None But The Brave: A Novel of the Surgeons of World War II

by Anthony A. Goodman

  “Oh, I’m all right I guess. The pain’s pretty bad, but I don’t want to go to sleep again until we’re in a secure place. Got any idea how far it is to Fauville?”

  “Not a clue. Claude said three kilometers from where we met him. But, who knows? Just that it’s in this direction. Must have been walking distance, though. I just wonder who’s going to be waiting there for us when we arrive.”

  “Hell of a good question, Doc. Beats the shit out of me. Guess we’d better be prepared.”

  Sorenson propped himself higher in the cart and looked ahead, squinting into the distance. “There! There! Look!” he said pointing straight down the road.

  Schneider raised himself to his full height from his walking slouch and squinted into the glare of the sun.

  “Son of a bitch! A town. That must be it, Lieutenant. It’s got to be.”

  “Hold up,” Sorenson ordered. “Let’s get tightened up here and make a plan.”

  The platoon stopped and regrouped around the cart.

  “I want you two,” he said pointing to the men at the rear of the cart, “to form up and relieve Miller and Brady on the draw bar. The doc is gonna stay here with me, while you two spread out and scout ahead. That village may be in allied hands by now, but I need to know for sure before we go waltzing in there. The rest of you spread out along the sides, and for Christ’s sake don’t bunch up! If there’s Krauts there, let’s not make it too easy for them.”

  The soldiers went right into action, two men pulling the cart slowly ahead, straining with the heavy load now that the others were gone. Marsh moved up and down the line, hoping to be in position if there were to be more casualties. Schneider walked warily alongside the cart, keeping his eyes dead ahead in the middle distance. From time to time, he scanned the sparse cover at the side of the road. He felt a tightening in his abdomen, an old reminder of his struggles with fear. He took purposeful deep breaths in an effort to clear his mind of the possibilities ahead of him. Now and then he had a terrible urge to pee, but there was no time. No place.

  Am I going to live with an aching bladder for the whole damned war? he wondered?

  He appraised the terrain. The woods had given way to open rolling hills where there was less chance for an ambush. Less chance for cover as well.

  The lead scouts disappeared ahead. Within a few minutes, Sorenson and Schneider were nearly alone: a wounded officer, two dead bodies, and an old wooden cart pulled slowly along by two ragged GIs, all guarded by an unarmed surgeon with a full bladder.

  Nearly thirty minutes passed before the village came into sight again. The terrain had dipped so that the low hills obscured the view of Fauville. Then the slope flattened, and the houses came into view once more. There was silence in the midday heat. Dust settled slowly on the road, suggesting the recent passage of someone or something.

  Sorenson and Schneider noticed the dust at the same time, and both wondered whether it had been caused by their own men or the Germans. Without warning, a soldier scrambled from the side of the road and ran up to the cart in a crouch. The crouch seemed unnecessary, since the cart was plainly visible. The others were all standing straight up.

  Sorenson whispered, “What’d you find?”

  “Not much, sir. We’re in position just outside the village. Took cover in those trees. Not much cover, but some. Don’t see anything really. No people. No animals. No Krauts.”

  Sorenson’s eyes narrowed, making little creases that added ten years to his appearance. Or was it the invasion that had aged him overnight? Schneider wondered.

  “OK. Give me time to get up there with you, and then we’ll see. Tell Kelly to keep his men down and out of sight.”

  “Yes, sir!” the soldier said and moved quickly back toward the village.

  Sorenson signaled to the GIs as the cart moved slowly forward again. As they approached nearer to the village, the fear suddenly expanded in Schneider’s chest like a mass of rising dough. It became difficult to breathe. It was the glider all over again: no cover; an enemy who might be waiting for them in ambush; and, of course, he had no way to defend himself—the curse and blessing of being a doctor, a non-combatant, a man without a gun.

  “Shit!” he muttered.

  When they reached the edge of the village, Sorenson found his men and settled in behind the sparse cover of some trees. Kelly knelt down beside the cart and said, “I sure don’t like this one, sir. Can’t see a fuckin’ thing. The houses are all boarded up. Shutters closed. No animals. No people. Just not right for a normal village in the middle of the day. There’s gotta be Krauts in there somewhere waitin’ for us. I think they’ve already made us and are just waitin’ for a better shot.”

  “Yeah,” Sorenson said. “Listen. Deploy the team in force. As much force as we’ve got left. I’ll stay here and cover any retreat. Stay as a group. You don’t have enough men to spread out too much. Then just clear the village the old fashioned way, house by house. We’ll find out soon enough how many Krauts are in there.”

  “Yessir.” Kelly moved quietly back to his men and began assigning tasks. Schneider couldn’t hear what they were saying. But, in a minute, he saw the men crouch low and begin to enter the village, using whatever cover they could find to hide their movements.

  The minutes crept by. A fly or two began to buzz around the bodies of Talbot and Claude. Schneider knew the flies could not disturb the dead, but still he found himself instinctively brushing them away. Sorenson reached out and took Schneider’s wrist. He held it still for a second, and then shook his head.

  Movement, Schneider thought. He’s afraid that movement will give us away. Someone’s probably got his sights on me right now, aimed right at the red cross over my forehead.

  A few minutes later, a shot rang out. The solitary crack of a single rifle broke the silence, followed by a distant cry of pain. Schneider hit the deck, covering his head with his arms. Sorenson looked down, then back toward the village.

  It had been a single shot. A sniper’s shot. Sorenson tried to see what was going on. Then there was an answering burst of automatic weapons fire. Then more silence. Scuffling noises floated up from the village. Almost immediately, two GIs appeared dragging a body through the dust. They got to the cart, and lay the stricken GI down in the cover of the cart away from the village.

  “Sniper, sir,” one of them said to Sorenson. “Fired from the little church up there. Kelly got him.”

  “Any more?” Sorenson asked.

  “I don’t think so. The doors and windows are starting to open, and people are peeking out. Couple of minutes, we’re gonna have a crowd out there. That must mean they knew there was only one sniper in the village. I think the rest of the Krauts have pulled out already and left that guy behind to do whatever damage he could. He was just an expendable Kraut.”

  Schneider and Marsh were busy tending to the wounded soldier, hearing only a little of the conversation. The wound seemed to be a through-and-through chest shot.

  “You gonna need a chest tube, Doc?” Marsh asked, rummaging through his medical pack for supplies.

  Schneider pointed to the GI’s chest wound.

  “Look, there’s no bubbling coming from the entry wound.” He rolled the man partially onto his side. “And, see? None from the exit hole on his back either. And he’s not having difficulty breathing.”

  They rolled the man onto his back again. Marsh took out a stethoscope and shoved it inside the man’s field jacket. “Damn! He’s got good breath sounds. Both sides.”

  Schneider flicked open his knife and slit the GIs field jacket. Then he saw the reason. Traced around the man’s chest was a huge purple welt, nearly encircling the right half of the body, tracking from entry to exit. The bullet had struck a rib at an angle, and zipped around the man’s body just under the skin before exiting from the back. Except for the pain, and a little bleeding from the skin edges, nothing much had happened to him. Marsh began cleaning the wounds, applying a little bit of Sulfanilamide powder to the en
try and exit wounds.

  The GI was silent, more aware of the danger of his position than the pain of the wound. Then he whispered, “You guys think we should get outta here?”

  “Probably a good idea,” Schneider said. “We’ll be finished in a second.

  Just as they were finishing, Kelly appeared, running from the village, but upright, taking no precautions. He scooted up to the cart and knelt next to the wounded GI. After he caught his breath, he said to Sorenson,

  “That’s it, sir. One fucking sniper. Gets off one shot and hits one man. Shit!”

  “He’s OK, Sergeant,” Schneider said. “Just a flesh wound. As they say in the westerns, ‘winged ‘im.’”

  Sorenson broke in. “Secure the village, Sergeant. Make a house-to-house, room-to-room search. Don’t forget the basements and the outhouses. I don’t want any more surprises. These villagers will probably tell us what’s up, but don’t take any chances.”

  Kelly rose and ran back to the village. As he did, a small crowd began flowing out of the little square. A noisy welcome filled the air. Voices. French voices. French cheers drifted up to where Sorenson and Schneider were waiting in the cart. Schneider helped the wounded soldier into the cart, which was becoming precariously overloaded now. As he turned back, he was nearly bowled over by the rush of the villagers coming out to greet Les Américaines.

  Leading the pack was a little man in a very formal, if somewhat disheveled, waistcoat. He wore a black, silk top hat and across his chest a red, white, and blue sash—or rather blue, white and red as Schneider knew the French would say—bearing some sort of honorary medal. He wore a waxed mustache, looking for all the world like a character out of a French comic novel. He was carrying an open bottle of wine, offering drinks to all the GIs. He approached the cart, face smiling, cheeks rosy and flushed with happiness.

  “Bonjour! Bonjour! Bienvenue, mes amis.”

  Schneider figured he was the only one who understood the welcome, so he took a step in his direction and greeted the man. “Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment vous appellez-vous?” he said, asking his name.

  “Moi? Je m’appelle Noah le Dauphin. Je suis le Maire de ce village-ci.”

  Schneider turned to Sorenson and said, “This is Noah. He’s the Mayor.”

  Before he could go on, Noah walked to the cart and addressed Sorenson in very passable English. “You are the Chef? The commander?”

  “Yes,” Sorenson answered.

  “I am Noah le Dauphin,” he said again. “You are very welcome in my village.” He handed Sorenson the half empty wine bottle and continued in English, “Of course you are a little late, but…” He tilted his head and, in a very French gesture, blew some air through his pursed lips, just as Claude had done. “But welcome! Welcome!” Then he turned and passed the bottle to the rest of the GIs.

  In a moment, the Américaines were surrounded by thirty or forty men and women dressed in shabby farm clothes, jumping and cheering. More wine was opened and passed around. Schneider tried to speak with them, but their French was so fast and so excited that he could catch only a few words. There were hugs and kisses for the liberators, and curses, kicks, and spittle for the dead Bosch sniper that some of the men had carried out and thrown on the ground at the feet of the Americans. The German sniper lay in the dust next to the cart, all but ignored after some of the obligatory kicks, the spent fury of the liberated townspeople.

  Schneider knelt down in the road and placed two fingers over the man’s carotid artery. He looked into the dead man’s eyes to make sure he was, in fact, dead. Only then did he notice that the sniper was barely a boy. His blue eyes, now drying in the heat, were staring straight back. Tufts of thick blond hair fell across his smooth forehead.

  Just someone’s little boy.

  “The master race!” Schneider muttered softly, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “They send their boys out to fight us.”

  “Well, this boy nearly killed one of our men,” Marsh reminded him.

  Soon the jostling and the exuberance subsided. Schneider found himself in the prolonged embrace of two farmers who held him tightly to their chests. Their grizzled gray beards rubbed his cheeks. He was embarrassed at the familiarity, the smells, and the closeness. Before he could pry himself free, he found himself immersed in silence. The two farmers released their grip and backed away. Their eyes were fixed, staring straight ahead.

  They had recognized Claude’s cart. Then, as reality registered, they saw the covered bodies lying next to Sorenson. It was the small blanket-wrapped body of Claude that had gotten their attention.

  Schneider backed away, scanning the crowd that was now forming around them. The crowd parted, moving away from a woman standing in their midst as if there were something wrong with her; as if she had something they did not want to contract.

  She was dressed in a black peasant dress, ragged and soiled. Her hair was tied up in a black shawl. It was as if she had come dressed for a funeral, but this was the dress she had worn every day for the last two years. It was the only one she still owned.

  At first she looked startled as the others turned to face her. One old man who had been closest to the cart, one of the two who had hugged Schneider, rushed back and took the woman by the shoulders. He tried to lead her back to the village, but she shook him loose.

  Schneider didn’t know what to do. Finally, he reached into the cart and lifted the body of Claude, still covered with his khaki blanket. The blanket fell partially away and Claude’s head hung back over Schneider’s arm. Schneider tried to correct its unnatural tilt with his biceps. He walked toward the woman, realizing that it looked as if he were bearing some gift, some terrible awful gift. The blanket slid free as he approached, completely uncovering Claude’s face, now pale and dry.

  The woman gasped, rushed forward, reaching for her son. She stopped, her arms still out. Then she crumbled where she stood, collapsing to her knees and sobbing into her hands. The men helped her to her feet and supported her trembling body. Schneider continued walking, carrying Claude past the woman and down the hill into the boy’s little village.

  Chapter Twelve

  7 June 1944, 0800 Hours

  Dog White Section, Omaha Beach, Normandy

  The Rhino ferry was rocking dangerously in the surf fifty yards off Omaha Beach. The approach was treacherous, even though the firing from the German batteries had decreased somewhat since the start of the invasion. The danger now seemed to lie as much beneath the surface of the ocean as it did from the shelling above. Underwater obstacles—steel and concrete pilings—threatened to tear out the bottoms of the landing craft as the tide eased.

  Antonelli, McClintock, and Hamm huddled miserably against the steel bulk of one of the bulldozers. Higgenson was resting in the driver’s seat of the medical supply truck assigned to their group. None of them had slept more than a few minutes in a row for the past several days. They were disappointed not to have landed on D-Day itself, though there was still enough danger to go around on D-Day Plus One. Now, on their second attempt to land on a new Rhino ferry, they felt no safer than the day before.

  “That beach just looks too quiet,” Hamm said, staring and squinting into the misty morning.

  “Mmm,” Antonelli agreed.

  “Too quiet for what?” McClintock asked.

  “Too quiet for what we were expecting. I mean, yesterday it was hell. There was shelling everywhere, and nonstop barrages, and machine gun nests. At least, that’s what they told us on the way back out to sea.”

  “And?” McClintock asked.

  “And now there’s just scattered firing,” Hamm said. “An explosion here and there. Nothing like yesterday. At least from here.”

  “Well, just count your blessings, man. When we land it might be a hell of a lot hotter.”

  “I guess.”

  The Rhino wallowed closer to shore. The coxswain, a new guy they hadn’t seen before, maneuvered the clumsy craft slowly through the choppy waters, trying to minimize the
wash coming in over the low gunwales.

  They felt it first, a few seconds before they could hear it: a shuddering, a tearing, and then a low grinding sound coming from beneath the deck. The Rhino ferry shivered, stuttered and decelerated, all at the same time. Their forward movement slowed so fast that everyone grabbed for handholds to keep from being thrown off balance and into the bilge again.

  “Fuck!” cried the coxswain.

  “What happened?” Hamm shouted to him.

  “We’re fucked, sir!”

  “What?”

  “Underwater obstacle. Steel railroad track or some damned thing. We’re impaled. Look.” He was pointing to the center of the craft where the deck was now bulging in an unhealthy way.

  “Jesus,” Hamm said.

  “We gonna sink?” Antonelli asked. Nobody answered.

  There was a flurry of activity as the crewmembers aboard the ferry ran for their vehicles. The bulldozers were lined up in the bow since they were supposed to be deployed first when the ferry landed. But now it seemed they were still too far from shore. Lots of questions raced through everyone’s minds. Was the water shallow enough for the dozers and the supply trucks? How far down would the ramp go? Or was it going to be yesterday all over again?

  “Make ready to lower the ramp!” the coxswain shouted above the roar of the truck engines. The dozers rumbled and shook like steel behemoths as their big diesel engines coughed to life. The coxswain had tried to back the ferry off the obstacle, but the small twin engines were impotent against the steel impaling the hull, especially with the heavy cargo on board.

  “Lower the ramp,” he cried, and the bow ramp dropped into the surf. The dozers revved their engines as the first of the hulking machines climbed slowly to the bow. Diesel fumes wafted back into the faces of the crew, making eyes water and starting a chorus of coughing. The ferry wallowed, scraping against the steel impaling her hull as the dozer driver pushed his machine over the lip of the bow and onto the ramp. He edged the huge machine over and downward, causing the inch-thick chain links holding the ramp to strain and scream. As the weight of the big machine came fully onto the incline, the port restraining chain snapped suddenly, canting the ramp to the left. The dozer door opened, and the driver clung to the frame, trying to decide whether to stay with the machine or jump.