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

by Anthony A. Goodman

  “Shhhhh. Shhhhh,” she said. “Tais toi. Ne bouges pas.” Marsh didn’t understand the words.

  When he felt fully awake, he found himself staring into the dark eyes of a young woman. She held her arms tightly around his chest, hugging him protectively to her. Marsh could make no sense of it. He relaxed, in part because he was so weak that it was doing no good to resist, but also because struggling only served to increase the pain in his back.

  He took a breath and looked down. Only then did he notice that, except for the bandages swathing his chest, he was naked. As was she, whoever she was. She was talking to him now, quietly reassuring him in soft words in a language he knew must be French, but he could not understand.

  Nicole was telling him to lie still, that he was safe. As she whispered, he was aware of the smell of her hair near his face. It was the first clean scent he could remember for months. He pulled back a few inches more. Without needing to look, he was aware that he was pressed against the naked body of this young woman. He could feel himself pressed against the warmth of her pubic hair, and it startled him. He nearly laughed (the first laugh in God-only-knew how long) as he felt himself becoming erect. He was embarrassed and tried to pull back, but Nicole held him tightly, pulling him gently nearer, pressing herself still harder against his penis.

  Marsh could not take his eyes away from hers. He stared deeply, wondering, Who is this woman? Is this a dream? Am I dead?

  This was not something that happened in Marsh’s world.

  Before he could process the answers, he felt her hand slide beneath the quilt and take his now fully erect penis, guiding it between her legs and into her wet vagina. She moved enough to let him enter her without his having to move, then rolled him gently back and climbed on top of him. She rocked softly back and forth, gently testing the limits of his pain. Soon they had found a rhythm that pleased them both and took them far from the war for just a few minutes.

  When they had both come she pulled his body snugly to her, keeping him still inside her. The two fell into a light sleep, waking from time to time to share a kiss.

  When the morning sun broke through an opening in the curtains, Marsh found himself alone in the bed. He looked around the room for the woman, but there was no one within sight. He knew then it had been the dream of a badly wounded man clinging to one of the recurring fantasies of his age.

  But then he reached beneath the covers and found that his penis and pubic hair were matted and stuck to the covers. He frowned, then smiled. A wet dream? Either he was going nuts, or he had battle fatigue. That, or the war had just taken a turn for the better.

  While Marsh was thinking about the miracles of life, the farmer sent Nicole to fetch help. She bicycled all the way to Malmédy. There she met up with the Allies, and they put her bike in a jeep. She brought the medics and a few armed GIs back to the farm, less than a mile from Baugnez Crossroads. Marsh had made it no further.

  As the medics carried him out to the truck on a stretcher, he passed the young woman standing in the main room of the house. She was bundled in a ragged overcoat, a shawl still wrapped around her head against the cold.

  Is she my dream? Marsh wondered. Was this the angel who gave me my life?

  He could not recognize her in the bright light of day and the heavy clothing. He was bursting to ask her, but what could he say? What went through his mind almost made him laugh.

  Hey, lady. Excuse me, but did we do it last night?

  Just as he was passing through the door, Marsh looked over his head one last time. His eyes met the now upside-down face of Nicole, who looked quickly around the room then, with her eyes locked on his, she smiled, pursed her lips, and blew him a kiss.

  Much later, Marsh couldn’t remember anything he might have said to that family. He hoped he remembered to thank them. They had taken a hell of a chance for him. He knew there were a lot of civilians who did that throughout the war. Not all the civilians were like that bitch at the café.

  With little ceremony, the GIs thanked the family and loaded Marsh into a truck, bringing him to the hospital at noon on the third day. They left the family what few food rations they carried.

  Marsh could remember a bit of the trip back to Malmédy. His back hurt like hell, and he was running a high fever. They pumped him full of penicillin and some blood (his count was very low) and then his doctors, Hammer and Schneider, operated on him together. They didn’t assist each other too often at that point in the war, but Marsh was a VIP to them. He received very special treatment.

  Marsh remembered having felt about three or four bullets hit him in the back. Hamm showed him eleven slugs he took out of the muscle next to the spine. The incision was eighteen inches long. Marsh knew that the guy in back of him took the brunt of it. His death had saved Marsh.

  After surviving eleven slugs in the back, Marsh felt indestructible. Hamm put him in for a Bronze Star and, of course, the Purple Heart. However, it would be some time before he would actually see the medals.

  “You’re going to be sent to the rear to recover, pal,” Hamm said. “Should be a piece of cake.”

  “I hope it’s Paris,” Marsh said, “and not some shitty-ass tent city in the boonies. I mean, I’m gonna need some rest, but I’m not a litter case. Paris might be just the thing.”

  Hamm and Schneider smiled and shook their heads. That was Marsh, all right.

  Marsh told his story over and over again. He needed to say it out loud. Every detail of the terrible massacre was etched into his memory, never to be forgotten.

  “I never thought I’d get out of that field alive,” he told Antonelli. They had so much firepower trained on us. And they thought it was one big joke! Those fuckers, if I ever get the chance….”

  Antonelli said, “You’ll do what? Shoot a bunch of prisoners? Murder some civilians? Maybe a few kids and their mothers? What the hell are you talking about, Andy. You don’t even have a gun.”

  “You weren’t there, Gene, so shut the fuck up. There were women and children and babies in that field, I heard. I never saw that part—I was too busy running. But, I heard from the MPs. Babies, they shot.”

  “Face, it, pal. The Krauts aren’t the only ones killing prisoners. I heard our guys shot a whole bunch of German prisoners, too. Right after Malmédy. Twenty-five of them, I heard. So who the fuck are we to talk?”

  Marsh was silent. He stared at the ground for a long time.

  “What?” Antonelli asked.

  Marsh let out a long sigh.

  “I miss Dick. If we had been there back then, maybe he wouldn’t’ve gotten killed. Maybe….”

  “Andy, he had Major Schneider and Hammer and McClintock and Captain Ferrarro. What could we have done?”

  “I don’t know. Something. I just wish we’d been there.”

  When he was on board the ambulance the next day and heading west, Marsh could not stop thinking of the girl. Although he knew neither her name nor her family’s, he knew exactly where that farmhouse was. He could have found his way from that killing field to the culvert and on to the farm in his sleep. Actually, he had already found it in his sleep. He could do it again. He would….

  When the war is over…rie thought as he fell asleep to the rocking of the truck. When this fucking war is over….

  Chapter Twenty-four

  8 May 1945, 0900 Hours

  A Concentration Camp near Weimar, Germany

  Berg gazed through the filthy glass of the only window in the room. It was May, and he should have seen sunshine and flowers and the fullness of spring. But his view was smeared and distorted by the muddy window and the cracked glass.

  He stood next to the wooden table, his hands clasped in front of his waist. Grau—the SS doctor in charge of the camp—stood at the other side arranging the small tray of instruments. Grau was talking quietly as he laid out the syringes and needles. There was no pretext at sterility, of course. Infection wasn’t a problem there. All the patients would be dead at the end of the day.

&n
bsp; “I will load these syringes with either phenol or sodium Epivan,” Grau said. “Only I will know which is which. A perfect double-blind scientific study. This should appeal to the scientist in you. You will inject directly into the left ventricle and push the whole dose into the heart as rapidly as you can, assuring a massive dose with the least dilution. Do you understand?”

  “I can’t do this, Sturmbannführer. Please don’t make me do this. This is nothing more than murder. I…” Sweat poured down Berg’s forehead into his eyes.

  “Genug!” Enough! “You will be providing a merciful end for these people. You are saving them from Zyklon B and death in the gas chambers. And if you refuse me one more time, you will take their place, Herr Doktor. Then where will your patients be? Who will care for them?”

  Berg’s heart ached for the woman lying on his table. Grau was right, of course. These people were all to die in a short while anyway, and this death would be over in seconds if he did it correctly. But if he left it to the Kapos, they would surely botch the job, and the deaths would be agony. In Berg’s hands, it would be a mercy killing, though he had sworn an oath never to do such a thing. Or was he just reasoning with himself into saving his own life? Would his survival make it easier for his patients? Did he just want to live one more day? Was he taking the coward’s way out? If he died there and then, there would be no doctor to help any of the patients, little though he did for them. And the killing would be left to the butchers. For better or for worse, he committed himself to going through with this awful act.

  Berg took the syringe from Grau and felt for an opening between the lower ribs just to the left of the sternum. It was easy to find, for there was no muscle and scarcely any flesh left on the poor woman’s bones. Berg smiled at her. She looked into his eyes and nodded. She knew what was happening, and she was pleading silently for him to do it quickly, painlessly.

  Berg took a deep breath, then plunged the long needle between the ribs and into her heart, pulling back on the plunger as the tip found its way into the left ventricle. Bright red blood flooded back into the syringe. He could feel her heart muscle beating against the needle’s shaft. The woman squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of the needle irritating the heart muscle. Berg forced the plunger with his palm, rapidly emptying the contents into her heart. The woman shuddered for a moment and then her breathing stopped. There was no convulsion this time, so perhaps it was the Epivan for her, and not the phenol. A double-blind study indeed! Idiot!

  Berg could smell the odor of urine and feces as her sphincters relaxed in the agonal moment of her death. He removed the needle gently from her heart, almost as if he believed he could spare her any more pain by the gentleness of his technique. Grau was smiling, nodding fractionally, pleased with the performance of his star surgeon, Jew though he might be. Grau wrote a few words in a little notebook, the results of his “experiment.” Then, abruptly, he shouted to the Kapo at his side and the body was exchanged for the next patient.

  The Kapos were prisoners chosen by the Germans to act as petty administrative functionaries. But over time they far exceeded their duties, for some reason becoming more and more egregiously brutal. It puzzled Berg that these men, mostly Jewish prisoners, could forsake their people so cruelly. He had many run-ins with them when trying to protect his patients. It usually ended badly for Berg or for the patient. Kapo Stein was among the worst. His presence in the hospital made Berg’s skin crawl.

  And so the day began, not to end until well after darkness. Grau left shortly after midday, but Berg was required to continue as the detested Kapos brought in body after body. Some died easily enough, though several suffered in their last moments on this earth, and Berg died a little with them.

  Finally, the last patient was placed on the table. Berg lost count of how many he had executed; he still saw it that way, not as a mercy killing, but as an execution in which he was a willing participant. There had been many, and there would be more in the days to come.

  He took up the last loaded syringe and began to palpate for the space between the ribs as he had done all day long. It was the action of an automaton. He was lost in his movements. He tried hard to treat each condemned inmate as a patient, showing them kindness and sympathy as he prepared them for death. He would struggle to maintain his humanity even in the face of such egregious barbarity until the final execution of the day was over.

  Berg looked down at the patient as he had done all day long. He was determined not to let a single person go to his or her death without looking deeply into their eyes and recording the person’s face, nor without transmitting to them the knowledge that their death had been noted and recorded. As he prepared this one last time, his own heart felt as if it had stopped. The pain could not have been worse had he inserted the long needle into his own ventricle and pushed the plunger down himself. Indeed, he thought for a moment that he should.

  Berg started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat until he thought he would choke.

  The man looked into Berg’s eyes and smiled. He said simply, “Mein sohn.”

  “Vater!” he said, still choking on his words.

  Berg was staring into the eyes of the dearest man on earth. Until that moment he had no idea what had become of his father, though he heard that he had been transported some years after he, himself, had been taken to the camps. How long had his father been here? Had he been within Berg’s sight for days, months, years? If he had known, could he have made his father’s life more bearable? Could he have saved him from the awful evil of that place? From even death?

  “Father,” Berg said again. But, he didn’t know where to go. “Mother? Is she here too?” he finally managed.

  The twinkle that appeared in his father’s eyes when he first saw Berg’s face vanished as Berg asked the question. He shook his head sadly and whispered, “She’s gone, my son. Dead. We were in another camp, worse than this one. They sent me here two days ago.”

  Berg looked at this living skeleton who had once been his father. He barely knew the man, except for the soulful dark eyes. Like all the others in the camp, he was gaunt and wan. His skin was so thin Berg could see the small vessels underneath. His eyes protruded under their lids, and when he took Berg’s hand in his, Berg had to take care not to crush the frail bones. This was not his father. Not the one he knew all his life. Only when he looked into his eyes again was he sure it was truly the same man.

  Berg squeezed his father’s hands lightly. Tears flowed for the first time in so long that at first he didn’t know what was happening. Crying was a luxury long gone from his repertoire of emotions.

  Then from nowhere, Berg felt a stab of pain in his kidneys as the Kapo shoved his billy club into Berg’s back.

  “Beeilen Sie sich!” he shouted. Hurry up!

  Without any thought, Berg wheeled at the Kapo and drove his fist into the man’s face. Although, it was a weak and ineffective gesture, the man did stagger backwards, surprised by the attack. But Berg had no follow through. He was weak and pitifully ill equipped to fight. He realized he had never struck another human being in his life before that moment.

  The next thing Berg felt was the club landing across his face, his knees buckling as he went down to the floor. Several more blows landed across his back and neck and arms. He cowered there on his knees, keenly aware of his pathetic inability to offer the least resistance, waiting for the storm of punishment to pass. Or better still, for death to intercede.

  Then, he was hauled to his feet and thrust back to his father’s side. Two Kapos were there now, pushing him back to the table. It was Stein who had bludgeoned him. Always Stein there to do the bidding of the Nazis. Berg could have killed him without a second thought. How impotent he felt with no weapons of any use, not even his own soft hands.

  His father was weeping quietly now, unable to speak, unable to tear his eyes away from Berg’s rapidly swelling face and broken nose. Blood trickled from Berg’s nostrils. He wiped it away carelessly on his sleeve like a
little boy crying in front of bullies. He turned back to his father.

  “Do it, my son. Quickly. Please!” his father begged, his voice hoarse with terror.

  “I can’t, father. I can’t,” Berg told him. But Stein was there with his club.

  “You have your orders, Herr Doktor Berg, our famous surgeon from Munich. Or I can start breaking this old fool’s bones instead! Do it now!” he screamed in Berg’s ear. “Or I shall do it for you.”

  Stein waved his club over the old man’s head. His father winced in terror, though Berg could see him struggling to be brave.

  “All right! Enough!” Berg shouted at Stein with a force that actually made Stein take a step backward and assume a defensive stance with his club.

  “I’ll do it,” Berg said in a choked whisper, hoping it would prevent any further attempt to terrorize his father or possibly injure Berg so badly that he would be unable to help the dear man to a more merciful death.

  Berg stepped up to the tray, his hands shaking. He found the vial that he knew by now to contain the sodium Epivan, trying at the very least to spare this sweet frail man the agony of the phenol. He could barely get the needle into the vial until he saw his father’s face.

  The man was serene, his eyes closed. Though he was not smiling, all fear was gone. A resignation—no, more a look of release—emanated from him. His lips were moving, and though he made no sounds, Berg could see he was reciting the most sacred of Jewish prayers, the Shema Yisroel. Berg recited along with him, his words aloud in synchrony with his father’s silent prayers.

  Shema Yisroel…Hear O Israel…

  Berg felt for the space between the emaciated ribs.

  Adonai Eloheynu…The Lord our God…

  To Berg’s surprise, he could feel his father’s heart beating quietly and slowly beneath his fingers. No panic-driven rhythm. Only calmness. A serenity.

  Adonai Echod…The Lord is One.