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

by Anthony A. Goodman

  The crowd seemed to be collecting itself as Steve and Molly neared the Arc de Triomphe at the Place de L’ Étoile. Uniformed soldiers of the FFI, not the Partisans, were lining the avenue on both sides. Arm-in-arm they forced the crowd back into an orderly parade formation. Tanks of the FFI lined the route as well, with commanders in the open turrets. All along the route toward the Place de la Concorde on the rooftops, too, people were crowded seeking a good view. Schneider and Molly pushed and elbowed their way toward the front of the crowd. They expected some angry responses to their rudeness, but they wanted to see this historic moment whatever it took. Actually, each time they pushed past another Parisian, they were greeted with joy, and backslaps, and hugs, and even a kiss or two. Their American uniforms were like passports to the affections and gratitude of the French celebrants around them. It was a scene from one of the really bad war propaganda movies they had been seeing with shouts of “Vive les Américaines!” all around.

  Then the crowd grew silent. A million people stood nearly speechless at the sight of their four-year-long dream coming true. Four years of unimaginable humiliation and shame, of deprivation and fear, of violence and torture, of unthinkable repression by their centuries-old enemy.

  Now, at this moment in time, at this single event in history, Schneider and Molly would witness, along with a million Parisians, something they would never forget. Not one detail. Not a blink of the eye.

  Général Charles De Gaulle was entering Paris for the first time since his flight in 1940. Molly and Schneider stood on tiptoes to take in the sight of the tall man in his immaculate uniform of the FFI, his flat-topped Kepi squarely on his head, his bulbous hawk nose and mustache visible even from where Schneider stood.

  De Gaulle marched under the massive stones of the Arc de Triomphe to the music of the French National Anthem, the “Marseillaise.” As he carried a huge wreath of red gladiolas, the anthem finished, and a solitary bugler stepped forward, raised his instrument to his lips and played the beautiful simple sad notes of “Taps.” De Gaulle solemnly laid the flowers at the Grave of the Unknown Soldier while the bugler played. Symbolically De Gaulle then stooped to light the Eternal Flame which had been extinguished by the Nazis four years earlier.

  Finally, De Gaulle stood, saluted the flame and the grave, turned, and began his march down the Champs Élysées toward the Place de la Concorde, heading on to the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The crowd burst into cheers. Shouts of joy and celebration filled the air as De Gaulle and his entourage proceeded before them. The military escort moved slowly down the avenue with De Gaulle at its head and Général Jacques Philippe Leclerc, nearly a head shorter than De Gaulle, one step behind.

  De Gaulle and his FFI had made damned sure that the liberation of Paris would fall to them. Général Leclerc, commander of the French 2nd Armored Division, was returning nearly four years to the day since he set out on his journey back to Paris from the battlefields of African Cameroon to greet De Gaulle and make a show of unmistakable strength and solidarity. It was Leclerc himself, who, over the green cloth surface of a billiard table, had accepted the surrender of his beloved city from General Dietrich von Choltitz, the German commander of Paris.

  The parade continued down the Champs, De Gaulle greeting the crowds with solemn waves of his hand. Although there was a definite military presence, there were no artificial barricades to separate De Gaulle from his people.

  Molly and Schneider scrambled along the periphery to keep ahead of the mob, following the Général all the way to his destination at the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Schneider had been a history major in college and wasn’t going to miss a second of this event. With Molly’s hand firmly in his, they beat their way through the crowds, sometimes bypassing the parade route to pick it up again further along the way. When it finally dawned on Schneider that this was going to end up at Notre Dame, he took a shortcut along the river past the Palais du Louvre, and to L’Île de la Cité via the Pont Neuf.

  They came to the large square in front of Notre Dame just before De Gaulle arrived. There seemed no way they could get into the cathedral, but Schneider was dying to see the culmination of this journey. He asked a French officer of the FFI what was going to happen. Without turning his head, or his machine pistol, from the parade route, he said that Le Général would enter the church and participate in a Te Deum service to conclude the formal liberation ceremonies.

  De Gaulle would make clear to everyone in France and the world that he, and he alone, was “the instrument of France’s destiny”.

  Schneider asked the officer if there was any way he could get in to see the Te Deum, to which the officer blew some air through his pursed lips, the quintessential French response to almost any impossibility, and smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

  But Schneider would not take no for an answer. He searched the crowd and the cathedral for a way in. Nothing. He had all but given up and was looking for a good vantage point for Molly and him to view the last moments before the Général entered the church when he saw another U.S. Army uniform, the first he had seen all afternoon. The man was wearing an army photographer’s patch on his shoulder, and Schneider knew he had found his way in. With Molly’s hand tightly in his, he pushed his way through the crowd and finally got next to the photographer, who was laden with equipment.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said. “You look like you may need a grip.”

  The man looked puzzled for a second and then laughed.

  “Sure can, Major. Love to have a superior officer carry my shit, uh, gear.” He turned to Molly and the smile widened. “You too, Captain?”

  “Me, too!” Molly said, a big smile on her face.

  The lieutenant pounded on a door at the side of the cathedral. Just as the door opened, there were several rifle shots in the square. The enormous crowd fell to the ground en masse, and the threesome huddled for their lives in the cover of the stone arches of the cathedral. When Schneider looked up, the square was covered with cowering bodies trying to evade the gunfire. He scanned the area but could not place the source of the shooting. Then he broke into a smile, followed by a loud laugh. He pulled Molly to her feet, still maintaining the protection of the stone doorway, and pointed.

  There in the middle of the crowd was a large bare circle, and in that circle was Général Charles De Gaulle, erect and unflustered, walking straight ahead to the entrance of the cathedral. He didn’t so much as turn his head to see where the firing had come from. He just walked past the prostrate crowd, straight toward his destination as he had in battle for the past four years. Nothing was going to stop this man. Not even the possibility of a sniper’s bullet in the back.

  Schneider shoved his way in over the protests of the unkempt man who had opened the door, followed by Molly and the photographer. They made their way toward the pulpit, and set up the cameras off to the side with a terrific view of the proceedings.

  “Hang on to these,” the lieutenant said, handing Schneider and Molly some lenses and a bunch of flash bulbs.

  Then they stood back and waited for De Gaulle. Schneider smelled the slight musty dampness of the old building, bringing back memories from very long ago.

  As the main doors opened, they were temporarily blinded by the hot bright sunlight contrasting with the cool dark interior of the church. The gunfire continued outside as the FFI sought out and silenced the shooters. But if Le Général were aware of this chaos around him, he did not show it. He walked calmly into the cathedral and down through the center aisle.

  The huge cathedral was completely filled with French civilians and soldiers. Fathers and mothers had brought their children to witness the great day. In the setting of the austere stone and stained glass windows, a reverent crowd of a thousand stood and waited for the great man to take his place.

  Then, almost impossibly, gunfire erupted inside Notre Dame itself, ricocheting off the walls and sending shards of stone into the pews. Again the crowd ducked, taking cover behind the heavy wooden benches unti
l there was not a face in sight.

  Schneider grabbed Molly and pulled her back behind a stone pillar. He shoved her to the ground and covered her with his body, pressing them against the base of the column. Schneider peeked around the edge of the column to see not a soul visible in the cathedral. Everyone had taken shelter, mostly behind columns and beneath the sturdy wooden pews.

  Everyone, that is, except De Gaulle again. The Général never flinched. Never ducked. Never broke his stride. He marched straight ahead to his destiny, erect, proud, and determined. Perhaps a little crazy, too.

  Molly slowly pushed Schneider off her, and raised her head to see what was happening. The two of them stayed behind the column, and from that vantage point, would now witness this incredible historic event.

  De Gaulle took his place to the left of the main aisle of the cathedral, opened his hymnal, and waited for the service to begin. The firing inside continued.

  Behind De Gaulle, a general in the uniform of the FFI stood and shouted in French to the crowd, “Have you no pride? Stand up! Stand up!”

  The crowd rallied, and with gunfire still sporadically punctuating the service, De Gaulle and his entourage recited the phrases of the Magnificat.

  Then, with the service wisely curtailed, De Gaulle closed his hymnal, turned into the aisle, and walked calmly from the cathedral.

  A final solitary gunshot echoed through the cathedral, and the firing ended. The FFI had found their sniper.

  Molly and Schneider stayed hidden in the alcove until the Général was gone. They thanked the Lieutenant, handing him his lenses and all the unused flashbulbs. For in his awe, the lieutenant had not taken a single photograph. Then they slipped out the side door, once again back into the warm sunshine of that Saturday afternoon in Paris.

  Molly and Schneider walked away from Notre Dame in a rapt silence. But as soon as they neared the river, Schneider turned and grabbed her by her shoulders and said, “Do you realize what we saw today? Just hours in Paris, and we watch De Gaulle liberate a city that’s been under the Nazis for almost exactly four years! And we were here to see it! Can you imagine?”

  Molly closed the space between them and threw her arms around his neck. She buried her face in his chest and held him. Then she pulled back just far enough to say, “These poor people! What they’ve been through. My God, it’s unthinkable, Steve.”

  There was no more gunfire after they left Notre Dame. The FFI had apparently quelled the remaining German pockets of resistance. There were even rumors that most of the shooting was from celebrants firing their weapons into the air. Schneider knew that wasn’t true because he had seen the stone chips flying off the sides of the cathedral, and he later found out that many civilians and Partisans were killed and wounded that day. But by late afternoon the city was free and at peace. Schneider had the rest of the day and night to show Molly around his wonderful city.

  “Well? Where to?” she asked as they strolled toward the river.

  “Let’s see. Why don’t we go get some lunch on the Left Bank and then walk up onto Montmartre to watch the sun set?”

  Molly smiled eagerly, nodding her head. They crossed the Seine over the Pont Neuf again, this time turning left to go to the Latin Quarter. They took several small side streets and found themselves on the Boulevard St. Germain. Arm in arm, they headed up the boulevard past the old church of St. Germain des Prés, strolling leisurely, looking for a place to get something to eat. They had missed lunch entirely, and Schneider was damned if they were going back to the ambulance to eat C rations in Paris.

  The cafés were teeming with people celebrating the liberation. Couples stared into each other’s eyes over coffee and croissants. God knows where they got the coffee, or even if it was the real thing. But who cared? The sun was warm, and the Germans were gone from the streets. Paris belonged to the Parisians again…and to Steve and Molly.

  The two took lots of little detours among the myriad side streets as Schneider tried to regain his bearings from his college days. The hotels where he had stayed then looked worn and tired. Part of him wanted to check into one of them. When he was there at age nineteen he had wanted more than anything to find some woman to share his bed. He never had. Now he was here again, but these small establishments seemed too down-at-the-heels even for wartime.

  Schneider had dreamed about coming back to Paris some day with his love. He never had the time or the money after he and Susan married. Now he was there courtesy of Uncle Sam, and damned if he wasn’t falling in love. His pockets contained French francs and American dollars, and he was feeling great.

  They wandered, following an inadvertent circle, and found themselves back at the church of St. Germain des Prés. A throng of people milled about an outdoor café.

  “Hey,” Schneider said, taking Molly by the arm. “There’s Aux Deux Maggots! My God! Let’s see if we can get a table there.”

  “Even I’ve read about Aux Deux Maggots.”

  “I have no idea why it’s called that, but it’s a Paris landmark. Famous authors and poets have always come here to write and meet and argue. It was the place to meet for everyone, especially Americans who wanted to feel as if they had sampled the great Paris traditions. Anyway, let’s go see if we can get in.”

  They hurried down the street, but things didn’t look promising. There was a mob around the place, and every table was filled, inside and out. There was no line or place to sign in. No Maître D’ to bribe and ease their way. Schneider had about given up hope of having lunch there when he heard his name shouted over the noise of the crowd.

  “Major Schneider! Hey, Major Schneider! Over here!”

  Schneider stood as tall as he could, trying to see over the crowd. There, at the back of the outside tables was Antonelli and two young women, obviously French. Schneider pushed his way through and onto the veranda, pissing off more than one person waiting for a table. Antonelli was standing when they got to his table and grinning from ear to ear. His face was flushed, most likely from the effects of the now empty wine bottle on the table, and he was slightly unsteady.

  “Hey, Gene. How you doing?” Schneider asked, though it was obvious that Gene was doing great.

  “Hey, Major. Hello, Captain,” he said, nodding to Molly. “I’m doin’ great!” and it was all he could do not to giggle. “This here is Collette,” he said, pointing to the very pretty blond on his right, “and this is Monique.” He pointed to an even prettier blond on his left. “I think.”

  “You think?” Molly said.

  “Well, I don’t speak any French, Captain. And they don’t speak any English. So, I think that’s their names. But, it’s funny. I don’t seem to need any French anyway.” This time he did giggle.

  “Hey, Major Schneider,” he said, pulling Schneider slightly aside. “How do you say…” he hesitated, stumbling on his words like a lovesick high school kid.

  “Say what?” Schneider asked, probably too loudly, embarrassing Antonelli.

  “C’mon, Major. You know. You speak French.”

  “You want to know how to ask…?” Schneider said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He was whispering now.

  “Are you kidding?” Schneider said. “That would be like handing a four-year-old a loaded gun!” He patted Antonelli on the back and pushed him away.

  “You’ll figure it out, Gene. I’m sure.”

  Antonelli laughed.

  “Listen, take this table. We’re leavin’ now. I’m gonna cut on down to the Champs,” (he pronounced it as only Antonelli could, like the shortened form of champions) “and try and find Marsh. I think he was going to the Eiffel Tower or something. So you guys sit here.”

  Antonelli got up and took both girls by the arm, made a polite half-salute to Schneider and Molly, as good a salute as he could manage with both arms encumbered with women. He had to bend over so his forehead could reach his locked hands. Then he disappeared into the crowd. The last thing Schneider noticed was that Antonelli was definitely not heading toward the
Eiffel Tower. He was about to call to him and point that out, but then just laughed and settled back into his chair as he noticed that Antonelli had also left Schneider with the bill.

  “What? What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “squeezing Molly’s hand. Let’s order some lunch.” He didn’t let go of her hand once for the next forty-five minutes.

  The rest of the afternoon continued to be magic. Feeling full from their first fabulous French meal together, and sleepy in the August heat, Schneider and Molly wandered all over Paris with only a vague sense of where they were heading. As Schneider had carefully planned in the recesses of his mind, just as it grew dark, they found themselves at the top of Montmartre, sitting on the steps of the great white church of Sacré-Coeur. With the famous domes at their backs, they watched the sun silently set in the crystal clear sky to the west. They sat there alone, oblivious to the hundreds of others, all lovers it seemed, arms around each other, enjoying the cool evening breeze and treasuring the respite from the terrible war. Neither of them said anything, but both silently dreaded the moment of their return to the ambulance and the carnage of the real war. They would plunge back into reality all too soon.

  But, for a few minutes more, and in spite of the crowd around them, they remained up and above that war, in their own world, just the two of them.

  Molly turned her head and placed a hand on Schneider’s cheek. She drew his face to hers and whispered:

  “Thank you, Steve, for sharing Paris with me.”

  Then she placed her lips over his and kissed him with such tenderness that he thought he might cry. Their tongues roamed carelessly over each other’s mouth, and they stayed locked in that kiss and embrace long enough for the sky to turn from dusk to night. When they looked up again, all of Paris was dark, the stars the only source of light.

  Just then, a miracle happened. For the first time since 1939, after four long years of war and occupation and terror, the engineers of Paris threw the switches that turned on the power once more to make Paris the City of Light. All around them, the stars in the sky were extinguished by the stars on the ground, and from their high vantage point, they could see the street lights and building lights flood the whole city with a golden glow. The Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Élysées, the Tour Eiffel. The famous landmarks from millions of tourist postcards came to life in the blink of an eye. All around them the Parisians wept, and so did they.