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

by Anthony A. Goodman

  Finally, the starboard chain snapped as well, and the ramp slammed down, followed by the great mass of the dozer plunging nose first into the sea, the driver with it. The eyes of all the soldiers on board searched for the soldier, but he was nowhere in sight. The dozer sank immediately in a spume of bubbles and froth. The sea lapped around the rear of the huge machine, protruding from the surface while the nose and blade were buried in the soft sand of the ocean floor.

  Antonelli and Hamm rushed to the open bow and scanned the sea. After a terrible wait, the surface was broken by the driver’s flailing hands clawing the air for something to grip. Antonelli jumped down onto the submerged portion of the ramp and grabbed the broken end of the chain that was dangling free over the water. With his other hand, he grasped at the now exposed shoulder of the driver, pulling him to the ferry. Hamm knelt down beside Antonelli, and together they heaved the sodden soldier onto the deck, where he lay gasping and coughing up seawater.

  The man heaved and coughed some more then looked up at Hamm and Antonelli and said, “Thanks.”

  “Any time,” Antonelli said.

  The coxswain again gunned his engines in reverse, but it was no use. The Rhino was impaled and would stay there for the duration.

  “We’re sitting ducks here, Major,” the cox said to Hamm. “It’s FUBAR!”

  Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

  “What’re you going to do about it?”

  “Let’s get on the loud-hailer and get you guys evacuated. Either that or you just get the hell off this tub and wade ashore.”

  Hamm turned to McClintock and said, “What do you think?”

  McClintock looked toward the shore and said, “I say we go for it. If we go back to the ships, God only knows when we’ll get in here. They really need us on shore, Hamm. We were supposed to have set up a clearing station yesterday. Guys are dying just over there,” he said pointing to the beach, “while we’re stuck out here. Shit, the dozer is sticking out of the water. How deep can it be?”

  “What about the supply trucks. The equipment?”

  “The trucks won’t make it. No way. But we can. Let’s just get what we can carry, and go from there.”

  “That means no big equipment. No autoclaves for sterilizing. No major surgical packs…”

  “Yeah, and no anesthesia machines either. But, I’ve got some open-drop ether, and if I can get them asleep, you can do the surgery until we run out of supplies. So, let’s get the hell off this fucking tub before some Kraut zeroes in on us again.”

  “Right.” Hamm turned to the cox and said, “We’re going in. We’ll take a minute to get some supplies off the trucks, and then we’re going to wade ashore. You hold it steady as you can right here, and then get yourself on to another craft and get the hell out of here.”

  “Aye, sir. But I don’t need to do anything about holding this steady, sir. It’s goin’ absolutely nowhere.”

  Hamm turned to his men and said, “Everyone get into those trucks and pack whatever you can carry into your gear bags. Get rid of whatever personal stuff you don’t absolutely need. We can resupply your skivvies and socks later. Make as much room for the surgical supplies as you can.”

  He turned to Higgenson and said, “After you get your gear in order, watch over the other medics and make sure they’re carrying absolutely everything they can, especially plasma. Lots of plasma.”

  “Yessir.”

  McClintock and Hamm separated and entered the waiting trucks. Hamm went straight to the surgical operating room packs. He opened one and decided that the whole pack was much too heavy to carry. All that steel would sink him to the bottom the moment he went over the side. He took out the heaviest and least important instruments. They were all made of stainless steel, so everything was heavy. First to go were the big Deaver and Richardson retractors. There were almost twelve of them in each pack, arranged by size.

  This is going to be really gross surgery, he thought, as he took only one set each of the biggest retractors in the pack. Then he made sure he had adequate clamps to stop all the bleeding he knew he would be treating.

  “Big surgeons make big incisions,” he muttered to himself, “and that means big clamps and big retractors.” He realized that he was talking to himself and looked around, embarrassed.

  Next he packed up a variety of needle holders for all the different kinds of sewing he would encounter: giant needles wider than a hair curler, to close the entire abdominal wall with a single throw; fine needles for the intestinal suturing; and still finer needles and sutures, almost as thin as spiders’ webs, for the vascular surgery. He stopped to think for a moment. Hamm had never done this kind of inventory before. Usually the operating room nurses prepared the surgical packs. He wracked his brains, trying not to forget anything. Then he snapped his fingers and rummaged through the pack to make sure he had some chest tubes and drainage bottles to re-expand collapsed lungs from penetrating chest wounds.

  “Catheters!” He found some urinary catheters for draining the bladder for soldiers with urinary tract trauma and for the shock patients to monitor their fluid replacement. He stuffed them into his kit as well. He strained to think of what he might have forgotten.

  The suture packs are in. Towels. Gauze. Sponges. Drapes…Something’s missing. Something….

  Hamm shrugged and began to bind up the pack before stuffing it into his duffel bag. As he got to his feet it struck him, almost a physical blow.

  “Jesus Christ. Knives! I forgot the knives….”

  He reopened the pack and took a dozen scalpel handles of varying sizes, and boxes of blades to match. He paused and then scooped up all the blades that remained. He put it all in the duffel, taking out his extra dry clothing to make room. He slung the web belt over his shoulder and stood. Staggering under the weight, he was shocked at how heavy it all was. And this after leaving most of the instruments and clothing behind. He eyed his diaries, leather bound and heavy. He just couldn’t leave them, so he wrapped them in his poncho and stuffed them in with the surgical gear. Then he hoisted the duffel higher on to his shoulder and jumped down from the truck, hoping the duffel might have some buoyancy once it was in the water.

  Hamm met McClintock coming from around the corner; they almost knocked each other down. McClintock was weighed down with an equally heavy duffel.

  “You got a whole theatre in there, Hamm?” McClintock asked, using the British term for operating room, a word he had adopted after so many months in England.

  “Just the bare minimum. You?”

  “I’ll just bop them on the head and hope they’ll wake up when you’re done.”

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  They made their way toward the bow, picking up Antonelli and Higgenson on the way.

  “You got everything?” Hamm said to them both. He couldn’t believe that their packs were even bigger and heavier than his and McClintock’s.

  “Yup,” said Higgenson, hefting his load.

  Antonelli just kept moving forward. The men gathered at the bow, looking over the damaged ramp. Hamm noticed that the dozer had settled farther into the sandy bottom. He remembered the way his feet used to sink into the sand at the beach as the rushing water eroded his foothold. Still, the dozer blocked the way. They would have to go over the corner of the broken ramp and make their way around the big machine. With waters as roiled as they were, nobody could see bottom. Only the height of the water above the cab of the dozer gave any clue as to the depth. And that didn’t look good.

  The rest of the medical team gathered behind Hamm and McClintock. The infantry were forming up as well.

  “OK,” Hamm shouted to everyone. “Let’s do it.”

  Hamm tried to put on a confident face. But his heart was racing and he was sweating. The prospect of drowning was foremost in his mind; being shot or blown up was just a flicker away. He swallowed hard to suppress the lump forming in his chest as a man appeared at his side.

  “Sir, I think my men and I should go over first
.” A lieutenant stepped forward. Davies, Hamm read on the nametag. He was leading a platoon of infantry. “We need to secure a part of the beach and find some place for you guys to work.”

  “OK, Lieutenant. Go for it,” Hamm said, very relieved not to be going in first.

  The firing from the beach had intensified again, and the water’s edge was alive with the splashing of bullets as they struck the surf. Many more LSTs and other landing craft were now going ashore to follow up the initial invasion. Some of the bigger guns were still pouring fire into the landing craft, and the men on the Rhino ferry were waiting uneasily for someone on the cliffs to take aim at the ridiculously easy target their impaled boat made. Splashes were not yet bracketing the ferry, but everyone knew it wouldn’t be long.

  “Hey, Cox!” Hamm shouted toward the stern. He couldn’t remember the guy’s name. “Why don’t you come ashore with us? You’re out of the war here, and sooner or later the krauts are going to nail this tub. Come on.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I’d better wait for a lift back to the ships. They’ll give me another boat as soon as they get me off here. And, anyway, why the hell would I want to go in there with you guys?”

  “OK.” Hamm shook his head. The guy was right. Why would anyone want to go ashore who didn’t have to? They’d soon be the sitting ducks.

  “Good luck to you, Cox.”

  “Aye, sir! And to you too.” The ensign saluted, and Hamm returned the salute. Then he made ready to go into the water, waiting for the infantry to go over the side. Davies mustered all his men, and gave the word.

  “Let’s go. Get off this tub as fast as you can, and get onto the beach. Rendezvous at that barrier,” he said pointing to a cluster of steel erected to impede the landing of the tanks and trucks. “Follow me!”

  Davies went right over the side. As soon as his feet hit the water, his platoon watched in horror as he sank from sight like an anvil. His gear, his gun, his whole person disappeared without a splash. A trail of bubbles rose to the surface, the only residue of the lieutenant’s entry. There was a short pause while numerous disconnected voices commented on Davies’ disappearance.

  “Holy Fuck!”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Oh, shit…”

  A variety of GI vocabulary filled the air for a second or two. There was barely a soldier who saw the lieutenant go in who did not have at least one word to say.

  Except Higgenson. He was closest to the bow and, without a word or hesitation, dropped his pack to the deck, and disappeared into the churning water as quickly as had Davies. The bubbles stopped, and the water became still at the spot where Higgenson’s body had momentarily calmed the surface. The men on deck froze. There was total silence, all the meaningless vulgarity ceased. The only sound was the uneven staccato of the German machine guns in the distance and the occasional whoomph of the 88s still firing at the invasion force on the beach and at sea.

  Forever passed, and the water roiled again as it had before either Davies or Higgenson had gone in, wiping away any sign of their entry. A moment of silent calm; then, like a whale breaching after a deep dive, Higgenson flew from the depths, waving his arm for help, coughing and choking at the same time. Two arms flashed out from the boat, grabbing the big man and pulling him nearer the bow. But his bulk and his water-logged clothes made him even heavier. It took several more men grabbing at Higgenson’s sleeve and field jacket to drag him up and out of the sea. Beneath him, like a fish snared in a net, lay the body of Davies, inert and limp, his rifle still slung over one shoulder and his pack still dangling from the other.

  Higgenson had one hand clamped tightly to Davies’ collar. It seemed as if he might strangle the lieutenant before they could get him out of the water. But he held on tightly, his fist white with the effort, even as he continued to cough and spew seawater from his own mouth and nose.

  Hamm lay down flat on his stomach and reached out for Davies. He grabbed an arm with one hand and the front of the field jacket with the other. He heaved on the limp body, but the body didn’t budge. Then Antonelli reached down and grabbed another fistful of clothing. The two of them heaved again and managed to get Davies onto the deck, even while Higgenson was still in the water. With the weight suddenly gone, Higgenson looked up, trying to see if he had lost his grip on Davies. When he saw the body disappearing up over the edge of the deck, he let go, surrendering the body to the others. Three more men helped pull Higgenson out, and the group all fell backwards to the deck. Higgenson coughed for a few more minutes, and then, gasping, drew himself to his knees to see about Davies.

  Hamm rolled Davies onto his back, while McClintock scrambled to his side. It might be necessary to insert an endotracheal tube to aerate Davies’ drowned lungs. Hamm got himself to his knees and took a position at Davies’ right. McClintock scrambled to the head, his usual place as anesthesiologist. Antonelli moved opposite Hamm, the three of them automatically taking their places as if they were in the operating room. The others on the deck formed a shield around them and stared.

  The 88s and the machine guns stepped up their barrage, a percussion background to the little drama.

  And then they saw it. Somewhere, somehow, a random bullet had taken Davies through the throat. The entry hole on the right side of his neck was clean with hardly a bruise. The exit to the left was jagged and larger, but also washed clean by the sea. There was no froth. No blood. Davies had been killed as he went into the water. The sea ritually washed his body clean before returning him to the surface.

  Higgenson had, without thought or hesitation, risked his life for a dead man.

  And it wouldn’t be the last time.

  By late morning, the Rhino had been towed once again back out to sea. The entire medical group, along with its complement of infantry, transferred to an LST. The supply trucks and ambulances were loaded onto another landing craft and would head in right behind the main team. Again, they would make for Dog White Beach, avoiding the error of landing on Dog Green, as they almost had done yesterday. Hamm really didn’t know what difference it would make, since they all would surely be up to their elbows with the wounded almost anywhere they landed.

  They were huddled against the side gunwales of the LST wondering what would happen on this, their third try to get ashore to help the wounded.

  “I feel like we’re snake bit,” Antonelli said. “I mean, Jesus! Davies getting it like that. Bad enough to drown as soon as you hit the beach, but to get shot in the neck at the same time. I mean, holy shit! He never had a chance.”

  McClintock stared ahead, though he couldn’t see the beach over the raised ramp of the landing craft. After what happened to Davies, none of them lifted their heads for a peek.

  “I wonder what that means for the rest of this sorry outfit,” Antonelli said. “I’ve never been superstitious, but three strikes and you’re out, man. Out!”

  “Look, we’re going in now,” Hamm said, trying to restore calm to the jittery outfit. “If anything, this late landing may have saved us a lot of grief. I mean, not getting in on the first or second waves. Look how quiet the beaches are, now, compared to yesterday. It’s almost eerie right now.” He sounded strong and confident, but his heart was still racing.

  “I wouldn’t say that too loudly, Hamm.” said McClintock. “We’re not there yet, and God knows what the Jerries have in reserve. We could get there just in time for their big counteroffensive. Let’s just see what happens. I’m getting superstitious, too.” McClintock looked around and asked, “Where’s Dick?”

  “Right here, Major,” Higgenson answered. “Right over here.”

  Higgenson was huddled near the bow, not yet dry from his swim. He was shivering slightly, but said nothing about it.

  “Hell of a thing you did, Dick. Fucked if I could have gone in there just like that. Not a hesitation. My hat’s off to you, man.” McClintock touched the brim of his helmet.

  “Thank you, sir. That’s what they pay me to do: bring in the bodies so you can fi
x them up. I’m just sorry I couldn’t bring him in alive for you.”

  “You never had a chance, son,” McClintock said. “But you sure know how to do your job. That was a hell of a brave move. Anyone ever mouths off about conscientious objectors to me again, he’ll be pulling my boot out of his ass.”

  “Amen to that,” said Antonelli.

  “Gene,” Hamm said, “I want you and Dick to stay together. You make a fine team. And watch out for each other.”

  “Yessir,” said Antonelli.

  “Yessir,” said Higgenson.

  “Stand by!” a metallic voice came over the makeshift PA system. “One minute!”

  The whole team gathered their things closer about them and secured their web belts. They had made their loads slightly lighter since Davies had demonstrated how heavy a pack really was when you are trying to swim with it. None of them had slung the packs across their shoulders either. They wanted to be able to dump them quickly, if necessary.

  The LST approached the beach. Suddenly, there were grinding noises on the bottom of the craft. Most of the crew tumbled forward slightly with the deceleration. They regained their balance just as the boat stopped. The ramp dropped away, and the infantry went down into the water first. Most were able to walk in the chest-deep surf, arms and rifles held above the water line, white condoms protecting the muzzles of the rifles from the seawater and sand. Hamm smiled at the jokes that kept coming to mind. Several men stumbled but were helped up by their comrades. Next, the medical crew piled off the ramp, following the infantrymen into the shallowest parts of the beach. There was sporadic fire, and a few splashes as bullets struck the water. But none struck too close. Very few heavy weapons still fired from the cliffs.

  McClintock and Hamm hit the sand at the same time, stumbling over the soft footing while trying to make their way as far inland as possible before stopping. They struggled forward, encountering very little in the way of firing. Then they were stopped. Not by German guns, but by what they saw around them.