs and racked by intermittent fits of coughing, was a recurring theme. It was during one of these waking dreams, on the third day back from Zurich that a brisk knock on the door thrust him abruptly back to reality. Larry sat up quickly, but remained sitting on the edge of the bed, looking first right than left as if in strange new surroundings. However, the vicissitude was internal. The bed, the walls, the chair by the window, these were all unchanged, but inside, something had been altered. He wasn't sure what was different, but as the knocking resumed he knew that revelation must be at hand. Fate, he imagined, was knocking at his door, and as he reached for the knob a fleeting vision of a bearded man, cloaked in a flowing robe and come to tell him his future, shot thru his mind. Larry pulled the door open, greeted by a look of surprise on private Warren's face as he stood there, knuckles poised to rap once more on the door. Warren stood there, staring at his raised fist, his surprise turning to confusion, not knowing what to do with it. He opened his fist, about to salute even though he wasn't sure of Larry's rank, when he remembered that there was no acknowledgement of rank at this clandestine outpost anyway, so he awkwardly stuffed his hand into his pocket, cleared his throat unnecessarily and said, "The doctor would like to see you in his office."
"OK, just got to get my boots on. Tell him I'll be right there." Now that it appeared there was to be some resolution to all his anxiety of the last few days Larry felt, not surprisingly, almost disinclined to leave the shelter of his little cabin. The news, he was sure, would not be good.
Nonetheless, a few minutes later he had covered the short distance to the hunting lodge that served as the administrative and command center for the OSS camp. He hurried up the five steps to the covered porch that extended along the entire width of the front of the building, some part of him taking note that he seemed to be somewhat out of breath from the short walk over, and strode through the entrance into the large ante room that had once served as a lobby. The aide at the front desk motioned to a chair then turned, walked to a door marked simply "Medical" and disappeared inside after a quick knock. No sooner had Larry exhaled, expecting a long wait so typical of the military, when the aide emerged and told him the Doctor was ready for him.
Despite the various desks scattered around the room, many with typewriters on them, the filing cabinets placed haphazardly around the floor and the seemingly random bureaucratic motion of the inhabitants, it was obvious that this had been a hotel lobby, and even though he was scared Larry smiled to himself thinking that the "desk clerk" was showing one of his lower class guests to one of the hotel's lower class rooms. The smile was short lived. The click of the door latch closing signaled the entrance of the doctor that Larry had met for the first time last week. He walked into the room from a side door, an austere look on his face, an expression that was becoming all too familiar to Larry. He held a medical file in his hands, and Larry, trained as an astute observer, noticed the white knuckles of a grasp far tighter than necessary, indicating the discomfiture of the medico.
"Larry, I've always been to the point so I'll get right to it. The news is bad." It was almost a relief. At least now, finally, he would hear the truth. "I'm afraid you're quite ill. You see, you have a tumor, a malignant growth on your lung. That's what's been causing your symptoms, the wheezing and the shortness of breath." The doctor paused, sucking in air quite deeply as if he had said the last few sentences on a single breath, anxious to get it out, to be done with it and unwilling to wait for even a single inhalation more than was necessary.
Larry took advantage of the momentary gap to interject, "What needs to be done?" The hesitation before the doctor replied, and the beads of sweat forming at his hairline did not bode well, he thought.
"I'm sorry, but there is nothing to do; nothing that can be done."
"Can't it be cut out? They do that kind of surgery, don't they?"
"The cancer is inoperable. The x-rays showed that. There are a few things we can do to make you more comfortable, a few treatments that migh
t make things a bit better temporarily, but unfortunately we have nothing in our arsenal that can cure you."
In Larry's mind the final door slammed shut. His mind was racing with a thousand thoughts, all moving too fast for him to grasp as they careened through his consciousness. A part of him shut down. The doctor was saying something; he heard the words but not their meaning so he simply nodded as he turned around looking for the door. He had to get out; this place held nothing for him. It was already part of another life, another world, one that he had inhabited up until moments ago but one from which he was now banished, or more correctly it was he who had repudiated that former life. In the blink of an eye he had cast it from him for it seemed prodigal; a future which, dangerous though it may be at times, had almost infinite potential and now seemed lavish in its excess of possibilities. He would have none of it. Without waiting to be dismissed he walked to the door and crossed the lobby to the exit. The aide came out from behind the front desk and started toward him but was halted by a wave of the doctor's hand. The two of them watched as Larry, seemingly in a stupor, walked out, down the steps and staggered off in the direction of his cabin.
The doctor stood staring out the window for some time after Larry had disappeared from view. When he turned and walked back to his office, his gait and his bearing echoed a sadness, a melancholy that encompassed more than the fate of the young man who had just left. It was something of himself that he also mourned. He crossed the threshold into the exam room, his head still hung low. The doctor turned sideways and confronted a well-dressed man in a suit who gave a brief nod of recognition before reaching out and slowly closing the door behind the doctor.
Larry lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling. When he had reached his cabin after the brief walk from the administration building, he immediately undressed and got into bed, thinking it would offer some comfort or at least the narcotic of sleep. He already felt like an invalid. However, neither sleep nor solace awaited him and he lay there awake and agitated, glancing at his watch every few minutes wondering what fraction of his remaining life had just passed. Eventually, though, he was overcome by sleep, the penultimate anodyne, second only to death in the peace that it offered. And if he had to accept the former as his soporific of the moment, he new that it would not be long before the latter would enfold him in its stygian embrace.
When he awoke he glanced out the window, confronted by a chill gray light, the dawning sun filtered by the forest cover. A thin mist hovered just above the ground, and as he lay there having neither the strength of purpose nor the desire to move, Larry watched the formation of little eddies where the haze was heated by the first rays of morning. Over the next hour the ground clouds dissipated leaving behind no trace. The symbolism was not lost on him, and he turned away, his eyes moist.
It was another hour before he showered and dressed, the usual daily routine somehow bolstering his spirits as he slipped into familiar patterns. Although he was not particularly hungry he took his jacket from the hook next to the door, put it on, and walked out into the cool, clear sub-alpine air, thrusting his hands into the pockets as he ambled off to the dining facility, his head bent down as if he was searching the ground for something he had lost. When he arrived he poured a cup of coffee, nodding to one or two of the occupants, and asked for some eggs, toast and bacon; he felt a need to keep up appearances, to keep his illness a secret. But as he sat there, sipping the hot brew, he noticed the wide birth the others gave him. Larry was used to eating alone; most field agents were left to themselves unless they initiated contact, but it was obvious to him that more than distance now separated him from the other residents of the camp. They knew. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Here he was, in the business of secrets and covert activities, and his personal affairs were already common knowledge to everyone who populated his current world.
"Here you go." The cook set the platter down and turned on his heels before Larry could put down the coffee and open his mouth to say thanks. He put a small forkful of eggs in his mouth and pushed the remaining food around the plate for a few minutes before standing and walking out. The brisk morning, which usually had a rejuvenating effect on him, only chilled him, and although the air felt like it was stinging his skin, Larry knew that it was really the bleakness of his soul that sucked the warmth from his body. He stood outside for a moment, not sure where to go or what to do, not even sure if there was anything for him to do; field operations were certainly no longer an option for him. Would they try to get him across the border into France or Italy and then back to the States? Were they going to let him live out the remainder of his life here, another casualty of war buried in some foreign country? So many questions, so much unknown. As he stood there, confused and angry, the CO of the camp walked out of the administration building and strolled over to him, his movement casual as if to say "I was just out for a walk, fancy bumping into you," but the seriousness of his face and the set of his jaw gave up the lie.
"Morning, Larry." Capt. Darnell stopped in front of Larry. There was no saluting at the camp, no real military formalities since those who trained here had to expunge any military training from their behavior, and since Larry was not compelled to speak, an awkward silence ensued. Darnell stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back and forth on his heels once or twice, and began what was obviously a difficult conversation for him. "Larry, the doctor spoke to me about your, uh, condition and I want to say how sorry I am. It's just a bitch; not fair that things like this happen, but we have to deal with them. I'm really sorry."
Larry nodded, not knowing what to say. "Thank you" seemed stupid so he continued nodding and just said, "Yeah, a bitch."
"This may not be the best time for you but some things about the mission I mentioned last week can't wait and I need to talk to you. None of this is easy for me but it's got to be done so I'm going to get right to it. The people who planned the operation back at OSS were considering dropping it because of the risk to the agent who would be involved."
"There's always serious risk," Larry said in a monotone.
"Yes, but this time it would be different. Crossing into enemy territory is dangerous, we all know that. But in this mission the greatest menace would come from what has to be carried out on someone's back. It's a new kind of poison and just being close to it is likely to kill that person." Larry stood there listening, not completely comprehending, and wondering why he was being told all this. He had nowhere to go and yet he felt in a hurry, his legs anxious to get moving. The Captain continued, "Headquarters knows about your situation, they've spoken with the doctor and understand what the outcome will be. That's why they've asked me to talk to you."
Although Larry was functioning at far less than optimal, warning relays were tripped at some deep, barely conscious level, and even though he couldn't make all the connections in his current condition, he nonetheless experienced an increase in anxiety, a warning that reached into awareness and made his legs even more restless. He knew he should leave, get out, run away. Larry stood there and nodded, silently.
"I know this is like kicking a man when he's down, but I've got to ask you if you would be willing to take on this operation. It's strictly voluntary. They realize it's a lot to ask and everything must seem like it's happening all at once, but you're the only one who ... " His voice trailed off as Larry's expression morphed into one of loathing, full comprehension of what was being asked of him flooding into consciousness. Words and emotions, brought instantly to a boil, threatened to explode. His lower jaw dropped, his eyes widened and he seemed on the verge of speech, but no indignant words sallied out to face the abomination that had been hurled at him. Slowly closing his mouth Larry turned and walked off toward his cabin.
Darnell called after him, "Larry, think about it. It may seem contemptible, but in times like these, situations like this, we all have to do whatever we can."
* *
Eight kilometers from the camp, in the outskirts of Altstatten, Dr. Benjamin Jonson M
iller sat in the rear of a small café in a working class neighborhood. In a country that was home to people of various ethnic backgrounds who had relatives and connections throughout the world, the site of strangers was nothing particularly unusual. Moreover, the Swiss had a tradition of letting everyone mind their own business, and besides, customers being somewhat scarce these days, the owner and the other patrons were content to give the occasional foreigner their privacy. Why should they care if the rest of the world had gone mad and were killing each other as long as they were left at peace to conduct their affairs? After all, business was business, and why make someone uncomfortable when they might help the local economy. And so no one paid much attention to Miller as he sat alone at a booth sipping his second Schnapps, a drink he didn't particularly like, but the strongest one that was available. If anyone gave him any notice at all it was more because it was so early in the day to be drinking and not because he wasn't a local. Nor did any eyebrows shoot up when a second stranger, wearing a well-tailored suit, entered, nodded a casual hello to the owner standing behind the small bar, and walked back to join Miller.
Crossword Page 9