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

by Anthony A. Goodman

  But Paris wasn’t yet free, and the call went out for help.

  “What’s he saying, Steve?” McClintock asked. Schneider waved his hand at him to pipe down so he could listen. His French was good, but simultaneous translation was still way over his head.

  “Hang on. Hang on.” Schneider tuned the dial a bit and listened carefully.

  “The Second French Armored Division is closing in on Paris from the west,” he said, “and the American Fourth Infantry Division is coming from…something, something…in the…south. Fighting in the streets…general insurrection…serious casualties…lack of medical supplies…yackety-yak…short of ammunition…pockets of Boche resistance.”

  Schneider struggled to piece together the sentences, but the meaning was clear. The end was in sight for the Germans in Paris, and within a day or two the city would be liberated. But everyone feared that the Germans would destroy the city before they left.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Marsh, “we’re gonna liberate Paris! We’re gonna fuckin’ liberate Paris.”

  “So, why don’t we go?” Hamm said. “I mean, why not? They’re sure going to need medical supplies and surgeons. And nurses, Molly, nurses!”

  Molly nodded a thank you to Hamm.

  “So, why not go?” Hamm repeated into the silence. No one knew quite how to respond because Hamm was usually so conservative when it came to exposing his personnel to risk. He was beyond brave when it came to his own skin, as everyone saw on Omaha Beach and everywhere afterward. But exposing others to danger was another thing entirely.

  “They don’t need us here. There are more than enough surgical teams already, and business is slow enough, and it’s going to get slower as the line moves east. We can catch up with the field hospital when they set up at a new position. Our GIs will have a radio. We can find out where to catch up with them.”

  Everyone sat silently staring at this crazy person. But only Hamm could have suggested it and not gotten booed off the stage as a nut case. He was the stability of the group. He was the rock. They all looked to him for reason and logic, whether it was a surgical decision or how to make the most of their supplies. Hamm wouldn’t say something like this on a whim.

  “Really?” Schneider said.

  “Why not? We take one ambulance and load it with medical supplies and food. Skip the sleeping bags and the gear—we can sleep in the ambulance if we get delayed—and we’re away. All roads lead to Paris, and there should be plenty of protection along the route. So…why not?”

  “But, we don’t have any orders, sir.” It was Marsh.

  “What’re they gonna do to us, boy?” McClintock said in his soothing drawl. “Throw us out of the army? Send us home? Shit, they need us more than we need them. And we’re not exactly deserting, are we? We’re going toward the fight. We’re gonna be heroes.”

  Everyone laughed. McClintock could do that at just the right moments. His southern drawl and his monotone were infectious. No matter how serious the subject, he seemed to make people smile.

  Hamm brought everyone back to reality. “Give me a minute. I’ll go see the CO and get us all passes. No need to piss off the higher-ups.”

  Without another moment’s thought, everyone jumped up from the table and scrambled for the tents. Schneider grabbed Molly by the wrist and held her back. When everyone had gone, he said, “Molly, you don’t have to go with us. This could get out of hand and become very dangerous.”

  She placed her other hand on his and said, “Steve, I’ve never been to Paris. And if I am going to go, there’s nobody I’d rather go with than you guys.” She looked down and added, “Mmmm…than with you.”

  Schneider’s throat constricted. He took her by both shoulders and pulled her nearer. She came to him softly. He smelled her breath and her hair.

  “Hey, Major! I’ll get your surgical gear, OK?”

  Antonelli. Shit.

  “Go for it, Gene!”

  Schneider let go of Molly’s shoulders. She stepped back and smiled. Then she rushed from the tent, leaving Schneider with only her scent still in the air.

  Antonelli was still there.

  “I’ll go get some clean skivvies, Gene. Don’t want the Parisians to think we’re cochons.”

  “Eh?”

  “Pigs, Gene. Wouldn’t want the French to think we’re pigs.”

  “No, sir!”

  Hamm returned with some papers in his hand and gave them a thumbs-up. “Said we could go if we took a few soldiers along. Not a problem, and they’ll have a radio.”

  “Allons-y!” he said. Let’s go. That was all the French Hamm knew. In less than forty minutes, the small volunteer group was on its way. The roads east were in pretty good condition for the first hour or so. Here and there were the remains of burnt out tanks, both German and American, and the occasional overturned truck or APC. Most were charred and in ruins. One tank lay on its side with the turret shredded as if something had blown up inside it. Schneider hated to think what had happened to that crew. When he saw it was a German tank, he sighed in relief. Then he felt guilty. He couldn’t win.

  Packed into the back of the truck were Schneider, Hamm, McClintock, Molly and two more WAC nurses, Marilyn and Jeanne.

  Antonelli was driving with Marsh riding shotgun. Another nurse sat squeezed between Marsh and Antonelli. The rest of the nurses had decided to remain behind, in part because they were needed to run the post-op ward, in part because everyone knew the battle for Paris was not yet over.

  These surgeons and nurses were an excited bunch, heading toward what they knew was going to be a special day in history. Something great was ahead of them, and they literally tingled with excitement.

  As their little convoy, with two GI’s in a jeep leading the way ahead of them, slowly covered the miles, the initial excitement waned a bit, and an awkward silence set in. It may have been his own conscience that was bothering him, but Schneider felt ill at ease with the idea of going to Paris with these single nurses. The three medics were all single, and—except for McClintock—most of the doctors in their field hospital were married men with children. A little imagination could go a long way toward some mighty uncomfortable territory. Schneider knew Hamm’s wife and kids very well, and Hamm knew Schneider’s.

  Maybe it was only his own conscience. He was having some pretty vivid fantasies as Molly sat next to him, especially in the crowded conditions in the back of that truck with her thigh pressed firmly against his. He hadn’t moved over to give her more room or make any separation between their bodies. Neither had she.

  Because of the noise of the diesel engine, they had to lean their heads close together to be heard, and several times Schneider found himself talking right into Molly’s ear, her hair touching his lips, the smell of her soap fresh in his nose. It was all too much for a guy who had been away from home for almost two years. Even after the terrible parting back in the States, Schneider had been an exemplary husband while he was stationed in England; he never went out to a pub alone with a woman; he was always in a group. All his socializing was done in the company of five or six other doctors and nurses.

  But, there in France, Molly Ferraro came into his life like the thunder of rolling artillery, and his world had changed. So had his view of what lay ahead.

  It was a tough trip that ride to Paris, in many ways.

  After about two hours, the convoy slowed down. Schneider opened the little window that separated him from the driving compartment and asked Antonelli what was up.

  “Checkpoint, sir. The last signs said we were only a few kilometers from Ver-sails.”

  Schneider remembered the sign for Versailles.

  “That’s pronounced ‘Ver-sigh,” Gene. Just so you can find your way back if you get lost and have to ask.

  “Yes, sir. Hey, there’s an MP waving me down,” Antonelli said.

  “Well, pull on up closer and get some information about what’s going on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The MP strolled up to the
driver’s side. Like all the ambulances, the truck was a hard-sided vehicle with huge white circles and red crosses on the sides, roof, and hood: a welcome sight to most of the Allies.

  Hamm was nearest the rear door and hopped out almost before the truck had stopped. Schneider couldn’t see the exchange, but he heard the MP say, “Morning, Major.” He could envision the salute and Hamm’s own classic half-hearted return.

  “Morning, Sergeant,” Hamm said. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Well, sir, the Jerries are still holding out in a few pockets of resistance near the palace. Looks like they’re prepared to die right there. And we’re happy to oblige them.”

  “You have any casualties that might need our help? Prisoners?”

  “No, sir. Not right now. We’re really kicking the shit out of them, if you’ll pardon me, sir. So, you may not want to go drivin’ right up there in your ambulance just yet. Never can tell when a sniper or someone’s gonna get out of control.”

  “Well, if you don’t need us, we’d like to get on to Paris and see what’s going on there. Any suggestions?”

  “Yessir. I just came from there, and I would recommend taking that next left up at the crossroads—about a mile yonder—and then take the main road right on into Paris. Just bypass Versailles altogether.” He said Ver-sails, too.

  “Thanks for that, Sergeant. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Hamm climbed back in and sat down.

  Antonelli shifted into gear and pulled out again. He leaned out the window and shouted, “That’s ‘Ver-Sigh,’ sergeant!”

  Schneider roared, “Way to go, Gene, You tell ‘em.”

  “You heard?” Molly said.

  “Yup,” Schneider said. “So, let’s go. Shouldn’t be more than an hour from here.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” Hamm said. “Let’s just hope it’s that easy.”

  Molly leaned into Schneider’s shoulder and said, “Paris! Can you believe it? Paris!” She smiled so hard that her eyes disappeared.

  As the truck continued through the countryside, its occupants were astounded at the change from what they had seen around Normandy. It was as if the Germans had preserved everything for themselves and then, in their retreat, had bequeathed it to the Allies.

  There were wheat and grain fields at the height of their season, golden in the warm August sunshine. The air smelled of ripe grains, of orchards full of fruit, of tilled soil and manure. In the intermittent silence, Schneider heard the bees buzzing, a sound that made him think of rejuvenation, of rebirth, instead of the constant onslaught of death and destruction. It made him ache for an end to the war.

  Compared to the wet and dismal rains of June and July (it had been one of the wettest summers in memory) August was heaven. Combined with the lull in the fighting and the chance to see Paris with Molly, life could not have been better.

  The truck was stopped by a French Gendarme, who said he was delighted to see them with their grande voiture chirugicale, their big surgical car. He assured them that the Partisans had driven the Germans out of Paris.

  “Paris will be freed by the Parisians, n’est-ce pas?” he said, more a statement despite the rising inflection. Wishful thinking, perhaps.

  However, he was the only one along the road of that opinion.

  As they neared the outskirts of Paris, they came upon several platoons of American infantry. Hamm asked first if they needed any medical or surgical attention. None of them did. But, each officer had bad news.

  The last one said, “Jerries are still dug in all over Paris, and there’s some fierce fighting between them and the Resistance. The FFI are just entering the city now. But, if I were you guys, I’d turn around and go back where you came from. It just isn’t safe around here yet.”

  “Thanks for the info, Captain, but I think we’ll go on just a little farther,” Hamm told him. “They might need us by the time we get there.”

  “Suit yourself, Major.” Another salute, and they were gone.

  Every time they stopped, someone told them to turn around and go back. Opinions in their own group grew divided.

  “Are we being more than just a bit foolish about this?” Hamm wondered aloud, even though this trip was his idea in the first place. McClintock and Schneider were all for going on. McClintock was always for pushing ahead.

  “Let’s just keep moving carefully along,” Schneider suggested. “We can look ahead at each opportunity to see if there are Jerries. We can always turn back if we see any trouble. It’s unlikely we’ll get cut off from the rear; I mean, we’ve seen nothing but American troops behind us all along this route.”

  Even as he argued his point, Schneider worried that he was following his desire for Molly more than his good sense.

  They were still chewing on this when a French civilian bicycled up. He stopped and smiled, touching his fingers to the worn edge of his old blue beret in salute.

  “Hiens! Vive les Américains!” he said.

  Schneider walked over to the man and asked about the rest of the road to Paris.

  “Paris?” he said with some amazement. “Non, messieurs. C’est impossible. Vous trouverez les chars, les snipers…les Boches!”

  Schneider turned to the little band and said, “He thinks Paris is impossible. There are tanks and snipers and Germans all along the way. Sounds like he thinks we should turn back, too.”

  The others looked at Hamm in silence. McClintock was shaking his head, and Schneider could see he was terribly disappointed after having come so far. Schneider looked at Molly and found her staring straight into his eyes. It was so hard for him at that point. He wanted more than anything to show her Paris. He could speak French, and he knew his way around the city. Like a teenage boy, he wanted to show off.

  And he would be risking her life, he knew, by listening to his urges.

  “Well,” Hamm said finally, “I can’t make this decision alone. Give me some help, guys, and yes, from you as well Molly, if you would.” Molly gave Hamm a knowing and appreciative smile, nodding her head saying, “Hamm, in this I’ll pass.”

  After a short deliberation in total silence, heads popped up from their collective reveries and began to vote.

  McClintock said, “I think we should just go for it. We can always turn back later.”

  Hamm said, “Well, we need to be very careful, if we go on.”

  McClintock just smiled, raising his eyebrows in assent.

  The nurses were full of enthusiasm.

  Antonelli and Marsh were already in the cab starting the engine.

  Schneider nodded his agreement now that they had all voted and could not hold him responsible for acting irresponsibly. It was a total cop-out, he knew, but he copped out without hesitation.

  They climbed into their seats in the back of the ambulance. Schneider sat nearest the cab, and when Molly slid in next to him, she pressed even closer than before so that he could feel the warmth of her body right through their uniforms. His heart was on fire.

  They made their way carefully along the road, and with more than just a little fear. The route was strangely deserted. They expected a good deal more in the way of soldiers and equipment—either theirs or the Jerries’. But it was as if everyone had either fled or was gathering somewhere else for the big fight.

  They entered Paris from the west, crossing the Seine near the Bois de Boulogne, then along the Allée de Longchamps. As they neared the Arc de Triomphe, they suddenly became ensnared in traffic.

  Happily, it was all friendly: French men and women and children were everywhere. If the children were out playing, they assumed, it must mean that the pockets of German resistance were under control.

  They tried to push through, thinking that the red crosses on their truck would give them some clout. But it was no use. They turned around and tried a different approach, this time using some smaller streets, finally ending up on Avenue Victor Hugo.

  Schneider banged on the wall of the cab and shouted to Marsh t
hrough the little window.

  “Hang a left here; it’ll take you right into the Place de l’Étoile.”

  “Where?”

  “The Étoile. The Star. That’s where the Arc de Triomphe is. That’s where all the action will be.”

  “Yessir!”

  Marsh laid down some rubber, or as much rubber as he could in that pathetic truck, and they moved in toward L’Étoile. They got jammed up again and decided to try a few more side streets. Schneider’s memory of Paris was not as good on the Right Bank. As a college student, he had spent quite a lot of time there one summer, but the Latin Quarter on the Left Bank and the Cité Universitaire had been his hangouts. The Right Bank was too rich for his blood back then.

  He leaned forward into the little window and said, “Maybe you ought to just park it here somewhere, Andy. We’re not going to get much closer than this.”

  Marsh didn’t answer, but pulled up onto the sidewalk with a big thump and cut the engine right there. He was driving like a native already after only thirty minutes in the city. They all climbed down from the truck, stumbling and pushing each other. They were elated and in total shock, disbelief, wonder.

  God! We’re in Paris on the day of its liberation from the fucking Germans, Schneider thought. He didn’t know if it had struck anyone else as hard as it had him, but when he looked over at Hamm, he could see Hamm suppressing a tear forming in his eye.

  Marsh and Antonelli were buzzing with excitement. For them, it was the fantasy of all the available French women, more than the historic moment, that had their minds engaged.

  Schneider recognized the historic day for what it was, but it didn’t take long for him to become totally focused on how he was going to get Molly away from all the camaraderie. He was nearly feverish with his desire for her, and words like “love” kept creeping into his brain. He could hardly bear to think of his fantasies for fear of jinxing it.

  For a few moments, Schneider was oblivious to the noise of the crowds in the street, yet he could hear the metallic ticking of the engine as it cooled down in the shade of the trees.