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

by Anthony A. Goodman

  To Schneider, Fuchs’s appearance on the scene was superfluous. But, since it happened, Schneider had wrestled continuously with the question of whether his spontaneous act constituted bravery or not. He was terrified through it all. His heart raced, and his hands trembled even as he snapped the German’s neck.

  Is this bravery he wondered, or a primitive animal reflex? How can so much terror be called bravery?

  “Either way,” Hamm said, “even if he were aiming for you, Fuchs didn’t have any choice except to look as if he meant to kill the Kraut. Would have lost face.”

  “Maybe,” Schneider said, “or maybe he was just getting rid of a soldier who cracked up. Cracking up is not a Good-Kraut soldierly thing to do.”

  “Don’t push it, Steve. The night is young. Killing a German officer—a patient—in a hospital ward might still land you in front of a Kraut firing squad.”

  At three forty-five the next morning, Fuchs’s adjutant showed up at Hamm’s tent, rousting everyone from a deep sleep.

  Half dressed and in bare feet, they were herded along through the snow and mud in front of the adjutant. Hamm was furious at this middle-of-the-night outrage.

  “What the hell are you doing getting us all out of bed at this hour? Whose orders are these?”

  He swore and railed at the guard in English, confusing the issue of who was being called on the carpet. Molly was brought along by another guard, and she, McClintock and Schneider were pushed into the procession behind Hamm by two more guards.

  “God damn it, get that fucking gun out of my face. You’re gonna kill someone if you don’t stop screwing around!” Hamm shouted.

  The guard only understood the rage. He turned and struck Hamm in the face with the butt of his machine pistol. Hamm had turned his head to avoid the blow, but still took a nasty slam just below his eye.

  “Schweigen Sie!” the adjutant shouted at them. Shut up! He threatened Hamm again with the butt of his gun. Hamm flinched and raised his hand to ward off any blow.

  McClintock grabbed Hamm’s wrist and yanked him out of the way.

  “Cool it pal. I’m the hot head in this outfit.”

  Hamm actually laughed. Then he sagged and fell into line.

  The four arrived at the command post and were shoved with rifles rammed into their backs into a line directly in front of Fuchs’ desk. As Hamm studied Fuchs’ face, he became wary, frightened by the smirk creeping across the man’s lips.

  “Well,” he finally said, looking directly at Schneider. “Meine kleine freunde.” My little friend.

  Shit! This is bad. He’s being too cute, Hamm thought. Hamm’s face betrayed his horror, but in that brief moment he had firmed his resolve. This had to be about the killing of the German officer. The only question would be the magnitude of the reprisal. This could cost many lives. Not just Steve’s.

  “Herr Schneider, did you sleep well? Did you enjoy yourself tonight? The hero who saved his lover?”

  Schneider just stared over Fuchs’ head, at the blank wall behind the German. He knew where this must end, and for the moment, he found himself surprised at his calm. The outcome was inevitable. It was just a matter of when and how he was to die.

  Fuchs was enjoying himself. “Do you think I didn’t know that Herr Schneider is a Jew? Untermensche?” Fuchs smiled broadly now, enjoying the power.

  Hamm winced. He could see the firing squad. He could feel the ropes that would tie Steve—perhaps all of them—to the execution post.

  “And you, Herr Hammer? Might you also be one of his kind? Birds of a feather. Isn’t that what you say?” And with that the Colonel began to slowly and methodically unbutton the flap of his holster.

  Sweat broke out on Schneider’s forehead. The pounding in his chest felt like a fist striking his ribs from the inside.

  McClintock’s eyes moved from side to side, scanning the room. He was looking for an opening; for a weapon; for a chance to get to Fuchs before Fuchs could kill Schneider. Anything to ignite the chaos that could buy their lives. But there was nothing The street fighter in him was raging with the wild passions of his adrenalin. But his brain was keeping the madness at bay…for the moment.

  “Did you really think you could kill a German officer—a patient under your care—and get away with it?”

  Schneider reflexively put his hand to his throat.

  “No, no, no Herr Major. You won’t hang. And we don’t have time for a firing squad.” He paused and smiled. “I’m going to shoot you myself.”

  Molly struggled to hold back her tears as she looked at Schneider and then to Hamm.

  Fuchs paused, smiling the whole time. He eased his black shining Luger slowly from its holster. Slowly. Methodically.

  Hamm’s face had turned to stone. Fuchs looked at Schneider, who was now sweating profusely. Schneider’s knees started to buckle. He looked to Molly who stood her ground. Her body never moved, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  As the Luger cleared its holster, the staccato of automatic weapons fire broke the quiet of the night all around the camp. Hamm’s heart constricted as he visualized the now inevitable slaughter of his hospital staff and his patients.

  He tried to turn and leap out of range at the moment he heard the first shots. Thinking he was about to die anyway, he made a last lunge for Fuchs, trying with all his strength to grab the hand that was bringing the Luger to bear on his friend.

  Fuchs easily side-stepped Hamm’s attack. Hamm fell helplessly to the floor, slamming his face on the edge of the desk, then landing prone next to Fuchs’ feet.

  McClintock dove at Fuchs, missing as Hamm had as Fuchs sidestepped him as well.

  Hamm rolled to his back, and watched Fuchs’ confusion. Fuchs wrinkled his forehead, staring out into the night. He didn’t give Hamm or any of the others a second look.

  Then as Hamm watched from below, Fuchs’ head disintegrated, splattering the wall of the command post with blood and brain matter. Hamm looked toward the adjutant and saw exactly the same thing. The head exploded, and the man slumped to the ground.

  Only Schneider stood rigidly frozen in place, still standing at the front of the desk. Soon after Fuchs dropped, Molly lunged at Fuchs’ inert body and pulled the Luger from the dead man’s grip. She mechanically chambered a round, and then turned to see what was happening behind her.

  With no obvious targets, Molly, too, rushed to Hamm who was still on the floor, dazed from his head striking the desk, and now bleeding freely. She pressed her hand against the wound to stop the bleeding just as Schneider joined them to help Hamm off of the floor.

  Then all of them turned and stared at the command post door. There, in the lighted rectangle, dressed in white winter camouflage and full battle gear, smoking gun still at the ready, was Sorenson.

  Sorenson!

  The lieutenant—no, a captain, now, Schneider saw from the bars on the collar—surveyed the room and brought his weapon up, pointing the muzzle to the ceiling.

  “Evening, Major Schneider,” he said, as if it were just another day on the job. “Captain Ferrarro, ma’am. Stay put here for a minute will you? Don’t wanna get in the way of the cross-fire.”

  Sorenson limped out through the doorway and disappeared.

  The attack lasted less than eight minutes in all. It had seemed longer to Schneider, but the shooting stopped soon enough. Outside they could hear groans and some swearing in German. Three platoons of American GIs were running around the camp disarming the few surviving German guards and locking them away. The American infantry were released from their cages and rearmed.

  When it all ended, Schneider and McClintock, along with Molly, helped Hamm by the arm as they stepped over the body of the adjutant. They walked together out into the compound.

  They soon met up again with Sorenson who was drinking coffee—real coffee—with the staff in the newly liberated mess tent. Just about everyone was there, their entire group as well as the commando platoons that had freed them. Schneider was thrilled to be alive, b
ut his mind wouldn’t let go of how near a thing it had been.

  “We knew you were here,” Sorenson said, “but it took time to get a rescue force together and coordinate it so that we could maximize the force and minimize our casualties.”

  “Well, that was one hell of a rescue, Captain,” Hamm said. “What a stroke of luck you guys showed up when you did. We didn’t have a lot of time left.”

  “Well, as you once told me,” Sorenson said, “I’d rather be lucky than smart. We knew the Jerries were moving a lot of their people out of this area. So it made sense to get in here as soon as possible. The timing of the attack at ‘oh-dark-thirty’ was based on the time that the Jerries would be asleep, at their lowest efficiency and manpower. Just bad luck you guys were getting’ rousted out by their CO.”

  “We weren’t just getting ‘rousted,’ Captain,” Schneider said. “Fuchs was getting ready to execute us. Me for sure.”

  “Glad we got here in time, sir.”

  “So what about your leg?” Hamm asked.

  “Well, it isn’t so great. Not that you didn’t do a great job, Doc,” he said to Hamm. “I recovered pretty fast in England, and they wanted to muster me out. I put up a hell of a fight, though, so it was easier to let me back into the fight than to deal with the mountain of paperwork I was creating. They assigned me to commando training, then shipped me back here for some selected operations. And guess what my first team’s assignment was?” He smiled and nodded. “Yup. You.”

  Molly stood and reached her hand out to Hamm.

  “C’mon, Major. Time to sew up that gash. We ought to be pretty good at this soon.”

  Schneider cleaned and sewed Hamm’s head laceration, while Molly assisted, cutting sutures and handing instruments.

  Later, they all drank more coffee and ate some real steaks and fresh potatoes with actual butter, which had arrived with the resupply a few hours after the rescue. It was heaven. It took them about four days to sort out the Germans. The few survivors were sent back as prisoners, except for a couple they kept around to bury their dead. Then they, too, were sent back as well. The Jerries complained and whined and bitched about doing labor under the Geneva Convention. But each time anyone made a real fuss, Sorenson would step up with his Colt .45, chamber a round, cock the hammer and ask, “Was wollen Sie?” What do you want?

  There was a look in his eye that turned their guts to jelly. There was not much resistance after a few of those incidents. Schneider always wondered whether Sorenson would actually have pulled that trigger. He was glad it never came to that. No one tested Sorenson.

  There were a lot of very young and very old German soldiers by this point in the war, conscripted at the last minute and sent off as cannon fodder. Hamm couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “Look at some of these kids,” Hamm said. They’re just reaching puberty! Who’s sending them out to fight?”

  “They’re all that’s left. So much for the great Reich,” McClintock said.

  “They’re so pathetic. I could cry for them,” Molly said.

  “Well, they still have guns, so make sure they’re disarmed before y’all start crying,” McClintock added.

  The Waffen-SS were even worse. Without guns in their hands, they, like most bullies, were spineless. They groveled worse than the kids. The Americans treated them badly, too. They just couldn’t help themselves. The SS were worse than dog shit, to quote Antonelli.

  After the near tragedy, Hamm had increased his hatred for the Nazis and even began to wonder about carrying a weapon himself. Him, of all people. He suspected that when the end of this war came, there would be a lawlessness that would supersede the Geneva Convention and its rules, and turn the place into Dodge City.

  Before they moved on to their new location and reformed Field Hospital Charlie-7, Sorenson came to Hamm and said,

  “You feel better if you had a weapon, Major? I can certainly arrange that.”

  Hamm hesitated. Then he said, “I appreciate the thought, Jim. But you’re the soldier. I’m just the doctor. Probably best if we just keep it that way.”

  So Hamm remained as he had arrived: a man without a gun.

  There was little time to relax and savor their rescue. Although they didn’t realize it, they had not yet seen the worst of the weather or the fighting. December, 1944 arrived in earnest, and Hitler was getting ready to make life miserable for them once again.

  They had survived very real danger. It didn’t kill them. It had just made them all stronger and all the more determined.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  3 December 1944, 0530 Hours

  A Concentration Camp near Weimar, Germany

  Berg woke with the first light, as always. His neck and back felt frozen to the wooden desk chair where he had fallen asleep. He still spent his nights in the clinic office rather than go back to the barracks. The SS didn’t seem to care one way or the other now. The war, they knew, was going very badly for them, and they had graver concerns than a decrepit old doctor.

  Even Himmel had stopped pestering Berg about staying in the clinic all night. After so many months, he realized Berg was no threat to the security of the camp. In fact, though he dared not admit it even to himself, he was relieved to have Berg’s expertise when his own men were sick.

  The Germans kept a fairly well-stocked surgical kit, reserved solely for the use of the SS, of course. God forbid they should contaminate their bodies with instruments that had been used to treat Jews. In the four years of Berg’s confinement, he had done a dozen or so operations on the SS. They usually sent for a legitimate Nazi anesthesiologist, but surgeons could not be spared from the front lines to do procedures at a prison camp. Berg’s civilian reputation as a surgeon had survived the taint of his Jewishness. Nothing if not practical, these Nazis.

  So, at first, Berg operated on them. Even though they were Nazis and his tormentors, he gave them his best. In the early days, several of the prisoners suggested to him that he might sabotage the surgery: make small inconspicuous mistakes that might prove fatal long after the surgery was over and the officer was far away from the camp. The idea began to intrigue Berg. Joseph Meyer was the instigator. He was an inmate—and a survivor—who would feign illness to get into the hospital from time to time, where he would harangue Berg for hours trying to convince him to give it a try.

  “So, you think the rumors are true, Herr Doktor?” Joseph said as Berg cleaned a wound sustained at the hands of an irate guard.

  “What rumors might those be, Joseph?” There were always rumors.

  “They say that it’s almost over, that the British and the Americans are winning the war.”

  “Well, what about all the reports of one smashing defeat after another by the Wehrmacht over the Americans. What of that?”

  Joseph smiled. His skin wrinkled about his eyes.

  “Have you noticed that each time the Americans are defeated, the defeat is closer and closer to Berlin?”

  They both laughed.

  “Actually, I have. But, still, there’s not much the two of us can do to speed up these American defeats.” He laughed again.

  “There is something….” Joseph said.

  Berg stopped what he was doing and looked around the room. This was dangerous talk.

  “Joseph, what are you saying?”

  “You could be like the Resistance, Doktor. There is so much you could do! I’m sure of it.”

  “Well?” Berg said.

  “Yes, there must be something, something like a time bomb.”

  “A time bomb? You want me to plant a time bomb inside an SS officer?”

  “Not a real time bomb, but, something equivalent: a surgical time bomb. Something that could go fatally wrong later on, far, far away from here. Think, Doktor, think!”

  And Berg did think about it. It excited him. Perhaps he could do something to sabotage the SS, something to kill them when they were off at the front again. He wanted no reprisals against the inmates, so it would have to oc
cur long after they left the camp. Joseph had lit his interest.

  “Perhaps there is something,” he said.

  “Yes? What? Tell me.”

  “Well,” he began, slowly working it out in his mind. “I could, for example, repair a major vessel, and instead of using a permanent suture, like silk or cotton, I could use plain catgut, which dissolves in a matter of ten days or so….”

  “And?”

  “Well, then at the first episode of elevated blood pressure, in combat—hah!—even during sex or something, the pressure might become too great, and the vessel might burst. It might not, but it might.”

  “There. You see? There is something you could do! What else? Think!”

  “I could leave a sponge behind. That’s really easy. It happens sometimes even when you’re doing your best not to leave anything behind.”

  Jacob looked puzzled.

  “A sponge,” Berg explained, “is a piece of cotton gauze pad we use to sop up blood. We use hundreds during an operation. In the real world, they are carefully counted before and after the operation, but here, we skip that refinement. One or two would never be missed. An easy thing to do.”

  “And what would happen to the officer, if you did such a thing?”

  “Well, he would be fine for a while, especially if it’s a minor operation where he could recover rapidly and then be discharged. An appendectomy, a hernia repair. Then, in a week or two, the sponge would inevitably create infection. It’s a foreign body, you see, and the officer would slowly become sicker and sicker. With the scant supplies at the front, he would need to be hospitalized and maybe require another operation.”

  “This’s even better than the catgut arteries, Doktor!”

  “You think so? Why?”

  “Because it is better if they do not die”

  “You sound too experienced in this, Joseph,” Berg said, surprised at his friend’s expertise and the thought that he had even considered these ideas.

  “Yes, well…I am here for a reason. Unlike most of these people who committed no crime other than being Jews, or that they held the wrong political positions…I…I’m here because I was caught…well, let’s just leave it at that. I was caught.”